“An old aged pensioner was seen leaving Coffs Harbour today, when asked his destination he replied India, UK, Hong Kong and China”. We hope he remembered his reading glasses.
Well, here I am safe and sound in the departure lounge waiting for QF127 to Hong Kong and then on to Bangalore. I can see the A380 out of the window in the rain.
There is a lot of activity around it. There are fuel pipes pumping something, maybe two-stroke at 40:1 ratio petrol to oil. There are a couple of food trucks doubtless pumping in vodka and tonic.
I don’t want to alarm you, my loyal readers but my first drink of the day was neat Vodka. I should explain that it was a sample in duty free. I was not impressed but then it was 8:25am!
Those of you that have read of my exploits in the past know that things happen to me, mostly humorous but always, I hope you will agree, worth recording.
As I have been travelling for less than 3 hours you might think that nothing has happened to me in that time. How wrong you would are.
It started at 5:45 at check in at Coffs Harbour airport. I was possibly feeling a little overconfident. I had arrived before the plane took off (unlike one of my recent trips when I arrived just as the plane left the runway)
I handed the check in person my booking and passport. He did a lot of frowning at his computer screen and tutting. I asked if there was a problem and he said he was checking the visa requirements for India. Wanting to be ever helpful, I asked if he was thinking of going and I told him confidently that one needed a visa, it cost$115 and I had one in my passport. Would he like to see it.
He thumbed through the passport and it was empty. Luckily I had woken up by this time and realised that he did not want to go to India as I had assumed and that I had given him my British passport which was empty and the visa was in my Australian one.
We left on good terms after I said “I am 66 you know, short sighted and hard of hearing”. I am not sure but I think he said that I would be lucky to see India and anyway I would not be able to hear it.
The next event stopped me in my tracks. I was going through the customs check and I had unloaded my pockets, tablet and my hearing aid volume control. The customs official started talking to me about me packing my suitcase etc. when the whole world went silent. I suddenly thought my hearing had finally given out and my head had gone seriously wrong.
You may not be aware that I often have flashes of insight. I realised that the official had moved the tablet on to my volume control and switched off my hearing aids. I was so relieved that I was not permanently deaf and that my head had not gone wrong after all.
Well, dear readers I had better get a wriggle on as it appears that all the vodka has been pumped into the plane and the suitcases, previously left in the rain to see if they would shrink, are on now also.
The officials that look after the traffic here in Bangalore are very cunning. On the way from the airport, the taxi was doing 85-90 kph along a main road. The speed limit was 60. He must have thought that the red lights were coloured lights provided for cheering up road users rather than any suggestion that one should slow down a bit or, heaven forbid, stop. The traffic officials were wise to this as they thoughtfully placed speed humps across major roads, smart I thought.
Well I have survived another day here in Bangalore.
I must say I have noticed that lots of people smile and call out to me, the only thing I can think of is that I am wearing a new cap that Sarah and Chloe bought me. It a rather lovely Adidas blue cap with white edging and I think I rather stand out as a snappy Australian dresser.
I dismissed the only other thing I could think of and that was that I appear to one of about 11 Westerners in Bangalore at present. (That’s how many I counted today anyway)
I am really glad I learnt to walk along the pavement looking at the ground. I have been admonished for this in the past but at least twice it saved my life today. The pavements here are pieces of stone thrown down to cover a monsoon sized drain. In fact along part of the Sri Narsimha Rao Road there was such a perfect part of pavement I was moved to capture it on film.
Now how jolly spooky is this. Bangalore has a population approaching 10 million and Coffs Harbour 70,000. So is has about a 142 times bigger population. I have been living in Coffs Harbour around 7 years and never, to my knowledge, seen the same taxi driver twice. Yet. in Bangalore I saw the same taxi driver yesterday and today. He is trying to convince me to let him take me to the Markets or the Bangalore Palace or anywhere really. I feel quite guilty walking and not wanting to have an auto rickshaw ride. He could not seem to grasp the concept of a tourist wanting to walk everywhere.
I bought some scarfs today and the son of the owner of the Jauhar Bazaar where I shopped was profoundly deaf. He noticed my hearing aids so before commerce began I explained the features of mine, we swapped aids to compare and contrast. I had to explain why Judy was and where I came from. Here, dear readers I told a white-ish lie. I said I was from Sydney Australia. I have learnt this from bitter experience as taxi drivers often ask and unless their English is really good it is difficult to explain Coffs Harbour let alone Jensen close, (from Bray st, left into Bicknell and right into Jensen). I have found sometimes the trip is not long enough. With the noise of continuous horns and general traffic noise, I find myself repeating my self. I find it sometimes a little disrespectful of them having asked a question then not driving long enough to hear the reply.
Anyway, I settled on the scarfs only to find it was a fixed price establishment.
I even tried my well worn explanation, namely:
I was a lonely cricket loving Australian who was profoundly deaf approaching 67 years of age. Sadly, his eyes glazed over and the price did not budge.
Oh! well – if anything else happens in the next few weeks I shall recount the details to you, dear readers, with I might add, the hope that no eyes will glaze over while you devour each literary morsel.
Now I know that I have touched upon “matters transport” once or twice in the past so please excuse me if we revisit the topic again.
This time it is regarding the skills of the coach driver who took me from Bangalore to here, Madurai. I am certain that the class “Coach driving for beginners” was full when he applied, not so “Dare-devil motorcycling” I am convinced he thought he was riding a very long, wide motorcycle. The way he overtook cars on the wrong side of the road just before blind corners was one example of his skills. Another was the elegant way he passed trucks by weaving in out of the both lanes. Because I booked my ticket so early (from Australia) I had the pick of the seats, silly me, I went for the front seat with a clear view ahead. I saw each near miss in breath-takingly clear detail.
It was amazing how we did not have an accident. the closest I have come to having an accident was in an auto-rickshaw today, The driver Raol turned around to introduce himself just as the car in front stopped. We were inches from it when we stopped dead and I suppose you might say nearly starting to be dead. I decided that I should remain anonymous rather than risk another incident.
Before we leave the road, I should have told you that one may make it so much easier when crossing the road if you cross in a group. No that you would find them here but a group size of around one thousand westerners would be the right number. Try and position yourself in the middle of the group as it will take a while before the cars etc. get to you. They will dispose of those on the periphery first. If you can’t find one thousand westerners about one Indian will be good. He or she will have very good staring ability and a very fluid hip movement, just copy the actions, if he/she can speak good English ask for a piggy back ride, much safer all round. An Indian will have an affinity with the God of Brown Underpants which also helps.
Now you think I am making up the issue of brown underpants but I assure you when an Indian man retied his loin cloth, what did I see? Yes. brown underpants!
If you want to read a good book of Indian fiction, I can heartily recommend the slim volume “A map of Madurai” the chain of booksellers, Higginbotham stock it. You will have to look hard for it though as they have not classified it in Popular Fiction but it resides in the Factual – Maps.
The reason I make this claim is that there is a general lax freedom in the way that the roads are drawn. Many roads in Madurai don’t exist on the map. When I compare the map with my GPS the roads are named differently. Now, here, in the maps defence, I should say that as there are few street signs in English or, as far as I can work out, in Hindi, I cannot say which one is correct.
They did both agree on West Massi Street so that one was probably right.
My personal Indian tailor’s shop at Door 9A, Ravi Tower, Town Hall Road, Madurai. does not exist on any map but I can show you it and better still at least 3 rickshaw drivers know where it is.
Well, dear, patient readers we all decamp tomorrow (Sunday) and go by Government bus to Coimbatore and thence to Mettupalayam. Next is the Hill train to Ooty and on to Mysore by Monday evening .
More transport, I am afraid. I am hoping no livestock want to go on the bus tomorow as it is a 5 hour ride. I checked the bus station and the bus today and the bus is fully air-conditioned. It has no windows that close.
Have you heard the saying “Ignorance is bliss” well, this saying is quite, quite true. If I knew how the day would go I would have flown to Mysore from Madurai rather than go by bus, bus, train and bus but read on and all will become clear.
We are aboard the 8:40am bus out of the Madurai bus station at Arapalayam on the way to Coimbatore. Sadly, I must report that this bus is not quite up to the standard of the one I saw on this route yesterday. This one has widows some of which don’t open so it is not fully air-conditioned.
This bus brought back some childhood memories of the 1950s. I used to go back and forth to school on a bus. Some of the busses were “single decker” i.e. downstairs only, no upstairs. They used to go past my school to home and on to Sherlock Row or Camberley. This bus is an older version of the Sherlock Row single decker, it has vinyl seats with big chrome hand rails over the back. The only difference is that the conductor on the Sherlock Row was not Indian and he used a bell and not a whistle to start and stop the bus. Oh!, yes it was also some 35C colder on the Sherlock Row bus too, otherwise the just same.
I do have the luxury of a seat near the back door, where the westerners are put with luggage. I do get some breeze as “back door” was slightly incorrect as it is more correctly described as “the place where the back door would be if there was one”. Still all is good so far. [Little does he know – Editor]
Just as I penned that sentence the heavens opened and around 40 thousand Indians got on the bus. Well, that is a slight exaggeration, it is probably only 35 thousand. Well all right, a lot anyway. None are on the roof or hanging out of that place where a back door should be. I survived the bus trip, I took my batteries (hearing) out and went into trance to cope. I knew that when the world went even more quiet we had reached Coimbatore.
I am not sure if the bus arrived at Coimbatore on time but, it rolled into the bus station that was 5 kms out of the city, at 1:30pm. I was very happy to escape into the open hot air.
Now, I thought it would just be a matter to stroll over to a waiting conductor and say something like:
“I say good Indian working fellow, salt of the earth, what! what!. Can you direct me to the next bus going to Mettupalayam, and be quick about it”. The first three conducting (bus not musical) fellows could not understand a word I said. Undaunted, I espied a young fellow lounging near a coffee stall. You know just sometimes in one’s life one gets a piece of unimaginable luck. This was my turn, the young fellow spoke really good English. I found out later that he had a Masters in Computer Science and worked for Nokia programming in C++.
He told me I needed the Gandhi Pusam bus station which was 30 minutes across town. That’s where he was going and should we share an auto rickshaw. He went off in search and returning, said they wanted 200 Rupees which we did not want to pay.
He said we could get there by a No140 bus, one was, of course, waiting just outside of this bus station. We hopped on as it sped away. The cost was 11 Rupee which he insisted on paying. We chatted throughout the trip, he is getting married in Bangalore on Wednesday and came to Coimbator to visit his parents who live out of town.
We arrived at Gandhi Pusam which was no more than a collection of streets full of buses rather than a bust depot. By the way, bus travel is made so much more fun in Madurai, Coimbatore and Mettupalaym because all the place names on the buses are in Hindi. Now, I say fair enough, as 487 million Hindus speak the language, why would you put the names up in English. It would be like putting Sherlock Row in Spanish on my school bus.
Talking of school buses, I took the attached photo of one of the school busses here in India. I expect that at Sarah and Chloe’s school, Pymble Ladies College, they have similar buses to these at going home time. (Sarah and Chloe are just two of my beautiful grandchildren. Samantha might have these buses also but Jessica and Sophie are lining up to go to school and James has to walk first before he goes. I mean learn to walk as he has yet to be a one year old.)
Anyway we found a bus that went to Mettupalayam and no further. (Most important to know as you can sit tight till the engine stops) My new best friend who had been helping me left with my best wishes and grateful thanks.
I stumbled onto the bus via the door at the front. You should know that I had a suitcase 21.5 kg, a bag with overflow clothing and a lunch carrier bag. I was ordered down the back of the bus where westerners are confined, this was pretty much impossible as it was a local style bus with a narrow aisle down the middle which was much smaller than my suitcase. But, far be it from me to argue with a whistle blowing conductor so I started my multiple trips with gear. Luckily my fellow travellers came to my aid and rounded upon the conductor hurtling abuse until he let me sit in his seat at the front which had space for my luggage. This he did, bless his little cotton socks.
So front seated as I was, all was well and we duly arrived in Mettupalayam. Luckily I saw the B&B from the bus window and walked to it. After 3 sets of forms and advice about how to catch the Hill train to Ooty I settled in.
I went and called on the Station Master and he told me to come back and stand in line to get a docket that allowed me to buy a ticket for the trip. I could not reserve a seat (which had to be done 4 months before travel using an Indian credit card). So at 4:15am next morning I walked to the train station with luggage in hand and duly stood first in line. The train left at 7:10am but unreserved 3rd class is limited to the first 30 waiting, hence the early start. Well, a docket was given to allow me to buy a ticket and the ticket was bought. At 6:15 am the Railway police came and ordered us all to get back behind the “queue here” sign, I and my fellow 3rd classers had strayed one foot in front.
At 6:20am we were allowed on in the train strict order, a marvellous feat as Indians are not noted for their ability to queue. Having made the acquaintance of the Station Master the previous evening I was privy to inside information, namely, the best seat was window left side facing front. So being first on I bagged this seat and was followed by eight other stout Indian fellows and a Argentine girl living in Spain. So, out group was set, the police tried to rearrange us to and move single travellers to accommodate couples wanting to be together. However the man next to me, from the Netherlands, who spoke fairly good English said we were a couple and we did not want to be parted. I would have put it a little bit differently but with my experience of explaining things and the likely hood of meeting glazed looks I let it go. On reflection maybe I should have corrected him as we were talking to a stern gun carrying Indian Railway policeman but all was well in any event.
The trip was fantastic, the scenery marvellous. It took us just under 5 hours to do the 46 km journey with stops to water the steam locomotive.
Everyone in the carriage was great fun, one of the windows would not open. We needed the window open for air and photos but it would not budge after repeated tries. Just as we were about to go I encouraged two young Indian lads to have one last go. It opened at last and there were hi-fives all round and a sharing of McVite’s Digestives. Everyone chatted and we all photographed each other. The trip was great.
Now after a 5 hour coach ride I am in Mysore. The rickshaw driver who took me from the bus station to my hotel was Babu. He offered to drive me around for the day, yesterday, and we agreed on the price of Aus $8. I had a great day seeing a lovely temple. a Bull temple and the second largest Christian Church in India. I managed to buy some gifts in 3 shops.
I wanted to buy a rubber sink plug as there is no plug in my handbasin in the hotel. It is difficult to properly do your smalls and mediums without retaining the water and soap powder in the basin. So, I prepared myself by downloading a photo of a rubber plug from the internet.
Babu went to the hardware centre of town. Shops are often grouped together so we found 20-30 hardware shops all within a 30 meter square. Sadly none had a rubber plug (These are good because they fit any size basin). So I compromised and bought a regular plug and after some cutting and filing of the rubber the plug fitted well. I wish I had brought a small vice with me but I managed.
I was running low on cash and asked if we could stop at an ATM. The ATM we found was attached to a bank but after a Scottish lady who appeared to be living inside the cash machine asked me for my pin etc. the machine got confused and said it could not (or would not?) give me any money. Babu was not happy with this and we went into the bank.
Just inside the door was an air conditioned office of the manager. In the office there were two nuns sitting, three Indian men standing and the manager. Babu just started talking. Everyone stopped and listened. I felt as if I was a collector from the East Indian Company and my driver calling all to heel. Different!
Anyway, the situation was explained and an under manager was summoned. He came out with me and Babu to try the machine again. This time there was only an Indian couple in the way and they were pushed aside. Same result and after I collected the under managers business card in case there was a rouge transaction on the account we were directed to a competitors bank down the street.
On the way Babu’s auto-rickshaw ran out of fuel. It ran on LPG. He said “No problem, there is a gas station 500 meters away”. (Two in fact as nothing comes singly here – hardware shops in groups of 30). I hopped out ready to push. He would have none of it, he flagged down a passing rickshaw and it took us both the the ATM, suitably monied, we got a lift back to the fuel-less vehicle. Again I hopped out, again he would have none of it. I went in the helpers rickshaw and it got behind and to the side of Babu’s. As we started off the driver put his outstretched leg on the back of Babu’s and we drove off to the gas station leg pushing all the way. I can hear murmurings at the back as to the voracity of this tale. To you murmurers I say look at the attached photos and murmur no none. I gave Babu half the fare to pay for the LPG.
Babu and I parted best of friends. Later last night I went for a walk to the wrong bus station looking for a restaurant where I had an idea I would get a hot meal without bugs, viruses or other nasties. I had eaten there before.
I gave up and asked some rickshaw drivers the way, they wanted triple the price for the trip and while I was arguing a friendly native offered to show me the way. While walking he told me he owned an oil factory near the British market and I should come and see him. I did not explain that I had already bought some oil at one of his competitors near his shop. As he left me he asked if I would like to buy some Cannabis. I let him down lightly and politely said “No thanks”.
So his directions were good and I found the right bus station.
Today I had a walking day, I went to a craft shop I visited yesterday and bought an extra gift and went in search of the Oil man from whom I bought yesterday also.
At this point I should tell you that there are around 877,000 people in Mysore so it won’t surprise you to know that while I was searching for my Oilman I bumped into my Cannabis touting friend. Naturally I went to see his factory which looked a lot like two rooms where a lady was sat on the floor making incense sticks. After pleasantries we parted and he said he had to go, being mid-day, I said “Lunchtime” he replied no for a smoke, nod-nod-wink-wink. I don’t know much about the effects of Cannabis but he only had 3 teeth and an awful lot of space, therefore, in between.
So, continuing to look for my Oil man I passed a shop twice, this was too much for the young man sat outside and he beckoned me in. Of course, it was the Oil man’s shop and he was duly summoned from whence he was.
After purchases were made I set off for the supermarket. After walking a while Babu popped up in front of me and asked me what I was up to. I explained my purchases and gave him a full cost breakdown then we went back to the craft shop where we demanded Babu’s commission which he got. This was on the basis that as I had walked and no other driver was involved and Babu was the driver yesterday it was only fair and reasonable that he should get the commission. The argument was accepted. I put it rather well, I thought.
Next a call to the Oil man who came over and we three had a chat after which I left them, I suspect, discussing the finer points of Babu’s commission system.
Well, nothing much else has happened so,
Bye for now, there may be just one more newsletter in me, we shall see.
All the best from Mysore, Barry
I thought I should correct the mistake I made in the last newsletter. This is, of course, in the interests of correct reporting. Previously in the script that one should use when getting an auto rickshaw I missed two lines. I have inserted them below as you can see:
ME: The KVC International hotel please.
AR: Yes, get in.
ME: How much?
AR: 70 Rupee
ME: Do you know where it is?
AR goes and asks anyone who is in 5m radius where it is, finds out or increases radius until he thinks he knows.
AR: 70 Rupees
ME: Do you have enough fuel to get us there.
AR: Yes, (OK to start bargaining)
AR: No, only to a gas station. (If you offer to pay early it is OK to start bargaining)
AR: No, but I need the work and we will worry about that when we run out of fuel. (Fair enough – reward his honesty by starting to bargain)
ME: 50 Rupees
AR: 70 Rupees
ME: 50 Rupees
AR: 70 Rupees
ME: 50 Rupees
AR: 70 Rupees
ME: Starts to walk away.
AR: Get in
ME: 50 Rupees
AR: Yes
AR: (After less than 2 minutes) The KVC International Hotel?
ME: Yes
I was reminded of my mistake when I went from Bangalore Train station to a hotel near the airport this afternoon. I had to pay early as my pre-paid taxi only had enough LPG to get us to the gas station.
A few days ago, on the 17th to be precise, I left India to fly to London.I think I can rightly claim to be a seasoned traveller. I am sure you will agree that there are a few things that can cause a seasoned traveller to pause for thought.
Possibily one thing that causes pauses is to be told at check-in.
“Your ticket is dated yesterday, Sir”.
Now, you will pleased to know I did not faint, swoon or have an attack of the vapours. Quite calmly I produced my Qantas itinerary which bold as brass stated, 17th. the day of my BA118 flight to London.
I even checked in 24 hours before via the Internet and got seat 32D on the flight of the 17th.
So I held my nerve, my carry on winter clothes and my overweight back-pack. I considered starting to scream like a 4 year old, dismissed the idea and thought I should ask to see the Captain of the Aircraft. You will remember I have some flying experience (simulator) plus kites and thought these should carry some weight. Whilst I was deliberating I was told that all was OK and I have my 32D seat today after all.
So British Airways willing I was hoping to make it to London.
I wondered if I should tell the captain of my flying experience anyway, he might fancy a rest part way through the flight, couldn’t hurt – don’t you think.
Well, as I write this, we are in the air somewhere between India and England. Sorry I cannot be more precise but on this BA 747-400 they do not have a map of the world with a little aeroplane (ours) to show where one is. I jolly well hope the Captain or his computer knows where we are. Before we boarded I saw the captain and the two first officers but I did not get the chance to introduce myself. Still, everything is all OK so far so no need to worry.
Together with no maps the entertainment system is not up to much. You will get the idea when I tell you I have watched the latest James Bond movie and a film about how to cure the fear of flying. Apart from that nothing grabs me as it were. I think the CD of the Violin Concerto Opus 35 is currently going around for the forth time.
I have just seen the Mysore palace, a photo is attached. A stunning building and amazing inside. I would like your advice, do I look like a multimillionaire?
Three times while I was inside the palace I was asked by one of the guards if I would like to see some VIP statues and VIP furnishings etc. This translates into – pay me and I will let you see behind the curtain. I declined thrice.
Money was running low as I had already bribed the head security guard to let me keep my camera in my backpack rather than hand it in. (Photos were not allowed inside the palace) I did not use it but it saved me a 500m walk back to the entrance.
It was real nod-nod-wink-wink stuff, 50 rupees in the palm of the hand, a double hand shake and back slapping etc.
Well, as I said, it happened again, we ran out of fuel on the trip back to my hotel. There is an attached photo to prove it.
If you are sceptical please compare and contrast this foot with the foot of the last newsletter. This foot is younger and slimmer than the last.
This time the passing driver was not so accommodating. I had to pay the first driver one third of the price for two thirds of the journey and the rescue driver two thirds of the money for one third of the trip.
I must digress at this point. There is a standard form to hiring an auto rickshaw, in fact it is scripted. It goes like this (ME is me and AR is auto rickshaw driver).
ME: The KVC International hotel please.
AR: Yes, get in.
ME: How much?
AR: 70 Rupee
ME: Do you know where it is?
AR goes and asks anyone who is in 5m radius where it is, finds out or increases radius until he thinks he knows.
AR: 70 Rupees
ME: 50 Rupees
AR: 70 Rupees
ME: 50 Rupees
AR: 70 Rupees
ME: 50 Rupees
AR: 70 Rupees
ME: Starts to walk away.
AR: Get in
ME: 50 Rupees
AR: Yes
AR: (After less than 2 minutes) The KVC International Hotel?
ME: Yes
Now what you must know is that this ritual did not happen with the relief driver so we got lost. After him trying to make me accept two quite different hotels I made him stop and ask. It took 5 bystanders to establish where it was, we were a block away but he could not understand my Australian English. I even showed him the map but to be fair I cannot read it so I cannot deduct any points from him for that.
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