Lalbagh Gardens

Lalbagh Botanical Gardens are a popular day out.  The large expanse of horticulture provides great photo opportunities

Festivals

During October there are several festivals to honour whatever god happens to be flavour of the day.  I came across this drum band walking down the road where we live.

 

Motorbike

 

Jen has her new car and there is no real need to buy a second one, so I decied I should get a motorbike.  I had one for a few years some time ago, but that was when you could ride up to 250CC as a learner just on your car licence, before CBT etc etc.  This would be a good opportunity to do a simpler test at much less cost over here and be able to swap my full Indian bike licence for a UK one on my return.  Long story short - I did the test which involves driving up to a policman who stands under a tree.  He tells you to drive down a road, do a U-turn and then drive back.  He doesn't even watch while you do it.  A long as you don't fall off or kill anyone, you pass; so ~I am now a fully licenced bike rider!

Maldives

You can't really live in India without going at least once to the Maldives, so decided on a week's all inclusive to Paradise Island.  We flew with Air India direct to Male and the flight is less than two hours.  From there it is only a ten minute speed boat transfer to the resort.  The pictures speak for themselves, so I will keep comment to a minimum.

The water really is that colour.

This is a view from our island to the nexst one along, looking at their water bungalows.

I was able to get in 11 dives in the week that we were there.  Really great marine life as below, with Manta Rays, Eagle Rays, turtles and much more

Moray Eel

Leopard Moray

There were plenty of fish getting cleaned on the anenomes

A lion fish

There were plenty of sharks including reef sharks like this one and also white and black tips.


This is me on a deep dive onto a wreck called the Maldive Victory, close to Male

Me inside the Maldive Victory

There were plenty of dolphins around the islands

This was part of a pod of up to 20 that were swimming around the dive boat

There was a great sunset every evening.

All in all a really good break as a first class resort.

Mysore Part 3

There isn't much to see or do in Mysore, but you can't miss out on the palace.  This is still the home of the Maharaja of Mysore, and most of it is open to the public.

It was best to pay for our own personal guide as it was not expensive and would have been cheaper than paying for two audio guide headphones.  He was quite knowledgeable (admittedly we wouldn't have known otherwise) and quite full of his own importance.  The place was really full of people, but he would just shove them out of the way with both hands to create a space for us to get to the front of everything that was worth seeing.  It helped Jen get away from the average Indian male.

I suppose it is worth mentioning the average Indian male now while we are at this point.  They are really quite lecherous.  While they stare at me as if I had two heads, it doesn't worry me.  I will just stare back at them, and even stop and stare back at them until they look away.  But with white females it is quite different.  They stare so much they almost bury their heads in the chests of any passing target.  It isn't just one or two.  They are all at it.

Jen feels quite un-nerved on her own, and it wasn't great in the crowds in the palace, as some guys would just rub their crotches up against her.  She had to walk with her elbows pointed outwards to fend them off.  Even Indian girls are subjected to this type of sad and pathetic behaviour.  Groups of young guys walk around together trying to look cool.  Actually if they could only see themselves!  

They have their arms around each other, and are frequently seen even holding hands together.  I think they too have been repressed somewhat by this overly conservative society.  They intimidate the girls who have their breasts and genitals grabbed when the opportunity arises.  It happens in crowded places and even when on the buses.  This is why you will always see the women together at the front of the buses, and not near the back.  

While if this happened in the UK, or any other civilised country, the Police would be investigating it as an indecent assault, the perpetrator would be convicted and would be on the sex offenders' register.  Here it is dismissed by the authorities as what they minimisingly term "Eve-teasing" and would never be investigated.  An indicator of how women are viewed in Indian society.

Anyway.  After the palace, it was off to the zoo.  I was quite impressed by Mysore zoo.  It is huge.  It takes at least two hours to walk around it, even if you walk quickly.  The animals have plenty of space, and seem well cared for.  I have seen worse, more depressing zoos.

That was about it for Mysore really.  We headed back to the Shatabdhi for Bangalore without further incident!

Here are some pics I took at the zoo.

That was about it for Mysore really.  We headed back to the Shatabdhi fro Bangalore without further incident!

Mysore Part 2

The hotel was a short walk from the train station.  It was a four star place- supposedly the best hotel in Mysore (Ha!)- called the Royal Orchid Metropole.  I suppose the Indians have difficulty in spelling Arsehole.

It is a splendid building, and originally belonged to the Maharaja of Mysore and was used as accommodation for his important British guests.  The rooms are good with an old-fashioned colonial feel, and the food is excellent. Unfortunately the service is unbelievable.  It was like staying in some sort of comedy hotel.  I am beginning to notice a recurring theme in Indian society; more specifically in the service industries and to a greater extent with the tradesmen.  When they do something for you, it's almost like they have never done it before.

In India, if your name is Sunil and you own a saw you are "Sunil the carpenter".  If your name is Raj and you own a screwdriver, you are "Raj the electrician".  In the Metropole hotel if you name is Ajay and you own an apron you are "Ajay the completely fucking incompetent".

Breakfast - We go into the elegantly stylish restaurant for what promises to be an excellent breakfast.  The waiter approaches the table. 

"Yeeeees Siiiiiiiirr.  Pleeeeeease?"

"Ah. Good morning my dear fellow.  Would it be possible to indulge in one of your fabulous cooked breakfasts?" 

"Yeees Siiiiiiirrr  What are you liking" (Head wobble)

"Would it be possible to have some fried eggs, some sausages and some bacon please, with some toast?"

"It weeelll be comming siiiiirrr"

Of he scuttles through the double doors to the kitchen.  Immediately he is out again heading for the toaster.  Two slices of bread put in.  Ages later he comes back through the double doors with a small plate.  He looks around then disappears back inside.  Then he comes back out with the same plate and comes over to our table.  A small side plate is thrust into my hands with two fried eggs staring mockingly at me.  I look at Jen who is smiling knowingly.  I can now see some smoke coming from the toaster, but thought I would just wait to see what happens.  The eggs are getting cold, so I devour them.  Then he is back.  Another small plate with sausages.  More smoke from the toaster.  I eat the sausages.  He returns once more with a small pot that has a lid.  

"What's this?" I disdainfully ask

"Yours for eating siiiirrr"

I take the lid off.  It was full of baked beans. 

"I didn't order this" I scowl.  He is standing back nervously wringing his hands.  Over his shoulder I can see the beginnings of flames from the toaster.  We decide to leave.

Dinner - I order a beer and Jen orders a grape juice and we order food.  We wait, and wait, and wait, and wait.  I'm amused by a young Indian boy running around like he is possessed.  It's really the first time I have seen a child behaving in this way since I came here and I was trying to understand why by looking at the parents.

Eventually an incompetent appears and sets down a bottle of beer and a glass on the table and walks off.  It's one of those large bottles with a crown cap on it.  It hasn't been opened.  I'm so thirsty that I could really just bite it off, but reckon that I didn't want a trip to the dentist to repair my shattered crowns.  I have learnt from my expensive mistakes in the past.

Jen catches the eye of a manager and he opens the bottle.  

"Where is my grape juice"  she asks

"Juice coming"

We are now waiting for someone to take our order.  Again we wait, and wait, and wait.  At last the most competent of the incompetents notices and approaches our table with a notepad.  

"You reeeedy to order siiirrr?"

"Yes please" I say with a degree of relief

"OK.  I will come back"  and off he disappears.  What the hell?  He does eventually return and we order.

The food arrives which isn't that bad. Still no drink for Jen.  She storms off to the room and gets a bottle of orange that we brought with us and drinks that at the table, while I watch the young Indian boy who has eaten more food and is still running around, being generally stupid.

We finish the main course and still no grape juice.  We think desert might be nice and we wait for someone to notice that we have finished.  To pass the never ending boredom of waiting I again notice the small Indian boy he comes running in our direction, sees Jen and stops dead.  He turns a kind of brown green colour, and then empties the entire contents of his stomach on the marble floor.  

He is rescued by a parent, and it leaves us then just staring at the restaurant which has now become a vomitarium.  The mopwallah arrives.  He has a mop, but no bucket.  He ushers the vomit along the marble floor and casually flicks it into the adjoining flowerbed.

At last! A desert menu arrives!  He hands it to us proudly and then retreats back to wherever he came from.  I was going to have the semolina pudding, but with the faint odour of vomit hanging in the air, decide against it.  We peruse and are ready to order.  We flag down the same guy that gave us the menu as he was hurrying off to nowhere in particular.  He probaly knew where he was heading when he started out on his journey, but somewhere along the way he completely forgot.  

Looking forward to my choice I point it out to the incompetent.  

"Sorry.  Thiiiss is not comming available"

"Oh Jesus! Right then!  Tell me what else is not available!"

"Weeeell Siiirr.  This one.  Not available.  And this one, this one, this one........oh. and this one too."

"So, let's get this right. The only things available on the menu are this, and this?"

"Yeeeeess siiiirrr"

"Could you not have told me this when you gave me the menu?"

"Sooooorrrryy  Siiiirr"

We pay our bill, and then the grape juice arrives.  I usher Jen to bed before she throws it at him

Mysore Part 1

On Wednesday and Thursday of last week it was public holiday time due the the Ganesh Chaturthi festival.  Its a bit of a party to celebrate one of the many Hindu gods.  Ganesha is sort of a man with an elephant's head and is supposed to bring good fortune for those travelling, and when you buy new things, is a remover of barriers, and generally anything else that you want.  Jen thought she should take a few days off and we decided to head to Mysore for a break from Bangalore.

As its about 5 hours drive to Mysore from here, we thought we should try the train, so we took the Shatabdhi Express.  The Shatabdhi Express trains are the pride of the Indian railway system and designated "super fast".  In reality this means that they are not pulled by a bullock that's being whipped mercilessly by some toothless guy wearing a table cloth for a skirt.

In all fairness though, it was quite a good experience.  The main railway station in Bangalore is "Majestic Station".  Named by a bloke from the Council with a sense of humour, it's a fleshpot of body odour, with beggars lying around amongst the travellers, prostrate with boredom, while awaiting whatever metal cattle wagon takes them to the next less than satisfying experience in their unfulfilling lives.

We fight through the melee and eventually find out what platform our train leaves from.  So, we walk down the "majestic" red paan stained stairs, along the filthy "majestic" subway onto the foul smelling "majestic" platform, where we patiently await our train looking at the "majestic" piles of shit on the tracks being washed away "majestically" by a Dalit with a hose.

The train arrives and we board.  The only problem with the Indian railway system is twofold.  Firstly, you can't just arrive and get on the train.  You have to book in advance.  An hour or two before the train is due to leave, a list is printed out of all the passengers' names and dates of birth and stuck on the outside of the relevant carriage, showing your seat reservation numbers.  This is great as you can play the age game with your travelling companion, guessing the ages of the passengers and seeing who is closest to the right answer by comparing your guesstimate with the list once you get off.

The second issue is that each train has about 83 classes of travel ranging, on our journey, from only a few pence return to about £15 each for the best class.  It is a bit confusing, as if you book first class you'll be travelling with a family of lepers being held hostage by a troop of monkeys with flick-knives. There is third class (ie the roof), second class, first class, sleeper class, AC chair class, AC executive chair class, First class, AC 3-tier class, AC 2-tier class and First AC chair class.  Westerners will mostly always travel in the best class as it is so cheap in comparison to our own railway systems.

Here are a couple of pics of  Jen enjoying the best the Shatabdhi has to offer!

The train was a bit like a plane in that you get fed with food that is like aeroplane food, only worse.  There are toilets on board.  I did need to go on the way there - it must have been the hot water that had ketchup in it masquerading as tomato soup.  Imagine my disappointment on finding that it was a squat toilet.  It's hard enough for blokes to have a wee on the 7-35 from Northampton to London, but just imagine trying it on the lurching Indian railways using a toilet which is basically a hole in the ground.

I stood and looked at it wondering what the best approach would be.  To stand or squat? mmmmmmmm.  A dynamic risk assessment revealed the danger of squatting. My balance isn't great at the best of times and the thought of the potentials that existed for disaster was too great.  So standing it was.  I hadn't thought it through. Trying to aim at an open hole at foot level wearing open sandals and no socks was quite a challenge, and one that I failed miserably.  "Never mind.  I'll just kind of rinse my foot off when I flush the hole" I naively thought.  I didn't really think that through either given my track record of  balancing on one leg.  With my foot now firmly lodged inside the hole and the water trying to flush it out onto the track I gave up all pretence of dignity.  I managed to wrench it free and was now standing with one foot and shoe completely soaking wet.

Well, I clearly can't go back to first class looking like this, so how am I going to dry it off?

It's amazing with me how things seem like great ideas at the time, but ultimately turn out to be clearly not thought through.

I was struggling trying to get my foot out through the window.  It was slightly higher than I could comfortably reach, so had to climb up on the wash basin plinth, wedge myself into the small gap, half turned over facing the floor with my leg stretched out behind me, and foot through the window.  Quite proud of my ingenious foot drying solution, I was enjoying the moment when another train flashed past, almost severing my foot in the process.  The lurch of our own train along with the shock and precarious balancing position meant that I landed on the floor with a crash.

I picked myself up, and dusted myself off and left the toilet, heading back to my seat.  En route I had to pass some locals who were standing in between the carriages, leaning out of the open doors looking up the length of the train.  Obviously they would have seen my foot sticking out of the toilet window.  They stared at me open-mouthed as I wished them "Good morning".  I wonder what they were thinking.

Nothing Works the Same

Really, if you come to India and expect anything to be similar to the UK, then you are in for a big surprise.  There is no logic to anything.  No consistency.  You never know what you are going to get, how much you are going to get or how much it will cost.  The "system" is not a system.  It's an interpretation of a set of loose guidelines, masquerading as bureaucracy; and they do love bureaucracy!

Take for example the simple posting of a package.

The story begins with my receipt of a legal text book from Amazon in the post.  Nothing controversial here, just that I was remiss in ordering the wrong edition.  A simple matter of returning the item for a full refund of around £12.

Or so would be the case if you happened to find yourself in any other country apart from India.

I followed the Amazon guidelines, printed out their barcoded address label, put the book in the original packaging and stuck the label over the original address, and off I went to the post office. 

You see, you already have an image in your mind's eye of what the post office is like.

Wrong!

It is a dark and unwelcoming government building, with hordes of people and no discernible queuing system.

They have a pen for public use! (but it doesn't work)

You can't buy envelopes here, but you do get a pot of glue to stick down the flap.

The pot of glue doesn't have a brush.  It has a twig.  Evidently, every morning it is the job of some lowly post office worker to go outside to break off a suitably formed twig from the nearest tree for the glue pot.

Gluepottwigwallah  they probably call him.  That's probably all he does.  He will have some sort of uniform that has a twig badge on the arm - more than likely stuck on with the very twig he lovingly selected that morning.  What a proud moment!

OK. So I arrived at the post office with my package in hand (careful!). It is not exactly near to the villa.  It's about a fifteen minute walk uphill, along the main road.  Not too many people there as it was still early - about 9-45.  I eventually got served by one of the jobsworth staff (there were two jobsworths serving the queues of public, but about another eight not serving any other useful purpose whatsoever apart from distracting the public facing jobsworths from facing the public in anticipation of receiving some compliment on their latest henna hand design, or their new motorcycle helmet that had been clearly fashioned out of the hulk of an un-ripened watermelon).

I got the male jobsworth, and proffered my package to him (again, careful please!).  He examined it in every detail.

 "No.  Cannot post",  he quipped almost triumphantly.

"Why not?"

"Package used before"

"Why is that a problem?"

"It has custom stamp"

"OK. Give it back"

At this point I borrow a pen and completely obliterate the customs stamp from the package and hand it back to him.

"No good.  Cannot post"

"Why not?"

"Package used before"

"But nobody will know! You cannot tell!"

"But I know".

Feck! Aerse biscuits! (as we say in Ireland).  I take the package back and walk about half a mile to the nearest stationery shop.  I buy an envelope from the envelope shop,  find a pen shop to buy a pen and a sticky tape shop for the sticky tape, as I can't rely on the glue-stick arrangement.

I walk the half mile back to the post office, go in, fill out the envelope,  put the package into it, have a go with the glue twig thing and the sticky tape.

Unsurprisingly for me at this stage, the sticky tape is not what you expect.  It is obviously a cunning trick, arranged by an Indian mystic, as there is no end to it.  In my frustration I bite the whole roll in half, and manage to get just enough to reinforce the flap which is now leaking glue and bits of twig.

By this time there is a veritable throng of people at the not queuing disorganised counter.  I admit defeat for today and walk home - somewhat dejected.

Next morning I make an effort and get up early to beat the queue.  I walk back to the post office with my newly packaged item and give it to the male jobsworth again.  He spends about two minutes examining it for flaws, but can't find any.  

I am chuffed.

"Export form"  He says handing me a small A5 slip.  OK.  I go to fill it out.  No pen.  The non-operational pen is still on the table from yesterday.  I manage to borrow a pen from some kindly gentleman, and fill in the form, and give him his pen back with thanks.  I hand the form to jobsworth.  He opened it up. 

"Two copies please"  

It wasn't carbonated, and I was quite pissed off at this stage. 

"Why no carbon paper?" I said.  

"Not an original" was the reply.  "I need an original".  

I debated the possibility of explaining the legal precidents set around carbon paper and original copies, but decided against it.

I again sourced a pen from a kindly local and filled in the form again and handed it back.  He seemed satisfied. 

"How much?" I asked

"600 Rupees (£9) for registered post"

"That's a bit much.  How much for ordinary parcel post?

"547 Rupees (£8)"

It really wasn't worth it for a book that's only worth £12, with no guarantee of it actually getting back to Amazon.  

"Never mind" I said.  The book is still sitting on my bookshelf.

Nothing works the same in India.

New Car

After much discussion we decided to buy a car.  We have had our chauffeur now for six weeks, and he has been invaluable.  Nevertheless, this arrangement is a bit constrictive.  We feel that we lack independence, and want to be able to survive on our own.  Some ex-pats here love the idea of being driven around wherever they want, but it is clear that this is more ego related than for the sake of convenience.

We thought about a secondhand car, but strangely, it is not that much more expensive to buy a new car here.  The depreciation seems to really hit when selling from second to third owner.  We thought about a Suzuki which are popular here, but had a real fall out with a guy in the garage.  We were in the final stages of making a purchase, and were sitting at the (actually on the) colour display stand.  Some ignorant member of staff basically ordered us to take a seat at a desk some distance away.  We explained that we were in the process of buying a car from another salesman and were choosing a colour.  He went all fascist on us with "I request you to take a seat here" pointing at the table some way away.  OK. we thought.  Took a seat there and when our salesman returned, told him we were leaving, after explaining what had happened.  I then led him to the man in question and said  "Yes.  It's him.  Because he was so rude to us we are going somewhere else and you are losing the sale".  We then walked out.

In the end we went to the Hyundai garage and got a much better car for only a little more money.  Here it is.

 

It's really just for Jen to get to work and back, as I hope to get a motorcycle license by bribing some official soon.  Good luck to her driving in the Bangalore nightmare traffic.  This will be the one and only time we see this car in this condition!

Comparisons

I came across this narrative today and drew some interesting comparisons.

It was written by G.O. Trevlyan (1866) as cited in NYAR P.K., "Days of the Raj. Life and Leisure in British India"  Penguin 2009.

"Good novels are in limited number, and it is too much to expect that a lady should read history and poetry for six hours every day.  What well regulated female can dress an object in a society of a dozen people, who know her rank to a title, and her income to a pice; or music, when her audience consists of a Punkah-wallah and a Portuguese Ayah?  Some ladies as a matter of conscience go very closely into the details of household affairs; but after a time they come to the conclusion that it is better to allow the servants to cheat within a certain margin, for the sake of peace and quietness; for cheat they will, do what you may. Oh! The dreariness of that hour in the middle of the long day, when the children are asleep, and your husband has gone to tiffin with the judge, and the book-club has nothing but Latham's 'Nationalities of Europe'...and the English post has come in yesterday, with nothing but a letter from your old governess, congratulating you for being settled among the associations of the Mahommedan conquerors of India, and asking you to take some notice of her nephew, who is in the office of the Accountant-General of Bombay.  It is very uphill work for a lady out here to keep up her spirits and pluck, and her interest in general subjects."

This passage may be compared to Baillie-Stewart G.,  "Bangalore Life"  Blogspot.com 2011

"Good novels are in limited number, and it is too much to expect that a chap should read Law with the University of London for six hours every day.  What well regulated chap can dress an object in a society of a dozen people, who knew his rank in his career, and his income to a pice; or bagpipes, when his audience consists of a three cats and an Israeli next door neighbour?  Some chaps as a matter of conscience go very closely into the details of their gardener's affairs; but after a time they come to the conclusion that it is better to allow him to steal the neighbours' horticulture  within a certain margin, for the sake of peace and quietness; for steal he will, do what you may. Oh! The dreariness of that hour in the middle of the long day, when the cats are asleep, and your wife has gone to an ex-patriot tax meeting with the company partner and won't answer her mobile, and the book-club has nothing but old copies of "People's Friend"...and the English post has come in yesterday, with nothing but a letter from your old Mother, criticising you for being settled so far away, and asking you to take some notice of the difference in the weather between here and home and the comparative price of goods.   It is very uphill work for a chap out here to keep up his spirits and pluck, and his interest in general subjects."

Ask No Questions

Further to the last post about our non-English speaking gardener who removed our entire garden, part two goes something like this:

I thought the best thing to do was to take Jennifer around the complex and have a look at the rest of the gardens so we could choose what kinds of plant to put into our now "desert garden".  We duely did this and a couple of days later I saw our gardener.

I took him around the relevant gardens and pointed out the  plants we had liked.  I then brought him back to our garden and showed him where I wanted each type of plant to be located.  I offered to drive him to the nursery to get the plants (using my best internationally recognised symbols for "driving" etc).  He used less formally recognised symbols for "No need, old chap. I shall obtain the requisite horticulture personally".  I also offered him some money but he too declined this offer.

The next day amazingly he arrived with the plants we had chosen, and quickly planted them and then disappeared. 

Still no request for money. 

How strange.

The next day I happened to be walking past the gardens I had pointed out to him, only to notice some suspicious looking gaps in the rows of plants I had selected.

Probably best not to ask too many questions.

Some Pics

Two shy, but colourful ladies carrying water from the local borehole, near the Old Madras Road

There are little food stalls such as this all over the city.  They provide welcome stops for local residents, and those passing through.  They are perfectly fine to eat from as long as you can be sure that their produce is really hot.  No problem with this guy!

These jolly chaps insisted I take their photo as they lazed around in this rickshaw.

Mosquitos

If there is only one mosquito in Bangalore, it will find Jennifer.  In this case there were more than one.

Back to the Future

I suppose the question of  "What the hell am I going to do all day?" has been at the back of my mind since we agreed to move out here.  Of course I can travel, do some sightseeing and some diving, but that isn't exactly productive or of any advantage to anyone.  I can't work either for reward or voluntarily as I don't have an employment visa, so I was a little concerned about how I might fill my time for the next two or three years.

As seems to be so often the case in my life, something turns up out of the blue.  Jen's company recognise the fact that I have had to make sacrifices in order to come to India to support her (Yeah!).  As a result they are in a position to bung me sweetener to do whatever I want with.  After the initial thought of new scuba equipment, smarter skis and a new set of bagpipes, I embraced reality and decided to spend it on joining the Overseas Women's Group.

Actually, no.  I was a bit more sensible than that.  I thought it would be an excellent opportunity to do some studying.  In more recent years I have had the desire to read for an LLB.  Probably due to having some degree of experience in the law, and really not finding my career intellectually stimulating enough.  When I was younger there was no way I would have even considered it.  I was not a keen reader, and would have considered it boring.  I suppose I was after different things then.  I think now I have sufficient interest in the subject, and can see its worth, not to mention having a bit more self discipline and the lack of distractions here.

Anyway, I applied and was accepted onto the University of London's International Program for the graduate entry for the LLB.  I have registered and am now awaiting my study materials.  With the graduate entry I would only need to study nine subjects in total, rather than the usual twelve, and it is possible for a graduate to complete the LLB in two years, doing four subjects in the first year, and then five in the second.  This seems a bit mad really, and I would rather do three subjects a year for three years in the hope of getting a better final mark.  I am under no illusions as to how difficult this will be, but am going to give it a good effort.  I may never practice law, but at least I should get something from the experience.

Moving In

At last we moved into our new villa on the 15th July.  The whole process was difficult in that this was the fourth house that we had tried to secure.  The other three fell through due to unscrupulous practices by the landlords.  They let you think you have secured the property, and then at the last minute the pull our because they have had a better offer.

Infuriating.

The move was ok, given that we have absolutely no furniture as yet.  It all should arrive by sea on the 12th August.  We did have an air container which was waiting for us when we arrived at the villa.  It contained essential linen items etc and my computer.  It took a little time to get the Internet connection sorted out, but it is up and running now, and seems ok, but not the fastest.  The power will just cut out here in Bangalore all the time.  Sometimes or four times a day, but the complex here has a backup generator which kicks in after about thirty seconds.  However, it means that I have to run my PC off a UPS in case I might lose any data.

The villa is in a gated development in a quiet area on the Eastern edge of the city.  There are two hundren and eighty three villas here of five different styles.  It is one of the most affluent developments in the city and is inhabited by mostly rich locals and a few ex-pats. from the USA and UK etc.  Our next door neighbour is actually an Israeli.  It is served by a central clubhouse, which is smartly built and boasts significant amenities.  There is a great outdoor swimming pool with sun-loungers very much in the Caribbean style.  There are also two outdoor tennis courts.  Upstairs there is a new, well equipped gym, and also courts for squash, table tennis and badminton.  There are even yoga classes.  The central part of the club has a restaurant.  There is the main restaurant and also a Tandoori outside next to the pool.  The menu is comprehensive with Indian, Italian and even UK food at unbelievably low prices.

The villa itself is great.  All marble, with three bedrooms, each of which is en-suite with a wetroom.  It has a good sized kitchen, living room and dining area.  The diningroom and living area are of a large open-plan design, and at the top of the stairs there is an immense landing - big enough to be a room in itself.  The two upstairs bedrooms both have quite large individual sun patios accessed by wooden french doors.

I'm going to stop there, as I am beginning to sound like an estate agent, and nobody wants that.  Here is a pic of the villa, and I will post a few more once our furniture gets here.

Of course we had to rent a couple of items as a stop-gap until our things arrive; namely a three piece suite and a bed.  This arrived promptly on our arrival in typical Indian style.  A lorry from the 1930's came down the street.  There were no less that seven occupants - three in the cab and four in the back.  They all got out without a word, and brought the items inside and assembled them, got back on the lorry and drove off.  There was no head scratching, tutting or sighing.  They just go on with it.

We now have a maid who is friendly and efficient and we also have a strange gardener.  He speaks very little if any English, and clearly the request to "Trim a few things back" translates to "Please dig out the entire garden and spare nothing"  A trip to the nursery is planned.

Mature Assessment

The pungent smell of rotting rubbish that gets the back of your throat.  The acrid odour from the open sewers that makes you retch.  The eye-watering pollution that stings your eyes.  The urine soaked pavements.  You would be forgiven in thinking that this was hell on earth.

Well that's where you would be very wrong.

I love it.

It is easy to dismiss India as being a poverty stricken country.  But I suppose it depends on your definition of poverty.  In financial terms, then yes.  There can be no doubt that there is a great deal of poverty in India, with a sizable proportion of the population surviving on only 10-15 Rupees (15-20 pence) a day, and no effective social benefit system, the poverty is very evident.

Of course India is the third fastest growing economy in the World, but it seems to be growing too quickly; stretching society upwards, without the bottom end catching up.  The infrastructure is pretty terrible, but a state of the art elevated Metro system is being completed.  It is elevated above the city and swathes its way through the chaos below.  It will take the more affluent traveller away from the everyday squalor into the sanitised tranquility of the 21st Century.  Then again, it is easier to ignore the poverty and to travel above it, than to do something meaningful about it.

But degree of wealth can be estimated in other ways.  I like to think of social wealth.  To look beyond the financial poverty and see what this country really has going for it.  Here is the real wealth of India -  Its people.  Others have written about this relative wealth in terms of culture, religious diversity and community spirit, but it is the people that are truly responsible for all these things.  Everyday I am surprised at their sense of humour, their eagerness to please, to help you out, their resourcefulness and courage in the face of adversity.

But it is the children that provide India with their true wealth.  Gladstone said something along the lines that a society can be judged by how it treats its dead, but I think the future of any society can be estimated by the conduct of the next generation.

The children come out of school, each and every one of them immaculately presented.  The girls with their hair all identically tied up in pigtails with the same coloured bows, the boys with their shirts done up to the collar and their ties neatly tied.  They are well behaved, polite and above all happy, despite their poverty.  They don't have a games console, or mobile phones.  Most don't even have a TV, and can be seen crowded in the doorways of some of the little shack shops trying to catch a glimpse of the cartoons on the proprietor's set.  They don't hang around street corners drinking and taking drugs, abusing people and being anti-social.

Considering this, and looking back to UK society, I would be ashamed to have people from India to see how our society has dealt with (and is dealing with) social deprivation.  I suppose it leaves me thinking which society is really the better off.

Oh, and by the way, there is no Human Rights Act in India.

Arrived

"I got my promotion!" crowed my boss. 

"Thank God for that" I said to myself. Perhaps now the department could get back to normal, and not be all about his attempts to suck up to the next rung of the ladder.

"Yes", he pontificated".  It was thanks to the new innovative ideas I came up with and implemented in the Silverstone matter. That's what finally swung it for me.  Let's go out for a drink to celebrate. My treat!

"No thanks. Not today. I have a few things that I need to sort out here. Maybe next week."

How could he have forgotten that it was my ideas and my implementation of the same that made the Silverstone matter such a success. Not only that, but how could he be so stupid as to then tell me that he had used my ideas in order to get his own promotion. This was only one of a number of similar incidents.  Just about the final straw for me.

I arrived home to find that someone had crashed into my wife's car; completely wrecked it, but just driven off.  The Police weren't interested, and I sat down quite dejected that our life in rural England could get so impossible.  At least is was quiet and I could relax for an hour before dinner. 

With that, the deaf guy next door turned on his television.  This was a regular occurrence, and as he was challenged in the ear department the volume was up at eleven, even though the dial was probably only numbered to ten.

"I've been asked if I would like to go to India for a while to work for six months" Jennifer revealed.

"Could you not make it longer and take me with you?" I joked.

"Well, actually, they did want me to go for a couple of years on a long-term assignment and bring you with me, but that's obviously not possible"

We arrived in Bangalore in the early hours of the 29th June 2011 and got straight to our temporary apartment.  It's on the eighth floor, but is modern and spacious, and just a couple of minutes from Jen's office on the Old Madras Road.  We were the only white people staying there and as a result attracted a certain amount of inquisitive stares. 

Staring at white people - one of the more annoying habits of the locals.  When I am in the mood, I have fun with it now.  I stop dead in my tracks, and stare back saying "Is there something wrong?"  This seems to be sufficient to end the deadlock and send the offender scurrying away with head bowed. 

This country is intense.  The heat, the noise, the smells and hustle and bustle make it quite disorientating at first.  There appears to be no order; no system. A free for all and whoever gets there first wins.  This will take some getting used to.

On Friday morning we were to meet the relocation company to view our permanent residence.  We had viewed a number of properties when we went over a few weeks earlier on our orientation trip.  Anything that seemed to be agreed with the landlord then fell through at the last minute.  We had finally agreed on a property and were looking forward to seeing it.  When they picked us up, they told us it had fallen through as well.   They knew this the day before, but never told us.  It was evident from what they said that they had told us a number of lies.  These people are just incompetence personified.  All the time they promise to ring or email, and never deliver.  Really frustrating.  Anyway, we may have got somewhere else, but I'm not positive about it until we are actually walking through the front door.

This practice of telling lies in order to save face was to became one of the more dominant features of our time in India.  It is not even the fact that someone is not being truthful, it is the insult that they think you are stupid enough to believe them.  I have had countless shouting matches with shopkeepers and service staff for blatantly lying, as you will see later.

We have had real problems with our bank in the UK.  They just blocked our cards because they thought it strange that we were in India, despite me writing to tell them that we were moving here.  We couldn't get any money out. Jen rang them four or five times (ten minutes on hold each time) and they kept saying that they had unblocked her card, but it refused to work.  Couple this with a number of unreliable ATMs in Bangalore, and we were pretty angry.  We eventually got someone that said that her card had been cancelled as the Police had found a card skimming machine, and her card details were on it.  It must have happened somewhere in the UK before we left.  They just cancelled the card without bothering to tell us.  Great customer service.

Finally, we got my card to work.  The joy was short lived.  The ATM machines work in a different sequence here, whereby you get your money and then your card is returned.  This is the opposite in the UK, so now I have walked off and left my card in the ATM.  This was to be yet another recurring theme of our time in India.  Sometimes I have been lucky and got my card back from the ATM security man, but others I have had to wait up to four weeks for a replacement to be sent.  Now who's the idiot?!

Our three cats were arriving the next day and we had to pay cash on delivery.  Eventually between us we scraped the money together, but we just had boiled rice for dinner!

So, where do you find a cat litter tray and cat litter in Bangalore?   Maybe I should he asking "How do you explain to an Indian what cat litter is?"  Que Gareth and Jen's random rickshaw drive along the streets on Bangalore looking at every shop to see if we could solve this problem in time for arrival of the cats.  I spotted an animal hospital (a very liberal description) that supplied me with a huge 25Kg bag of Chinese cat litter.  I then found a shop and got two plastic trays.  It was a strange sight - two white people in a rickshaw in the middle of all that traffic with a large bag of cat litter between us.

Anyway, the cats arrived the next morning, and were none the worse for their 26Hr journey.  I can say that they are a little confused though.  Well, then so are Jen and I!  The realisation has hit home, after of weeks of planning and headaches, we have finally done it.

Jen's underwear blew off the balcony.

No, it's not what you are thinking.  She had hung them out to dry; I mean after she washed them - there were no accidents so don't all rush out and buy shares in Tenna Lady.

Of course I was dispatched to go down the eight floors and retrieve them.  I was fishing around in the bushes and emerged brandishing Jen's underwear in my hand in an almost triumphant pose, only to look up and see a security guard about ten yards away.  He had a look on his face that changed rapidly from "What is he doing?" to  "Is he some sort of panty thief?" to  "it must be something that foreigners do." and finally "I don't get paid enough to enquire further."  He shuffled off back to his hut.

I wonder what the next week will bring.

Bad Day

Yesterday started out well, with us exchanging contracts for the house sale in the UK  Within an hour of this, I got a message to say that the rent of the property we had chosen in Bangalore had fallen through. This means that from the 29th June we are homeless.

The relocation agency told us some rubbish about the landlord refusing to sign a personal lease, and it had to be a company lease, but Jen's company won't sign company leases for tax reasons or something.  I suspect the property had been let to someone else before we visited it for the second time.  There were painters there, and the property would not be painted unless rent had been agreed.  I do not trust the relocation company since we have already caught them out lying to us.  They also stood us up in Bangalore one morning.  They just decided that they were not going to pick us up that day, but didn't bother to tell us.  I was really angry and composed an  email to Jennifer that started "It is difficult to convey how pissed off I am........"  Unfortunately I sent it to the manager of the relocation company by mistake.  Well, at least he knows how I feel!

On top of that we are getting messed around by both the pet relocation company and the import agents in India.  Nothing makes sense, so I have had try to sort it out mayself.  I seems that we need an Import Certificate for the three cats.  The Import Certificate had to be applied for in India at least 5 days before they travel.  In order to get the import certificate we need a No Objection Cerftificate (NOC) issued by Animal Quarantine.  In order to get the NOC we need animal health certificates issues by DEFRA.  They will only issue these the day before travel. 

Catch 22.

Arse!

This was all after I had followed the advice of the pet relocation company who told me to get certificates from my own vet.  So, yesterday I spent a not inconsiderable amount of time chasing three cats around the house, trying to get them into their carriers.  This isn't helped as they now know the sound of their carriers as soon as I bring them into the house, and run off and hide; or try to batter their way through the locked cat flap.  Thirty minutes, 20 scratches and a mouthful of fur later I then had to battle my way through the Friday afternoon chaos of the streets of Thrapston to the vets.  I was in the vets for over an hour and £151 worse off, but at least I have three certificates which I have now been told are of absolutely no use to me!!!

Double arse!

Anyway, here's a picture of a cat.  This is Mitzi.  Mitzi doesn't like her pet carrier.  Mitzi doesn't like the vets, and Mitzi REALLY  doesnt like being messed around when there are earthworms to be caught.

Our New Home?

We were provided with the services of a relocation company who showed us several properties which they felt might match our requirements.  While we did not intend to choose a property on this visit, the idea was to get a feel of what was available and what would be within the budget that Jen's company had set. 

We saw a few apartments in the centre of the city which we didn't really like, and a few houses in ex-pat communities which were just ok.  Lastly we went to Palm Meadows which is the premiere housing area of Bangalore and, we thought, well outside out budget.

We were delighted to be shown a really nice villa which would be within the budget.

Palm Meadows is a gated community on the far Eastern side of the city well away from the chaos.  It is quite big and is serviced by a "clubhouse" that comprises two outdoor and one indoor swimming pool, tennis, badminton and squash courts, a gym, an excellent restaurant and an Irish bar!  I hope we manage to get the property finalised.

The Dreaded 8th June

The evening before I could tell I was heading towards an "eye of a needle" situation.  I had it last year in Antigua and ended up on a drip.  I thought it best to intervene early to prevent having to spend the entire flight on Friday in some horrible British Airways toilet.  Luckily, Jennifer found out from the hotel reception that there was a hospital with a dispensary just around the corner and she was brave enough to take a walk over there. 

She spoke to the drug wallah through a small hatch in the wall, but he wouldn't give her any antibiotics without a doctor seeing me first.  He did however give her some cartons of apple juice as an interim measure.  After her return I thought I should really brave the doctor and so headed off to the aforementioned hospital.

A strange place.  On entering you feel like you are going to leave with more diseases than you arrived with.  An old 1970's style building - not exactly clean, and no soap in the toilets.  I was directed to room 4 and was seen within 10 minutes or so by a female doctor in a saree who looked more like someone's Mother than a doctor.  She was perfectly pleasant and sorted me out with a prescription of a cocktail of drugs.  The fee?  It was £3.25 for her and £1.50 for the tablets.

By this time Jennifer had followed me around to the hospital and we walked the short distance back to the hotel.  This is where things got worse. You think it would be a simple task to walk through the revolving door of the hotel.  Not so.  These things seem to have a mind of their own, coupled with some sharp metal edges.  As I went through the door with Jennifer behind me there was a bang and the door stopped.  I looked around and the bottom of the door had hit Jennifer on the foot.  She was wearing open sandals and the door had sliced into her big toe.  As she walked into the reception blood was pouring out everywhere, making a stark contrast with the beautiful white marbled flooring. 

There was some degree of chaos from the reception staff.  I could tell right away that it needed stitches.  I got some dressings from the staff and bandaged it up. So it was back to the hospital again.  Thirty minutes, five stitches and £20 later Jennifer was walking out of the hospital with her big comedy toe poking out from the front of one of my sandals.

The British NHS could learn a thing or two from this efficient and inexpensive Indian system.