tah » Helmet in India

Goodbye & Farewell

helmet — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 17:41:31 +0000

This is the end. Suiting my character I will end the Helmet in India section by intertwining something funny with something devastating, some might say tragic. Train rides: one of my favorite topics.

The Bombay metro system is a known hazard to commuters. Since nothing is alike this city, train rides blend in smoothly. They actually can kill you. I was too lazy researching numbers on how many people die riding the commute each year but just googling for images reveals horrifying proof of the 2006 train blasts; only one of the many perils. Others are mashed by the hordes of people, pushed out of an overcrowded coach and shattered on the tracks, or killed by the power supply lines whilst traveling on the train roof (great idea, by the way!). There are several websites and blogs wrapped up around this topic. And even the Freakonomics blog discussed a business model of insuring against getting busted when traveling without a ticket, plus the adherent question how to make ticket collection economical. Just for the sake of comparison: In New York, 3 million people are using city’s subway every day. Mumbai counts 6 million travelers in trains and on rails in direful condition.
Anyway, I found a poster ad from the Hindustan Times with a future prediction of Bombay’s Metro. And I lived in Bandra.

To set this into perspective watch what Google Images spits out.

So thank you, Bombay. Thank you, India. It has been an exiting, not always pleasant journey. I learned a lot, broadened my mind, gain a lot of respect for the people and made a couple of friends. I’ll come back, I promise. Not soon, though.

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Rajasthan Journey [Gallery]

helmet — Sat, 15 Mar 2008 16:07:07 +0000

Still waiting to get back the analog photos I took during my Rajasthan travel – it’s been 85 days that I returned (yeah, I am a lazy bum) – I ftp’d the ones I took with my iPhone. They’re surprisingly good.
[Rajasthan Photo Gallery]

In short, I flew in to Jaipur, the pink city. Apparently, the Rajasthanis are peculiarly aware of the fucked-up beauty of the city. Whilst glowing and gleaming in the sunset, Jaipur seems like a remainder of the old heritage of the Rajput Kingdoms convulsing with the industrial charms of modern India during the day and crackling New York themed burning barrels at night. Oh yes, and it smells like crap all the time but that’s true for most parts of the sub-continent.

The night train to Udaipur captured me for about twelve hours in nausea and disgust. Or let me put it like this: I did not use the toilet once! The arctic temperatures could appease me as much as the munching, staring, gawking Indian men in our cabin. As it seems Indians live in total disregard of other people’s contentment and complete absence of embarrassment and reverence. Udaipur, in contrast to this former experience, offered a rare beauty. Sticking out of the middle of the desert, the White City looks like most places in India. Like crap if watched from inside the traffic and the milling crowds but as if it was forged out of ivory from one of the many rooftop restaurants. I arrived in the morning and decided to start the day with a healthy breakfast in an upper middle-class hotel overlooking Lake Pichola. Later, I took a tourist rickshaw to some of the sights, a boot tour across the lake and decided to end the day, and sadly my journey, at the same restaurant with Lake Palace in front. I needed to maintain my buzz until the next night train whilst not ingesting too much fluids. It was a fine line between beer and cocktails. The city itself, it seemed, serves only one purpose: To rip off tourists like a cheap hooker in Phnom Phen. Obviously, I couldn’t contain myself and bought some useless junk and a scarf – which later should have become ruined in an accident involving too much alcohol.

In the end I was very grateful having had the opportunity to visit one of the strangest and contradictoriest places on earth. And, off course, that I wasn’t born here.

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Help Of Mari [Pics]

helmet — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 20:43:11 +0000

One of the last things I did in Mumbai was visiting an orphanage for HIV/AIDS-infected children in the outskirts. In India, those children are treated a family disgrace and completely excluded form social life. The sisters of the order The Helpers of Mary – with the support of expatriates and medical, food and clothing donations – built a lovely home for the kids. They showed us around their dorm room and recreational area and performed a traditional dance.

There’s not much more to say but how grateful we should be for leading the life that we do and the opportunities we inherited. We must not take everything for granted.

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The FRRO Experience [Pics]

helmet — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 18:18:11 +0000

To sum up my time in India I decided to post the remaining photos and comment on a couple of events and travels. I start with an adventurous layover at the FRRO, the Foreigners Regional Registration Office in Mumbai, which actually felt more like detention.

I feel obliged to mention that Indian law constitutes a resident a person with a habitation longer than 12 weeks (I stayed only for 3 month). Because of a screwup in the General Consulate of India in Frankfurt, Germany, I received a student visa with the condition to get registered with the local authorities. My Indian colleague covered my back in the administrative hazard that is the FRRO. We got hassled by someone who embodied importance in concurrence with inefficiency (not quite sure about the ratio, though). I had to fill out an application, tell someone – sorry, wait for them, then letting them know – although a handful of clerks were strolling around. As I forcefully had my picture taken, the absurdity of the scene hit me and put a smile on my face which I tried to suppress and eventually turned into a smirk. Then there was more waiting, being handled by a strangely tall bureaucrat who couldn’t – or wouldn’t – look me in the eye, then waiting again. I found out that despite all the utter exposed importance all applications must have been signed by the head of the FRRO.

Almost four hours later I had my residents pass.

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Goa

helmet — Sun, 14 Oct 2007 18:58:22 +0000

We just returned from a trip to Goa over the weekend [Picture Gallery]. It was clearly not enough time to get around as much as I had wished for. My friends Jan, Nicola & Anna got to stay a few days longer but I had to go back to work.

If you ever go to Goa perambulate it from north to south. Well, maybe just rent a car or get a taxi. But be prepared that they’re gonna rip you off like a cheap hussy is will take your money and leave you high and dry. I am really not complaining, maybe just exaggerating a bit. Our flight was delayed for more than three hours which gave me time to sit around the Santa Cruz domestic airport, watch people, do a little soul-searching and finally listen to music on my iPod, I hadn’t done that for at least a week (but the music I discovered will be presented on a different stage soon). When we arrived in Goa the sun had already set, so we couldn’t fully soak in what this part of India had to offer. Our taxi driver rushed through the 2-hour route in only one and a half and almost gave us a heart attack. It seemed like he felt so comfy hanging around with his driver buddies at the airport that he must have felt an enormous urge to get back there asap.

Dear friend, not so fast, I might as well have have blurted out. There were bad news awaiting our arrival in Palolem, a quiet town in the south of Goa. Jan made reservations at a kind of beach hut resort which -according to our information- hadn’t opened yet. Apparently, the authorities require the owners of such accommodations to apply for the license to run such a business all over again each year. So if this would have turned out to be a dead end, we had no place to stay. The driver had no idea where to find Ciaran’s Camp and a local gave us the info we were afraid of. Anyway, he was nice enough to guide us the way on his scooter (probably hoping for a tip, I suspected). We found ourselves in the middle of what looked like a forest of palm trees. It was pitch-black, bleak and eerie. In the glow of my cell phone we managed our way to the administration building following the hammering and sawing of the huts still being under construction. The owner got two cottages up and ready for us. He told us we could stay there for now and decide later if we were bothered by noises.

The girls were shocked. I can imagine why and to what extent. Arriving in a strange place late at night, driving on a road that does not even qualify for that denomination just to get to a dark, humid place at some beach. But to be frank, it wasn’t that bad at all. The cottages were quite spacious with queen-sized beds wrapped in mosquito nets, a bathroom with running, hot water and a porch. Camping deluxe!

The next day South Goa showed us its true colors. It was burning hot and still a little humid since the monsoon just ended. Right in front of our doorstep we found long, clean beaches (for Indian standards), wild dogs, of course cows and a very diverse crowd of the regular hippie dropouts, international travelers, a lot of Israelis and some Europeans. But this impression could be deceptive since we got there during the off-peak season.

We opted for Palolem mainly because it is said to be an insider tip and not to overcrowded, unlike the north of Goa. The prices are very moderate compared to Mumbai, at least for food and drinks, which come in a rich variety. You might be better off shopping for the usual tourist crap in one of the metropolitan areas but going for a little memento wont hurt. Although, the Hippie market in Anjuna might be worth a visit. Unfortunately, I hadn’t had the time to go but my friends did and they brought back an ashtray with a woman sitting inside like in a tub. What stunned me most was the intricacy of the piece and the attention to detail the creator must have put into it. That means, of course, that you can actually see nipples including the areola and her genitalia. I would have brought home the exact same item. Well done, Jan!

We stayed for four days in Palolem and then headed for Panjim, Goa’s capital. Panji, as the locals call it (and Panabi, or something similar, as they pronounce it), gains its beauty actually from the Portuguese colonization. Some of the houses still bring back the spirit of the nineteenth century. One question, that is true for all of India, arises: Have these houses ever looked any different then today? It seems that no matter how long a building has been exposed to the unbearable humidity, heat and the rain that come with the monsoon, they all look alike. In no time, the weather gives them a nice smudgy paintwork. Or maybe it’s just negligence.

We took a stroll around the city. To be more precise: We followed the Lonely Planet recommended trail. And we got company. That’s the problem when too many people rely on the same material. They end up doing the same stuff, seeing the same places, restaurants and eventually run into each other. Ashamed they then avert the other’s gaze. Ups, how did this happen? What a coincidence? What I am doing with this thick book in my hands? If you stick with the Lonely Planet there will be no going astray. But at least, after a long day of sightseeing, when you relax in the editor’s choice from page 365 and you are surrounded by like-minded travelers, there will be one safe bet: You’ll have a lot of common impressions to share and chat about. Only never leave the trail.

We didn’t. It was too hot for detours, anyway. And by doing so we were trapped by a team of reporters of the Goa News pressing us for our views on Goa’s hospitality, taxi driver affability, bargain prices and perceived security. We gave in and told them what they wanted to know but refused to testify in front of the camera. Being all sweaty and still a little hung-over from the night before, we would have made a dreadful impression. Four imperialistic asshole-tourists complaining about service, being ripped off by some idiot driver, who -with his fancy driving style- had shortened their lives perceptibly, and corrupt police framing them by palming some marijuana off on them. Well, the latter did not happen to us but it, in fact, is a known police scam to get foreigners to bribe them, accordingly. And bribing your ass off is what you will do, considering ten years in prison for the possession of narcotics weighed against a couple of Rupees. Or maybe it’s just an urban myth.

A fact is, instead, the Indian’s fondness for bureaucracy. That’s probably one of the remains of the British occupation and I thank them for that. There are not enough issues to force regulation on. The government of the state of Goa recently decided that foreigners planning on retiring there, cannot came on a tourist visa which is primarily for travel, not retirement. Nor will they receive a permanent residence title. Instead, they have to go through the loophole of flying to a location nearby such as Singapore and re-enter which is a brilliant move since those are 400 bucks not being spent on the domestic market. And it sends out a clear message as well: You can come and visit but don’t ever get to homey, we’d rather stay with ourselves. And off-the-records, the friendly face you see when haggling for a bargain price is only a facade. Or maybe this is also just an urban myth spread through the press. Lastly, I want to state that I had a wonderful time in Goa but always being nice is just lame, and politics is no different in India than in Europe.

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T20 Cricket World Cup [Pics]

helmet — Tue, 02 Oct 2007 18:12:40 +0000

I wasn’t aware — before going to India — that this country is completely cuckoo for cricket. They actually won the T20 World Cup (in the finals against Pakistan).
Really, cricket is the most boring game I have ever watched. At least, the locals were all nice and messed up and exhilarated but the game is even worse than baseball.

On our way to work, Jan and I got stuck in the thickest, most cramped traffic. Instead of our usual 45 minutes for 8 kilometers we got stuck for over 2 hours in the cortege of the Indian team parading themselves on a tour bus. Thousands of people streamed unto the streets, losing shoes, crashing into cars. A colleague sent me these pictures:

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Survival Camp

helmet — Tue, 02 Oct 2007 06:34:17 +0000

After the image gallery from my trip to Khandala has been online for quite a while now, I decided to promote that a bit by picking three images and commenting on them.
I was sent to a newbie training in the mountains outside of Mumbai. The monsoon was still on but instead of the dirty and acid rain that is eating away the plaster of the buildings and giving them a nice “antique” look our faces were bathed in a light drizzle. Oh, and there were games. As part of a team building exercise they blindfolded us, made us touch one another, jump over mines, walk in the dark and turned us into construction workers. Not all of those activities are that well documented. Especially the pictures of the night trip came out a little shady {hehehe}. While being on a treasure hunt we had an out-of-nowhere encounter with a green baby viper. Fortunately, one of our outdoor guides was a snake nut who eventually become immune to certain types of venom after almost being bitten to death. He made friends with the little fellow.

This activity pushed most of the attendees to their limits. We had to rope down a bridge, catch a tiny latter while swaying in the rain and them climb back up. That guy had his pants full. But for our Indian nerd the whole adventure was dreadful. He was shrieking and shivering.

This is NOT the winner team. They were way to laid-back and lacking the right leadership. Needless to say that I was the leader of the winning team! The group was split into four teams which were all blindfolded except for their leader. Two teams had to erect one tent, meaning two tents were recklessly thrown into the crowd causing them to swarm and fighting over the single pieces, tearing them apart and making it impossible to track which pole belongs to which tent. Two team leads screaming, shouting and not communicating to their staff (plus, Indian names are very hard to remember). What a chaos!

In Germany, birthdays are an occasion and lame excuse for your friends to get wasted. In India, your friends take the opportunity to debase and humiliate you. They use cake to do that.

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The Backstreet Boys Are Back In Town

helmet — Tue, 25 Sep 2007 15:42:50 +0000

It is probably too late for a first impressions review by now. I could date back this entry but that would confuse the reality that I am a damn lazy bum. Luckily, I took notes which, now, help me put together my initial thoughts.

The airplane was about to land in Mumbai. I never really gave a thought to what was about to happen to me. But then it hit me. I was entering a strange land and probably one of the most fucked up cities in Asia. It’s hot, humid, dirty, malodorous and densely populated by over 13 million people jostling in an area of just 437.71 square meters. What a dump. What the hell was I thinking? That would have been an adequate moment to freak out. So I did. Mildly.
On the airport I got a slight handsel of the city’s taste. One of those elusive, tingling odors you have problems allocating. After I passed the security check (again!) I got the full taste. The elusiveness was gone and all that was left was all there was. This smell was physically all over the place. Like a drunk, fat chick (or guy, whatever) coming on to the entire party. I suddenly realized that this smell was to stay with me until I’d leave; and maybe a week longer. It was one of those odors that you can practically taste.
Okay, one more I got on my stack: Imagine a concert hall full of teenagers, thousands of them waiting to see the Backstreet Boys perform, dancing, crying, shrieking and perspiring. Merely without the teenagers.

After all, I was in luck. My friend, ex-roommate and co-worker in spe Jan picked me up in his Golden Cage and turned the A/C way up. His cage turned out to be the Maruti Suzuki “Swift”, the Indian-Japanese Mini “One” knock-off. And of course he did not drive his vehicle himself. No one in Mumbai drives by themselves it seems; except maybe the superrich who can afford Porsche, BMW and Mercedes and are too proud to let someone else reap the looks and joy of being behind the wheel.
Driving from the airport through the outskirts of the city by night gives you a fairly gentle first impression of the whole disaster that is Mumbai. At day this appraisal will certainly change. The night hides the city’s otherwise obvious and staggering truth: The sheer absence of beauty, of quiet and ease, of snugness, of -well- coziness. It’s probably foolhardy and presumptuous to expect a place far away from home to actually excite something like a haimish feeling. But don’t we all do it? It’s human nature. Here, I had to fight this instinct very hard. The dirt, the millions of people, their evident poverty and the huge gap between poor and rich is just too ubiquitous to concentrate on the good sides, yet.

And of course there’s the traffic. Traffic, that seems to be the major topic of conversation. Besides Cricket and the weather. Even though the city is always on the way it’s not getting anywhere because of the horrendous traffic. For not even ten kilometers a good driver takes almost 45 minutes, if the traffic is not too jammed. When there’s a festival going on two hours can be expected.
This number I cannot validate but just bear with me: Per square kilometer 400 taxis and 1000 auto rickshaws can be counted. One of our drivers introduced me to this urban legend. It is mathematically impossible to fit 1400 vehicles of some sort on such a narrow space but it shows the people’s perception of their city and it’s traffic related problems. There are so many taxis and even more rickshaws it’s mind-boggling. I found some figures on the internet to give you an idea: Currently Mumbai has 3400 buses on 335 routes and 50.000 taxis accounting for 6 per cent of the overall volume of traffic (the latter number dates back to 1998).

And to finally put an end to my rambling: New York is supposed to be the city that never sleeps. I’ve never been to the Big Apple but I believe it cannot be any worse than Mumbai. This city actually never sleeps. There are so many people. And they are everywhere. This is probably the strangest thing Europeans have to get used to. And there’s practically no single space that is not taken over by someone, not a single spot where you can be alone, all by yourself. Impossible. No matter if day or night, anyone is always on the run. Mumbai has no downtime.

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Go Tell The Women That We’re Leavin’

helmet — Fri, 31 Aug 2007 06:28:35 +0000

I am off to Mumbai, India. During the next four month I will be writing about life in a strange country…

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tah » Helmet in India

Goodbye & Farewell

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