Le Rêve Bleu – From Pyrenees to Pennines

Indian Friday: Farewell Thanjavur, Hello Pondicherry

My diary, revived from my trip to India back in 2007. This second part details my solo travels during the last three weeks or so.

Farewell Thanjavur, Hello Pondicherry

Monday 26th November

Rang Le Rêve Bleu and found they could take me tonight, but only in their more expensive suite. I said my ‘Goodbye and thank you’ to Gwen and took a rick to the New Bus Station. The loos there were – characterful – with no individual stalls at all. I was passed from pillar to post in search of a bus to Chidambaram, but finally established it was the oldest bus on the stand. With my luggage, I had to sit in the front seat: prime location for spotting all the near misses. It was all very slow – a 20 minute wait at Kumbakonam so it’s no wonder it took over 4 ½ hours. But still, only RS. 39. At Chidambaram I needed a pee and was a bit hungry (the railway cashews and some of the bunch of bananas I’d bought at the bus stand had been lunch). I went to a nearby cafe, and established , with no common language available, that sweet lime was made with tap water but orange was not, so I ordered orange. When it came, it tasted of orange, though it was very pale. But when the bill came … it was for sweet lime. Aaagh!

Views from the bus window en route

I had a really modern bus to Pondicherry, with Bollywood DVDs on constantly. But I had again to sit in the front, with my back against the front window, with the driver constantly shouting at me for obscuring his nearside window. It was hard not to.

The scenery became more and more what I imagined Kerala would be like on the coast. Very flat, lots of lagoons and lakes, palm trees, palm-thatched low cottages.

First view of the coast on the road to Pondicherry

Anyway, we got there, and I got a rick to Le Rêve Bleu. I couldn’t negotiate the fare very well, as I had no idea how far it was, but I turned out to have been charged a Right Royal Rip Off (RS 75, so under £, so no moaning please!).

View from my widow in Le Rêve Bleu

Le Rêve Bleu is a lovely, slightly seedy but French colonial style house, where I was greeted by a French speaking Tamil, who rang the owner, Christelle, who insisted on speaking to me on my mobile to welcome me.

I had a trot round town and ended up at an Internet cafe where one could also eat: mushroom pasta, but quite nice actually. And so to bed.

In the night:

The street cleaners sit in the road and have a nice loud chat in the middle of the road outside le Reve Bleu at midnight

Women street cleaners all chatting jovially to one another whilst working almost a street apart from one another.
9 dogs involved in a street fight, just too far away for me to take any action.
Builders renovating the house opposite arrived at 6.30 a.m. and started noisily manoeuvering bricks off a lorry while shouting merrily at each other. Some, by the way, were women.

A little bit of France in India: Pondicherry

Pondicherry. Until 1954, a French Colonial settlement. I wanted to stay in this most French bit of India, and I wasn’t disappointed. Only its historic old town built, French style, in a grid pattern retains a Gallic flavour these days, but what fun I had there.

Sacred Heart Church, near where I was staying. A Catholic church in glorious technicolour.

I think Pondicherry remains in my memory as a haven of peace because -well, it was. My solo Indian journey was stimulating, exciting, eye -opening: but exhausting. A solo female traveller had few options for daytime relaxation. I wasn’t spending my days in tourist Meccas, so there were no coffee shops for me to enjoy simple down-time. Men had their tea shops. Women – not so much. Pondicherry provided these, and the shores of the Bay of Bengal. And French patisseries where I discovered the joy of an Indian croissant and a strong shot of coffee as an antidote to spicy fare. I truly loved my spit-and-sawdust all-you-can-eat-piled-on-a-banana-leaf cafes, but they weren’t places to linger after you’d downed your food. In Pondicherry I went up-market, without the up-market bills.

I stayed in a hotel called Le Rêve Bleu, and was immediately transported back to the town’s colonial days. Older staff spoke French, because they would have been taught in French at school. Sadly, this no longer applies to anyone younger than 55 or so: it’s English now.

Looking through to the garden.

My balcony at le Rêve Bleu.

Le Rêve Bleu. The view from my room.

Rooms were large and elegantly proportioned, and there was a leafy courtyard. Christelle, the young and cheerful French owner whizzed me about on her motor bike on shopping sprees to make sure I wasn’t ripped off when choosing the textiles I wanted to take home. She found me a young local woman who gave me a couple of wonderfully relaxing and rejuvenating massages. And her male staff cooked up beautifully spicy breakfasts that I ate in that courtyard. Yet this was a budget hotel.

All the same, I didn’t sleep much there. My room overlooked a quiet road where from midnight, the female street cleaners would get busy. They spread themselves over several streets, and shouted conversations to each other. They’d sit down cross legged on the pavement near my window and chatter during their breaks. I was charmed by them. Night birds called. Dogs fought. At 5.30 there was the Call to Prayer. At 6.30, the (often female) builders showed up at the building site opposite. Hopeless really.

A fuzzy night photo of the street cleaners sit in the road and have a nice loud chat in the middle of the road outside le Rêve Bleu at midnight.

Building works opposite.

Delivery from the Builder’s Yard.

So I’d get up early and go for a walk along the seafront. I’d look as the schoolchildren piled into rickshaws or onto the backs of bikes arriving at school. I’d smile at the policemen in their fine French kepis, and enjoy passing public buildings still signed in French.

The Bay of Bengal.

The journey to school, Indian style.

Dept of Public Works, Pondicherry.

Pondicherry Police. Admire those kepis!

Children off to school in Pondicherry.

Lycee Francais, Pondicherry

To be continued….

New readers: This is Chapter Something-or-Other of an occasional series of memories of my month long trip to India in 2007.

Snapshot Sunday: Do you prefer your street names in French … or Tamil?

Almost ten years ago now, I had my Indian Adventure, when I travelled first of all with a small group of like-minded English travellers, and then solo round southern India. That’s when I started blogging, using TravelBlog, though I later transcribed it onto WordPress which may be more user-friendly.

The culture shock of arriving in Bangalore with its constant traffic noise, its motor horns, its street-cattle, its monkeys, its people, its eagles and vultures wheeling overhead is unforgettable.

A back street in Bangalore, and a few rickshaws.

Arriving in Pondicherry some three weeks later was just as much of a jolt. Suddenly I was transported (after a motorway journey which included goats grazing on the central reservation) to colonial era France. Here were policemen in kepis, elegant public buildings, corner shops selling baguettes and croissants.

Dept of Public Works, Pondicherry

My guesthouse was a charming 19th century throwback which would have been totally at home on the French Riviera.

My verandah at le Rêve Bleu.

Yet I was undoubtedly in India. There was a spot of building work going on outside my bedroom window. Here’s the delivery wagon:

A delivery from the builder’s Yard

Here’s a more up-to-date delivery lorry:

They don’t usually need reminding to ‘Sound Horn’

Here’s the school run:

School run, Indian style

And here’s the beach:

The beach at Pondicherry.

Here though is the photo which answers this week’s WordPress photo challenge: ‘Names’. A street sign which represents the many-faceted cultural references of what I thought of as my favourite Indian city.

Cathedral Street, Pondicherry — Cathedral Road, Pondicherry

In a couple of days I plan to re-blog an old post of mine which has something further to contribute to the ‘Names’ theme.