Tour Diary
An Indian train journey
After seeing The Darjeeling Limited I was desperate to experience a train trip in India - without the on-the-loose snake
Allan Llewellyn
25-Feb-2013
After seeing The Darjeeling Limited I was desperate to experience a train trip in India - without the on-the-loose snake. Like a few of my expectations on this trip, there was more movie than reality. The train from Chandigarh to New Delhi is called the Rajdhani-Shatabdi Express but the exotic name does not translate into an authentic experience. Parts of India are just too damn modern. The template for this fast, efficient, comfortable train is pretty much shared by those on the London-to-Bristol and Brisbane-to-Ipswich lines.
For 262km we sped to Delhi and the only noticeable difference was the industrious service of the overworked waiters, who serve about four courses. I haven’t had a cooked meal on a train since the 28hr journey on the Sunlander from Brisbane to Cairns as a teenager. On the Bullet Train between Tokyo and Kyoto lunch was a plastic box full of I’ll-never-know-what while the Eurostar to Paris was cold meat and red wine.
On the track to Delhi it’s dal, paneer, rice and roti. It smelt okay but I’d eaten late and after seeing old food on my spoon I was a bit wary of the rest. I’m trying not to be a delicate Westerner, but after a few days of upset stomach I feel a bit like a delicate Westerner.
The nice guy next to me thought the meal was delicious, licking every finger a couple of times. For health reasons, I’ve given up chewing my nails for five weeks – to me it’s as addictive as nicotine and just writing this makes me want to hack into my overgrown claws – so as I tried not to watch my heart tightened in envy and my stomach started to gurgle in anticipation of an imminent evacuation.
Full postStare, stare, stare
It’s strange being an Australian in another country when the team loses, and in India it gains you more attention
Allan Llewellyn
25-Feb-2013
It’s strange being an Australian in another country when the team loses, and in India it gains you more attention. People who didn’t recognise me before suddenly are – and they want to talk. “Sorry Australia,” one young boy said, smiling as I walked to the ground on day five. The rest want to know whether Brett Lee or Matthew Hayden should be dropped.
Those that don’t talk have seemed to stare more over the past day. It feels like there’s a red dot on my body, like the ones created by the hi-tech guns the contract killers hold. Or maybe I’m just imagining it.
After two decades of Australian success, perhaps it’s me who is feeling differently. I had nothing to do with how the team played at Mohali, but it’s hard for the result not to have some sort of effect. It was shocking to see such a one-sided game – with Australia behind.
Maybe this is how England fans feel every Ashes series (exception – 2005). As I left the ground at Mohali I was thankful it was so empty. If results like these become regular it will take a while to get used to.
Full postSticking to the staircase
I got stuck in the hotel lift this morning
Allan Llewellyn
25-Feb-2013
I got stuck in the hotel lift this morning. It was only for two minutes, but was about to feel like ten. Until they break, lifts don’t feel that small for me. The night before a friend had told me he hated them because he’d been caught in one as a child. At the time I thought I’d never been stuck. Not anymore.
Fortunately there was a nice man wearing a green turban who seemed to double as one of the hotel managers. He wasn’t worried and called someone to fix the problem. Then the fan stopped and the walls started to creep in. Finally, probably less than a minute later, I spotted some fingers and two of the hotel staff joined with their boss in pulling the doors open wide enough to let me out. Free at last.
Downstairs – I’m using them now – at breakfast I spotted a rat. Among some of the Australians fans this has become known as the hotel of rodents, but I’ve felt comfortable here, and still do. The rat was hanging from the beak of a bird in a tree outside the breakfast room. I didn’t feel like meat any more, so ordered vegetarian.
Full postIs India really cricket-crazy?
I can’t believe how few people have been watching the Test in Mohali
Allan Llewellyn
25-Feb-2013
I can’t believe how few people have been watching the Test in Mohali. Each day I hope it will get better, but it hasn’t. When reading about India it’s "cricket mad this", "fanatical that". Not in Tests in the Punjab. At times during this match it has made a sparse crowd in Hobart, Australia’s smallest venue, seem gigantic.
The first day was the saddest, when so few saw Sachin Tendulkar’s record, but by Sunday, a holiday and with India well on top, there were only a sprinkling of supporters in the morning. Throughout the day there was a gradual build up, but the ground was still barely half full. One reason for so many free seats is that Chandigarh is a small city by India’s standards (Mohali, a suburb, has a population of about one million!) and the well-equipped stadium is a 20-minute drive from the centre.
Another is Twenty20. This stadium apparently bounces at capacity when the Kings XI Punjab play in the Indian Premier League. It’s shocking to experience such a different atmosphere for a Test in a series that now rivals the Ashes in prestige. Here it’s like the locals have been introduced to Formula One and no longer have time to watch cycling.
In Bangalore the crowds were noisy and the Saturday was a fabulous day, but to me something is still missing in India. I saw Greg Chappell walking along the beach in Goa a few years ago and expected him to be swamped by fans. More people were trying to sell me beads than talk to him. The love of Indians for cricket is not a myth, but so far I’m finding it’s greatly exaggerated.
Full postThe eucalyptus link
There are some branching reminders of home in Chandigarh
Allan Llewellyn
25-Feb-2013
There are some branching reminders of home in Chandigarh. Every so often there is a eucalyptus tree poking up and out along the streets. In Australia they are everywhere: in my backyard, the bush, children’s parks and cricket grounds. Their shade protects, the smell of the crushed leaves is uplifting and they are great for climbing, although that won’t be happening here.
In Murray Bail’s book Eucalyptus the owner of a big block of rural land plants as many varieties of the tree he can find and sets a challenge. Whoever can name them all can marry his beautiful daughter. I guess then at least he’d have something to talk to the stranger about at those awkward early family dinners.
My little girl shouldn’t worry. I promise that in 20 or so years I won’t make her special friend name the 1989 and 1993 Ashes squads to be allowed to go on a date with her. To young boys out there who face this problem, the tricky ones are Greg Campbell and Wayne Holdsworth.
Bail’s book was about to be turned into a movie until Russell Crowe, who was due to star in it, called things off shortly before filming started. I’m not sure which varieties they have in Chandigarh, but it’s nice to spot something familiar.
Full postHoot, hoot, scoot scoot
I’d looked at the pedal rickshaws since arriving in Chandigarh and wondered how they coped in the traffic ecosystem
Allan Llewellyn
25-Feb-2013
I’d looked at the pedal rickshaws since arriving in Chandigarh and wondered how they coped in the traffic ecosystem. Now it was time to find out for myself. It was frightening but fun, the scariest moment being when we were hooted by a bus trying to overtake us on a roundabout. And hooted. And got closer. And hooted louder. And got even closer. Every muscle around my midriff tightened in a way that hasn’t happened since I last went to the gym.
Things were more relaxed on the special bike paths, although my driver was trying to compensate for his lack of power on the road by attempting some rare overtaking. He did it without success due to the wide loud of another rickshaw that wasn’t in the mood to race.
The seats were like the back-less sofas preferred in trendy hotels, minus the trendy part. As soon as I sat down I thought I was going to slip off, but after trying a few awkward positions I settled on a laid-back lounging style often featured by models in men’s magazines. Finally, I was sort of comfortable. There wasn’t much to hold on to, which didn’t help in moments of fear, so it was lean back and (try to) enjoy the ride.
I felt like an olden day character in a buggy, only my fan was missing. The riding was hard work. There were no gears and only two speeds: sitting down and, when extra power was needed, standing up.
Full postSettling down in Chandigarh
As the moon rises the buzz on the Chandigarh streets lifts from relatively quiet - from what I’ve seen in India - to buoyant, busy and honkingly loud
Allan Llewellyn
25-Feb-2013
As the moon rises the buzz on the Chandigarh streets lifts from relatively quiet - from what I’ve seen in India - to buoyant, busy and honkingly loud. Charcoal fires sear chicken tikka on spears and the smell of both showers across the street. By day the chai makers, who squat next to small gas cookers and filter their drinks, are there, but by night there are more foods to try – but I don’t. The samosas on a metal stand look yummy with, I’m guessing, tamarind chutney. People stop like they’re buying a paper, then briskly step off to the next errand. It’s a convenient walk-through takeaway.
Below the yellow moon on the street there is much more colour. Turbans bob as their wearers walk – my favourite so far is bright pink – and the patkas, which Harbhajan Singh uses, seem more popular among the younger men. This is Harbhajan’s home state and Singh is a name on many shop signs.
I’m just looking for a chemist so I can buy some handwash and vitamins. “Go right, then left” is one set of directions, but after ten minutes I turn back. “Straight down there,” a second person urges. No luck, but lots of window shopping.
There are so many mobile phone outlets, so I was surprised when I was taken to get a SIM card and we ended up in a store selling watches. Cheap watches, and SIM cards. They go together like the shoe-and-shampoo combination in a nearby shop. I’ve just read The God of Small Things and the owner’s banana jam is banned because it’s too runny for jam and too thick for syrup (don’t worry, it’s not the whole plot). I wonder whether shoes or shampoo sell best.
Full postRoads and rodents of Chandigarh
Chandigarh feels like it’s in a different country to Bangalore
Allan Llewellyn
25-Feb-2013
Chandigarh feels like it’s in a different country to Bangalore. The streets are wide and there is less traffic, but more ways to get around. Pedal rickshaws jostle on the roads with the auto-rickshaws and a few horse-drawn carriages clop along with the cars. It’s much easier to navigate (from the passenger seats, of course) and nobody seems in much of a hurry, although when a herd of cattle stomped through a main intersection there was some driver angst.
The city has been cut up into sectors, making the addresses in the various hotels seem like parts of a prison. It’s not that bad, but it is well-organised and rustic. People say it’s an Indian version of Canberra, with the planning but without the roundabouts and landmark buildings. From what I’ve seen over the past two days there aren’t many similarities. It’s like nowhere I’ve been before.
Westerners don’t seem to be a regular part of the trade and I’ve heard that the first time one of the Australian journalists opened his hotel-room door he saw a rat above his eyes, which then scurried to the window sill. It took another two accommodation houses before he found something close to his original standard (the journalist, not the rat). On Australia's tour here in 1986 the players were horrified to see rats, but Geoff Marsh, the opening batsman, said he'd seen bigger ones on his farm.
Full postTrying to be served
Servants are a regular part of Indian life, a way of providing employment to people who need it, building a home and getting every-day jobs done
Allan Llewellyn
25-Feb-2013
Having a servant is something I can’t get used to. At the guest house in Bangalore I had a fabulous helper who would do anything I would ask – and when I didn’t make requests, he would do things anyway. Like making four delicious dinner dishes when my stomach could cope with only one. Or press the lift button, pick up the clothes I had dropped randomly to feel like home, fill me up with water or buy toiletries. And when I had a long day at the cricket and came back with tight shoulders, he noticed, insisting I have a massage. It was as good as his excellent cooking; I doubt I’ll taste better dosas, parathas or idlis over the next month.
In Australia I live in a do-it-yourself house. Asking a partner for a drink is okay, but only if the tone is right. Handing over a bundle of dirty shirts for an overnight turnaround, or sitting at the table waiting for food without at least pretending to offer help, is as fraught as waving an Australian flag in the cheap seats at Chinnaswamy.
Being a westerner in India means privileges are granted without merit and each time I visit, it’s uncomfortable. But trying to offer assistance gets a slightly offended look and a “pleeess, sir” that gently says “sit down and let me do my job”, which isn’t an unreasonable request. So I try to be served. Except I can’t help but sneak the dishes to the sink (Don’t worry, special friend, I haven’t used up my annual washing-up quota) or put some bread in the toaster. Or pour my own drink.
Full postHold my hand
I'm scared to cross the roads here
Allan Llewellyn
25-Feb-2013
I'm scared to cross the roads here. I'm getting used to the smaller side
streets, but the main ones swarm with speeding vehicles and buzz with
danger. The first time I was in Bangalore I never felt safer than when a
local friend held my hand and guided me across the main MG Road.
Without him I feel like I'm guiding a chariot across the Red Sea, fearing
that what looks like an empty landscape will change before I can do
anything about it. If there are other people waiting by the edge - they
always look so calm - I hang in their shadow like a shy child grabbing a
parent's leg.
At home, I've been teaching my little girl about roads and crossing them.
We stand at the edge, look left and right, until we can't see any cars.
I don't know what I'd tell her here because hundreds of metres of empty
lanes don't exist.
There are vehicles everywhere, smooth-running sedans, smoke-blowing
rickshaws, motorcycles with fearless riders and bicycles of various
degrees of sturdiness. To me the slow-pedalling cyclists are among the
world's bravest people. They are so much more vulnerable than edgy
tourists.
Full post