‘Welcome back,’ said the gentleman in the turban as I was ushered into Singh’s Hotel, and it was like coming home. What a difference five weeks makes. I had thought that this hotel was in a back street; I viewed ‘going outside’ with some trepidation,; I didn’t recognise a shop when I saw one. This time I had a quick shower and was off into the market, with the light rapidly fading. This time the night market held no terrors, and the one beside Khar station was lovely. There were many fruit and vegetable stalls giving a rich fresh smell to the night air, and little stalls selling rice dishes served up on dried leaves. I still marvel at how so much food can be sold so frequently to so many.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked a man as I sought a clean-looking chai stall, and he proceeded to offer to show me the sights on Mumbai.
‘Thanks, that will be good, in the dark.’ I replied. They must think I’m a tourist.
5 June 2010
Kurla Station
I know why Kurla station was crowded now. The replacement for the derailed Kolcotta - Mumbai train bring in the passengers and walking woulnded pulled in thirty minutes later - saw it live on an Indian TV station. Sad.
Pune Manmad Express
I still love Indian railways. I was ridiculously early at Pune station for my last trip to Mumbai, mistaking 1026 for the departure time, when it was actually the train number. Never mind, I had the pleasure of watching the station being cleaned. First, the lady with the switch broom brought all the bits out from the edges and under the seats, and splashed a bit of water about – more promise than lick, I’m afraid. Then the guy in charge dipped a cup in a bucket of water and threw water all over the platform for two lads with huge squeegees to sluice around. The guy splashed water with only partial regard to either passengers or bags, which was entertaining, and the Indians, as ever, carried on the business of catching trains, without complaint. The squeegee boys push the water and rubbish into piles – and shove it onto the track.
The net result is to remove all the goodies on which the flies had been feeding, leaving them with nothing more exciting to land on than the perspiring bodies of the travellers, which they did in their droves.
I was a bit restless on the train, journey’s end I suppose, and spent most of my time in the doorway watching the Mararashtran landscape pass by. The train climbs slowly to around 2000 ft. above sea level, giving magnificent views across deep gorges to distant mountains.
I had to change at Karjat station, and switch to a local train. Great fun this, I wish I’d found the time to do it more often. This is the archetypal cram-’em-all-on train, and the nearer to the centre of Mumbai we came, the greater the crowding. Kurla station, my final destination, was crowded with people, and had the media in attendance. A Bollywood star no doubt.
The net result is to remove all the goodies on which the flies had been feeding, leaving them with nothing more exciting to land on than the perspiring bodies of the travellers, which they did in their droves.
I was a bit restless on the train, journey’s end I suppose, and spent most of my time in the doorway watching the Mararashtran landscape pass by. The train climbs slowly to around 2000 ft. above sea level, giving magnificent views across deep gorges to distant mountains.
I had to change at Karjat station, and switch to a local train. Great fun this, I wish I’d found the time to do it more often. This is the archetypal cram-’em-all-on train, and the nearer to the centre of Mumbai we came, the greater the crowding. Kurla station, my final destination, was crowded with people, and had the media in attendance. A Bollywood star no doubt.
The final curtain
How strange. I’ve seen my last digester in India, I have no-one to phone, no last-minute arrangements to make. Tomorrow I head for Mumbai and home, which means dragging the hitherto pointless jumper from the bottom of my bag – I had to bring it, it was -2º C in London when I left – and place it within reach for landing. Despite a little flare-up early in the week, I think I’m safe from the Eggnog-Falafel volcano this time too.
More grim news.
A train derailment between Mumbai and Kolkotta, killing over 70, believed to be sabotage by Maoists. I’ve seen evidence of communists in the villages around Hyderabad, and many more in Kerala. There are red painted concrete monuments, some with the hammer and sickle emblem. Red flags fly from buildings, and strings of flags are draped from the temples. On one occasion fifty or more motorcycles with the riders and passengers holding flags and pennants on poles, five or six abreast in the road, swept through one of the villages like a troupe of knights. The workforce in India has rights, but they are not always implemented. Longer hours, fewer holidays – all the usual abuses, has led to a communist grip in certain areas where the communist party claims to defend the rights of poor workers. From what I can glean there was a split in the party in the 60s, and the communist party are respectable, and the Marxist/Maoist versions indisputably violent.
Hossein from Iran
This was a nice little interlude. The weekend breakfast was a busy affair. It was served under an awning to the side of the hotel, on only four tables, so you have to share. There was a big friendly group from Chennai – a large family and friends. One of the ladies ran an engineering firm which supplies products to the Indian Railways, and was interested in what I was doing. She thought there was scope for coupling on-board latrines and railway biogas plants, and we’ll be discussing this at a later date. She thought it was terrible that train latrines discharged onto the tracks. I was too embarrassed to admit it happens in the UK too. They all left Sunday night, so Monday was just me and the newspaper when a young Iranian bounced into breakfast, offering me some of the honey which he stirred into his milk. He refused the Indian breakfast, ‘It is like lunch’, he said - which is true.
A very open an honest fellow, he gave me his opinion of Iran, of its leaders past and present, and wanted to know what I thought of his country. It was all very enlightening. He got me to skype my friends in Gaza to see what they thought of Iran, which was equally enlightening. In between what he was doing, and what I was doing, we squeezed in a visit to the Gandhi Museum. As with so many monuments here, signposting is minimal, and on arrival we set off looking round the gardens of the palace. Twenty minutes later we were found by security and ushered to the front to get our tickets.
‘A ticket is very important’ the guard chided. All these guards, a detector to walk through; we missed it completely and they missed us!
The Guru
I went to the outskirts of Pune, where the Appropriate Rural Technology Institute (ARTI) http://www.arti-india.org/ is sited. Three small rooms on the second floor of a rather unprepossessing building are where it all happens. Dr Karve had been out of town (when I’d spoken to him the previous day, he was still on the train) and here he was, smiling and courteous – the great man himself.
Dr Anand Karve, a botanist, has ideas on everything, and a great desire to help his fellow man in the hard rural conditions of the sub-continent. Working on the premise that if the standard of living can be improved in the rural areas, there will be less migration to the cities, he set out his stall of easy-to-follow technology. The global poor have always followed the route to where they believe the urban money lies, and as we all know the streets are never paved with gold, and so an urban sub-class of slum dwellers develops. Dr Karve’s techniques are simple, effective, and based on sound science. They deal with seed sowing and nursery culture, irrigation and other husbandry methods; charcoal making, better stoves, and the use of food waste to replace gobar for a more efficient supply if biogas. These and more we discussed, and he has been very generous with his time.
Pune
Pune is the most cosmopolitan city I have stayed in, in India. There is a distinct lack of livestock on the roads, no camel carts, no rickshaws, and hardly any bicycles. In all other towns, the ladies almost always wear saris or Indian dress, but here many are in tops and jeans, even some of the older women. Most men and boys wear western dress in the other towns I’ve seen, though I saw more in lunghis and other traditional garb in Hyderabad and Trivandrum. Here, hardly one to be seen, and a number of men are in shorts.
The houses in Pune are a mixture of the modern concrete, and old colonial; the latter being terribly run down to the point of dereliction. It seems a shame. Funny how, even though I have seen wonderful and ancient buildings, I feel a deep-down 'British' pang when I look at the old colonials. Perhaps it's my ancestors talking to me.
There is a park close to the hotel. It opens early in the morning and again in the evening. I had wandered in on Sunday during the day, only to have a whistle blown at me by the security guard. Apparently the gate had been left open and I was not allowed to be there. I was ushered out. I walked in it again on Monday evening after my meal. Alas it closed at 8.30 – a whistle was blown at me and I was ushered out again. By Tuesday I had the measure of it; early breakfast and a walk in the park. It is quite a formal affair with clipped hedges, elephant statues, a pond and a temple. There are flower beds too, some with deep-red leaved oxalis and arum, but mostly the flowers are not out. At the far end, enclosed within a low clipped hedge, there is a tank – a military tank that is – captured from the Pakistanis in 1971, and presented to the people of Pune.
Next to the hotel is an ‘unlimited thali’ restaurant. ‘All you can eat’ is a nice idea at the time, but I just cannot eat like an Indian – I never even reach the rice stage. These tiny ladies on the adjacent table seem to tuck it all away somewhere. I’ve been three times and it will be a bad idea for me to go again I think. Still it’s very popular, and was busy all day Sunday. The clients were targeted by a drum beating lady accompanied by a man and a boy with large whips. They demand money, and if you don’t give, they crack the whips over their backs. Its probably just noise, I don’t think they hurt themselves. Whatever – I’m not giving. I can withstand your pain, chaps.
My mattress seems very hard – like sleeping on a board. On the first night I got up to investigate. I am sleeping on a board, and the mattress is only just 3 inches thick. Outside the hotel, people are sleeping on the pavement without so much as a blanket under them. I’ll bear with the situation; a few days and I’ll be in my own bed, and they will still be on the pavement.
The houses in Pune are a mixture of the modern concrete, and old colonial; the latter being terribly run down to the point of dereliction. It seems a shame. Funny how, even though I have seen wonderful and ancient buildings, I feel a deep-down 'British' pang when I look at the old colonials. Perhaps it's my ancestors talking to me.
There is a park close to the hotel. It opens early in the morning and again in the evening. I had wandered in on Sunday during the day, only to have a whistle blown at me by the security guard. Apparently the gate had been left open and I was not allowed to be there. I was ushered out. I walked in it again on Monday evening after my meal. Alas it closed at 8.30 – a whistle was blown at me and I was ushered out again. By Tuesday I had the measure of it; early breakfast and a walk in the park. It is quite a formal affair with clipped hedges, elephant statues, a pond and a temple. There are flower beds too, some with deep-red leaved oxalis and arum, but mostly the flowers are not out. At the far end, enclosed within a low clipped hedge, there is a tank – a military tank that is – captured from the Pakistanis in 1971, and presented to the people of Pune.
Next to the hotel is an ‘unlimited thali’ restaurant. ‘All you can eat’ is a nice idea at the time, but I just cannot eat like an Indian – I never even reach the rice stage. These tiny ladies on the adjacent table seem to tuck it all away somewhere. I’ve been three times and it will be a bad idea for me to go again I think. Still it’s very popular, and was busy all day Sunday. The clients were targeted by a drum beating lady accompanied by a man and a boy with large whips. They demand money, and if you don’t give, they crack the whips over their backs. Its probably just noise, I don’t think they hurt themselves. Whatever – I’m not giving. I can withstand your pain, chaps.
My mattress seems very hard – like sleeping on a board. On the first night I got up to investigate. I am sleeping on a board, and the mattress is only just 3 inches thick. Outside the hotel, people are sleeping on the pavement without so much as a blanket under them. I’ll bear with the situation; a few days and I’ll be in my own bed, and they will still be on the pavement.
A stupid thing
This is only the second hotel with tea making facilities in the room. The kettle is a tiny little thing, and spends most of its time with the flex wrapped round the base. I boiled the kettle as I have done all my life and went to pour the water in the cup. The coiled flex caught, the loose lid flew of, and boiling water flew over my right hand. I was in a bit of disarray for a while. Yes, I ran cold (ish) water over it, and could see that a triangle of skin had come away from the back of my hand. The rest was red, and I wasn’t sure about the extent of the damage. I have a bag full of first aid things, but nothing for burns – I didn’t anticipate making tea with my own skin. I only have plasters to cover it with, but don’t want to stick anything to the red part yet. This may be a problem tonight. What an idiot.
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.
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