Mysore – From Pyrenees to Pennines

Indian Friday: A Long Train Journey

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.

A Long Train Journey

Thursday 22nd November

Last day in Mysore! I’m sitting at breakfast enjoying watching the hornbills in the trees. I think they’re the magpies of the area – never still, always flying around moving all the other birdlife on. The other treat is at nightfall when the enormous fruitbats come out. Wonder what they’ll have in Tamil Nadu?

Later ….

I’m now on the train which at 7.20 had just left Bangalore (Mysore 3.45). Fascinating stuff. The train gets in nearly an hour ahead of departure so we can all sort ourselves out. As I was clearly a Country Cousin (the only European on the train), a man at the station took me in hand. I hadn’t known I had to ‘check in’, in the manner of an airline passenger. Nor had I identified how to use my ticket to find my seat. So he helped me – for Rs. 20.

Meanwhile, on the station, everyone got on with life. A large family spread themselves out on the ground, got out metal plates and canisters of food, and got stuck in. Some women, like me, headed for the calm of the Ladies’ Waiting Room. I also made sure I had enough water – a constant feature of life here, buying water. Not a lifestyle choice, but a necessity, certainly in the towns. Rs. 10-ish in a bottle. This was all after I’d identified my seat. I wasn’t about to sit on a hot train unnecessarily for ¾ of an hour. The train was fairly empty – nobody in my bit of the compartment.

Eventually though, I took my seat, and the train started, I enjoyed watching the world pass by, and occasionally chai and coffee boys would go by, though I haven’t succumbed yet. Interminable stops at non-official stations. And then, as darkness fell, I was struck by the low level of lighting in the streets: and then, as we pulled into Bangalore, by the almost nonexistent level of lighting on the station – a real surprise. Still, now we saw some action. More tea, coffee and waterboys. I got some nuts, fearing I would get nothing else, but then, just after that, along comes the offer of meals, veg or non-veg. So I got a veg. option for Rs. 20: rather better value than the Rs. 50 nuts! A foil-wrapped container was filled with fried rice and lots of vegetables – quite good actually – which of course I ate with my fingers – what I could manage. It was an enormous portion.

Now I’m sharing my compartment with a college lecturer, and a college librarian from Trichy (Tiruchirappalli – which I rather wish I’d visited). Their English is limited, so plenty of room for misunderstanding. By the way, lots of people assume I’m French. What’s that about?

8.30 p.m. At yet another station. Masala dosa and idli man doing his stuff – that sounds good!. Lots of people have made their beds up, but not us yet. One young woman got on at Bangalore having had her hands and wrists henna-ed on both sides. She’s been trying to manage her life handlessly. Difficult.

One family had produced a three course supper with several dishes on metal plates. It all looks very good, and now mum has gone to wash up …. Sadly, I can’t find my carefully-packed toothbrush.

At about 9.00 ish, we all got our beds ready: our compartment separates into 2 sets x 3 of beds, then by the windows, 1 x 2. Up we all jumped ito our bunks and slept, surprisingly. At 4.00, at Trichy, a lot of people got off, and naturally I slept no more, as I was off at 5.00 at Thanjavur.

Indian Friday: A Day in Mysore

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.

A Day in Mysore

Wednesday 21st November.

Time to say goodbye to everyone: people are off to all points north, south, east and west.

I took a rick to the station, and didn’t manage to change my ticket (Jobsworth in charge) But there was good internet access and I caught up a bit.

The market, if colourful, was a lot of hassle. Touts everywhere. Of unbelievable persistence. A youth selling flutes came down from Rs 280 to Rs 50, unable to take ‘no’ for an answer. And STILL I didn’t buy (This market remains one of my worst memories of India. I couldn’t enjoy a single second in peace). Later though, in a side street, I found a tailor and bought fabric , so that for Rs 600 (not much more than £5.00) I’ll have a custom made salwar kameez by 7.30 this evening.

Lunch was fun, at a local cafe where all the locals were, like me, enjoying the ‘small’ veg thali served on a banana leaf. A guy with a big canister kept doing the rounds, topping up the already big portions of all the diners. I declined sugar on my yoghourt-for-pudding, but my table mates didn’t, and sugar equal to the amount of yoghourt was spooned into their bowls.

I got quite comprehensively lost after lunch (easy to do. No street signs. Stop to look, and a rick driver is on your tail, or a vendor. Ask the way, and you’ll pick one of the few inhabitants who speaks no English).

But here I am at the Art Gallery. There’s supposed to be an Indian Dance Festival, and I’ve been here for about 40 minutes now, with lots of audience, mainly women, sitting patiently waiting … but … nothing.

And that was how it went really. A ‘warm up’ singer came along, and I quite enjoyed that, as well as watching the stage being set up with plush seating and flower garlands. I thought I’d leave at one point, but a man implored me to stay, saying it was starting in 10 minutes – which it did … But after the presentation of garlands to the Great and the Good, they moved onto – I dunno – soliloquies, perhaps poetry, impenetrable – to me anyway – so I did go.

And got a rickshaw to FabIndia which has lovely simply styled stuff, so I got a salwar kameez, a blouse, and a kurta for Malcolm.

Rick back to Om Shanti – my driver looked as though he’d just got a place at Oxford: all preppy glasses and smart casual shirt and trousers – perhaps he has! Anway, he was the first person who knew where Harding’s Circus was. Where I had my first disappointing meal: cabbage vadi with some trimmings and a lassi. Expensive for what it was. The last time I use Lonely Planet!

Ran into a young man, Samir, a teacher. We got ito conversation and he took me to the funfair. ‘I no try funny business. You – old lady – like my mother. Me – like your son’ That went down well. But we were in a public place and it was indeed fine. He took me round the funfair because it I’d noticed all the lights – it was quite fun. Then a rick to the market to collect my salwar kameez. Then, inevitably, to his friend’s uncle, and Ayurvedic practitioner, where I did indeed buy some oils (they were brilliant and lasted me ages). A rick home was produced and we said our goodbyes. Market salwar inevitably disappointing: FabIndia’s – not.

My featured photo was taken at the station. Those schoolgirls have just dismounted from that autorickshaw to hurry off to school. You might be able to see the rickshaw still has several passengers within. The schoolchildren I saw were always smartly dressed. Definitely no customisation of uniforms, with rolled-over skirt waistbands or heavily-adjusted ties, as here in the UK.

Indian Friday: A ‘Free’ Day in Mysore

Time in London, time in Spain. One way or another, I’ve neglected Indian Friday for several weeks. Time to take over where I left off, reproducing verbatim the diary I kept during a month in India – rather a long time ago.

A ‘Free’ Day in Mysore

Tuesday 20th November.

Our free day. Laura and I had decided to go to the sandalwood and silk factories, but then it turned out so had Mark and Peter, and they had already engaged Snake, the driver who had brought them home the night before. Naturally, Snake soon produced his brother Kumar for our use, and we set off, insisting on the ride being metered. Once we arrived at the factory the brothers had of course come up with A Plan. Rs 500, and we were theirs for the day. Not a bad idea, considering all we wanted to do. So …after they’d warned us not to use the official shop – too expensive, they knew better places – in we went. Mark had to sign us in (Being tall, fair and a Good Sort of Chap he was obviously in charge.) with all the contact details we could think of.

A busy roundabout in Mysore at rush hour

Then we were taken in by a Government Guide. He had his spiel and by gum he was going to stick to it. Questions were invariably met with ‘I will speak later’, and if we wandered away from some imaginary blue line we were instantly shepherded back: ‘Please!’

The factory was barely functioning because it’s just pre-season. Sadly, we weren’t allowed to take photos of the Dickensian scenes of clerks at desks in impossibly large dusty offices. The only real action was in a roomful of elderly men bundling up sticks of incense for marketing. Our officious guide warned us – and we believed correctly – that we shouldn’t be taken in by rickshaw drivers as anything not sold through Goverment agencies was likely to be highly diluted. So we went to the official shop. Verdict: it’s so bad it’s good.

Off to the Silk Emporium – not the factory as we had wanted: but after our last experience we didn’t care.

Then it was Chamundi Hill and the Sri Chamundeswari Temple. It’s about 12 km. from Mysore, and the theory is to walk with the faithful up the 1000 steps to the top. Kumar and Snake poo-pooed this idea and said we would do only the last 300. It turned out they were right. They dropped us off at Shiva’s bull, where like it or not you had to buy a flower garland to present, and receive a white bindi forehead marking. Laura and I declined the yellow holy oil. On the way up, we were beseiged by children, some of whom were beggars, but others just wanted to practice their English. At the top, there were massive queues for the temple, so we declined, and juggled with the usual bazaar which is an ever-present feature of tourist and holy sites. A funeral in progresss would in any case have limited our ability to sightsee.

Down we went, and Snake took Mark and Peter for lunch. Laura and I had asked to go to FabIndia. The clothes shop Kumar took us to wasn’t it, but it was excellent and we were sorry not to buy.

Lunch was at the Viceroy, which looked quite posh, much to Laura’s and my disappointment – we prefer spit and sawdust, But it was excellent, and cheap too. We only spent Rs. 250 a head on a variety of fresh and tasty chicken and veg. dishes and beer for the lads.

Then the Maharaja’s Palace. We engaged the services of yet another bossy guide, and I was fined RS. 20 (that’s about 25p) for smuggling my camera in. Peter paid it for me, but then Peter had smuggled his camera in and not been spotted. I did get to keep my camera though.

The guide regaled us with tales of past Maharajas, and the palace itself, and compared the many C-grade pictures with the Mona Lisa: ‘Look! The eyes follow you everywhere!’ Apparently the palace is the most beautiful place in the universe. Well, pretty good, but let’s not exaggerate here. He busily kept us in line, shooed away any tourists who had the temerity to listen in. Later, when allowed to use our cameras, he instructed us exactly where to stand to get the best shots.

The market. It tended to be busier with women in the morning, when there’s food to be bought.

Then the market. We found ourselves taken to a house where incense sticks were being made, and where we found Christine and Cindy too. We didn’t buy, and suddenly Mark and I had had enough, so Snake took us home, and Laura and Peter on for further shopping.

Dinner was a surprise for Simon. Cindy had booked a private upstairs room and we had a jolly evening sharing a final meal before we all went our separate ways the following morning.

PS. WP’s AI Assistant, in its wisdom, suggests the following tags for this post: photography; YouTube; diabetes; Detroit; Maldives …

A Bad Day and a Good Day in the Market, Indian style

When abroad – or even somewhere fresh here in the UK – a big pleasure comes from visiting the local market. People-watching ordinary folk going about their daily business: seeing what’s on offer at the run-of-the-mill fruit and veg stalls. What are the local cheeses? Is there any honey from round and about? What have they got on sale that‘s unexpected? Perhaps a stall holder will invite me to try this kind of apricot – and then that one – before I buy. Maybe a nun from the local convent will be selling home-pressed apple juice.

In India, it was spices I was particularly keen to see. But in Mysore, which isn’t short of European visitors, I had such a bad time I almost didn’t venture into a market again. I had Tourist emblazoned across my forehead for all to see. And I was pestered, by one young man in particular, who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, whether I was nice, nasty or ignored him.. Whatever. I left with no purchase, and in a very bad mood. Though later I got a few photos – the ones you see below and as the featured photo.

Pondicherry was much better. Here were men, women, seated on the floor and selling whatever they had – a few vegetables from their land, a few fish. There were larger, more business-like stalls too. I was doing my usual diffident-about-asking-to-take-photos there, so I only have one of a woman selling fish, and one water buffalo, who made a good story for the day by peeing copiously all over my feet.

Best of all was Thanjavur. Here, I stayed with a young American academic, who spoke fluent Tamil, and took me into the homes of her Indian friends, walked me round the back streets to admire the Diwali pavement decorations, and generally gave me a good time.

One day, she wanted me to go to the market for her. Just a few simple purchases. Carrots, onions, that kind of thing. For the first time in India, I met people who spoke no English at all. And my Tamil didn’t extend beyond ‘please’(தயவு செய்து Tayavu ceytu) and ‘thank you’ (நன்றி Nanri). But pointing’s fine.

I don’t think they’d ever had an English tourist wanting anything, let alone humble carrots at the vegetable stall, and soon I was the centre of an amiable group helping me make my purchases. They tried to increase my vocabulary, and begged me to teach them the same words in English because it was the end of the day and they weren’t busy. It was such fun. And when it came to payment, I tried to press far too much money into their hands. I thought they’d asked for 70 rupees (about 70 pence), and felt it cheap at the price. How ridiculous! They wanted seven. Honestly, that English woman! Is she made of money? And my new friend, the one who actually served me with the vegetables I needed, begged for a photo. Here it is.

So here we are: Two market traders for Just One Person from Around the World. There are a few more from where these came from. If we can’t go very far, we could at least do a Virtual Trip to India for a week or two.

The Great Indian Train Journey: Mysore to Thanjavur.

Mysore to Thanjavur: 415 km by road, more than 600 km. by rail, and a 12 hour overnight journey: £6.00.

I’d booked my ticket the day before, and arrived at the station as directed, about an hour ahead of its scheduled departure. It was just as well. A station official took pity (for a small fee…) on the clueless European , who had no idea that she had to check in, in the manner of an airline passenger, or that she would find her seat by looking for her name on the passenger lists posted at each carriage door.

Mysore Station

On the station platform, everyone was getting on with life. A large family spread themselves on the ground, got out metal plates and canisters of food and got stuck in. Rather than sit in a hot train, I headed for the calm of the Ladies’ Waiting Room until it was nearly time to go.

My train to Thanjavur

The train itself, once it got started got into the habit of making long stops nowhere in particular. Chai and coffee boys went up and down the train.

As darkness fell, I was struck by the low level of lighting in the towns we passed through, and more particularly the stations. Even at Bangalore, where we stopped for ages. More chai, coffee and water sellers got on, then vendors selling hot meals: I chose a vegetarian meal with rice and several different vegetable dishes – hot and very good value. A young woman got on, having had her hands and wrists recently henna-ed on both sides. Managing her life, which seemed to consist of calling people on her mobile, without using her not-yet-dry hands was quite a challenge. One family produced a three course supper with several dishes, on metal plates, then mum disappeared to wash up at the sink in the corridor. I had different conversations with various passengers, limited by our inabilities in each other’s languages.

At about 9.00, we all got ready for bed. Our compartment got separated out into two sets of beds at three levels and smartly uniformed staff handed out crisply laundered sheets, pillows and a double blanket each for us to make up our beds in our own way. For once, I slept … until 4.00, when so many passengers got out at Trichy. I had only an hour to go before arriving at Thanjavur.

I was dreading having to wait on a dark deserted station for two hours (Waiting for whom? Another tale for another time). But it wasn’t deserted. Not at all. The booking hall was thronged with men – young men, old men, all sitting in convivial groups on the ground sorting and collating that day’s newspapers. It took them almost the whole two hours that I had to wait until the next chapter of my story began….

Collating newspapers at Thanjavur Station

Click on any image to view full size and to read the captions.

This was part of my Indian Adventure, November 2007. I have used the place names that were then widely used, rather than the official names, which now seem more widely adopted.