Good News 1: We met our new maid today. Her name is Santoss (I'd say forgive me, the spelling's probably wrong, but she doesn't speak any English so she isn't going to be able to read it) and she starts tomorrow at 11. She works part time for the lady upstairs, Mrs Mehra, so she should be reliable. She looked not a day over 23 but she must be, as she has three children, aged 9, 10 and 12. I'd heard they marry young in the villages...
Good News 2: My bath arrived today. It was supposed to be here two days ago, so I was extremely pleased to see it delivered. A little less pleased when I found out I had to wait for someone to come and assemble it tomorrow afternoon. Imagine getting an IKEA delivery where there weren't any instructions, not even picture ones with no words. That is my bath with frame, with a small collection of assorted bolts and stuff. We don't know if we have all the right bits, let alone where they go. We've left it standing outside the kitchen, which is ultimately not where I want my bath to be.
But the bath is here, and the maid starts tomorrow, and the RO machine works and we have unlimited drinking water. Life's good!
Friday, April 17, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Paper, Sir?
While we were moving all our boxes in to Hauz Khas last Friday evening, a man (I'm assuming he was the local newsagent) came up and asked us if we would like papers delivered. Brilliant move, I thought, because it saved me going down to the high street and finding the newsagent who delivered papers. But...(you all knew there would be a but, didn't you :-)), I assumed the papers would be delivered so I could read them at breakfast time. I understand many Indians have a much slower start to the day than Brits, who in turn tend to have a slower start to the day than Americans. Most shops here don't open before 11am, and many don't close until 9 at night. Maybe Indians like reading their papers later in the day, but if I don't read it with my breakfast cup of tea, I might not get to it at all. I know it's only been five days, but so far the paper hasn't turned up before 10.30am. It's just too late. Yesterday the paper did turn up at 6.30, but that was 6.30 in the evening...
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
H2O
Moving house has pointed out to me one thing all of us in the developed world take for granted. Safe drinking water. When you can just turn on a tap and drink what comes out without it giving you, at best, an upset stomach and at worst, cholera, you don't really think about how much water you use. Not just for drinking, but for washing fruit and vegetables, and cooking too. At the old flat we installed a reverse osmosis (RO) machine, which double filtered the water (activated carbon and UV light). This is brilliant, but we're still waiting for the filter guy to turn up to install it here. We were sure we had an appointment for 3pm this afternoon, but no one turned up. Rod phoned to make sure someone would come today, and was told we could have an appointment tomorrow for 12 in the morning (personally I think 12 is the afternoon. Frankly, the filter guy is so unlikely to turn up at 12, it will be the afternoon, even for Indians...) Anyway, while we are waiting for the RO machine to be connected, we are using bottled water. No sooner have we cleared the flat of the cardboard box mountain, of the protective newspaper mountain, now we are floundering in the empty 1 litre plastic bottle mountain. Like a volcanic island peeping out of the ocean, it is growing day by day. It feels wrong to throw them out, because I know the maids sell them to make a little extra money. But we haven't got a maid in Hauz Khas yet, so I have no one to give the bottles to. I really want to rectify both these problems (too many bottles, having to do all the housework myself) really soon! Both are bad!!
Monday, April 13, 2009
Moving On Up
For a while I was stuck underneath the cardboard mountain of boxes that Caravan Packers and Movers transformed A151, our Gurgaon apartment, into. Then in our new Hauz Khas apartment I was buried underneath every newspaper I'd read in the past month. Caravan Packers and Movers seem to be of the belief that if wrapping a glass in a sheet of newspaper will keep it safe, wrapping it in six sheets will keep it really safe. Unwrapping all those really safe glasses and half used bottles of condiments made my hands ache for two days! This afternoon the last big puzzle piece fell into place, when Airtel came and gave us a landline and broadband internet connection. So now I can blog again, and email again, and receive spam again... Joy!
For a while things were a little touch and go with the new flat, we weren't sure if we would be able to move in as planned. We had a “final, pre-moving check” last Sunday evening, five days before we took possession, and found there was still a lot of work to do. And before you think we’re fussy bastards, all we asked for was the electrical sockets to be screwed into the walls, for curtain poles to be fixed above the windows, the tatty furniture inside the apartment to be removed and for the house to have an industrial clean. We opened one of the bedroom cupboards and found a stockpile of plastic department store bags, an entire double shelf, neatly folded and stacked. Maybe the previous occupant had OCD - not one with a cleanliness angle - I’ve seen the ceiling fans. The landlord’s son (obviously a layabout in his 20’s whose Dad is trying to make work for his keep) said the reason the place wasn’t ready was that the painter hadn’t turned up today. I didn’t know painters did electrical work, fixed curtain poles and chucked stuff on the Indian version of a skip? And what was the painter doing on the previous 10 days? We understood, because layabout son told us so, that the cleaner couldn’t come until the painter had been. Like, obviously…
On Thursday morning, while I supervised eight hard working but unfortunately unattractive men turn A151 from a home to a giant pile of boxes, Rod went to view the new flat with the landlord. Unfortunately for the landlord, not much progress had been made since Sunday, and Rod admits he may have yelled a bit. Quite a bit. The painter had been and there was one youth cleaning the place with a cloth but no cleaning products - less industrial clean, more rearranging the dirt. The plastic bag collection and old sofas were still in place. The landlord told Rod not to worry, the flat would be ready by eight that evening. Rod told the landlord like Arnie, he'd be back...
On his return back to Hauz Khas after dinner, Rod the sceptic took the full cleaning kit: a large bucket, a scrubbing brush, cream cleanser, disinfectant. He's not sure what they fed the youth doing the cleaning, because he'd actually cleaned the whole place. Not well, of course, but it was a start. Rod showed him how to use cream cleanser to clean all the dusty grease from the light switch plates, and how to clean the inside of cupboards. The kid looked surprised. A white man is a man of status, and men of status don't clean, they get their minions to do it for them. Rod was happy for the landlord's minion to do it, but only if it was done to Rod's standards! Between them the place was clean enough to move into the following day. Which was a good thing, because we didn't have anything to sit on at A151 that wasn't covered in bubble wrap or cardboard!
For a while things were a little touch and go with the new flat, we weren't sure if we would be able to move in as planned. We had a “final, pre-moving check” last Sunday evening, five days before we took possession, and found there was still a lot of work to do. And before you think we’re fussy bastards, all we asked for was the electrical sockets to be screwed into the walls, for curtain poles to be fixed above the windows, the tatty furniture inside the apartment to be removed and for the house to have an industrial clean. We opened one of the bedroom cupboards and found a stockpile of plastic department store bags, an entire double shelf, neatly folded and stacked. Maybe the previous occupant had OCD - not one with a cleanliness angle - I’ve seen the ceiling fans. The landlord’s son (obviously a layabout in his 20’s whose Dad is trying to make work for his keep) said the reason the place wasn’t ready was that the painter hadn’t turned up today. I didn’t know painters did electrical work, fixed curtain poles and chucked stuff on the Indian version of a skip? And what was the painter doing on the previous 10 days? We understood, because layabout son told us so, that the cleaner couldn’t come until the painter had been. Like, obviously…
On Thursday morning, while I supervised eight hard working but unfortunately unattractive men turn A151 from a home to a giant pile of boxes, Rod went to view the new flat with the landlord. Unfortunately for the landlord, not much progress had been made since Sunday, and Rod admits he may have yelled a bit. Quite a bit. The painter had been and there was one youth cleaning the place with a cloth but no cleaning products - less industrial clean, more rearranging the dirt. The plastic bag collection and old sofas were still in place. The landlord told Rod not to worry, the flat would be ready by eight that evening. Rod told the landlord like Arnie, he'd be back...
On his return back to Hauz Khas after dinner, Rod the sceptic took the full cleaning kit: a large bucket, a scrubbing brush, cream cleanser, disinfectant. He's not sure what they fed the youth doing the cleaning, because he'd actually cleaned the whole place. Not well, of course, but it was a start. Rod showed him how to use cream cleanser to clean all the dusty grease from the light switch plates, and how to clean the inside of cupboards. The kid looked surprised. A white man is a man of status, and men of status don't clean, they get their minions to do it for them. Rod was happy for the landlord's minion to do it, but only if it was done to Rod's standards! Between them the place was clean enough to move into the following day. Which was a good thing, because we didn't have anything to sit on at A151 that wasn't covered in bubble wrap or cardboard!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Simple somethings...are sometimes hard
We're moving into a new apartment tomorrow, in New Delhi proper. So the last few days we've spent sorting and packing up our stuff. On Tuesday, Rod and I dismantled my quilting frame. It's not a job we enjoy doing, but we've built and rebuilt frames so many times over the last six and a half years we're getting quite good at it. What is a little more difficult here in India, is that a lot of useful things we would normally have lying around our home back in England we haven't necessarily accumulated yet, for one reason or another, in India. Unfortunately as a consequence of dismantling my table we discovered one of those missing useful things...
Rod wanted to bundle together the hydraulic legs for the table and tie them to the underside of the frame, so they wouldn't get damaged in the move. He asks me where we keep the string. Unfortunately the last ball of string I remember seeing was in my kitchen drawer, the one above the bin, at 77 Marina Avenue, about eight months ago. It might even still be there, because it's a damn fine place to keep a ball of string, but it's not exactly helpful to us here in India. So I decide to do the good wife thing, and go out and buy some string. How hard can it be to buy string in Gurgaon?, I think. Well considering it's Tuesday, the answer is very hard indeed.
See, for some strange reason, most shops in Gurgaon close on a Tuesday. Something to do with them opening Sunday, I think. But food shops are open, and wine shops are open (hurrah!) and so are newsagents and stationery shops. So Ragu and I head off to Needs supermarket, because they have a large household department, and I'm sure they have string there.
They don't. They say try Spencers Express, in the same shopping complex. They don't either, but they know a shop that does. It's on the next floor up, but it's not open today because it's Tuesday. So Ragu and I head off to Galleria. I try in the Stationery Shop. After all, a shop that sells pencils, erasers, rubber bands etc in Britain would probably sell string. This isn't Britain, Toto, and the shop has no string. The assistant tells me: "String is a speciality product, Ma'am and I need to go to the market to buy it. But market is not open. It is Tuesday". So I try the newsagents. They proudly hand me a packet of Scooby Doo Strings, the thin, multicoloured plastic strings that were all the rage to make small macrame-like twists a couple of years back. I'm starting to think, if I want string today, on Tuesday (which is obviously so unreasonable of me) I'm going to have to be prepared to think outside the box... Worst case scenario, Rod laughs at the Scooby Doo strings, and Thalia makes some multicoloured macrame like twists. As it turns out, Rod didn't laugh (because he too has tried unsuccessfully to find something simple in Gurgaon on a Tuesday). He used some of the Scoobys to tie up the table legs. Thalia made some Scooby Doos as well.
Rod wanted to bundle together the hydraulic legs for the table and tie them to the underside of the frame, so they wouldn't get damaged in the move. He asks me where we keep the string. Unfortunately the last ball of string I remember seeing was in my kitchen drawer, the one above the bin, at 77 Marina Avenue, about eight months ago. It might even still be there, because it's a damn fine place to keep a ball of string, but it's not exactly helpful to us here in India. So I decide to do the good wife thing, and go out and buy some string. How hard can it be to buy string in Gurgaon?, I think. Well considering it's Tuesday, the answer is very hard indeed.
See, for some strange reason, most shops in Gurgaon close on a Tuesday. Something to do with them opening Sunday, I think. But food shops are open, and wine shops are open (hurrah!) and so are newsagents and stationery shops. So Ragu and I head off to Needs supermarket, because they have a large household department, and I'm sure they have string there.
They don't. They say try Spencers Express, in the same shopping complex. They don't either, but they know a shop that does. It's on the next floor up, but it's not open today because it's Tuesday. So Ragu and I head off to Galleria. I try in the Stationery Shop. After all, a shop that sells pencils, erasers, rubber bands etc in Britain would probably sell string. This isn't Britain, Toto, and the shop has no string. The assistant tells me: "String is a speciality product, Ma'am and I need to go to the market to buy it. But market is not open. It is Tuesday". So I try the newsagents. They proudly hand me a packet of Scooby Doo Strings, the thin, multicoloured plastic strings that were all the rage to make small macrame-like twists a couple of years back. I'm starting to think, if I want string today, on Tuesday (which is obviously so unreasonable of me) I'm going to have to be prepared to think outside the box... Worst case scenario, Rod laughs at the Scooby Doo strings, and Thalia makes some multicoloured macrame like twists. As it turns out, Rod didn't laugh (because he too has tried unsuccessfully to find something simple in Gurgaon on a Tuesday). He used some of the Scoobys to tie up the table legs. Thalia made some Scooby Doos as well.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Australia Post
I visited Australia today. And before anyone gets gets their knickers twisted because I didn't pop in to see them, it was that little part of New Delhi which represents "the lucky country", the Australian High Commission. I belong to a quilting group here and apart from our leader, Anju, we're all expats. The majority of the group is Australian, with a few of us having had extended stays elsewhere. We have a couple of North Americans, a Venezuelan, a Belgian, a few Brits and a New Zealander. Today's meeting was at Paddy's house, and Paddy (proudly from Canberra), lives in the High Commission. Inside her apartment it sounded like we were in Australia, with only Anju's Indian accent and Kehi's New Zealand one amongst all these Aussies. But outside her apartment...we were still in India, Toto, because I didn't hear another single Australian voice. Shame.
But soon I will get my fix of Aussie voices. We booked our flights to Perth this afternoon for our six week summer holiday. New Delhi gets bloody hot in June - I've been told 50 degrees celsius (120 F) is not unheard of. It might be an urban legend, but I'm sure I don't want to be here to check! Why would I - when I can go to Perth for their winter when it will be 20 (70F)!
But soon I will get my fix of Aussie voices. We booked our flights to Perth this afternoon for our six week summer holiday. New Delhi gets bloody hot in June - I've been told 50 degrees celsius (120 F) is not unheard of. It might be an urban legend, but I'm sure I don't want to be here to check! Why would I - when I can go to Perth for their winter when it will be 20 (70F)!
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Give a Man a Fish...
And he eats for the night, teach him how to fish and he buggers off each weekend, so the saying goes. This evening I decided to try the theory out with Rod. Obviously I wasn't using fish, because he gets violently ill at the mere thought of seafood. I needed a much better lure (should I keep up the maritime theme?), and trust me, flapjacks are much better than a hook and feathers (okay, I'm done).
Rod loves flapjacks. To be honest, we all do. But when I make flapjacks, only he suggests I hide the tin where the kids can't get to it. For the sake of parental unity, and because Thalia reads this, I won't say if I do or not...
Rod's not the world's greatest cook. He can fry eggs, and make toast. And now he can make flapjacks too. He better not go buggering off for the weekend, and if he does, he'd better leave a few behind for the rest of us!
Rod loves flapjacks. To be honest, we all do. But when I make flapjacks, only he suggests I hide the tin where the kids can't get to it. For the sake of parental unity, and because Thalia reads this, I won't say if I do or not...
Rod's not the world's greatest cook. He can fry eggs, and make toast. And now he can make flapjacks too. He better not go buggering off for the weekend, and if he does, he'd better leave a few behind for the rest of us!
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