Always the first impression of India is the hustle and
bustle, people and traffic consume every inch of the cities. It’s dusty and
polluted, the cloying filth coats your throat and lungs. Pavements are either
non-existent or a veritable obstacle course, everyone walks down the side of
the road. It’s a game of dodgems, weaving in and out of the virtual
impenetrable wall of humanity, with bikes and cars brushing against you in
passing. The noise hammers your eardrums from every direction, engines revving,
horns blaring, people jabbering. Yep, this is India in its full glory! It’s a
full body experience, every sense assailed, total sensory overload. Being fair,
it isn’t so different from a multitude of Asian cities, but it’s distinctly
Indian. You can get a good taste of it in Colombo (Sri Lanka), or the Little
India sector of Penang city (Malaysia), but this is pure India. There is no
China town around the corner, no discernible tourist hub to hide within. (Photo: Young cobblers - Aberdeen Bazaar, Port Blair)
The knack is to focus your individual senses, otherwise the
tendency is to shut them down, try to ignore the mayhem. For me it’s like
opening every atom of my being, allowing myself to be receptive, absorb it all
whilst plucking out what’s of interest. I hear the unmistakable throb of a
large single cylinder motorbike, and look for a Royal Enfield, there is only
vehicle here that sound can come from. Rivulets of colour flow down the
sidewalk, bright saris of silk or garish polyesters wafting in the breeze.
Large families cram themselves onto 125cc motorbikes; husband riding, young kid
on the tank, wife and two more kids squeezed onto the pillion. But of course,
these are the relatively poor, those of better breeding don’t encumber
themselves with so many children, they’re too busy enjoying the merits of
privilege. Eating well and showing it is a sign of wealth here, or status. The
middle-aged middle-classes proudly display the signs of fortune, slabs of flab
cascade from the folds of saris, pot bellies perched on the petrol tank wobble like
jellies fresh out the mould. (Photo: Sheet metal worker, recycling old tin cans - Aberdeen Bazaar, Port Blair)
When being open and receptive India is both dazzling and
appalling, hence the oft-heard phrase, “you either love it or hate it”. I swing
between the two. If trying to achieve anything without delay frustration sets
in, and I struggle. When relaxed and responsive the nation’s gregarious nature
never fails to touch me. People will always catch your attention, under any
pretext, if only to say hello, unless your demeanour excludes the outside world.
If I flash my gnashers a positive response is almost guaranteed, and Indian
Indians have one of the most appealing smiles imaginable. A line of guys sit on
a wall watching my progress along the road, I notice them, smile and call a
greeting. Their faces light up, beaming smiles shine forth, and they all do
that endearing Indian head wobble in unison. You can’t catch those moments on
film! So when I’m hard pushed to cope with the harsh side of the country, all I
need do is flash a smile at someone and my troubles should melt away. (Photo: Pounding t the laundry clean - Hidden Ghats, Port Blair)
Having been fairly
low for months India could have been a bad choice for a holiday destination,
it’s a place of extremes, with little ground in the middle. Maybe that was part
of the attraction, I know I would like to try spending more time in more rural
areas. Poverty breeds a generous nature into people, the farming folk here are
among the most genuine and hospitable I’ve ever come across. Mind you, I was
whisked out into Madras for an all expenses paid night as a welcome to the
city, by a stranger I met on the street. Ok, he was a bit of an alky, if fact
he turned louder and more embarrassing the more he drank. And he had to get me
back home on his bike, I hadn’t a clue where I was. It would have proved less
of an ordeal riding back if I’d been half cut too. Now he wants me to help him
entice clients to invest in his business, by pretending I’m a foreign investor.
Of course he’ll have to buy me a set of smart business clothes, it wouldn’t
cost me a penny either. All this and he never once tried to grope me, he must
have been serious. (Photo: Using parrots as a means of predicting the future - Somewhere in the depths of Chennai)
So I made it to the Andaman Islands in one piece, despite
throwing myself at the mercy of fate in Madras. This long haul flying takes it
out of you though, it’s taken a couple of days to get my wits back. During
which time hours each day have been spent pounding the pavements of the
capital, Port Blair. Please believe me this has nothing to do with Tony, if it
did the closest I would have come would be to piss on it as I flew overhead.
I’ve been trying to suss out how to get to the Nicobar Islands, which are
completely out of bounds to foreigners. Actually most of them are out of bounds
to Indians too, in an effort to protect the indigenous tribes still refusing to
join the modern world. There is a chance I could get there, if I hung around
and went through a shed load of bureaucracy. Another guy just got a permit, for
one of the islands, but he was not entirely forthcoming with how he managed.
Shame, but never mind! I’m off to a nice secluded island in the Andamans on
Monday, so I’ll be off-line for a while. (Photo: Hung out to dry - Town Ghat, Port Blair)
Always the first impression of India is the hustle and
bustle, people and traffic consume every inch of the cities. It’s dusty and
polluted, the cloying filth coats your throat and lungs. Pavements are either
non-existent or a veritable obstacle course, everyone walks down the side of
the road. It’s a game of dodgems, weaving in and out of the virtual
impenetrable wall of humanity, with bikes and cars brushing against you in
passing. The noise hammers your eardrums from every direction, engines revving,
horns blaring, people jabbering. Yep, this is India in its full glory! It’s a
full body experience, every sense assailed, total sensory overload. Being fair,
it isn’t so different from a multitude of Asian cities, but it’s distinctly
Indian. You can get a good taste of it in Colombo (Sri Lanka), or the Little
India sector of Penang city (Malaysia), but this is pure India. There is no
China town around the corner, no discernible tourist hub to hide within. (Photo: Young cobblers - Aberdeen Bazaar, Port Blair)
The knack is to focus your individual senses, otherwise the
tendency is to shut them down, try to ignore the mayhem. For me it’s like
opening every atom of my being, allowing myself to be receptive, absorb it all
whilst plucking out what’s of interest. I hear the unmistakable throb of a
large single cylinder motorbike, and look for a Royal Enfield, there is only
vehicle here that sound can come from. Rivulets of colour flow down the
sidewalk, bright saris of silk or garish polyesters wafting in the breeze.
Large families cram themselves onto 125cc motorbikes; husband riding, young kid
on the tank, wife and two more kids squeezed onto the pillion. But of course,
these are the relatively poor, those of better breeding don’t encumber
themselves with so many children, they’re too busy enjoying the merits of
privilege. Eating well and showing it is a sign of wealth here, or status. The
middle-aged middle-classes proudly display the signs of fortune, slabs of flab
cascade from the folds of saris, pot bellies perched on the petrol tank wobble like
jellies fresh out the mould. (Photo: Sheet metal worker, recycling old tin cans - Aberdeen Bazaar, Port Blair)
When being open and receptive India is both dazzling and
appalling, hence the oft-heard phrase, “you either love it or hate it”. I swing
between the two. If trying to achieve anything without delay frustration sets
in, and I struggle. When relaxed and responsive the nation’s gregarious nature
never fails to touch me. People will always catch your attention, under any
pretext, if only to say hello, unless your demeanour excludes the outside world.
If I flash my gnashers a positive response is almost guaranteed, and Indian
Indians have one of the most appealing smiles imaginable. A line of guys sit on
a wall watching my progress along the road, I notice them, smile and call a
greeting. Their faces light up, beaming smiles shine forth, and they all do
that endearing Indian head wobble in unison. You can’t catch those moments on
film! So when I’m hard pushed to cope with the harsh side of the country, all I
need do is flash a smile at someone and my troubles should melt away. (Photo: Pounding t the laundry clean - Hidden Ghats, Port Blair)
Having been fairly
low for months India could have been a bad choice for a holiday destination,
it’s a place of extremes, with little ground in the middle. Maybe that was part
of the attraction, I know I would like to try spending more time in more rural
areas. Poverty breeds a generous nature into people, the farming folk here are
among the most genuine and hospitable I’ve ever come across. Mind you, I was
whisked out into Madras for an all expenses paid night as a welcome to the
city, by a stranger I met on the street. Ok, he was a bit of an alky, if fact
he turned louder and more embarrassing the more he drank. And he had to get me
back home on his bike, I hadn’t a clue where I was. It would have proved less
of an ordeal riding back if I’d been half cut too. Now he wants me to help him
entice clients to invest in his business, by pretending I’m a foreign investor.
Of course he’ll have to buy me a set of smart business clothes, it wouldn’t
cost me a penny either. All this and he never once tried to grope me, he must
have been serious. (Photo: Using parrots as a means of predicting the future - Somewhere in the depths of Chennai)
So I made it to the Andaman Islands in one piece, despite
throwing myself at the mercy of fate in Madras. This long haul flying takes it
out of you though, it’s taken a couple of days to get my wits back. During
which time hours each day have been spent pounding the pavements of the
capital, Port Blair. Please believe me this has nothing to do with Tony, if it
did the closest I would have come would be to piss on it as I flew overhead.
I’ve been trying to suss out how to get to the Nicobar Islands, which are
completely out of bounds to foreigners. Actually most of them are out of bounds
to Indians too, in an effort to protect the indigenous tribes still refusing to
join the modern world. There is a chance I could get there, if I hung around
and went through a shed load of bureaucracy. Another guy just got a permit, for
one of the islands, but he was not entirely forthcoming with how he managed.
Shame, but never mind! I’m off to a nice secluded island in the Andamans on
Monday, so I’ll be off-line for a while. (Photo: Hung out to dry - Town Ghat, Port Blair)
No comments:
Post a Comment
Any personal information sent via my comments facility will not be published unless deemed devoid of personal content. You can, therefore, send me contact information. Thank you!