Yesterday was Graduation Day for the Class of 2006, some of whom I have got to know a little, so I went along to see what was what. CMC, as explained before, was set up in 1901 by an American woman to address the need for women doctors to minister to the women of India, who were not allowed to be attended to by men. In the late forties CMC admitted the first male undergraduates. The number of students per year remains at the level of 60 per year, as established by Ida Scudder. The ratio this year was 28:32 women:men.
The course is based on a traditional English Medical degree, with some American structure thrown in. It is a 5 year course during the first 2 years of which they do Anatomy, phyiol, biochem, blah blah. Then they start doing clinical rotations. After they qualify they spend a year as an Intern at CMC and then start residency (which is the American bit). The graduation ceremony takes place half way through the graduates Intern year.
As a ceremony it ranks with the Trooping of the Colour for pomp and circumstance. In fact Pomp and Circumstance was played as one of the key marching tunes. The final year medical students, the girls in beautiful white saris and the boys, with slicked back hair and nervous smiles, in blazers, carried 2 long strands of fabulous-smelling tuber rose and jasmine flowers twisted into a thick rope, leading a procession of all the graduates, postgraduates, MDs, PhDs and Faculty professors around the campus garden grounds before enteing the auditorium for the prize-giving ceremony. They slow walked to the tinny strains of Fanfare for Common Man, by Aaron Copeland and Land of Hope and Glory, by Edward Elgar. Hundreds of proud mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, aunties and uncles stood around with the finest array of digital camera-ware seen, capturing every moment as tiny electrical impulses. Younger sisters were wearing dresses stiff with nylon lace and starch, younger brothers had army-shiny shoes and hair. Parents who had gone through the same ceremony many years before, of whom there were many, were humming along with full eyes and a quivering lip. The graduates looked proud, nervous and defiant as they marked the start of their new life as a doctor.
All the girls wore saris and it was clear that they weren't use to them. Some had uneven hems, some even showed the skirt underneath, many walked not really knowing how to accomodate the thick pleats at the front, but they all looked beautiful.
The ecermony went on for a couple of hours or more and I sat outside with a friend and watched as the dusk turned to blue fairy lights strung through the garden and along the edge of the building. The delicious aroma of dinner, organised and served by the students in the first and third years, wafted through the trees. We went back in and had a look at the end of the ceremony. The fans busily turned above the heads of patient families waiting for the 3 seconds of glory for their son or daughter. The clapping was minimal by this stage, until the award for the best teacher, awarded on the basis of a student poll for three years. A retiring professor, who had been teaching for decades and therefore known by old and new students alike received an overwhelming spontaneous cheer and standing ovation as his name was called out. My friend, with tears in her eyes was clapping furiously, he had taught her 25 years ago. Everyone stamped and clapped and roared their approval at this accolade. And the professor, Dr Rao, beamed delightedly. A beam for which he is famous and no doubt contributed to his award.
After the dinner (which I did not attend) there was student entertainment. We sat and watched for a while. Pictures of class outings and people studying in messy bedroom; in jokes about the class clown; cheers at everything the class dude did or said; beautiful serious singing interrrupted by tuneless joke singing all encouraged by shouted comments, clapping and laughing from the audience of their fellow classmates.
If I felt even faintly nostalgic about my medical student days it would have brought back memories for though this college is thousands of miles from my college, it seemed just the same. Medical students are curiously alike.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Opening a tin of salmon
For lunch today, I had salmon salad with tomatoes, cucumbers, onion and a lime & wasabi mayonnaise. Sounds impressive and wasn’t bad.
As a treat, I’d bought a tin of salmon in wasabi mayonnaise at the supermarket. I’ve only been to the supermarket about 4 times and I feel like a kid in a sweet shop whenever I do. I buy things I wouldn’t even look at twice in the UK, but, as mentioned before, the unremitting diet at RUHSA can cause extraordinary things to happen. On one visit to the supermarket, I became so overexcited at a tin of processed cheese, that the security guard thought I was planning a raid and nearly escorted me from the premises. I mollify myself with the thought that every Indian friend I have ever had cannot exist in England without chillis and curry, so I shouldn’t feel guilty for craving things that resemble stuff I might have at home every now and then.
It’s not that the flavours here aren’t good, it’s just that it seems to be a bit of a one trick pony. Rice or bread with soft vegetables or, occasionally, chicken, in a sloppy sauce – which looks much the same on entry as exit. I remember last time I was here, craving, from deep within my soul, crunchy boiled French beans, and even now (at home) they still have the power to truly excite me. My teeth long for crunch, my masseter muscles yearn for resistance, in short, I want something to bite into and make it worth while having teeth. Nothing in India really requires them. As it is, despite the amount of sugar consumed, most people here have fantastic teeth, perhaps its because they hardly use them. The vegetables dissolve in the mouth, the chicken pieces – which are anatomically pretty unrecognisable (I think the butcher just chucks a whole one up at the fan when it’s going round at top speed) - have barely a morsel on each piece and usually the best one can do is suck the juice off.
And everything has sugar in it; the bread, the tea, the coffee, the tin of salmon in wasabi mayonnaise. It’s not really surprising India has such a phenomenal rate of diabetes, I can feel my own pancreas is exhausted. Not only does everything contain sugar but it contains it in vast quantities. Every drink ordered comes with added sugar, even fruit juices like pineapple. I ask for everything without sugar, even fresh lime soda, which is not unreasonable to drink sweetened. Everytime I order it, I get the same reaction.
"Fresh lime soda, no sweet, no salt, plain, plain". I look at the waiter’s face. He hasn’t taken it in; it doesn’t register.
"No sweet, no sugar," I reiterate (otherwise it comes with an inch of sugar in the glass).
"Ok, ok," he says, "Little sugar."
"No. No sugar. Plain, plain."
"Ok, ok. Salt."
"No. No sweet. No salt. Plain, plain." Sometimes it comes plain. It’s a little ritual I shall miss when I’m home again.
Anyway, back to lunch. So, I was very excited at the prospect of my salmon salad. I had it all planned out. I would cycle to KV Kuppam and buy tomatoes, cucumber, maybe some mint and coriander and a few limes. I set off, waving like the queen (except she rarely uses a bike) to some of the many, many children who yell out "Hello, Madam" as I ride by (it’s going to be very strange being anonymous again, when no-one is the least bit interested in my passing) and ignoring the many, many men who, with balletic grace keep their eyes fixed on me as they ride past on their mopeds without a wobble, despite paying as much attention to the road ahead, as a 1940’s film star driving through a Hollywood backdrop.
I got to KV Kuppam and, without any effort, found tomatoes, cucumber, limes, onions, coriander and mint. I found great difficulty trying to find a tin opener. I went into a shop which sold tins and kitchen utensils and asked for a tin opener with a faintly hopeless air, as it was clear that no-one could speak English. And why indeed should they. I bet no Guildfordian in Robert Dyas on North Street speaks Tamil. Not even a flicker of understanding. So, I tried miming opening a tin. Despite my previous success on the Stage of India, this performance met with blank looks and Tamil mumblings followed by a questioning glance as he pointed at a water jug. Try again. This time I attempted drawing what I wanted. I drew a tin closed, a tin open and a tin opener. A look of dawning comprehension mixed with desperation passed over the shopkeeper’s face. He pulled out a wok. I gave up and went to the next shop. I was marginally more successful in conveying my needs, but no more successful in fulfilling them. I decided not to try and purchase a tin opener as it was exhausting me, maybe my friend would have one. Whilst doing a bit of sneaky Christmas shopping in a silver shop, I texted her. It turned out she didn’t have one either. The prospect of having salmon for lunch was rapidly fading, but as I was having a lovely time browsing through the extraordinary array of silverware, I sort of forgot about it for a bit. I was also beginning to draw a crowd.
When I finished choosing, the man in charge added everything up with one hand and opened new boxes of things to show me with the other, all the while chattering away in good English. Suddenly it dawned on me, I could ask him where to buy a tin opener.
"A tin opener?" he replied.
"Yes," I said, the tin of salmon beginning to drift back into reach.
He burbled to his wife for a bit in Tamil, and then suggested a shop I could find one.
"Could you write it down for me so I can show it in the shop, because no-one understands me when I ask for it?"
"No problem," he said, picking up a piece of paper and pen.
Meticulously, he wrote: T-I-N O-P-E-N-E-R.
There was a brief pause, before I couldn’t help myself saying "Yes, I can write it in English. Could you write it in Tamil?"
"Yes, yes," he said.
He put brackets around "TIN OPENER" and, somewhat confusingly, wrote underneath "TO OPEN BOXES". I persisted stubbornly and a little bit rudely, probably, but, having found myself in a similar situation in Barrow with a "Korean" interpreter, I was keen not to leave him with the impression I wasn’t fully conversant in my own language.
He was so kind and only wanted to help me, because he actually sent his wife or daughter off to try and find one in his own kitchen. She came back with a selection of articles, including a chisel and pair of pliers, which he assured me were perfect for opening a tin, especially if I could hit the chisel with a hammer. I didn’t like to say I had no hammer, nor refuse his assistance, so I cycled home with a bag full of vegetables, silverware and a selection of Black and Decker tools. You know what? The tin had a ring pull.
As a treat, I’d bought a tin of salmon in wasabi mayonnaise at the supermarket. I’ve only been to the supermarket about 4 times and I feel like a kid in a sweet shop whenever I do. I buy things I wouldn’t even look at twice in the UK, but, as mentioned before, the unremitting diet at RUHSA can cause extraordinary things to happen. On one visit to the supermarket, I became so overexcited at a tin of processed cheese, that the security guard thought I was planning a raid and nearly escorted me from the premises. I mollify myself with the thought that every Indian friend I have ever had cannot exist in England without chillis and curry, so I shouldn’t feel guilty for craving things that resemble stuff I might have at home every now and then.
It’s not that the flavours here aren’t good, it’s just that it seems to be a bit of a one trick pony. Rice or bread with soft vegetables or, occasionally, chicken, in a sloppy sauce – which looks much the same on entry as exit. I remember last time I was here, craving, from deep within my soul, crunchy boiled French beans, and even now (at home) they still have the power to truly excite me. My teeth long for crunch, my masseter muscles yearn for resistance, in short, I want something to bite into and make it worth while having teeth. Nothing in India really requires them. As it is, despite the amount of sugar consumed, most people here have fantastic teeth, perhaps its because they hardly use them. The vegetables dissolve in the mouth, the chicken pieces – which are anatomically pretty unrecognisable (I think the butcher just chucks a whole one up at the fan when it’s going round at top speed) - have barely a morsel on each piece and usually the best one can do is suck the juice off.
And everything has sugar in it; the bread, the tea, the coffee, the tin of salmon in wasabi mayonnaise. It’s not really surprising India has such a phenomenal rate of diabetes, I can feel my own pancreas is exhausted. Not only does everything contain sugar but it contains it in vast quantities. Every drink ordered comes with added sugar, even fruit juices like pineapple. I ask for everything without sugar, even fresh lime soda, which is not unreasonable to drink sweetened. Everytime I order it, I get the same reaction.
"Fresh lime soda, no sweet, no salt, plain, plain". I look at the waiter’s face. He hasn’t taken it in; it doesn’t register.
"No sweet, no sugar," I reiterate (otherwise it comes with an inch of sugar in the glass).
"Ok, ok," he says, "Little sugar."
"No. No sugar. Plain, plain."
"Ok, ok. Salt."
"No. No sweet. No salt. Plain, plain." Sometimes it comes plain. It’s a little ritual I shall miss when I’m home again.
Anyway, back to lunch. So, I was very excited at the prospect of my salmon salad. I had it all planned out. I would cycle to KV Kuppam and buy tomatoes, cucumber, maybe some mint and coriander and a few limes. I set off, waving like the queen (except she rarely uses a bike) to some of the many, many children who yell out "Hello, Madam" as I ride by (it’s going to be very strange being anonymous again, when no-one is the least bit interested in my passing) and ignoring the many, many men who, with balletic grace keep their eyes fixed on me as they ride past on their mopeds without a wobble, despite paying as much attention to the road ahead, as a 1940’s film star driving through a Hollywood backdrop.
I got to KV Kuppam and, without any effort, found tomatoes, cucumber, limes, onions, coriander and mint. I found great difficulty trying to find a tin opener. I went into a shop which sold tins and kitchen utensils and asked for a tin opener with a faintly hopeless air, as it was clear that no-one could speak English. And why indeed should they. I bet no Guildfordian in Robert Dyas on North Street speaks Tamil. Not even a flicker of understanding. So, I tried miming opening a tin. Despite my previous success on the Stage of India, this performance met with blank looks and Tamil mumblings followed by a questioning glance as he pointed at a water jug. Try again. This time I attempted drawing what I wanted. I drew a tin closed, a tin open and a tin opener. A look of dawning comprehension mixed with desperation passed over the shopkeeper’s face. He pulled out a wok. I gave up and went to the next shop. I was marginally more successful in conveying my needs, but no more successful in fulfilling them. I decided not to try and purchase a tin opener as it was exhausting me, maybe my friend would have one. Whilst doing a bit of sneaky Christmas shopping in a silver shop, I texted her. It turned out she didn’t have one either. The prospect of having salmon for lunch was rapidly fading, but as I was having a lovely time browsing through the extraordinary array of silverware, I sort of forgot about it for a bit. I was also beginning to draw a crowd.
When I finished choosing, the man in charge added everything up with one hand and opened new boxes of things to show me with the other, all the while chattering away in good English. Suddenly it dawned on me, I could ask him where to buy a tin opener.
"A tin opener?" he replied.
"Yes," I said, the tin of salmon beginning to drift back into reach.
He burbled to his wife for a bit in Tamil, and then suggested a shop I could find one.
"Could you write it down for me so I can show it in the shop, because no-one understands me when I ask for it?"
"No problem," he said, picking up a piece of paper and pen.
Meticulously, he wrote: T-I-N O-P-E-N-E-R.
There was a brief pause, before I couldn’t help myself saying "Yes, I can write it in English. Could you write it in Tamil?"
"Yes, yes," he said.
He put brackets around "TIN OPENER" and, somewhat confusingly, wrote underneath "TO OPEN BOXES". I persisted stubbornly and a little bit rudely, probably, but, having found myself in a similar situation in Barrow with a "Korean" interpreter, I was keen not to leave him with the impression I wasn’t fully conversant in my own language.
He was so kind and only wanted to help me, because he actually sent his wife or daughter off to try and find one in his own kitchen. She came back with a selection of articles, including a chisel and pair of pliers, which he assured me were perfect for opening a tin, especially if I could hit the chisel with a hammer. I didn’t like to say I had no hammer, nor refuse his assistance, so I cycled home with a bag full of vegetables, silverware and a selection of Black and Decker tools. You know what? The tin had a ring pull.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Au revoir to Romi and Malin
We have just spent a fantastic but bittersweet weekend in Pondicherry, the "Riviera of the East", a small district which used to be French, and now, still, amongst the deafening smell of curry leaves, coconut oil and latrines, pervades a faint Gallic whiff. We stayed in an old colonial guest house which the owner, Patricia, had decorated stunningly with carved wooden furniture, colourful drapes, cushions and light fittings and brightly painted walls. I went with a slight variant on the original joke gang, this time it was a Norwegian pharmacist, 2 Swedish Nurses, an Australian Social Worker and an English Doctor. It was fun but sad because, by the end of the weekend, we would be saying goodbye to the Australian Social Worker (Romi) and Norwegian Pharmacist (Malin) who have been brilliant company and great friends over the last 3 months, such as is only possible when you are all miles from home and trying to cram in as much as possible in a period of time which you know must end.
Romi has been my closest companion in RUHSA, we have spent loads of time chatting on her balcony while she had a fag, moaning about her so-called supervisor who, as far as I can tell, needs some serious tuition in how to "supervise", and co-students a staggeringly dysfunctional group who were extremely unpleasant to her, potentially making her time at RUHSA disastrous. Luckily, she and I became friends so we used to go and play with the others in Vellore, so, actually, in the end, she got the most out of her time here and had by far the most fun. Especially as she discovered the joys of a Swedish Massage.
Malin, whom I met first at the tsunami camp all those weeks ago in August, has been a blast from then til now. She is a powerhouse of organisation, motivation and realisation. We have spent so much time together drinking, eating, laughing, shrieking, singing, enjoying, playing, living and her leaving will leave a quiet, cavernous chasm. The good news is that I now have someone to visit in Norway, where I have always wanted to go. It has moved right to the top of my "Next Place to Visit" list.
Pondicherry was fantastic. We knew we were going to have a good time when, going out to dinner on the evening of our arrival, we saw on the menu "Herb Chicken – chicken cooked in continental herbs, vegetables and French fries – Enjoy with French loaf". You can’t really appreciate how exciting a prospect that is unless you’ve been eating rice, sambar (a watery lentil water with leastly lentils and mostly water) and chapattis for 3 months. Ture ordered it and asked the waiter if he could "enjoy with French Loaf". "Very sorry, sir, we have no French loaf, only Naan bread". We laughed all the way through dinner and then, when walking home, just as our hilarity was beginning to recede, we saw this:
The owner of the flat must wonder why gangs of tourists hover outside his door, clutching each other, incapacitated with laughter and taking photographs of his instructions for thoughtless car users in Pondicherry.
The next day the weather was a bit miserable, very overcast and unbelievably humid, but we wandered around the very pretty Mediterindian area, which has wide empty open streets, large looming broad leaved trees and a few Hindu temples. So just like Nice. We were even blessed by the resident elephant for a few rupees. We then went totally bonkers and bought huge amounts of "French" cheese (all made in the nearby commune of Auroville, started by Sri Aurobinda a Guru whose ashram is in Pondy), crackers (not the Diwali type) and expensive wine (not the Indian type).
Before we tucked into our cheese and wine party we went to a fabulous restaurant overlooking the sea. Scandinavians have to be the greediest people in the entire world and I am including the Onslows in this. They talk about nothing but food and drink between and during enormous meals and then, when reclining, bloated and belching from one gargantuan feast, they are planning and drooling over the next. I’m no stranger to gluttony, but I was totally outdone. Unfortunately, despite this, I still have the biggest arse. Their excuse is that, as eating out is so expensive in Sweden and Norway respectively, they can barely afford to do it, so they go completely bananas in India, where the most expensive meal still only comes to about 10 quid a head. Consequently, whenever I go away with any of the Scandinavian posse, I need to double up on the anorexic worms to keep things even. Saturday night in Pondicherry was no exception. The food was absolutely delicious. I started with Chandra bangra which was the most succulent and massive prawns cooked bengali style in mustard oil and masala. Bloody hell, they were good. Then I had some spicy tandoori lamb dish with grilled vegetables. It was all fab. The Scands must have taken a hundred pictures of the food in various combinations and degree of magnification (I must confess to taking a sneaky picture of the lettuce salad I forgot to mention I had) and Ture even filmed the arrival of Malin’s "Drunken Prawns". The waitress was most entertained.
We then had a short walk back and a brief pause before tucking into the cheese and wine. The Auroville brie taste just like the Auroville camembert, but it was at least free of curry leaves or black pepper which the Indians usually can't stop themselves putting into everything. As it was our last night together we sat up in our sitting area in our gorgeous room hooting with laughter about all the fun we'd had together.
It made it all the more sad to say goodbye to Romi the next day, whom we left in Pondi to get a bus to Bangalore. We just hugged. But we’ll meet again in Delhi.
Here are a few "Best of" pictures:
And finally, we get to enjoy french loaf......
Romi has been my closest companion in RUHSA, we have spent loads of time chatting on her balcony while she had a fag, moaning about her so-called supervisor who, as far as I can tell, needs some serious tuition in how to "supervise", and co-students a staggeringly dysfunctional group who were extremely unpleasant to her, potentially making her time at RUHSA disastrous. Luckily, she and I became friends so we used to go and play with the others in Vellore, so, actually, in the end, she got the most out of her time here and had by far the most fun. Especially as she discovered the joys of a Swedish Massage.
Malin, whom I met first at the tsunami camp all those weeks ago in August, has been a blast from then til now. She is a powerhouse of organisation, motivation and realisation. We have spent so much time together drinking, eating, laughing, shrieking, singing, enjoying, playing, living and her leaving will leave a quiet, cavernous chasm. The good news is that I now have someone to visit in Norway, where I have always wanted to go. It has moved right to the top of my "Next Place to Visit" list.
Pondicherry was fantastic. We knew we were going to have a good time when, going out to dinner on the evening of our arrival, we saw on the menu "Herb Chicken – chicken cooked in continental herbs, vegetables and French fries – Enjoy with French loaf". You can’t really appreciate how exciting a prospect that is unless you’ve been eating rice, sambar (a watery lentil water with leastly lentils and mostly water) and chapattis for 3 months. Ture ordered it and asked the waiter if he could "enjoy with French Loaf". "Very sorry, sir, we have no French loaf, only Naan bread". We laughed all the way through dinner and then, when walking home, just as our hilarity was beginning to recede, we saw this:
The owner of the flat must wonder why gangs of tourists hover outside his door, clutching each other, incapacitated with laughter and taking photographs of his instructions for thoughtless car users in Pondicherry.
The next day the weather was a bit miserable, very overcast and unbelievably humid, but we wandered around the very pretty Mediterindian area, which has wide empty open streets, large looming broad leaved trees and a few Hindu temples. So just like Nice. We were even blessed by the resident elephant for a few rupees. We then went totally bonkers and bought huge amounts of "French" cheese (all made in the nearby commune of Auroville, started by Sri Aurobinda a Guru whose ashram is in Pondy), crackers (not the Diwali type) and expensive wine (not the Indian type).
Before we tucked into our cheese and wine party we went to a fabulous restaurant overlooking the sea. Scandinavians have to be the greediest people in the entire world and I am including the Onslows in this. They talk about nothing but food and drink between and during enormous meals and then, when reclining, bloated and belching from one gargantuan feast, they are planning and drooling over the next. I’m no stranger to gluttony, but I was totally outdone. Unfortunately, despite this, I still have the biggest arse. Their excuse is that, as eating out is so expensive in Sweden and Norway respectively, they can barely afford to do it, so they go completely bananas in India, where the most expensive meal still only comes to about 10 quid a head. Consequently, whenever I go away with any of the Scandinavian posse, I need to double up on the anorexic worms to keep things even. Saturday night in Pondicherry was no exception. The food was absolutely delicious. I started with Chandra bangra which was the most succulent and massive prawns cooked bengali style in mustard oil and masala. Bloody hell, they were good. Then I had some spicy tandoori lamb dish with grilled vegetables. It was all fab. The Scands must have taken a hundred pictures of the food in various combinations and degree of magnification (I must confess to taking a sneaky picture of the lettuce salad I forgot to mention I had) and Ture even filmed the arrival of Malin’s "Drunken Prawns". The waitress was most entertained.
We then had a short walk back and a brief pause before tucking into the cheese and wine. The Auroville brie taste just like the Auroville camembert, but it was at least free of curry leaves or black pepper which the Indians usually can't stop themselves putting into everything. As it was our last night together we sat up in our sitting area in our gorgeous room hooting with laughter about all the fun we'd had together.
It made it all the more sad to say goodbye to Romi the next day, whom we left in Pondi to get a bus to Bangalore. We just hugged. But we’ll meet again in Delhi.
Here are a few "Best of" pictures:
Me and Romi Sharing a Swiss chocolate
Outside "Patricia's"
Deep sea diving?
Classic Pondy
And finally, we get to enjoy french loaf......
Monday, November 20, 2006
Project Update
Things are going so well with the Project. Currently, we are developing our evaluation and monitoring methodology so that we can take baseline measurements of the first wave of beneficiaries for the community centre, ie the neglected elderly. We will be administering a quality of life questionnaire, a full medical check up and several baseline investigations, including full blood count for anaemia. It was decided that it would not be helpful if I was present when the QOL questionnaire is administered, as the results might be skewed in one way or another, by the presence of a (clearly quite well fed) foreigner watching them answering questions about their life and food intake. However, what is quite exiting is that I will be doing all the medicals, which will be done after the QOLQ. It will be the first time I have wielded a stethoscope since the Tsunami camp and I am looking forward to it, I have missed patient contact.
In addition to this, a young American student from St Olaf College, somewhere in the States, is interested in mental health and will be assessing the mental health status of all the elderly in the village for her undergraduate project. She comes at a fortuitous time and will contribute greatly to our project. If re-assessed at the same time as the evaluation process, in 12m, it will give us a good idea of whether mental has been improved by any of the services in the community centre, as we will be able to compare those who attend with those who do not. For once, a student project at RUHSA will not be stand-alone (and leave alone). RUHSA is bulging at the seams with amazing projects, information, data sets; mostly done by foreigners who come, use RUHSA’s resources for 4m, do a fantastically interesting project, but then leave. Nothing further happens with the project recommendations or data as the key movers and enthusiasts for the project have left. The only activity is the gathering of the dust on the paper copies in the various staff members' offices. Rarely is the audit or learning cycle completed, but there is so much useful which could be done with it all. I hope this marks the beginning of an ideological change whereby projects must be done for RUHSA’s benefit, and not just for the interest of the foreign student.
As if that wasn't thrilling enough, Dr John, the Director of RUHSA has asked me to help him develop a GP training program at RUHSA and to try and get accreditation for the MRCGP (Int). It is very early days yet, and not common knowledge, so if you meet someone from CMC or RUHSA, don't say a word, but it would be utterly perfect for RUHSA's future to secure it as a place of excellence for GP training. India doesn't have a formalised GP training system; any doctor who has finished his/her internship can set up as a family doctor. Medicine in India is entrenched in hierarchy and money, most students are from the upper echelons of society, therefore the incentive to work as a family doctor in rural parts of India is practically invisible, however, the government, in their National Health Policy 2002 (see link on left), which is a very interesting ideological statement of intent, advocates the importance of developing primary care in India.
As if that weren't enough, the current module I am working on in my MSc is on "Research Methods in Primary Care: Developing Primary Care"; how perfect is that?! This trip gets more freaky with co-incidence the longer I am out here!
In addition to this, a young American student from St Olaf College, somewhere in the States, is interested in mental health and will be assessing the mental health status of all the elderly in the village for her undergraduate project. She comes at a fortuitous time and will contribute greatly to our project. If re-assessed at the same time as the evaluation process, in 12m, it will give us a good idea of whether mental has been improved by any of the services in the community centre, as we will be able to compare those who attend with those who do not. For once, a student project at RUHSA will not be stand-alone (and leave alone). RUHSA is bulging at the seams with amazing projects, information, data sets; mostly done by foreigners who come, use RUHSA’s resources for 4m, do a fantastically interesting project, but then leave. Nothing further happens with the project recommendations or data as the key movers and enthusiasts for the project have left. The only activity is the gathering of the dust on the paper copies in the various staff members' offices. Rarely is the audit or learning cycle completed, but there is so much useful which could be done with it all. I hope this marks the beginning of an ideological change whereby projects must be done for RUHSA’s benefit, and not just for the interest of the foreign student.
As if that wasn't thrilling enough, Dr John, the Director of RUHSA has asked me to help him develop a GP training program at RUHSA and to try and get accreditation for the MRCGP (Int). It is very early days yet, and not common knowledge, so if you meet someone from CMC or RUHSA, don't say a word, but it would be utterly perfect for RUHSA's future to secure it as a place of excellence for GP training. India doesn't have a formalised GP training system; any doctor who has finished his/her internship can set up as a family doctor. Medicine in India is entrenched in hierarchy and money, most students are from the upper echelons of society, therefore the incentive to work as a family doctor in rural parts of India is practically invisible, however, the government, in their National Health Policy 2002 (see link on left), which is a very interesting ideological statement of intent, advocates the importance of developing primary care in India.
As if that weren't enough, the current module I am working on in my MSc is on "Research Methods in Primary Care: Developing Primary Care"; how perfect is that?! This trip gets more freaky with co-incidence the longer I am out here!
Friday, November 17, 2006
Mamallapuram Mia!
I came to Mahaballipuram, as it was then known, in 1989. At that time, it was a dusty little village with no paved roads, about 5 houses (it seemed), a guesthouse or two and a restaurant. Man, has it changed. It's now a travellers mecca with millions of shops, hawkers, tarmac, beachside restaurants, westerners in skimpy clothing and a swimming pool. I was gobsmacked and bored every one rigid about the good old days when you could wander undisturbed around the shore temple without anyone trying to sell you an elephant carved from soapstone or a pair of comedically baggy trousers.
A group of 12 or so of us international workers went for the weekend last week, mainly because, sadly, Malin and Romi are leaving this week (but we get to spend one last crazy weekend in "French" Pondicherry together, which will be an interesting experience!). We hired a car to take us directly to Mama, in 2 3/4 hours, thus, for about £10.50 return, avoiding a three hour train journey followed by a 3 hour bus trip. We were embarrassingly excited to discover the in-car DVD player and made a detour via a DVD shop to get some films to watch. So, with our driver (who didn't look old enough even to buy Diwali Fireworks) we bounced, hummed and chatted our way through some classy Bollywood numbers.
We ate seafood (a lot), some of us rode scraggy horses, (not me, I didn't think they'd bear up to it), a few rode white horses of a different type as they went out on a fishing boat on a sea that looked pretty rough to me. And I. Well, I spent a long time lounging by and swimming in the lovely swimming pool which had a view of the beach. As you can see from the photo, having a view is the best way to experience the beach as there is stiff competition for towel space from fishing boats, cows, rubbish and the occasional Indian Mr Whippy.
At the pool, I finally managed to slightly reduce my builder's tan of brown flipflop marked feet (thanks Robert) brown forearms and forehead and a round brown semicircle below my neck on my back, with the remaining portions of skin being luminous white. Now there is a faint beige tinge on my legs and a less abrupt delineation on my arms. I am hoping at Pondy I can capitalise on my gains.
A group of 12 or so of us international workers went for the weekend last week, mainly because, sadly, Malin and Romi are leaving this week (but we get to spend one last crazy weekend in "French" Pondicherry together, which will be an interesting experience!). We hired a car to take us directly to Mama, in 2 3/4 hours, thus, for about £10.50 return, avoiding a three hour train journey followed by a 3 hour bus trip. We were embarrassingly excited to discover the in-car DVD player and made a detour via a DVD shop to get some films to watch. So, with our driver (who didn't look old enough even to buy Diwali Fireworks) we bounced, hummed and chatted our way through some classy Bollywood numbers.
We ate seafood (a lot), some of us rode scraggy horses, (not me, I didn't think they'd bear up to it), a few rode white horses of a different type as they went out on a fishing boat on a sea that looked pretty rough to me. And I. Well, I spent a long time lounging by and swimming in the lovely swimming pool which had a view of the beach. As you can see from the photo, having a view is the best way to experience the beach as there is stiff competition for towel space from fishing boats, cows, rubbish and the occasional Indian Mr Whippy.
At the pool, I finally managed to slightly reduce my builder's tan of brown flipflop marked feet (thanks Robert) brown forearms and forehead and a round brown semicircle below my neck on my back, with the remaining portions of skin being luminous white. Now there is a faint beige tinge on my legs and a less abrupt delineation on my arms. I am hoping at Pondy I can capitalise on my gains.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Photo update
Now the internet connection is working better, I have been able to upload some photos, so on the Diwali site and upwards there are more photos to make you envious.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Project Funding and Assignment Sending
Since I’ve been away, the Trust in the UK who had expressed an interest in contributing to a project in RUHSA received our project report very favourably and have committed 2.63 lakh rupees (263,000rs = ~£3000) to the Keelalathur Pilot scheme, which is great news. This is the projected budget needed to get the community centre building up and running, a new kitchen built out the back of the building, the buying of equipment and furnishing eg chairs, benches, kitchen & eating utensils, also future costs of daily newspapers and a few magazines, as well as the 20p per person food ration. The building work will probably take a few months, and we are hoping that it will be ready to coincide with the visit of one of the Trustees in January with the 30th anniversary of RUHSA which takes place on 17th January. Time marcheth on, however, and I’m not sure if it can be done in time, as it’s only 2 months away now.
Meanwhile Matthew and Kalaimanai have been clarifying exactly who are the elderly who might potentially use the centre and, out of a village of 1500, they have a list of 36. Each of these people will be visited and a baseline evaluation questionnaire including information about demographics, economics, quality of life and physical and mental health will be conducted. All of them will be invited to attend the centre and we will have to wait and see how many people actually come.
In the meantime, I have, very excitingly, submitted the first assignment of my MSc. Since coming out to India, I have been doing an online MSc in International Primary Care which is utterly brilliant. Not only is it amazing to be able to do a course based in London whilst sitting in India, but my first study partner was in South Africa and my co-moderator for our first seminar was in Thailand. As a subject, it is relevant to both my work in the UK and in India and has already been incredibly useful in giving me better theoretical understanding of what we are trying to achieve here in Keelalathur and also was helpful in my lectures to CMC medical students about managing diabetes from a Primary Care perspective, because they had no idea what primary care meant. I hope that, in the long run, it will equip me with a greater understanding of the infrastructure of Primary Care so I can understand where the future of the NHS lies, but I also hope it helps create opportunities to teach the theories of Primary Care internationally. It is so exciting to be part of the NHS, this project and this MSc and realise what amazing future potential there is out there for improving community health.
Meanwhile Matthew and Kalaimanai have been clarifying exactly who are the elderly who might potentially use the centre and, out of a village of 1500, they have a list of 36. Each of these people will be visited and a baseline evaluation questionnaire including information about demographics, economics, quality of life and physical and mental health will be conducted. All of them will be invited to attend the centre and we will have to wait and see how many people actually come.
In the meantime, I have, very excitingly, submitted the first assignment of my MSc. Since coming out to India, I have been doing an online MSc in International Primary Care which is utterly brilliant. Not only is it amazing to be able to do a course based in London whilst sitting in India, but my first study partner was in South Africa and my co-moderator for our first seminar was in Thailand. As a subject, it is relevant to both my work in the UK and in India and has already been incredibly useful in giving me better theoretical understanding of what we are trying to achieve here in Keelalathur and also was helpful in my lectures to CMC medical students about managing diabetes from a Primary Care perspective, because they had no idea what primary care meant. I hope that, in the long run, it will equip me with a greater understanding of the infrastructure of Primary Care so I can understand where the future of the NHS lies, but I also hope it helps create opportunities to teach the theories of Primary Care internationally. It is so exciting to be part of the NHS, this project and this MSc and realise what amazing future potential there is out there for improving community health.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
"The train on platform 1 will leave 20 minutes early"
Last night Alexander, Eliza and Mary Waugh and myself went and had a fantastic Indian seafood dinner on their last night in Bangalore before they went back to the UK and I finally left Bangalore to go back to work in Vellore. Their last truly Indian epxerience, before their flight home at an unbelievably antisocial hour was, at Mary's request, to take a rickshaw back to their Hotel.
As for myself, I was booked on the 8.30 Bangalore-Chennai train which was supposed to arrive at the station I boarded on, Cantonment, at about 8.50. Arun is always quite relaxed about catching public transport so I was agitating to leave, knowing what Bangalore traffic can be like. Initially we couldn't find a rickshaw, so I, and 2 large suitcases (1 rucksack of 2 weeks worth of holiday clothes and 1 bag full of Christmas presents) wove off sitting behind Arun on his bike. As he is quite "compact" and the passenger seat on the bike - he has upgraded from his scooter to a 150cc motorbike - is perched above the driver's, he must have looked like a mahout sitting in front of an overloaded Howdah in which wobbled a plentiful memsahib. The passing commuters certainly thought it was funny. Luckily, after about 5 minutes we found a rickshaw, I and my baggage decamped into it and we carried on in convoy. Unfortunately, Arun and the rickshaw driver violently disagreed as to the best way to the station and conducted a flaming row between themselves whilst negotiating the rush hour traffic. The rickshaw driver turned out to be right and we arrived at the station at 8.28 just as the train pulled in, 2 minutes before it was supposed to be leaving the main station. I have never been on a train in India which arrived on time, usually they are 15-20 minutes late, but arriving 20 minutes early is definitely a first and could only happen in this country.
As the train pulled in, we saw, tucked just behind the engine, my carriage. Indian trains are usually 20 carriages long and as the entrance to the platform is halfway along, we had to walk up 10 carriages top get to my seat. We arrived at carraige number 6 just as the train began gently pulling off. Arun handed me my bag and we bid a hasty goodbye as I scrambled onto the train, 4 carriages away from the one I was supposed to be in. Negotiating, with 2 large bags and one large person, the narrow corridor, filled with saried knees, playing children, sacks of rice, streams of hawkers selling everything from "bread omelette" (omelette sandwich) to "joos, joos, joos" (fruit squash) to little concertinas on a stick which squeak when you hit someone with them (who do they sell those to?), was exhausting. When I reached the car I thought was mine, I sank gratefully, glowing with effort, into a seat. It then became clear that I had one more carriage to go. The conductor was sitting nearby so I went and asked him if I could stay in this carriage (C2) instead of the correct one (C1) as my bags were heavy and I was exhausted.
He wobbled at me. "No problem," he said. "You can just carry bags through."
"No, no," I said. "Can I stay here?"
"Yes, yes," he said. "Carriage just through there."
"No, NO," I said, becoming increasingly more frantic, re-enacting as I did so the ordeal of carrying my heavy bags, sweating, puffing and panting throught the carriages and miming my iminent state of collapse if I had to go any further and then, for a dramatic finale, pointing in desperate relief at the nearest seat. Judging by the audience reaction, which by now included the entire carriage, had there been an Emmy for "Best Comedy-Drama on Indian Rail", I would have won it.
Still, I got to stay where I was and, like all one-hit wonders, sank into blissful obscurity for the remainder of the trip.
As for myself, I was booked on the 8.30 Bangalore-Chennai train which was supposed to arrive at the station I boarded on, Cantonment, at about 8.50. Arun is always quite relaxed about catching public transport so I was agitating to leave, knowing what Bangalore traffic can be like. Initially we couldn't find a rickshaw, so I, and 2 large suitcases (1 rucksack of 2 weeks worth of holiday clothes and 1 bag full of Christmas presents) wove off sitting behind Arun on his bike. As he is quite "compact" and the passenger seat on the bike - he has upgraded from his scooter to a 150cc motorbike - is perched above the driver's, he must have looked like a mahout sitting in front of an overloaded Howdah in which wobbled a plentiful memsahib. The passing commuters certainly thought it was funny. Luckily, after about 5 minutes we found a rickshaw, I and my baggage decamped into it and we carried on in convoy. Unfortunately, Arun and the rickshaw driver violently disagreed as to the best way to the station and conducted a flaming row between themselves whilst negotiating the rush hour traffic. The rickshaw driver turned out to be right and we arrived at the station at 8.28 just as the train pulled in, 2 minutes before it was supposed to be leaving the main station. I have never been on a train in India which arrived on time, usually they are 15-20 minutes late, but arriving 20 minutes early is definitely a first and could only happen in this country.
As the train pulled in, we saw, tucked just behind the engine, my carriage. Indian trains are usually 20 carriages long and as the entrance to the platform is halfway along, we had to walk up 10 carriages top get to my seat. We arrived at carraige number 6 just as the train began gently pulling off. Arun handed me my bag and we bid a hasty goodbye as I scrambled onto the train, 4 carriages away from the one I was supposed to be in. Negotiating, with 2 large bags and one large person, the narrow corridor, filled with saried knees, playing children, sacks of rice, streams of hawkers selling everything from "bread omelette" (omelette sandwich) to "joos, joos, joos" (fruit squash) to little concertinas on a stick which squeak when you hit someone with them (who do they sell those to?), was exhausting. When I reached the car I thought was mine, I sank gratefully, glowing with effort, into a seat. It then became clear that I had one more carriage to go. The conductor was sitting nearby so I went and asked him if I could stay in this carriage (C2) instead of the correct one (C1) as my bags were heavy and I was exhausted.
He wobbled at me. "No problem," he said. "You can just carry bags through."
"No, no," I said. "Can I stay here?"
"Yes, yes," he said. "Carriage just through there."
"No, NO," I said, becoming increasingly more frantic, re-enacting as I did so the ordeal of carrying my heavy bags, sweating, puffing and panting throught the carriages and miming my iminent state of collapse if I had to go any further and then, for a dramatic finale, pointing in desperate relief at the nearest seat. Judging by the audience reaction, which by now included the entire carriage, had there been an Emmy for "Best Comedy-Drama on Indian Rail", I would have won it.
Still, I got to stay where I was and, like all one-hit wonders, sank into blissful obscurity for the remainder of the trip.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Not so Bumpi ride back from Hampi: Part 2
On our visit to the rest of Hampi the next day, we went to the amazing Vithala Temple complex which had musical pillars. These are clusters of small pillars around a central pillar on which is a carving denoting the type of sound they make, for example, bells or stringed instruments. If you then tap the smaller pillars with a stick or knuckle they make different notes. Listening with your ear pressed against the stone made the sound incredibly loud.
Now we can see where Alexander gets his musical talent from:
We also went to see Krishna Deva's stables. For his elephants! I can imagine that if Dad had elephants he'd build stables like this. They were in a row, made of granite with, obviously, huge entrances and each one was separated by walls, but there was a small doorway through which the mahout, but not the elephant, could pass. However, she could stick her trunk through and chat to her neighbour, or perhaps, for a couple of rupees, bless her. Each stable had a domed roof in alternating Hindu and Moghul styles, domes and triangular, with a central tower above the stable in which the prize of the collection, an albino elephant, lived. I have taken millions of pictures of Hampi, but as my pictures of monuments are identical to everyone elses, here is a link on the left to loads of them on one site, which saves me masses of photo uploading.
I forgot to mention that the downfall of the Vijayanagaras was at the hands of the invading moslems and Shiva, our guide, related it to three causes. Firstly, the Hindu emperors had a moslem army and as the moslem invasion grew in force, they changed sides, which is always a bad idea. Secondly, apparently the Emperors had made life with their concubines - women with impossibly pert breasts - so comfortable that they were at it all night and knackered during the day, so when the moslems galloped along they lay there, waving their hands feebly, saying, "Oh you go ahead, I can't be bothered". The final reason, which I think had some serious historical point, had nothing ridiculous about it so I've forgotten it.
Later in the day, we met up with some more of my relations as Alexander, Eliza and Mary joined us in Hotel Malligi. It is a very long time since I have seen any of them, but I resisted the urge to say to my 12 year old cousin "My, haven't you grown". As a child, really, that is all one does, so having adults commenting on it is phenomenally irritating.
The next day Teresa, Richard and myself left everyone else and went to Chitradurga which is a dusty town with a hilly fort apparently on the oldest rock formations in the country. The fort was ruled by more Viyanagars one of whom was entertainingly called Chikkana Nayaka, which sounds like something on a Japanese menu. Their rule here lasted longer than at Hampi - right up to the 18th century. Having experienced climbing up and down the hill (twice) and seeing the size of the walls, with no visible places for concubines to sap the strength of warriors, I can see why it lasted longer.
We spent a lovely few hours clambering around the temples and tanks on the hill, it was quite stunning. One of the most amazing sights was that of a local boy climbing up and down the wall like spider man. Below is a photo that you won't believe.
This is the view almost from the top of the hill overlooking the temple tank. It was beautiful, but the water was pea-green and when you got close, stink smell is coming.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Not so Bumpi ride to Hampi: Part 1
Have just spent an amazing few days with my Aunt Teresa and other members of the wedding party from England, visiting Hampi and Chitradurga, which are extraordinary historical sites of former Hindu Emperors, dating from the 7th to 16th century. It started with an aircon, sedate and leisurely drive in a Toyota Qualis from Bangalore to Hampi, with their Keralan driver, Selim, who appeared to have had driving lessons in a less frenetic country than India. It was a very smooth and comfortable ride, partly due also to the road being a properly surfaced two-lane highway. This did not stop the occasional rickshaw from driving on the wrong side of the road in the fast lane, virtually hidden from view until you could see the whites of the passengers eyes.
We stayed in Hotel Malligi, which is by far the plushest place I have stayed in so far, and required the services of a credit card. Despite that, it was still cheaper than the Barrow-in-Furness Travel Lodge per night. As we entered, the flash lobby looked like a smaller version of a Hilton atrium, but going through towards the rooms there was a courtyard, (onto which all rooms opened) which was having work done. There was no sense that, perhaps, pretending the centre of the hotel was not an ugly building site, would be a good idea for aesthetic purposes. On the site, women in saris and flip flops, wearing specially adapted hard hats with little platforms moulded on the top, ran around carrying loads of bricks, cement, piles of rubble etc on their heads, whilst men perched on scattered beams, in threes, smoking cigarettes.
On arrival with Teresa and Richard, we met two sisters of my late Uncle and two Americans who were also wedding guests. I had met the sisters before, when I was a child, and I'd always been slightly terrified of them. They are incredibly intellectual and literary, being children of Evelyn Waugh, and also belong to a diminishing number of 'blue-stocking' bohemian type of Englishwoman. It was like travelling with Mapp and Lucia and they argued constantly, in the way only sisters can, with deep bite and vitriol lasting a nanosecond, but leaving no trace. I thoroughly enjoyed spending a few days with them, rather than the just the usual fleeting, decennial seasonal greetings of my childhood and look forward to seeing them at the next round of family occasions. Being a 'scientist', although, most scientists who know me, consider me to be more of an artistic type, it was slightly strange to be around people who had little interest in practical functionings of matter and form, because I am hopeless at history and can only remember the ridiculous, which doesn't make for a very complete view of past events and therefore felt unable to contribute much (didn't stop me, of course), but they all made me feel very welcome, especially when they discovered I knew my way around a menu and was therefore voted MC For Ordering every night.
The first morning, after a kerfuffle involving trying to contact other relatives staying nearby, lost glasses, waiting hours for breakfast and various other trivial but time-consuming events, we set off in convoy to Hampi, which is a ruined city, covering many kilometres alongside the Tungabhadra River and spanning many centuries. It is an amazing place, once the capital of the largest post Moghul empire, the Hindu Vijayanagaras who ruled from the 14th to 16th centuries and flourished particularly under Krishna Deva, who ruled for 20 years from 1509-1529. We started on Hemakuta Hill, which is awe-inspiring. Huge boulders perch on the barren landscape, like marbles stopped mid-roll, with four-pillared mandaps or stone canopies strewn between them. One could almost hear the chatter of ancient Hindus as they sat beneath them, discussing their daily activities. The boulders are believed to be the consequence of a competition of strength and power between the monkey gods, of whom Hanuman is the most well known. Apparently, in a fury of simian testosterone, they hurled rocks around, trying to outdo each other. Standing amongst them, one could almost believe it really happened.
The first temple we visited had a huge pot-bellied Ganesha statue, who was depicted sitting on his (rather squashed) mother, Parvathi's, lap with his enormous belly inadequately contained by a serpent and riding his trademark vehicle – a mouse called Mooshikam. His gigantic girth, we were reliably informed by our appropriately named guide, Shiva, was entirely due to a predilection for sweets. It's important not to laugh at the thought of a tubby elephant riding a mouse, because when the moon did, Parvathi cursed it. Ganesh was racing his mouse chariot when Mooshikam stumbled on a snake crossing the path. Ganesh, fell off, his belly split open and all the sweets fell out. He grabbed the snake, stuffed the sweets back in and tied it as a belt. The moon started laughing at this and Ganesh hurled his broken tusk at it and Parvathi, who was nearby (probably recovering from being sat on) cursed the moon so that anyone who looked at it during Ganesh's festival would be accused of wrongdoing.
The story of how Ganesh got the head of an elephant further epitomises the crazy brilliance of Hinduism. Apparently, Parvathi fancied a dip in the river, once her husband, Shiva, had left for hunting one day. Whilst splashing around in the water, she started fashioning a doll from mud. She was so pleased with her handiwork that she breathed life into it. Once home again, she charged her newly acquired son with guarding the bedroom door whilst she washed off the remains of the mud in a bath. Meanwhile, Shiva, having finished his godly activities comes home and tries, not unreasonably, to enter his wife’s bedroom, but is prevented by a muddy child, who wasn’t there when he left for work that morning. In a fury he chops his head off. Parvathi, despite the brevity of their relationship is distraught. Shiva, in a typically male fashion, tries to make amends and sends some henchmen off to find an alternative head. The first creature they came across was a sleeping elephant so they chopped off the head and brought it back. What the mother of that elephant said to her husband is lost in the annals of history, but in a display of sheer DIY brilliance, Shiva affixes the elephant’s head onto Ganesh’s body so peace and tranquillity is restored in the household and a genius God is created.
The main part of the morning was spent wandering around the hill, making our way to Shri Virupaksha Temple, which is at the heart of Hampi. Being quite touristy, there were a few hawkers and there was one of particular skill. He fell into step beside me and started his low persuasive patter about the necessity of postcards in my life, and then, as always said “Your good name, Madame?”
Being generally quite polite, I replied, “Arabella. And Yours?”
In thick Karnatakan accent and with a smile of such whiteness that the cloudy day brightened considerably, he said. “Edward.”
“Edward?” I repeated in astonishment, “Really? That’s an unusual name for a Kannadan”
“Yes,” he said, still beaming, “it’s my business name. My real name is Muni”.
Well, I had to buy his postcards after that.
After parting with 2 rupees and our shoes we entered the huge temple complex which is still in use and our guide, Shiva, who was brilliant and charming, showed us fantastic carvings of animals, gods, anatomically impossibly pert women, beautiful columns, steel supportive girders, put in by the British made in Middlesborough (now, ironically bought out by Tata) and the Temple elephant, who for a further 2 rupees blessed us with her trunk. He took us into all the nooks and crannies of the complex, except for one. When we asked him why we couldn’t go in, he said it was because it was dirty, full of bats and worst of all “stink smell is coming”. That is now a phrase which is fully integrated into my Englian vocabulary and gets regular outings, as there are many places in India where stink smell is coming.
After a fascinating but exhausting morning we walked through a banana grove to The Mango Tree Restaurant which had great food, a great view, a great swing and most importantly, a great loo.
Run little elephant, run:
My Aunt Teresa and My Cousin's Aunt Hattie:
The "Slightly-older-than-I-usually-hang-out-with" Gang:
Or maybe not....
We stayed in Hotel Malligi, which is by far the plushest place I have stayed in so far, and required the services of a credit card. Despite that, it was still cheaper than the Barrow-in-Furness Travel Lodge per night. As we entered, the flash lobby looked like a smaller version of a Hilton atrium, but going through towards the rooms there was a courtyard, (onto which all rooms opened) which was having work done. There was no sense that, perhaps, pretending the centre of the hotel was not an ugly building site, would be a good idea for aesthetic purposes. On the site, women in saris and flip flops, wearing specially adapted hard hats with little platforms moulded on the top, ran around carrying loads of bricks, cement, piles of rubble etc on their heads, whilst men perched on scattered beams, in threes, smoking cigarettes.
On arrival with Teresa and Richard, we met two sisters of my late Uncle and two Americans who were also wedding guests. I had met the sisters before, when I was a child, and I'd always been slightly terrified of them. They are incredibly intellectual and literary, being children of Evelyn Waugh, and also belong to a diminishing number of 'blue-stocking' bohemian type of Englishwoman. It was like travelling with Mapp and Lucia and they argued constantly, in the way only sisters can, with deep bite and vitriol lasting a nanosecond, but leaving no trace. I thoroughly enjoyed spending a few days with them, rather than the just the usual fleeting, decennial seasonal greetings of my childhood and look forward to seeing them at the next round of family occasions. Being a 'scientist', although, most scientists who know me, consider me to be more of an artistic type, it was slightly strange to be around people who had little interest in practical functionings of matter and form, because I am hopeless at history and can only remember the ridiculous, which doesn't make for a very complete view of past events and therefore felt unable to contribute much (didn't stop me, of course), but they all made me feel very welcome, especially when they discovered I knew my way around a menu and was therefore voted MC For Ordering every night.
The first morning, after a kerfuffle involving trying to contact other relatives staying nearby, lost glasses, waiting hours for breakfast and various other trivial but time-consuming events, we set off in convoy to Hampi, which is a ruined city, covering many kilometres alongside the Tungabhadra River and spanning many centuries. It is an amazing place, once the capital of the largest post Moghul empire, the Hindu Vijayanagaras who ruled from the 14th to 16th centuries and flourished particularly under Krishna Deva, who ruled for 20 years from 1509-1529. We started on Hemakuta Hill, which is awe-inspiring. Huge boulders perch on the barren landscape, like marbles stopped mid-roll, with four-pillared mandaps or stone canopies strewn between them. One could almost hear the chatter of ancient Hindus as they sat beneath them, discussing their daily activities. The boulders are believed to be the consequence of a competition of strength and power between the monkey gods, of whom Hanuman is the most well known. Apparently, in a fury of simian testosterone, they hurled rocks around, trying to outdo each other. Standing amongst them, one could almost believe it really happened.
The first temple we visited had a huge pot-bellied Ganesha statue, who was depicted sitting on his (rather squashed) mother, Parvathi's, lap with his enormous belly inadequately contained by a serpent and riding his trademark vehicle – a mouse called Mooshikam. His gigantic girth, we were reliably informed by our appropriately named guide, Shiva, was entirely due to a predilection for sweets. It's important not to laugh at the thought of a tubby elephant riding a mouse, because when the moon did, Parvathi cursed it. Ganesh was racing his mouse chariot when Mooshikam stumbled on a snake crossing the path. Ganesh, fell off, his belly split open and all the sweets fell out. He grabbed the snake, stuffed the sweets back in and tied it as a belt. The moon started laughing at this and Ganesh hurled his broken tusk at it and Parvathi, who was nearby (probably recovering from being sat on) cursed the moon so that anyone who looked at it during Ganesh's festival would be accused of wrongdoing.
The story of how Ganesh got the head of an elephant further epitomises the crazy brilliance of Hinduism. Apparently, Parvathi fancied a dip in the river, once her husband, Shiva, had left for hunting one day. Whilst splashing around in the water, she started fashioning a doll from mud. She was so pleased with her handiwork that she breathed life into it. Once home again, she charged her newly acquired son with guarding the bedroom door whilst she washed off the remains of the mud in a bath. Meanwhile, Shiva, having finished his godly activities comes home and tries, not unreasonably, to enter his wife’s bedroom, but is prevented by a muddy child, who wasn’t there when he left for work that morning. In a fury he chops his head off. Parvathi, despite the brevity of their relationship is distraught. Shiva, in a typically male fashion, tries to make amends and sends some henchmen off to find an alternative head. The first creature they came across was a sleeping elephant so they chopped off the head and brought it back. What the mother of that elephant said to her husband is lost in the annals of history, but in a display of sheer DIY brilliance, Shiva affixes the elephant’s head onto Ganesh’s body so peace and tranquillity is restored in the household and a genius God is created.
The main part of the morning was spent wandering around the hill, making our way to Shri Virupaksha Temple, which is at the heart of Hampi. Being quite touristy, there were a few hawkers and there was one of particular skill. He fell into step beside me and started his low persuasive patter about the necessity of postcards in my life, and then, as always said “Your good name, Madame?”
Being generally quite polite, I replied, “Arabella. And Yours?”
In thick Karnatakan accent and with a smile of such whiteness that the cloudy day brightened considerably, he said. “Edward.”
“Edward?” I repeated in astonishment, “Really? That’s an unusual name for a Kannadan”
“Yes,” he said, still beaming, “it’s my business name. My real name is Muni”.
Well, I had to buy his postcards after that.
After parting with 2 rupees and our shoes we entered the huge temple complex which is still in use and our guide, Shiva, who was brilliant and charming, showed us fantastic carvings of animals, gods, anatomically impossibly pert women, beautiful columns, steel supportive girders, put in by the British made in Middlesborough (now, ironically bought out by Tata) and the Temple elephant, who for a further 2 rupees blessed us with her trunk. He took us into all the nooks and crannies of the complex, except for one. When we asked him why we couldn’t go in, he said it was because it was dirty, full of bats and worst of all “stink smell is coming”. That is now a phrase which is fully integrated into my Englian vocabulary and gets regular outings, as there are many places in India where stink smell is coming.
After a fascinating but exhausting morning we walked through a banana grove to The Mango Tree Restaurant which had great food, a great view, a great swing and most importantly, a great loo.
Run little elephant, run:
My Aunt Teresa and My Cousin's Aunt Hattie:
The "Slightly-older-than-I-usually-hang-out-with" Gang:
Or maybe not....
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