Tucked Away in Kerala

The polar opposite of Calcutta, languid Kochin takes me back to the colonial comforts of Pondicherry. Darling Dutch guest house, sparsely populated roads, slightly overgrown tropical vegetation - and the hardness I’ve developed to survive the chaotic city centres of India is in for a restful weekend. Kerala, the southern-most state on India’s west coast, is not only foreigner-friendly but also draws well-to-do visitors from all over India.



Eimer and I are delighted that our summer skirts and tank tops draw no unsettling stares, and Andrew points out, quite rightly, that if Cochin were all you saw of India, you’d wonder what all the fuss was about. What’s all this about India being inconceivably crowded? But to those of us who know better, Kerala is a welcome respite.

We leave the office at noon on a Friday – proper expat style – though only because our 5pm Paramount flight is cancelled and we are forced to rebook on the IndiGo 2pm. Luckily, Eimer is notified of the flight’s cancellation with ample time to rebook, as the friendly folk at Paramount deign to ring me just as I am boarding the IndiGo plane and query, rather sheepishly, “Ma’am…did you cancel your flight?”

“Er, no…you did.”

“Sorry ma’am. Goodbye, ma’am”

Little strange…but that’s India for you.

The languorous strolling of the locals and the easy smiles of the foreigners set the mood in Fort Kochin, and we plan to take it easy Friday night. After a quick rick-trip to the pharmacy (all but a street stall), where Eimer purchases some unidentified ‘NoCold’ tablets to pull the plug on her streaming nose, we dine at the Old Courtyard. The food is savoury but the same cannot be said for our dinner conversation, during which Andrew and Eimer enlighten me on the ‘bucket of water in every bathroom’ phenomenon. Apparently, the pervasive absence of toilet paper is no oversight, and the bucket is for a quick post-wipe wash of the left hand. I’m still not sure I believe it…

We’re a touch late for the evening’s entertainment: a traditional Indian music concert at the Kerala Kathakali Centre, which I thoroughly enjoy. The three musicians, barefoot and sitting cross-legged on stage, all have bushy black moustaches and facial expressions that complement the music coming from their instruments. The drummer’s swift fingers are particularly mesmerising; moving like a hummingbird’s wings, they fly across the drums’ taut surface, blurring my vision.

Liquor licenses are few and far between in Fort Kochin, so after the show, we proceed to sneakily drink rather flat, warm ‘Kingfisher’ from kitchen-green mugs at a bare-bones eatery stationed directly adjacent to a sleepy police station. The beer’s rank but the company’s pleasant and by the time we’ve made our way through 3 coffeepots of beer, Eimer, for one, is ready to party.

The word on the street names Le Meridien (across the water in Ernakulam) as THE place to party till the wee hours of the morning. Life may be a never-ending battle between a good night’s sleep and an even better party, but in Kerala, it is circumstance not choice that favours the former. When Eimer, Andrew and I arrive at Le Meridien, it is just past midnight, the club boasts a hopping crowd of seven and the bar has just closed. Having given the good party a fair go, I am actually quite pleased that a good night’s sleep wins out this time.

On Saturday morning, I take a little solo walk to view Fort Kochin’s infamous Chinese fishing nets and on the way back to guest house breakfast, I take a real liking to a Keralan’s green T-shirt that proclaims in gold decal: God is a DJ.



Before leaving Fort Kochin we stop to pick up real, cold beer from the liquor store adjacent to a government official’s house. Following a two-hour, Hindi love-song accompanied drive to Alleppey, Andrew, Eimer and I board our very own houseboat, government approved beer in hand. The houseboat, equipped with bedrooms, bathrooms, a kitchen, a deck/dining room/lounge, and a staff of 4 is our home for the next 24 hours, as we cruise at an indulgent Keralan pace along the backwaters of Alleppey.



The network of inland waterways, despite what connotation its name may impart, is a little green slice of paradise - palm-lined and alive with villager activity. I spend hours engaged in blissful nothingness – watching the palms pass me by, waving back at the smiling Indians on the shore and wondering about all the other small divinities of the world, neatly tucked away as are the backwaters of Kerala.



I do find myself longing for a scrabble set as the afternoon wears on, but when I voice the desire, Andrew parries, “Why you gotta hate nature?” He has a point, and in retrospect, I am glad to have been so ‘ill-prepared’ for a day of floating. I am not as glad that I let my guard down and paid a whopping 900 roops for 4 (albeit jumbo jumbo) freshwater prawns.



Sunday morning, I am on a mission to get to the Fort Kochin synagogue before it shuts its doors at noon. Our driver is on a mission to take a few detours and increase kms (and thus payment), but despite our somewhat competing missions, we do arrive at the synagogue with 15 minutes to spare. It’s small, but lovely and serene. Coloured glass chandeliers hang all around the sanctuary and the floors are tiled with blue and white Asian (Ming style) tiles. With a grand tally of 13 men, the community is dying, but the area of Fort Kochin is still called Jew Town (as per maps and road signs.)


In addition to the synagogue, Jew Town is home to eclectic antique & home shopping. I am quite taken by china doorknobs, silk-embroidered elephant-shaped tea cosies, 5 foot wooden goddess statues, and a 6.5 foot laughing Buddha, but as I have no home to ship them to, I stick to taking photographs of the items I’d much prefer to purchase.

And I find that even in peaceful Kerala, I am conflicted. The beautiful backwaters manage somehow to make me nervous. They are a reminder of all that I have yet to see and discover in the world; they urge me to continue travelling and wandering, experiencing as much as I can of the places and the people and the ways of life that are out there. But in the bazaars of Jew Town, I long to acquire the junk that makes a house a home, all the sorts of weighty, material accoutrements one forsakes when truly devoted to a nomadic, unfettered existence.



It’s a tougher tug of war than the good night’s sleep vs. an even better party one, and I do wonder just how long I am destined to continue feeling/being on the road.

Million Dollar Mumbai

In India, it is a widely known fact that there are more millionaires in Mumbai than there are in New York. And nowhere else in India is the disparity between rich and poor so stark, so gaping. Bombay, with all its glitz and glamour, is also home to some of the largest slums in Asia. Of course, the slums aren’t quite on the tourist beat, but one nevertheless gets a sense of the dire poverty.

Street children trawl the streets day and night asking not for money – but for food and water, sometimes even clothes. Young moms walk about carrying bare-bottomed babies with scaly skin and lifeless limbs asking not for money – but baby formula from the chemist around the corner. We found ourselves distinguishing between varying degrees of desperation – you can’t give to everyone, so give to the ones who really are on the verge of cutting out.

It surprises me that the urge to copulate doesn’t fade in the midst of such abject poverty; that sex isn’t the absolute LAST thing on people’s mind. But Eimer pointed out that babies bring in more money from the tourists. But I wonder, do the babies really pay for themselves and bring in extra still for the parents? Not if mom’s milk dries up; baby formula costs 500 rupees/tin.

On the other end of the spectrum are the designer labels, the plush hotels, the classy cocktail lounges, the heady nightclubs. But on the wide pavement beside the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, you will see women with matted hair and torn clothing stretched out beside their children, nothing shielding bony bodies from the hard concrete. And when you stumble out of a nightclub at 2am, the scrawny 6 year old girl with the mischievous grin will be there waiting to see if the drunken wealthy are more generous than their sober counterparts.

I was really looking forward to a weekend in Mumbai, as I’m currently reading the autobiographical Shantaram, a riveting epic written by an Australian who escaped from a maximum security prison and made his way to Bombay, where he lived in a slum for two years, survived an Indian prison, ended up in the Mumbai mafia and effectively became part of the city’s eclectic fabric. The city itself is one of the book’s most prominent characters and I was eager to put a face to its name and check out all its local haunts.


We start Saturday off at the Gateway of India monument, which is perched right on the water by the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. Apparently, this is the place to be spotted if you’re interested in being a gora (white) extra in a Bollywood flick, but alas, none of the camera clicking Indians who approach us turn out to be casting agents.

We spend the morning on a 2.5 hour tour of the tourist hot spots. I like our driver – he has a wide, genuine smile and comparatively good English. I think we are overcharged, but I don’t mind because there’s no trickery involved. We settle on a price at the start and that’s that.

At the outdoor laundry, I get to witness the beating that clothes here endure when they are cleaned. When I recently complained that all my laundered clothes come back to me stretched, stained and smelling of charcoal, an expat who’s been out here for 3+ years explained that he intends to ball up and throw away all his clothes when he leaves. It seems that nothing survives the brutality of Indian clothes washing – and now I see why!



After the laundry, we speed along Marine Drive past Chowpatty Beach – water so filthy that even the locals won’t brave a dip – to a bustling Jain temple. The intricately hand-painted walls are rich in colour and seem to tell a thousand tales that are very much beyond my scope of knowledge. The temple is surprisingly tourist-friendly, and we are encouraged rather than expressly forbidden to take photographs. It makes for a strange sensation, snapping pics of people deep in prayer.



Next stop, the hanging gardens of Malabar Hill from which we get a wide if hazy view of the city. I love the topiary animals (check out the humps on these Indian cows!) and the little lady who lived in a shoe’s house.


A little ways down from the garden are the Towers of Silence where reportedly, the Zoroastrian Parsi community hangs out its dead for the vultures to feed on as earth, fire and water are too sacred to allow for the more traditional methods of body disposal (burial/cremation/up the river and out to sea).

In Gandhi’s museum, amidst many interesting posters, photographs, dioramas and documents, I find a letter from Gandhi to Hitler, asking him to stop the war. How many other letters of this nature did Hitler receive (and ignore) from leaders around the world, I wonder?

I really enjoy spending the remainder of the day walking around Bombay’s Fort & Bazaar areas. Lots of distinctive buildings, including one very different Victoria train station. And finally a synagogue! It is a bright blue building with interior to match and the caretaker, a sweet old man, shows us photos of him with all the foreign Jews who’ve come to visit over the years. I find it strange that he tries to sell us kippot and challah covers on Shabbat though…



Saturday night is party time in Mumbai and Eimer and I are more than happy to join the fray of cosmopolitan Mumbaikers out on the town. From cocktails at the swanky Taj Mahal Palace Hotel to drinks at the Indus Bar, to shots and dancing at the Red Light Lounge, we find that in comparison to the hip young Indians, we are rather conservatively & casually dressed!



Slow start on Sunday finds us at the Haji Ali Mosque, which becomes an island when the tide is high, and by the neighbouring Malahaxmi Temple, we hear loud thumping vibrant Indian music and take a turn here and there through winding alleys to investigate. And thus we happen upon a gaggle of children dancing, jumping and play-fighting on a raised concrete platform that is also home to two massive speakers (stolen? or donated by a benevolent film producer/mafia don/nightclub owner?)



The children are poor and evidently live in the tin shacks that line the water behind their concrete dance floor, but they are having a grand old time. The music is loud and full of life, and the laughing children play their creative games with an energy to match the thumping bass of the speakers.

We spend a good 20 minutes enjoying the music and the children’s wellbeing. I am relieved to have found some genuine happiness amidst the poverty. Of course, it all comes back to the varying degrees…these children seem to be well-nourished, and what a set of speakers!



We laze about the rest of the afternoon, lunching and people-watching at Leopold’s, and shopping along Colaba Causeway. Some chai at the Taj Mahal Palace to round out the weekend and we leave Mumbai wondering if those 3 stunning women in burqas at the Taj Mahal were really all married to that one unattractive fellow.

Please be noting: Kali is the goddess of power, not destruction.

The drivers in Hyderabad are no match for their Calcutta cousins. In the pre-paid taxi from the aiport to the lovely fairlawn hotel we very nearly kill someone (in all seriousness). I wonder what would have happened had we done so? I can't imagine the driver would have done anything but drive on. With all the people in Calcutta, cars in Calcutta, reckless driving in Calcutta, one gets the impression a few lives here and there are simply par for the course.



On Saturday morning, I decide to face the worst of it first; I head down to the Kalighat temple, notorious for attracting pilgrims from all over India and being crowded beyond belief. I gravitate naturally towards the metro (finally! public transport I can make some sense of). I am most amused to find the film Born Free playing on elevated screens and am pleasantly surprised by a designated 'ladies section' in each subway car. It's nice; the women's section is less crowded, so we've all got room to sit. Also, no danger of being trapped beneath a smelly man's armpit as is so often the case on a summertime tube ride in London.

Walking in the direction I believe the temple to be, squalor abounds. It's drizzling, the streets are muddy and scummy, but there's also lots of colour: in saris, in tropical flowers, in very leafy trees, in the promise of the crowds and wares yet to come.



Everywhere are crumbling facades, rusty vehicles, starving dogs, malnourished children and eager pilgrims. To my right, a dead mother and her child rest beneath a sheet of tattered maroon and humming flies. At least I think they are dead - the sheet covers all but a tuft of matted black hair and a few sickly, lifeless limbs.

Calcutta makes me want to cry and yet I don't. I'm too busy putting on my game face and hardening my heart. Self preservation or otherwise, I am not alone in my dulled sense of empathy, my disturbing lack of shock. It's a documented phenomenon. AM Rosenthal wrote in 1957: "An individual-to-individual callousness, despite India's belief in her own spiritualism, was always a part of India. No miracle has taken place. This callousness is still so strong in the country that it is the greatest danger for a foreigner living in India, for it is a frighteningly easy thing to find it creeping into one's soul."

That said, I meet a number of people in Calcutta who are in the city expressly to do good: a doctor from Madrid volunteering for 15 days with Mother Teresa's foundation; a couple from Zurich with their 4 yr old son Damian, come to meet and collect the 2-yr old Bengali girl they've been in the process of adopting for 7 months; an Oracle channel manager who flies up from Bangalore every few months to hang out with the ten orphaned children (ages 4-14; 6 girls, 4 boys) whom he financially supports.

These people are amazing, their stories heart-warming, and I am not like them. At least not this weekend.

The Kalighat temple is thrilling and sickening - too many people, pushing, shoving, shouting, too much incense, pungent flowers, candles burning, too many people, elbowing, angling, raining, slipping, chanting, preaching, blessing, praying, shouting - I am very lucky to have visited on the day of not one but TWO festivals, my self-appointed Brahmin guide informs me. Not THAT lucky, as I do not even get a glimpse of three-eyed, golden-tongued Kali. Too dangerous, not worth it, says the Brahmin priest - better just to take a picture of placid Shiva, give me 2500 rupees and be on your way. 2500 rupees?!That's more than my room costs for the night. No.



By the time I pay off the priest, the guy who holds the umbrella that I do not need (I have my own), the guy who spots me in the crowd, the guy who carries the prasad (offering), the lady who watches my flip flops, the guy who hands me the water to wash my feet and the guy who tells me when I can and cannot take a picture, I have had enough. I express my displeasure with a scowl before anyone else can do anything unsolicited for me and then ask greedily, and in pushy unison for remuneration.

I don't trust the Brahmin priest, sat atop the Hindu caste ladder, to use the money to buy rice for starving children, as he says he will. They push to breaking point, but they don't like to see you get upset. The minute you do, it's all smiles and "tikh hai, tikh hai (it's ok, it's ok), are you happy?"

No, I am not happy, and off I go. Having braved the worst of it, I head north away from the madness. It's still raining but the day is looking up. I wander about a quiet cemetery that looks like something out of Indiana Jones. Mosquitos try to chase me away, but after Kali and her goons, I can take them on. A little later, freaked out by a snake-touting boy, I stop for an air-conditioned, sugary iced latte at Barista - India's Starbucks equivalent. Calcutta is hard work!



But there's loads to see, and I start to hit up the sights: Birla planetarium, colonial cathedral, Victoria memorial. Late lunch at Peter Cat off Park Street, a dimly-lit Calcutta institution that has changed little since the British raj. Much like my hotel and various other places of immense comfort. Stop for some barfi (funny name for fudge) at Gupta Brothers and then make my way towards the river.



Just past Fort Williams, I am joined by an army boy on his day off. He's just gone to get his papers to apply for a passport. He is very eager to show me all of his documentation. He wants to go to America and fulfill his parents' (not his own) dreams. Looking dutifully at his papers, I find we share a birthday; he is 4 years my junior - he is sweet, a little naive and not very good at carrying on a two-way conversation. He believes that all religions are true and valid; he could be Pi Patel (from The Life of Pi), a life-long Hindu, a devout Christian and a practicing Muslim.

In true Indian fashion, we bribe our way into Eden Gardens, which have been shut for 3 yrs according to the gatekeeper - but not my guidebook. We wander about town for a while, stop for some tea and then he heads back to the barracks for 9pm curfew and I go dine on the roof of the Lindsay Hotel with stunning views of twinkling, smoggy Calcutta. Sitting alone, I seem to be a curiosity and have soon made new friends.



Sunday highlights:
-250+ yr old banyan tree with world record canopy at the botanical gardens
-mirror and coloured glass studded Jain temples
-taxi drivers who actually use their meters
-marble palace full of marble statues, Renaissance paintings, Mingh vases, grotesque chandeliers, Madonnas, Jesus busts, a couple Napoleons, Greek & Roman pantheon, and a larger than life bronze Queen Victoria...the muddled and very bizarre collection of an Indian hankering after colonial times.
-Dalhousie Square, Howrah Bridge and Flower Market
-for some reason, photographs are forbidden just about everywhere. But if there's something I've learned in India, even if "it is not possible, Madam" - there's always a way around it.
-Jesus the rickshawallah



By Sunday afternoon, I have traipsed all over town, my feet are caked in dirt and I feel bad for the person who's going to have to 'fly the good times' (Kingfisher Airways' slogan) sitting next to me! In the taxi on the way back to the airport, I look out the side window instead of the front - it's much easier on one's nerves. Nothing worse than looking at the head on traffic, er, head on. At the airport, the driver tries to tell me he has no change for a large note, but when I call his bluff, getting out of the car with my luggage in search of change, the right notes materialise in his hands as if by magic. "Tikh hai, tikh hai," he says with a grin on his face. He has lost nothing by trying, but I have lost a little more faith.



Seems as if I have one fan in Calcutta, though, as my phone has been bombarded with messages of this nature ALL day:

"1+1 = 2 My eyes looking for U. 2+3 = 5 Sense missing for U. 5+2 = 7 Days thinking of U. 7+5 = 12 Month dreaming about U. 99 + 1 = 100 Years I need a sweet friend like you."

"If lovers are like MOON then friends are like STARS and have you noticed that the sky can look beautiful with out MOON but not without *STAR*"

Doesn't it make you want to barfi?!

Anyhow, my young twin does not think I'm so sweet 15 missed calls and 35 unreplied text messages later...

The Good Fortune of Elephants and Democracy

Every morning when I leave my apartment to go to work, I step over a stack of freshly delivered newspapers. And every evening, when I return home, I find the papers neatly laid out on the coffee table, staggered just so. Kamala, the housekeeper who barges into my room on Saturdays at noon with an exasperated, "Clean room, madam?" takes care to ensure the title of each publication is visible. Anyone who knows me KNOWS that I am far more liable to notice a difference in the angle of placement than in the papers' content from day to day, which is something I am beginning to feel very guilty about. In fact, I have just resolved to wake up half an hour earlier tomorrow, so that I can give the otherwise neglected papers their due. That said, given the reliability of the media in India, I don't know if this is the best place to nurture a love for the dailies.

Given my lacklustre rapport with current events, I find myself bound for Agra on July 7, 2007 completely oblivious to my good timing. On the early morning flight to Delhi, I skim through the Deccan Chronicle (a thoroughly laughable publication, I've been warned - a fact quickly confirmed by the first page, which is devoted in its ENTIRETY to a blatant advertisement for Lanco Hills, a brand new high rise development in Hyderabad). Promptly making my way to the metro section, I am delighted to read that 07.07.07 is a particularly auspicious day, even more so than 08.08.08 and 09.09.09. Apparently, there's something about the lucky number 7 even in South East Asia.

Hindu weddings, great big lavish affairs, can only occur on days that are deemed auspicious (by whom I do not know - I assume the Hindu holy men; although I'm not quite sure how they all get together, decide and agree?). There are only about 3 auspicious days a month, so there's a lot of matrimonial overlap, and I assume 07.07.07's going to bring in record revenue, but there's more than just good fortune for the wedding industry in store.

I have heard that Stonehenge disappoints, that the Egyptian pyramids of Giza are much smaller than we are led to believe -- not so with the Taj Mahal. I am positively brimming with excitement when I catch a glimpse of the white domes peeping over the red sandstone walls of the outer courtyard. And I cannot contain a genuine squeal of delight (not to mention a little hop-skip!) when I am face to face with its breathtaking majesty.



It's magical, so magical that even the crowds do not detract from its awe-inspiring serenity. History snippet: Moghul emperor Shah Jahan built the monument in the 17th century to house the body of his beloved 2nd wife Mumtaz, who died giving birth to their 14th child. On her deathbed, she instructs her virile husband to build her a monument so grand that no one will ever forget her. Damn right - 14 children later; she deserves every single semi-precious stone!

Our tour guide is included in the entry fee (a whopping 750 rupees for foreigners [just under 10 pounds] vs. 20 rupees for the locals [25p]), but I am in two minds about whether I want him talking away the magic. I just want to gaze, internalise and savour the sensation of perfectly sublime marble symmetry. I do not want to hear that all the minarets lean outward and that an optical illusion is created by this zig zag design and that the Taj Mahal is slowly turning the colour of unbrushed teeth. But I feel it cannot be avoided. The guide moves a lot faster than I would like, and I, in turn, move a lot slower than he would like, and so we achieve some sort of begrudging balance. The distance between us allows me to hear less of what he says. I can always fill in the knowledge gaps later - I am here first and foremost for visual indulgence, more likely to suffer from Stendhal's Syndrome than an undying urge to know if Shah Jahan's hair really did turn white overnight when his wife died! (as the story goes)


I am really reluctanct to leave the Taj Mahal and linger at the exit, my eyes not yet satiated. One woman stops to look back as well, and then glances my way: "It's beautiful, isn't it? You don't want to leave."

"No, I don't," I shake my head, smiling.

There is a stark contrast between the quiet dignity of the Taj Mahal and the chaotic, labyrinthine streets of the Taj Ganj area (just south of the mausoleum). Everything is dirty, faded, crumbling and flea-ridden. Monkeys play amidst the rubble, camels trot past, cows block passage, flys buzz mercilessly around food stalls and bedraggled children are no longer waving and smiling shyly as they did in Pondicherry. My travelmate Eimer is quite taken by a self-assured 12 yr old boy with a dashing smile. I too am impressed, least of all with his easy English; he proceeds to introduce himself and query after our well-being in French AND Spanish. As sweet as he seems, a chaperoned dinner and a couple of overpriced rings later, I am ready to head back to hotel haven.



I do not want to leave the Taj Mahal, but the same cannot be said for Agra. We meet a few smiley folk but everyone has something to sell. Smiles turn to frowns without fail - no matter how much we give, it never seems to be enough - although in retrospect we are quite generous. We get a little disoriented wondering through the streets of the Taj Ganj area after dark (it is only about 8pm but seems as black as midnight), as well as hassled by a variety of bicycle- and auto-rickshawallas. No one can believe that we just want to walk back to our hotel - they warn us of the great and arduous distance ahead (1.5 km max). I am told off when I protest that I enjoy walking: "No madam, it is not nice to walk. There is a lot of very poor man in Agra." He doesn't mean that it isn't nice to walk amidst the poverty, but rather that it isn't nice to deprive him of the 20 rupees he would charge us for the ride back to the hotel.


Lots of fanfare that evening: lights and kites, painted elephants and fireworks that I didn't get to see on the 4th. I assume it's all due to the weddings. Saturday night we lounge maharaja-style in the protected comfort of the hotel terrace. We are on edge from getting a little lost and having to fend off all the pushy salespeople, but Eimer's cosmopolitan and my strong tea soon have us back in high spirits.

Sunday, we take an autorickshaw across the Yamuna river to a mausoleum known as the Baby Taj, pre-dates and in many ways foreshadows the Taj Mahal. Then on to Agra Fort, where Shah Jahan was imprisoned by his son Aurangzeb. It's really quite a lovely prison, as prisons go, and offers stunning views of the Taj Mahal.


On the way to lunch we stop to walk through a little bazaar. A potter decides to show us his trade, and I, of course, am elated. It's amazing how this wizened old man wedges and centres his clay in seconds; his wheel powered by nothing more than a wooden stick and momentum. He makes cup after cup, throwing off the hump, and I motion to have a go. Crouched on the other side of the plaster wheel, I begin to handle the clay and immediately throw it off centre. I'm a little nervous - this is actually something I used to be able to do just three years ago; of course an electric wheel does make a fair amount of difference. And yet I think he is impressed; he speaks no English, but as his hands guide mine, I think he knows I am not a complete novice. When I look up - break from utter concentration - I laugh with surprise at the sizable crowd of locals that has gathered around us.


It is all over in under 10 minutes, and the crowd watches eagerly as I reach into my wallet. They may not know any English, but they certainly know their numbers. Several commentators announce "one hundred!" for the benefit of the audience. The potter is clearly unhappy with this sum, and the crowd agrees: "Three hundred! three hundred!" they urge. So I compromise, handing over another hundred and hastily exiting the milieu.

The drive back to the Delhi airport is similarly eventful. Halfway there, the driver asks for 85% of his fare to pay a highway 'police tax.' We call his bluff - he clearly wants to get his money and leave us stranded between Agra and Delhi. He acts visibly upset and concerned about the police tax but of course we get stopped for no such levy. Fearful that he has forsaken all hope of a tip, he starts to tell us of his children, the long drive back to Agra, the fact that taxi driving is his only source of income.

I am indescribably relieved when he drops us off at the Delhi airport. He leaves happy, as we have no change and over-tip out of necessity. At least he didn't hold the fact that we opted for a non-AC journey against us. Our Delhi-Agra driver was most displeased with our ascetic taste, and ploughed through monsoon rains and flooding roads with open windows and decided zest. I had arrived in Agra the day before with jeans well and truly soaked! Moving forward, it's trains, trains, trains.

On Monday morning, I find out that on Saturday, the Taj Mahal was voted one of the new seven wonders of the world. Over 100 million SMS and e-mail votes from all over the world determined its position in the top 7 of 14 shortlisted monuments. Of course, the seven new wonders were announced on 07.07.07 - cause for all those celebrations, fireworks, elephants and processions.

Although the poll's official website notes that the seven wonders are not ranked in any order, word on the street in Hyderabad is that the Taj Mahal is number one, followed by the Great Wall of China. Wonder if it has to do with skewed reporting or simple common sense - it was, after all, a democratic vote. Either way, there's something to be said for having perchance selected to visit the Taj Mahal on 07.07.07, the day it was announced to be one of the new 7 wonders of the world. Perhaps I now have a better reason for having been propelled to Pondicherry two weekends ago when really I had planned to go to Agra...

Very auspicious indeed!

The A-list at the B-scene

I thought the expatriate community in Florence was small but good god does Hyderabad give me new perspective. There seem to be a good handful of clubs and lounges but the 'going out' contingency is only so big as to keep a limited number of them 'happening' on any given night. Of course this contingency comprises both expats and locals, but the locals are of a very narrow stratum: not only very progressive but also very well off (drinks go for Manhattan prices). That said, the buzz somehow permeates and everyone ends up in one of three places. I'm told the clubs have been known to stay open 'til 2 or 3 but I have yet to be in one that does not usher everyone out at the stroke of midnight, if not prior! Lights go on, music goes off, and a heady mix of intoxicated rhythm and abandon instantly dissipates - poof!

This weekend was fun. I've started to meet some people who are here on their own steam: studying, volunteering, freelancing, interning. Not to say that I'm not here on my own steam; it just feels a little more like borrowed electricity. There are expats, and there are expats. I seem to want it all: the respect/security of corporate life and the free-spirited adventure and hard-earned accomplishments of the independent traveller. Anyhow, I've been inspired to make Hyderabad more of a home. Step one: am determined to get my bearings. At the moment, though, road no.s. 12, 36, 1, 7, 2, 10 and 3 appear to have no distinguishing charactersitics nor any discernible order. They merge and morph into one another without notice or turn, so much so that even those whose profession it is to navigate the city are often at a loss. I have a new found understanding for gridded Pondicherry's pervasive supplication: "Please help to keep our well-planned city beautiful."

I've also started to rock the boat. Scaling pad-locked gates long past midnight and suggesting the use of autorickshaws instead of the provided 'luxury' vehicles. I may have just turned 25 but in some respects I suppose I'll always be 16. Classic rebel without a cause.

On Saturday night, as one set of plans fell through, another came together with startling ease. In need of a last minute driver, I was received rather unpleasantly by the driver coordinator. It was too late, there was nothing to be done, very sorry, and the line went dead. I phoned back, asking about alternatives. Was there a cab company I could call? If not that, surely I could just step outside and flag down one of the dime-a-dozen autorickshaws? And with that, I happened upon the magic word. Forget please; the slightest hint of an autorickshaw, and the impossible becomes possible. Within 15 minutes, I was on my way to the Sheraton, ensconced in four-doored AC protection.

I was a little apprehensive about waltzing into an invite-only fashion show sans invitation, despite having been assured that the colour of my skin would grant me unfettered admission to all page 3 (society column) events in hokey Hyderabad. I wasn't sure I believed it - just last month I couldn't even get into the Redwood Room at The Clift! But the concierge could not have been less surprised when I nonchalantly queried, "fashion show?" So with an inflated sense of privilege, I watched from the back, amidst a small group of other tacitly invited latecomers. Within seconds, awe gave way to amusement; the show (dubbed 'fashion theatre') was an amateur array of struts and waddles, scowls and Miss America smiles, models engaging in on-stage chatter and can-can dancing. The commentator, all hyperbole and alliteration, was a riot. The show, vacillating between ostentatious beauty pageant and alarming performance theatre, was in the throws of an identity crisis and really very good fun.



Jokes aside though, I did feel a twinge of guilt about taking part in the ridicule. My initial desire to laugh was only half-formed, and I had yet to choose between derisive critique and cultural appreciation, when the former was given the edge by a neighbouring, "Haha, you've GOT to be kidding me; what IS he doing?" Despite the collusion, I planted myself between the two extremes: detached involvement. I took to studying the invited crowd; the upper echelon of Hyderabad society. I was pleasantly surprised when Monday morning, an Indian colleague set the record straight: "Oh, my dad had tickets to that; he said it wasn't really a very serious event, so I didn't go." By no means professional, the atmosphere was jovial and the crowd spirited, and I really enjoyed the more traditional ensembles:


all photos by Rebecca Lee, freelance photographer

I'm sure the sycophantic 4th estate gave the evening a riveting write-up.

Almost fogot, en route to the fashion show, the driver asked me not only if I was married with children but also how much I earn! Apparently 100% socially acceptable...interesting coming from a place where there is SUCH economic disparity.

Sunday round-up:
-Take-aways from the brunch buffet at the Taj Krishna: art nouveau decor slightly incongruous with hotel name; buffets are a necessary expat evil
-Birla Temple: my new favourite sensation is walking barefoot on cool white marble
-Golconda Fort: crumbling but still quite grand, ex-stronghold of the Muslim dynasty, but we are more of a tourist attraction than the fort itself; some people ask us to pose with them for pics while others just follow us not so surreptitiously and take photos 'when we're not looking'

Suffice it to say, I feel a little like a celebrity.