I am sitting on a train to Delhi from Vellore in my 16th of 34 hours amidst a bunch of rowdy, vocal men speaking in loud tones about women, food and inevitably, cricket. Of course all this is taking place in an unknown Indian language, probably Hindi, because they are variously from Kerala (native language Malayalam), Tamil Nadu (Tamil), Jaipur, (Rajasthani) and noisest of the lot, three Sikhs from Chandrigar (Punjabi). The reason I know they are talking about women, food and cricket is partly because of the scattered, tell-tell english words, like girlfriend, fast bowling and roti, and the enormous amount of guffawing and thigh slapping which is going on, both of their own and each others, despite the fact that apart from the 3 Sikhs, none of them have ever met before. One of them even started howling like a wolf when another was on the phone to his "fiancee".
Occasionally they refer to me, the mysterious lone white woman, in their conversations (a give-away, with their sideways look and a "ma'am" thrust in the middle of their volubility). On one occasion when I looked up, after slight embarrassment that I had twigged they were talking about me, they said that if they ever travelled together again, I should fly over from England to join them. I'm sure that's not what they were talking about, but it was a valiant effort.
Of course I have had the whole, where are you from, what is your name, why aren��t you married conversation, in about hour 5 of the trip (the first four being taken up by sleeping, so hour 5 was the first legitimate opportunity.) It's so funny the response I get when I say I'm not married. The man sitting next to me who has a teak farm in Jaipur, was no exception, and so, as expected, said, "Why?"
How does one answer that? There isn't a why. I usually struggle with this question, but today, I found a whole new avenue to take it down. I told them, being a busy and dedicated doctor, I couldn't possibly forfeit my career for a house and family, so I was looking for a house husband. Brief, but tangible silence, before renewed and exaggerated thigh-slapping at the thought of a male housewife.
"They have them in England?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Really?"
"Definitely," I said, "but still they are quite hard to find."
"No problem," said the Rajastani, heartily, "I will find you a house-husband in India. How do you like them. Thin? Healthy? Tall? Someone from town, or, what about a strong villager? Someone, who will do all the cooking?"
"No, no," I protested, "I like cooking, I just want someone to do the washing up and the hoovering." More astonished, explosive guffaws, accompanied by painful sounding thigh-slapping.
Net result, the Rajastani has asked me along with Mum and Dad to dinner on the 20th February in Jaipur, in order to show them the selection of Good Indian Boys he has found who are prepared to be my house-husband. I'm thinking we should definitely go.
Obviously, I didn't tell the Rajastani that I already have a fiance in Vellore, I thought that might diminish his enthusiasm for finding me a selection of men to chose from, especially, as Pandian is my fiance only in his own eyes. As it is, the Pandian saga is turning into a drama of Bollywood-sized proportions.
Immediately I returned from Sri Lanka, he phoned sounding as eager as ever. Planning ahead and knowing I needed an auto to take me to the station at 2am, I didn't want to be too offish, also I was quite keen to have a ride on the back of his motorbike, so when he suggested a sunset cruise to the mountains I agreed. It was lovely to see a part of the countryside I would never have otherwise seen and, give or take a few of the more predictable conversations ("Do you love me?" "No" and "Will you marry me?" "No" etc etc), his company is fun and we have a laugh. Of course, it is highly inappropriate that I should be seen with him, but luckily I am not a young Indian girl, but a nearly middle-aged English Doctor, with no reputation to be sullied and no family honour to be upheld.
On the way up to the mountain, I noticed he had a nasty burn on his arm. I asked him how he got it. He told me that his aunt was trying to marry him off to her daughter, his cousin, but he doesn't like her, so when he said he wouldn't marry her, someone took a hot poker and put it on his arm. His aunt's family are rich, they want him to marry their daughter so he can contribute his hard-earned money to their coffers. He works very hard. He has a day job as an auto driver and a night job as a watchman at the hospital, managing to sleep between 6am and lunchtime. But, after marriage, they would stop him from seeing his brothers, who are the only people he cares about. His mother, who was blind, died when Pandian was about 4 or 5. He was then neglected by his father who was and remains a useless drunk. When he was at school he excelled at sports, winning prizes in athletics and team sports and as such was noticed by a better, private school offering a scholarship via one of the many charities whose members sponsored children's education. He was given a place and the remainder of his education took place at a catholic seminary run by a Father Joseph, of whom he speaks in loving tones. Somebody, probably in Reigate or Hampstead, in the nineties, regularly sent a cheque to a school in India, maybe receiving, once in a while, a photo of a toothy young boy in shorts and a hand-written thank-you letter, and now that boy is an adult with good English, earning a good wage, in turn sending money to help his brother who is at college. His brother is training to be a doctor. Ever since then, Pandian has felt that he could only marry a white woman, and now he thinks he has found that person. Nothing I say seems to diminish his hope, even the fact that I am practically old enough (if I had been incredibly precocious) to be his mother. I fear, however, that I am bringing him bad luck, just because I am selfishly enjoying spending time with someone, for whom I have no romantic inclinations, in a situation when I can hardly pick and chose my friends. Yesterday, on the train, my phone rings. It says Pandian mobile. I pick up and say hello. There is a woman on the other end.
"Is this Arabella?" she says.
"Yes, who is this?"
"I am Pandian wife. Please don't phone this number anymore."
Ah. Well, either he has been lying all along (not an entirely unreasonable idea) or this is his girl-cousin who wants to marry him, being possessive. Either way, I am not happy about the situation. My presence seems to be causing real problems. Jealousy, frustration and a lifetime of adversity and hardship can make human life seem less precious. We already know that the suicide rate in this area is 100 times that of the UK, mainly of young people, frustrated at the lack of power in their lives, their destiny dictated by religion, poverty and stricture. I fear that, even though I have done nothing except be friendly to a young boy, this is so beyond what is normal for his world that I may have inadvertently created an explosive situation. Perhaps I am overestimating my impact, but I am definitely twitchy about this whole scenario. Luckily, I am out of town for a few weeks so maybe things will calm down, but I feel a little sad that I can't just get to know someone without there being disastrous consequences within his culture.
Apart from the phone call from Pandian's "wife", the train trip was wonderful. A slice of Indian Millefeuille. Apart from the noisy bunch of men, there was a single Tamil man, who spent the whole trip until Bopal, where he disembarked, looking utterly traumatised by the noise made by his fellow passengers. He sat, still as a mouse, staring almost unblinkingly out of the window, his hands folded neatly in his lap while the maelstrom of Hindi swirled around him.
The train is divided into compartments which contain berths for 8 people. Three on one side, three on the other and two perpendicular against the long side of the train. The two middle berths double as seat backs, so only the people with top berths or either of the two side berths can keep their beds during the day. I had one of the middle berths. The man who slept in the top side bunk perpendicular to mine, lay so he could stare straight down my bed. And he did, also unblinkingly, for 36 hours. He didn't even seem to sleep. Whenever I looked up, there he was, with his badly dyed hair pasted onto his head like a painted cap, and his small toothbrush moustache twitching intermittently, unmoved from the last time I looked, appearing to be staring at my feet or up my trousers, it was hard to tell which. I was delighted to note, when he finally did climb down from his eyrie as we approached the outskirts of Delhi, that both his big toenails were painted bright silver.
As we moved slowly towards New Delhi railway station, the speed of the train meant that it was possible to observe in more detail life along the tracks. The early mist framed a group of men perched on the rails playing a game of cards on the sleepers. Behind, from the villages, watching as the train passed, children with shirts and no trousers squatted on the embankment performing morning rituals more usually occurring in the privacy of a bathroom. A man, with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, stood on the roof of his house, holding a long stick in the air rhythmically swirling a shirt around on its tip as a pair of white doves flew around the house. Eventually, with corn in his hand he allowed the pigeons to settle and he watched them, happily, smoking his cigarette as they ate, unchallenged by the rooks and ravens scared away by the flapping shirt.
In one of the station water pumps, a saddhu sat in the marble-lined basin, covered from head to foot in bright yellow turmeric paste, his matted hair standing stiffly, like a child playing with jaundiced bubble bath foam. Unselfconsciously, surrounded by morning commuters, he gradually washed off the paste and returned to a more natural hue.
The two Sikhs sharing my compartment, were uncle and nephew and during the trip wore bandanas instead of the more usual turban, which is presumably their casual headgear. It felt strange seeing them "naked" of their turbans. Both of their scarf things, which probably have a proper name, but I've no idea what it is, were emblazoned with the Nike logo. They were charming, the uncle was more serious and couldn't speak English, but the nephew was sweet and told me that his cousin was coming over from England to stay for a few weeks. He was one of the main thigh-slappers of the journey.
As we neared their disembarkation, the Uncle took a long length of black cloth from a plastic bag. It was his turban. It felt very intimate and intrusive to watch as he took the bandana off and uncurled his amazingly long hair. I should have been polite and looked away but I was fascinated to see how a nondescript length of black cotton could end up in such a dramatic and elegant design as a Sikh's turban. Lying on the bottom berth, I watched voyeuristically as he wrapped it around his head, twisting and winding it into the familiar oval shape, pulling an inside edge over the top of his head. He finished by tucking his symbolic dagger into the folds.
I am now checked into Hotel Singh and Sons, waiting for Mum and Dad to arrive for their Big Adventure in India. Dad has been gearing up to full Maharajah Mode for weeks, so I expect he will return to England with a team of elephants to wow them at Lowther next season.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
The Corundum Conundrum
Corundum is the crystal form of aluminium oxide, which can also take the form of bauxite, one of the earths most abundant minerals. So what's the conundrum and why am I boring (boom boom) on about minerals? Well, because, like carbon, which produces graphite and diamond amongst its varieties, the crystal form of Al2O3, corundum, is the gem, sapphire, which is mined in Sri Lanka. And, boy, have I been having fun shopping. I have been on commission from various people at home (can't say who, in case any partners get excited) to buy "big, flashy" stones. Actually, that clearly gives away who I am buying for, but never mind.
To the delight of a nice man in the Aida Gem store, I wandered past one day and then turned back and sauntered in. The reason I chose his shop rather, than any of the other three or four next to him, was that the other shopkeepers, on seeing my sweaty face, ruffled hair, mended plastice flip flops and tiedyed salwar kameez, with a curry stain down the front, slightly sneered. However, the lucky owner of Aida Gems, just smiled at me, so he got my custom. All 1400 quid of it on my now nearly melted credit card ( I expect rapid reimbursement). As his shop is located in the unfortunately named World Trade Centre, which has maximum security, surrounded by several army check points, only the most determined go there for necessity. If Sri Lankan Airlines hadn't been based in there I wouldn't have gone myself.
Apart from the joy of buying jewels and the relief of being the possessor of a passport containing a new 6 month Indian visa within its pages, I feel quite sad about my visit to Sri lanka, because it has been somewhat of an ordeal. Although, clearly, my anxiety about my visa has had its effect on the ability and degree to which could enjoy myself, there have been two main contributing factors to my changed opinion about Sri Lanka. I came here 10 years ago, and although I can remember precisely nothing about it apart from the women being absolutely tiny and needing help with their ENORMOUS suitcases off the carousel, I do have the impression that it was a beautiful place and I generally enjoyed my trip.
What I do not remember, is what total wankers the men are. Bloody hell, they are incredible. It is impossible to walk down the street without being jostled and stared at (with that noxious smirk which makes my blood boil), a mexican wave of Hell-ooooooo, madam's crescendoing as you pass. Forget about Cricket being a national sport, they could lead the world stage in Boob Cricket. You know the one. A single for a brush with any part of the body, a four for brushing it with your hand and a six if you manage to actually grab it. You're out if you get slapped. They all excel at this and I haven't managed to slap one yet. Glaring, unfortunately, as they scurry off out of reach, only makes the game more exciting. And there's no Umpire to appeal to. So far however, no-one has managed to score more than a single off me, I'm pleased to report. Even the many, many soldiers at the many, many checkpoints play this game. What on earth is one supposed to do when a youth (who looks about 3 1/2) carrying a loaded rifle makes suggestive comments at you. You really are at a disadvantage. I have perfected my Lady Bracknell look, which works on some but unfortunately, clearly turns others on. I shall be glad to get back to India where they tend to stare in astonishment rather than lechery.
The other bane of my brief Sri Lankan existence has been the auto drivers. Firstly, there are thousands and thousands of them. The rickshaws are quite fun because unlike India, they are all different colours, red, blue green, purple. The drivers however are not. Every single one, on passing anyone with less of a tan than a local, slows down and hoots, whilst leaning precariously out of the side yelling "Hello, madam. Taxi?" I feel like looking around and saying "Where? I can only see an umbrella on three wheels". But that would obviously take up too much effort, so my strategies are, variously, just ignoring them (not very effective), saying "No, thanks" (also not very effective) or waving imperiously, (marginally more effective, but makes you feel like a prat. The only consolation is that it really is impossible for them to attempt Boob Cricket in such an unstable vehicle, although, it might be fun to see them try.
I think to be fair, I need to come and spend some proper time here on a dedicated holiday to Sri Lanka, rather than a boring, inconvenient trip at a bad time to get something awkward done, so I can settle in and buy some serious gems, I mean, do some serious sightseeing, and see the beauty of this tiny island so beloved of Marco Polo. As it is, it seems extraordinary, that I can't wait to get back to the hurly burly of India with it's frantic horns, loony drivers, piles of rubbish, people pissing on the streets, hawking and spitting replacing BC as the national pastime, wandering cows and mangy, sore-ridden dogs for a bit of peace and quiet. I shall probably miss Sri Lanka hugely when I've left.
To the delight of a nice man in the Aida Gem store, I wandered past one day and then turned back and sauntered in. The reason I chose his shop rather, than any of the other three or four next to him, was that the other shopkeepers, on seeing my sweaty face, ruffled hair, mended plastice flip flops and tiedyed salwar kameez, with a curry stain down the front, slightly sneered. However, the lucky owner of Aida Gems, just smiled at me, so he got my custom. All 1400 quid of it on my now nearly melted credit card ( I expect rapid reimbursement). As his shop is located in the unfortunately named World Trade Centre, which has maximum security, surrounded by several army check points, only the most determined go there for necessity. If Sri Lankan Airlines hadn't been based in there I wouldn't have gone myself.
Apart from the joy of buying jewels and the relief of being the possessor of a passport containing a new 6 month Indian visa within its pages, I feel quite sad about my visit to Sri lanka, because it has been somewhat of an ordeal. Although, clearly, my anxiety about my visa has had its effect on the ability and degree to which could enjoy myself, there have been two main contributing factors to my changed opinion about Sri Lanka. I came here 10 years ago, and although I can remember precisely nothing about it apart from the women being absolutely tiny and needing help with their ENORMOUS suitcases off the carousel, I do have the impression that it was a beautiful place and I generally enjoyed my trip.
What I do not remember, is what total wankers the men are. Bloody hell, they are incredible. It is impossible to walk down the street without being jostled and stared at (with that noxious smirk which makes my blood boil), a mexican wave of Hell-ooooooo, madam's crescendoing as you pass. Forget about Cricket being a national sport, they could lead the world stage in Boob Cricket. You know the one. A single for a brush with any part of the body, a four for brushing it with your hand and a six if you manage to actually grab it. You're out if you get slapped. They all excel at this and I haven't managed to slap one yet. Glaring, unfortunately, as they scurry off out of reach, only makes the game more exciting. And there's no Umpire to appeal to. So far however, no-one has managed to score more than a single off me, I'm pleased to report. Even the many, many soldiers at the many, many checkpoints play this game. What on earth is one supposed to do when a youth (who looks about 3 1/2) carrying a loaded rifle makes suggestive comments at you. You really are at a disadvantage. I have perfected my Lady Bracknell look, which works on some but unfortunately, clearly turns others on. I shall be glad to get back to India where they tend to stare in astonishment rather than lechery.
The other bane of my brief Sri Lankan existence has been the auto drivers. Firstly, there are thousands and thousands of them. The rickshaws are quite fun because unlike India, they are all different colours, red, blue green, purple. The drivers however are not. Every single one, on passing anyone with less of a tan than a local, slows down and hoots, whilst leaning precariously out of the side yelling "Hello, madam. Taxi?" I feel like looking around and saying "Where? I can only see an umbrella on three wheels". But that would obviously take up too much effort, so my strategies are, variously, just ignoring them (not very effective), saying "No, thanks" (also not very effective) or waving imperiously, (marginally more effective, but makes you feel like a prat. The only consolation is that it really is impossible for them to attempt Boob Cricket in such an unstable vehicle, although, it might be fun to see them try.
I think to be fair, I need to come and spend some proper time here on a dedicated holiday to Sri Lanka, rather than a boring, inconvenient trip at a bad time to get something awkward done, so I can settle in and buy some serious gems, I mean, do some serious sightseeing, and see the beauty of this tiny island so beloved of Marco Polo. As it is, it seems extraordinary, that I can't wait to get back to the hurly burly of India with it's frantic horns, loony drivers, piles of rubbish, people pissing on the streets, hawking and spitting replacing BC as the national pastime, wandering cows and mangy, sore-ridden dogs for a bit of peace and quiet. I shall probably miss Sri Lanka hugely when I've left.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Visa shmisa
Am currently in Colombo trying to renew my Indian Visa which has been a raffle from start to finish.
I could have done this when I was at home for Christmas, but before I left India, Arun told me not to, because he could definitely get it extended for me. When I expressed amazement and asked if he was sure, he looked slightly hurt and said of course he was, he had a foreign wife and worked in the tourist industry after all. Forgetting my golden rule of, if in any doubt, find out for yourself, I believed him, thankfully, because in truth I really did not want to waste any of my precious holiday at the Indian High Commission in London.
Coming back to India with a visa about to run out I asked Arun what I needed to do to renew it. He forgot that I asked and so no answer came back. Feeling like a nag, I asked again, and he sounded quite pained and irritated that I was asking and with much huffing and puffing found out that, with a probable bribe (!!!!) I could extend it for 30 days only. Well, that was no use because that would leave me in the middle of my parents trip needing to leave the country and renew it, but I only had a few days to sort it out now. So I now had to get to Sri Lanka asap (visa expiring in 2 days time) and be back in time for a friends visit on the 7th and my parents trip starting on the 12th, leaving me a crucial 3 days to get my visa renewed. As we now know, that is not enough.
On our first morning in Colombo, I said to Justine, look I need to get to the HC asap, be bright and breezy, do a little begging/sobbing and get my visa sorted, do you mind if I go on ahead. With not a care in the world, Justine, who wafts through life and manages not to fall flat on her face, said no probs, I'll join you later.
I arrived and the queue was ENORMOUS, out of the building and snaking three times around the forecourt. I remained about 10 from the end for at least an hour which was most irritating, God knows what time the real keenies got there. Finally, at 10.45 I got to the front of the queue which consisted of a series of desks placed in the middle of the room, where someone, prior to wasting the "visa" person's time, simply checked that the forms were filled out correctly. He told me to go and pay and pointed downstairs, away from the room where all the official action seemed to be happening. I was swept downstairs to a large room with about three other people in it. Everyone else seemed to be upstairs queuing for kiosks. Meanwhile, Justine had just arrived and was queuing in a significantly smaller queue than I had been in.
I rather belatedly asked the cashier if it was possible for me to get my visa done quicker. She looked pityingly at me (they see 1000 people per day for visas) and gave me a number to call. I told her about my flight and she pointed again to the number. Is there any chance of it being done sooner? I asked. Phone and see she said. I was clearly not going to get any more answers from her.
Meanwhile, and here is the absolutely infuriating thing, Justine had practically got to the front of the queue. I said I would wait in a coffee shop around the corner for her. One cup of tea and a fresh lime soda later, she comes out and, to give her credit, she was looking slightly embarrassed, said, they told me to come back this afternoon to pick up my visa.
WHHAAAATTTT!!!
The sodding cow, who has nearly 3 weeks in Sri Lanka and anyway has another 6 weeks left on her old visa went and got her visa renewed in ONE DAY, having queued for about 1/3 of the time and without having made any effort to get it done quicker at all. I was barely able to speak to her for the rest of the day I was so furious. I know it wasn't her fault, but it was SO unfair. Especially as she said gaily, I expect it's because everybody loves Australia. I bloody well don't. And anyway, Australia is the country which shoot immigrants coming in by boat to stop them landing, they are totally paranoid about people coming to their precious, bloody, bastard land. I am never going there. Ever. That'll show'em. It has always been low on my list and now I AM TAKING IT OFF ALTOGETHER.
I could have done this when I was at home for Christmas, but before I left India, Arun told me not to, because he could definitely get it extended for me. When I expressed amazement and asked if he was sure, he looked slightly hurt and said of course he was, he had a foreign wife and worked in the tourist industry after all. Forgetting my golden rule of, if in any doubt, find out for yourself, I believed him, thankfully, because in truth I really did not want to waste any of my precious holiday at the Indian High Commission in London.
Coming back to India with a visa about to run out I asked Arun what I needed to do to renew it. He forgot that I asked and so no answer came back. Feeling like a nag, I asked again, and he sounded quite pained and irritated that I was asking and with much huffing and puffing found out that, with a probable bribe (!!!!) I could extend it for 30 days only. Well, that was no use because that would leave me in the middle of my parents trip needing to leave the country and renew it, but I only had a few days to sort it out now. So I now had to get to Sri Lanka asap (visa expiring in 2 days time) and be back in time for a friends visit on the 7th and my parents trip starting on the 12th, leaving me a crucial 3 days to get my visa renewed. As we now know, that is not enough.
On our first morning in Colombo, I said to Justine, look I need to get to the HC asap, be bright and breezy, do a little begging/sobbing and get my visa sorted, do you mind if I go on ahead. With not a care in the world, Justine, who wafts through life and manages not to fall flat on her face, said no probs, I'll join you later.
I arrived and the queue was ENORMOUS, out of the building and snaking three times around the forecourt. I remained about 10 from the end for at least an hour which was most irritating, God knows what time the real keenies got there. Finally, at 10.45 I got to the front of the queue which consisted of a series of desks placed in the middle of the room, where someone, prior to wasting the "visa" person's time, simply checked that the forms were filled out correctly. He told me to go and pay and pointed downstairs, away from the room where all the official action seemed to be happening. I was swept downstairs to a large room with about three other people in it. Everyone else seemed to be upstairs queuing for kiosks. Meanwhile, Justine had just arrived and was queuing in a significantly smaller queue than I had been in.
I rather belatedly asked the cashier if it was possible for me to get my visa done quicker. She looked pityingly at me (they see 1000 people per day for visas) and gave me a number to call. I told her about my flight and she pointed again to the number. Is there any chance of it being done sooner? I asked. Phone and see she said. I was clearly not going to get any more answers from her.
Meanwhile, and here is the absolutely infuriating thing, Justine had practically got to the front of the queue. I said I would wait in a coffee shop around the corner for her. One cup of tea and a fresh lime soda later, she comes out and, to give her credit, she was looking slightly embarrassed, said, they told me to come back this afternoon to pick up my visa.
WHHAAAATTTT!!!
The sodding cow, who has nearly 3 weeks in Sri Lanka and anyway has another 6 weeks left on her old visa went and got her visa renewed in ONE DAY, having queued for about 1/3 of the time and without having made any effort to get it done quicker at all. I was barely able to speak to her for the rest of the day I was so furious. I know it wasn't her fault, but it was SO unfair. Especially as she said gaily, I expect it's because everybody loves Australia. I bloody well don't. And anyway, Australia is the country which shoot immigrants coming in by boat to stop them landing, they are totally paranoid about people coming to their precious, bloody, bastard land. I am never going there. Ever. That'll show'em. It has always been low on my list and now I AM TAKING IT OFF ALTOGETHER.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Not just passing through Colombo this time.
For the third time in just over a month, I find myself in Colombo. Justine and I have come to Sri Lanka in order to renew our Indian visas. I shall only stay briefly but she is staying for a couple of weeks or more.
We arrived this morning and it has already been quite eventful one way and another.
Firstly, J took the unsurprising but foolish decision to empty her room of alcohol before leaving - into her stomach. I think there was a good 3/4 bottle of vodka left before her "spring clean".
All last night, whilst I sat chatting to Margaret, our new hostel mate, Justine wafted in and out of her room with increasing unsteadiness, having made the mandatory request for samosas, which the dog then ate as she left them the steps during one of her forays back into her room.
We were due to leave at 5.00am and finally, at midnight I finally went in to pack, knowing that I was only going for a few days and my things were still packed from Bangalore anyway. It took only about half an hour, despite frequent interruptions from J firstly telling me she was really annoyed with me (no idea why), then coming back to tell me (slightly tearfully) that I had helped her a lot whilst she had been in RUHSA, before a bout of paranoia half way through her speech made her reiterate that she thought I was really annoying. Then she came to ask me if I could help her upload her music onto her MP3 player from her computer, which owing to a lead issue I couldn't. I went to bed as she was still pootling ineffectually around her room crunching on puffed rice which she had scattered liberally across her floor, with no sign of any bag being out, let alone packed.
This morning at 5am when the car arrived, I went to wake her. Her light was on, the door was open, the puffed rice, looking a little more crushed than last night, was still everywhere and a bag, containing unknown items, appeared to be packed.
I checked she had her passport and tickets. She staggered to the car and fell in. Amazingly, the driver, despite the fumes, managed to stay sober for the drive and got us to the aiport literally in perfect time.
It was quite hair-raising trying to contain the whirlwind that was Justine (still pissed obviously) but I reckoned that she had been doing this for years without needing me to mother her so I wasn't going to start now. I also said to her that, no matter what, I was getting on the plane as I needed to sort my visa out immediately.
Halfway around through the airport procedures she realised she had left her wallet behind. Completely. She had a total of 7 rupees in Indian coins and that was it. She now has the prospect of spending nearly 3 weeks in Sri Lanka with no access to money. Oh well, something will occur.
Luckily for me, owing to check-in shenanigans we were not sitting together on the flight so I, unlike those on row 15, had a peaceful trip.
On arrival, having read about the rip-off taxis at the airport charging 1400rs for a 35km trip, we rather stubbornly set off walking toards the bus stop which was 2km away. After a short while a bus arrived and charged us 50rs each. We felt very smug. I handed over the smallest note I had - 1000rs - and waited for my change. He didn't have it to start with and unlike the Vellore bus drivers, who hack their way through 100's of people crammed in and out of the bus in order to give you your 50 paise change, this young man, conveniently "forgot" and I even more conveniently for him, forgot to ask. This was partly due to the fact that we had 2 police check points when all the passengers or just the driver and his dishonest sidekick had to get out and have their bags checked while J and I sat on the bus looking a bit bewildered.
Amidst a repetitive refrain from J of "I can't believe I don't have my wallet!", we got to the Indian High Commission to be told that it was too late to put my application form in today (I wasn't surprised), but I could do it tomorrow. Great, I thought. It will take 5 working days. Fuck, I thought. I have three working days in Sri Lanka. I am obviously going to have to be very, very persuasive. I may even have to cry a little.
We are staying in a nice place, which has an old Dutch colonial feel, it is open and breezy with cooling gardens surrounding it, so it feels somewhat like we are still at RUHSA. Tomorrow, I tackle the Visa Problem. Wish me luck.
We arrived this morning and it has already been quite eventful one way and another.
Firstly, J took the unsurprising but foolish decision to empty her room of alcohol before leaving - into her stomach. I think there was a good 3/4 bottle of vodka left before her "spring clean".
All last night, whilst I sat chatting to Margaret, our new hostel mate, Justine wafted in and out of her room with increasing unsteadiness, having made the mandatory request for samosas, which the dog then ate as she left them the steps during one of her forays back into her room.
We were due to leave at 5.00am and finally, at midnight I finally went in to pack, knowing that I was only going for a few days and my things were still packed from Bangalore anyway. It took only about half an hour, despite frequent interruptions from J firstly telling me she was really annoyed with me (no idea why), then coming back to tell me (slightly tearfully) that I had helped her a lot whilst she had been in RUHSA, before a bout of paranoia half way through her speech made her reiterate that she thought I was really annoying. Then she came to ask me if I could help her upload her music onto her MP3 player from her computer, which owing to a lead issue I couldn't. I went to bed as she was still pootling ineffectually around her room crunching on puffed rice which she had scattered liberally across her floor, with no sign of any bag being out, let alone packed.
This morning at 5am when the car arrived, I went to wake her. Her light was on, the door was open, the puffed rice, looking a little more crushed than last night, was still everywhere and a bag, containing unknown items, appeared to be packed.
I checked she had her passport and tickets. She staggered to the car and fell in. Amazingly, the driver, despite the fumes, managed to stay sober for the drive and got us to the aiport literally in perfect time.
It was quite hair-raising trying to contain the whirlwind that was Justine (still pissed obviously) but I reckoned that she had been doing this for years without needing me to mother her so I wasn't going to start now. I also said to her that, no matter what, I was getting on the plane as I needed to sort my visa out immediately.
Halfway around through the airport procedures she realised she had left her wallet behind. Completely. She had a total of 7 rupees in Indian coins and that was it. She now has the prospect of spending nearly 3 weeks in Sri Lanka with no access to money. Oh well, something will occur.
Luckily for me, owing to check-in shenanigans we were not sitting together on the flight so I, unlike those on row 15, had a peaceful trip.
On arrival, having read about the rip-off taxis at the airport charging 1400rs for a 35km trip, we rather stubbornly set off walking toards the bus stop which was 2km away. After a short while a bus arrived and charged us 50rs each. We felt very smug. I handed over the smallest note I had - 1000rs - and waited for my change. He didn't have it to start with and unlike the Vellore bus drivers, who hack their way through 100's of people crammed in and out of the bus in order to give you your 50 paise change, this young man, conveniently "forgot" and I even more conveniently for him, forgot to ask. This was partly due to the fact that we had 2 police check points when all the passengers or just the driver and his dishonest sidekick had to get out and have their bags checked while J and I sat on the bus looking a bit bewildered.
Amidst a repetitive refrain from J of "I can't believe I don't have my wallet!", we got to the Indian High Commission to be told that it was too late to put my application form in today (I wasn't surprised), but I could do it tomorrow. Great, I thought. It will take 5 working days. Fuck, I thought. I have three working days in Sri Lanka. I am obviously going to have to be very, very persuasive. I may even have to cry a little.
We are staying in a nice place, which has an old Dutch colonial feel, it is open and breezy with cooling gardens surrounding it, so it feels somewhat like we are still at RUHSA. Tomorrow, I tackle the Visa Problem. Wish me luck.
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