One one things

Front page on http://news.bbc.co.uk “Sri Lanka Tourist Port Attacked”

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/6061184.stm

On the money chaps, make it sound like tourists are under attack. Thanks, thanks a lot.

Something happened about three weeks ago that I never got a chance to write about. Other than the civil war and marauding buses I’ve found Sri Lanka to be a fairly safe place, and only a handful of experiences have suggested otherwise. This is one of them.

I was in Kandy for Bradby weekend with 5 others, and on Saturday morning 4 of us decided to take a trip to Ratna Falls, a waterfall about 2 hours drive from town. It was myself and 3 girls since the other guy decided to stay back and explore town a bit. I had never been to Ratna Falls before, but 2 of the girls had, and on the way up they promised great adventure and serenity. Ratna Falls is sort of in the middle of nowhere, probably best described as between Kandy and Wasgamuwa National Park. A’s driver was with us so he parked the van by the tea shop and waited while the four us walked the forty minutes or so through mild jungle towards the falls. It was a most pleasant walk, spotting a baby owl, several interstingly coloured lizards and a water snake on the way up. After about 20 mins the place was deserted, we had passed the last of the villagers gathering firewood and it was just the four of us, armed with swimwear and sandwiches, no phone signal, just birds chirping and the distant sounds of splashing water.

To our surprise, a few yards ahead a man was very randomly standing on the path talking on his mobile phone. He gave us a cursory glance and we continued on our way. About 10 mins later we heard voices further down the path, followed by 4 men who seemed to be returning from the waterfall, dressed in banians and towels and sounding rather jovial. I was bringing up the rear and as the last of them passed me one of them said to another “ado ara kattiya Lankawenda?” followed by a bit of mumbling behind our backs and hooting “hello..soo sooo..pssss..nangiii…whistle whistle…” Pretty standard behaviour by mature Sri Lankan men so we carried on amused at the fact that they had to wait for us to pass to grow the balls to hoot and what not. This sort of thing makes me ashamed to call myself a Sri Lankan male. Anyway, what to do? moved on.

The sounds of the waterfall got louder and it wasn’t long before we could see it in all its splendour. It was the dry season so it wasn’t anywhere near its peak, which A promised is quite magnificent. There are three natural pools here, and we were going to walk through the rocks to the second one to swim. We reached the first pool when we heard voices again. The 4 guys that we passed had decided to follow us, joined by the guy on the phone who we passed earlier. By now we had crossed the river on a bund and they were on the other side. One of them started to cross the bund carrying some form of identification tag in his hand. He whistled and asked me to come talk to him. Reluctantly I went up, avoiding the slippery rocks and straining my eyes to recognize his ID tag.

I got up to him and smiled and said “mokadda machan?” He was friendly, he started in English assuming that I wasn’t Sri Lankan and asked where I’m from. I grinned and said Colombo, he seemed genuinely surprised that I spoke Sinhalese. He showed me his ID card, and said that he’s from the Navy and that he’s on duty in this area, and that the other three guys are under his command, also from the Navy and army. I looked at the expiry date, the face, and the distinguishing marks, and then looked at his face in as subtle a manner as possible. It certainly was him, and the card expired in 2009. He got more casual and said that this area is quite dangerous, that several ppl had died here so they’re on duty to look after ppl, but nobody knows that they have been posted here. He put his hand on my shoulder and said we can have our fun, but not to go to the third pool and not to do anything stupid bc he doesn’t want to have to dredge any bodies. I said thanks, that we’ll be careful, and went back to the girls.

We started on the sandwiches when three of them crossed the bund and came over towards us. Out of politeness we offered them some sandwiches that they declined. They were hanging around a bit and the girls were feeling a bit uncomfortable. Then the guy with the ID came to us and asked if we’re sure we’re Sri Lankan. So we laughed and said yeah, but he refused to believe us. He said that I speak fine but look like a Burgher or Muslim, that A and N look foreign and that R looks Sinhalese. Then they got more personal.

Navy guy: Oya kohenda?
Me: Colamba
Navy guy: Colamba koheda?
Me: Kurunduwaththa
Navy Guy: Kurunduwaththa koheda?
Me: Barnes place

I obviously fibbed, but his persistent questioning annoyed me. He then asked the same of the girls, and they duely fibbed as well. He then asked where we worked, what our parents do, how come N’s Sinhalese isn’t great, which universities we went to. He claimed to have gone to Ananda college followed by some training course in England. This was cock bc he could barely manage a sentence in English, and I’m almost certain that he didn’t go to Ananda or live in Dehiwala as he claimed. He didn’t let up on N after she asked them how come they’re not in uniform if they’re on duty. This ticked them off, and to make matters worse she does look foreign bc she’s mixed, but she’s born and bred Sri Lankan. By this time the others had formed an arc around Navy guy and joined in the questioning. They were clearly enjoying themselves, grinning and looking amused. We tried to corporate bc there were four of them, and they all seemed a bit tipsy. They then admitted to having a few drinks that morning and showed us the bottles as well.

By this time my mind was racing trying to figure out what was going on. I found it very hard to believe that they were on duty even though that guy was clearly from the Navy. There were two possibilities, one was that they were on leave and the other more worrying prospect was that they were deserters. We could have either put our foot down and politely told them to bugger off, but with 4 slightly tipsy chaps facing one guy and three girls, this was not sensible. So we just tried to bore them by cooperating. Luckily at that point A’s phone rang. I had her rucksack so I picked it up and it got cut off. But I spoke loud and clear as if someone was on the other line and told my imaginery friend where I was, and told them to join us instead of waiting at the van. “Machan oya kollo pas denama enna. Mehay maru, thawa navy ekey kattiyakuth innawa. Ikmanata enna, hari jolly.”

They kept up the questions. Which school did you’ll go to? How do you’ll know each other? Which one of these three is your girl friend? How come you’re so fair? You can’t be Sinhalese, no way. What’s your father’s name? How come you’ll didn’t bring your ID cards? We gave convincing but half true answers throughout, but this seemed to make them even bolder. They then told N to recite a Sinhalese poem to prove that she is Sinhalese. She obviously struggled to remember what she learnt several years ago, and they got even more excited. R got ticked off when they asked her where her father works and for her phone number to call and double check. She said that if they are suspicious about something that we can all go back down now and go to the cop station, show our ID cards and get it over with. They quietened down a bit then, so I quickly stepped in and said that it’s getting late so we’ll go and bathe, and that if our “friends” come that way to tell them we’re in the 2nd pool. And before they could respond we took our stuff and went.

The pool was lovely, but we were still quite tense so couldn’t enjoy it as much as we should have. After about 20 mins of frolic one of the fellows came up towards the 2nd pool. We shrugged and knew that we didn’t have much choice but to leave. As we were leaving we saw the fellows had got into the 1st pool and were happily swimming around, hardly acting like officers on duty. As we walked passed they made a few more comments and finally called me back and asked for my water bottle. I happily gave it and hurried off. We tried to walk off fast bc we thought they’d probably follow. And we were right, about 20 mins down the road we heard voices and they were right behind us. We managed to keep ahead, and luckily by the time they were in sight we were amongst the villagers. We slowed down when we were with a group of firewood collectors to allow them to overtake us, and happily they did.

We got back late in the evening. We missed the Bradby, which wasn’t a bad thing, and told the story to the other two who listened with annoyance. It was a simple case of bullying. They saw that they had the upper hand in terms of power and decided to have a bit of tipsy fun at our expense. Had there been at least one more guy amongst us they wouldn’t have been anywhere near as bold. I dread to think what would have happened if it was just the three girls.

It’s sad that we’re part of a society where in reality females have less freedom than males. I guess it’s a work in progress, with education things should improve, but it also needs a fix at home, a fix in attitudes, a simple thing called respect. Nobody taught me to respect women, and to respect other ppl in general, it just seems to obvious natural thing to do. Anyway, I can see this opening a whole new can of worms which is probably best left for another time.

Sri Lanka probably got kicked out of the Champions Trophy last night, bad form. What pissed me off was reading the reactions of the press. The Daily Mirror screams out “Sri Lanka exposed in night of shame” The Island gives no analysis of substance. Both examples of pretty poor journalism. The Mirror deserves special comment, the article by Callistus Davy is one of the worst cases of knee-jerk, subjective, uninformed writing that I have ever read.

So last night the Saffers played some excellent cricket in the 2nd innings, Polly and Ntini bowled the perfect length and line to two in-form openers, completely choking them to force the errors. The ball seamed around more than we have ever seen throughout the tournament, it was more like a Headingly green top than a subcontinental slow turner. Our guys were just caught off-guard. For instance the ball that bowled Marvan, any player who knows where his off stump is in the sub-continent would leave that alone. Sure they should have adjusted to the conditions, but none of them (bar Tharanga) got a chance to adjust, they were dismissed before they even got going. Mahela gave us a sniff but when he got run out we couldn’t do much else. We just need to put our hand up and say we were done in by a team playing excellent cricket on a night where conditions were ideal for their attack, and in a format like the Champs trophy, every loss counts. I think our real mess up was against Pakistan, on that day we had the game in our hands and gave it away with the bat. That was a 275-300 wicket, and we fell short due to careless batting, nobody else to blame but us. That was just a bad day in the office, and I think we’re allowed that given how well the boys have played of late.

So all this nonsense about “night of shame” is totally uncalled for. It reminds me of UK tabloid journalism, and that’s a tag that few would aspire to. The team remains very solid, both on paper and in practice. Mahela’s captaincy record has been excellent, and our players have performed consistently throughout 2006. They remain a force for the World Cup. Losing one game to a team playing super cricket in conditions that suited them does not change any of this.

Let’s take a look at Davy’s article.

“Sri Lanka were disgraced and humiliated” No, losing to a side playing top notch cricket is not a disgrace or humiliation.

“..with no answer to the genuine pace of South Africa’s heavyweights” Polly, Nel, Kallis and Kemp bowl genuine pace? They bowled line and length and waited for the wicket to play tricks.

“There was no one who could have come in and broken the shackles” At 30-4 with the ball darting around like a hyperactive Chihuahua, I’d like to see who would dance down the track and loft Ntini over his head for 6. The best bet was to try and overcome the initial shock, consolidate until the dew came in and made bowling difficult.
Unfortunately we had lost too many wickets by then to do this.

“Sri Lanka had merely made up the numbers in the 10 nation tournament” If Australia loses to India and crashes out of the tournament this week, would they also be a team that just made up the numbers? Novice.

“Why skipper Jayawardena won the toss and chose to chase was hard to comprehend” Ok, I guess Davy has been watching everything but the cricket in this tournament. It’s a little something called dew. We rely on our spinners, with the dew our spinners would struggle. Did you watch the Pakistan game? My 10 year old nephew has a better understanding of the game than Callistus Davy.

I can’t believe they published that. The state of journalism in Sri Lanka is pretty sad in general, but this is a new low. The only good thing is I’m sure the players are used to this kind of knee jerk rabid reaction, and I hope they take no notice of it and just get on with their game. Losing the way we did yesterday was just part of the game, we didn’t play particularly bad cricket and South Africa played excellent cricket, there’s no shame in that. Well played Saffers.

My phone had died and I didn’t have a charger so I had to hope the sun would wake me up before it was time to present. I had been told on Thursday that I’d most probably be presenting at the 11am plenary session, this worked well for me bc I could then finish up by 1, have lunch and then keep the evening to do some more Delhi exploration. Breakfast was poor yet again but probably the best of the three days. It was amusing how the hotel tried to up the service on the final day, they called me a couple of times to see how I was. It’s a good tactic, last impressions count. After breakfast I ambled towards the conference area and ran into one of the organizers who said that my talk was confirmed for 2pm, almost completely ruining my plans. It was too hot to do anything so I killed a couple of hours reading Naipaul’s Among the Believers before lunch. Due to the chaos of organisation, I found myself presenting in the science and technology services group. The odd thing was that as it turned out, mine was the most relevent of all the presentations. Most of them spoke about the technological advances they had made in each of their areas, and none of these had anything to do with services! One was about coir manufacture, another about wheat production and one about GM food. Much of it was like a botany lesson, the coir guy even had a video about coconut plucking in one of his slides. One fellow had about 3 slides devoted to the chemical composition of nicotine. The guy behind me fell asleep, head tilted back, mouth open, specs almost off, snoring. I kid you not. But the Gods were on our side, time was running short so after 3 slides on the number of hydroxyl molecules in durum wheat, the last guy had to say that he can’t go into detail on this and called it a day. I had to rush through mine but I think the ppl liked it, a few of them came up to me afterwards and asked for my card, which is usually a good sign. Unless I get a parcel bomb or a virus in my inbox next week.

I rushed back to the room to change into something more casual and ran out of the hotel to catch a trishaw. I was off to Jama Masjid, the biggest mosque in India. I was told its quite far, and at 5 o clock, it was the height of rush hour. All this while I had travelled mainly in and around the plush part of Delhi, the diplomatic enclave of Chanakyapuri and past the administrative regions towards Connaught Place. Today’s journey would take me away from this area towards downtown Delhi. The ride was indeed quite far, and rush hour in Delhi is absoultely mad. Everyone horns very liberally, and cars move within inches of one another, at pace. Whenever the tri stopped at traffic lights various salesman approached the vehicle to sell all manner of things from newspapers to lime juice to “drinking” water in plastic bags. As we approached the mosque the area became increasingly poor and derelict. The wide shadey roads turned into narrow, dusty and crowded roads, with competition for every inch of space. The buildings on the side became increasingly like slave island in Colombo, and then progressively worse. The slum areas are dirty and smell bad, the ppl appear to live in near abject poverty just outside the plush residential areas. The contrast in Delhi is far sharper than what we see in Colombo. This puts in perspective the reality of India’s development. We speak of India as an emerging super power, but very few living in the country would actually believe that. As I write there is a near dengue epidemic in the city, the victims include the PM’s grandkids, and I’m not surprised given the conditions on the streets in the poorer parts of the city. It was a harsh reminder that true development is not just about hitting good growth figures and showing some muscle in the WTO. It needs a combination of solid open economic policy coupled with concerted efforts at human development at the grass root level.

The road leading up to the Jama Masjid is near impossible to tackle on wheels. But the trishaw guy inched his way along the road, knocking a richshaw in front of him in the process. This resulted in a casual glance over the shoulder by the rickshaw guy and everyone getting on with life, no fuss. The tiny street was impossibly crowded, full of stalls selling a number of things from fresh fish to jewellery, it looked dodge as hell. I finally made my way up the stairs to the mosque after a rather hectic journey, and it was certainly worth it. The mosque is amazing. It is the largest in India, built by Shah Jahan in 1656. It consists of three towering domes, a massive court yard in the middle for prayer, holding up to 25,000 ppl. Unfortunately the women have to pray on the sidelines and only the men use the court yard itself. There was a carnival atmosphere in the mosque, loads of families had brought little picnics along with their mats and sat down and chatted while others prayed and the kids ran around feeding the many pigeons. The architecture was again lovely, the characteristic detailed engravings on the roofs and walls along with the curved domes were everywhere. The sheer size of the place is awesome, and I could just picture the place teeming with devotees when at full capacity, a carpet of white rising and falling in namaz. From the mosque you can see the Red Fort, Lal Qila, also a creation of Shah Jahan, and yet another different style of moghul architecture. I couldn’t get a close up view of the place, but it’s another amazing monument, again of awesome size and wonderful brick red colour. At the mosque I had to pay 200 bucks bc I had a camera and I was then taken aside by a guy who explained to me some of the details of the architecture and some of the traditions. Including the entrances from the East, North and South but not the West since that is the direction of Mecca. And the 10 curved domes, five on either side of the main dome, symbolizing the five pillars of Islam and the 5 times of day that namaz takes place. This explanation set me back a further 150 bucks, of course I didn’t know the explanation came at a price. Not the most moral behaviour in a place of worship. What to do. I lingered on for a bit longer, soaking in the atmosphere, trying to imagine what it would have looked like 350 years ago when in full cry.

I returned to the hotel thoroughly satisfied, I had seen what I wanted to see and done what I wanted to do. When I think of Delhi I will always remember its amazing architecture and the different smells of the city, good smells and bad smells, and of course for the contrasts, green and shady alongside gray and dusty, wealth and oppulence alongside poverty and destitution, Western and Eastern, BMW’s and Ambassadors, awe and pity. It’s a wonderful city and I really would like to come back again and see more of it, I know that I have only just scratched the surface.

Back in Colombo: I wrote that just as I was about to check out of the hotel. Unfortunately things took a turn for the worse soon afterwards. The organizers had sponsored me for three nights, and I didn’t expect to pay anything when to my shock the hotel insisted I pay for a 4th night bc I had stayed beyond the 12 noon check out on Friday. This is quite poor bc I was presenting till 4 and the conference went on till 6, how could one possibly check out by 12? I agreed to pay half a day’s charges, but it was a poor effort in customer relations by the management at the Samrat hotel. I would not recommend it to anyone (that I like). It was a sad way to end an excellent trip. Another rather worrying thing was the tip sharks. As I got into my taxi to leave to the airport, every hotel staff member in sight rushed towards me for a tip. The bell boy, the security guard and the valet all poked their hands at me. I said that I don’t have change after tipping the bell boy, but the other two insisted and even offered to change my money. I squeezed into the car and got away. The taxi driver was more subtle. He said, “Life of a taxi driver in Delhi is very bad sir, only Rs. 2500 for a month we are getting. Only can survive on tips sir.” So I gave him 100 bucks as I got down at the airport. I’m now back at home, after waking up with the sun on my back and the a fan whistling over my head, sitting in my breezy room and promising for the nth time to never curse SL weather, trust me, we have it good.

I was looking forward to Thursday since there was a special session scheduled with PM Manmohan Singh and Union Commerce minister Kamal Nath speaking. But it was disappointing, both men gave very Indo-centric speeches, in fact the whole conference has been indocentric, and therefore not too exciting for outsiders like myself. I had bigger fish to fry, including trying to schedule my own presentation which had still not been organized. I was told that Friday morning seems the most likely slot but suddenly at 1pm I got a text message asking if I could speak at 2pm, an hour’s notice. I hurried downstairs and got ready, but then in the last minute they realised that my topic wouldn’t fit in with that session which was focused on R&D and product development. It was looking increasingly likely that I won’t get to speak at all. I wasn’t too fussed, but I was getting annoyed at the lack of organisation. The main problem was that there were several co-organizers, each inviting their own speakers, and none managing to coordinate effectively. But most annoyingly I was told that I might speak later in the evening so I couldn’t even go out exploring as I had planned. I languished for several hours, during which time I finished the Kite Runner. The book was ok, the plot was good in general, but lacked a bit of polish, which is the usual case with a writer’s first novel. But I’d recommend it. As the evening wore on I decided to take matters into my own hands and left the hotel at 5pm.

I wouldn’t have time to go see the Red Fort and Jamamasjid so I decided to take a look at a Moghul tomb a lot closer to my hotel. Buying an entry ticket I felt like one of the tourists to Sigiriya or some such place, paying 20 times the local rate of entry. I think that should stop in SL as well, it’s simply taking unjust advantage of monopoly power. The Safdarjung Tomb was a lovely first exposure to moghul architecture. Located in the centre of a vast garden, it remains regal in its 253rd year. I love the symmetry of the building, from whichever angle you look at it, it looks the same, perfect structure. The dome on top is slightly delapitated, but the carvings remain intricate, the doors wonderfully ornate, and I felt ever so small, both physically and historically, next to its grand presence. I had gone at the right time as well, it looked wonderful in the backdrop of the setting sun, the curved arches and domes remain in fine condition, hallmarks of classic moghul architecture. When you stand in the middle of the tomb, on each of the 4 sides you get the same view through an identical series of arches in perfect harmony with one another, and when you look up you see the high roof with delicately carved designs. I spent a long time just walking inside the tomb and around it through the gardens. When I hopped a trishaw to reach the tomb the driver had asked me if I had a girl friend, which was odd bc none of the other drivers had asked me that. This was in sharp contrast to Bangkok where almost everybody from trishaw drivers to hotel bellboys asked me if I would like “lady? massage? you liiiiiiike?” Anyway what my Delhi driver meant was that everyone who goes to Safdarjung tomb is usually trying to spend some quality time with their respective lovers, much like Colombo’s equivalent of Viharamahadevi Park. They do get quite raunchy though, and the guards blow their whistles whenever something untoward is seen. I left when it got dark and walked back to the hotel. Crossing roads in Delhi is near impossible. There is a constant stream of cars which refuse to stop. I waited a good 5 mins before two army guys also decided to cross the road, and even they had to sprint at the best opportunity, so I used them as a shield, which wouldn’t have done much to stop the manic buses with ppl hanging from all corners.

I wanted more adventure for the day which had left me unfulfilled thus far. I had a quick dip in the swimming pool, bathed in the near full moon, but the atmosphere was spoilt by a small swimming class that was being conducted. After consulting my list of things to do I came across a recommended eating joint, some place called Nirula’s. Now I’ve really been looking forward to North Indian food, and have had only one memorable meal thus far. Hopping into the back of another beedi smoking tri I was on my way. The place was a major disappointment. It was an american style diner with indian food, packed with squeaky teens. I ordered what turned out to be a poor, artificial tasting thali and tea, and ruefully went through my map looking at what might have been had I gone to a different restaurant. As I walked out I passed a brightly lit restaurant called Gujrat Spice or something, blaring Hindi music and looking like great fun. I slumped into another three wheeler and headed back to the hotel.

Brooke had just got back and was keen on hooking up with some Indian girls before flying back that night. He claimed that Indian girls are “easy going”, in that “if you have money, you can get the girls maan.” Good for him I thought. It must be said, North Indian girls are extremely good looking, they have wonderful eyes, sharp features and nice hair. Lucky chaps. Unfortunately for Brooke he didn’t get lucky that night and had to settle for chatting with me, a far less pleasant option. He complained that Indian girls have beautiful faces but “unwelcoming asses”, unlike Ethiopian girls who “have the figure 8 body, nice face, and maaaan the ass..yeaaaah”. He was clearly feeling it, gesticulating with his hands, shining eyes and he kept snapping his fingers as he described le derrier of the female Ethiopian. He showed me an Ethiopian magazine given on his flight to prove to me the wonders of Ethiopian girls, but unfortunately the only girls on view were the long distance runners who he described as “not girls, they are something else.” We then spoke about the decidedly more holy subject of God. Brooke is a protestant and a very strong believer, he asked me about my beliefs and when I had explained he said “ahh so you’re a philosopher.” I took that as a compliment. He told me all about christianity, about how Jesus died to save human beings, and that without embracing and loving Him, we’re all going to go down. I asked him my favourite question, what about a really good pious man who does nothing wrong to others and lives his own peaceful life, but doesn’t believe in Jesus, does he go to hell? Brooke laughed and said that there is no such man, we’re all selfish, we’re all sinners in our own way. True I guess. Just as he was leaving he said that he hopes one day that I’d understand the truth, and take the right path. I said I hope so too. I had never had an unknown room-mate before, but I think Brooke was a really good one. He was friendly and open, asked a lot of intelligent, relevant questions, cracked jokes and he didn’t snore. I helped him with his bags, said we’ll keep in touch, we hugged and he left. It was late again so I dozed off, hoping my final day in Delhi would be more like the first day rather than the second.

Day two started poorly. I woke up early bc I dozed off quite early the night before. After initial disorientation I crept out of bed and showered in nice warm water. Breakfast was poor to say the least. Some dicey looking sausages, something fried and potatoesque (no, not chips) and some hodi thing was all I took. I went upstairs to sort out registration and witnessed what was almost a diplomatic crisis. A Pakistani chap had been invited for this and he had been told to pay $100 for registration but at the desk they insisted on $150. The guy quietly sat down, and started punching something into his phone, and a few minutes later stood up and made his way to the door. One of the organizers stopped him and the Pakistani said that he has just informed his government about his treatment and that he has been summoned back by his minister and an official complaint will be made to the Indian PM! Drama drama. The Indian organizer did his utmost to quell the situation and eventually managed to convince the Pakistani to tell his minister that a miscommunication had occured and that its all good now. There were some good speeches in the morning, but the afternoon carried little of interest so I took off to explore. One of the locals I met at the conference gave me a short list of where to go and what to do if I find the time.

I thought the best place to start would be Connaught Circus, it sounded lively and central. So I caught a three wheeler soon as I stepped out of the hotel and we were off for 40 bucks, a pretty good rate. The drive was very pleasant, I passed some lovely architecture on the way since the root bypasses the main administrative area in Delhi including the parliament house, the wonderfully designed Rashtrapati Bhavan - what the President calls home - with the Indian flag fluttering at its peak, I saw India Gate in the distance as well. The roads at the time were uncongested, spacious and generally very pleasant. As we were getting close I noticed the taxi metre reading Rs.400 and got a shock bc the driver had just showed me four fingers and muttered something which I assumed to be 40. Happily enough it was indeed 40 as I got off and started to walk. My first impressions were of disappointment, this place just seemed to be a random road with a bunch of ppl walking around in the heat. I walked around and wanted to ask someone if this is actually Connaught place, and then I crossed the road saw a few more shops and ppl selling things on the street, it looked more like a market area. It began to grow on me though there wasn’t much to write home about as yet, I walked into a few book shops and in one I found William Dalrymple’s City of Djins, which was about his year in Delhi, I was very tempted to buy it but thought I should get it from SL and conserve the few Indian rupees I had. It took me a while to realise what Connaught place actually was. I seemed to be walking through long curved corridors lined with shops, intersperced by roads radiating inwards towards some central point. As i kept walking it became apparent that Connaught place was like some giant round-about in the Centre of Delhi, there was a road all around it, and roads going through it as well, but it was one big market place in the middle.

With time I began to really like this place, I loved all the little street book sellers and stopped at every one of them squatting over the books looking for one of those gems you sometimes find at such stores, I almost walked away with a copy of Kautilya’s political writings, Asia’s equivalent of Machiavelli’s Prince. The food and drink on offer on the road was tempting as well. The little Lemonade sellers were all over the place, it’s made fresh then and there but the water source looked dubious to say the least. There were ppl selling colourful food stuff, something that looked like yellow lentils lined with green curry leaves and bright red chillies looked and smelled particularly enticing. The smells. An amazing thing about Connaught place and Delhi as a whole is the variety of different smells. At each corner a different smell wafts into your nostrils, incense, food, chai, urine, sweat and different combinations thereof. The colours too are full of variety, the buildings themselves have a sameness about them, the TGIFridays shares the same kind of background wall as the little dude selling fake Habana cigars, a dirty white which rises a couple of floors and hasn’t been painted since the British Raj. But everything else is full of colour and vibrance, the women selling multicoloured carpets and cushion covers screaming in purple, orange, wonderful shades of red, the sari shops with hundreds of materials waving all over,the guys selling art and posters on the ground and of course all the colourful food. Everyone was drinking chai, in glass mugs, in tiny plastic cups and from cellophane bags with straws. Everyone is chattering, radios blaring, horns battling it out on the road, it’s all one big cacophony. I began to love it.

There are so many different shops on Connaught Circus, every single Western brand is represented, and between these a range of local stores making their mark, be it the local hair dressers, cafes, small book stores, antique shops, arts and crafts, banks, airline offices, everything imaginable. They all fit to the same template on the exterior, but inside one would have airconditioning and wall legnth posters of Caucasian models, whilst another would have a couple of creaking ceiling fans and a little shrine with incense and the Lord Shiva looking on. The maze of roads running through Connaught Place are also lined with shops, and I allowed myself to get lost in this maze, making random turns and paying no regard to my bearings. There are so many different ppl roaming the area, from yuppies in Rbk and La Coste to street sweepers in dull saris, nose rings and anklets signifying their caste. Everyone assumed I was Indian and spoke to me in Hindi. “Hindi nehi” became my favourite phrase, but most ppl ignored it and continued to speak in Hindi until I just had to give up and walk off.

I hadn’t bought anything at all but I was getting increasingly thirsty. I had a bit of a dilemma. I refused to come all the way to Delhi and have a coffee at a Costa or a bite from the local KFC, but I was also nervous about eating from a random joint in case Delhi belly comes to the party. In order to buy some time I stopped and bought a litre of mineral water, which I finished in a couple of minutes. I had been too excited and curious about this place to realise how oppressive the heat was, it’s less humid than Colombo but it’s hotter and there’s almost no breeze at all. I walked around some more and decided to get something to take home, ammi loves these Indian bags so I sat down at one of the pavement shops and started to sift through a whole bunch of them. The girl running the shop must have been around my age, she was pretty and charming, dressed in an old sari. I was pleasantly surprised when she spoke to me in English following my Hindi Nehi petition. She was an excellent salesperson, despite criticizing my own choices as antique style despite my being a “modern boy” (but she shrugged and said “maybe antique but if you like sir, then it is your choice”), she did however try her best to improve my taste by suggesting slightly louder pink and yellow options. Her brother joined us in a bit and the three of us giggled a fair deal over our differences in taste. I brought two bags for 200 each, a bit of a rip off, but I don’t have too many issues with extortion in order to feed one’s family as long as I feel that I value the item enough to pay that amount. The girl and boy told me to tell my friends to come to their store, that I am a good customer and that I was the only one who bought anything for the day. I said that I will tell my friends, though they might find it a bit difficult to locate at first, we then summoned our respective Gods to bless one another and I went off.

My hunger caught up with me and I walked into the next non-chain (I think) I found, a coffee house/restaurant called United Coffee house (or something). I ordered a snack of tandoor chaat and a masala chaai. The food was lovely, rich in spices and had a generous helping of corriander which is always going to put a silly grin on my face. The masala chaai was wonderful as ever, strong, full and rich. The combination was perfect, nothing like hot tea and spicey food. I rested for a few minutes, half an eye going through the pictures I had taken and half an eye on the guy in national kit who kept staring at me. When I walked out of the coffee house I stepped into a different world. The lights had come on, there was more music, more ppl, more buzz, new colours, new voices, new life. I was trying to take a photograph of a shoe shiner at work when this little kid kept jumping in front of the camera wanting to be in the shot, at the same time his little brother, half dead puppy in one arm, tugged my shirt with his free hand, asking for either some change or my camera. I decided that it was time to leave and began to wander off when I ran into some amazing paintings on the pavement, the type where you need three separate pictures to make one complete one, my favourite. It was a steal at 20 bucks a piece (must be some catch, but it looks good), so I bought 5 of them. A security guy wielding a bamboo baton sat down next to me while I was going through the pics and started talking in Hindi and didn’t stop despite my usual claim of ignorence. I still don’t know what he was on about. I found a ragged looking three wheel driver who insisted on 80 bucks, and I gave in after a few seconds of hollow bargaining. We drove past the same buildings which looked even prettier at night. The driver tried to tell me about them (in Hindi of course) in between violent bouts of coughing and long drags on his beedi. Worryingly he kept looking at me in the mirror while talking instead of watching the road, a sure way to meet the Gods (or demons) on Delhi streets. But then he was quite old and if he survived this long he can’t be that bad.

I got back to my hotel, showered and got the map out to plan where to go the next couple of days. I was very keen on having a look at some moghul architecture, the best bets seemed to be the Jamamasjid and the Red Fort, both the works of Shah Jahan, and these two are also close to some Bazaars. The plan was made. I had just settled into bed when the door bell rang. To my surprise there stood a bell boy and an African man, my twin had finally arrived. His name was Brooke (though it’s spelt and pronounced differently, Brooke is his name of conveniance, like the Chinese ppl in England who say “Hi my name is Wang Qi Zan, but you can call me Bob”) and he’s from Ethiopia, a businessman trying to break into the Indian market. We spoke for a couple of hours about his work, about Sri Lanka, Ethiopia and about dicey Indian traders. But it was late, so we called it a night around 1. A very encouraging start to my introduction to India.

Last Friday boss calls me to his office first thing in the morning, it was the end of the week and I was worried that weekend work beckoned, and I hadn’t shaved.

Boss: ddm how’s your knowledge on trade in services?
me: quite alrite I guess
Boss: good, what plans next week?
me: (hurriedly checking phone organizer) not much
Boss: ahh..can you go to Delhi and present a paper?
me: ah…ok..when?
Boss: Wednesday, so you’ll have to fly Tuesday night. Can write up something by then no?
me: yeah why not.

So here I am, after much chaos in between. Let’s put it this way, my flight was at 3pm on Tuesday, and until Tuesday morning I hadn’t completed my paper, didn’t have a visa, didn’t know when I was presenting, didn’t know if i’d get picked up at the airport, didn’t know if my hotel was booked, and most importantly didn’t have a final nod as to whether despite late notification I would be speaking at all. All this bc on Monday the whole of India took a poya check in memory of Mahathma Gandhi. Quite right too. What I did have was an airline ticket, some dodge looking visa photos taken on Friday and some very dubious hotel reviews.

I could have quite easily said no to this whole thing, but I’ve never been to India and thought this would be a good taster before Goa in November. My biggest worry was getting the visa, Friday was out of the question bc it was too late in the day to get all the documentation sorted, and on Monday the HC was closed. Happily boss and I knew this chap at HC who arranged the visa within 2 hours. The Indian HC is chaos personified, I walked into the security office where this chap had a very eerie hand, the little finger was chopped half way and the worse half dangled on the finest sliver of skin. Another Indian security officer stood at the door barking, almost literally, at everyone who tried to come in to the security office instead of the main visa queue. When I walked up he looked at me menacingly over his mousthache and said “you! what!?” I was in half a mind to put my tail between my legs and join the visa queue, miss my flight and go home. But I said that i have an interview with Mr. so and so, and he waves me in. I walk out an hour and a bit later, clutching my 90 day visa, it was almost noon, time to rush. In the 40 seconds it took to clear my table and rush home I got a call from Delhi, the lady said that my pick up at Indira Gandhi airport has been arranged, that she received a copy of my paper and that she hopes I have a safe flight. I hope so too, I said and went off to Banda airport.

I heard that the airport in Delhi is a bit of a culture shock and fairly dodge even by developing country standards. I couldn’t imagine it would be much worse than the airport in Katmandu so I wasn’t too fussed. In general my expectations for the entire journey were at a fairly low ebb. It started when I was reading reviews for the hotel I was due to stay in. The main review said 5 star, beautifully located in the plush diplomatic centre of Chanakyapuri, 2 mins from conference hall. I perked up. But then further down on the google search I saw some user reviews which were far from flattering.

“You’ll enjoy it if you like cockroaches”
“Checked out in 30 mins”
“Never ever ever..again”
“Seriously, don’t go”

The best thing anyone had to say about the hotel was that the pool is spacious. (It is). On this encouraging note I was off, admist warnings not to drink water, not to eat anything salad-like, avoid anything milky. Excellent, pringles and coke it is, the healthy option.

Three hours on the plane went quite fast, what after getting used to 10 hour marathons to Heathrow most flights seem a breeze. I read the Kite Runner and made notes on my arm from the in-flight magazine about Goa and the wonders thereof. The Indira Gandhi airport in Delhi was perfectly alrite, the immigration chaps quick and unfussy and someone had even removed my bag from the conveyor belt. Good start. I then walked out passed the name board and didn’t see mine on any of them. Bad form. I sent a text to my point of contact in Delhi and got no response. Bugger. I made one more pass at the name board and mine hadn’t magically appeared. Too policemen were sitting around twiddling their mousthaches so I tried to ask them if they knew of this conference and if anyone was here to pick ppl up. They looked confused, clearly not understanding a word I had said, and started gesticulating here and there in an effort to show me the phone booths, the name boards and the airport exit simultaneously. I decided to try the name boards once more and tada, he had appeared, wrong spelling and all. I offer him my hand and introduce myself and ask him if his name is Amit. He shakes his head and tries to take my bag, I say nono it’s ok I’m a big boy, and then he shakes my hand again and says his name is Amit and takes my bag. The two cops wave at me grinning widely, I grin back and put a salute. All’s well that ends well.

We get into Amit’s car which refuses to start, and then stalls thrice in the parking lot. Amit says “shit”, looks at me and grins. Once we’re on the road I relax with the familiarity. Crazy driving, liberal horning, inter-vehicle conversations, packed buses, manic three-wheelers and more pollution than you can shake a stick at. But I loved it, I felt at home. We got to the hotel and my name isn’t on the guest list. Feck. He goes through the book again in front of me and I see it, ddm, Sri Lanka. I point at it with my crooked fingers, and he grins and says ahh I thought you were Jameel! Fair enough I thought, I’ve been called far more bizarre things than that. The hotel was fine if a bit musty and gaudy. True the corridors were musty, the bathroom fittings a bit wobbly and the cupboard door a bit shifty, but it was not a patch on what everyone had said it was, there were no cockroaches, in fact there was no wildlife at all bar a rather large gecko who clucked and ran behind a painting. Those suddas one thing are proper drama cases. I had a super hot shower, told everyone back home that I got here in one piece and that my twin sharing room seemed to have one twin missing. Good thing too. A good start to what would hopefully be a tasty first bite of India.