24 May 2010
Air disaster - 22nd May 2010
Grim news this morning. A plane has crashed on landing at Mangalore airport which is about 200 km away from Trivandrum, killing 158 of 166 passengers. I am flying north, and there is a big screen at Trivandrum airport with the Indian channel, CNN IBN, running it wall to wall. This is unfortunately the way news is broadcast in India from the English-speaking channels I have watched. All the speculation, all the guesswork, and interviews with people who don’t know what really happened either. This is one of Indian TVs less endearing traits – picking a story to pieces before they have all the facts. The looked at pilot error, something on the runway, the weather. It wasn’t the most cheery thing to have on in a departure lounge. They then put the names of the deceased on the ticker tape below the screen; this only 6 hours after the event. I’ve only known UK broadcasting – guess I’ve been spoilt.
Sues from Brick Lane
On my final evening in Kerala I thought I ought to have another look at the Kovalam resort and the sea, and despite the rain, and spurning the hotel’s offer of an umbrella, I tripped, literally down the steps made treacherous by the rain, which lead to the village,. Either side of these steps, more hotels are under construction, and the entire flight is covered in mud and general debris. I picked my way through the scaffold timbers, walking under the men laying wet concrete overhead. All the building materials are walked to the site from where they have been tipped on the nearest road, along narrow raised pathways which run through the coconut plantation. The aggregate is carried in the dishes that are used for all building work; on the head. Nothing is carried any great distance – the load is passed from head to head, even when halfway up a ladder.
Walking along the beach front in the warm rain; voices calling
‘Chai ma’am’
‘Something to eat, out of the rain?’
‘Want to buy…’
….., I found a kindred spirit – another Englishwoman out in the rain. Sues from Brick Lane, had been to India many times, stayed in Kovalam before, and had been here on this occasion for two months. In what time remained, she showed me around the small beaches, went to her favourite chai stalls, and she gave me the lowdown on Indian culture as viewed from the outside. We looked at the fantastic wooden fishing boats which are made a couple of miles up the coast, heavy, sturdy, with high stern and prow, and stiched together with string. She was somebody you could do with meeting during your first week, not your last. We decided we’d meet up to have one last mooch round before breakfast tomorrow, and ended the day in the dark sitting on the wet sea front trying to persuade two local dogs that we were not their friends. The gentle patter, splash of flip-flops came by and paused behind us. A voice murmured in the darkness ‘Hashish, maruana….’
Walking along the beach front in the warm rain; voices calling
‘Chai ma’am’
‘Something to eat, out of the rain?’
‘Want to buy…’
….., I found a kindred spirit – another Englishwoman out in the rain. Sues from Brick Lane, had been to India many times, stayed in Kovalam before, and had been here on this occasion for two months. In what time remained, she showed me around the small beaches, went to her favourite chai stalls, and she gave me the lowdown on Indian culture as viewed from the outside. We looked at the fantastic wooden fishing boats which are made a couple of miles up the coast, heavy, sturdy, with high stern and prow, and stiched together with string. She was somebody you could do with meeting during your first week, not your last. We decided we’d meet up to have one last mooch round before breakfast tomorrow, and ended the day in the dark sitting on the wet sea front trying to persuade two local dogs that we were not their friends. The gentle patter, splash of flip-flops came by and paused behind us. A voice murmured in the darkness ‘Hashish, maruana….’
Biotech site visits – the quest continues
.
Mr Sajidas, director of Biotech http://www.biotech-india.org/, was very welcoming, and has been most accommodating, leaving me in the care of Mr Biju, a colleague and a cameraman.
Biotech has plenty of different digesters to show me. At their offices they have non-functioning models on show. They are all the floating dome type, and most of them made of fibre glass, although some have concrete bases with either GRP or metal domes. They don’t wait for people to see the biogas light; they take their technology out on the road in a little truck. The road show goes to cities and villages, with examples and videos, posters and demos.
I have been to see digesters in domestic situations, restaurants, markets, abattoirs and orphanages. I have stuck my camera, and my nose, down the inlets to observe the introduction of such delights as vegetable waste, offal, and pre-digested meat waste, and down the outlets to view manure and processed waste water. I have looked at gardens of thriving banana and jackfruit trees, lime bushes, tomatoes and cucumber, all thanks to the application of digestate and nutritious irrigation.
All the activity was recorded on film and at the end of the field trips I had to give an interview to the cameraman. It’s all great fun – I think I’m getting the hang of it now, and its good practise for the dissemination when I return.
The interesting thing to note was, that as before in all these digesters, there is no smell, no flies.
Mr Sajidas, director of Biotech http://www.biotech-india.org/, was very welcoming, and has been most accommodating, leaving me in the care of Mr Biju, a colleague and a cameraman.
Biotech has plenty of different digesters to show me. At their offices they have non-functioning models on show. They are all the floating dome type, and most of them made of fibre glass, although some have concrete bases with either GRP or metal domes. They don’t wait for people to see the biogas light; they take their technology out on the road in a little truck. The road show goes to cities and villages, with examples and videos, posters and demos.
I have been to see digesters in domestic situations, restaurants, markets, abattoirs and orphanages. I have stuck my camera, and my nose, down the inlets to observe the introduction of such delights as vegetable waste, offal, and pre-digested meat waste, and down the outlets to view manure and processed waste water. I have looked at gardens of thriving banana and jackfruit trees, lime bushes, tomatoes and cucumber, all thanks to the application of digestate and nutritious irrigation.
All the activity was recorded on film and at the end of the field trips I had to give an interview to the cameraman. It’s all great fun – I think I’m getting the hang of it now, and its good practise for the dissemination when I return.
The interesting thing to note was, that as before in all these digesters, there is no smell, no flies.
23 May 2010
The Hill & Beach View, Kovalam
This is a lovely, funny hotel; so laid back it’s practically on the floor. On my first morning a family arrived for check in around 7.30. There was no-one on reception, and eventually, when the cleaning lady turned up, she woke one of the men, who stumbled bleary eyed to the desk, still buttoning his shirt. I found that breakfast didn’t start till 8 am, which seems late even for a holiday resort. This gives me two hungry hours, then a rush to get a taxi into Trivandrum to meet Biotech at the appointed time. Yesterday, the chap who does the breakfasts was late up too and I had to go hunting for him. In this vast and rapidly growing resort, there are not that many tourists. There are only six of us guests, rattling around in this big hotel; the family of four, and another bloke I hardly see. Although I traipse up to the rooftop restaurant, I’m the only one there, so I have the kitchen opened especially for me. The food is great here, very, very tasty. I sat in the near dark last night with a wonderful view of the resort lights, and saw a monster rat climb the wall and go onto the roof. Like many things in India, its best not to let the mind dwell too much, thinking is bad for you, don’t ever look down. Of course, it may have been a mongoose, but it looked suspiciously like the mongooses we get at home. The noise of the night drifts up to the restaurant and is incredible. I have since discovered a mongoose looks a little like a ferret, and did you know, frogs really do go ‘rivet’?
The thunder rumbles constantly, and warm rain falls hard and without warning; then stops. The dust which has plagued our lives recently is now mud, and it cakes up the grooves in my sandals, dropping out dry, in tiny dried wedges over the marble floor of my room. I left the cleaning lady a note of apology and Rs10, but she said everyone’s room was like it.
The thunder rumbles constantly, and warm rain falls hard and without warning; then stops. The dust which has plagued our lives recently is now mud, and it cakes up the grooves in my sandals, dropping out dry, in tiny dried wedges over the marble floor of my room. I left the cleaning lady a note of apology and Rs10, but she said everyone’s room was like it.
19 May 2010
The seaside resort
My latest – 9th hotel- is new. One of many new hotels in Kovalam, some way outside Trivandrum. So much for the Delhi travel agent finding me one close to Biotech, he’s just parked me with one of his mates. I could have found a closer one with a blindfold and a pin. It is a lovely hotel though, called the Hill & Sea View. Most of them are called something similar here as the resort is built on two large hills, and you can’t fail to see the sea. There are probably more hotels being built at the moment then are actually up and running.
From my balcony I actually have a view – the first view which hasn’t been a car park or the side or roof of another building. Look south and there’s a red and white painted lighthouse flashing, and look north and you see three mobile masts. Between them is the sea, and between my hotel and the sea are bananas, mangoes, and palms. It all looks like jungle India until you notice that the palms are in rows, and that this resort is being constructed on a plantation. But it looks and sounds like jungle – the racket last night of insects and monkeys. Bells ring out from the temple in the village ‘ting, ting, ting, ting, ting….’ and music plays. I couldn’t see much in the dark, but the lighthouse flashes regularly.
Mr Sajidas of Biotech isn’t able to see me at first, so I had an early morning trip to the beach, and then trying to update the blog on a dodgy, slow internet connection. Last night was another wonderful storm, and so much rain. Is this the monsoon come early? There were quite a few holidaymakers out early, and lots of fishermen. They have these great long wooden boats, very heavy, which about six men paddle. Woven panels are tented over them as they lie on the beach to keep the rain out, and all their fishing gear is similarly covered.
A group of thirty or more men were bringing in a net, like a seine net. The lines holding it were incredibly long; both ends were brought in together; the men singing to keep rhythm. The waves were breaking far out to sea and rolling right up the sands, and out there in the rough waters, three or four men were guiding the net home. As the net came ashore, you could see tiny silver fish, about the size of whitebait. Some I recognised as sandeels, the rest a mystery. When it was finally landed, I don’t know whether it was a disappointing catch or not. The men shrugged when I asked, so I presume it was average. There were about 4 crates of small fish and a dozen larger individuals. Some kind of row broke out between two or three of the older men, maybe to do with divvying up the spoils. If these were share fishermen, then they were having trouble sharing. There were a lot of men involved in the operation, a lot of effort – I wouldn’t have been happy with the result.
From my balcony I actually have a view – the first view which hasn’t been a car park or the side or roof of another building. Look south and there’s a red and white painted lighthouse flashing, and look north and you see three mobile masts. Between them is the sea, and between my hotel and the sea are bananas, mangoes, and palms. It all looks like jungle India until you notice that the palms are in rows, and that this resort is being constructed on a plantation. But it looks and sounds like jungle – the racket last night of insects and monkeys. Bells ring out from the temple in the village ‘ting, ting, ting, ting, ting….’ and music plays. I couldn’t see much in the dark, but the lighthouse flashes regularly.
Mr Sajidas of Biotech isn’t able to see me at first, so I had an early morning trip to the beach, and then trying to update the blog on a dodgy, slow internet connection. Last night was another wonderful storm, and so much rain. Is this the monsoon come early? There were quite a few holidaymakers out early, and lots of fishermen. They have these great long wooden boats, very heavy, which about six men paddle. Woven panels are tented over them as they lie on the beach to keep the rain out, and all their fishing gear is similarly covered.
A group of thirty or more men were bringing in a net, like a seine net. The lines holding it were incredibly long; both ends were brought in together; the men singing to keep rhythm. The waves were breaking far out to sea and rolling right up the sands, and out there in the rough waters, three or four men were guiding the net home. As the net came ashore, you could see tiny silver fish, about the size of whitebait. Some I recognised as sandeels, the rest a mystery. When it was finally landed, I don’t know whether it was a disappointing catch or not. The men shrugged when I asked, so I presume it was average. There were about 4 crates of small fish and a dozen larger individuals. Some kind of row broke out between two or three of the older men, maybe to do with divvying up the spoils. If these were share fishermen, then they were having trouble sharing. There were a lot of men involved in the operation, a lot of effort – I wouldn’t have been happy with the result.
A first class passenger
To get out of my bog-up, I was obliged to take a plane. It will be sackcloth and ashes for weeks when I get home. Chennai domestic airport seemed tiny after Heathrow, and pretty laid back. All the security is in place, but I had forgotten everything I was meant to do. There is a special ladies search section behind a screen. I bleeped twice during the search as first my camera and then my mobile were extricated from my pockets, and I had to run out & put them back in my hand luggage, dragging the bag back through the flaps. They didn’t seem to mind too much though, and told me to drink up my water quickly.
For some reason my ticket was upgraded to first class, so I sat with all the posh people; a curtain drawn between us and the oiks at the back, so that they didn’t see we were having coconut water and sweet lime. And ice cold face towels. The steward is large and wonderfully camp. He has a lugubrious and mobile face, and looks like Stanley Baxter. I think he is Stanley Baxter. I don’t get the feeling he likes his job – he hands out everything with a look of distain, and wears such an expression as he mimes the pre-flight routine to the intercom. He can’t bear the fact I don’t know how to find my lap tray, and flaps his hands at me before leaning over to open the arm of my seat, trying to smile, but failing. He did make me chuckle. We got fed, which surprised me on such a short trip.
Sun was just fading as we took off and I could see two massive thunderheads to the northeast. After ten minutes, they treated us to the most spectacular electric storm. I tried for photos, but all I have is my camera looking back at me because of the interior lights. To the north was the biggest, blackest storm cloud, almost frightening to look at. Red lightening glowed inside, showing through the black. It like an ancient’s vision of hell. Like Mordor. It was great, but gave us a bit of turbulence. I’ve worked out the camera thing. I shall pull down the shutter on the window, and cover the camera with the crash pillow to shut out the back light.
For some reason my ticket was upgraded to first class, so I sat with all the posh people; a curtain drawn between us and the oiks at the back, so that they didn’t see we were having coconut water and sweet lime. And ice cold face towels. The steward is large and wonderfully camp. He has a lugubrious and mobile face, and looks like Stanley Baxter. I think he is Stanley Baxter. I don’t get the feeling he likes his job – he hands out everything with a look of distain, and wears such an expression as he mimes the pre-flight routine to the intercom. He can’t bear the fact I don’t know how to find my lap tray, and flaps his hands at me before leaning over to open the arm of my seat, trying to smile, but failing. He did make me chuckle. We got fed, which surprised me on such a short trip.
Sun was just fading as we took off and I could see two massive thunderheads to the northeast. After ten minutes, they treated us to the most spectacular electric storm. I tried for photos, but all I have is my camera looking back at me because of the interior lights. To the north was the biggest, blackest storm cloud, almost frightening to look at. Red lightening glowed inside, showing through the black. It like an ancient’s vision of hell. Like Mordor. It was great, but gave us a bit of turbulence. I’ve worked out the camera thing. I shall pull down the shutter on the window, and cover the camera with the crash pillow to shut out the back light.
A quick stop-off in Chennai
I had a two-part trip to Trivandrum. I may have mentioned in this blog that early booking is essential on Indian railways. That means early, early; more than a month in advance in many cases. If you can be flexible, that’s fine, you may just get a seat or berth, but my schedule has been pretty tight, and to be perfectly honest – I bogged up. Anyway, the chaps in Pune have biogas sites near Chennai, so why not?
Another decent hotel thanks to the reviews on Tripadvisor; a very friendly place in fact. Outside the hotel, the staff lives in something resembling two rows of sheds – made of concrete, open sided with corrugated asbestos on the roof. It’s almost an all male preserve, with the usual chaotic clutter of piled tables and chairs, bottles in crates and general catering debris. Although I mention all the dust and rubbish, I wouldn’t want to give the impression that these are a dirty people. It’s hot and dry, the wind blows the dust everywhere, and littering is a fact of life. Yet there is constant sweeping of rooms and floors and front entrances, and indeed the roads. The man who lived in a car park opposite the hotel in Ahmedabad shaved each morning, and those who live on the roadside can be seen bathing their children even as the traffic passes. Between these sheds opposite there is constant washing and teeth cleaning; clothes flap in the breeze. It is just that the amount of litter and rubble and dust is beyond the scope of any one small group of people to deal with, so it is just accepted.
Last night I ate hariyali something. Hari Kari more like. It took a whole bowl of curd just to get through half of it, and my lips still tingle, and the manager thanked my for trying to be an Indian in India. My ice-cream dessert was really welcome.
Another decent hotel thanks to the reviews on Tripadvisor; a very friendly place in fact. Outside the hotel, the staff lives in something resembling two rows of sheds – made of concrete, open sided with corrugated asbestos on the roof. It’s almost an all male preserve, with the usual chaotic clutter of piled tables and chairs, bottles in crates and general catering debris. Although I mention all the dust and rubbish, I wouldn’t want to give the impression that these are a dirty people. It’s hot and dry, the wind blows the dust everywhere, and littering is a fact of life. Yet there is constant sweeping of rooms and floors and front entrances, and indeed the roads. The man who lived in a car park opposite the hotel in Ahmedabad shaved each morning, and those who live on the roadside can be seen bathing their children even as the traffic passes. Between these sheds opposite there is constant washing and teeth cleaning; clothes flap in the breeze. It is just that the amount of litter and rubble and dust is beyond the scope of any one small group of people to deal with, so it is just accepted.
Last night I ate hariyali something. Hari Kari more like. It took a whole bowl of curd just to get through half of it, and my lips still tingle, and the manager thanked my for trying to be an Indian in India. My ice-cream dessert was really welcome.
By the skin of my teeth....
The Krishna’s promised they would take me to the station. Insisted they would take me to the station actually. So accompanied by a friend they battled their way from their apartment through the late afternoon traffic, texting and phoning to assure me they were on their way. Believing I was catching the train from the Secunderabad station where I had entered their lives, they had intended to pick me up a couple of hours before my train left. They were a good thirty minutes later than they had hoped, but no matter, my train was always leaving from Hyderabad Deccan, a station I now know I could have hit with a stone from my hotel window.
So now we had ninety minutes to kill, and the boys reckoned a drink was a good idea. The ‘1 Flight Down’ is, as you can imagine, down one flight of steps, and just across the road from Deccan station. It is one of a number of almost English bars in ‘happening’ Hyderabad, I have learned. Social activity takes place in near darkness, except by the pool tables. I was challenged to a game, and since it’s more than a decade since I played, I anticipated a hiding. The boys were wonderfully awful and I excelled. In fact, no boasting, with the pressure off I played a blinder, and they kept clapping and banging the table which was a touch embarrassing.
I was also quizzed about English beer. They drink things like bottled Kingfisher, and lagers here, and a bottled was offered to me to approve its coldness. Was it too warm for me? No, I only drink warm beer. The concept of ale proved to be beyond my powers of description – they didn’t get it. When they come over to see me, I’ll make sure they get it.
Anyone who knows me, knows I’m never late. In fact I take early to a new level, so after an hour or so I was angling to leave.
‘We have plenty of time’ I was assured.
Then suddenly, panic stations - it was drink up, get the car, rush down the road, U-turn and get to the station. The friend and I piled out with the luggage as the car was moved on by a policeman. My train stood in the station on the opposite platform. It was due to leave at 6.30, and at 6.29 the friend and I were struggling over the bridge to the platform as the tannoy announced its imminent departure.
The train was pulling out as we got on and the friend quickly got off. I hardly had time to thank him, and no time for ‘good byes’. Boys eh? But thank you the Krisha family a thousand times over.
No time for me to find the right carriage either, so the bags and I bashed our way down the narrow corridors, fortunately heading in the right direction. I’d just got settled and had my ticket approved, when a male passenger and I were asked by the ticket checker if we would mind moving. This was because a politician wanted his family all in one compartment. The bags and I struggled off to our new home. These corridors are not for wide loads. I am battered and bruised.
My cabin mate is a really nice Indian guy of mid thirties, spent eight years working in the US, and has a baby of four weeks and couldn’t wait to get home. His English is perfect and we had a good laugh before retiring, particularly over my choice of evening meal.
So now we had ninety minutes to kill, and the boys reckoned a drink was a good idea. The ‘1 Flight Down’ is, as you can imagine, down one flight of steps, and just across the road from Deccan station. It is one of a number of almost English bars in ‘happening’ Hyderabad, I have learned. Social activity takes place in near darkness, except by the pool tables. I was challenged to a game, and since it’s more than a decade since I played, I anticipated a hiding. The boys were wonderfully awful and I excelled. In fact, no boasting, with the pressure off I played a blinder, and they kept clapping and banging the table which was a touch embarrassing.
I was also quizzed about English beer. They drink things like bottled Kingfisher, and lagers here, and a bottled was offered to me to approve its coldness. Was it too warm for me? No, I only drink warm beer. The concept of ale proved to be beyond my powers of description – they didn’t get it. When they come over to see me, I’ll make sure they get it.
Anyone who knows me, knows I’m never late. In fact I take early to a new level, so after an hour or so I was angling to leave.
‘We have plenty of time’ I was assured.
Then suddenly, panic stations - it was drink up, get the car, rush down the road, U-turn and get to the station. The friend and I piled out with the luggage as the car was moved on by a policeman. My train stood in the station on the opposite platform. It was due to leave at 6.30, and at 6.29 the friend and I were struggling over the bridge to the platform as the tannoy announced its imminent departure.
The train was pulling out as we got on and the friend quickly got off. I hardly had time to thank him, and no time for ‘good byes’. Boys eh? But thank you the Krisha family a thousand times over.
No time for me to find the right carriage either, so the bags and I bashed our way down the narrow corridors, fortunately heading in the right direction. I’d just got settled and had my ticket approved, when a male passenger and I were asked by the ticket checker if we would mind moving. This was because a politician wanted his family all in one compartment. The bags and I struggled off to our new home. These corridors are not for wide loads. I am battered and bruised.
My cabin mate is a really nice Indian guy of mid thirties, spent eight years working in the US, and has a baby of four weeks and couldn’t wait to get home. His English is perfect and we had a good laugh before retiring, particularly over my choice of evening meal.
A day with the family – 12th May, Wednesday
I’ve just returned from the biggest film studio complex in the world – the Ramoji Film City. Having been invited for breakfast at the Krishna home, I went off with the two sons, daughter-in-law and young grandson for a day out. The youngster is a Down’s syndrome boy, and as amiable a child as you could get, with a wicked sense of humour. I have been adopted by this lovely family – I am now Aunty. As part of their ‘special package’ which had been organised inadvance, we started in a small bus from a spanking hotel, toured round the various sets familiar to most Indians as scenes from well known films, and swapped coupons for demonstrations of how films were put together, cowboy stunts, and a variety of rides. Another of those strange moments when a crowd of people wanted to be photographed with me. It only takes one family, then suddenly there’s a queue. This is NOT something I could ever get used to.
A huge lunch and afternoon tea were included in the deal, as was a swim in the pool. The little boy had not swum before, and only his Uncle Hanu could swim. An inflatable ring was put over the lad’s head and mum lowered him into the baby pool. Feeling this was a bit risky, I rolled up my shorts and stepped in as the side bore the legend ‘two feet deep’ I’m 5’ 7 and it reached my groin. Too late to do anything about it, I stayed in, pulling the lad through the water, getting him to kick his legs, pull with his hands, and letting him climb out and jump in repeatedly. I got out after a while as I thought I ought to dry my clothes before the journey home, while he grew in confidence in the water. About an hour later, on the reappearance of his father and uncle, and in a burst of showing off, he began to propel himself deliberately about the pool. His mother was visibly happy
‘Always they tell me my son is a slow learner’ she said, ‘and now he can swimming on the first occasion’
Earlier in the day a storm with huge raindrops had lifted the atmosphere so that the day had ended in comfort. We sat sipping our drinks beside the pool, the proud parents watching their playing son, as the sun set on as near a perfect evening as I’ve had in India.
A huge lunch and afternoon tea were included in the deal, as was a swim in the pool. The little boy had not swum before, and only his Uncle Hanu could swim. An inflatable ring was put over the lad’s head and mum lowered him into the baby pool. Feeling this was a bit risky, I rolled up my shorts and stepped in as the side bore the legend ‘two feet deep’ I’m 5’ 7 and it reached my groin. Too late to do anything about it, I stayed in, pulling the lad through the water, getting him to kick his legs, pull with his hands, and letting him climb out and jump in repeatedly. I got out after a while as I thought I ought to dry my clothes before the journey home, while he grew in confidence in the water. About an hour later, on the reappearance of his father and uncle, and in a burst of showing off, he began to propel himself deliberately about the pool. His mother was visibly happy
‘Always they tell me my son is a slow learner’ she said, ‘and now he can swimming on the first occasion’
Earlier in the day a storm with huge raindrops had lifted the atmosphere so that the day had ended in comfort. We sat sipping our drinks beside the pool, the proud parents watching their playing son, as the sun set on as near a perfect evening as I’ve had in India.
The biogas learning curve.
The first thing to appreciate is that no biogas project here runs in isolation. They are always integrated some way or another with complementary alternative technologies, and social schemes. For example, I visited a village school, which boasts a 50 m³ floating dome digester with a concrete base and steel dome. It is the school holidays, but many of the children were there for a summer sports camp run by one of the staff. What a greeting I was given. I had to walk between two rows of children clapping out a rhythm, which stretched from the school gates to the biogas digester. And the press were there too – my photo was in the papers the next morning, I was shown it by someone we visited next day - and the ladies who cooked the school dinners with the biogas, plus the ‘father of the school’ the headmaster. Lots of photos were taken and the children, well everyone actually, seemed really pleased I was there. We had trouble getting away; all the children wanted to shake my hand at least once.
For good measure, during one of my many cultural interludes with this remarkable man, we visited the Sri Lakshmi Narasimha Swamy temple, built on the top of a hill, a monument to human endeavour. There were hundreds of pilgrims there, stalls selling everything including the type of plastic tat typical of a British seaside town. There was music, chanting, flags flying and monkeys. I was permitted to join the throng passing in, and round, in semi-darkness, and out of the temple and all in bare feet. Except me, who had been wearing trainers and was the only wuss in socks.
In the old town of Hyderabad I went to a complex of Ashram, Temple and the Good Will Model School. Twin digesters lie side by side, gobar fed, and providing gas for the temple and the Ashram, which is home to some seventy poor and mostly elderly people. In many of these places, the elderly are expected to work, but in this charitable institution they live out their peaceful old age, being both cared for and fed – cooking by biogas.
The area we are covering is the Nalgonda district and we stopped off to see the gentleman in charge of the Non-Conventional Energy Development Corporation of Andhra Pradesh (NEDCAP). Nedcap, like Prakratic, are introducing domestic AD for the some reasons. The government target is for 500,000 digesters. Again, households are selected on the number of cattle they own. The digesters are 2m³ and require 25kg dung for each m³ of gas, so therefore 2 or 3 cows are required. Murali Krishna and the DO talked together for a while. When a pale green lizard ran across the wall and dropped down beside the table I felt my camera finger twitch, but the men gave it not a glance and offered me more tea and water. Everywhere I go in India, I am offered water at the very least. Even in the Delhi market, where I perched beside a high class outfitters window, just to watch life go by and recover from the heat, a boy was dispatched from inside with a glass of water for me despite the fact I was not, nor going to be, a client.
We journeyed out into farmland, past fields of harvested rice. The paddies, enclosed by their low mud walls were dry now, and goats grazed on the stubble. Lorries and auto-trucks went by, swamped by bags of grain, and bright yellow stacks of rice straw stood ready as cattle fodder for later in the year. There were small groves of bananas and sweet orange, and fields were edged with tall coconut palms. There are massive irrigation canals criss-crossing the land, totally devoid of water at present. The villages and farms in this part of India appear more affluent than those I saw in Rajasthan. Many of the mud dwellings had been abandoned, leaving just the occasional, painted wall, to be replaced with decorated concrete structures with outside steps to the flat roof.
The Nedcap digesters are simple in design and construction, and there are many being built here. The framework is a dome of weld-mesh covered in chicken wire, with openings for inlet and outlet. When in position the mesh is covered in a cement/sharp sand mix, rather dry and ‘short’. This is pushed on from the outside against a pad held by a man inside the dome. He escapes through the inlet aperture. When dry, an inside layer is pushed on against the outer. Inlet and outlet pits are built of concrete later. Photographs can be a nightmare! We get mobbed by laughing children. They’re all very good, and move if you ask them, but they love being included in the photo, and have to be shown the result. I don’t know why we’re such a source of amusement – just because we’re strangers I suppose. We stopped at the house of the village president, who already has a digester installed and running. We were invited in to view their biogas stove and here I had my first cup of biogas tea.
The Sri Sai Madhava Vermi Culture farm at Duggepally is just another of those wonderful little nuggets I keep coming across. This is where we had been invited for lunch on the second day. A slim, softly spoken lady farmer, k. Shashikala Reddy, had, with some of her girls, prepared a meal, an enormous meal – they always are - with much concern for a feeble western constitution. There had been phone calls between her and Murali Krishna as to what I could eat, and when we sat down to do so, the girls lurked by the kitchen door, watching me. I accused them of waiting for me to run from the room, with my mouth on fire. They giggled and one brought me more water to be on the safe side. I have to admit I managed it all, not the quantity, but the variety – and the pudding – well, we don’t get desserts like this in British Indian restaurants. It was bready, and spicy and fruity, and enough for an army.
Widowed a few years ago, Mrs Reddy decided to support herself and her son on a small farm, and under the guidance of Murali Krishna, did so organically. Twenty five head of cattle were introduced chiefly to feed the biogas plant. This runs a small generator which powers the drip feed irrigation system in the sweet orange groves. Gobar from neighbouring farms was brought in to increase the gas yield, resulting in a good deal more digestate than could be used as fertilizer in the farm. Mrs Reddy then embarked on another enterprise – that of vermiculture. There are low covered sheds with row upon row of worm casts. At one end, surplus digestate and any other organic material is fed to the worms, which progress along the row as they eat. At the other, the casts are sieved and bagged, ready to be sold. This lady has won several awards for her enterprise, and rightly so.
Another nugget – not biogas this time, but solar power. Padigipally village is a jewel in the LED village campaign. This is little village of 230 households; some 900 people, and boasting 63 stand alone streetlights. The lamps in these streetlights are 12 LEDs powered by a small battery, charged with a 12 volt solar panel. It’s surprising that there isn’t more done with solar power, given the relentless intensity of the thing. In this village, which does actually have grid electricity, each household also has been provided with two lamps of 4 LED bulbs apiece. It is the first village of it's kind in India, and they only finished it in April. I expect they heard I was coming. Once again, I was welcomed into the tiny houses for photographs, and there was the usual line-up of giggling children.
For good measure, during one of my many cultural interludes with this remarkable man, we visited the Sri Lakshmi Narasimha Swamy temple, built on the top of a hill, a monument to human endeavour. There were hundreds of pilgrims there, stalls selling everything including the type of plastic tat typical of a British seaside town. There was music, chanting, flags flying and monkeys. I was permitted to join the throng passing in, and round, in semi-darkness, and out of the temple and all in bare feet. Except me, who had been wearing trainers and was the only wuss in socks.
In the old town of Hyderabad I went to a complex of Ashram, Temple and the Good Will Model School. Twin digesters lie side by side, gobar fed, and providing gas for the temple and the Ashram, which is home to some seventy poor and mostly elderly people. In many of these places, the elderly are expected to work, but in this charitable institution they live out their peaceful old age, being both cared for and fed – cooking by biogas.
The area we are covering is the Nalgonda district and we stopped off to see the gentleman in charge of the Non-Conventional Energy Development Corporation of Andhra Pradesh (NEDCAP). Nedcap, like Prakratic, are introducing domestic AD for the some reasons. The government target is for 500,000 digesters. Again, households are selected on the number of cattle they own. The digesters are 2m³ and require 25kg dung for each m³ of gas, so therefore 2 or 3 cows are required. Murali Krishna and the DO talked together for a while. When a pale green lizard ran across the wall and dropped down beside the table I felt my camera finger twitch, but the men gave it not a glance and offered me more tea and water. Everywhere I go in India, I am offered water at the very least. Even in the Delhi market, where I perched beside a high class outfitters window, just to watch life go by and recover from the heat, a boy was dispatched from inside with a glass of water for me despite the fact I was not, nor going to be, a client.
We journeyed out into farmland, past fields of harvested rice. The paddies, enclosed by their low mud walls were dry now, and goats grazed on the stubble. Lorries and auto-trucks went by, swamped by bags of grain, and bright yellow stacks of rice straw stood ready as cattle fodder for later in the year. There were small groves of bananas and sweet orange, and fields were edged with tall coconut palms. There are massive irrigation canals criss-crossing the land, totally devoid of water at present. The villages and farms in this part of India appear more affluent than those I saw in Rajasthan. Many of the mud dwellings had been abandoned, leaving just the occasional, painted wall, to be replaced with decorated concrete structures with outside steps to the flat roof.
The Nedcap digesters are simple in design and construction, and there are many being built here. The framework is a dome of weld-mesh covered in chicken wire, with openings for inlet and outlet. When in position the mesh is covered in a cement/sharp sand mix, rather dry and ‘short’. This is pushed on from the outside against a pad held by a man inside the dome. He escapes through the inlet aperture. When dry, an inside layer is pushed on against the outer. Inlet and outlet pits are built of concrete later. Photographs can be a nightmare! We get mobbed by laughing children. They’re all very good, and move if you ask them, but they love being included in the photo, and have to be shown the result. I don’t know why we’re such a source of amusement – just because we’re strangers I suppose. We stopped at the house of the village president, who already has a digester installed and running. We were invited in to view their biogas stove and here I had my first cup of biogas tea.
The Sri Sai Madhava Vermi Culture farm at Duggepally is just another of those wonderful little nuggets I keep coming across. This is where we had been invited for lunch on the second day. A slim, softly spoken lady farmer, k. Shashikala Reddy, had, with some of her girls, prepared a meal, an enormous meal – they always are - with much concern for a feeble western constitution. There had been phone calls between her and Murali Krishna as to what I could eat, and when we sat down to do so, the girls lurked by the kitchen door, watching me. I accused them of waiting for me to run from the room, with my mouth on fire. They giggled and one brought me more water to be on the safe side. I have to admit I managed it all, not the quantity, but the variety – and the pudding – well, we don’t get desserts like this in British Indian restaurants. It was bready, and spicy and fruity, and enough for an army.
Widowed a few years ago, Mrs Reddy decided to support herself and her son on a small farm, and under the guidance of Murali Krishna, did so organically. Twenty five head of cattle were introduced chiefly to feed the biogas plant. This runs a small generator which powers the drip feed irrigation system in the sweet orange groves. Gobar from neighbouring farms was brought in to increase the gas yield, resulting in a good deal more digestate than could be used as fertilizer in the farm. Mrs Reddy then embarked on another enterprise – that of vermiculture. There are low covered sheds with row upon row of worm casts. At one end, surplus digestate and any other organic material is fed to the worms, which progress along the row as they eat. At the other, the casts are sieved and bagged, ready to be sold. This lady has won several awards for her enterprise, and rightly so.
Another nugget – not biogas this time, but solar power. Padigipally village is a jewel in the LED village campaign. This is little village of 230 households; some 900 people, and boasting 63 stand alone streetlights. The lamps in these streetlights are 12 LEDs powered by a small battery, charged with a 12 volt solar panel. It’s surprising that there isn’t more done with solar power, given the relentless intensity of the thing. In this village, which does actually have grid electricity, each household also has been provided with two lamps of 4 LED bulbs apiece. It is the first village of it's kind in India, and they only finished it in April. I expect they heard I was coming. Once again, I was welcomed into the tiny houses for photographs, and there was the usual line-up of giggling children.
18 May 2010
Nose to the grindstone -
Sai Prakash Hotel - Nice hotel this. The layout is a tad unusual, with the rooms in a square overlooking a large central courtyard with three shops. There’s no internet, which means no internet for the duration unless I find an internet café, and I haven’t seen one in India yet. Maybe I need to be in the backpacker, student areas, wherever they may be. My room does however have a very comfortable bed, and the quietest air-con so far.
Hyderabad is the busiest town I’ve been in, with the most traffic pollution. It is also the most westernized in that there are some fairly large stores. The hotel area seems to be the preserve of furniture stores, shoe shops and surgical appliances; further out it was all dentists. Apart from the exhaust fumes, it is pleasant to walk round. I’ve only been offered sunglasses twice, and then with no degree of persistence. Mostly you can browse unhindered, but I did fail to purchase a larger hand bag because the seller wanted me to buy a set of suitcases.
This has been quite an intense period for site visits. I have travelled miles all over the district with Murali Krishna at my side. We start around 7 am, and have returned to the hotel at times after 9 pm.
Hyderabad is the busiest town I’ve been in, with the most traffic pollution. It is also the most westernized in that there are some fairly large stores. The hotel area seems to be the preserve of furniture stores, shoe shops and surgical appliances; further out it was all dentists. Apart from the exhaust fumes, it is pleasant to walk round. I’ve only been offered sunglasses twice, and then with no degree of persistence. Mostly you can browse unhindered, but I did fail to purchase a larger hand bag because the seller wanted me to buy a set of suitcases.
This has been quite an intense period for site visits. I have travelled miles all over the district with Murali Krishna at my side. We start around 7 am, and have returned to the hotel at times after 9 pm.
Hyderabad, biogas, and the wonderful B Murali Krishna. - 8th May, Saturday – 13th May, Thursday
What a stroke of luck that I was put onto this man. B Murali Krishna had been given my email by my contact in Hyderabad. CEO of the Village Vision Bio-Power, he had sent several friendly emails to me earlier in the year, and also a couple since I arrived, expressing concern for me in the heat, and advising me what time of day to go on farm visits. I had experienced some difficulty in maintaining contact with my original host. Although I had kept him informed of my visit, of the possible volcano-driven delay, and emailed him my Indian mobile number, I was a little concerned by the sudden lack of response.
Mr Krishna’s sons met me at the Secunderabad railway station, and set me in a taxi for my hotel. He was concerned about me being alone in a foreign land. I later discovered that my original contact, a man of some renown, and a man to whom I had attributed high ideals, had intended to exploit my visit by deciding, without my knowledge, that he would charge me $1000 daily for site visits. Now I never expected or requested a free ride round India, but at no point during our previous communications had money been mentioned, and had this sum ever come up I would certainly not be in Hyderabad now. Murali Krishna was so appalled at this underhand attempt to extract money from me, that he resigned from the company. Naturally, I am acutely embarrassed that I have caused such a good man to leave his position – I hope it was just that I was the last straw in some other set of circumstances, but I doubt if I will ever know. Murali Krishna has not only saved my bacon, and taken it upon himself to acquaint me with a range of biogas sites within reach of Hyderabad, but he has taken me into Indian life itself. No tourist could ever get this insight.
Mr Krishna’s sons met me at the Secunderabad railway station, and set me in a taxi for my hotel. He was concerned about me being alone in a foreign land. I later discovered that my original contact, a man of some renown, and a man to whom I had attributed high ideals, had intended to exploit my visit by deciding, without my knowledge, that he would charge me $1000 daily for site visits. Now I never expected or requested a free ride round India, but at no point during our previous communications had money been mentioned, and had this sum ever come up I would certainly not be in Hyderabad now. Murali Krishna was so appalled at this underhand attempt to extract money from me, that he resigned from the company. Naturally, I am acutely embarrassed that I have caused such a good man to leave his position – I hope it was just that I was the last straw in some other set of circumstances, but I doubt if I will ever know. Murali Krishna has not only saved my bacon, and taken it upon himself to acquaint me with a range of biogas sites within reach of Hyderabad, but he has taken me into Indian life itself. No tourist could ever get this insight.
Ranthambore digesters
What with the BAD 24 hours, and the excitement of the tiger, I forgot about this bit – the reason I came to Ranthambore instead of the Corbett Park; the reason I’m here in India. Well you didn’t think I was here to have a good time did you? This is jolly hard work I’ll have you know.
The Rajasthan countryside is parched and dry, with a bleak rugged beauty. The surrounding hills are pink and rocky, and from them comes much of the marble prevalent in shops and hotels, and which adorns the ancient buildings. The villages are a mixture of thatched mud houses and dwellings made of woven panels – I think they’re banana leaves - again with thatched roofs. These panels are sometimes used to enclose straw stacks or grain. Everywhere there are piles of cowpat, dried in the sun. These are then formed into stacks with pitched roofs, some thatched, and some ‘rendered’ with slurry now dried to keep out the rain. Swirls and patterns decorate this rendering, and some are even painted. These cowpats are their fuel, and very important to them. In amongst all this, and outside the houses and on the roofs, are bundles of sticks, some no more than twigs, also for fuel. Firewood is a scare commodity in this bare and scrubby area. You will see the women and children breaking branches from roadside trees. In the Ranthambore Park there are many trees, and the pickings as far as the villagers are concerned, are richer.
The Prakratic Society, started in 1999 has succeeded in setting up over 250 biogas digesters in the villages around the Ranthambore National Park. In doing so they have reduced the amount of fuel wood collected for cooking per family buy about 2.4 tonnes per annum. There are many social and health implications for the household in switching to AD plants; not having to make a round trip of some 20 km for fuel, a reduction in respiratory and eye diseases caused by smoke in the home, plus general cleanliness. From the Park’s point of view there is much less disturbance of the natural habitat, with fallen wood left to provide micro habitats, and growing trees left standing.
The digesters employed here are of the deenbandhu type, with a 3m³ body built of bricks and mortar, and the feedstock is cow dung (gobar). Households are selected on their ability to adequately service the digester, i.e. have enough cow dung to give a regular supply of gas, and in essence need 4 or more head of cattle. They have found that the fermented dung makes better fertilizer than commercial fertilizer and claim yields from farms using digestate are up by 25%.
The Rajasthan countryside is parched and dry, with a bleak rugged beauty. The surrounding hills are pink and rocky, and from them comes much of the marble prevalent in shops and hotels, and which adorns the ancient buildings. The villages are a mixture of thatched mud houses and dwellings made of woven panels – I think they’re banana leaves - again with thatched roofs. These panels are sometimes used to enclose straw stacks or grain. Everywhere there are piles of cowpat, dried in the sun. These are then formed into stacks with pitched roofs, some thatched, and some ‘rendered’ with slurry now dried to keep out the rain. Swirls and patterns decorate this rendering, and some are even painted. These cowpats are their fuel, and very important to them. In amongst all this, and outside the houses and on the roofs, are bundles of sticks, some no more than twigs, also for fuel. Firewood is a scare commodity in this bare and scrubby area. You will see the women and children breaking branches from roadside trees. In the Ranthambore Park there are many trees, and the pickings as far as the villagers are concerned, are richer.
The Prakratic Society, started in 1999 has succeeded in setting up over 250 biogas digesters in the villages around the Ranthambore National Park. In doing so they have reduced the amount of fuel wood collected for cooking per family buy about 2.4 tonnes per annum. There are many social and health implications for the household in switching to AD plants; not having to make a round trip of some 20 km for fuel, a reduction in respiratory and eye diseases caused by smoke in the home, plus general cleanliness. From the Park’s point of view there is much less disturbance of the natural habitat, with fallen wood left to provide micro habitats, and growing trees left standing.
The digesters employed here are of the deenbandhu type, with a 3m³ body built of bricks and mortar, and the feedstock is cow dung (gobar). Households are selected on their ability to adequately service the digester, i.e. have enough cow dung to give a regular supply of gas, and in essence need 4 or more head of cattle. They have found that the fermented dung makes better fertilizer than commercial fertilizer and claim yields from farms using digestate are up by 25%.
Andhra Pradesh - 8th May, Saturday
The first eight hours of landscape passed me by in darkness and slumber as my mobile hotel hurtled south. By morning, the view could almost be one of English broad-leafed woodland, stretching for miles toward distant hills, with sliver-barked trees with fine drooping branches which could easily be silver birch, and the stature of others reminiscent of oak and elm. Some very British-looking pylons cut huge swathes through the scenery.
There are more palm trees here, and the wooded areas are thicker, but it is still mostly farmland. In one place, a man ploughs his field with an ox, while his neighbour drives a small but smart-looking (and by inference, fairly new) John Deere with a two furrow reversible plough. I still haven’t quite come to terms with the juxtapositions of these things. Rich/poor, old/new. In Rajasthan, a man who lives in a mud house, has a new JCB parked outside; a Delhi rickshaw driver in a vest and loincloth, texts on a camera-phone vastly superior in quality to my mobile.
Eventually the train crossed an area – the Deccan Plateau probably – where huge rounded rocks piled themselves on top of the hills and each other in gravity-defying arrangements. I can’t get over how smooth some of them are – perhaps it’s the effect of the sand-blasting.
Fly in the ointment? I travelled first class because the 2-, 3-tier classes were already booked. When you are about to leave the train, all those who have waited on you come round with a tray ……. except the poor old chaps in brown fatigues, who wash the floor and spray the curtains for mosquitoes, and empty the bins; they are no-where to be seen. I’m sure they need my money more than the purser in his clean company-issue shirt.
There are more palm trees here, and the wooded areas are thicker, but it is still mostly farmland. In one place, a man ploughs his field with an ox, while his neighbour drives a small but smart-looking (and by inference, fairly new) John Deere with a two furrow reversible plough. I still haven’t quite come to terms with the juxtapositions of these things. Rich/poor, old/new. In Rajasthan, a man who lives in a mud house, has a new JCB parked outside; a Delhi rickshaw driver in a vest and loincloth, texts on a camera-phone vastly superior in quality to my mobile.
Eventually the train crossed an area – the Deccan Plateau probably – where huge rounded rocks piled themselves on top of the hills and each other in gravity-defying arrangements. I can’t get over how smooth some of them are – perhaps it’s the effect of the sand-blasting.
Fly in the ointment? I travelled first class because the 2-, 3-tier classes were already booked. When you are about to leave the train, all those who have waited on you come round with a tray ……. except the poor old chaps in brown fatigues, who wash the floor and spray the curtains for mosquitoes, and empty the bins; they are no-where to be seen. I’m sure they need my money more than the purser in his clean company-issue shirt.
Radjhani Express - 8th May, Saturday
I really like Indian train travel! This time I am travelling first class, and for something in the region of £50, I have travelled 1000 plus miles, had a good nights sleep in an air-con carriage, with evening meal, breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea all thrown in. I’ve watched miles of India pass by, caught up on all my writing, and had the pleasure of Indian company. Nobody wants to harass me or sell me anything. And at the end of my journey, H Murali Krishna of Village Vision Bio-Power, or one of the people from his organization, will be waiting for me and see that I get to my hotel.
They have a clever way of organizing first class. As the carriages are divided up into two or four berth compartments, each with a door, they wait until everyone has booked before allocating berths. As before, sleeping is mixed, so they put couples or unaccompanied females together – it’s all very civilized. You can find your berth allocation by texting your passenger number to a rail text line a couple of hours before the train leaves.
The washroom is spacious. A basin, chrome handrails, hooks but otherwise bare. I hadn’t realized there was a showerhead on the wall. Well, anyone who has spent any time at all in the gritty dust of Delhi will realize what a fantastically welcome sight that is. Five minutes later, and totally re-humanised, I was left contemplating the IRCTC-issue towel I had with me. Expecting only to be able to wash, a towel of, at most, 18 x 30” seemed a trifle small after a shower. But I’ve managed everything else so far.
They have a clever way of organizing first class. As the carriages are divided up into two or four berth compartments, each with a door, they wait until everyone has booked before allocating berths. As before, sleeping is mixed, so they put couples or unaccompanied females together – it’s all very civilized. You can find your berth allocation by texting your passenger number to a rail text line a couple of hours before the train leaves.
The washroom is spacious. A basin, chrome handrails, hooks but otherwise bare. I hadn’t realized there was a showerhead on the wall. Well, anyone who has spent any time at all in the gritty dust of Delhi will realize what a fantastically welcome sight that is. Five minutes later, and totally re-humanised, I was left contemplating the IRCTC-issue towel I had with me. Expecting only to be able to wash, a towel of, at most, 18 x 30” seemed a trifle small after a shower. But I’ve managed everything else so far.
Delhi Market 8th May, Friday
Delhi is busy. Not only is it the capital and bound to be heavily trafficked, but it is also preparing for the Commonwealth Games in October. This involves a massive road improvement scheme, and almost every street appears to have road works along it somewhere. Being India, the niceties of segregating work from pedestrians or traffic is not observed. Pedestrians clamber over piles of sand, or paving blocks, or bricks; the workforce digs holes and lays blocks around the pedestrians. Drainage trenches run alongside the road, and planks are laid across for shop access. Nothing stops the road building, and nothing stops the shopping. The road gang ladies knock-up mortar beside the bricks, and the well-heeled ladies hitch up their saris and splash round. We are in their way, and they are in ours, but I hear no complaints. The traffic drives over the piles of earth and sand. The city is red with dust, and today it is very windy. Everyone’s clothes are filthy. There are only a few moths to go before the games, some of them involving the monsoon. I wish them well.
With time to kill between checking out of my hotel and my evening train, I ventured into the market places, behind my shades, naturally. Several vendors offered me sunglasses
‘Look, I have some’ I said, pointing to my face.
‘These are good glasses ma’am’
‘Mine are better, I don’t need glasses’
And a small shoeshine boy hurried after me offering his services ‘I’m wearing trainers,’ I said, exasperated, ‘what do you think you are going to shine?’ An Indian lady with embroidered sandals was having similar trouble, so I felt better.
I turned down one of the side streets to the usual accompaniment of ‘hallo ma’am, hallo’ to attract my attention.
One passerby said, ‘hallo’ pause ‘sexy’. This was so surprising that for a second I didn’t even find it funny. What I did find was that, ‘Piss off you creep’, needs no translation, as a number of stall holders laughed, & repeated the phrase several times to each other. As a rule, the men here aren’t rude or derogatory. A boy of around nine, in a group of well-dressed lads in the Little Taj in Delhi called ‘bitch’ after me when I refused to give them Rs 100 for a plastic flower, but that’s been all, and then that’s probably small boys everywhere.
One strange thing happened. An elderly man with unkempt hair and in traditional dress, was carrying a long bamboo pole about 2” in diameter which he waved about and sometimes banged on the ground, shouting something. He stood in front of me and brought the pole above his head in the manner of an axe. Staring very hard at me, so that I could see white all round his pupils he yelled ‘HIN-DU-STA-NI’ and menaced with his pole. I was astounded. No-one else around me – and the streets were crowded - said anything or did anything; they just let this weird scene play out in front of them. He shook the pole at me again and shouted something else. He was an old man, and it was a big pole. If he tried to hit me he would probably have fallen over, but I could have certainly stepped out of the way. Perhaps he thought I was the menace. I took off my sunglasses, maintained eye contact, and walked by, while he stood in the road, pole above his head, still shouting. I have no explanation.
Not all stalls in the market are retail. Apart from the shoeshine, there are cobblers and carpenters practicing their trade in the street, but the most popular and prolific are the mobile phone repairers. They have small electric or gas soldering irons on their tables, and boxes of printed circuits, and they sort your phone out while you wait.
I have developed another new tactic. Sorry England, my motherland, but I have become selectively Scottish, and will be denying you many times before the cock crows if expedient. Apologies too to all north of the border in the Highlands and islands, but little is known about Scotland other than that it is near England. The Scots are seen as poor; the English as stinking rich, and as I have failed to dispel the myth of the latter, I am now subscribing heavily to the myth of the former. This may (or may not) reduce the expectations of drivers and porters.
Heading off on the next leg of my journey, I collected my luggage from the Royal Holiday, who charged me Rs 50 to look after it, and fetched up in a taxi at the Nizamuddin railway station. This is a clean, modern place, and the first I’ve been to with signage which I can follow. They make train announcements continuously in at least 2 languages, each preceded by a little jingle (shades of Hi-de-Hi).
So that was Delhi, which passed without significant incident, but thank you anyway to the British Consul for the email warnings, but I was scheduled to be in Delhi, and I was very watchful behind the dark glasses.
With time to kill between checking out of my hotel and my evening train, I ventured into the market places, behind my shades, naturally. Several vendors offered me sunglasses
‘Look, I have some’ I said, pointing to my face.
‘These are good glasses ma’am’
‘Mine are better, I don’t need glasses’
And a small shoeshine boy hurried after me offering his services ‘I’m wearing trainers,’ I said, exasperated, ‘what do you think you are going to shine?’ An Indian lady with embroidered sandals was having similar trouble, so I felt better.
I turned down one of the side streets to the usual accompaniment of ‘hallo ma’am, hallo’ to attract my attention.
One passerby said, ‘hallo’ pause ‘sexy’. This was so surprising that for a second I didn’t even find it funny. What I did find was that, ‘Piss off you creep’, needs no translation, as a number of stall holders laughed, & repeated the phrase several times to each other. As a rule, the men here aren’t rude or derogatory. A boy of around nine, in a group of well-dressed lads in the Little Taj in Delhi called ‘bitch’ after me when I refused to give them Rs 100 for a plastic flower, but that’s been all, and then that’s probably small boys everywhere.
One strange thing happened. An elderly man with unkempt hair and in traditional dress, was carrying a long bamboo pole about 2” in diameter which he waved about and sometimes banged on the ground, shouting something. He stood in front of me and brought the pole above his head in the manner of an axe. Staring very hard at me, so that I could see white all round his pupils he yelled ‘HIN-DU-STA-NI’ and menaced with his pole. I was astounded. No-one else around me – and the streets were crowded - said anything or did anything; they just let this weird scene play out in front of them. He shook the pole at me again and shouted something else. He was an old man, and it was a big pole. If he tried to hit me he would probably have fallen over, but I could have certainly stepped out of the way. Perhaps he thought I was the menace. I took off my sunglasses, maintained eye contact, and walked by, while he stood in the road, pole above his head, still shouting. I have no explanation.
Not all stalls in the market are retail. Apart from the shoeshine, there are cobblers and carpenters practicing their trade in the street, but the most popular and prolific are the mobile phone repairers. They have small electric or gas soldering irons on their tables, and boxes of printed circuits, and they sort your phone out while you wait.
I have developed another new tactic. Sorry England, my motherland, but I have become selectively Scottish, and will be denying you many times before the cock crows if expedient. Apologies too to all north of the border in the Highlands and islands, but little is known about Scotland other than that it is near England. The Scots are seen as poor; the English as stinking rich, and as I have failed to dispel the myth of the latter, I am now subscribing heavily to the myth of the former. This may (or may not) reduce the expectations of drivers and porters.
Heading off on the next leg of my journey, I collected my luggage from the Royal Holiday, who charged me Rs 50 to look after it, and fetched up in a taxi at the Nizamuddin railway station. This is a clean, modern place, and the first I’ve been to with signage which I can follow. They make train announcements continuously in at least 2 languages, each preceded by a little jingle (shades of Hi-de-Hi).
So that was Delhi, which passed without significant incident, but thank you anyway to the British Consul for the email warnings, but I was scheduled to be in Delhi, and I was very watchful behind the dark glasses.
Delhi 6th May, Thursday.
It may appear that I didn’t enjoy my tour, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. With hindsight being the best sight, I would have done it differently, that’s all. Having organized this trip entirely unaided, I’ve been rather pleased at the way things have panned out, considering my novice status. But the moment I handed over the reins…
You see, I selected ‘Incredible Home Stay’. Me. I did. I opted to stay an extra day, and it was always my intention to return there after my tour. To my surprise I found it was included in my package. Before leaving, I checked with the one of the hotel staff just to make sure. He showed me my name in the diary. On my return the tour operator, Abyss, have informed me I’m now in a different hotel, because the Incredible had made a mistake. Now this I know not to be correct, but there’s no point beefing because I have allowed things to be taken out of my hands and permitted this firm to find me a hotel. This hotel, The Royal Holiday, is nice enough, the chaps are friendly, and it has free wifi with a half decent signal, which is a bonus. The air-con doesn’t work though; it is merely re-arranging the hot night air at great volume. I’m slightly amused, because there is an air-con cover on the wall, but no electrical device for cold air. No controls, nothing inside. It’s empty, bar the blower!
Electricity is delight here, if you don’t work for HSE back home. Like the driving, it’s something best not thought about. There are two types of plug in use; two pin and three pin; both round, and many sockets have holes for both. The two pin plugs fall out at the drop of a hat. Since my arrival I have used my two trusty books – the Lonely Planet Guide, and Keenan & McCarthy’s Between Extremes, to either jamb underneath my adaptor or add weight from above. You have to twist the plug, or leave it half out sometimes, ignore the crackles and sparks & hope in the morning your phone has charged. I have broken my faithful fruit knife trying to widen the pins on my adaptor. Could have been worse, have broken the adaptor I suppose.
The standard method for making a connection is to first bang the plug hard. The net result of this treatment is that many sockets have a rather tenuous hold on the wall. On the train, an Indian gentleman attempting to charge his mobile, said to me,
‘Electricity here is a joke. A joke’, and proceeded to tear up newspaper to jam behind his plug. Another gentleman calmly pushed two bared wires from his laptop into the socket holes and held them there with toothpicks.
You see, I selected ‘Incredible Home Stay’. Me. I did. I opted to stay an extra day, and it was always my intention to return there after my tour. To my surprise I found it was included in my package. Before leaving, I checked with the one of the hotel staff just to make sure. He showed me my name in the diary. On my return the tour operator, Abyss, have informed me I’m now in a different hotel, because the Incredible had made a mistake. Now this I know not to be correct, but there’s no point beefing because I have allowed things to be taken out of my hands and permitted this firm to find me a hotel. This hotel, The Royal Holiday, is nice enough, the chaps are friendly, and it has free wifi with a half decent signal, which is a bonus. The air-con doesn’t work though; it is merely re-arranging the hot night air at great volume. I’m slightly amused, because there is an air-con cover on the wall, but no electrical device for cold air. No controls, nothing inside. It’s empty, bar the blower!
Electricity is delight here, if you don’t work for HSE back home. Like the driving, it’s something best not thought about. There are two types of plug in use; two pin and three pin; both round, and many sockets have holes for both. The two pin plugs fall out at the drop of a hat. Since my arrival I have used my two trusty books – the Lonely Planet Guide, and Keenan & McCarthy’s Between Extremes, to either jamb underneath my adaptor or add weight from above. You have to twist the plug, or leave it half out sometimes, ignore the crackles and sparks & hope in the morning your phone has charged. I have broken my faithful fruit knife trying to widen the pins on my adaptor. Could have been worse, have broken the adaptor I suppose.
The standard method for making a connection is to first bang the plug hard. The net result of this treatment is that many sockets have a rather tenuous hold on the wall. On the train, an Indian gentleman attempting to charge his mobile, said to me,
‘Electricity here is a joke. A joke’, and proceeded to tear up newspaper to jam behind his plug. Another gentleman calmly pushed two bared wires from his laptop into the socket holes and held them there with toothpicks.
The tour continues - 5th May
Hotel Umaid, Jaipur
This place is rather smart. The ceilings of the foyer, the bedroom, the dining room, the halls, plus the walls, are all decorated with a flower motif. Little friezes run everywhere and paintings and old photographs of a maharaja and his court, fill the spaces. There are drapes over windows and doors, and plush furnishings and objet d’art everywhere. Rather incongruously, the arm of the Victorian-style armchair in my room has been broken, and a repair affected with a thin strip of plywood and four staples. The room has a balcony, and lying on the bed looking up is a little like viewing the Sistine Chapel. Well, not much like really, but it is certainly a remarkable view.
Last of my brief tour today, and into Jaipur, the Pink City. There are some truly magnificent buildings both within and without the city. From the almost cool Winter Palace (Hawa Mahal) with its sloping ridged access to the top of the building, and slotted, patterned vents on all sides providing a continuous breeze, to the heat of the monolithic Jaigarh Fort/Amber Fort complex over looking the city from the Hill of Eagles, with defence walls running for miles up the sides of the hills and across their ridges. The fort really needs a couple days to appreciate properly, and it needs to be winter. All those films I’ve seen - like Ralph Richardson in The Four Feathers, stumbling along under a blistering sun. Well that was me.
Actually, I’m not one of nature’s tourists, certainly not the tick-box kind, and I found the tour relentless. There are only so many historical buildings you can absorb in two days, and I could happily have remained with the tigers. The tours include too many stops at selected warehouses and craft malls for my liking. You never get to browse in peace there; there’s always a voice at your elbow, the soft-shoe shuffle behind you as someone follows you wherever you go. I bought at the one place where the seller didn’t harass me, and told him that was why he’d made the sale.
Caveat emptor. Some hotels and tour operators are part of a network. Once in the hotel a friend, colleague, brother, can whip you off to the ‘tourist bureau’ and can have a tour organized for you in a flash. This is not a con – just a business. Everyone along the line must get a little tickle out of it, and I suspect the warehouse owners pay the tour operators for providing customers, maybe even a percentage if there’s a sale. Tours don’t have to be expensive - they’re tailored to your budget - sort of (see the blog on Hidden Extras) but I guess there’s cheaper ways to do it. The trouble is that the traveller doesn’t always know what he wants, or what there is to see, and isn’t given much time to think, so the tour often suits the operator. I won’t do another.
I haven’t had to say ‘no’ so much since my children were little, and then never so often. I met an Australian Indian lady on holiday with her family, and she was fed up with this constant aggravation in the land of her fathers – the insistence that you need a guide; that you must buy. Fluent in both Hindi and English, she had been both polite and rude in turn. Rude to the point where she had told sellers that she did not even like their goods so why on earth would she want to buy anything!
I have a good trick now. Shades. You can have a good look, but can avoid eye contact. And just say ‘no’. Forget ‘Thank you’ or any other pleasantry you may have learned at your mother’s knee.
This place is rather smart. The ceilings of the foyer, the bedroom, the dining room, the halls, plus the walls, are all decorated with a flower motif. Little friezes run everywhere and paintings and old photographs of a maharaja and his court, fill the spaces. There are drapes over windows and doors, and plush furnishings and objet d’art everywhere. Rather incongruously, the arm of the Victorian-style armchair in my room has been broken, and a repair affected with a thin strip of plywood and four staples. The room has a balcony, and lying on the bed looking up is a little like viewing the Sistine Chapel. Well, not much like really, but it is certainly a remarkable view.
Last of my brief tour today, and into Jaipur, the Pink City. There are some truly magnificent buildings both within and without the city. From the almost cool Winter Palace (Hawa Mahal) with its sloping ridged access to the top of the building, and slotted, patterned vents on all sides providing a continuous breeze, to the heat of the monolithic Jaigarh Fort/Amber Fort complex over looking the city from the Hill of Eagles, with defence walls running for miles up the sides of the hills and across their ridges. The fort really needs a couple days to appreciate properly, and it needs to be winter. All those films I’ve seen - like Ralph Richardson in The Four Feathers, stumbling along under a blistering sun. Well that was me.
Actually, I’m not one of nature’s tourists, certainly not the tick-box kind, and I found the tour relentless. There are only so many historical buildings you can absorb in two days, and I could happily have remained with the tigers. The tours include too many stops at selected warehouses and craft malls for my liking. You never get to browse in peace there; there’s always a voice at your elbow, the soft-shoe shuffle behind you as someone follows you wherever you go. I bought at the one place where the seller didn’t harass me, and told him that was why he’d made the sale.
Caveat emptor. Some hotels and tour operators are part of a network. Once in the hotel a friend, colleague, brother, can whip you off to the ‘tourist bureau’ and can have a tour organized for you in a flash. This is not a con – just a business. Everyone along the line must get a little tickle out of it, and I suspect the warehouse owners pay the tour operators for providing customers, maybe even a percentage if there’s a sale. Tours don’t have to be expensive - they’re tailored to your budget - sort of (see the blog on Hidden Extras) but I guess there’s cheaper ways to do it. The trouble is that the traveller doesn’t always know what he wants, or what there is to see, and isn’t given much time to think, so the tour often suits the operator. I won’t do another.
I haven’t had to say ‘no’ so much since my children were little, and then never so often. I met an Australian Indian lady on holiday with her family, and she was fed up with this constant aggravation in the land of her fathers – the insistence that you need a guide; that you must buy. Fluent in both Hindi and English, she had been both polite and rude in turn. Rude to the point where she had told sellers that she did not even like their goods so why on earth would she want to buy anything!
I have a good trick now. Shades. You can have a good look, but can avoid eye contact. And just say ‘no’. Forget ‘Thank you’ or any other pleasantry you may have learned at your mother’s knee.
5 May 2010
Tiger Shoot – 4th May, Tuesday
Reader, I shot one. What a fantastic experience. A motley crew of 19, mostly Indian, in the back of an open truck with seats, bounced down the track in the Ranthambore Tiger Park at around 6 in the morning. My new friend, Sureeta, in the next seat, struck up a conversation. She was from Ahmedabad; had a bungalow near The Hotel President; and badly wanted to see a tiger.
‘Fingers crossed’, I said, and held up crossed fingers.
‘Fingers crossed?’ it amused her.
‘For luck’
‘Ok’, she crossed hers also, ‘for luck’
The track was rough, narrow, and in parts rather steep; and with a rather disconcerting steep drop to one side on more than one occasion. The park is overlooked by the walls of the massive Ranthambore Fort which runs along the top of the cliff above us. It wasn’t quite what I was expecting; something more ‘kiplingesque’ I suppose. More jungly with remnants of long-lost civilizations. Instead the park was a cross between scrub and savannah. Lots of bare ground dotted with leafless trees and shrubs, some enormous Banyans, and some tall straw-coloured grass. True, there were some ruins here and there, with trees growing through and round the stones, There was plenty of wildlife for us to see; deer, birds, displaying peacocks, and monkeys. Were these the Bandar-log of the stories, I wondered.
And there she was. Lying in the shade, some distance from the track, and apparently unperturbed by our two jeeps and a truck. She allowed us a good 30 or 40 minutes, looking at us a couple of times, then rose suddenly with a strange warning call, which set the peacocks and monkeys screeching, and stalked off. We didn’t see another tiger – too much to ask really – just a few crocodiles, lyre birds and a rich bright blue kingfisher.
Sureeta said, ‘We did that. You. Me. With our crossing fingers’ Of course we did.
More hidden extras - 3rd May (early)
Oh dear – India – land of hidden extras. I suppose it serves me right for being a little smug. Everything consumed carefully, hygiene paramount. I awoke in the night with that sinking feeling, when you just know that things are shortly going to get really bad. Ten minutes later, when they’d stopped being really bad, and I was back in bed again, the sinking feeling returned, and I realized that really bad was going to be the norm for a little while. Something I’d eaten or drunk during the day had offended my delicate little English stomach. Frankly, I was in a spot of bother and this was the worst I’d felt in my life.
Unfortunately I was off to Ranthambore that morning, with a car coming at 9am. We left late – I couldn’t keep asking the driver to stop, and where would we stop anyway?
As it was, an hour and a half into the journey I was ill again, and spent the rest of the time in the back seat dozing against my rucksack. When the driver stopped on one occasion and left the car, the usual gaggle of street sellers came knocking on the window. I was being offered some trinket or other for Rs 20, and feeling really wretched I wound the window down a fraction and explained to the nearest and oldest,
‘Look, I’m sick’ and demonstrated with hand gestures, ‘I don’t want to buy anything. Rs 20 to make them go away and stop tapping’ and pushed two fingers holding a note through the crack. To my surprise the note was returned, and the elderly gentleman gently stroked my two fingers with his forefinger, and then the window glass where it touched my forearm.
‘Poor Madam’ and then he raised his voice at all the others, and they went away, while he gestured I should raise the window again. That was very touching.
Unfortunately I was off to Ranthambore that morning, with a car coming at 9am. We left late – I couldn’t keep asking the driver to stop, and where would we stop anyway?
As it was, an hour and a half into the journey I was ill again, and spent the rest of the time in the back seat dozing against my rucksack. When the driver stopped on one occasion and left the car, the usual gaggle of street sellers came knocking on the window. I was being offered some trinket or other for Rs 20, and feeling really wretched I wound the window down a fraction and explained to the nearest and oldest,
‘Look, I’m sick’ and demonstrated with hand gestures, ‘I don’t want to buy anything. Rs 20 to make them go away and stop tapping’ and pushed two fingers holding a note through the crack. To my surprise the note was returned, and the elderly gentleman gently stroked my two fingers with his forefinger, and then the window glass where it touched my forearm.
‘Poor Madam’ and then he raised his voice at all the others, and they went away, while he gestured I should raise the window again. That was very touching.
On tour - 2nd May, Sunday
Oh dear - India – land of the hidden extra. Whenever anything is described as ‘only’ here, there’s always a whole raft of extras. ‘8% government tax madam’, or ‘ 14% VAT madam’, or ‘only 6% tax madam and no receipt’ or ‘3% for card madam’ plus the inevitable tip. It isn’t that anyone minds paying, just that it would be nice to know the total price at the outset. This is a grumble from Indians too, as it happens. For example: Trip to Agra, no entrance fees included. The Red Fort - Rs 250 (+ Rs 50 tax). Tell the guide ‘no’. Tell the guide ‘no’ again, and hold your ground. So that wasn’t too bad then. Next, Taj Mahal – Rs 750 (+ Rs 50 tax). The car park is some way away, so you’re obliged to take another form of transport (although I may have been misled over this), in my case a horse and cart. Rs 100, and off we go. Oh right, Rs 100 there, and Rs 100 back. Tour guides hop on the back of the cart who say they are official government ones. ‘Look madam, my identity card’. They insist that to see the Taj Mahal without a guide would be pointless. Wits are certainly required – one doesn’t wish to appear mean in the midst of so much poverty, but there’s no need to be taken for a ride. I’m quite a target – single, white and female - particularly from guides. Groups of people don’t seem to suffer the pestering I’ve been having – something to do with half a dozen voices declining the service instead of just the one. On leaving the Taj, my cheeky boy driver told me it was Rs 500, as I had been a long time. I pointed out other people who had arrived with us, and said I’d been no longer than anyone else.
‘300 for tip’ he said.
‘Forget it, I’ll walk back’ I said and hopped off, offering him the 100 for the one way trip.
He changed his mind, I got back on, and we trotted back to the taxi.
‘300 for tip’ he said.
‘Forget it, I’ll walk back’ I said and hopped off, offering him the 100 for the one way trip.
He changed his mind, I got back on, and we trotted back to the taxi.
Sulabh International Museum of Toilets - 1st May, Saturday
Yes, there really is such a place. Quite an inspirational place believe it or not. Sulabh International Social Service Organisation http://www.sulabhinternational.org/ founded by Dr Bindeshwar Pathak in 1968 is an institution which operates on many levels. Dr Pathak’s primary objective was to restore dignity to the scavenging class, whose unsavory job it was to clean latrine pits by hand. His two-fold method of doing this was through educating the children of scavengers so that they could find other employment, and by providing the type of latrine where the waste could decompose into a soil-like substance, so eliminating the need of a scavenger. From this came the further objective of eliminating local pollution by persuading the population, both rural and urban not to use the great outdoors. This of course could only be achieved of the proper facilities are provided.
Those of you who do not want to know any more, look away now… This kind of pollution is an enormous problem in India. Yesterday at 6 am, as my train went through the slum suburbs of Delhi, I could just make out through the early morning gloom, the outline of many, many figures beside the track, in the familiar Indian squat, watching the train. I wondered what the attraction of the railway line was, and what they were waiting for. Then it dawned that they weren’t waiting for anything. This was the early morning trip, and I was observing the largest public convenience in the world. Mile after mile, where the slums backed onto the railway line, hundreds of squatting figures. (I very much doubt if it was any different on the outskirts of Victorian London, just a question of scale.) Finally, a use needed to be found for all this proposed waste, and Sulabh have done this through their biogas digesters.
It has been the most amazing day. They sent a gentleman, Mr Gaurav, with a driver to collect me, and we drove to the Sulabh International. I was greeted by Dr Pathak, and we were joined by group three other guests, and we went to where the School – pupils and staff were meeting for prayers. The sung quite beautifully the school prayer whilst I stood in a line on the stage with other members of the party. There were welcomes, speeches, and then we were introduced individually, ‘Carolyn Chandler, Churchill Fellow’. Being called first, I didn’t know what was expected of me, and for a brief second I wondered if I was expected to make a speech too. Instead we were honoured with a garland and a shawl. I must admit I was very touched. After prayers, I had a tour of the school; saw the different classes, academic, sewing, design, IT, electrical, beauty, fashion; anything which would help these children get on in life. Some of the students explained what they were doing, and I got to ask questions – a bit like being Queen for a day. ......‘And what do you do..?’
Then I had a tour of the Toilet Museum. Most entertaining. Don’t take my word for it – if you’re near Delhi – go. My wonderfully enthusiastic guide showed latrines through the ages, 5000 years ago to one from a spacecraft. Photos, maps, artefacts, facsimiles, and all done with great humour. Next I was given a tour of the latrine designs. Although still horrendously hot, I saw something I hadn’t seen since I flew over Eastern Europe. A cloud.
It has taken Dr Pathak decades to change public attitudes and he still feels he has a long way to go. Not only has he to remove the stigma of the ‘Untouchable’ but the centre makes amusing references to the culture of ‘no toilets please, we’re Indians’. His approach, as well as a steady drip, drip on behavioural change, employs techniques
....I interrupt this broadcast with breaking news….. it is 6 pm local time, there was a huge clap of thunder, which I thought was a major trauma in the kitchen, and it’s raining. How very unexpected. I told you I’d seen a cloud. I went down to enjoy the wet and relative coolness, and to find out how unusual this rain might be. Quite a phenomenon, I was told, you are honoured. I took tea at one end of the patio, under the verandah, and the rain from the other end slowly seeped across the marble tiles until the water reached my feet. Shirley Valentine is alive and well………
Outside the Sulabh International is a public toilet. It is this which feeds the biogas digester, which in turn provides gas for lighting, cooking and generating electricity. Next to the loos – a drop-in health centre. One fully qualified doctor, lots of educational material on health and hygiene, and medical advice – all free. It is the most amazing, integrated, holistic approach to any problem I’ve ever come across. When I first viewed their website, I really wanted to find out how one man could bring about such behavioural change. What a privilege to see him and his centre at first hand.
Those of you who do not want to know any more, look away now… This kind of pollution is an enormous problem in India. Yesterday at 6 am, as my train went through the slum suburbs of Delhi, I could just make out through the early morning gloom, the outline of many, many figures beside the track, in the familiar Indian squat, watching the train. I wondered what the attraction of the railway line was, and what they were waiting for. Then it dawned that they weren’t waiting for anything. This was the early morning trip, and I was observing the largest public convenience in the world. Mile after mile, where the slums backed onto the railway line, hundreds of squatting figures. (I very much doubt if it was any different on the outskirts of Victorian London, just a question of scale.) Finally, a use needed to be found for all this proposed waste, and Sulabh have done this through their biogas digesters.
It has been the most amazing day. They sent a gentleman, Mr Gaurav, with a driver to collect me, and we drove to the Sulabh International. I was greeted by Dr Pathak, and we were joined by group three other guests, and we went to where the School – pupils and staff were meeting for prayers. The sung quite beautifully the school prayer whilst I stood in a line on the stage with other members of the party. There were welcomes, speeches, and then we were introduced individually, ‘Carolyn Chandler, Churchill Fellow’. Being called first, I didn’t know what was expected of me, and for a brief second I wondered if I was expected to make a speech too. Instead we were honoured with a garland and a shawl. I must admit I was very touched. After prayers, I had a tour of the school; saw the different classes, academic, sewing, design, IT, electrical, beauty, fashion; anything which would help these children get on in life. Some of the students explained what they were doing, and I got to ask questions – a bit like being Queen for a day. ......‘And what do you do..?’
Then I had a tour of the Toilet Museum. Most entertaining. Don’t take my word for it – if you’re near Delhi – go. My wonderfully enthusiastic guide showed latrines through the ages, 5000 years ago to one from a spacecraft. Photos, maps, artefacts, facsimiles, and all done with great humour. Next I was given a tour of the latrine designs. Although still horrendously hot, I saw something I hadn’t seen since I flew over Eastern Europe. A cloud.
It has taken Dr Pathak decades to change public attitudes and he still feels he has a long way to go. Not only has he to remove the stigma of the ‘Untouchable’ but the centre makes amusing references to the culture of ‘no toilets please, we’re Indians’. His approach, as well as a steady drip, drip on behavioural change, employs techniques
....I interrupt this broadcast with breaking news….. it is 6 pm local time, there was a huge clap of thunder, which I thought was a major trauma in the kitchen, and it’s raining. How very unexpected. I told you I’d seen a cloud. I went down to enjoy the wet and relative coolness, and to find out how unusual this rain might be. Quite a phenomenon, I was told, you are honoured. I took tea at one end of the patio, under the verandah, and the rain from the other end slowly seeped across the marble tiles until the water reached my feet. Shirley Valentine is alive and well………
Outside the Sulabh International is a public toilet. It is this which feeds the biogas digester, which in turn provides gas for lighting, cooking and generating electricity. Next to the loos – a drop-in health centre. One fully qualified doctor, lots of educational material on health and hygiene, and medical advice – all free. It is the most amazing, integrated, holistic approach to any problem I’ve ever come across. When I first viewed their website, I really wanted to find out how one man could bring about such behavioural change. What a privilege to see him and his centre at first hand.
Culture day 30th April, I think its still Friday
Today I’ve been a tourist. I intended to go to my hotel to catch up on sleep, but ended up a Delhi day-tripper. New Delhi, Old Delhi, the seat of government, ancient mosques, modern temples, a light Punjabi snack, and an early night.
Not funny anymore - 30th April, Friday
That was quite a tough night. I know I slept at some stage because I was woken about 6 am by the catering staff bringing me tea and a Marie biscuit. I haven’t seen a Marie biscuit in Years! I sat up feeling as disreputable as anyone does when they’ve slept in their clothes – the grime on my white shirt a testament to my trip to Amhedabad Junction from the hotel in a tuc-tuc. I was glad to get up. Although the carriage went to bed around 10 pm by some unspoken mutual consent, there was a good deal of night traffic to the bathroom. That’s two door squeaks per head, per trip. Sometimes the door jammed partially open on the curtain of the 4 bunk section, and the hot night air poured in, sometimes it closed and a cold air-con blast blew over me. It was just bad luck to get the worst bunk in the carriage. I won’t swap next time – they can all hate me.
Swarmi J Raj, sleeper Train - 29th April
Now this really is surreal. It appears I have succeeded in offending the IRCTC. I’ve been sharing a compartment with a family; granddad, mum and two boys about 4 & 7. Each compartment on thye sleeper is divided into a 4 bunk section - the bunks going across the carriage, and a 2 bunk section - the bunks going lengthwise. The corridor runs between them. The family has been split up because I purchased my ticket first, selecting a bottom bunk in the 4 bunk part. To foster a spirit of international harmony, and because one of the little boys wasn’t happy with this arrangement, I swapped so that the family can be together. I’ve made up my new bed on the bottom bunk of the lengthways bunks. A train official is talking to me very loudly and waving his arms, but it isn’t helping. The grandfather has intervened on my behalf and the man has gone away. I have had no explanation of the problem. There is only one blanket for these two bunks and I think they are saying I have stolen the guard’s blanket. This lower bunk is formed by folding the seat backs down so that they meet in the middle. It flexes with the jolting of the train – it’s going to be like sleeping across Tower Bridge. It is also much narrower than the cross-ways berth I had originally – only as wide as the pillow which is around 18 inches.
Oh dear, the official is back. He’s now talking to the mother very volubly. It is worse than I thought. I haven't stolen his blanket, I’ve stolen the guard’s bed! I am now decamping to the top bunk.
The top bunk is under the curve of the carriage roof. The night light is on the wall behind my head so I can’t sit without leaning my back on it. Lying there, it really is only as wide as a plank. The two chains on which the bunk is suspended also stop you falling out. I can’t stop chuckling – or is it a wave of hysteria? The mother calls out to see if I’m ok; it seems she thought I was crying. The air-con vents blow over the top of my privacy curtain and my head is beside the carriage door, which squeaks. I still can’t stop laughing.
Oh dear, the official is back. He’s now talking to the mother very volubly. It is worse than I thought. I haven't stolen his blanket, I’ve stolen the guard’s bed! I am now decamping to the top bunk.
The top bunk is under the curve of the carriage roof. The night light is on the wall behind my head so I can’t sit without leaning my back on it. Lying there, it really is only as wide as a plank. The two chains on which the bunk is suspended also stop you falling out. I can’t stop chuckling – or is it a wave of hysteria? The mother calls out to see if I’m ok; it seems she thought I was crying. The air-con vents blow over the top of my privacy curtain and my head is beside the carriage door, which squeaks. I still can’t stop laughing.
Summary - week 1 29th April
I’m coming to an end of my first week in India. I’ve packed and checked out, but the hotel staff have kindly allowed me to sit in the foyer until time for my train. It’s too hot to be outside.
Several times I’ve had occasion to wonder what on earth I’m doing here. This apparently isn’t just me; my table-mate at breakfast and dinner in the hotel, born of army parents, ex-navy, travels the world installing generators, says he gets moments like that. Evidently the sense of wonder, or the surreal, never really leaves some people.
So – first week – aside from the shock of some living conditions and not being used to being pestered on the streets – All round friendliness and courtesy. The man whose job it was to sell hotels and taxis from a booth at the airport rang my hotel on his mobile and got my taxi to come back, even though it wasn’t one of ‘his’ hotels. The lady on Mumbai station who came back from her own carriage to check I was ok. Another lady outside Ahmedabad Station explained to yet another missing taxi driver where to find me because he and I could not understand each other. Finally, the manager of the President, whilst I’m waiting in the foyer for time to tick away, comes over to ask me if I’ve had my lunch. No? Then please, have lunch here, it is complimentary. His finally courtesy was to call a tuc-tuc and negotiate the price for taking me to the station. Don’t pay any more than Rs 50, he says, no tip.
Several times I’ve had occasion to wonder what on earth I’m doing here. This apparently isn’t just me; my table-mate at breakfast and dinner in the hotel, born of army parents, ex-navy, travels the world installing generators, says he gets moments like that. Evidently the sense of wonder, or the surreal, never really leaves some people.
So – first week – aside from the shock of some living conditions and not being used to being pestered on the streets – All round friendliness and courtesy. The man whose job it was to sell hotels and taxis from a booth at the airport rang my hotel on his mobile and got my taxi to come back, even though it wasn’t one of ‘his’ hotels. The lady on Mumbai station who came back from her own carriage to check I was ok. Another lady outside Ahmedabad Station explained to yet another missing taxi driver where to find me because he and I could not understand each other. Finally, the manager of the President, whilst I’m waiting in the foyer for time to tick away, comes over to ask me if I’ve had my lunch. No? Then please, have lunch here, it is complimentary. His finally courtesy was to call a tuc-tuc and negotiate the price for taking me to the station. Don’t pay any more than Rs 50, he says, no tip.
Sintex field trips continued - 28th April, Wednesday
Today I’ve had a day out in the country. Not wild India though, not yet, although I did see my first elephant making up part of the traffic this morning. I had been kindly granted permission by various people, to visit a number places where Sintex have some of their digesters. We’re cramming a lot into today. We first visited the SGVP monastery where they have been trialing a small Sintex digester, alongside a 50 m³ concrete model with a steel gas dome. Although not operational at the time – they were undergoing maintenance (cleaning) – I was able to see the finished product, a dried, finely chopped material with a sweet smell not dissimilar to silage, and ready to be spread on the ground.
We headed toward the next site, the Gaushala Gayatri Temple Trust over some fairly rough dirt roads down which men, women and children were driving their goats or cattle. Many of the cows have loose chains round their necks; a means of tethering them at the roadside. Indeed, many were tethered under the trees beside the road.
Our route took us past a step well. Built in 1498 by Ruda, wife of the Vaghela chief Virasimla, it is a big, elaborate and expensive bathroom. The approach to the bottom of the well is down steep wide steps, eight floors in all and each level supported by beautifully carved columns. Some are designs, deeply cut into the sandstone, others rows of elephants or figures. Above one portal are carved nine figures representing the planets. There are two wells at the base. The furthest, containing tiny fish swimming in a milky water, has a carved shaft going straight to the surface. The nearer pool was where the queen would bathe; the whole structure being arranged in such a way that she could do so unseen. Treacherously steep, narrow, spiral stairs gave direct access down to the pool from both sides.
The Temple Trust gives not only religious teaching, but general academic and agricultural as well. The trust had been using a number of digesters
There was, incidentally, a small operation involving a condenser and cows’ urine. This produces a traditional medicine, said to cure a number of aliments including a cancer treatment. I took the lid off the bottle to smell. It smelt of cow’s urine.
Only a proportion of the farm’s agri-waste was used in the digesters
Of the digesters viewed which were not operational, one could put it all down to human error. A digester has to be fed regularly, with the correct ratio of liquid to solid. In the baking heat, the liquid evaporates and the solids jam the gasholder, holding it like mortar, and block the pipes. The bacterial process also grinds to a halt.
Those being operated properly were working well, but their success is dependant on the human element.
We returned to the factory via a brick works. I am very lucky in my guides. The moment I show an interest in something, they’ll show it to me. The floor of the brick works is 12 feet or more below the surrounding land and roadway - a vast flat-bottomed pit from which thousands upon thousands of tones of clay has been dug. There bricks are fired here, and the landscape is dotted with tall chimneys.
Poor Vishad, he didn’t even have time for lunch. He went straight to the office to sort out some data sheets and a CD for me. As the CD wasn’t available, he downloaded an unedited version onto my flash drive.
During my evening meal at The President, I received a call from Vishad. He had come to the hotel with his son, a gorgeous little boy with big eyes who clung to his dad’s leg in shyness, plus the finished CD. I have been thoroughly spoilt. I can’t thank Vishad and Manish enough for the way they have looked after me, also Prashant for his time and encouragement, and Mr Dangayatch for giving me the company’s personnel and facilities this week.
We headed toward the next site, the Gaushala Gayatri Temple Trust over some fairly rough dirt roads down which men, women and children were driving their goats or cattle. Many of the cows have loose chains round their necks; a means of tethering them at the roadside. Indeed, many were tethered under the trees beside the road.
Our route took us past a step well. Built in 1498 by Ruda, wife of the Vaghela chief Virasimla, it is a big, elaborate and expensive bathroom. The approach to the bottom of the well is down steep wide steps, eight floors in all and each level supported by beautifully carved columns. Some are designs, deeply cut into the sandstone, others rows of elephants or figures. Above one portal are carved nine figures representing the planets. There are two wells at the base. The furthest, containing tiny fish swimming in a milky water, has a carved shaft going straight to the surface. The nearer pool was where the queen would bathe; the whole structure being arranged in such a way that she could do so unseen. Treacherously steep, narrow, spiral stairs gave direct access down to the pool from both sides.
The Temple Trust gives not only religious teaching, but general academic and agricultural as well. The trust had been using a number of digesters
There was, incidentally, a small operation involving a condenser and cows’ urine. This produces a traditional medicine, said to cure a number of aliments including a cancer treatment. I took the lid off the bottle to smell. It smelt of cow’s urine.
Only a proportion of the farm’s agri-waste was used in the digesters
Of the digesters viewed which were not operational, one could put it all down to human error. A digester has to be fed regularly, with the correct ratio of liquid to solid. In the baking heat, the liquid evaporates and the solids jam the gasholder, holding it like mortar, and block the pipes. The bacterial process also grinds to a halt.
Those being operated properly were working well, but their success is dependant on the human element.
We returned to the factory via a brick works. I am very lucky in my guides. The moment I show an interest in something, they’ll show it to me. The floor of the brick works is 12 feet or more below the surrounding land and roadway - a vast flat-bottomed pit from which thousands upon thousands of tones of clay has been dug. There bricks are fired here, and the landscape is dotted with tall chimneys.
Poor Vishad, he didn’t even have time for lunch. He went straight to the office to sort out some data sheets and a CD for me. As the CD wasn’t available, he downloaded an unedited version onto my flash drive.
During my evening meal at The President, I received a call from Vishad. He had come to the hotel with his son, a gorgeous little boy with big eyes who clung to his dad’s leg in shyness, plus the finished CD. I have been thoroughly spoilt. I can’t thank Vishad and Manish enough for the way they have looked after me, also Prashant for his time and encouragement, and Mr Dangayatch for giving me the company’s personnel and facilities this week.
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