They are building in Ahmedabad as they are everywhere else. They are building right opposite my room, and they go on well into the night. The concrete mixer launches into its chugging tirade at 8.30 in the morning, and from then on there is no peace for good or wicked alike. Today it broke down, which was good for me as our early start into the country for another site visit was cancelled, and is giving me time to write.
I watched the labourers yesterday, shoveling aggregate into baskets, which are lifted onto the heads of women who take them to the mixer, all day and into the evening. I’ve worked in the building industry, and always considered that I worked hard. Hmmmm.
This is a very clean and comfortable place. The sheets are changed daily and they are constantly sweeping the dust from the corridors and stairs, with what resembles a bunch of twigs. All the cleaners here are young men. In fact there doesn’t seem to be any female presence here at all. And yet next door the hod-carrying ladies have just finished their stint. A strange contrast.
I’ve been looking in the Yellow Pages for a shop which sells radios. I have withdrawal symptoms. There are some intriguing headings in the index…. Cattle Control Department, Dead Animal Removal, Food Adulteration Checking. There’s also a heavy plant spares company called Anal Enterprise…..
Well, the phone book is just that – phone numbers, no addresses - so I’m none the wiser. A brief tour of the locality in the midday sun to find a radio shop resulted in a rapid return, hot, exhausted, radio-less, in a tuc-tuc. I’m still a target for grubby urchins carrying smaller grubby urchins.
‘Baby, for baby’
I also had a woman following me, pointing to her bandaged arm. The bandage kept slipping and there was no visible sign of an injury. Ever sceptical, I had the urge to squeeze the arm, but obviously I didn't.
Later, guided by a hotel porter, I found my radio shop and returned clutching my prize, but not as satisfied as I should be. The radio wasn’t the one I was after, was more than I intended to pay, and not for the first time I regretted dithering at home, looking at the merits of this model or that, so that finally it was too late to order one before I left. With the distinct feeling I’d been shafted; an extra £10 - 15 having been added to the cost for 4 batteries, the use of a debit card (even though I volunteered to get cash from an ATM), and probably the mysterious ‘government taxes’ which pop up on an ad hoc basis; I sat in my room with no idea where to look on the short wave as I had mislaid the meticulously researched list of frequencies.
Searching through the ‘white noise’, walking round the room, turning the aerial and holding it above my head, the fan struck the aerial and knocked the radio from my hand. Misery. I’ve brought an expensive pup, (because I would have paid the same price at home) and now I’ve broken it. Grumpy or what? And then, I’m sure I heard a crackly Claire Boulderson. Yes, left to its own devices on the floor, my suddenly lovely radio has tuned itself. Newshour – deep joy.
More joy, when I received a phone call from the Sulabh International in Delhi arranging to send a car to my hotel there on the 1st May. Brilliant. Obliging people, but more of them later.
At 20 minutes to 10, the lights are still on at the building site, and the workforce are hammering poles into place for concrete shuttering. They've spent the day cutting rebar into lengths for this. At 20 to midnight, a tipper truck arrives to deliver sand.
28 April 2010
Gandhiji – Ashram Museum
This was a detour on the way home. The home of the Gandhi family overlooking the Sabarmati River has turned into a museum. It’s full of history, artifacts, contemplation and tranquility. It is possible to look everywhere, in the guest houses and the bungalow, with the exception of Bapu’s room itself. There are details and photographs of his life from childhood to assassination. We went to the bridge on which the people stood to watch Gandhi leave to walk barefoot the 240 miles to Dandi on the salt march.
All in all, a cracking day
All in all, a cracking day
Sintex field trip - 26th April, Monday
Collected by the Sintex driver in the morning, I accompanied Vishad to the home of one of the company’s clients. Mahesh A Maheshwari is the CMD of Aster Silicates Ltd. Had we had breakfast? Yes, thank you. So we were treated to a snack instead; something delicious involving yellow rice. We sat in the cool of his lounge, his servant bringing us water and tea, and he began to tell me about his company. For a minute I panicked; words like blast furnace, industrial grade sodium silicate and the German power giant RWE struck my ears. He must be mistaking me for someone else. He then told me of his plans for growing biomass and of his gas plants and I relaxed – back on home territory.
A brief pause for something else delicious involving ice cream and mangoes, and on with business. His company intends to use impoverished land or areas where there is high salinity for growing the crops. During the cultivations, the land would still remain the property of the farmer, and where possible would be returned to fertility and back to the care of the farmer. The biomass would be formed into briquettes for sale to use in household digesters of around 2 m³. Aster has plans to utilize municipal organic waste in biogas units, and use the gas to operate small power plants. Finally, they are planning a number of battery-charging stations around Narol (Ahmedabad) for the use of battery powered vehicles. At last I’m talking to somebody of some standing who doesn’t buy into the ‘clean, green’ electric car propaganda. Clean electricity coming out of your nice clean socket indoors, has mostly been generated miles away in a dirty power station. The Aster model uses bio-waste not fossil fuel. Excellent.
Mr. Maheshwari informed me he has solved the problem of operating a digester in a cool climate, and has developed microbial cultures to speed up the operation. He is a man with vision. Up on the roof of his home, he practices what he preaches. In the corner of the rooftop garden is a Sintex biogas digester. All his food waste, mixed 1:1 with water, goes in the funnel, the gas produced has cooked our snack, and the liquid comes from the bottom and feeds and waters all the potted shrubs and plants in the
garden. For the second time I was honestly surprised by the lack of odour. Impressive. There is a wonderful view from the garden across the city. All we can see are fine apartments and trees. The whole scene is glorious and exotic, and such a far cry from the dust, rubble and people strewn streets below.
This is all part of a social initiative on the part of the Indian Government. They had an attempt to finance green schemes a few years ago, but it all became mired in corrupt officialdom. The new green way is to get the industrialists involved - the high energy consumers - offer them the incentives like carbon credits, and the opportunities to be leaders in the green revolution, plus of course the kudos of a social programme, and you get results like this.
The next two visits were more environmental than biogas orientated. India is building. The urban sprawl into farmland in the shape of new apartment blocks is, in the state of Gujarat, under a certain degree of control. No permission for new builds is given unless they employ a system of water harvesting. At Iscon Green, a bungalow development of 145 units; two septic tanks, with a combined capacity of 100,000 litres, collect all the grey water from the bungalows, clean it through a process of microbial activity and aeration, and store it in tanks for use in the gardens. This was true of the second site, a learning institution designed for 800 students.
Lunch was at a typical Guajarati restaurant in town. There is no menu here, everyone eats the same food. We were supplied with a metal tray and several bowls and a couple of spoons, and then the waiters came round and filled the bowls with different dishes, fill the tray with what I can only (rather rudely) describe as other bits. Small samosa-like food, and different baked breads, and a small batter pudding. Yes, of course I asked what they were, but please don’t expect me to remember for more than a few minutes. It is a whole new language. There was also water and buttermilk. The waiters keep returning to the tables, and will top up your bowls or replenish bread, rice etc. until you pop. Anyway – all totally delicious; spicy but not savage, and well within my heat tolerance. Today’s faux pas; was eating the batter with the savoury and pouring the mango on the same. They were actually part of my pudding. Ho hum.
I also have a sore left sole. I had to remove my shoes at one stage during the day, and stepped backwards off the shoe mat onto the paving. Paving which had been in the sun for 8 hours. My Homer Simpson moment.
Traffic - 25th April, Sunday
Road - 25th April
I am starting to enjoy the Indian driving experience. This place isn’t as madly chaotic as I first thought. Although you don’t always drive on the correct side of the road, or travel the correct way round the roundabout, and turn right, near-side to near-side if you feel like it, I have yet to see an accident. A cross-roads, for example, is four lines of traffic heading in four different directions, in the same space. It's essential to realise that everything in India is a road user. Just imagine the mix. Pedestrians, tuc-tucs, motor cars, huge battered brown painted but decorated lorries, tractors and trailers, bicycles and bicycles and trailers, motorbikes with or without trailers, people pushing huge heavy hand carts, camel carts, bullock carts, stray dogs, goats, cows – in the UK a cow in the road would stop the traffic, here, a hundred cows in the road and no jams. And this is how it works – Ashford Borough Council with its ‘shared space,’ and Jeremy Clarkson please note. The space is shared, everyone is comfortable with the way things play out, no-one is precious about their space, no-one cares about being overtaken, or someone pushing in. There is absolutely no animosity or visible road rage between the road users. You push into a line of traffic, you ease up to let someone in or past. You look out for yourself and for everyone else, and avoid the livestock. Honking warns others you wish to come through, and they make way for you. Hand painted signs on the rear of lorries and tuc-tucs invite you to do just that. "Honk please". I suppose you could regard it as the members of the world’s largest democracy demonstrating the principal of ‘by the people’, and making their congested roads function by common consent.
I am starting to enjoy the Indian driving experience. This place isn’t as madly chaotic as I first thought. Although you don’t always drive on the correct side of the road, or travel the correct way round the roundabout, and turn right, near-side to near-side if you feel like it, I have yet to see an accident. A cross-roads, for example, is four lines of traffic heading in four different directions, in the same space. It's essential to realise that everything in India is a road user. Just imagine the mix. Pedestrians, tuc-tucs, motor cars, huge battered brown painted but decorated lorries, tractors and trailers, bicycles and bicycles and trailers, motorbikes with or without trailers, people pushing huge heavy hand carts, camel carts, bullock carts, stray dogs, goats, cows – in the UK a cow in the road would stop the traffic, here, a hundred cows in the road and no jams. And this is how it works – Ashford Borough Council with its ‘shared space,’ and Jeremy Clarkson please note. The space is shared, everyone is comfortable with the way things play out, no-one is precious about their space, no-one cares about being overtaken, or someone pushing in. There is absolutely no animosity or visible road rage between the road users. You push into a line of traffic, you ease up to let someone in or past. You look out for yourself and for everyone else, and avoid the livestock. Honking warns others you wish to come through, and they make way for you. Hand painted signs on the rear of lorries and tuc-tucs invite you to do just that. "Honk please". I suppose you could regard it as the members of the world’s largest democracy demonstrating the principal of ‘by the people’, and making their congested roads function by common consent.
An Ahmedabad Sunday
An Ahmedabad Sunday – 25th April
With the urge to explore the city on foot, I set out at 9 am before it got to hot. Let me tell you now – there is no ‘before it gets too hot’ at the moment, it is simply ‘too hot’. I thought I’d try some street food, and opted for the safety of fruit which I peeled with my own knife. There are a lot of friendly people on the streets of Ahmedabad. ‘Hello, how are you?’ came from all sides. In the strangeness of the surroundings there was a very real fear of becoming hopelessly lost. Streets have names on the map in the phone book – streets do not necessarily have names on them. Well, if they do, they’re written in the local language, for I haven’t noticed any. I found I was obliged to avoid eye-contact with the Tuc-tuc drivers, who would crawl alongside the second you glanced at them, until waved away. Most of the shops were shut, although I understood that some would open after 10 am – but not for me. I was only out for an hour, but even so, needed to recuperate in the hotel foyer before tackling the stairs. Pretty weedy eh?
I was conscious that I may have consumed more fruit in that hour than was good for an omnivore with a western stomach, but touch wood, nothing so far has disturbed the internal equilibrium and I retired to my room with a cup of ginger tea and the laptop. With the afternoon devoted to blogging and writing up the Sintex notes, I felt ready to tackle the city again in the cool of the evening. Another learning experience – there is no ‘cool of the evening’. The vast concrete metropolis spends 12 or so hours absorbing the sun, and in the evening this giant storage heater releases its heat. It’s the same temperature but without the sunshine.
Sunday evening, and Ahmedabad had come to life. There was now a row of stalls on the ground along the street out side the hotel, and along the main street. There was more of a market atmosphere, more clothing sellers in addition to the usual food vendors. I wasn’t too bothered about losing my way this time, having decided that any tuc-tuc driver could get me back. However, I was starting to attract the attention of little street urchins as I walked, and several ran out of side streets to join my parade. This Pied Piper decided it was now time to catch the eye of a Tuc-tuc, hopped in, and said ‘drive please, round the city’, and made good my escape. The city was really busy; many streets lined with clothing stalls and filled with shoppers. He took me to markets, and past temples and gardens with fountains, pointing ‘look, look’, as we went by. Don’t gripe about the winter potholes, friends in the UK, we don’t understand about potholes. Some roads here are all potholes. To be fair, some roads are being resurfaced. One section of an Ahmedabad street had recently been done on the right hand side, but was raised some 6 inches higher than the rest. As there is no lane system, I had the uncomfortable experience of straddling this gradient in an open-sided vehicle trying not to fall out. To make matters worse, tuc-tucs have three wheels, and a decision needs to be made as to whether the front wheel will run on the high section or the low section. Or both, as in this instance.
Eventually we pulled into the side of the road and I saw we were back at our starting point
‘Hotel President, please’ It was that easy.
With the urge to explore the city on foot, I set out at 9 am before it got to hot. Let me tell you now – there is no ‘before it gets too hot’ at the moment, it is simply ‘too hot’. I thought I’d try some street food, and opted for the safety of fruit which I peeled with my own knife. There are a lot of friendly people on the streets of Ahmedabad. ‘Hello, how are you?’ came from all sides. In the strangeness of the surroundings there was a very real fear of becoming hopelessly lost. Streets have names on the map in the phone book – streets do not necessarily have names on them. Well, if they do, they’re written in the local language, for I haven’t noticed any. I found I was obliged to avoid eye-contact with the Tuc-tuc drivers, who would crawl alongside the second you glanced at them, until waved away. Most of the shops were shut, although I understood that some would open after 10 am – but not for me. I was only out for an hour, but even so, needed to recuperate in the hotel foyer before tackling the stairs. Pretty weedy eh?
I was conscious that I may have consumed more fruit in that hour than was good for an omnivore with a western stomach, but touch wood, nothing so far has disturbed the internal equilibrium and I retired to my room with a cup of ginger tea and the laptop. With the afternoon devoted to blogging and writing up the Sintex notes, I felt ready to tackle the city again in the cool of the evening. Another learning experience – there is no ‘cool of the evening’. The vast concrete metropolis spends 12 or so hours absorbing the sun, and in the evening this giant storage heater releases its heat. It’s the same temperature but without the sunshine.
Sunday evening, and Ahmedabad had come to life. There was now a row of stalls on the ground along the street out side the hotel, and along the main street. There was more of a market atmosphere, more clothing sellers in addition to the usual food vendors. I wasn’t too bothered about losing my way this time, having decided that any tuc-tuc driver could get me back. However, I was starting to attract the attention of little street urchins as I walked, and several ran out of side streets to join my parade. This Pied Piper decided it was now time to catch the eye of a Tuc-tuc, hopped in, and said ‘drive please, round the city’, and made good my escape. The city was really busy; many streets lined with clothing stalls and filled with shoppers. He took me to markets, and past temples and gardens with fountains, pointing ‘look, look’, as we went by. Don’t gripe about the winter potholes, friends in the UK, we don’t understand about potholes. Some roads here are all potholes. To be fair, some roads are being resurfaced. One section of an Ahmedabad street had recently been done on the right hand side, but was raised some 6 inches higher than the rest. As there is no lane system, I had the uncomfortable experience of straddling this gradient in an open-sided vehicle trying not to fall out. To make matters worse, tuc-tucs have three wheels, and a decision needs to be made as to whether the front wheel will run on the high section or the low section. Or both, as in this instance.
Eventually we pulled into the side of the road and I saw we were back at our starting point
‘Hotel President, please’ It was that easy.
25 April 2010
Making a start - 24th April
Today is the first scheduled visit to Sintex. I thought I'd best make an early start and had another interesting breakfast some of which involved potatoes. A text from Manish informed me a driver would come for me at about 11.30, and as my body thought it was only 4 in the morning I reckoned a bit of a doze wouldn't come amiss. Mid-doze the room phone rang and the car had arrived. It was 10 am.
Sintex Industries is massive. I was beginning to realise its impact on Indian society when I saw the number of water tanks bearing the name on the roofs of so many dwellings which I passed on the Karnavati.
This company, which also has a textiles side, makes everything from plastic buildings to plastic buckets. They export all across the globe. It is also very 'corporate'. Signs, in English, strategically placed on corners, remind staff that a good idea may well lie just around the corner; you are reminded in the mess that thousands are starving and not to waste food; others extol the virtue's of the 5 Ss - one of which was safety, and one self discipline, but I'm ashamed to say I don't recall the others. I suppose I need to walk past it on a daily basis. The factory itself is massive. When I was shown round, we had to go by car. There are workshops where they extrude, workshops where they mould, where they make puff insulation, where they mould GRP tanks. They are all made of corrugated iron and are hotter inside than Hades.
Manish, their exporter, and Vishad, their engineer, showed me the biogas demonstration site. Here they experiment with designs and monitor the gas outputs. The feedstock was all food waste started on fresh cow dung. It was 37 Celsius, and there was no smell. None whatever.
Back in the cool of the main building, Prashant, the projects DGM popped in to talk about my plans and whether they would get any feedback from my trip. Then the biggest and most unexpected wow, S B Dangayatch, the MD himself came to give his blessing. He would assist me 'totally'. Totally, I am finding, is a good word in India. That and 'Kem cho'
Sintex Industries is massive. I was beginning to realise its impact on Indian society when I saw the number of water tanks bearing the name on the roofs of so many dwellings which I passed on the Karnavati.
This company, which also has a textiles side, makes everything from plastic buildings to plastic buckets. They export all across the globe. It is also very 'corporate'. Signs, in English, strategically placed on corners, remind staff that a good idea may well lie just around the corner; you are reminded in the mess that thousands are starving and not to waste food; others extol the virtue's of the 5 Ss - one of which was safety, and one self discipline, but I'm ashamed to say I don't recall the others. I suppose I need to walk past it on a daily basis. The factory itself is massive. When I was shown round, we had to go by car. There are workshops where they extrude, workshops where they mould, where they make puff insulation, where they mould GRP tanks. They are all made of corrugated iron and are hotter inside than Hades.
Manish, their exporter, and Vishad, their engineer, showed me the biogas demonstration site. Here they experiment with designs and monitor the gas outputs. The feedstock was all food waste started on fresh cow dung. It was 37 Celsius, and there was no smell. None whatever.
Back in the cool of the main building, Prashant, the projects DGM popped in to talk about my plans and whether they would get any feedback from my trip. Then the biggest and most unexpected wow, S B Dangayatch, the MD himself came to give his blessing. He would assist me 'totally'. Totally, I am finding, is a good word in India. That and 'Kem cho'
IRCTC - The worlds largest employer
Welcome to the Karvanatti Express. Huge thanks to the lovely Indian lady from First Class who talked to me whilst we waited, and got her son to get my Indian simcard to work. Then after she was settled in her carriage, returned to make sure I had found my seat and didn’t need anything, and finally showered me with kisses and blessings. Nobody has looked at my ticket yet. All throughout the journey IRCTC staff walk up and down the corridors selling hot and cold food, and hot and cold drinks.
‘coffee, chai, chai coffee, chai’
‘soup, soup’
‘byriani, samosa’
‘Bailey water’
‘juice, juice’
I though I was offered an omelet, but I have a byriani. This is the second time today. My breakfast was bread and butter, hard boiled eggs and crisps because I didn’t understand.
Still no one has looked at my ticket yet. You could travel hundreds of miles out of your way if you made a mistake! Having said that, I think this is a wonderful organisation. It is big and complex, with many classes of carriage and a rather convoluted system of booking a ticket, which becomes clear the more you use it. There is air-con in most of the carriages. The poorer Indians still travel in the open door style although I didn't see any on the roof. They carry their luggage wrapped in cloth, huge great bundles tied with string.
I'm so glad I decided to travel by train where possible. Althought I've been asked since
'Karnavati? Why did you choose the Karnavati? It is so slow and boring'.
Well I chose the Karnavati because I was rubbish at booking. Ok? You need to book early, very, very, very early.
‘coffee, chai, chai coffee, chai’
‘soup, soup’
‘byriani, samosa’
‘Bailey water’
‘juice, juice’
I though I was offered an omelet, but I have a byriani. This is the second time today. My breakfast was bread and butter, hard boiled eggs and crisps because I didn’t understand.
Still no one has looked at my ticket yet. You could travel hundreds of miles out of your way if you made a mistake! Having said that, I think this is a wonderful organisation. It is big and complex, with many classes of carriage and a rather convoluted system of booking a ticket, which becomes clear the more you use it. There is air-con in most of the carriages. The poorer Indians still travel in the open door style although I didn't see any on the roof. They carry their luggage wrapped in cloth, huge great bundles tied with string.
I'm so glad I decided to travel by train where possible. Althought I've been asked since
'Karnavati? Why did you choose the Karnavati? It is so slow and boring'.
Well I chose the Karnavati because I was rubbish at booking. Ok? You need to book early, very, very, very early.
A city of contrasts
I was catching the 13.40 Karnavati Express from Mumbai Central, and was advised to take a taxi at 11.30 because of the traffic. Good advice, I’m glad I took it. Again we went at honking breakneck speed, with me being very touristy and trying to take photos whenever we paused. It wasn’t often enough. I couldn’t get good pictures of the rickety pole scaffolds, tied together with sisal binder twine, and none of the tree boughs which had been built through various walls, rather than cut them off. Nor of all the rubble, or the brick upper stories built on top of the tin roofs. Then again I missed the motorbikes carrying whole families, or a passenger holding a ladder aloft, and the riders carrying a load in one hand - sweving madly but staying on, or the sari-clad ladies sitting side-saddle.
Probably all the Indian cities are like this – I’ll know in five weeks time. There is mayhem on the roads and grinding poverty at the roadside. I never realized what dirt poor really meant. Wherever there’s somewhere to put a tarpaulin or a corrugated sheet, there’s a corrugated sheet and a bit of tarpaulin; and under that lives a family. They line the streets and the railway track, and at every opportunity they sell wares or services to someone else. There are roadside barbers and cobblers, and vendors of fruit and vegetables. They are also selling great bunches of greenery – goodness knows what it is or what it’s for. It is incredible entrepreneurship.
But Mumbai is also one vast building site. There are huge modern skyscrapers and opulent buildings. This place is certainly intending to go somewhere. There doesn't seem to be separate areas for rich and poor though. The painted walls and wrought iron gates behind which live the wealthy, front the rubble-lined streets with their attendant population of destitution.
Probably all the Indian cities are like this – I’ll know in five weeks time. There is mayhem on the roads and grinding poverty at the roadside. I never realized what dirt poor really meant. Wherever there’s somewhere to put a tarpaulin or a corrugated sheet, there’s a corrugated sheet and a bit of tarpaulin; and under that lives a family. They line the streets and the railway track, and at every opportunity they sell wares or services to someone else. There are roadside barbers and cobblers, and vendors of fruit and vegetables. They are also selling great bunches of greenery – goodness knows what it is or what it’s for. It is incredible entrepreneurship.
But Mumbai is also one vast building site. There are huge modern skyscrapers and opulent buildings. This place is certainly intending to go somewhere. There doesn't seem to be separate areas for rich and poor though. The painted walls and wrought iron gates behind which live the wealthy, front the rubble-lined streets with their attendant population of destitution.
First Impressions - 23rd April
Heat. At gone midnight and leaving an air-conditioned cabin it was a shock and everyone remarked on it. ‘Don’t forget’, I said cheerfully, more to convince myself then anything else, ‘we’re standing next to a hot plane’. Some agreed, but the more knowledgeable held their peace. Just ignore me, for I knew nothing. It’s hot.
This place is INSANE. Walking down the corridor from baggage collection (waited almost an hour) it is lined with kiosks offering taxi services, hotels and money changing. Arms beckon from over the glass partition as rivals vie for custom.
The taxi to the hotel at 2am started rather badly. A lad in the hotel livery helped me out with my luggage to where he had left the car, but it had moved on. When he located it a policeman was sitting in the passenger seat haranguing the young driver for waiting in the wrong place. I was ignorant of all this – I didn’t even recognize a police uniform. I sat in the back with my things, the car sat there for a while with exchanges and silences between the two in the front. The young man made a phone call and offered the passenger money, which was refused. I felt distinctly uneasy, unable to grasp a word and feared I had entered an Indian scam about which so much is written in the travel books. Then the passenger got out and crossed the road to strike a reversing vehicle with his stick. The hotel lad explained the problem and it sorted itself out (I have a sneaky suspicion that money did change hands, but out of the view of the tourist)
There then followed the most bizarre drive. At breakneck speed, with the horn blaring constantly at traffic and pedestrians. It is 2.30 in the morning! What are these people doing? We drove over two ‘sleeping policemen’ as though they were lines on the road and on each occasion I left my seat.
By the roadside there were handcarts like the wheeled stretchers of the Great War, with bodies lying on them. Then I saw bodies lying at the side of the road and in the central reservation. Not bodies. People. This was their bed for the night; this is where they lived. Yes of course I knew all this, but it’s very sobering at first hand.
Singh’s hotel is great. There’s a main foyer with an executive side, and a budget side. I’m the budget side. It was clean and tidy, with cheery, helpful staff even at that hour. The room was without livestock, en-suite and air-con, which was loud and gale force 8. A rickety fan revolved above my head, its spindle oscillating through an over-large hole in the ceiling. I turned it to low to reduce the danger of it falling on me in what was left of the night. It took several attempts to balance, coolness, wind speed and noise and I was hopping in and out of bed until it must have been very late.
My mobile – my clock – wasn’t roaming and I had lost all idea of time. I didn’t have a radio and I was missing the World Service.
I awoke to the most enormous racket. I had been aware of the honking for a while but this was chatter. They were the voices of many labourers who gathered outside waiting to be hired. During breakfast I watched their numbers dwindle until it became quiet (ish).
This place is INSANE. Walking down the corridor from baggage collection (waited almost an hour) it is lined with kiosks offering taxi services, hotels and money changing. Arms beckon from over the glass partition as rivals vie for custom.
The taxi to the hotel at 2am started rather badly. A lad in the hotel livery helped me out with my luggage to where he had left the car, but it had moved on. When he located it a policeman was sitting in the passenger seat haranguing the young driver for waiting in the wrong place. I was ignorant of all this – I didn’t even recognize a police uniform. I sat in the back with my things, the car sat there for a while with exchanges and silences between the two in the front. The young man made a phone call and offered the passenger money, which was refused. I felt distinctly uneasy, unable to grasp a word and feared I had entered an Indian scam about which so much is written in the travel books. Then the passenger got out and crossed the road to strike a reversing vehicle with his stick. The hotel lad explained the problem and it sorted itself out (I have a sneaky suspicion that money did change hands, but out of the view of the tourist)
There then followed the most bizarre drive. At breakneck speed, with the horn blaring constantly at traffic and pedestrians. It is 2.30 in the morning! What are these people doing? We drove over two ‘sleeping policemen’ as though they were lines on the road and on each occasion I left my seat.
By the roadside there were handcarts like the wheeled stretchers of the Great War, with bodies lying on them. Then I saw bodies lying at the side of the road and in the central reservation. Not bodies. People. This was their bed for the night; this is where they lived. Yes of course I knew all this, but it’s very sobering at first hand.
Singh’s hotel is great. There’s a main foyer with an executive side, and a budget side. I’m the budget side. It was clean and tidy, with cheery, helpful staff even at that hour. The room was without livestock, en-suite and air-con, which was loud and gale force 8. A rickety fan revolved above my head, its spindle oscillating through an over-large hole in the ceiling. I turned it to low to reduce the danger of it falling on me in what was left of the night. It took several attempts to balance, coolness, wind speed and noise and I was hopping in and out of bed until it must have been very late.
My mobile – my clock – wasn’t roaming and I had lost all idea of time. I didn’t have a radio and I was missing the World Service.
I awoke to the most enormous racket. I had been aware of the honking for a while but this was chatter. They were the voices of many labourers who gathered outside waiting to be hired. During breakfast I watched their numbers dwindle until it became quiet (ish).
First Flight - 22nd April
This is my first flight. Before I left, every experienced flier supplied me with a little nugget of what to expect, and what to do, but all this carefully logged information naturally went up in smoke, or ash, as everybody ‘played it by ear’. But as I said …… jammy, - we’re airborne.
Oddly, it didn’t feel that strange, looking down on the world. London looked amazingly beautiful in the morning sunshine, a fact remarked upon by several seasoned travelers. I think I've spent too much time on Google Earth to find the bird's-eye view that unusual.
So glad I opted for a window seat. Hundreds of miles of barren tracts of land below, as Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan morph into one. Mountains, rocky outcrops and sand form fantastic geographical features, outlining gorges and tributaries - and I wish I knew how they were all formed. I could be looking at the surface of mars, but this is the same planet from where I started and I’m looking down on my global neighbours. They must be down there somewhere, although they leave very few signs. Two straight apparently parallel lines run below; roads going to somewhere, from somewhere, but no sign of habitation or life in general. Then, suddenly, there's a patchwork of green & brown quadrilaterals; for somewhere in this wasteland is water, and this is a farm. These enclaves appear sporadically, and then peter out after less than 300 miles. And the 2 roads weren’t parallel – they met, or maybe we’re flying over infinity now.
It was all going so well, but then airport congestion had us pirouetting 150 miles east of Mumbai, making us an hour late. My first landing was a horrendously bumpy affair which caused the odd scream and a ripple of nervous laughter throughout the plane. Maybe the pilot was as tired as I was.
Oddly, it didn’t feel that strange, looking down on the world. London looked amazingly beautiful in the morning sunshine, a fact remarked upon by several seasoned travelers. I think I've spent too much time on Google Earth to find the bird's-eye view that unusual.
So glad I opted for a window seat. Hundreds of miles of barren tracts of land below, as Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan morph into one. Mountains, rocky outcrops and sand form fantastic geographical features, outlining gorges and tributaries - and I wish I knew how they were all formed. I could be looking at the surface of mars, but this is the same planet from where I started and I’m looking down on my global neighbours. They must be down there somewhere, although they leave very few signs. Two straight apparently parallel lines run below; roads going to somewhere, from somewhere, but no sign of habitation or life in general. Then, suddenly, there's a patchwork of green & brown quadrilaterals; for somewhere in this wasteland is water, and this is a farm. These enclaves appear sporadically, and then peter out after less than 300 miles. And the 2 roads weren’t parallel – they met, or maybe we’re flying over infinity now.
It was all going so well, but then airport congestion had us pirouetting 150 miles east of Mumbai, making us an hour late. My first landing was a horrendously bumpy affair which caused the odd scream and a ripple of nervous laughter throughout the plane. Maybe the pilot was as tired as I was.
Carolyn (1) Volcano (0)
Couldn’t believe it – what jam. Suddenly the planes are allowed to fly, somehow some things caught up with themselves, and flight 9w 0119 left Heathrow with only a 30 minute delay, and I am now flying over the Black Sea with Louis Armstrong on my headphones (dad would have been so proud), having just eaten a fantastic chicken meal. My first curry of many I assume. And incidentally, we’re bang on time.
Can’t thank my children enough for their support, particularly Nikki last night, getting a little lost on the rubbish directions to the hotel. And Mum of course.
It’s hard to realize this is actually happening. I made a tongue in cheek remark to my internet-friend, Manish from Sintex, during one of our numerous email exchanges, that if the big pot of funding available to green schemes like the one I was involved in really wanted to get their money’s worth, they’d pay to have someone do research in India. And how long ago was that? Two years? It never occurred to me it would actually come to pass.
Can’t thank my children enough for their support, particularly Nikki last night, getting a little lost on the rubbish directions to the hotel. And Mum of course.
It’s hard to realize this is actually happening. I made a tongue in cheek remark to my internet-friend, Manish from Sintex, during one of our numerous email exchanges, that if the big pot of funding available to green schemes like the one I was involved in really wanted to get their money’s worth, they’d pay to have someone do research in India. And how long ago was that? Two years? It never occurred to me it would actually come to pass.
18 April 2010
Eyjafjallajoekull
Am I down? You bet. Smugly I missed the snow-bound airports, the BA strike .. but a stupid volcano which has deposited a tiny, tiny amount of grey dust on my van, has closed air travel down in Europe. And my flight goes Thursday morning.
Worse things happen at sea, and I'd rather stay here than fall from the sky due to engine failure, but even so .....
And, it's difficult to curse a volcano which you struggle to spell and can't pronounce.
So I suppose it's fair to say I am a little grumpy at the moment.
Worse things happen at sea, and I'd rather stay here than fall from the sky due to engine failure, but even so .....
And, it's difficult to curse a volcano which you struggle to spell and can't pronounce.
So I suppose it's fair to say I am a little grumpy at the moment.
The biogas dream
It all started years and years ago on a visit to an embryonic C.A.T. in Wales http://www.cat.org.uk/index.tmpl?refer=index&init=1
I met a chap there who said his claim to fame was that he was the first person in the UK to have a shower in water heated by his own waste, and showed us the rear of the latrine block. Buckets of festering goodness knows what was happily making biogas for these guys to use. Once the organic material has been processed by the relevant bacteria, it is compost and can be returned to the land. Fascinating. Well I thought so.
Having lived all my life in the country, and for the last 21 years without mains drainage or mains gas, and as a card carrying environmentalist, the idea of using waste to provide energy has always been always lurking somewhere in the recesses of my mind (sad, yeah I know). I'd already done a fair bit of research on small-scale biogas production in recent years for a work related project, and had come to the conclusion that China or India were the places to go if you really wanted to know anything in detail. I spent a good deal of time exchanging emails with a plastics manufaturing company in India, who make small plastic biogas digesters in varying sizes and types. They could not have been more helpul. If you look here you'll see what I'm on about. http://www.sintex-plastics.com/deenabandu.htm
I met a chap there who said his claim to fame was that he was the first person in the UK to have a shower in water heated by his own waste, and showed us the rear of the latrine block. Buckets of festering goodness knows what was happily making biogas for these guys to use. Once the organic material has been processed by the relevant bacteria, it is compost and can be returned to the land. Fascinating. Well I thought so.
Having lived all my life in the country, and for the last 21 years without mains drainage or mains gas, and as a card carrying environmentalist, the idea of using waste to provide energy has always been always lurking somewhere in the recesses of my mind (sad, yeah I know). I'd already done a fair bit of research on small-scale biogas production in recent years for a work related project, and had come to the conclusion that China or India were the places to go if you really wanted to know anything in detail. I spent a good deal of time exchanging emails with a plastics manufaturing company in India, who make small plastic biogas digesters in varying sizes and types. They could not have been more helpul. If you look here you'll see what I'm on about. http://www.sintex-plastics.com/deenabandu.htm
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)