Pondicherry – From Pyrenees to Pennines

Indian Friday: The Bus to Chennai, and Hello Chennai!

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.

The Bus to Chennai, and Hello Chennai!

Friday 30th November, and just a little bit of Saturday 1st December.

Today I couldn’t face an Indian breakfast, which is unusual for me, so I went to buy the jacket I’d been looking at for a couple of days and then to Hot Bread for breakfast. Final packing, and another massage from Lakshmi, who is of course very beautiful. She says she can say the days of the week, and times, and ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, so our communication was limited. A flurry of ‘Goodbyes’- Pascale it seems can speak Italian so we had a chat and he said how much better my Italian was than my French (Unsurprising. At that point we’d been living in France for a month). Balu got me a rick to the station and negotiated the price – RS. 30.

The bus was the sort you see in all the pictures. Unglazed windows with bars across, and an engine that had probably been put together c.1953. If the coach were a human body, you’d probably call it ‘lived in’. As it was in fact a bus, I’d say it had demonstrated a long history of near misses. Oh, and it may not have been cleaned since 1953 either. But the big excitement was a motorway. Well, perhaps not a motorway, but a toll road anyway, with dual carriageway, a hard shoulder and a central reservation. The road surface was indifferent, but so superior to anything I’ve previously met here that I can understand why everyone told me it was a fast road to Chennai. Anyway.

2 lanes doesn’t mean slow and fast. Everyone uses both lanes indiscriminately and over or undertakes at will.
Goats use the ‘fast’ lane.
Cows use the central reservation.
Bicycles going the opposite way to the prevailing traffic use the hard shoulder. As do pedestrians,
Men pushing handcarts use the main highway.
The hard shoulder is also for bus stops.
There are zebra crossings. God knows why, nobody ever uses them.
Pedestrians cross whenever they want to. Not at the zebras, obviously.

So I was vastly cheered to reach the outskirts of Chennai a whole hour ahead of schedule. I was immediately seized upon by a rick driver who suggested RS. 250. Ha! Mind you, I never got him below Rs. 150. He said he was helping me, which meant that he took the wheelie case, me the rucksac.

I didn’t realise what a chaotic city Chennai is. It makes Bangalore look like a market town. Busy busy busy with chaotic housing and business districts jumbled together with shanty towns and piles of uncollected rubbish. I thought I’d got used to all that, but this was in a different league, especially after Pondicherry.

My CouchSurfing host (‘Call me Y…y’) plans to spend the weekend with me, but said she can’t after all put me up. So she booked me into a local hotel, the only one in the area. The Manager and I immediately fell out when he first of all denied the booking, then I declined to pay 3 days’ money up front, and it’s gone on from there really. I rang Y and walked to her house which is very close and met her sister and parents. She said there were no other hotels and she would ring and sort it out. So I reluctantly agreed to go back.

After a short rest I went over to Y’s. I’m not sure why I can’t stay, especially as I’m obviously unhappy. The excuses seem a bit specious. Anyway, I helped her make supper, masala dhosa, chatted a bit, then came back to the hotel. I had to get up at 2 a.m to ask the manager to turn down his Bollywood DVD he was whiling away the night with, and the traffic and hotel clamour began well before 5.00 a.m. Men loudly throat-clearing and spitting. Bring back the Call to Prayer! I complained about the shower, because I’ve stopped being nice (Response: ‘Well, is there water there or not? Yes? Well then!’).

I’ve been stomping round the area looking for another hotel, but it’s true, there isn’t one, good, bad or indifferent (indifferent would do). We’re meeting at 10 ish, to spend the day exploring Chennai, and tomorrow is action packed too. Monday shopping, then hit the airport early for a 4.00 a.m. flight home. Think I’ll go and see what I can find for breakfast: it’s only 8.30, but I’ve been around a long time today already.

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.

The Night Workers Spied in Pondicherry

The other day, when I posted some of my favourite photos for Tina’s Lens Artists Challenge, I included a view from my room in the quiet French quarter of Pondicherry of builders with their bullock cart full of bricks . Here’s another snapshot from that same room. It would win no prizes in any exhibition, but it’s special to me.

Sleep eluded me in India. One night, I was watching, as I often did, the street cleaners – all of them women – sweeping the streets with the kind of brooms we expect witches to fly around on, exchanging light-hearted chatter. At about two o’clock, they sat themselves in a convivial circle in the middle of the street, produced their snacks, gossiped, laughed and generally gave the appearance of contentment and good cheer.

Doubtless they could never have afforded my simple hotel room: nor could they have dreamt of travelling half way round the world on holiday. Yet they seemed at ease and content. I hope so.

For Debbie’s Six Word Saturday.

France in India

My last sortie to India for the present shows just a few souvenirs of Pondicherry as it looked when it was part of France’s colonial empire. Those days are long gone. Only the older inhabitants were taught in French-medium schools. These days, as throughout India, English is the first foreign language taught. But policeman still look reassuringly French in style, wearing a smart kepi: a military hat with horizontal peak.

And while the Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Jesus (Basilique du Sacré-Cœur de Jésus de Pondichéry), at the end of the street where my hotel was, might look European-inspired rather than specifically French, it was the then Archbishop, and two parish priests, all French, who were responsible for its inception in 1895.

Well, this is awkward. Just One Person from around the World is supposed to feature a single person in the main photo. But a second policeman got himself into the frame here Never mind. The school entrance features just one security guard, the Department of Public Works just one visitor. I may just get away with it.

A Window onto the Road Sweepers’ World

Those builders hard at work just beyond my hotel room in Pondicherry weren’t the only slice of life I saw through my window there. The featured photo shows the view I had just after midnight every night (I told you I didn’t sleep), My camera – or the way I handled it anyway – wasn’t good at night-time vision, but I like the dream-like quality of this scene.

Can you see a group of five women – four of them in blue, seated in the road? Until just before I took this shot, they’d been busily sweeping all the streets round and about, equipped only with short brooms of the kind that witches in western fairy tales normally use . They made cheerful conversation, calling to each other so they could hear and be heard. Now though, it was time for a break, and the women simply sat down and rested in the road, their voices falling to a rippling murmur of chatter and laughter.

This intimate moment, sharing something with these women who were certainly unaware they were being observed, remains one of my treasured memories of India. These women, I’m sure, had little enough, and yet their easy relaxed movements suggested contentment with what their lives gave them. And above them is a washing line. All that day’s washing was blue, apparently.

Here are the windows through which I observed the scene.

le Rêve Bleu. View from my room. Pondicherry

Monday Window

Monday Washing Line

Builders at work

In India, Pondicherry was one of my must-visit destinations. In was a French colonial settlement till 1954, and still has a well-preserved French quarter, with French-style colonial villas and characterful tree-lined streets. I stayed in one of these – a charming guest house called Le Rêve Bleu.

My room looked out over a building site. Was I dismayed? Not at all. Look at these scenes of builders – at least half of them women – at work from 6.30 every morning. I’d long been woken up by then, by the daily Muslim Call to Prayer, announced over a very loud tannoy system at about half past five,

Just one person from around the world.

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.

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.