We apologise for the break in transmission...

Ok, so we are lying low for a few days in... lets just say Country X. We believe agents from the Indian Secret Service are following us and will attempt to take us back to Bangalore for trial on work visa infringements – an ‘extraordinary rendition’ in the American parlance.  We just have to avoid capture until our outward flight.


We are in a dairy buying ice creams. The gentleman behind the counter is taking an unusual interest in our activities as I opened my bag to put my sunglasses away. My eyes are darting from side to side. I look up from behind the shelves and I notice that there are cameras everywhere – on the walls, behind the counter; there is even one at the door as we flee outside. It is then that we start noticing other strange goings-on: taxi after taxi pass us driven by what I can only presume are secret operatives. Paranoid? I think not. We will post again when we can, but until then, Mum’s the word about our location.

A Charming Day Spent With The Bangalore Police

In most countries, you are encouraged to register with your embassy or the police as a matter of courtesy and to make tracking your family down easier when you pitch up in some rural hospital with Lyme Disease.  In India, it is a means for crushing you between the colossal gears of government.

Due to our trip to Rajasthan, we miss the stated fourteen day deadline to register by a couple of days.  But, hey, we are leaving the country anyway, so it shouldn't be a problem, right?  We are advised that we cannot just turn up at the airport when our flight is due, have our work visas voided, maybe with a nice big red stamp, and be on our way.  This is confirmed when we join the hoards of foreigners (update: Did I say hoards?  I meant hordes.  I was not implying that there were large piles of foreigners stacked up like gold bullion.  C'mon, gimme a break.  This editor doesn't even have a spell check (apart from Shirls); you're lucky I spelt foreigner correctly)  at the Police Commissioner's Office, some of whom have been turned back at the airport and have missed their flights.

So, let's get this straight; most countries will not allow you to enter without a valid visa.  India will let you in but won't allow you to leave.  Maybe they are trying to crack the big two billion people using captured foreigners.

The Foreigner's Registration Office has seen better days.  Mould grows on the walls and piles of random documents are stacked on every available flat surface.  Rows and rows of clerks sit behind more piles of documents and a couple of ceiling fans turn lazily over the lucky few.  In the public area the fans have long since broken down.  The pressing mass of overseas students and workers clutching their papers soon makes the air unbearable.

I survey the nationalities written on the application forms in quadruplicate: Iran, Cote d'Ivoire, Afghanistan, Nigeria, Yemen.  We have each been given a numbered token, implying some sort of order and procedure.  This is charade.  There is no procedure.  We wait for a couple of hours outside in the sun before being admitted inside.  We then press four deep around an empty counter while Official No. 1 is off having his lunch in another building.

Finally, we are seen.  But there are problems.  One of the documents is not an original.  A taxi brings the original letter from Shirls' sponsor (Disksha).  It doesn't have the correct wording.  Another taxi.  And so it goes on.  Four taxi trips, calls to 'Influential People', two more helpers from Diksha in addition to the three already helping us, three meetings with the Police Commissioner - who yells at us in Hindi and throws our application forms back at us; we do not have our original wedding certificate!  How dare we try to leave the country without presenting such essential evidence.

And then, eventually, we are allowed to proceed to the next counter.  We've been here almost 6 hours by now.  A clerk prepares the all essential letter allowing us to leave the country, more checking of documents, stamping, a signature from the scowling Police Commissioner, and we are free.

Private sector Indians we have spoken to have been universal in their criticisms of corrupt, underworked, overfed state employees and we now have our own evidence.  What a country India could be with an efficient public service.

Lost in Translation

Back to Bangalore, and back to our windowless ground floor apartment next to a 24/7 construction site.  Back to the coconut fibre mattress and the cockroach infested wardrobe.  Back to the dodgy plumbing and the smelly kitchen.  And of course, back to Gerald.  In case you are wondering, we are ready to move on.  Flights are booked for Italy!

But first a trip south to Srirangapatnam and the Sri Ranganathaswamy Temple.  (The further south you go in India, the longer and more unpronouncable the place names become.)  We had read about the temple and wanted to visit it.  Unfortunately, there was a typo in the guidebook and the temple we wanted to see was the Sri Ranganathaswamy Temple in Srirangam, not Srirangapatnam.  So, a five hour road trip with a suicidal driver to the wrong town.

The town of Srirangapatnam is on an island in the middle of the Cauvery River and attracts quite a few pilgrims to the various holy shrines and bathing ghats.  Shirls buys some bhuja for the journey and we chat with the stall holders selling alms and snacks to the faithful.

On the way home we stop at Lalbagh Botanical Gardens to join the Indian families going for a late afternoon stroll.  The gardens have a glasshouse modelled on the Crystal Palace.  They are a peaceful oasis and are relatively litter free.  Plastic bags are banned, and the beggars and hustlers are kept out by the Rs10 (30c) charge at the gate.

Is this the ugliest taxi in the world?

For days, like a hunter stalking his prey across the savanna, I have been trying to get a clean shot of this beast of a car.  It is the Tempo, a three wheeled taxi-bus, once common here, but now critically endangered.  Its nickname in Hindi is a 'Sulda' which translates as 'Pig'.  The Indian government is trying to phase out these inefficient two-stroke people carriers due to the pollution they belch out, particularly when stuffed full of passengers (i.e. always).

In the towns and cities, most of the smaller auto rickshaws have already been upgraded to run on CNG, LPG and diesel.  Particularly in provincial areas, and amongst the poorer population, the Orwellian mantra "Three wheels good, four wheels bad" applies (ok, so perhaps not a direct quotation).  Just wait for the revolution, when all the three wheelers rise up to overthrow the bourgeois in their TATA Indicas, Suzuki Maruti Swifts and Mahindra jeeps.  (I can see a Pixar movie in the making - a sort of 'Cars' meets 'Animal Farm', but with Bollywood dancing thrown in).

The View From Our Window

Udaipur.  The Queenstown of India.  Well, if Queenstown had open sewers, rotting piles of rubbish everywhere, cows wandering around the streets and a permanent haze of dust and pollution in the air.  But the haze does give the surrounding hills an ethereal quality, and the interconnected lakes are beautiful in the morning light.  The traffic also seems calmer here, the continuous horn blasts less demanding; they appear to be saying "Here I am!" rather than "Get out of my f#&*ing way!".

Shirls has gone to the shops and I am left alone in the hotel room looking out onto the buffalo grazing on the flood plains surrounding Fateh Sagar, one of the main lakes.  It is the dry season.  There has not been a good monsoon for several years.  The lakes are very low - but at least there are lakes.  In most of the cities in Rajasthan, water only comes out of the tap for an hour or so in the morning and evening.  Power cuts are frequent (in fact there is one right now, but thanks to our laptop and wireless modem I am able to 'blog on' in the un-airconditioned heat).  Despite this, life goes on as normal for the average Indian.  Shopkeepers haul out their portable generators and business continues.

Cars of the Raj

The maharana of Udaipur has opened up his small collection of cars to the public: customised Rolls-Royces (including one resembling a jeep, used for animal safaris), Mercedes-Benzes, a Model A Ford, some American post-war tourers and a couple of Morris Minors.  Entry: 100 Rupees (NZ$3) including a free juice!  (Shirls models the juice below.)

Also on display are about a dozen solar powered rickshaws (it's not clear exactly why), and a horse drawn carriage (sans horses):

It's nearly forty degrees outside (or forty-two if you believe the thermometer) so the shade of the garages is welcome.

Why is sucks to be Jain

"To become a Jain priest", Youvraj explains, "you have to remove your hair."  Sounds simple enough.  "But it cannot be shaved off."  Ok.  "It must be pulled out by the hands."  Ouch.  "And if you show any pain, you fail."  Bugger.  We are at Ranakpur Temple, at the foot of the mountains in southern Rajasthan.  It is a holy site for the Jain religion and is sweltering in the afternoon sun.  There is some respite in the shade amongst the marble columns (1444 in total), but we are without water, which is banned; along with food, leather, and 'Women in their Mense'.

Jains must cover their mouths, and some of the holy men travel all around India by foot, completely naked (presumably except for a mouth cover - we have yet to spot any on the road).  The guy above is mixing saffron for performing the bindi (red forehead dot).  We are not sure what the guy below is doing.  He seems to be just hanging around the temple. 

Jodhpur

Apparently, it's not just a pair of pants.  We climb the hill to Mehrangarah Fort in the midday heat.  Through the usual military security checks, we are joined by other tourists, mostly Indian, women in flowing saris and moustachioed men.  We quickly lose the crowds as we climb up, and up, through the various courtyards, salons and galleries.  The windows and balconies look out over the town and the surrounding semi-desert.  Jodhpur is also known as the blue city - a modern contrivance; someone had the bright idea to paint all the new buildings sky blue.  The effect against the older buildings and the red soil is stunning.

Pilgrims and Pagans

Pushkar.  Brahman holy town and, for some unexplained reason, a stopover for tie-dyed, dreadlocked westerners trying their best to look disinterested.  There are well signposted rules forbidding everything from alcohol, bhang and meat to inappropriate clothing and 'smooching'.  This doesn't stop the hippies, who think nothing of parading past the holy shrines in tanktops and miniskirts.  At the temples, the faithful complete their rituals amid the clanging of gongs and the smell of incense.

The Dale Carnegie School of Salesmanship

We are standing at a sweet vendor, talking to the son of the owner.  He is studying to become a pharmacist, but because it is Ramayana Week, he is helping out at his father's well stocked shop.  Shirls buys a small tray of Indian delicacies for the journey and in a moment of weakness, buys a sweet for each of the four Dickensian urchins who have been tailing us for the last 100m.  They are almost instantly joined by another half dozen, who each attempt to upsell us with everything from "One more sweet?" to "Ten Rupees??" to the more ambitious "New Shoes???".

Jaipur, particularly the walled Old City is a hive of activity.  The photo below shows a tricycle being loaded with bricks.  Whether it is a beast of burden, a bicycle or a huge truck, the same rule applies; take the recommended safe load and triple it.  At least.

This one is more less expensive.

Posted by Shirley from Umaid Mahal hotel, Jaipur

"Can you tell me why wives always live longer than their husbands?" We are unsure how to respond but we can tell that Vijay can't wait to tell us the punchline.  "It's because keeping the wife happy is so stressful that men want to die". He knows he's funny. Actually, he is funny and his joke is like one of my favourites which is that research has shown that married men live longer than unmarried men, but it probably just feels that way. 

We've been laughing with Vijay for a few hours now while we wait for my wedding ring to be finished. Work on it started yesterday after much time spent choosing gemstones and discussing the design and our specific requirements, and less than a day later it's nearly ready. Amazing!  But what is even more better (one of my favourite Indian sayings) is that they are going to all this effort for a cheap silver ring with the tiniest little chips of sapphires, ruby and emerald. It hardly seems worth the effort but they are taking it very seriously and it's turned out that the experience is one of the nicest we've had in India. We have time to drink tea with Vijay and talk about his upcoming marriage and make jokes about how much everything changes the moment you get married. Vijay is worried that the changes will not be good and I say that perhaps it won't be bad. Perhaps every now and then his wedding ring will catch his eye and remind him how lucky he is to have someone who laughs at his silly jokes and calms his fears and cares that he is happy. I hope so.

Chaos and Calm

It's well after dark.  Our trusty Ambassador is zipping between the traffic in downtown Jaipur.  Huge TATA trucks loom up out of the pollution haze, no tail lights, following the 'might is right' road code.  Joining the melee are bicycles, rickshaws, motor rickshaws and motorbikes - every permutation of motive power, but only a few animals.  The camel drivers and buffalo herders have called it a day.  We peel off a roundabout and almost collect two motorbikes - the riders and passengers having a chat as they travel.  That's two riders with four passengers each, a total of ten people on two 125cc motorbikes.

Our day began before dawn in Agra, with a short walk to the Taj Mahal to see the sun rise.  The pictures don't do it justice, but here is one anyway.  Probably the most sublime building in the world (and I take a personal and professional interest in things building related).  It has been a long-time wish for Shirls to see it and she is not disappointed.

The crowds are terrible, particularly the tour groups.  The mausoleum rises above the fatuous comments and the banter ("Is that it, George?  Have we seen everything on the list?") to look serenely out over the morning mist.

Rajasthan by Taxi

Our set of wheels for the next eight days is a Hindustan Ambassador, hired complete with driver.  The Ambassador is based on the Morris Oxford and has been in continuous production since 1958.  Our example is a mere six years old, but is pretty much the same as the original in engineering terms, albeit with a diesel engine, air conditioning and 'Power Break'.

Did I say Rajasthan?  We have actually slipped over the border into Uttar Pradesh to see Agra Fort and the Taj Mahal.  All through the countryside, in the villages, towns, and cities, people are going about their business, most of them living hard, hard lives, with virtually no hope of improvement.  The old cliche that we don't know how lucky we have things in New Zealand only properly hits home when there is such clear evidence of how things might be.

We regret to inform you that flight BE414 to Mumbai has been delayed...

This post comes to you from Bangalore Airport while we wait for our now very delayed flight on budget airline IndiGo. We'd heard about frequent delays and cancellations flying domestically in India but for almost 4 horus we've been waiting. And waiting.

But as luck would have it, waiting in airports is very different now than it was a few years ago. We have my laptop (for any internet emergencies) and a borrowed wireless modem which means we can surf the internet until the battery runs out. There may be many things that don't work well in India, but the internet is very, very good and put Telecom's pathetic offerings to shame. Naughty, bad Telecom.

Breaking News.

Bruce has just found out the reason for the delay. Apparently the plane was ready to go and someone phoned in to say there was a bomb on the plane. But it's been searched and there's just some paperwork to be done (there's always paperwork to be done!) and then we can go.

An update from our hotel in Jaipur after we'd arrived safely. 

While we were waiting on the bus that transports passengers out to the planes, there were a few very grumbly men complaining about the delays and making accusations that the airline staff were lying about the bomb threat. Anyway, the bus sets off and takes ages to drive us out to the very edge of the airport where our plane is all by itself and surrounded by military, and our bags are waiting on the tarmac to be identified. Then the grumbly men got very quiet ! We are very happy that IndiGo responded so well to the threat.
 

Terms and Conditions

This blog was written by Shirley so won't have any of the witty comments and clever phrasing that comes with Bruce's writing.

If you don't like it, please fill in a Complaints form in triplicate, attach a passport photo, and provide your High School marks and a list of University certificates, blood group and your husband or father's name. Also provide a reference from someone in your family, someone you have worked for, and someone who has worked for you. Then go to the office around the side of the building where someone will stamp it. Then get a auto-rickshaw to take you to another office where someone will review the details and sign it and give you another form to ask for payment. Pay by going to another counter where one man will take your money and give it to another man who will make an invoice and get your change and give it back to the first man who will give your change back to you. Then you can take all forms to another counter and submit your Complaint for consideration. Thanks and have a great day.

Dosa My Bum Look Big in This?

Dinner at Konark, our regular. Good, honest South Indian fare; dosa (a sort of pancake) with potato and curry, washed down with a sweet lassi or an even sweeter filter coffee. Perhaps a gulab jamoon (syrup soaked donut) for dessert. NZ$6 for the two of us.

Latest Fashions! Best Price! Special Discount Just For You!

Our model, Shirley is demonstrating the latest salwar kameez and pant combination to great effect. Note how the ensemble effortlessly blends with the tasteful furnishings of the apartment. Perfect for the girl about town, or just at home in the kitchen.

Actually, the clothes are more for further travels. After some serious thought, Shirls and I have decided that the pay for her job (in Rupees) and the long hours expected are not worth the experience of living here in Bangalore so we have decided to continue our travels - first around India and then... well, who knows. Keep watching.

Oh, the humanity!

The landlord comes in to feed Gerald. He has a plastic bag with about ten goldfish, which he empties into the tank. Gerald promptly hoovers them up, one by one, using his weird upturned jaw like a front end loader.
He overdoes it, sicks up three goldfish, then decides he can manage them after all, and eats them again. It's all over in about two minutes.

Without wishing to anthropomorphise him too much, he is now looking rather smug. We are not impressed. Gerald, how could you?

Trains in the Sky

The Bangalore Metro is currently under construction, with the first section due to open later this year. It's sort of a Newmarket Viaduct on steroids (those dodgy steroids that give you unwanted body hair and pimples).

Horns, Rules For The Use Of

Judging by our experience to date, the sounding of the horn may only be permitted in the following circumstances:

• When passing another vehicle
• When being passed by another vehicle
• When travelling the wrong way down our one-way road
• When attempting a creative driving manoeuvre, for example performing a u-turn on the motorway
• When travelling at night with the lights off
• Whenever the hell you want to

Here is a little video taken at the end of our road, near Shirley's work (updated):

Bangalore, The Garden City

This morning we walk to 'MG Road' for a coffee (nobody seems to call it Mahatma Gandhi Road). For some bizarre reason the auto rickshaws refuse to take us there, but it is only about a 1km walk, admittedly in one of the hottest months of the year.

There have been some significant developments in our plans, but more on that later. In the mean time, Bangalore assaults us from all directions. The photo shows a serene image; the trees are in blossom and an occasional auto rickshaw tootles past.

The reality is somewhat different. On the busy roads the traffic is continuous and unrelenting. The traffic lights have countdown timers which ensure that there is a seamless flow between the phases - good if you are driving, bad if you are a pedestrian. Zebra crossings are for decoration only; you have to be a cow to get the traffic to stop for you around here.

Gerald

We land at Bengaluru Airport late at night. The taxi takes us to an apartment arranged by Shirley's new employer. It's in central Bangalore, up a long alley and is surrounded by other houses and apartment buildings belonging to Bangalore's middle class. Half the buildings are still under construction although it looks like things have suffered a bit of a downturn recently, like most places in the world.

We step inside to find that there is already a guest staying there - a very large fish in a somewhat undersized fish tank. He looks slightly creepy and we are not sure whether we are supposed to feed him or eat him. We name him Gerald.

Singapore, for just a day, no more.

Twelve hours between flights. My first visit to this ordered, carefully controlled city, and a chance for Shirley to re-visit some of the haunts near where she lived for a short time.

On the Mass Rapid Transit (MRT) train into the centre a recorded anouncement warns passengers to stay vigilant for 'suspicious looking people'. The other passengers appear relaxed and oblivious to the threat.

Jet lagged and hungry, we stumble around the Boat Quay area looking for an open restaurant, but it's too early. The Raffles City mall provides a 'convenience stop', as it did on a regular basis for Shirley years ago, when the communal guest house squat toilets were unbearable.

Past Raffles Hotel itself, we find a local eating establishment where we have baked Chinese sweets and iced coffee.

The public transport system provides us with some entertainment. We do a loop around the island on the MRT, then take a bus to Orchard Road. Singaporeans seem to live for shopping, the more opulent the better, but it doesn't hold much appeal for us and we head back to the airport for our final leg to Bangalore....

Last Day in Paradise

It's our final day in New Zealand. The packing is all done - two houses and a workshop condensed down into a 3m x 4.5m storage unit.

We are staying with Shirley's Mum until the flight this evening. She has her piano students, so Shirley and I go to Manly Beach for a swim. Despite the name, the beach is not full of bronzed adonises flexing in the sunshine, just a few old wrinklies making the most of the warm water while it lasts.

We swim in the cool water and then read under the pohutukawa trees. Heaven.