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.