Sausages!

Our Indian adventure is now nearly four months old. While we've adapted to many things, something I miss is the variety of meat I used to eat in the UK. Vegetarian food here is infinitely better than that available in the West (thankfully!), chicken is chicken, and tastes like chicken, but that's it. Lamb is available, but most of the time if it says lamb it means mutton. And when it says mutton it's not mutton as I know it (sheep, older than lamb) but a scrawny animal much more like a goat. And spin it anyway you like, I'd rather not eat goat. There are a few specialist butchers where I believe beef and pork are available, but you have to phone and order it in bulk. One, my freezer is really pretty small, and two, reverse engineering a phone conversation between me and someone selling large slabs of animal could lead to just about anything being delivered to my door four days later. Possibly still alive. What I miss is the ability to go into a regular shop and buy a regular amount of meat for a family meal. Especially sausages. You can buy chicken sausages, but they're what my Scottish mother-in-law would call peely-wally and my Australian brother would call p*ss weak*. And occasionally there's bacon sausages, which have the consistancy of mechanically recovered meat. So we don't go there... What I dream of is a good, old fashioned, meaty British pork sausage. This week I found a source! Jor Bagh Steakhouse - still haven't seen steaks there but they have big meaty sausages and they're even reasonably priced! We all enjoyed dinner (sausages, fried onions, cauliflower and broccoli au gratin) supremely!

* or you could use insipid, if you'd rather

Mumbai

Mum is leaving on Sunday, so we had planned to visit some of Delhi's monuments today. When we woke up to news of the terrorist attacks in Mumbai, we briefly discussed not going. Having decided that as

1) Mumbai is one and a half thousand kilometres away

and 2) terrorists (probably Islamic) are targetting luxury hotels and areas that westerners frequent

that 3) going to Lal Qila (the Red Fort) in Islamic Old Delhi was, all things considered, a relatively safe place to be.

Raju was not exactly pleased with our plans. He doesn't like Old Delhi. There are Muslims there. Unfortunately for him, that's where the Red Fort is, and that is where we wanted to go. We explained to him we have done plenty of shopping, and with Mum leaving soon, she wanted to see something that was old. Lal Qila was built by Shah Jahan in 1638 to be his residence, so it's certainly old. It's also the largest of Old Delhi's monuments. My other choice was Jama Masjid, India's largest mosque. Knowing Raju's feelings, I didn't even suggest that.

While driving (reluctantly) to Lal Qila, Raju passes the Indira Gandhi Memorial on Safdarjang Road. He points it out, and asks if we'd like to visit it. Mum and I decline his offer.

To make matters worse, while Mum and I were inside Lal Qila, Raju gets a parking challan (ticket). It's not improved his opinion of Old Delhi.

Reverse Engineering

One of the things Rod and I have been getting better at is reverse engineering conversations. When someone says something to us we don't quite grasp, either because the speaker's using Hindi, or heavily accented English, we try to work out the most likely sentence, and then give a good answer to that question. Sure, sometimes we're going to get that sentence wrong, but it's amazing how often the answer to the question we think was asked is good enough. Rod does it all the time when he orders Papa John's pizza. He says he rarely knows what the person on the line is saying, but by stating clearly and slowly, "one Super Papa, one medium Margarita, one garlic breadsticks" and giving his phone number, forty five minutes later we get the pizzas we wanted.

While in Jaipur we discovered we weren't the only ones using this technique. One of the things Jaipur is famous for is patchwork quilts. We had really been looking forward to seeing some quilts until we laid eyes on them. Maybe they had some lovely ones elsewhere, but in the bazaars and emporiums the quality was really rather poor. We saw some hand quilted ones which had stitches to the inch. I say stitches, there was more than one, but not many more. In the emporium at Jaigarh Fort, Rod found a quilt with machine stitched motifs which had some very large stitches. He turned to me and said, "Constant speed. They don't have Intellistitch." The sales guy obviously reverse engineered this statement to be something like, "look honey, quilting", because he replied "hand stitched". Rod then pointed to the flat top thread and the loops of bobbin thread clearly visible on the front of the quilt and said "tight top tension?". The sales guy reverse engineered this to be far more positive than it was, because he replied, "You like?" In unison we replied, "NO!" While sales guy's sales pitch may work most of the time, it's never going to work when he's trying to sell to the husband of a longarm quilter!

Jaipur Jaunt

So the next morning Manohar drives us back to Jaipur. We're staying at the Sheraton Rajputana. It's a beautiful five star hotel. You'll have to take our word for it, because there's only a pic of the outside and a banquet room on the internet. As this our belated wedding anniversary present to ourselves, we've booked a suite. No idea what this would look like either, but it's a suite in a five star hotel - how bad can it be?

When we arrive, an elegant lady in lehanga chunni performs a welcome ceremony, marking our foreheads with sandalwood paste. She then shows us to our room. This is not a highrise hotel, it's only four stories tall, built in a kind of square around an open pool area. We've the only room in our part of the corridor. No one ever walks past our door. It's the quietest hotel room I've ever slept in! We dump our bags and check out all the freebies we're going to take home (come on, everyone does this!). Then we head out to take in the sights.


Obviously just your typical street scene. Every time I go to cross a road I have to wait for a couple of motorcyclists and a painted elephant, don't you? We visit the Walled City (everything's painted pink, allegedly to cover up the poor construction techniques. It works. The pink is pretty gopping.) and the City Palace. The Palace has an Armoury filled with knives, swords and guns, if that's your kind of thing. Manohar also drives us up a windy hillside path (locals probably call it a road) to Jaigarh Fort. Rajasthanis were a fighting nation, and this mediaeval fort is almost intact. They took fighting seriously in Rajasthan, and you've got to suspect they were quite good at it. There are series of walls all over the countryside to hinder your enemies' approach. And Jaigarh Fort is home to the Jai-Ban, the largest cannon on wheels in the world. The front wheel is 9 feet high. Jai-Ban took a 50 kilogram cannon ball, and 100 kilos of explosives. It's range was 22 miles. It's only been fired once. They fired it, measured the range, and then told all their enemies. The press machine was so good that the enemies stayed away. I'm not sure if you call that money well spent or not?

Also at the fort were a number of school groups. A group of three schoolgirls decided to chat to Rod. I say chat, actually they wanted to play 20 questions. What was his name? Was I his wife? Where did we come from? Rod retaliated with a few of his own, and we discovered they were called Vanita, I've forgotten and Pretty. I have forgotten the middle one's name, so her parents don't call her that. The third one really was called Pretty, even though she wasn't, really... The schoolgirls proved to be much better at the conversation thing than the schoolboys. They asked Rod what his name was, and then asked if we'd give them some rupees... bet you can guess the answer to that one.

We also visited the Jal Mahal, a pleasure palace in the middle of a lake. There were lots of Indians sitting on the banks of this lake. As is typical, there was a large group of men sitting together, and a short distance away, a large group of women. As is also typical, they were all staring at us. Sitting with the women was a small girl, probably six or seven years old. Much bolder than her elders, she called out hello. I turned and waved to her, and all the women burst into applause. White woman waves! Clap now! Large hole in ground, open now please!!

We went to the bazaars but didn't buy very much, as the pressure to "come into my shop" was really quite extreme. Nothing keeps our money in our pockets more than the really hard sell. But I did spot these, which I thought could be useful for my husband, who often needs reminding to make sure his hair is tidy before he leaves the house. Shouldn't complain, I suppose, at least he has hair...

Big, Fat, Indian Wedding

Okay, so I've been kinda slack recently on the blog front, but I've got a good excuse this time. Rod and I have been away in Rajasthan. If you've got any complaints send them to me in the regular mail. And when I ignore them, don't take offence. They'll never have got here...

When a really cheap but reliable babysitter (aka Mum) became available, Rod and I decided to go away for a belated anniversary weekend. And when we were invited to Lata the HR's lady's wedding, it seemed our destination had been chosen for us - Rajasthan.

The Thursday evening wedding was in Ajmer, around 400 kms from Delhi. We could have driven it, but having some knowledge of Indian roads, we knew it was likely to take a good deal longer than travelling 400 kms in just about any other place on earth, even around London! So we flew into the closest large city, Jaipur, and were collected by Manohar, our driver for the next four days, who drove the last 130 kms. Flying was wise, as that drive alone took two hours.

We arrived at the hotel in Ajmer in the afternoon, and as we ate lunch in the restaurant, we watched a small army of men assemble the Mandap, the canopy under which the wedding ceremony is held, and decorate the gardens. Lata and Anil have chosen to get married in a lovely spot. Even though the garden is attached to a hotel, it seems really quite secluded and private.

At 8.30 in the evening we are ready to go downstairs and find out what a big, fat Indian wedding entails. I have on my newly acquired ethnic fancy outfit. Nitti sent me to a shop that sells tastefully sequinned occasion wear, because while I'm not exactly a sequin person, it's de rigeur to wear sequins at weddings. Indian ladies can get away with lots of sparkle on their outfits, but I'm not Indian, and it didn't seem right. So I've bought something I felt comfortable in - a turquoise short sleeved kurta (shift dress with big splits up the sides) with a beaded chocolate bodice embroidered in metallic peacock blue, copper and aubergine, chocolate churridar (tight extra long trousers that gather up the lower leg like bracelets) and a copper edged chocolate dupatta (silk scarf worn across the neck in front and left flowing down the back, very good for flouncing, which does double duty as a shawl as the temperature drops). Rod wears a rather fetching western suit, its lack of ethnicity makes me glad I've not gone all out in a sequinned sari or a Rajasthani lehanga chunni...

The Hindu wedding ceremony is one I wasn't familiar with, but I was pleased to see one similarity with other weddings I've attended - I was handed rose and chrysanthemum petals to throw at the bride and groom to ward off the evil eye and bless them on their marriage.
After the marriage ceremony the bride and groom retired to a pair of thrones on a stage. Guests were able to go up and congratulate them, hand over wedding gifts and pose for photos. Here's my Big Fat Indian Wedding photo.

No one is big, but Anil is really rather tall. He doesn't need that turban to look imposing. No one's fat, but they're both Indians! Here's to a long and happy marriage, Anil and Lata!

Christmas is coming...

Call me stupid, but I've only just realised that Christmas is six weeks away. Maybe that's because the shops are still decorated like they were for Diwali, or thankfully, the musak in the shopping centres isn't non-stop Christmas Carols. There was one day in Spencers supermarket, back in early October, after the Navrati festival, nine days (and nights!) of loud Hindi music and dance and before the Diwali celebrations hotted up, that I was subjected to a horrific shopping experience. What might you think is worse than being subjected to Shakin' Stevens "Merry Christmas, Everyone" in December? Well, it wasn't December, and it wasn't even being sung by someone as talented as Shakin' Stevens. And there wasn't snow falling, all around us. It was still 35 degrees celcius. Haven't heard it since, hopefully it was just a one day thing... So as I don't have the perpetual drip of western advertising telling me it's the season to be jolly every time I step near a spending opportunity, I hadn't really realised Christmas was that close. And for once, I knew what I would like for Christmas, and as it would have to be hand made, I knew I'd better pull my finger out...

When I first told my friend Lynn that I would be living in India, she told me of all the lovely fabrics I could buy at Shanker Market, and of the tailors there that could turn these fabrics into beautiful garments at really reasonable prices. I began to dream of a silk dressing gown. Not a pretend silk polyester one, a real silk dressing gown. I mentioned this to Rod, and he told me I should get two made. I have no idea why I did not rush straight out and arrange the dressing gowns at that point, but I did not. Well last week, realising time was short, I did. Mum and I went to the tailor Lynn recommended (near Mr Chawla's Fancy Store, with the stripy shirt fabrics), but no good, he only did shirts and trousers. The next shop was called "Lady Vogue" and their business card proclaimed they did "Exclusive Punjabi Suits and Ladies Tailoring", so we thought this would be a good place to try. We went in and asked if they could make dressing gowns. Indians like to tell you what they think you'd like to hear, so they said yes. However, after a short discussion, it became apparent that the man, no doubt extremely experienced in the making of Punjabi Suits, western jackets, skirts and trousers, had never made a dressing gown. He might not even know what a dressing gown was. Apparently it would have been so much better if we had taken an example dressing gown with us.

What fastenings did I want down the front? None, just a tie belt.

What lining fabric did I want? None.

The main fabric is sheer, almost see-through? That's okay.

It was only when we told him the garments were to be ankle length that he began to look at us in a less dubious manner. He will make three dressing gowns, one in a pink and green shantung silk for Mum, and two for me. One will be peacock blue and copper shantung, and the other in a 1960's psychadelic print that wouldn't be out of place in an Austin Powers movie. His charge (for the three) is £20. The fabric, bought at a different shop in the market, also cost £20 for all three.

When we left Mum got all giggly, and told me, until we asked for the garments to be so long, the tailor probably thought we were a young hooker and an old hooker. I pointed out, as I'm now 41, the tailor probably didn't think I was a young hooker at all. Maybe an old hooker and a really old hooker...

trying it on...

When Rod first arrived in Delhi, one of the things he found most difficult to source was fresh milk. He bought UHT milk to put in his coffee, but UHT is disgusting on cereal. Now that's a problem for someone who cooks as little as Rod does, because it removes a whole raft of easy dinners (i.e. breakfast cereal) from his repertoire. So Rod stocked up on bread and marmite instead. He mentioned his milk dilemma to Nitti one day and she contacted the milk guy for him. In some respects the milk guy is brilliant, because he leaves two 500ml bags of milk on our doorstep every day. In other repects, the milk guy is less than brilliant, because he tries to rip us off at every opportunity.

Two months back the doorbell rings at about 8 o'clock in the evening. It's the milk guy. He's Omid Djalili but larger, and probably a good deal less entertaining. It's hard to tell, he speaks very little English. And he's sweating profusely. He tells Rod we owe him 1860 rupees for a months worth of milk. Now the milk has a price printed on each bag, and it's 9 rupees a bag. I'd expect something added on for delivery, but it doesn't take me long to work out someone's trying to take us for a ride. Bizarrely Rod has jumped to the same conclusion. We ring Farah's doorbell, the lady in the apartment across from us. She's an enormous help to us, being fluent in Hindi, Bengali and English. We explain to her the milk guy wants 1860 rupees for a month's worth of milk. She knows there's only four of us here, and wants to know how much milk we get. When I tell her, one litre, just like she does, her face tells it all. Her bill is 620 rupees a month. She has a conversation with the milk guy and while we have no idea what she actually said, we have a fair idea what the meaning of it was! Rod, standing behind the milk guy, smiling at Farah, puts on a menacing voice and asks her, "I think he's ripping me off, shall I call the police?" Police, like bus and tractor, is one of those words that are the same in Hindi and English, and milk guy sweats even more. He knows he's been rumbled. Farah tells him to go away and bring back a properly itemised bill, charging us for one litre of milk a day.

One month later, milk guy is back, with his itemised bill. Well, he's got a piece of paper with A151 on it, and the sum 31 x 40 = 1240. I tell him again that his sum is wrong. He tells me that this is the right amount, for two litres a day. I tell him, again, that he delivers one litre of milk to us. He amends the 40 to 20, and I pay him 620 rupees.

Yesterday the milk guy returns. This itemised bill has A151 and a date on it. It also bears the sum 61 x 20 =1220. I tell him again the bill is wrong, because he only delivers one litre a day. He's got the price per litre right, it's the days he has wrong. He amends the 61 to 31 (when did October ever have 61 days in it?) and I pay him 620 rupees.

So I'm waiting to see what happens next month. There isn't enough written on these bills to fudge anything else, but I'm fairly confident the next bill won't be for 620 rupees!

It's not the NHS...

There's good news and bad news. The good news - today I found a lovely, clean, modern doctors surgery that's close to me and where they speak good english. The bad news was that I needed to find a doctor at all...

My eczema has been playing up a bit and one of my hands has some cracked skin. It was looking a bit dodgy, so last night I opened the strongest cortisone cream I brought with me, the one with the antibiotic in it and applied it liberally. This morning I woke up and discovered I could apply for work in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I'd been putting off finding a doctor who dealt with adults (there's a paediatrician in one of the other blocks of the complex who works out of home so the kids were sorted), but decided as Buffy is no longer in production, today I'd better find a doctor who dealt with grown ups. Called my friend Nitti who recommended a polyclinic down at Galleria Market. Nitti is well worth knowing, because this doctors surgery is better than the one I'd been using back in Britain. I called at 11, they offered me an appointment at midday with a choice of doctors. The one I chose (actually, the receptionist chose for me, I just said "my hand is infected, I want a doctor who will give me drugs today") called me into her consultation room at 12 on the dot - yes, she was Indian, and I was surprised. The combination of doctor and Indian didn't bode well for timekeeping. I was out with a prescription four minutes later. And the cost, 300 rupees or just over £4 for the apointment, and 460 rupees, just under £6 for three medicines! She wants to see me again on Friday, and I was allowed to pick the time!

Superlatives abound

While Raju was driving me back and forth to the Container Freight Depot last month I discovered there is a new satellite town springing up on the outskirts of New Delhi. It's called Ghaziabad. Allegedly it's an oasis of tranquility on National Highway 24, just 25 kilometres from Connaught Place, the heart of the capital city. Well, that's what the advertising hoardings would have you believe. I could only hope the view from the NH24 got better a bit further out...

"Unveiling new doors of bliss", the first hoarding told me. The second said, "Saviour offers you a lifestyle you'll savour". Then things started getting really silly. "A confluence of class and affordbility, the epitome of lifestyle". "Ghaziabad goes global - Florida, London, Dubai and now Ghaziabad". But for what? Personally I'm struggling to work out what Florida, London and Dubai have in common, let alone what Ghaziabad adds to the mix. My personal favourite - "Imagine a golf course and a lake for neighbours". I imagine that would be quite nice, except when you want to borrow that cup of sugar...

Grand Prix Finale

Lewis Hamilton - World Champion! A good thing I'm not a nail biter...because that was damn close!

Now I can go to bed...

Getting there...someway or another

Finding your way around the suburbs of New Delhi can be a little tricky. There are addresses, but they're not addresses like the ones I've had in Australia or England. Those addresses were tangible. They had numbers and street names, and those street names were marked on signs at the start of the street. Well, not all Indian streets have names, and those that do rarely have signs to tell you what their names are. In India, directions are done by landmarks. Our home address lists the apartment number, the name of the condominium complex and the developer's subdivision. If we want to give someone directions to our place we tell them these, and mention we're off Golf Course Road, near the Genpact Red Lights. The Genpact Red Lights are the traffic signals next to the Genpact building on the corner. You could say turn at the intersection of Golf Course Road and St Thomas Marg, as that is really the name of the street we live on, as I discovered by reading the Eicher map, a comprehensive map of the Delhi area. But this wouldn't help an Indian because they don't use maps, they prefer to get as close to the right area using all the landmarks given in the address, and then stop and ask. Yes, even the men! So the Eicher map puts all the landmarks on the map, so between the foreigner in the back and the Indian driver up front, you've got a hope of getting there.

The kids have been off school the last week for Diwali and Thalia went to visit one of her friends. The friend gave a typical Indian address -a temple, the road linking two villages, the name of a farm. There were many farms marked on the Eicher map, but not this one. After driving past the temple on the correct road, looking for the farm but failing to find it, Raju turned the car around and drove back to the temple, parking opposite it. He got out and asked directions. Next to the temple were some big black gates with a guard posted at them. There was no mention of the farm next to the gate, but it turned out that was where we were meant to go. It must be true, a man on the side of the road said so. The guard let us past, noting our registration number. We drove down this well maintained (so rather un-Indian) road and arrived at another set of gates with another guard. This was our destination. So while Thalia's friend's directions were accurate, it might have made our job easier if she had mentioned she lived in the Residence of the Ambassador to Rwanda in them!