Chronicle Of An Adventure Foretold

Flirting with the wrong girl - An African librarian in India

ladyc — Sat, 7 Sep 2013 19:06:00 GMT

“But you said.....?”

Three little words that have never been uttered to me in India

In India talk is light, colourful and frivolous , like cappuccino froth, party balloons and washing up bubbles. Chatter is jovial, a pastime and a sport, for entertainment, jousting and exchange with only one rule: that it should never be taken seriously. Everything is said with a twinkle in the eye:

‘Yes ma’am its arriving in five minutes’

‘I’ll be there at seven’

‘I’m just parking now’

In India, spoken sentences have the charm of a flirtatious coquette; they pique, they make you feel good, they’re instantaneously pleasurable, but they aren’t to be relied upon. Not for nothing the bollywood images of playful chasing round the tree, wafting scarves and fluttering eyelashes: Indian speech is the same girl. Naturally she’s different in every country: in England she’s the librarian, in France she’s an artist and in Israel..... well, if speech in India is a flirtatious coquette, in Israel she’s a brazen unfaithful mistress.

In Somaliland, and parts of West Africa (those that I’ve visited), she’s lady justice: indomitable, regal, sword in one hand, scales in the other.

And here’s the problem.

I came to India from an oral society of swords and scales: your word is your bond; you do what you say you will do, a promise is a contract and your speech is remembered for posterity.

In a not unusual occurrence, a government official reminded me in a month of June:

“in our meeting on November 28^th you said........”

‘wait a second....... [flurry of notepad]....no, what I actually said was....’

Yes, sometimes knowing my memory wasn’t as good as theirs they’d try to catch me out, telling me I’d promised things which I hadn’t so I kept copious notes of every conversation in case it came up 6 or 9 months later. To this day, despite two years living in India, I still keep notepads from 2011 ‘just in case’ (you’d think I would have learnt by now: in Delhi I’m barely held responsible for what i said two days ago).

In Somaliland, the strength of the power of speech was such that, not only were you accountable for commitments verbally given, you were accountable for commitments it was assumed you’d agreed to, if word had reached you, which, -due to the oral nature of society-, it was assumed it had.

One gentleman got very upset I didn’t attend an event he’d organised and was entirely inconsolable by the fact he hadn’t invited me. It was naturally assumed that one of the guests would have informed me and therefore my snub was registered. Word of mouth was the key organising factor – invitations were secondary. At an event, everyone who was meant to be there would be there, because it was assumed word of mouth would have reached them. I even received a gift for a speech I gave at a graduation which I hadn’t received an email or phonecall for: it was assumed that someone would tell me, and of course I would attend. The gift was purchased, ready to greet me, nicely and lovingly packed, with a sheepish graduate to hand it over under the blinding spotlights of the local media.

Word was everything – but only if it was spoken.

I remember a difficult meeting (with the same government official) holding a policy document which his minister had signed and now the government was reneging on. He thundered that his government would never agree to the conditions, I pointed out that his government had signed it. He looked at me as if I was crazy:

“yes it was signed but it was not agreed!”

In Somali culture, matters are decided by being debated and negotiated in a committee of concerned persons and agreed upon by consensus. Foreigners, not understanding this, land via planes for 3 day ‘field missions’ to extract ‘agreement’ in the form of signed papers and wondered later why their agreements unravelled.

There was an honour system. Promises made were kept, even the financial system worked on this basis: after an emergency, we sent money by word of mouth to the local hospital: I called a Somali in Wales, he called his cousin in Hargeisa, the cousin gave the money to the hospital. All within 4 hours. It was quicker than waiting for the banks to process a cheque.

I liked the idea that I should keep my word, I liked the idea I should watch what I say, I liked the assumption, that even if I had a disagreement with someone I should protect their reputation. I liked that if I promised it could be acted upon.

And then I came to India and I’ve been fighting ever since:

‘no no I cant come because yesterday I promised so-and-so we’d go to such-and-such a place’

‘What do you mean you aren’t coming?’

‘But you said seven o clock’

‘But that was an hour ago’

‘But you said you’d pick me up’

‘But we agreed on Tuesday’

‘Asshole!’

I love lady justice and I’m not willing to let her go and its caused more fights, tantrums, thunderous phonecalls, than I will ever proudly admit to. Every time I begin a sentence with “but you said?” I am regarded with a look of wonder and confusion that says “hey I was just flicking my scarf in your direction while we danced around a tree, why are you acting like we’re in a courtroom?”

I know it’s a different country, I know I should have adjusted by now but I can’t quite give her up lady justice and I don’t want to.

That said, my scales have slipped: in Somaliland tarnishing someone’s reputation with the spoken word was very poor form, in Delhi it’s hard to tell the difference between gossiping and breathing - I have succumbed. I’ve even (I’m ashamed to admit) not bothered to cancel plans knowing no-one expected me to keep them anyway

I know its normal but I’m not proud of it, and I’m still fighting with the world, defiant piece of africa wanting the dancing pixie to turn into lady justice. It won’t happen of course and despite the (multiple) tantrums I am lovingly tolerated; people just think I have weird-coloured cappuccino froth and my own strange dance around the tree.

In Love with Luxury – confessions of a humanitarian imposter

ladyc — Tue, 10 Jul 2012 06:39:00 GMT

There is something about European luxury that cannot be imitated. It moves subtly, gracefully, in the detail of a cut instead of the glare of a monogram. Luxury is an exclusive club, quietly recognisable by secret hallmarks of quality rather than capital-letter brand names. The curve of patterned leather on a mulberry wallet, the tip of a montblanc pen, the heel of a Church’s shoe and a battered leather briefcase are all distinguishing features of upper class 'money that doesn't like to shout'. Despite several years lived on council estates [the odd fight and scar to prove it] I rapidly inherited this snobbery from university and my unexpected employment in an aristocratic investment bank [thereby successfully whitewashing years spent "looking like an orphan" (my mother's description - which given the abdication of my father to a travelling circus, is at least 50% correct.)]

Still, I may dress like a hippy and be covered in an oil slick of Delhi traffic dirt, but to a certain breed of expat, I look like a trustafarian with a rebellion complex. ‘Oh you have a little job? How nice!..... and what do you do the rest of the time? ’

I can live without pretty things, really I can. I have waded knee deep through swimming pools of other people’s molten faeces, I have eaten in roadside cafes that weren’t fit to defecate in and I have slept naked on 40 degree floors encircled by expanding puddles of my own sweat. Don’t even get me started on roadside toilet facilities, cockroaches and rats .........

But stick me in a mall or a luxury boutique and the disguise is off. I LOVE luxury. I could die in diamonds, bathe in champagne and wander naked in nothing but my new red suede heels. I’m a charity case that should have been born a gold-digger.

While everyone else was warming the pavements of the occupy movement I was basking under golden chandeliers....The real humanitarians, the die-hard ones who sacrifice all comfort and safety for the betterment of mankind...........I applaud them, really I do. And I wish I was them.

I wish I didn’t love expensive perfumes, heels and Swiss watches. I wish I was all minimalist and 'worthy,' but I'm not. I may wade through shit, but you can’t buy my perfume outside Harrods or Harvey Nicks. I may travel on sleepless economy “field missions” but the only thing I ever lost on them was my diamond Swiss watch. People think I slum it as a development worker but I still buy Vogue.

There are days, and sitting here in France my shopping bags gathered under the table at a beautiful cafe with fine wine and fabulous new shoes is one of them - when I’d happily jack it all in and go back to the first class lounge. A wise philosopher once said “A woman can do anything in the right pair of shoes” [Marylin Monroe] and she was right. So next lifetime, I will discard the flip flops, abandon the sewage filled monsoon walks and the poundstretcher wages. My next mission, should I choose to accept it, will be to save the world, one pair of red stilettos at a time....

Cry Freedom

ladyc — Tue, 22 May 2012 03:01:00 GMT

“Caged birds accept each other but flight is what they long for”- Tenessee Williams

Freedom is something anyone who has it, takes for granted and anyone who doesn’t always longs for. A person doesn’t need to be taught the desire for freedom. We know it instinctively. The impulse to exist, to express, to create and ‘be’ whatever this being is, is so fundamentally human that even people who have never tasted it, give their lives in pursuit of it. Freedom is life itself; the essence of the onward urge; as every person who has escaped chains, every child who has thrown the stone, every person in front of the tank and every hand that takes a pickaxe or a paintbrush to the wall knows.

It’s known here too; in the absence of freedom, some women set themselves on fire to die. I don’t know what kind of ordeal a person needs to be escaping to endure such a painful death, but this article gives some clue. Kinda puts the rest of our stuff in perspective

http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,2007407,00.html

PS this time there is a happy ending. The girl was given reconstructive surgery, and the picture you see is the before and after photo.

Homesick!

ladyc — Wed, 14 Mar 2012 20:03:00 GMT

I miss Delhi.

I miss the noise, the banter, the colours, the disorganisation and chaos. Because whatever else Delhi is, it’s alive. In all its raucous, antagonistic glory, it is fully and completely alive...

And I miss that.

Having spent two weeks in a hotel room, with the social life of a reclusive agoraphobic on a vipassana retreat, I’m ready to scale the perimeter fence. Oh I know! In India there have been tears, howling, gnashing of teeth, hair pulling and fury. I have wanted to board a plane home more than once. I have screamed, stomped, howled and spun....But it's also the most fun I've ever had. Delhi is home! So here I am in a pretty French town with graceful, kind, charming people; the kind with manners and patience I can only dream of.... and I’m itching inside my own skin.

Sometimes, I think I want an easier life. But I don’t.

I want to feel fully alive. And that’s not the same thing.

I have a short whistlestop tour of my dearly beloveds and then...

I’m going home.

A near death experience

ladyc — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 01:23:00 GMT

There are moments I don’t quite have words for; moments when the sheer perfection and wonderfulness of everything falls into place and all I can feel is deep utter gratitude and love for everything, all of it. (I know, it sounds corny, like I said, I don’t have words. I wish I did, and a production plant to bottle up the feeling and distribute it). As bizarre as it sounds, moments like that make me feel like, ‘if I died right now I’d be completely happy with how everything has been’.

As the saying goes: “be careful what you wish for”

Sitting in an auto rickshaw in my blissful reverie, contemplating how happy I’d be if this was all and this was it, on cue the auto went hurtling over a speedbump, throwing me butt-out-of-seat and towards the windscreen. My body exhaled an involuntary gasp and grabbed on to the nearest piece of cold metal for life support.

It’s the closest I’ve ever come to a sticky end and it made me realise that, however grateful I may be for everything in my life so far, I would still quite like to hang on to it a little longer (at least a few more hours till my next birthday).

I did consider asking the driver for a near-death discount (me: “you nearly kill me!!”) but what’s the point? I am still of course deeply grateful, but maybe I won’t push my luck : )

Not just yet ; )

A traditional love story

ladyc — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 23:06:00 GMT

So we know how it goes. Boy meets girl. Girl drinks too much. One thing leads to another. Girl wakes up howling “oh god no!” Boy does victory lap of honour hi fiving his friends and revelling in the glory of his accomplishments like a medal winner hosting a press conference.

Oh yes, we know it well. The hero, the scarlet woman; the triumph and the humiliation.

Weeks pass, details are added, the teasing revs up to a roar, the memory is unfurled for public viewing, and the boy emboldened by triumph presses girl for an encore, (his indiscretion promising him a life sentence of anything but). An average American high school soap opera. Except, this is India. (Mother, uncover your eyes, uncle put down the gun).

In this country, if Bill Clinton said ‘I did not have sexual relations with that woman’ you could be damn sure he’s telling the truth. Oh sure, there’s scandal. It’s just there’s scandal over so much LESS.

You see, in this story, our hero didn’t sleep with the girl. Oh no. He didn’t get to first base (are you kidding?) In fact, the decadent pair didn’t even - to use the teenage slang – “make out”

Oh I’m sorry did you think that all the fuss and reputational ruin was over something SIGNIFICANT?

No, no, no – have you not been paying attention? This is India! Home of shuddering conservatism. No, the scandalous act of moral degeneracy that our Delhi Don Juan triumphed in luring our innocent heroine to was......

Wait. Stop.

Are you ready?

I mean, are you really ready?

Because some of you are family members...

And I don’t want you to think badly of me...

My grandfather is getting old and there are kids watching

Are you sure? You won’t judge?

Ok, then I’ll tell you.

[deep breath]

...

I felt his chest.

Yes, the act at the bottom of all the ribald humour, the teasing, hope, male aspiration and gossip was nothing more than the humble index finger on skin. And, I would understand it among 16 year old boys whose sexual experience is limited to GCSE biology book pictures. But no.

He’s 31.

So, I have left the country. I am away from India hiding in shame, on the run across South Asia and Europe until a suitably respectable amount of time has passed for my reputation to be restored. (‘Travelling for work’ I tell people, but readers, you know the truth).

Meanwhile, our swaggering hero has of course cast himself out of ‘the game’. Rule number one in the cassanova handbook: never tell – especially if you ever one day hope to find a girl to ‘make out’ with before a 35th birthday. Maybe one day our hero will reach first base, or kiss a girl, who knows, but whoever she is I hope she has the air miles to escape the furore....

I will be back reporting from a remote location soon readers, a mujahedeen are mobilising in nearby foothills to protect my honour.

A woman of a certain reputation

ladyc — Wed, 7 Dec 2011 15:49:00 GMT

I may be gathering something of a reputation. Call it paranoia, but after a short while of living in any neighbourhood, the entire world knows your business. This happened in Addis during an extended 4 day transit. Everyone on the road on the hill where I ‘lived’ knew where I’d been, who I was with, and the latest status of the flight situation. This breeds a certain familiarity with the neighbours. One morning, emerging from my hotel a ‘neighbour’ jumped up to greet me

Neighbour: “you didn’t come home last night!”

Me: “Yes I did!”

Neighbour ”I didn’t see you”

Me: “That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen!”

It’s becoming like that here... everyone, the shopkeepers, the chemist, the taxi driver and vegetable stall man all know me. In fact the GK3 (yes GK3) taxi company are like my personal chaperones. There are one or two who take me often. What they know about me is this: I hire a taxi... usually to go to a 5 star hotel... I stay a few hours. I leave. And Ma’am was last seen leaving the Taj with a blonde man kissing her on both cheeks.

Hm.

My wander to work (past the chaperones gathered outside the taxi company) is fast becoming the walk of shame.

Oh you can think I’m paranoid – but I’ve been here before.

My situation was not assisted by my local chemist. I went in to buy some cream for a cold sore. He didn’t have the brand I wanted so picked an unbranded tube out of a drawer and placed it on the counter. Loudly, in front of all the customers and poking distance from the other shopkeepers said “Herpes cream madam. Same same.”

Wonderful.

The Wisdom of Delhi Men

ladyc — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 06:08:00 GMT

Delhi men get a bad rep. Fairly so in plenty of cases. Still, some of my most side-splitting laughs have come from these guys, so I had to share a few. Names have been omitted to protect the guilty. Enjoy!

On helping me find a good man:

“I’m not dead C, I'm right here! You just need to lower your standards”

On relationships:

“She’s not my girlfriend! It was a five day relationship.”

On fidelity:

"Find me a good woman"

"You already have one? More than one is greedy"

On best friends:

Me: ‘I want to be your fag hag’

Him ‘I used to be straight you know’

On looking the part;

Him: ‘Stand in front of the mirror and tell me you don’t need to go to the gym’

Me: ‘I’m looking and I’m gorgeous’.

Him: ‘Stand in front of the mirror and look at your stomach’

On being the part:

"THAT's your phone? A Nokia? Oh my god you're poor!"

On standards:

Me: ‘Listen, I’ve dated royalty, models and millionaires – I’m not used to any kind of shabby treatment’

Him ‘I am royalty. You can google my ancestors’

On dumb foreigners:

“Pilau – it means rice!”

On settling down:

Him: ‘So….. if in two years neither of us has met anyone’

Me: ‘……. I’ll still be out of your league’

On attending traditional cultural events:

“I’m turning into a loser because of you.”

On philosophy:

"Life is so random, like... yesterday I didn't have an ear piercing but today I do"

On marrying Delhi men (arranged style):

‘So, he’s standing there telling you about how great he is, how successful, what a man…but at the end of the day……..he’s still a virgin’.

Delhi gems - smiles this week

ladyc — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 15:02:00 GMT

“He did not understand..and he did not want to understand”

“Yes ma’am we have sent your business cards to Gujarat” [I live in Delhi]

"Ma'am you will have to take the lift" - the two men struggling to push a heavy duty photocopier up the stairs. That's right..... I should take the lift while they took the stairs

"She used to be a man"

"She used to be a wannabe and then she became a page 3 girl"

Love it.

PS still my favourite:

“No, because we would have to buy a modem” – on why I have to have cable not broadband internet

Living In The Matrix

ladyc — Mon, 15 Aug 2011 20:58:00 GMT

Delhi doesn’t exist. Sorry folks, sorry dear friends who have booked tickets. It’s not real. We made it all up. Gotcha!

Delhi is in fact a technologically simulated matrix. Yes, I am speaking of course about the phone. I have a simple phone, it doesn't even have a camera, so I have to watch in awe the solemn social ritual that occurs on arrival at any gathering. It goes something like this

Silence

Tap tap tap

‘u-p-d-a-t-e status’

The entire network knows where we are before the person next to me knows how I am! They don’t need to ask how I am because they asked me that already while they were busy tapping at their last social function.

People spend more time tapping about where they are, than being there, about what they’re going to do than doing anything at all. Second life is life.

Ok ok, I’m a little behind the times: I spent a year living a place that isn’t even formally recognised as a country: there were no blackberries or i-phones; people who sat around a table would talk to one another, share stories, exchange political viewpoints, chatter, laugh, debate. People talked all the time, in the car, in the bank on the street corner, people even used their phones for talking.

Trendy Delhi-ites don’t use the phones for talking, it's Not Cool. There is no talk – its; all tap tap tap. Phonecalls are rare. I have an e-life friendship which for one month was conducted entirely by text message. My wellbeing, whereabouts, were all asked after by text. There were almost daily updates, messages, promises, arrangements, cancellations, more plans... I saw them exactly once the whole month.

No more the coffee shop chatter or dinner party banter. The concept of ‘I’m busy, I’ll call you when I’m done’ is replaced by ‘I’m busy, but I’ll message you throughout’. Why? Why not just put the phone down, get done what you have to get done and call me in a week? Take care of your business and then let’s go play. Friends have asked ‘why don’t you get blackberry / iphone/ etc’ and my answer is simple – ‘because I’m sitting right here’. I like conversation too much.

I refuse to get one of these contraptions. I think they should be banned from all public places. At coffee shops, restaurants clubs, instead of handing in bag at the cloakroom, people should hand their phone in. The will be forced to talk, to interact, to do that old fashioned stuff that humans used to do.

Laughter, joy, delight these are experiences that are multiplied by being shared. Banter, belly laughs, these are noisy affairs to be enjoyed in the full delight of human company. And silence…………… silence just means somebody is thinking of the next joke. (It takes some of us a while).

There are marvellous people here, wonderful , extraordinary, fun, vibrant energising people! And I get to hear their inspirational stories and rib-breaking jokes. I’m grateful for the real-time friends; the ones I get to share a laugh with, dance with, eat ice cream and be silly with. The ones who come round if I'm upset and the ones to have fun with. There is no substitute for Real Life. Life is the thing that you make happen while everyone else is tapping about it into their phone.

Post script: my phone is now broken. Kaput. Phonecalls won't receive, text messages arrive one day late, the phone cuts out during conversations and everyone who has called since I posted this blog sounds like they are gurgling underwater. I'm really not joking. My phone heard I was complaining and it quit in protest, the advice: get a blackberry............

No way.

I'm getting a carrier pigeon.

Are you being served?

ladyc — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 05:03:00 GMT

One of first things I was told about in Delhi was the abundance of people. 80% of them are skinny young men in shorts who for a few rupees will undertake any task that might otherwise require you to leave the house. There is one who collects rubbish from outside my door each day, another who delivers 20 litres of drinking water (up two flights of stairs), another who passes the house selling fruit and vegetables every morning and a not so skinny man on a nearby street corner who if you ask nicely, will deliver plants to your gate (he doesn’t carry them up the stairs, shockingly I had to do that myself. He is not so skinny).

When I moved in, I couldn’t understand why I attracted so many looks carrying bags of groceries down the road with my own arms. Likewise I was thoroughly perplexed when I went to a grocery store and they didn’t give me a bag to put my shopping in (but how am I supposed to carry this all home?). They must have been equally surprised I didn’t have some skinny minion to carry them for me. Everywhere, human effort is lavished for the smallest task and for the smallest price. In the cinema, food is served to your seat, in shops there are people to whisk your chosen items away out of your hands as soon as you have picked them from the shelves (they take them to the counter to relieve you of the inconvenience of having to use your hands to carry things). Truly one is spoilt. The flip side of the royal treatment of course is how the other half live… some boys who pick up the rubbish go through it to check for any leftover food.

Still, people are enterprising, business happens everywhere and alfresco living is the norm. Laundry services, tailoring and catering are carried out under snatches of outdoor shade. Down the road, a few ladies operate a laundry business using house railings and parked cars as props. One washes, another irons and at the end of the production line, carefully laundered linens pile up, neatly folded on bonnets of cars.

There are barber shops run from railings and street pavements, my favourite operates out of a ledge on the corner of a building set back 3-4 feet from the road. The ledge is at chest height, which is just right for the barber to place his shaving brush and accoutrements. I passed a well-heeled and noble faced customer sitting still and carefully attended to. Customer and patron were both taking the business very seriously.

My neighbours with knowing smiles (they have lived here for six years) tell me ‘everything is possible in India’ and in the service industry it’s true: there is nothing you can’t get, there is nothing you can’t someone else to get for you and nowhere that service isn’t available. Getting what you need here is like the opposite of a treasure hunt: whatever it is you need, the challenge is not to go find it, the challenge is to find the person who will bring it to your door (and usually you don’t have to look very far).

In fact I’m tempted as an experiment to pick a spot, locate some eager young thing, and hand over a list of treasure hunt items and see how many he can bring back within the hour:

‘I’d like a haircut, my shoes cleaned, a shirt ironed, half a kilo of potatoes, a pair of red trousers, a chocolate ice cream, the autograph of a Bollywood celebrity, oh and a stool to sit on, a newspaper and a cappuccino while I wait’.

I reckon the average skinny young man picked at random could do a damn fine job within the hour. And for those of us who have money, that’s how life is: round the clock home delivery and personal shopping services wherever you are…

They may have knowing smiles and war stories a-plenty but 6 years later I can see why my neighbours are in no rush to leave…

Photos: Old Delhi

ladyc — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 02:34:00 GMT

Nutella, make up and 1/8 bottle of wine

ladyc — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 20:30:00 GMT

Contents of new fridge: nutella, make up and 1/8 bottle of wine. Hallmarks of a single woman ; )

In my three week absence from Delhi the temperature has dropped but the humidity has skyrocketed. So, while it is wonderful applying serums, moisturizers and lipsticks that have been cooling in a refrigerator, by the time I get home they are sliding off my face into puddles on the floor. By 6pm I have a face that you could fry chips in and not infrequently, feet covered in black mud/something that looks like it belongs in a sewer. Oh yes. I’m gorgeous, or at least I must be because when I went for a facial to exterminate the oil, the girl pulled my robe open, bra straps down and started massaging goo into my breasts [is that normal?]

Last week I finally moved into my apartment. Not that you’d know, I’ve barely spoken to anyone since I landed. I arrived in my new home at 2am to smells of cigarettes and bodies (alive or dead I’m not sure). Thus ensued a 4 day battle of fury involving bleach, cilit-bang, cream cleaner, washing powder and shopping. I cleaned wardrobes, pillows, mattresses, insides of cupboards, floors, toilet, you name it, it got zapped. I had assumed –wrongly- it was either the landlord or my employers duty to ensure the cleanliness before I moved in. Apparently not. Bad surprise. Good surprise was the fact I didn’t get sick drinking the tapwater (hey 2am there was nothing else available after my ten hour flight!)

Cleaning done I then spent the GDP of a small African nation on sheets, curtains, cushions and upholstery.

Finally my apartment is presentable and – dare I say it, sort of almost nice. The only dirty smelly thing round here now is me.

Corruption? What corruption?

ladyc — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 06:38:00 GMT

India claims the title as the world’s largest democracy. But don’t be fooled; this is not democracy as we know it; it has not been fought for by British or American troops, it is not exported in coca cola bottles in exchange for oil barrels, it does not involve foreign strategists deciding internal policy outside national borders. This peculiar breed of democracy is one where the will of the people is expected to be expressed and – more radically– answered to by government.

One of the first things I learned before even arriving in India was about the right to information. More or less, this act gives citizens the right to ask any question they want of their authorities, and the authorities have to reply within 30 days, otherwise the person responsible for answering can face prosecution.

Any question.

Anything at all.

And they have to get an answer.

Imagine what would happen in the UK if we had that; if we could ask why free school meals for poor children have been cut, if we could ask why doctors and nurses are being made redundant, why transport, homelessness and education services all face the axe (while MPs rack up dubious expenses on bird houses and bath mats using public funds) and most importantly of all; if we could ask exactly when Boris Johnson is planning to get a haircut. British democracy as we know it would dissolve into anarchy. This is surely not what democracy was meant for? Perhaps India didn’t get the memo.

Another area of woeful misunderstanding is corruption. India thinks it has a corruption problem.

Tss!; )

I am an expert on corruption. I have studied it, campaigned against it and had every request from “ah Madam, you are setting up an office you will need a cleaner, I will find you one” to “Please give us unhindered access to the assets our Minister would like to get his hands on before he loses his job in the next election”. To the best of my knowledge I have never paid a bribe. Not even a little one. But this depends on your definition. And here’s the issue:

Define ‘bribe’.

Some enterprising spark has set up a website called ‘http://www.ipaidabribe.com/ It’s a portal where citizens can describe all the bribes they have paid. Genius! Not for India the rusty ‘comments’ box gathering dust at the back of a Kenyan Ministry (where citizens submit their complaints against corruption into a bureaucratic black hole, at best never to be seen again, at worst, resulting in physical threats) - no, India is taking its anti-corruption battle online. Here are some examples of bribes that have been registered:

· 2000 rupees paid for registering a marriage certificate

· 500 rupees for obtaining a learners and drivers licence

· 2000 for timely processing of an educational certificate

· 1200 rupees for passport verification

· 5000 rupees and 2 bottles of rum for an electricity connection (my favourite)

Now, it’s funny because in the US or UK none of these would be considered a bribe; if a company was writing the cheque these would all be considered legitimate business expenses.

Alright, so the two bottles of rum is pushing it, but what’s the difference between that and a corporate gift? How many bankers have enjoyed concert passes, ascot tickets, ski trips and freebies from printing shops seeking their business? How many companies have a yearly budget for ‘corporate entertainment’ for schmoozing clients over four star dinners and box seats at the national opera. Bribe? Or Business?

Under US law, payments to government officials for processing passports, marriage certificates and educational certificates are not bribes. Under the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, a payment to a foreign official for carrying out routine government or public duties such as processing papers, issuing permits and other official actions, is called a ‘’facilitation payment’’. So under American definitions, the first four ‘bribes’ I’ve listed would be called ‘’facilitation payments’’ and the last, a banker would just call this a gift. ‘Bribe’, then, in the ‘developed’ world is just an ugly word for competitive advantage.

This was beautifully expressed many years ago at a meeting of Transparency International (TI). TI describes itself as “the global civil society organisation leading the fight against corruption”. A member of the audience (unschooled in the small print of the foreign corrupt practices act) asked one of the major oil companies present, about their payment of several hundred million dollars in ‘facilitation payments’ to the Angolan government during the civil war. A senior TI representative immediately stepped in with the statement ‘’facilitation payments are not bribes’’ and shut down any further questioning of his fellow old-boy on the panel. The debate moved on hurriedly on. Those of us in the audience sat in bewildered silence, blinking at each other in stunned confusion.

You see, this is where the world’s largest democracy gets it wrong. India doesn’t have a corruption problem – not according to the definitions of the capitalist “first world” countries. No, what India has is a definition problem. What India calls a bribe, the rest of us call a legitimate tax deductible business expense. They aren’t bribes they are ‘facilitation payments’. And the developed world pays a lot of them.

So that’s the answer to corruption in India: change the law, call payments to government officials ‘’facilitation payments’ give Baba Ramdev a big Mac and we can all go home with the corruption problem solved. Abolish the right to information and you start to have a democracy and an economic policy that looks like any developed Western nation.

And that then, is how you take the world’s largest democracy, and march it straight to the leading ranks of the world’s most ‘developed’ nations. Easy. It’s all about how you spin it.

For her eyes only... except in India

ladyc — Fri, 3 Jun 2011 19:02:00 GMT

There is an ancient and secret honour code among women, a silent covenant that, whatever continent, village or house we visit is acknowledged by other women. It is the operating system upon which the earth spins, it is how All Things Are Known. It is never uttered but it is embedded in our DNA and universally understood. To the best of my recollection I have never heard it spoken of, or known it to be revealed.

Until now. Till India.

And some Sheila has let the cat out of the bag.

It goes a little something like this: Irrespective of language, ethnicity, or culture, without need or regard for guidebooks, translators, dictionaries or a compass, the following principles hold true:

Rule No.1: All women intuit and understand a basic level of information about all men. No exceptions, no language barrier, no verbal communication necessary. When faced with a complete male stranger we know exactly what his intentions are and what he’s thinking. Whether he’s from outer Mongolia or the outer Hebrides, there are a limited range of universal facial expressions and just because we’re not neighbours doesn’t mean we don’t understand exactly what they mean.

Rule No.2: Rule No.1 is to be kept secret. the simple infallible principle that guards us all, shields us on our travels, and carried Kate Adie to safety in war zones (while allowing her to pause for tea with middle eastern shopkeepers with bombs going off outside) is this: don’t tell. Chicks know that other chicks have got the guys sussed, and there is a pact not to tell them.

It’s fabulously helpful.

One of my greatest professional achievements was perfecting the art of nonchalant, blinking indifference among ‘big men’ who think I don’t know what they are talking about. In hot, smoky west and east African rooms filled with shouting officials who want their piece of the cake intended for the impoverished littering the gutters outside, I maintain a smiling ethereal composure and I am fabulously good at it. Occasionally one will glance uncomfortably in my direction, checking I haven’t understood while the over confident sidekick (“of course she doesn’t understand!”) will bark orders about how to extract my financial bone marrow. Some are daft enough to telephone or even put their requests in writing. This is stupidly unnecessary. One, who wrote a polite request for a six digit sum of money was agreed by women to be almost visibly wrapped in a brown cloud. You could see that he had gone bad. He didn’t need to put it writing. But anyway, as a foreigner and since I don’t understand the words of the local dialect, a formal written submission in English is considered necessary, while battle plans about how to outwit me get drawn up in foreign tones right across the table.

It suits me just fine ; )

This is how things are known. This is how I get things done. Which is why I want to meet the lady that told all the men in India our secret and ask her what the heck she thought she was playing at.

I don’t speak Hindi. The only words I do understand are from my limited smatterings of Nepali or Arabic. And yet, I will have full conversations with drivers, guards, watchmen each of us speaking our own language, and the man will happily stand there chatting in Hindi, with the full expectation that I understand. Some throw in odd words of English – some don’t but they all expect I understand. And you know what, I do. (Or maybe I don’t, maybe we’re completely at cross purposes but things get done and we both depart satisfied). And this situation is utterly unfamiliar to me.

I moved into a new apartment and a colleague asked how it went, and asked after the watchman/gatekeeper. I said ‘well, he doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak Hindi but we had a chat, and managed to understand each other’. My colleague asked “what words did you understand?”

Well that just threw me.

I stood there and could not think of a single word I had actually understood but certain I had understood the meaning. “Well, he explained if I need anything to let him know, he will help, he sleeps upstairs” … I also have a feeling he asked to come in and do some maintenance; (the arrival of the plumber the next day confirmed this), but however sweet he may be, I am not in the habit of letting strange men into my house -even when it is not my house, he has the keys, works there and has more right to be there than I do.

The next day I tried to take a tuk tuk (auto/rickshaw/ small wheely beepy thing decorated with pictures and stickers of bollywood stars, should sit two, occasionally seats an entire family). A chap with a wave of his head, chatter in a language I don’t speak, an apologetic eyebrow and a chin jut indicated he would not take me but I should go with another man who had pulled up alongside us. Inside the other guy’s tuk tuk, I tried to open the trading floor for negotiations. It only was when the man said something that I knew to mean ‘its fifty you paid me that before’ that I realised I had been with him before. He now appears in the morning smiling, my own private charioteer.

I don’t get this. They’re men. They’re not supposed to expect me to understand! They’re supposed to think I’m dumb, foreign and then they’re supposed to rip me off– right? One driver (aged, sweet unconcerned and speaking impeccable English) floored me when I asked him the price of the journey. I asked ‘’how much’’ he answered ‘’as you wish’’

Huh?

As if that weren’t bad enough the sisterhood have broken the rules too. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow us when among a small gathering, a woman one foot away asked a personal question about me right in front of me. In front of me! I could hear her! And Hindi or no Hindi I knew exactly what she was asked. I was horror stricken. It wasn’t a mean, rude or impolite question but it was a personal one and that just isn’t cricket. Women of the world (women of Africa, Oceana, Latin America and Europe) know this is just not done.

I wanted to die of embarrassment! I couldn’t believe it – I didn’t know whether to be mortified for her or for me and I didn’t know how to react because I have never been in this situation before. A woman talking about me right in front of me thinking I won’t understand? I can’t do the nonchalant ethereal smiling unconcerned look in front of a woman! Instead I gawped, mouth open, an expression somewhere between horror and deer-in-the-headlights, imploring her with my eyes to please stop and save us all the embarrassment. It was awful, I think even the men were embarrassed because of course, in India (where rules of polarity are turned on their axis) the men know I understood. Even if I did land here with the last shower.

So I am lost! Bereft! Adrift! Years of craft and cunning honed in all the wrong continents have left me totally without the appropriate life skills, without the golden rules I cannot work, function, travel or socialise.

It seems I will have to buy a guidebook and learn the language after all.

Photos: Dilli Haat market

ladyc — Fri, 3 Jun 2011 03:47:00 GMT

Game on! Old bird 5 – me 1 (finally)

ladyc — Wed, 1 Jun 2011 14:02:00 GMT

I triumphed! Today I succeeded in a battle I have been plotting, failing and finally succeeded in! I beat the maid to the door. I beat an 80 year old lady in a race. And godammit I’m proud because the old girl moves fast and it’s taken a week to do it.

I am staying at a colleagues flat for the week and he has a maid who comes every day. I do not know what she does. I occupy one room and this room remains untouched by broom or duster. I can only surmise that she spends the day dancing round the flat (I like this idea because she’s small, spindly and about eighty – the idea of her doing ‘twist and shout’ in the living room entertains me tremendously). She’s a sweet lady, but humble and obsequious to the last.

Every day when I leave if I say goodbye, she rushes to the door to open it for me. For me, this is subservient bordering on ridiculous. I can open the damn door. I tried telling her she didn’t have to open it for me and she laughed at me. So, every day is a carefully undertaken battle of strategic endeavour.

It’s complicated: if I leave without saying goodbye, that’s rude. If I pass her to get to the door without saying anything, well that’s rude too. But if I tell her to ‘have a nice day’ she is off the starting blocks faster than a steeplechase racer, sari flying and at the door before I’ve even had time to pick up my keys, ready to bow, scrape and usher me off into my day. This old girl moves fast. There is a 2m straight run from the kitchen area where she hovers and the door, so the art is to get past the kitchen, down the straight, to the door and out before she knows what’s happened, but also without ignoring her or being rude.

One day I made it to the door (‘yes!’) but my shoes are at the door and I had to stop and put my feet in. Too late. She skidded to the door in nanosecond timing after me and was at the lock while I put my shoes on, smiling.

Dammit.

I lie awake at night calculating how to get to the door first:

“maybe if I pick up my shoes, bring them to my room the night before, and leave in the morning with my bag and shoes in hand, I can run past the kitchen, say hi as I pass her, be out of the door and put the shoes on outside.”

Seriously. I lay in bed thinking about this.

I don’t like the idea of a maid or ‘help’. I hate all that stuff, I can carry my own cup, open my own door and tie my own shoelaces. I have arms and legs and they work very well. The ‘yes madam’ , ‘good morning madam’ business makes me uncomfortable. I am not the queen (true, my cousin thinks I am royalty, but he still believes in Santa Claus).

At the hotel I stayed at there was a 24 hour odd-job man of indeterminate job description who no matter what he was doing, leapt to attention whenever I passed in case I wanted anything. He would lurk ominously whenever I ate (I hate people watching me eat) and only broke his subservient quietness to howl “NO!” defiantly, when I carried my own plate back to the kitchen.

Anyway, this morning, the gods were smiling. She was in the living room not the kitchen. This is new, and I decided to take advantage in the deviation from normal activities.

This is a risky strategy because the door to the living room is right by the front door. If she caught me, even out the corner of her eye or suspected my intentions, she would be at the door before I knew it. But while her back was turned and her attention focused on a broom, I sped silently to the door and I made it!!

She realised what was happening and flurried after me, but too late! Even without my shoes on I had won: the door was open and it was in my hands!

We both laughed and it was a sweet victory, but I bet she’ll be plotting how to beat me tomorrow.

I’m ready. Off to buy roller skates…..

The land of eternal virgins

ladyc — Thu, 26 May 2011 21:49:00 GMT

To hear some Indian women talk you’d swear they stay virgins even after they’re married (let’s not talk about before, somebody’s mother might be listening). Tonight with a storm swirling outside a cute lady who I like tremendously (I could live here for the rest of my life and still she’d be in my top 10 favourite people), decided that the weather was ‘romantic weather’ and so she should go home early.

Bless her (I say). But talk of romance provoked outcry, and faux shock (at least I hope it was faux). ‘’there are kids” (meaning unmarried) women “and you’re talking about romantic weather’’ balked a married colleague. All of us were alerted to the scandalous use of the word romance. Much flapping of mouths, laughter etc. The lady in question stood her ground ‘’How do you think the population of India got to 1 billion?’’ she said gathering her things (attagirl!)

I was asked for my opinion, so I gave it. As my favourite homegirl scarpered out of the office I cheered her on with ‘’you go girl’’.

After all, she’s been married 18 years. She’s got to lose her virginity sometime.

A curse upon the unprepared vagabond!

ladyc — Sat, 21 May 2011 02:00:00 GMT

You know the scene in Indiana Jones and the last crusade where Harrison Ford steps off a cliff, eyes closed, confident a path will rise up from the abyss to meet his feet? That’s how I travel. I step out happily into the unknown, confident that the universe will rise up to cushion my feet and guide me to my destination, peppering my journey with joy, adventure and kindness along the way. I don’t plan I trust. I dance off the cliff, eyes blindfolded, hands tied behind my back whistling cheerfully. I cross continents on a ticket purchased the night before, land without a pre-booking for my first night’s accommodation. It’s easy: grab a couple of recommendations in advance, ask questions and ask the taxi drivers – they know their city and will tell you where to go. This happy go lucky play it by ear approach has served me well. It’s what I do. It works.

Except in India.

“What do you mean I have to book??”

India is organised. There are bookings. In advance – and I mean days, weeks even months in advance. This is unfathomable to me. What about my free spirited wanderlust? Well, it’s going to have to get in line because not only do you have to book in advance (and online) for a train ticket, but there are waiting lists! Some colleagues book up to three months in advance. They laugh at my shock; I thought I could just rock up at a train station and pootle off to another Indian state for the weekend. Apparently not.

Overconfident non-preparation just does not work here. I discovered this (for the second time, because I did not listen the first time), when I tried to venture home during a transport strike. A sensible person, (a prepared person) would have booked a taxi. Not me ‘oh I’ll be fine’ I breezed, swishing out of the office, strike notwithstanding, confident the universe would as ever, rise up to meet my feet and carry me home.

It didn’t.

And that’s how I ended up on the back of a motorbike, with no helmet, delirious with fear, bruising the poor man I was clinging to in my vice-like grip of terror as we zipped through some of the most dangerous traffic in the world.

I learned my lesson.

Thankfully I survived and emerged unscathed and transformed with new traffic superpowers and extra sass and attitude: I managed to cross a street halfway and while waiting to get to the other side, a car drove right at me deliberately, purposefully, in full sight of my clearly visible presence, with the man behind the wheel obviously expecting me to dodge out of the way. I stood there unrepentant, immobile, hand on hip glaring at him, him watching me and silently uttered:

‘Bitch, I’m not moving so you BETTER get outta my way’

He did.

I am a city girl after all…

If I should die think only this of me; That there's some corner of a Delhi highway..

ladyc — Wed, 18 May 2011 22:59:00 GMT

..that is Forever England.

Some people have daily affirmations. Mine goes something like this:

‘Holy fucking crap!’

‘Jesus H christ’

‘I/He/she/we/ are all going to die’

Ah yes. Delhi traffic. I had been warned, but like so many things, nothing prepares you till you experience it. One of my sacred cows of self-belief (‘’I don’t get scared’’) is now in the scrap heap of self-realisation. I used to say I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’ve been scared in my life. Well, now I can count them on two hands and half belong to Delhi which is pretty spectacular seeing as I haven’t even been here a week.

On a daily basis on my route to work,(I've only been twice; yesterday was a day off. Either to celebrate the 44 degree heat or Buddha's birthday, not sure which) bicycles, tuk tuks, motorbikes and cars, toot and crisscross in up to ten lanes of traffic and sometimes not all going in the same direction (cyclists!).Today in a tuk tuk I skimmed so close to a bus that I could have stretched out my finger and touched the wheel, I was tempted till I realised that if I did a motorbike would probably still try to whip through the 4 inch gap and snap my arm off so I decided not to.

I admire the die-hard (no pun intended) pedestrians who cross the traffic – today a lady managed with a combination of grace, ease and confidence to cross six or seven lines of traffic. I gawped at her, awestruck, with the kind of admiration one usually reserves for nobel prize winning scientists or world class pianists. Truly this lady is my hero.

I had a thorough security briefing and yet I am confident that if anything unfortunate should come to pass, it will almost certainly be a Delhi highway. Which is why I thought the title (ever so slightly adapted) from the war poem by Rupert Brooke was so apt.

It’s a lovely poem and I think captures the spirit of navigating Delhi traffic quite nicely:

The Soldier (by Rupert Brooke)

IF I should die, think only this of me;
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,	5
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less	10
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.