50/50

The bank wrote to me today. They've received the form Aashish helped me fill in that told them they had my address wrong, so they've changed it for me. They changed it from A ISI (letters) to N 151 (numbers). It was only half right before, and it's still only half right! What progress!! HDFC's slogan is "We understand your world", pity they don't understand handwriting in capital letters.

My name is Lana and I am a Petrol Head

Today was the day Rod and I had been waiting for since November 3rd last year - the start of the Formula One season. 147 days (yes, I counted) without our fix of roaring engines, squealing tyres and reckless overtaking manoeuvres. Of course, we have seen plenty of the above during that time...whilst driving on Indian roads, unfortunately. The Albert Park circuit in Melbourne is better suited to speed than, for example, the NH-8 (the freeway between Delhi and Gurgaon). I hope that one day people will come to see that...

Anyway, back to the real speed demons. We may have had to wait 147 days, but oh boy, the wait was worth it. A one-two for Brawn GP, a team born 23 days ago from one of last year's underperformers. A long awaited second win for Jenson Button, out of 154 race starts. A well deserved second place for the oldest driver on the grid, the truly ancient 36 year old Rubens Barrichello. And a third place for Lewis Hamilton, after starting from the very back of the grid. And neither Ferrari finished the race, but for decency's sake, I'll try not to gloat too much.

Here's hoping the rest of the season is as good as this...

Banking on it

Today was a truly momentous day. I've been in India almost seven months now, and today I was given the ability to take money out of our joint bank account! Woo Hoo! Today, Aashish, my new favourite bank employee, handed me my pin number, which goes with the debit card he handed me last week. So there's the happy ending - back to the beginning.

I can't say we've been trying to get my own debit card for the whole seven months...we didn't put much effort in for the first couple of weeks. In September, Rod's company changed the bank they used to pay the wages into. We used this opportunity to set up a joint account. Now you'd think if you told the guy from the bank who brought fifty million forms for you to fill in (for the Indians do like their form filling) that you wanted a joint account, then he'd give you the right forms so you'd get a joint account where both parties could equally use the account. But no... It seems the forms put my name on the account and gave me a telephone identification number so I could call up and find out how much was in the account, but nothing else. Now, while this is nice, it doesn't help me pay for groceries at the supermarket. Nor does it allow me to use a cash machine. Can you see the flaws in this scheme? I know I can.

Unfortunately Rod and I mistook my telephone identification number (TIN) as my PIN, and assumed my debit card was on the way. When it didn't arrive, we assumed it was a victim of the Indian postal service and called to alert the bank. The bank, once they'd found an employee who had some command of the English language, told us no debit card had been requested for me. What of all those forms we filled in, Rod asked? We might have filled in lots of forms, maybe even one requesting a debit card for me, but now they wanted us to fill them in again. Unfortunately those forms never arrived in the post... Feeling face to face was the only way to achieve our goal of a debit card each, we went to our local branch to try again. This is where we met Aashish.

Aashish helped us fill in all the forms, and a debit card was on the way to me. Of course, it didn't arrive. For the person inputting our information into the computer back when we filled in the first forms misread the A151 in the address, so according to bank records we live at AISI (using letters I and S instead of numbers 1 and 5) Westend Heights. Now this is close enough for us to receive bank statements and all other correspondence from the bank, but just not close enough for me to get my card. So after having waited for the post an appropriate amount of time, we went back to Aashish. He looked up in his records and said the card had been sent. We told him it may well have been, but we didn't have it. He made a few phone calls, and discovered my card had been returned undelivered, to Chennai. Now, for those of you who are a little unsure of your Indian geography, maybe struggling to find a map with boundaries the Indian government approves of, Chennai (formerly Madras) is over two thousand kilometres from Gurgaon. Hmmm, not helpful...

But Aashish was not to be detterred. He requested my debit card to be delivered to my branch, so I could pick it up there. This I did last Thursday. I was almost excited, until Aashish asked me if I had requested a pin number to be sent with the card. I told him I was unaware I needed to put in a separate request - silly me had assumed they would send a pin number as well as a card. So there was another form to fill in...Once again we decided it would be quicker to have the pin number sent to the branch. Nine days later...

And if you think we should change banks to a better one, I'm not sure better ones exist. I was discussing (okay, whinging!) to one of the other new arrival Mums and she told me every time she withdrew money from a cashpoint machine, her bank sent a text message confirming her transaction - to her husband!

I read it in a magazine, it must be true!

In previous posts I have mentioned how Health and Safety hasn't troubled the India subcontinent greatly. Another western institution that's failed to make an impact here is the Advertising Standards Authority. Recently I picked up a copy of Femina, an Indian glossy magazine. Inside the cover there was a double page spread for "Shape Up", a waist and tummy trim gel. This gel must be truly marvellous, beause the ad claims you can "Lose up to 2 inches and get a flatter, firmer tummy in just 3 to 6 weeks". It does this, the ad states, by breaking down body fat, draining out extra retained water and, wait for it, strengthening and toning stomach muscles. Why should I do situps and reverse crunches if this gel will do them for me?

Towards the back of the magazine, where the ads get smaller, the claims get even wilder. If only I was younger, I could send for Herbo Height Therapy (only 2,500 rupees a month) which will help under 35's grow taller. Proudly the ad states its claims have not been proved false...

And it's not only herbs that can make you grow taller. A leaflet in our mailbox touted local yoga classes. It's obviously a different kind of yoga to the one I've been doing for 8 years. This yoga can increase height, memory, concentration and spiritual growth. I don't think there's anything wrong with my memory or concentration. I'm happy with my spiritual growth. Rod could assure you, however, I've not grown taller in those years... Wonder what I'm doing wrong?

Birthday time!

Sometimes, it's the simplest things that catch you out in this country. You've remembered it's your daughter's birthday, and remembered to order her favourite cake (chocolate, of course!). And you've remembered you need to buy candles for the cake. Unfortunately, remembering you need candles isn't enough, you actually have to purchase them too!

So you're at Galleria, a large shopping market. You ask in a stationery shop - they're sure to have birthday candles. Yes, they have candles, they happily tell you. They show you a box of six stubby votive candles, two inches high, and about an inch and a half thick. They're not birthday candles, you explain, you want something to go on a birthday cake. So they show you another box of candles. This one contains a set of tea lights, a small vase and a sheaf of those reedy things you put essential oil on. In my mind, this is still not a suitable substitute for birthday candles, but the man behind the counter obviously is more used to thinking outside the box than I am. He also shows me, as an afterthought, a candle in the shape of a number two. Thalia is turning 12, so two is a good number. Unfortunately, he doesn't have a number one.

I remember there's a "Party" shop downstairs. At least I think it's a party shop - the handpainted sign says it's "for all your Parth needs". As the shop is full of toys, I'm thinking that's a typo. They have birthday candles! The lady shows me candles which are exactly what I need, except they're the relighting ones. I refuse to buy these, because Rod and I believe they're dangerous. You want to blow birthday candles out once. Losing your eyebrows in the process is not exactly a birthday treat! She also has some of the numbered candles: four, eight (which I have already from Keir's birthday) and the number six, which she explains to me could also be the number nine. I decide against explaining how a candle wick works... I ask her if she has the number one, because I know where to find a two. She does not. She does have a set of six candles in the shape of teddybear pirates. They are at least of a size designed to go on a cake. I ask her if she has anything for a girl. She has a set of six teddybear fairies. I ask her if she has anything less juvenile - she does not. Even though I can imagine how Thalia's eyes will roll when she sees these candles, they are at least twelve candles, so I buy both boxes.

There is one last place to try at Galleria, another stationery shop. They have miraculously, the number candles, both one and two. I breathe a sigh of relief, and buy them immediately.

I am now set for any and all birthdays consisting of the numbers one, two and eight. I suppose this means next month Rod and I are going to have to turn 21 or 81. Both of these (for both of us) are a long way off the mark!

Have map, will travel.

According to the Lonely Planet Guide to India, one of the shopping highlights of Dehradun is the Survey of India Map Shop. The guide says it's a tiny shop with all sorts of current and antique Indian maps. As we're still a little confused about this vast country (remember, I wasn't allowed to buy an atlas at Christmas, because the government didn't like where Readers Digest, Collins, Oxford etc drew the international boundaries), we thought this might be a good shop to visit. It seems we must have been the only people to purchase the Lonely Planet Guide to India, travel to Dehradun and visit the Survey of India Map shop, for the people behind the counter seemed a little surprised to see us there. But they overcame their shock and showed us some fascinating maps, including one of Everest and surrounds from the 1920 expedition. Because we are not so adventurous we left that one behind. We did take a map of Dehradun which showed the location of Robbers Cave, and decided we were plenty adventurous enough to investigate that. Besides, it didn't sound anywhere near as cold!

Here we are at the mouth of Robbers Cave. Legend has it that in less civilised times robbers used these caves to hide from the law, and to hide their unlawfully gained booty. We weren't expecting to find any of this booty, we were expecting to have a nice walk along (or in) this small stream. At the time Rod took this photo, actuality was matching expectation. However, that was not to last...

At times the stream was a little deeper than ankle length. Some of us stopped to decide whether it was better to forge forward, or to go back and choose another way upstream. Some of us just forged forward...

That's a waterfall in front of Keir. How he thought he was going to get up it I have no idea. After he went in up to his armpits we called him back and climbed up the rocks on the right hand side of the picture (where the light is coming from). Eagle eyed viewers will notice Health and Safety hasn't troubled this tourist attraction yet. There's no hand rails nor are there useful Nanny State signs like "Be Careful. Water is Wet." However, a sign stating "Green Stones are Slippery Stones" wouldn't have gone astray. Eventually we came out of the cave complex, and the stream continued along a rocky gully.

It was a brilliant day out. The water is from the Himalayas, and it was crystal clear. Thankfully the Himalayas are still quite a way away, because the water was still pretty damn cold! It took three and a half hours to walk upstream and return to our starting point. And yes, we all slept well that night, and yes, we did ache afterwards!

Mutton, anyone?

We spotted this sign in Dehradun when we went to Palton (Platoon) Market.

Whilst we knew what they were trying to say, we couldn't help wondering if it couldn't have been phrased a little...kinder?

Leaving, On A Midnight Train

to Dehradun. Okay, so it doesn't sound as glamorous as Georgia, but it's a damn fine way to travel! We had a curtained compartment all to ourselves, and the beds were more comfortable than the ones in the club we stayed at in Dehradun. Rod says the bed was more comfortable than Virgin Airlines Upper Class sleeper seats, and trust me, these were an awful lot cheaper! £80 return, for all four of us. We've now invested in a map of the Indian railways system so we can search out more overnight journeys.



This was a second class airconditioned cabin. We would have booked first class, but we only decided to go two days before and they were all sold out. Second class was fine! If the journey had been longer (this train left at five minutes to midnight and arrived at the ungodly time of five forty in the morning) we'd have wanted first class, because someone comes to your cabin and feeds you (I'm assuming not literally, though knowing some Indians, I might be wrong...)

They also provide sheets, a blanket and a pillow (which hadn't arrived when we took our photos). We were told later that we could pay a man 10 rupees to make the bed up for us. As both Rod and I are more than capable of throwing three rectangular pieces of fabric onto a flat, rectangular bench, we opted not to. We're also far too cheap! Even though we haven't needed blankets at home for a while because it's already quite warm overnight, they were absolutely vital on the train. We'd paid for second class airconditioned, and airconditioned we got!

Dehradun is in the foothills of the Himalayas, and has a military history. It's a little cooler than Delhi, so the British took their soldiers there to train. We were based at The Dehradun Club, a 100 year old clubhouse opposite the Parade Ground. It's also an educational stronghold, with many of India's best schools and research centres based there. Here's a pic of us in front of a tiny part of the Forest Research Institute, an incredibly long and beautiful building constructed during the Second World War.

Holi Moli!

Today is Holi, the festival of colour. To best "play Holi" however, you should wear white.
It's also a good idea to moisturise thoroughly and apply liberal amounts of hair oil before you start. You'll soon see why...

Westend Heights had a Holi celebration on the front lawn for its residents. There was a DJ and the obligatory rain dance platform. Just as every good Bollywood movie needs a dance number in the rain, every great Indian celebration needs a rain dance platform. Every good Bollywood movie also needs to visit Switzerland for an alpine song and dance. Holi at Westend Heights decided against trying to stage this one...

As well as the music and the water, there is colour. People take coloured herbal powders and place some on each other, wishing them Happy Holi. You don't stay white for long...


A good early lesson is to remember to keep your mouth shut when someone is wishing you Happy Holi. I saw a few people who hadn't clocked this...and they had red and green teeth. If you think we look strange, I can assure you coloured teeth is not a good look...

We came home and had significant showers. Most of the colour has come off us (thankfully), and our clothes gone through the first wash. I'm not saying the colour doesn't wash out of fabric, but every item is now peach. Rod's really looking forward to a chance to wear his peach kurta pyjama again...honest!

The Sky Is Falling Down!

This week, a man holding a pot of very watered down paint rang our doorbell. He said (well, kind of) he was going to paint our bathroom ceiling. This would bring to an end, by Indian standards, the saga of our our deteriorating bathroom ceiling. Only by Indian standards, in that he only intended to use the one coat of watery paint.

Back to the beginning: Last year, while Mum was still visiting, one of the bathrooms in the flat above us developed a leak. A damp patch began growing in the corner of one of our bathrooms above the bath. This patch grew...and grew... The paint on the ceiling began crinkling, then lifting, then falling delicately down into the bath. This was a bit of a nuisance, because you had to rinse all these flakes out of the bath every night before you could fill it. But they were just paint flakes, after all the paint had fallen off an area to expose the underlying building material, that too began falling into the bath. In a normal construction, under the paint and before the concrete would be plaster, but we're in India, and extraneous processes like plaster are...well, missing. So now along with the paint flakes from the newly damp areas I've got concrete falling into the bath. Sometimes it's concrete dust...sometimes it's rather big lumps. Cleopatra got to bathe in asses milk, I get to bathe in water with gritty, flaky bits in it. And the bits fall without notice...even while I'm in the bath. I feel like Chicken Licken - the sky is falling down!

So I go to the maintenance department to request someone comes to fix the ceiling. Obviously no one comes. So two days later I go back and request again. Fifteen minutes later two boys ring my doorbell. They look at my bathroom ceiling and my bath covered in paint and concrete debris. One of them climbs into the bath and peers out the window to see if he can see what the problem is. He can't crane his head around enough to get a good look, so he climbs out the window to stand on a narrow ledge. Remember, I live 15 storeys up. I wanted the leak fixed...but maybe not that much! I was mightily relieved when he climbed back through the window. He had a brief chat in Hindi with his co-worker, and then he turned to me and said "paint". Believing he was describing what was falling into the bath, I added "concrete". He repeated "paint". It then dawned on me he was not describing the problem, he was outlining the solution! Now I might not know that much about home maintenance and repairs, but I'm damn sure paint alone doesn't fix leaky pipes. I declare I want the "In Charge" (what they call a supervisor here, because they're "in charge") to look at my flaky ceiling. So the boys go away and, as expected, no one comes to see my ceiling.

So Rod and I go down to the maintenance room together. This has worked well for us in the past, because if we go alone, they try to explain their inaction by blaming us. "I spoke to your wife", the In Charge says. "No you didn't", I reply. "We came, but there was no one home". "We were in all day", Rod replies. You'd think they'd learn that if we're both in the same room those lies aren't going to be successful... I tell him bathing is not a pleasant experience because things keep falling on me. "Come and fix our ceiling", Rod declares. "When will you be home?", the In Charge wants to know. I check my watch, and add 10 minutes to the current time.

Remarkably, 10 minutes later our doorbell rings. In walk the In Charge and a clutch of maintenance men. I show Henny Penny, Drakey Lakey, Goosey Lucy, Foxy Loxy and the In Charge my ceiling. The In Charge states he has already had the leak above fixed, and my ceiling is just "drying out". Rod doesn't believe him...at all. It is agreed paint alone is not the solution, they're going to scrape off the old flaky paint too. Not one of the maintenance men have brought any tools with them so they're going to have to come back to do this. We're really quite surprised when one does return within half an hour.

So then I had a large patch of damp, bare concrete to look at when I had my bath. Fine crystals like salt began to form on the patch. Nothing fell on me for almost a week, but then the crystals started floating down like snowflakes. It still wasn't asses milk, but it wasn't as bad as before. They didn't make so much noise when they hit the water to startle me from my reading.

But then nothing happened. I expected the In charge had signed it off because I'd stopped hassling him. So I was pleasantly surprised to see a layer of badly applied, overly thin paint covering up the bare concrete. After Rod scraped the worst of the paint off the tiles, in low light conditions you'd almost believe it was a finished job!