Superman

Sunday afternoon. Besant Nagar beach or Bessy as it's know colloquially.

31 degrees. Hazy and Hot.

I have just bought a T-Shirt for less than the price of a Latte in a London Starbucks.It's a 'Superman' T-shirt.  Bought with irony in mind and 300 rupees from my wallet.

The exact cost of the T -shirt is 295 rupees. I still have the 5 rupees change clasped in my hand as I exit, and see Our Man.

Actually I had seen him on the way in, his hand outstretched toward me. But at that moment I was a (superman) on my way to rescue That T-shirt. So I did what I normally do in these circumstances. I ignored him.

Now I exit the shop in my new persona, and  I am feeling guilty. I have just bought a T Shirt at a price that can only mean its been stitched by 1000 Bangladeshi orphans  for a dollar and a stick of chewing gum. What to do?

Make amends obviously. Settle the balance with the Universe ASAP!

I thrust the 5 rupees into his still outstretched hand. And he looks at me. And mumbles something in Tamil which I don't understand at all, but I don't have to because his eyes say it all. THANKYOU!

I nod back and mumble make my exit, and hustle into the Puma sportswear shop (shorts to go with my T-shirt).Five shop assistants who were enjoying a languid Sunday afternoon doze just a few seconds ago jump to attention at a whistle from the security guard and start trailing me around the shop. Which is enough to drive me back out in under a minute.

And anyway I'm no longer interested in shorts. I can't get this guys face out my head. I have to get his picture!

Fortunately he hasn't wandered far. And I watch him for a few more minutes as he totters around the Sunday afternoon visitors to Besant Nagar beach imploring each of them to part with their Hard Earned. But people are not interested. Or at least they are more interested in enjoying the many and assorted foods ,sweets, trinkets, attractions and other assortments that Bessy has to offer to a punter on a Sunday afternoon..

And it Still HOT! But for once these bright southern Indian skies are not blue. The sun is up there alright, but its usual fierce gaze is dissolved and diffused behind the huge billowing clouds that have been growing ever higher all morning.

Bad news for a day at the beach. It looks and feels as though these same clouds are going to dump their contents downward any moment now. But the plus side of this is that the light is softened and subdued. Good for portraits.

I cross the street to our man. Phone camera at the ready (the best camera is the one you have with you) He turns and stretches his hand out again, and then recognition dawns and a slightly puzzled look crosses his face.

I say "Hello' and 'I gave already' in a weak attempt at humour. But he clearly  doesn't understand and replies in a stream of Tamil which I don't.

'Can I take your picture? ' I ask. Pointing to the phone and holding it up toward him. More torrents of Tamil..A nearby couple have been watching/ laughing at our exchange, step in and  intervene and translate, and apparently permission is granted. 'He's saying Ok you can take his photo!'

So. It's the Decisive Moment. I step towards him, and bring the phone up to eye level. But the bright sky behind him means all I see on screen is a silhouette. 'Hang on! Wait a sec..' I say. More torrents of Tamil but the tone is bemused, as is the expression of the translator couple still watching and giggling off to one side. Who's this idiot foreigner who can't even use his camera phone? I finally find the exposure settings in the camera controls and notch it up a couple of pegs and Wwwwhoooaa! Suddenly That Face fills the screen, and I know before I have even clicked the shutter that I've struck gold.

I take 3 or 4 shots in quick succession, moving in a bit closer each time, and then I'm done. I give thanks and bow my appreciation to our man, and in return he smiles and makes a blessing like motion with his free hand.

And just for a moment. All is well again with The Universe. 

And I really am Superman!

Sick - Leave!

So I got sick this weekend. It happens here in Chennai. More frequently than I would like but then who likes to be sick? Nothing serious, the usual hacking your lungs out whilst heaving your guts up fayre. In England we would call it 'Gastric flu' or similar. (My ex would call it Man Flu but then she would call anything short of full blown AIDs Man Flu but that’s another story.) Here in India they call it Viral Fever. And that’s because they call every illness here Viral Fever.

And so yesterday I went to the Doctor, to have my Viral Fever diagnosed. Not because I wanted treatment, or medication. Rather I needed to obtain proof in the form of a Medical Certificate so that my employer can mark me down for Casual Leave. Note that's Casual leave, not sick or Medical leave but Casual. What's casual about it exactly? Trying to effect a certain nonchalance as you run for the bathroom yet again? But I digress.

Normally I attend at the PadmaPriya Hospital in Adyar but to be honest, and how can I put this politely, its a bit 'challenged' in both the hygiene and human resources departments.  There’s the MIOT international hospital at Manapakkam but its a bit of a trek and it didn't really endear itself to me when, during the recent Chennai floods, their emergency back-up power generators failed. Human resources ie. Doctors at MIOT decided to take the opportunity for an extended break, leaving the patients in Critical care to fend for themselves. Needless to say those on ventilators and other forms of life support didn’t fare to well, and their situation turned rather quickly from critical to terminal. In the UK government ministers would be hung out to dry – excuse the pun over something like this. Here people apparently are a bit more philosophical. They kind of shrug and in reference to their love ones hastened demise say things like “Ahh well he had a good innings” or  ‘it was probably time anyway’, or “Come on aunty, lets go and have some dosa/idli (insert any food item here).”

Either way I decided I needed that what I needed was a local surgery not a locum, so I took the relatively short walk to the row of shops along Besant Avenue and made some enquiries at the pharmacy who immediately pointed me in the right direction. ie next door. I'd walked right past it, but the reason I’d missed it was because as well being the local surgery, the place was a sort of localized black hole from which not even light could escape. Thereby rendering it invisible.

I walked in from the bright sunshine anyway and peering through the gloom managed to make out a vaguely human like form standing behind what could been a reception desk. I waited a few seconds for visual purple to kick in and confirm that was indeed the case.

The human like form slowly transmorphed into a receptionist and eyed me curiously.

Behind her a poster of a smiling Winnie The Pooh was the closest thing to a welcome.

I tried to smile back, and cleared my throat. (not easy to do at the same time)
Hello. I’d like to see a doctor please

She continued to stare, but didn’t answer. I stared pleadingly back, and repeated a simplified version my request more slowly enunciating each syllable.

‘Doccc-torrrr   Pleeeeze”

She finally came too from her reverie.  
Doktorr  you vant?

Yes please.

Vot its problem?

I’ve got flu.

Another blank look.

Influenza...  Cough cough – (I coughed to exemplify)

Fever ( I mopped my brow)

Ahh! Feeevah?

Yes.

Viraal Feeevah?

Yes I think so.

OK OK. Sit please. She motioned in the direction of the waiting area.

I sat. And as my eyes accustomed to the gloom, surveyed my surroundings, or what I could make of them. Apart from a metal bench chairs and a standing fan there wasn’t much. A few posters on the walls –something to do with osteoarthritis, another on obesity (not a problem for too many here at the moment I wouldn’t have thought)  

I guess you could describe it as pretty minimalist, although there was really nothing pretty about any of it. The word that sprang more immediately to mind was grubby. It was as thought the once white painted walls has been given a very unique sort of rag effect type  decorative treatment –eg.  Rubbed with a Very Dirty oily one.

I began to feel a bit uncomfortable. The PadmaPriya was positively gleaming in comparison to this place. Behind my right shoulder a sign indicated the “Emergency Room’ the door to which was half open. The slice of interior it revealed was lit with a ghastly green fluorescent light, and looked distinctly uninviting, but just as was thinking of calling it quits the ‘nurse’ a girl of about 15, appeared at my side and motioned me to follow her inside.

She was dressed in grubby whites which it seemed had been through the same sort treatment as the walls. So she was nothing if not well co-ordinated with her environs.

‘Sit please’ she said, pointing to the metal stool in front of me.

I gingerly sat, and she disappeared into an ante-room at the back.

The ‘Emergency Room’ was every bit as bad as I’d feared from my  earlier glimpse. If not worse.  The staining effect had been continued for consistency on the walls. Although it appeared entirely possible that blood had been added to the oily rag mix. At the back of the room was a consulting bed upon which was laid a surgical blue sheet which appeared to have several stains of unidentifiable substances randomly applied.

Oh my god I thought. Knowing the standard examination procedure would involve sitting or lieing on this, my discomfort was becoming more pronounced by the second, in fact I was starting to feel positively itchy when the nurse reappeared  holding a thermometer.

She thrust it towards me. I physically reared my head away.

‘What’s that?’ I said

She looked at me oddly.

‘Temprachaa -  I tekk it. Temprachha’ She said waving it in front of my mouth

Errr. Has it been sterilised?

Her puzzled look intensified.

‘Tempraccha!’  she repeated. Waving it in her grubby little fingers like a conductors baton.

Sterilised. I repeated? Is it STEH –RAA-LIZED?

She gave that funny nodding motion with her head that to us Westerners means possibly yes, possibly no. I realised she had no clue what I meant never mind whether the instrument was fit for clinical use.

What about you? I said glancing at her dirty fingernails.

Have you been sterilized ?

Now with the benefit of hindsight I realize this is an extremely politically incorrect thing to ask a young lady, but I didn’t mean it that way and since she clearly didn’t have a clue what I meant it didn’t really matter. She just continued waving the thermometer at me.

Tempracchaa!

There’s was no way I was sticking that thing in my mouth - if indeed that’s where she intended to stick it, and then a more frightening thought occurred to me, relating to where said instrument might have been stuck previously so to speak.

That was it. I made my mind up.

Err. Look it’s OK. Sorry.. Never mind. I think I will have to leave it this time.

Thankyou so much!

And with that I fled for the door.

The receptionist looked up as I hastened toward the exit, sunlight and safety. The nurse was following still clutching the thermometer.

Im sorry I said continuing past. She gave a bewildered look  from me to the nurse, and then back to me.
Dirty! Very dirty! I stammered Pointing back toward the still following nurse.

She stopped in her tracks.

Sterraa Lie! She said.

Giant thunderstorm

Earlier this year - but posting now! A big thunderstorm rolled in from the sea!
FREAKY!+ it was giant!!!

Rain

Ten Things I hate About Chennai -No.8

Its rains a lot here. It's raining now as I write this.

For many years I lived in Manchester, so I thought I knew all about rain.
But the rain here is different. Its wetter, and it doesn't go away. Even when its stopped.

And whereas the rain in Manchester fell frequently and often, it did at least wash some of the Mancunian grime away and make the place seem a bit cleaner, Occasionally  the clouds would part, the sun would shine, and a rainbow might appear above the Oxford road arching from somewhere over the Refuge Tower to Picadilly Gardens. It was a bit like that moment in Wizard of Oz when Dorothy lands in Oz and everything turns from Black n white to glorious technicolour,

Well. Your not in Kansas any more Dorothy. Your in Chennai.

In Chennai the rain turns the litter strewn streets into litter strewn sewers.
Sometime within a matter of minutes.
One minute your strolling down to Cafe Day for your mid-morning cappucino, the next your wading
back to work and wishing you had thought to pack a pair of fishermens waders. (The kind they use when they go fly fishing and have to go in waist deep.)

One time I came out at lunch time after it had been raining during the morning to find Santhome High Road was already doing a passable impression of the Ganges Delta. Its only 50 yards to Coffee Day, (  Slogan - A lot can happen over Coffee -No shit) but if  I wanted a coffee it was clearly going to be a case of sink or swim ( or perhaps more accurately stink and swim)

There was one other option. I believe it was Nikoli's sugggestion (work colleague) but since it was still raining heavily I went against all my principles and summoned an auto from the Auto drivers hangout opposite the college. Even in the short time it took him to drive to us the river had already risen several inches, and since Coffee Day is in the direction against the flow of traffic we decided on another venue a little 'down river'. Sometimes I like to think I can quite literally go with the flow.

We set off in the direction of the "Palm Shore" restaurant a few hundred yards away.
The water already lapping into the footwell of the auto, and the rsing current threatning to capsize us at any moment. The driver pulled up at he Palm Shore, but the problem was there wasn't one. A shore I mean. Just several feet of murky brown water swilling around the entrance.

"Here Sir!" the driver beamed. Indicating we alight, but I refused and yelled
 ''You need to get us nearer!"

No Sir. Not possible. Water too deep.! Here is good!

No! Here is not GOOD! Im not getting out!

Here good sir!

NO! NOT GOOD!

Oh for the love of God.
Just Take us back!

Back Sir?

Yes! Get us out of here!

No eating Sir?

No eating.. Just take us back.

The manager of the Palm Shore stood in the doorway eagerly awaiting us.
And was probably even more disspointed than I that we would not be  joining the rest of his very wet clientele for lunch that day.

I gave him an apologetic wave as we departed.

Or perhaps I was
Not waving.
Just drowning..

Lost

Another reason I hate Autos is that I lose things in them.

They are small. The Autos that is. They make a dodgem car seem like a stretch limo. This doesn't seem to worry the locals too much who have no problem cramming entire generations of their family into them for the school run. But for us Westerners with our love of personal space and breathing things can seem rather cramped.

If your carrying a few bags of groceries and your laptop, then the problem is exemplified. The only place to put your shopping is on the small shelf behind the passenger seat. They may be safe there but they also out of sight, and therefore out of mind.

Unfortunately in my case this is frequently where they remain when I get out.

The stress of haggling the fare with driver and/or worrying that the agreed fare is actually what we agreed, means that when we reach our destination my mind is often elsewhere and my body wants to follow unencumbered. I usually get out promptly, thrust the 'correct' amount of ruppees at the driver, turn and walk briskly away. Ignoring any or all requests/calls/pleas/crying/begging along the lines of ' Sir! Sir! More! 10 rupees waiting time etc..'

The upshot is that in the relatively short time I have been here I have already lost;

1 bag of shopping from the Mercado Deli in Besant Nagar -contents included a jar of Bonne Maman (very expensive) Orange Marmalade. (Breakfast is the most important meal of the day!)

1 Pair of dark blue Adidas Football Shorts.

1 Compaq 510 Laptop  in its case along with 1 Daler A4 black hardbound  sketchbook.

The only thing I was particularly upset about in the above list was the sketchbook, (and possibly the marmalade the morning following its loss.) The shorts too I could live without

However the laptop is/was the property of Raffles Millennium College, and so procedures had to be followed and a full report filed to the police.

And so on a Monday afternoon Umamageswaran (Uma) the I.T. technician (who else) and I took and Auto down to Besant Nagar nick (police station).

Now Police station waiting rooms are nobody's idea of a favourite hangout I guess.
But while Uma wrote a full and detailed account of my stupidity in his best handwriting I had plenty of time to ponder the utter drabness of the interior decor (or lack thereof,)
India is nothing if not colourful, but stepping inside Besant Nagars version of Precinct 13 was akin to entering not so much a black hole as a dark brown one. One from which no light could escape much less anyone unfortunate enough to have been taken in custody,

My eyes fell upon the poster behind the (Female) duty sergeants desk. Who was by the way warily eyeing Umas statement whilst he wrote, and looked as though she would relish the opportunity to arrest him for poor grammar, or (more likely) kosh him for a spelling mistake.

Anyway back to the poster. Actually it wasn't so much a poster as a large list of numbered bullet points of statistical crime data in the Besant Nagar vicinity. Including helpfully:

10.Crime Prone Areas, and 11, Prohibition Black Spots. Obviously its my sincere wish to avoid both of those, but it was No 15. which really stood out

15. NO  OF BAD CHARACTERS

This had a sublist

HD -Nil
DC -Nil
KD -Nil
Rowdies- 7

A sense of relief washed over me. No HDs (  Heroin Dealers? Hard Dicks? Hairy Dorks?)
No DC's (Dirty Coppers? Drunken Crazies? ) No KD's (Ketamine Dealers? Killer Dogs?)
and only 7 Rowdies! There's more Rowdies than that at a Parbold Village Womens Institute meeting
(and come to think of it probably more Ketamine dealers too)

Besant Nagar is obviously a very safe neighbourhood. Im so glad I moved here.
Thank God for the boys in blue (or brown n khaki to be accurate)

I only hope its a recent poster. Although I have my doubts on that score.

Eventually Uma finished writing the report. It must have been OK because the duty sergeant didnt arrest or kosh him, in fact she seemed to be almost smiling and joking with Uma by this stage, and I wondered for minute if love might be in the air along with the stench of custodial fear, blood, urine and sweat.
Then it was handed to me for verification on the accuracy of the events as portrayed. To be honest I couldn't really read his handwritng but I signed anyway. No doubt I may face a perjury charge someway down the line and end up as a statistic on the poster. NF (Naughty Foreigner)

Spell Bound

Joined up writing please

Besant Nagar Crime Stats

Reboot - Note to self (and others)

So Che Che as you and my regular reader(s)* will know it has been some days since my last post, and the regularity and consistency of my posting relating my tales of life as an expat Dad has been somewhat erratic. There are all sort of reasons (excuses) for this, the main one being that I am a bit rubbish.

However from hereon I have decided that rather than being disappointingly inconsistent with my posts I will strive instead for inconsistently disappointing.  In other words I will post with appalling regularity and some of my posts will be appalling, but they will at least be there.

And even if they are all a load of rubbish then so be it.

This is India. So a load of rubbish is very much the norm.

Here's a couple of pics to prove my point:

*(I wasn't sure whether the plural was necessary but hope springs eternal)

Ten Things I Hate about Chennai

Im having a hard time narrowing this down to just 10 but here goes :)

10. Straight in at number 10 we have

Auto Drivers - these guys are a breed apart.  Although there are a million trillion of them, very few actually seem to want to pick you up when you most need it ie. in the morning to get to work in the rush hour. Almost all will tail you when your just out for a stroll and in no particular hurry.
4 out 5 of those that do actually stop when hailed, will simply wobble their heads as if to say OK, and then drive off after you tell them where you wish to go.

Santhome? (My work district) No chance. Its not as though its some notoriously dodgy suburb on the wrong side of town. And anyway the whole of Chennai is a notoriously dodgy suburb.
When your finally lucky enough to find one willing to take you and his chances in Santhome, then begins the fare negotiations; This can take some time, depending on how late you are already.
These guys were born to haggle, you were not. And they can sense desperation a mile away.
Either way, and no matter how accomplished your own haggling skills, your paying somewhere between 50-250% over the regular meter fare.

In the main there are 2 distinct kinds of driver, and driving style, and none of them is the Stig. The majority (by far) it would seem attended the Chennai Kamikaze Auto Driver training School. Not all of them passed by the way but that would not seem to be any bar to becoming licenced to kill.

A distinct minority veer the other way (quite literally).These guys take their time (and yours) And are happy to meander along gently driving cross legged whilst singing along to Tamil radio. They will take you a circuitous route through the steamy underbelly of Chennia in order to get you to your destination, but then so do their Kamikaze colleagues. The difference is that this time you can actually see (and smell) the sights en route, and this is not always (ie.never)  desirable.

No. 9 tommorow..