The Other Taxi Incident (July 4, 2006)

I was running late. This is not a rare occurrence. I had made plans to meet Dave, my longest standing friend, to celebrate our fortieth birthdays (his in mid-May, mine about six weeks later). We were to meet at 7:00 at Union Station, but I had, perhaps foolishly, decided that I both could and should put some time in on a cross-trainer before heading out for an evening of eating and heavy drinking. I left my place, in the now bustling Distillery District, at exactly 6:50. Now I can easily walk to Union Station in under twenty minutes, but I do hate to make people wait. And I was looking forward to a night out!
I left the building and turned right towards Parliament. Just as I reached it, I saw a taxi barrelling south along Parliament. I raised my hand as it drove by, and one quick U-turn later, I was sitting in the back.

I need to go to Union Station.

You’ll have to tell me how to get there. This is my first day.

I should point out that this is the city’s main rail hub, heavily used by both commuter and passenger trains. As such, this was a completely unanticipated response. I was at a loss for words, briefly.

Uh, turn left on Front and head downtown.

(Downtown is minutes away, even in bad traffic).
Like so many cabbies in Toronto, the driver was clearly from somewhere on the Indian sub-continent. Sri Lanka? India? Pakistan? Bangladesh?

May I ask where are you are from, sir?

I usually call people “sir” in such situations. Everyone likes to be respected. In fact, I call beggars “sir” or “ma’am” although I refuse to part with any money for them.

I am from India.

I was just there, for a few days, in April. It’s a shame, I have spent months studying Hindi, and we ended up in Tamil Nadu!

This was, of course, a blatantly manipulative attempt to show off. He took the bait:

नमस्ते
(Namaste: Hello)

It was part question, part challenge. I suppose the idea of a random white fare speaking any Asiatic language at all, much less his, must have seemed quite unbelievable, especially on his first day.

नमस्ते! आप कैसे हैं?
(Namaste! Aap kaise hain?: Hello! How are you?)

Or at least I meant to say something like that; for all I know, between my accent and my relatively meagre vocabulary, I may have been cursing taxi drivers' respect for the rules of the road. I think it was positive, though, as I was suddenly the recipient of a veritable barrage of Hindi. I got the first two or three words, then lost track. When it comes to languages, I will always be a dilettante. My affection for them far outweighs my knowledge, to say nothing of my discipline when it comes to actual study.
I smiled. He continued speaking, presuming, apparently, that I was catching it all. I smiled and nodded, and he smiled back. Fortunately, we were soon at the Union Station; I paid him off, wished him good luck, and headed downstairs to meet Dave.
For next time, perhaps I should memorize the phrases:

धीरे धीरे बोलिये
(dhire dhire boliye?: Could you speak more slowly?)

and

एक बार और कहिये
(ek baar aur kahiye?: Could you repeat that?)

These phrases are both from the Lonely Planet Hindi & Urdu Phrasebook.

African Elites in India: Habshi Amarat (June 10, 2006)

I have the fortune, whether good or bad, to come from a very well educated family –We have professors going back three generations:

• My maternal grandfather, William Ewart Staples taught Ancient Near Eastern Studies at Victoria College (University of Toronto) from 1932 until 1962,
• My father, Wallace Edmond McLeod, taught Classics at Victoria College from 1962 until 1996,
• My brother, John Edmond McLeod has taught history, specializing in the history of India, at the University of Louisville since 1995; he is currently chairman of their Department of History.

They studied, and taught (and teach), in the Humanities; my own background is in mathematics and engineering – trade-school stuff, if you will, rather than what I should call a proper education per se. As my mother is also trained as a Classicist, this clearly demonstrates extreme rebellion on my part during my late teenage years; I have, however, made peace with culture, history, and languages in the interim. And every morning I am thankful that I don’t have to teach!

John and a friend of his, Ken Robbins, have spent much of the last few years collaborating on a book called African Elites in India: Habshi Amarat. This was Ken’s idea; one of his many fields of interest is artwork from India, and he noticed that a surprisingly large number of paintings clearly showed individuals of African descent. He contacted John about this curious fact, and they decided this required more explanation. This book is the result of their explorations.

I had the honour of attending the launch of this book, which took place at the Freer Gallery in the Smithsonian Institution. As Fay has a cousin, Louiqa, who lives in Maryland, we took advantage of the opportunity to travel to the DC area and made it a long weekend, leaving Toronto at 7:30 a.m. Friday and returning at 9:00 p.m. Sunday.

En Route to DC

In the past, we have driven to DC, by routes both east and west of Lake Ontario, and we have flown into both Dulles and Baltimore Washington; this trip, we were flying into Reagan National. Flights into this airport undergo, for obvious reasons, additional security. We decided to try to follow the letter of the law, and arrive at Terminal Two as close to two hours before the flight as we could manage. Our limo showed up on time; we made it to the airport by 5:45, cleared US customs, and had a light breakfast consisting of mediocre coffee and pastries. (I have been drinking coffee while flying out of Pearson for over twenty years, and the fact that the coffee has improved to mediocre is noteworthy. Of course, Terminal One has Starbucks, which has much better quality control, but that’s another story.)

Then it was time to make our way to Gate U, the boarding area. This entailed quite a walk; it is apparently the gate located furthest from the main part of the terminal. As we made our way through what appeared to be abandoned hallways, we saw signs telling us the distance, and approximate walking time, to Gate U. The first said something like “600 m, 12 minutes”. We walked along with our carry-on luggage: a small suitcase on wheels each and a garment bag containing nicer clothes than we usually take on such trips. Eventually we came to the entrance to the final waiting room. Time for another search of our luggage, and then we were allowed to enter what must be one of the smallest waiting rooms in the entire Pearson complex. There were two other people waiting for the flight. We had about thirty minutes to kill; while we waited, a troupe of foreign tourists en route to Washington also made their way through the last security check.

Soon it was time to board. We were flying on a Bombardier CRJ 200, which was a nice change from the previous times we had flown into D.C., when we flew on Jazz with, I believe, a Dash-8 300. The cruising speed makes all the difference: 490 mph for the jet versus 330 mph for the turboprop.

The CRJ 200 has room for up to fifty passengers (most of whom were the aforementioned tourists) and one flight attendant. It seemed as if we had just enough time to have juice, coffee, and a snack before the plane turned west over Chesapeake Bay and headed up the Potomac.

The Washington Metro

Arrival and debarkation was quick; clearing customs in Canada means we were treated as an incoming domestic flight, and having no checked luggage allowed us to walk out of the airport in less than ten minutes.

Immediately outside the airport is the National Airport station, on the Yellow and Blue Lines. Our ultimate destination was College Park, Maryland, where Fay’s cousin lives. With a little help from a very friendly attendant, we figured out how to purchase our tickets. The Washington Metro is, in a key way, rather different from the TTC subways I am used to. In Toronto, all trains leaving a given platform travel along the same track to the same terminus. In D. C., there are several stations, including National Airport, which are shared by two lines. The stations are, fortunately, designed well enough that we were in no real danger of ending up on the wrong train. At Mt Vernon Square, the Yellow Line ended and we transferred to a Green Line train. Less than forty five minutes after leaving the plain, we were waiting for Louiqa to pick us up at Prince George’s Plaza.

After a light brunch, consisting of bagels, smoked salmon, and coffee, we retired to Louiqa’s home. I needed to recover a little from the ungodly hour we had gotten up, while the other two chatted and caught up.

Georgetown

I am not sure I would find a trip to the District of Columbia complete without a shopping expedition to Georgetown. We park on Water St just off the Potomac, meander up the bank of the river over what’s left the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, and wander up and down Wisconsin Avenue. We also have a tradition of buying gelato at Dean and Deluca (my own tradition also involves not purchasing anything else there!)

As we walked along M Street from Potomac St, we walked past the Shops of Georgetown Park. We went, briefly, into a store called Sisley, and then pushed on. We walked up Wisconsin a little, but ended up back in the Shops. By then, it had started to rain. This meant, naturally, that our parking meter was about to run out as well. I dashed out in the light rain to feed it while Fay returned to Sisley. I took my time returning, and looked around the mall. It is a strange combination of agreeably attractive and soulless. Stores with friendly clerks but very few customers. I found a store which sold novelty T-shirts; one had an obviously female skeleton sitting on a park bench with the caption “Waiting for Mr Right.” I thought about getting it for one of our friends, but decided I didn’t want to give a gift which could be construed as mean.

I returned to Sisley; Fay had purchased two outfits, but unfortunately our travel plans did not permit her to get them altered for free.

We returned to the car and headed to the Whole Foods Market in Silver Springs, bought the makings of a dinner, and headed back to Louiqa’s. Several glasses of wine later, we were ready to eat. Then, to bed – Saturday would be a busy day!

The Freer and Sackler Galleries

Saturday dawned bright and clear. The reception was not scheduled to begin until 1:00 p.m., but we slept in, got up, and had a relaxed breakfast. We got ourselves ready, and headed down to the Mall. I don’t believe we had ever been to the Freer and Sackler Galleries in any of our previous visits to the Smithsonian Institution’s museums, but they are were easy enough to find. Louiqa dropped us off and parked the car, and we went wondering around looking for the reception. First, and much to Fay’s annoyance, I assumed the event would be easy to find, so we walked entirely around the Sackler Gallery. Fortunately, it is a small building; once it became clear that there were no receptions of any kind on its grounds, I was forced to admit it was time to ask for directions. We stepped inside, and a very helpful security guard directed us to the much larger Freer Gallery, immediately to the west. We stepped back out into the sunshine, walked south to Independence Avenue, and then along Independence for a minute or so to the main entrance of the Freer. Another guard directed us to the Central courtyard; on our way in, we were greeted by the ultimate security system: a woman with a clipboard. She was all smiles, of course, as most of the attendees were generous donors to the Galleries, but one got the feeling that things would not go well for gatecrashers. I helped her find our names, she checked them off, and we stepped into the courtyard. We were fashionably late – as fashionably late as one could be to a reception that’s only an hour long. Things seemed to be in full swing. Fay pointed John and Mary out, and we went over to greet them.

John was quite busy, so after a quick hello, and an introduction to his coauthor Ken, we let him return to gladhanding the other guests. I found a table of canapés, a welcome discovery as I was starting to feel peckish. I also found glasses of wine for Fay and Louiqa, and some San Pellegrino for myself.

Before too long, I bumped into Claudia, the woman who had organized things. I had been in correspondence with her by e-mail several times over the preceding weeks, and had quite looked forward to meeting her. In an absurdly unfair turn of events, her contract had ended earlier that week, and she was required to attend the event she had put so much effort into as regular private citizen rather than as a representative of the Smithsonian. She seemed relatively unfazed by this, however, and was every bit as friendly, personable, and well-spoken in person as she was in e-mail.

A little later in my wanderings between the canapés and my co-attendants, I met Debra, curator of the Indian art collection, long time friend of Ken, and soon-to-be MC of John and Ken’s talk on their book. She apparently thought I looked familiar, and we spent a few moments trying to figure out where she met me, before I thought to mention that “it may be because I look a little like my brother”, pointing at him. A long, epiphanous “Oooh”, and we went on to other topics.

At 2:00, it was time to head into the auditorium for the main event.

The Talk

Debra introduced Ken and John. I won’t say too much about the content of their discussion – that’s better done by the book itself – beyond that it was utterly fascinating. The interest of the audience, a mixture of African-Americans, individuals of Indian ancestry, and aficionados of Indian art, was almost palpable. The subject of elite African slaves in India is not well known, and the fact that some of erstwhile slaves went on to seize power, and retain it until Independence in 1947, even less so.

John and Ken made a good tag team; with John’s rather more formal demeanour contrasting with Ken’s somewhat more relaxed approach to public speaking. Both presented the subject engagingly, with a fine selection of slides of pictures from the book as backdrop.

After a round of questions from the audience, John and Ken retreated to the foyer to sign autographs. Unfortunately, the books that had been ordered for them to sign were stuck in customs in New York, and so they were stuck autographing labels which could be inserted in the books when they arrived. We ordered a copy, but Louiqa outdid us by ordering six.

Joyriding and Drinks at the Bar

We spent the next half-hour or so joyriding around downtown D.C. in Louiqa’s new Saab convertible. Eventually, we ended up at John and Mary’s hotel, the St Gregory on M Street at 21st. There is not much around that’s open late on a Saturday afternoon, so we had drinks in the hotel bar, the M Street Bar and Grill. The five of us sat on bar stools around a high table; drinking a selection of cocktails and beer. I had a local beer, whose name I forget, and then, on John’s recommendation, a Maker’s Mark Manhattan. The time passed quickly; it was soon time to make our way to dinner.
Dinner

Ken had arranged for us to dine at the Heritage India restaurant on Wisconsin. I took a cab with John and Mary, whom I don’t see often enough. Fay and Louiqa returned to the Saab, but rather unfortunately, they got trapped by the Washington DC Pride Parade; our cab driver was expecting it, and knew how to get around it, but it took the other two almost an hour longer to get to the restaurant.

At dinner were Ken, his charming wife Joyce, their charming daughter-in-law Hannah, two guests of theirs, John, Mary, Fay, Louiqa, and myself. Such a length guest list made for a somewhat chaotic meal, and I fear that Ken’s side did not pull its weight in the imbibing department, but it was a lovely evening.

We broke up around 10:00; said our goodbyes, and headed back to Maryland.

Georgetown Redux

Sunday morning, we ventured back into the District to have brunch with John and Mary before their return to Louisville. We went to some French patisserie/crêperie style place between the St Gregory and the Foggy Bottom Metro station, walked them down to the turnstiles, and made our good-byes. Louiqa returned home, while Fay and I walked along M Street back to Georgetown. We window shopped, mostly, and toured the Old Stone House, one of the oldest buildings in Washington. We walked almost to the Francis Scott Key Bridge, which is almost at the end of M Street, then walked back to the Dupont Circle Metro station, made our way back to Prince George’s Plaza. We relaxed a while, and soon it was time to head to the airport, and home. I had booked the tickets on Aeroplan points, and even after paying all required taxes, transit charges, and fuel surcharges, we ended up spending more money going between our home and Toronto Pearson Airport.

The Taxi Incident (April 24, 2006)

On Monday, having more-or-less recovered from our trip visit to India, we decide to visit Odel, one of our favourite stores in Colombo. We took a three-wheeler there with one of Fay’s young cousins at a pre-agreed fare of Rs 150. We stopped at Cotton Collection first, so Fay could return some shirts that didn’t quite fit right and look for some appropriate substitutes. About half an hour later, we were on our way, in the same three-wheeler. Before too long, we arrived at Odel. We paid an extra Rs 50 to the driver for the time he spent waiting at Cotton Collection, and we all walked away happy.

All I wanted at Odel was a T-shirt, but it is difficult to get out of there in less then a few hours. First, we got fruit juices, then there was jewelry to be checked out, then clothing – lots of clothing. I looked over the selection of food, and the books (I read a little of a book called A Cause Untrue, by David Blacker – I found it quite compelling, and find myself rather sorry I didn’t purchase it), and the music, and found the T-shirt I wanted. Then I waited. Finally, Fay and her cousin came, and we went to the DeliFrance on the ground floor for coffee and pastries. Then, ice cream from Il Gelato, followed by buying a kilogram of various flavours of gelato to take home. I was sceptical about the ice cream making it through the twenty minute drive back in the tropical heat, but they have clearly done this before.

It was time to go home. Fay’s cousin and I stayed back while Fay negotiated the the trip back home. Primarily foreigners and rich Sri Lankans shop at Odel, and it can be difficult to get a fair deal, but the third driver she spoke to agreed to do it for Rs 150. Fay summoned her cousin and me, and we got in. The trip was uneventful, although it is invariably necessary to give further directions when we get close by – the house is off on a small side street which can be very hard to find.

We arrived, and her cousin and I stepped out. The next thing I knew, things seemed to be getting rather heated between Fay and our driver. It transpired that he had decided to unilaterally increase the fare by Rs 100. It transpired equally that Fay had no intention of giving him one Sri Lankan cent more than the previously agreed upon price. I confess that, not speaking Sinhala, I have no idea of what was actually said, but he had apparently threatened to go to the police if we did not pay the additional Rs 100. She offered him the originally negotiated fare; but he refused and left.

A few hours later, a rather put-upon-looking officer of the local constabulary arrived by bicycle. He listened to Fay and her aunt as they described the situation, but he wasn’t here to resolve things; his errand was merely to inform us that we had been summoned to the local police station in Welawetta at two the following afternoon. This was a matter of some concern, as our return flight to Toronto was scheduled for Wednesday. It seemed unlikely that anyone would interfere with our travel plans over a matter of Rs 100 (about $Cdn 1.08), but you never know. It didn’t seem like a matter worth trying to bribe our way out of, but we decided we had better take Fay’s uncle for moral support, and as a translator if the conversation transcended her ability to follow.

The next day, at about 1:30 p.m., we left for the police station. It was hot; the room we were to meet in was open to the courtyard, and there was, naturally, no air conditioning. There was a rickety, noisy old fan on a table. Another complaint was being processed, with much shouting, and another poor, put-upon constable trying to keep the peace and be fair to all the parties. There was a police woman beside him, although as far as I could see, her main purpose seemed to be to keep the male constable in good spirits.

At about 2:10, the complainant showed up; he had brought a small portfolio with him. He seemed to be sitting rather smugly across from us. Finally, at 2:30, the previous complaint was somehow resolved, and we were called to the desk. The constable was a young man; he looked nice. I think that under any other circumstances, and without the language barrier, we would have gotten along quite well; as it was, he did set me at ease. We sat opposite him: Fay’s uncle on the extreme left, then Fay, me, and finally the driver. The driver and Fay initiated proceedings by trying to out-vocalize each other in explaining to the officer what had happened. Every few minutes, his cellular phone would ring. He would pick it up, scowl, silence it, and put it down again. The third time it happened, he picked it up, muted it, and turned to the policewoman beside him. A long string of Sinhala followed; the only two words I understood were universally understood by married men: “wife” and “scold.” His body language and expression didn’t really betray any acrimony; he seemed to be in a rather good mood, all things considered. I couldn’t help smiling. He noticed this, and asked (still in Sinhala) if I spoke the language. I shook my head, vehemently. They went back to arguing about the complaint against us.

The driver had brought evidence of his good character in his portfolio: a clipping from a newspaper about an incident in which he tracked down a Westerner who had left his wallet in the three-wheeler. Great, good for him. But I think that there is a huge difference between a thief and a con; this fellow is clearly not a thief, but also not averse to nickel-and-diming someone he thinks won’t fight back. He may have picked the wrong battle this time.

He may even have been a decent guy, most of the time, but what does it say about someone that he is willing to give up an hour on the streets collecting fares over a matter of a dollar? This seems to demonstrates an extreme of pettiness in wanting to punish us by our time.

The policeman was unimpressed. Very unimpressed. I found out later that he told the fellow off mercilessly, indicating that this kind of behaviour reflects very poorly on a country which benefited so greatly from the Western world after the 2004 tsunami, and embarrasses everyone. Trying to be fair, he also told Fay she should be a little more flexible when she comes to such a poor country. Eventually, the driver admitted that one reason he made the complaint against us was that Fay had scolded him so meanly. Her uncle jumped immediately to her defence, stating that he had known Fay all her life, since she was a little girl, and had never known her to behave like that.

The policeman wrote it all down, and had both Fay and the driver sign his ledger. Finally, our constable offered to have Fay pay the driver the original Rs 150. He declined, perhaps holding out for the extra dollar. No such luck; he was told in no uncertain terms that in that case, his business was done.

We left on good terms with the officer, thanking him for his time and shaking his hand. All-in-all, it is mortifying to think how much of his time this silly driver wasted in lodging the complaint against us.

Overall Impressions of India

I have heard someone say that you either love India or hate it. I didn’t love it, nor did I hate it. But I do want to return. I guess I did like India, although I found the sheer population density (33 times higher than Canada’s) rather intimidating. I am not much of one for crowds, away or at home, and in India, even when there aren’t people as far as the eye can see, I still feel what I call “India’s sense of presence” – that feeling that are a billion people squeezed into an area just slightly larger than Quebec, Ontario, and Manitoba combined.
With such a short trip, I never had the chance to get bored – even on the long bus tours, I was more sleepy than bored! There is a vast body of history to explore, and dozens of cultures and languages to learn about.

There is plenty to see (both natural beauty and man-made points of interest), lots to do, and great food to eat! I hope to go somewhere I can at least listen to people speaking Hindi next time.

I am not what one might call adventurous when it comes to travel – I prefer short trips, close to home. Fortunately, with Colombo as a home-away-from-home, we can travel to Asia with relatively little effort and expense. I look forward to seeing more of India, both Tamil Nadu and points north and west.

Trip to India - Day 4 (April 23, 2006)

Leaving the Hotel

We had another early day. Our flight was scheduled to leave at 10:30 or so, but neither of us had any idea of how long it might take to get through Emigration. It was also likely that any flights into Colombo would require additional security measures.

We went into the lobby to finalize our bill. At check-in, Fay had bargained with the front desk staff, and we had thought we had prepaid in full (Rs 1000/night), but they started telling us that we had only paid a deposit, and that the balance of the tariff, a further Rs 1218.90, was due. We might have accepted this, except that nowhere on the initial receipt we received did it state that we were making only a pre-payment. Having been told we needed to prepay, we thought we had prepaid in full. This sounded like a typical scam – knowing we are likely to be in a rush to get to the airport, they delay us over would be a nominal mount to Westerners, in this case, around $Cdn 30.00. Fay is, as you may know, from the East herself, and would have none of it. She demanded to speak to the manager; the clerk at the front desk called *somebody* who spoke to Fay, who was quite indignant, and then he apparently wanted to speak to me. It had not taken him long to figure out that I was the “good cop.”

We spoke for some time. He said we had to pay the full tariff, whereas my point was that this was an unexpected surcharge to us, since the original receipt we were issued said nothing about a prepayment. I asked if he could waive the additional fee in its entirety (not likely, in retrospect, now that I have calculated the exchange). He asked if we enjoyed the room; I said we were seldom in it except to sleep, and enjoyment was perhaps too strong a word. I had to admit, of course, that we had indeed slept there even if we spent almost no other time in his hotel. I explained, in my most reasonable voice, that I understood people can make mistakes, and I did not think they should be unduly penalized, but nor should we have to cope with an unbudgetted expense. Then Fay took back over. I heard her complaining about the towel situation, and the fact that there was no shower curtain when we first arrived.

“He wants to speak with you again.”

I took the phone once more, and he offered a fifteen percent discount. I thought that sounded reasonable; it cut the amount we owed down to Rs 657.00 (they seem to round these things upwards – no wonder nobody ever has small change!) He said, “let me speak to my boy again,” and I handed the phone back to the clerk. Unfortunately, we were running low on cash (and would rather not leave our credit card information with a place which might not be completely on the up-and-up), and I had to take back our key and raid the tip we had left in our room.

We settled up, jumped in the waiting cab (after tipping the bell captain who had flagged down auto-rickshaws for us), and headed out to the airport.

At the Airport

While waiting to submit our embarkation documents, I noticed an un-staffed desk labelled as being for “Invalids and Diplomats.” I would have taken a photograph, but airports are notoriously touchy about that sort of thing, and I had no desire to spend any time dealing with Third-World police (little did I know what lay in my future…).

The additional security measures for the flight to Colombo involved a confirmation that all checked luggage had accompanying passengers; as we had no checked luggage, we got through quickly.

Before going through the last security check, we had one last cup of Indian tea each. Then through the final gate into the last waiting area; soon enough we were on the plane enjoying another SriLankan meal. We were both starved for animal protein; fortunately, there was a curried chicken dish on offer.

Trip to India - Day 3 (April 22, 2006)

Starting the Day

Another early day; this time, the bus was late. This turned out to be a good thing, as there were no samosas around, but Fay picked us up some idlis, which would have been murder to eat on a moving bus. She also obtained two giant bottles of water, since it appears we went through about four litres the previous day.

Vijay and Vibhawary

As we waited, we checked out the other tourists. To our great surprise, and theirs, we recognized a nice young couple we had met on the Kanchipuram/Mamallapuram tour the day before. They were visiting Tamil Nadu on vacation from Mumbai, on the opposite (Arabian Sea) coast of India.

That’s Quite a Tour Guide!

We got to the main TNDC depot, and waited again for our bus. It finally arrived, and we were off. Our tour guide deserves some special mention; he was neither as friendly nor as competent as our guide on Friday. He said very little, and he had, no doubt unconsciously, a terrible sense of how English is used. As we stopped at each site, he would stand up at the front of the bus, take the microphone, and say, half conversationally and half peremptorily, “get out.”

The driver was not much better, we never spoke to him, but he had, for some reason, to be back in Chennai early, requiring that we shave about two hours off the tour. One can’t really blame him, perhaps, as the tour is scheduled to take about twelve hours.

Auroville

This is a “New Age” community; the denizens have been building a meditation centre, the Matri Mandir, for the last thirty years or so. It is almost complete, and should be ready next year; it is already quite striking. It is in the form of a giant sphere, with gold-plated disks affixed to it to reflect the light.

It was Earth Day, which is clearly a date of great significance for the, many of whom are immigrants from the Western world. We passed a large Happy Earth Day party on our way to the Matri Mandir.



Pondicherry

I have wanted to visit Pondicherry ever since reading Yann Martel’s very annoying Life of Pi. It is a former French colony, and is actually not in Tamil Nadu per se; rather, it is the capital of the Union Territory of Pondicherry, a set of former colonies which don’t quite fit into the other states of South India. There is a strange dichotomy to the city. The outskirts clearly belong to the third-world city, but the town centre is full of beautifully white-washed low buildings and could pass for a peaceful Mediterranean village if the street signs were not in French and Tamil.



Unfortunately, because of our driver’s hurry, we did not have any opportunity to explore Pondicherry beyond those places the tour took us. This was the one disappointment we had on the trip; I hope we can return sometime and stay a day.

Pondicherry Museum

The Pondicherry Museum contains very a few ancient artifacts, including some amphorae dating back to when the port was visited by ships of the Roman Empire on the way to the Far East. Much of what is there is rather modern for my tastes; some of the artwork in one of its galleries are from the 1960s, which makes me thing the only reason it is in the museum is to fill it up. Upstairs, there are some rooms full of French furniture of uncertain, but undoubtedly modern, vintage.

Perhaps the high point of this stop was that there was another Tamil movie being filmed nearby.

Lunch

Lunch was at a very disappointing restaurant; Vibhawary, with whom we dined, pronounced herself disgusted by the offerings. I was hungry; I even ate the fruit salad. I believe, in retrospect, that this was a huge mistake – it is the most likely culprit for the discomfort I experienced on the thirty hours we spent in transit from Colombo to Toronto the following Wednesday.

After lunch, we walked around a little. We were to be back at the bus by 1:45, but all the stores were closed until 2:00. We found a tent about 500 meters from our lunch place, across from a statue of Gandhi, full of people selling handicrafts, but nothing appealed to us.

Aurobindo Ashram

The next stop was the famous Aurobindo Ashram. Interesting, I suppose, if you are into that sort of thing. I am not.

We took a quick tour and got out; not being into meditation of any sort, it seemed like a bit of a waste of time to me, but Fay picked up some books on the philosophy of yoga, and also, for some reason, a book called Learn Sanskrit The Natural Way for me.

The Backwaters of Tamil Nadu Revisited

This stop was as inevitable as the one before. There was no filming taking place at the docks this time, so it was much less crowded than the day before, and a little more relaxing. We say the occasional fish jumping out of the water, but primarily just sat back and enjoyed being out of the crowds and out of the rickety tour bus. I had feared my neck would suffer some kind of fracture from the bumps of the buses over the last twenty four hours. Once again, there was tea. Once again, I had to get some made specially without milk or sugar.

Chennai Central Railway Station

We returned to the main TNDC depot; another woman Fay had befriended offered to take us to a bookstore to pick up a book on learning Hindi for me. We wanted to stick with Vijay and Vibhawary as well, so the five of us packed ourselves into an auto-rickshaw. It was a tight squeeze, but fortunately, they are substantially larger than the Sri Lankan three-wheelers.

The book store was located in the city’s main railway station. I come from a large city (Toronto, population c.a. 2 500 000), but nothing prepared me for the crowds in the train station. I was overwhelmed to the extent that I can still not describe it.

Dinner with Friends

Finally, we ended the day by going out for dinner with our three new friends. Vijay and Vibhawary were kind enough to buy us dinner, and it turned out that the restaurant we went to was a short three blocks from our hotel. We wanted to get to the airport early the next day, so we called it a night. Our bottle of scotch stayed unopened.

Trip to India - Day 2 (April 21, 2006)

Starting the Day

We set our alarm for 5:15; we had to make it to the nearby Tamil Nadu Tourism Development Corporation office to catch our bus for 6:00 a.m. We arrived before the bus, and Fay went off to pick up a few bottles of water and some snacks, as we didn’t know when we would be served breakfast. Three veggie samosas make an entirely satisfactory snack and can be easily eaten on a bus.

The first stop was the main TNDC depot, where we were kicked off to wait for another bus. There was one other Caucasian on the tour, an Italian lad name Emanuel. We tried to speak a little, but did not have much luck.

Preponements, Anyone?

While waiting for the second bus, I got bored and read the fine print on our tour ticket. I learnt a new word that day. The conditions on the ticket state:

If one pre-or-postponement is permitted before 72 hrs subject to availability of seats, no further preponement/postponement/cancellation will be permitted.

Kanchipuram

Kanchipuram lies some sixty kilometres to the south-west of Chennai. The longest part of the trip seems to be getting out of Chennai itself. Somewhere along the way, we stopped for breakfast (idli, vada, and the like). The first stop in Kanchi was a sari factory and store – I rather suspect Fay was their best customer that day. What struck me was that there were two young ladies whose job seemed to be folding saris that had been shown to potential customers. They would sit on either side of a pile of unfolded saris, grab one, and fold it in a matter of about twenty seconds.

Next, we went to the Ekambareshvara Temple. Once again, foreigners are not permitted in the sanctum, but the site is huge, and there was enough to see outside of the restricted areas to keep us interested. Highlights include the Hallway of a Thousand Pillars, the carcass of a 3000 year mango tree, and various statues.

After that, we went to the Kailasanatha temple. Our Hindu co-tourists visited the sanctum, which had a rather long line up. I waited around, tried (but failed) to make conversation with Emanuel, and watched the elephant at the entrance bless pilgrims with his trunk. He had been painted with a design of some sort in white; it was rather impressive.

Our last stop in Kanchi was the Varadarajaperumal Temple. As we were wondering around waiting for the visitors to the sanctum to return, a lackey came over and invited us to view a pillared hallway nearby. At the very least, it was a chance to come out of the sun, and admission was only one rupee each. As we entered, a distinguished-looking older gentleman approached us. I saw immediately what was going to happen – we were going to be given a guided tour, and then asked for a donation to the temple when we finished. Unfortunately for our guide, I had only Sri Lankan rupees in my wallet.

He introduced himself as a Brahmin, and a temple priest. He took us around, and pointed out many of the better bas reliefs on the pillars. There were both tantric and religious themes in evidence. He must have eventually decided that Fay was Hindu, even if she was a foreigner, and called one of his assistants over to escort her into the sanctum. He and I continued the tour, him making small talk when he wasn’t pointing out notable sculptures. I was carrying our saris (having been advised that leaving them on the tour bus might result in their disappearance), and he asked me how much we had paid. I honestly didn’t know, not having much patience for shopping, but I also suspect that he was trying to gauge how rich we were, so he could tell how much money he could extract from us. Fay returned shortly, as it transpired that the sanctum had been closed, but she continued the tour separately.

Eventually, I started feeling the hot Tamil Nadu sun. With the onset of the early stages of dehydration came a desire to escape back to the tour bus, so I made my excuses and left. Before I could escape cleanly, he told me again that he was a Brahmin, a temple priest who drew no salary, and that any donation to the temple would be most welcome. I explained that Fay had the real money; all I had was Sri Lankan currency on me. He seemed to accept that explanation, and as I left the hall, he rejoined Fay and her new guide. Before long, I heard him asking her about her job and how many people she managed – no doubt once again trying to guess how rich we are.

On leaving the temple grounds, I could not find a tour bus. A child who was on the same tour asked me if I knew where our bus went; I, unfortunately, didn’t recognize him, but as there were only Caucasians around, and I was noticeably taller and more bearded than Emanuel, he had no trouble recognizing me. Cynic that I am, I thought some new scam or other bamboozlement was being perpetrated, but it turned out that he and his family really were in the same predicament as me. One of the locals finally realized our problem, and pointed in the direction the bus had gone. It was now parked on the far side of the temple, requiring we take a longish walk barefoot over the dirt road. As we got to the bus, parked on a nearby paved road, I thought I would take a short cut over the tarmac. That was one of the most painful walks imaginable – much worse than any beach I have ever walked on. Once we were all back on the bus, we set off for Mamallapuram.

Mamallapuram

Mamallapuram is an ancient seaport. It is best known for stone sculptures. There are two sites of historic interest, both designated as UNESCO World Heritage Sites. The first we visited is called the Five Chariots (Pancha Ratha), a set of giant seventh-century structures each sculpted out of a large rock. There is some debate as to whether they are incomplete temples, or merely ancient demonstrations of the sculptor’s art, as each is in a distinct style. They are incomplete; legend telling that the king ran out of money from waging wars and could not pay for the lowest portion to be finished.

The second site, dating from the same period, is called the Shore Temple. It has stood on the Bay of Bengal for almost 1400 years, with the salty sea spray softening its edges. It is small, but very striking. The tsunami of December 26, 2004, revealed parts of some sunken temples and various sculptures nearby, although none of these can be seen by tourists.

The Backwaters of Tamil Nadu

One of the initiatives sponsored by the Tamil Nadu Tourism Development Corporation is a series of boathouses along the Bay of Bengal. They give tours of the backwaters of the bay, and rent row, paddle, and motor boats. As the TNDC also ran the tour, it was no doubt inevitable that we would end up at one of their boathouses. We were loaded into a trio of boats, but not without some complications – there was a Tamil film being made on the dock, and we could only embark and debark during breaks in the filming. Fortunately, these are frequent, but we had to make our way along the dock past what looked to be the film production staff of Tamil Nadu. The backwaters were peaceful, uncrowded. Very different from Chennai. After we left the boat, we were offered tea. By coincidence, it appeared than neither Emanuel nor I like tea with milk. Our driver ordered black tea for me, and one with sugar for Emanuel. We drank, and were soon on our way.

As we drove back north to Chennai, the driver pointed out some shantytowns of refugees from the tsunami living under blue plastic tarpaulins.

VGP Golden Beach

We arrived here at about 4:45. This turned out to be what we would call a theme park in North America. It is apparently quite popular; our driver told us that anyone who wanted to stay and catch a public bus back to Chennai was welcome to do so, as long as they let him know not to wait.

The park is geared primarily towards children; we were befriended by one of the young ladies on the tour, about ten years old, and we saw her enjoying some of the rides. The main attraction for us was that it had access to the beach! Although I had no bathing suit and was stuck in my shorts, I wandered out into the Bay of Bengal to gather some shells as the waves went in and out. I was soon completely soaked, but had dried off for the most part by the time we got back on the bus at 6:00 p.m.

We were back at Egmore, where our hotel was, by about 8:00. We decided to try the vegetarian place across from our hotel; we had a decent meal, returned to our room, and retired. For the second night in a row, we were so tired we did not even open the bottle of scotch we had bought in Abu Dhabi and carried from Colombo. Saturday was going to be another long day.

Trip to India - Day 1 (April 20, 2006)

Colombo

We got up at 5:30 a.m. and had a quick snack before getting in the taxi for the long ride to Bandaranaika airport. The ride was uneventful, aside from a security checkpoint which the driver got through quickly enough using the password “foreigners” – this seems to be a Sinhala word meaning “I vouch for my passengers; they are obviously not terrorists.” The soldier repeated “ah, foreigners” and waved us through. The security checks in the airport itself were somewhat more aggressive: our carry-on luggage was X-rayed on entry to the airport, and again before entering the holding pen at the gate. We encountered a slight glitch on check-in; we were flying on SriLankan Airlines E-tickets obtained by cashing in some of our Emirates Airlines reward miles, and did not have the E-Ticket receipt Skywards provided us with. After about fifteen minutes of discussion between the check-in clerk and his supervisor, our tickets were honoured and we proceeded through Emigration. This was my first outbound trip from Bandaranaika since its expansion, and I found myself quite impressed. There is now a café which serves al minute Sri Lankan coffee. It is $US 2.00 per cup, but that’s quite in line with the cost of coffee at Starbucks franchises in American airports, and much tastier.
After a quick cup of coffee each, and a few minutes catching up on e-mails on Fay’s GSM phone/PDA, we headed to our flight’s gate. I made a pit stop in the new wing of the airport – it was quite clean (I considered the WC in the original terminal building unusable from the moment I arrived at its threshold). There is a slight scam here – the attendants leave nearly empty rolls in the stalls, and then offer you fuller ones once you arrive. Naturally, they stand reaching towards you as you leave. I do not think it is to shake hands.

The flight to Chennai was uneventful and quick. In spite of the short flight (about 90 minutes long), we were served one of the exceptionally fine meals SriLankan is famous for.

Arrival in Chennai

As we had only carry-on luggage, we were among the first to reach Customs and Immigration. I had thought that here, we might make up for the troubles caused by the Indian consulate in Toronto, but not quite so. The clerk at the counter told us we needed to fill out a three-part immigration form, one portion of which we were to give to him, one which we were to hand over when we left the Arrivals hall, and one to be surrendered when we left the country.

We found a bank and changed some money, then went outside to look for the driver who was to take us to our hotel. Colombo was very hot and humid; Chennai was just plain hot. There was no sign of the driver. We tried to call the hotel, but discovered that we should have put Fay’s phone in “Roam” mode before we left Sri Lanka – we couldn’t do anything with it from India. We arranged alternative transport. It was a minibus. In fact, it was the smallest minibus I have ever seen. It was about the size of a compact, but with more height. The driver was hopeless; he had to ask one of his fellow cabbies where our hotel was, and when we got to Egmore (the part of Chennai where our hotel is located), he had to ask another passer-by where to go. I don’t remember much of the trip besides the sense I had of crowds and population density. I also saw an advertisement which was almost the closest I got to Hindi in Tamil Nadu. It was in English letters, but had a picture of a little girl on one side, and of an air conditioner on the other. Over the girl, it said “India ka dil,” and over the machine, “India ka AC” – “India’s heart, India’s air conditioner.”
We got to our hotel and examined the room. No shower curtain, apparently no hot water, no towels (we didn’t notice this until later), but also no tell-tale blood spots on the walls suggesting infestation by bed bugs (or worse), and there was definitely air conditioning as advertised. We paid Rs 3000 in advance, and went out to explore the world.

Spencer Plaza and the Tamil Nadu Tourism Development Corporation

We took an auto-rickshaw (somewhat bigger than a Sri Lankan three-wheeler, but the same idea) to the nearest large mall, knowing that there was an Indian Tourism Office nearby. We ate a snack in a café, and drank slushies. After I finished my slushy, it occurred to me that perhaps I should have been a little more suspicious of the water used to make the ice in it, but it was too late to do anything by then.
We managed to cross the major thoroughfare outside the plaza, and found a private tour company. We discussed possibilities with the staff there, and thought that although the trips he offered sounded great, at $US 160 for three days, they also sounded a little pricey. We found our way to the offices of the Tamil Nadu Tourism Development Corporation, and found their prices rather more to our liking (under $8 each for a trip to Kanchipuram and Mamalapuram, including breakfast and lunch, and under $20 for a trip to Pondicherry 150 km south). We bought tickets to the Kanchi trip, but unfortunately, we had by that time missed the afternoon bus tour of Chennai, leaving us perhaps at loose ends. We returned to the tour company and commissioned a city tour on the spot. The driver showed up within five minutes, and lead us to his (air conditioned) van.

Tour of Chennai

We started off by going to the Chennai museum. We could have happily spent hours there looking at statues from various periods, displays of natural history, and bronzes, but we had things to see outside of the museum as well. In some ways, the museum was rather frustrating, disappointing, even provincial – it contains a plethora of interesting artifacts, but there is almost no context to let you where things fit in historically beyond dates and places.

Next stop was the Snake Park. I was not sure what to expect. A park where poisonous snakes ran free? Fortunately not; it is actually more a zoo, with various snakes, alligators, and other lizards in enclosures. It was so hot, most of the creatures were snoozing out of sight in the darkest shadows of their cages. It was rather like a display of stuffed snakes, but we did see the occasional movement.

The next place we went was actually the highlight of the tour. Not an official stop, but our driver took us there when we expressed an interest in purchasing a pashmina for a friend of ours. This is, naturally, an errand fraught with peril. I had only a brief e-mail describing what she wanted in terms of colour and style, and a budget. Fortunately, the Cottage Arts Emporium, a store specializing in Kashmiri handicrafts, has a huge selection of pashminas of various colours, materials, and budgets. We picked one in a sedate dusty blue-grey with a simple geometric pattern along the edge; the one tactical mistake I made was saying our budget was $Cdn 50.00, so naturally, whatever I picked, that was what the price came down to. (Fortunately, she loved it – she was described as being “shocked” that we had picked one she liked so much.) After taking care of my single Indian obligation, we explored the rest of the store. It is run by a syndicate of 72 families from Kashmir, and the gentlemen who showed us around were extremely personable combinations of showmen and salesmen. We started in the basement, which contains primarily mass-market Indian sculptures. More interestingly, it also contained some antiquities for which they claimed they could get us appropriate export permits. Horns made of conch shells, a 300 year old brass Buddha figurine, a dagger of uncertain vintage – but nothing we could justify spending any money on.

On the main floor, beside the pashminas and across from the jewellery department was the art department. We were shown the most extraordinary collection of thangkas (tradition Buddhist paintings on cotton canvas). The one we liked most was extremely intricate. It had a vaguely tantric theme to it, rich colours and a huge amount of detail. The price: $US 1700. We didn’t like it that much… We were shown dozens of these things, some from Lucknow, some from Tibet, and that first one we were shown remained the one we liked best. They turned up the pressure, but we were absolutely NOT going to spend that kind of money. I explained that although the beauty and workmanship of the item were beyond reproach, we hadn’t any budget to purchase such an item, and although they insisted on our making an offer, the only offer we could make would be an insult. Now I am not a particularly canny negotiator; this was simply the truth. We had a whispered conference, and agreed that we could not go above $US 500. Odds were not good that they would accept seventy percent less than their original asking price, of course, so in theory, we would leave empty-handed and full-walletted. I reiterated that any offer we made would be too low, and that we hoped it would not be considered an insult. I then walked away, as I have no poker face, or stomach for such negotiations. I heard Fay offer $400, but they found that just a little to low. The final price: $500. Their story is that, since Tamil New Year was the previous week, they wanted to clear out some inventory.

Next, we went up stairs to look at carpets. They were beautiful. I was tempted to get in to the import business then and there; I am not sure what more I can say about them. We were shown dozens of them, each of which I would have been happy to purchase, but at $US 1200 to 1400 each, we just couldn’t justify it. We were served saffron tea while we viewed the carpets – all in all, a very interesting experience.
We came back downstairs, picked up the pashmina and the thangka, avoided looking at jewellery at all, and returned to our taxi. I think we must have spent as much time there as at the museum.

Next on the official tour was a temple, probably Kapalishvara, in Mylapore, the southern part of Chennai. Our driver told us that foreigners were not permitted in the sanctum, so we went sari shopping at a nearby store instead. To be honest, I was exhausted by now, so I fell asleep while Fay shopped. Four saris and three sarongs later, we were ready to go. We returned to our hotel, and went to a nearby vegetarian restaurant for dosais.

Introduction: Why Me? Why a Blog?

Why a blog? I am not a particularly great writer, nor do I have a great deal to say. Sometimes, however, I find I have something to say to several people, and am left with a small number of options. I can send out the same e-mail out to everyone at once:

Dear All,

Blah, Blah, Blah.

James

Or I can sent out the same e-mail to each person, with minimal personalization:

Dear Individual,

I hope your family/parents/children/goldfish are well. You'll never guess what happened...

Blah, Blah, Blah.

James

Or I can try to remember to tell it in person, next time I see each person:

I just know there was something I meant to tell you, but I have no idea what it was...

A blog looks like the easiest way to "publish" what I have to say.

If you are reading this, there is a good chance you know that my wife Fay and I went to Sri Lanka and India for two weeks at the end of April 2006. I promised enough people to tell them about my trip that the question of how to tell them arose. I have been inspired by the following bloggers, in chronological order:

Irina Souiki
Sean McKinnon
Dr Sarah Mickeler

Fortunately this is not a competition, as I doubt I should be able to live up to any of these worthies.