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February 24, 2004
View from a concrete roofSummer, it seems, is coming to the Kulu Valley a little early this year. I'm sitting on the roof in a T-shirt under a perfect and cloudless blue sky, the temperature a pleasant 20 deg C, although the sharp sun makes it feel warmer. But technically, it is still winter; from here I can see the snow still lying in clumps at the foot of the Deodar in the forest opposite, and as this is windy season, (everything has a season in Manali) there are gusts of wind with a nip to them blowing in from the "cold" side; the ridge of rock behind Old Manali that marks the direction of Dharamsala, and from where the cold weather always comes, or so local wisdom has it. Winter habits die hard, and I can smell the smoke from next doors chimney, although their room is likely to be warmer than ours as it is made in the local style of wood, stone and plaster that is cool in summer and warm in winter, rather than the icy chill of concrete that takes the burning of half a forest to warm through.
If this was the UK, the weather would be joking; we'd all throw off the winter woollies for a week and persuade ourselves it was going to be a great summer, and then - bang - 6 solid weeks of rain and cold before a lousy, wet English summer. But if nothing else in India is predictable, the weather can usually be relied on not to change its mind once its made up, and it will probably get warmer day by day with only the odd day of rain to keep us guessing.
Like the weather, the view is close to perfect from up here on this roof - once you look past the neighbours satellite dish and water tank. 360 degrees of snowy peaks, pine forest, orchards with their still bare trees and the villages and lone houses clinging to the hillside. In front of me I can see the waterfall behind Vashist, spouting from the barren rock face that towers over the road to Rohtang pass. To my right, on the "left" bank, the triangle of forest planted by my friend and chess opponent, Tej Ram, when he worked for the forestry department. He hated the corruption and took early retirement. And died - almost certainly - because of his lifelong fondness for Bidis. Some way to the left of the forest stands a small Tibetan gompa, its yellow roof a sharp contrast to the surrounding expanse of muted browns and greens. And way behind and maybe 300 metres above the gompa stands a small house, set well apart from Vashist village. The light from the house stands out at night because its sharp point is so much higher than the diffuse glow of the village. Its the kind of place that makes you think; what is it like to have such a gruelling walk every time you want to go to the shop? Does the owner resent his father leaving him this piece of land, while his brother maybe got a piece next to the road, and perhaps makes good money running a hotel for Indian tourists? Do you develop a better memory so you donŐt have to get home from the shops and think "Damn, I forgot the fags".
To my left is the three storey house built by some foreigner, much more conveniently located, and rented out by the landowner for 5,000 Rs a week when he's away. There was a night late last summer when a different foreigner who was staying there spent the night in the garden, drunk, wailing at the top of his voice "whereŐs my fucking money" - and other less intelligible curses - for hours on end. The tittle tattle from the rumour mill goes that he had given someone money to build him a house in a nearby village and been, as they say, shafted - for a lot of money, apparently.
The snow has disappeared so fast this year, and the lower slopes of the mountains toward Rohtang are already stripped of most of their snow. Even the higher rock faces are showing bald patches much earlier than I remember seeing before. Global warming is apparently killing the Himalayan glaciers, is it also melting the snow too quickly? There will be problems for the farmers of IndiaŐs plains if these bald patches mean they are deprived of precious pre monsoon water.
There are other signs of impending summer; mustard flowers are already beginning to show the tips of their yellow flowers, and the first vanguard of western tourists are starting to appear - looking shocked at the cold after the warmth of Goa's beaches. For some it will be the tail end of the trip, a quick glance at the mountains before heading home. There is always something special about arriving in the Kulu Valley early, before the madness of the party-hell summer season hits and the place begins to look like a theme park for aspiring neo hippies. The place feels like it has just been freshly unwrapped, ready for a new summer. The locals have recharged their batteries, forgotten how sick they were of the crowds by September last year, the roar of vehicles and the dull thump of distant techno. For most, winter will have used up their spare cash and they'll be looking forward to laying in a fresh supply.
Arriving this early, you can imagine a little of what Manali must have been twenty years ago, when there were no guesthouses and Manu Cafe was the only restaurant. No convenient village shops selling everything from toilet paper to Toblerones. Portable entertainment for travellers came in the form of a book, a guitar, or for the really dedicated, a 5 kilo ghetto blaster.
Manali has changed in any number of ways in twenty years, many of them doubtless not for the better, but looking out from this roof, all of the concrete and tin that is "progress" is a tiny and insignificant stain on the 360 degree wall to wall beauty that is the Valley of the Gods.
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February 23, 2004
A walk in the snowTo shake off the mid winter torpor, we took a trip up to the Solang Valley, a beautiful side valley about 10 km from Manali town. Although its only about 400 metres higher that Manali, it received about 2 metres of snow this year, while Manali got only 1.2 metres. Getting there after fresh snowfall can be difficult; the twisting narrow road from Vashist, with its large drop, snows in easily and even a small amount of snow or ice can make it dangerous for buses. Luckily the road is important to the military and is usually cleared with a snow plough in a few days. There are three buses a day from Manali bus stand, at 8am, noon and 4pm and costs 7 Rs, or you can take a taxi complete with wintertime "inflation" for around 300 Rs one way.
With a bright blue sky and the promise of a warm day I temporarily overcame my belief that no life exists before 10 am, and we caught the eight o'clock bus, which terminates in the village of Palchan, the entrance to the valley and about 3.5 km before Solang's skiing area. Not much is open in the winter this early, but a few of the hundreds of "snow line equipment" shacks that line the road to Rohtang had already set out their gear; wellington boots (billed as "snow shoes") and the outrageous mock fur coats that come in colours ranging from black and muted brown, into the visually more offensive parts of the spectrum with some day-glo green, red and even screaming purple numbers. These shops play heavily on the fact that many of the Indian tourists who visit Solang have never seen snow in their lives - many from the south may never even have experienced cold weather - and apparently make good business hiring a kit of boots, coat and gloves for around 100Rs, with a taxi driver getting 50% of that if he leads punters to the "correct" shop. Many of our fellow bus passengers were off to work at Solang, carrying ski sticks as another "essential" to rent out to the tourists.
At the start of the road up, a few taxis wait optimistically, or you can do the last few Ks on one of the manky looking and long suffering horses. The path up cuts out most of the road and takes about half the time, and by now was well worn by horses hooves and stick salesmen. The last part of the road to the main area was already a messy and noisy traffic jam of 3 jeeps, two facing in opposite directions and unwilling to get their tyres into the snow, with a third making sure his horn worked every 5 to 10 seconds. The road is lined with small chai stalls, so inevitably we celebrated our arrival and settled down to enjoy the traffic jam set, as it was against the contrasting beauty forested hills and snow peaks.
An Indian traffic jam requires only two vehicles and a moderately narrow road to get going, but once started, plenty of other motors will be sure to join the fun, with new arrivals driving into any minor gaps left near the front to get a better view, and ensure the festivities arenŐt over too quickly. This jam was shaping up well and attracting newcomers, so we hung around for a second chai to enjoy the labyrinthine manoeuvring necessary to get everyone moving. The process is always helped (or not) by someone who has appointed himself "second (known in the UK as back seat) driver", and assists by striding around authoritatively, waving vehicles backward and forward and generally making sure no piece of road remains unjammed. We left after things started to get moving, discovering while paying that Solang chai conformed to the "one for the price of two" principle obligatory in Indian tourist spots. The chaiwallahs obvious explanation was that Solang is a "tourist place", that well known economic phenomenon where normal laws of supply (200 chai shops) and demand (200 customers) give way to tourist economic theory in which the more suppliers there are, the higher the price goes.
When we got to the flat area that is Solangs main tourist interest, business was already booming, with several hundred Indian holidaymakers and newly weds, many sporting wellies and fur coats, getting their first experience of snow - and loving it. Solang is referred to as a "ski resort" by the Indian tourism industry, and while few European skiers would recognise is as such, there is plenty for the aspiring ski bunny to do.
Just beyond the numerous chai stalls was a row of snowmobiles offering joyrides; behind those a series of slides on a small bank down which a few people were riding large truck inner tubes. Large painted wooden sledges with names such as "Rohtang Express", side by side seats and handles at the rear (a kind of snow rickshaw) were being pushed around the main area, where punters could also enjoy being photographed with -or riding - one of the dozen or so placid looking Yaks. Other photographers made business with huge piles of carved snow in the shape of hearts, with cut out alcoves for newly weds framed with brightly coloured messages such as "I love you, Solang 20 Feb 04" above them. The short ski slope at the far end was already getting busy, with 40 or 50 people queuing at the bottom of the half km ski lift, and a few more skiing down the slope at various speeds and levels of success. Snowboards are available for hire, and a few could be seen on the slope, often ridden by local people.
On the flat area in between the speeding snowmobiles, sledges and Yaks, people were having their first go at skiing lessons, pushing themselves along the flat with ski sticks, the guy who rented the skis out offering a few hints on how to stay upright. Some sets of skis obviously came complete with a ski suit, while others were dressed in the ubiquitous fur coats. In one of the weirder sights I have seen in India, a woman in a brightly coloured sari was enthusiastically pushing herself along with a huge grin on her face, then falling off into the snow every few metres and laughing. Some learners were being helped along with a push on the behind from their "ski instructor", one using a second pair of sticks put directly onto the skis. By eleven, the sun was getting positively hot, and many of those who had thought a full 100 Rs snowline package essential were now regretting their decision, and everywhere fur effect rayon monstrosities were being carried over arms or being dumped on ski instructors.
Paragliding is Solangs main activity in the summer, and even now an occasional tandem chute giving a joy ride would pass over, landing in among the Yaks, skiers, sledges and snowmobiles. Some of the snowmobiles were being used to ferry the parachutes and punters up to the starting point on a hill just above the ski slope. Others were just joyriding, taking their passengers around the flat area, then up and down the hill parallel to the ski run, with an occasional diversion down a steep bank for the more brave. Modernity is taking over in every corner of India, and while the snowmobile joyrides were doing a good business, (last year there were only five parked on the snow, this year there were at least twelve) there were fewer takers for the human propelled sledges. Owners of these sledges might decide a snowmobile was a good investment for an easier life. For the most part, their job consists of pushing their two (often portly) clients up the moderately steep hill to the side of the ski slope - almost half a kilometre - and then pushing them down as fast as humanly possible, with the sledge wallah taking giant strides in an effort to retain control.
Like most other such things in India, the activities at Solang are not co-ordinated or roped off, which leads to some interesting conflicts of interest and potential accidents. The snowmobiles fly through the chaos in the flat area with the assurance that all motorised vehicles have in India - if you get run over, its your own fault, because bigger heavier things ALWAYS have right of way. We almost got flattened while standing to the top of a bank we thought was too steep to be a snowmobile track, our illusions of safety shattered when one came hurtling toward us.
At almost the same spot, an small impromptu ski jump was set up, basically a small ramp of snow with a steep bank for landing - the landing spot being blind from where people start coming downhill. A small group of tourists decided to sit down in the snow at the bottom of this bank, and nearly got flattened when Himanchu, a local skier, came off the top of the jump. Subsequent requests for them to get out of the way were met with near incomprehension. I felt really sorry for him, as every attempt at a jump seemed to involve getting 10 or 15 blissfully inert people to move out of the way. One plonker who was standing right in front of the jump really didn't get the message when asked to move out of the way so Himanchu could jump. He stood with a puzzled grin on his face, then threw himself bodily over the ramp and face first down the snowy bank. Even his new wife couldn't work out why.
Nearby a local photographer had decided that the middle of one of the inner tube slide lanes was the perfect spot to shoot his clients, ignoring the tube owners requests and gestures to move. When they eventually shifted a little to one side, the tube riders flew down the ramp and missed the group by a couple of feet. In the best Indian tradition, nobody blinked.
After another two chai for the price of four, we headed back down the road toward Palchan, now thick with traffic. Waiting taxis and groups of horses providing ample fodder for regular mini traffic jams most of the way down the hill. One Tata Sumo, having unwisely backed into a snowy car park, was blocking the entire road while trying to get his spinning rear tyres back onto the tarmac. His foot hard on the accelerator, the engine was making the kind of noises that would give a Tata engineer bad dreams for a week, while a "second driver" was helpfully pushing the rear end sideways for reasons best known to himself.
The "tourist place" economic zone ended at Palchan, and we enjoyed a couple of top notch standard priced chai before rattling our way home courtesy of HRTC in the company of a bus full of happy looking stick salesmen.
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Talking some senseThis storyhas a good take on India's draconian drug laws, more or less describing it as a "get rich quick" scheme for India's cops, without serving much other useful purpose.
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February 11, 2004
Student humourA notice posted at Kullu college:
 Cigarette smoking competition:
First prize - death
Second price - lung cancer
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February 10, 2004
Delhi night life and New Years eveA quick change of plans meant we unexpectedly spent New Years eve in Delhi. I'm extremely fond of the city in almost all respects but one; Delhi night life. Coming from a culture in which bars weigh in at roughly 1 to every 1,000 people and are pretty much the centre of the British social life, the prospect of spending the biggest drinking day of the year in a city with 13 million people and an official figure of 48 bars and a usually strict regime of 12 o'clock closing made me a touch nervous.
A better choice of city would have been Bombay, which has plenty of bars in the centre, or Bangalore which I believe has thousands of pubs and clubs and a thriving social life. Or Goa, which is more or less a 100 km long bar with attractive decor and extended hours.
Perhaps because of its position as the nations capital, or for other reasons beyond my knowledge, Delhi has always had a somewhat prim morality when it comes to drinking in public. Until recently, bars in the city have always had a slightly furtive manner whose decor suggested that drinking was something to feel guilty about, or at least to be done discreetly behind curtained windows. Although the closing times were reasonably liberal until a few years ago, a more strict and enforced regime of midnight was brought in. Apart from the bars, there are many "private parties" in Delhi; in reality more like unlicenced bars protected by official nosing by the connections of owners and clientelle. For the rest of the city who cant afford the bars that do exist, drinking tends to be a visit to the liquor shop, with the purchase consumed quietly at home or discreetly poured under the table in a dhaba.
The old style bars around Connaught Place do have their own charm. The style is something close to a cross between an Indian restaurant in the UK circa 1975 and an airport lounge at a provincial airport, with a fetish for red velour chair coverings and dark moody lighting. Flock wallpaper is there in spirit if not in fact. The waiters are invariably grim looking, scarcely surprising given years of trying to evict the inebbriated come closing time. Volga restaurant on Connaught place's inner circle is one the last of these old style places left. The sign and door are design classics of the kind that would fetch a fortune in an Islington bric a brac shop, closely resembling the lettering and body that might be found on a Russian made Bakolite radio from the sixties.
But my favourite, now sadly closed was "Lido" which used to be on the outer circle. Night after night the same band would turn out the same Hindi film tunes with all the enthusiasm of a summertime entertainer doing his 54th season on Southend Pier. Most weekdays, the place was fairly quiet, but would liven up on Friday and Saturday nights with Delhi's legion of office wallahs winding down after a tough week of paper shuffling.
One especially memorable Friday night was so bizzarre it felt like the place had been transported into an alternative dimension. At a table across from where I was sitting with an English Doctor were two Nepalis, one of whom kept looking over at me. For some reason I couldn't put a finger on, the guy looked familiar. Eventually he ordered a couple of beers and had them sent over to us, then came over himself with a quizzical look on his face. His English was bad, my Hindi (let alone Nepali) non existent, but we tried to work out where we had met. Eventually we decided the only possibility was Behrampur city in Orissa where he lived - a place I had only passed through once for a total of twenty minutes on a motorcycle tour, and my only stop had been a quick chai at a junction; the only possible place we could have met. India - big country, small country.
As if one absurd coincidence wasn't enough, the evening just got weirder. The place filled up and a few well fuelled young guys began to dance to the ever listless band. One thing I love about Indians is that they are so unselfconscious when they dance - they just dont give a shit what anyone thinks, and perhaps this self confidence makes them better at it than the average anal European. These guys were twisting away in front of the stage and occasionally trying to get up and dance with the 35 going on 50 female vocalist, who deftly swatted them back onto the dance floor with an ease that suggested she'd been a bouncer in her last life. At around eleven, a very large (and extremely well oiled) Sikh in a blue turban who'd been brooding in a corner and guzzling large vodka and tonics got to his feet and headed for the dance floor. Dancing with more enthusiasm than style he would occasionally move forward rather too fast and bang into one of the wiry younger guys with his huge gut, sending him flying off the floor. The effect was like an elephant barging into a sheep; the elephant wouldnt feel a thing. The young guy would just get up and get back to dancing, although more careful to avoid the swinging mass of well developed fat. A couple more voddys on the fly and the Sikh really got into his swing. He pulled a huge wad of hundred rupee notes from his back pocket - maybe 15,000 Rs - and began peeling notes off and throwing them toward the singer on the stage as he was dancing. She would pick the notes up and stuff them into her dress somewhere. After about 2,000 rupees worth, the Sikh warmed up his act. He lit a cigarette lighter and began to set fire to the notes, one at a time, before throwing them around willy nilly. By this time the younger dancers had wised up and were dancing as close to him as a prudent avoidance of his swinging belly would allow. They'd catch the notes, put out the flame and stuff them into their pockets before going back to compete for more. With another couple of huge vods down his neck, the Sikhs generosity increased and another 3 or 4,000 fluttered burning around the dancefloor before he'd had enough. His grand finale was to take a full V&T with ice and lemon and upend it entirely over his own turban, then bounced off a few tables on his way to the door. After this, the whole thing wound down - what could follow that? My Doctor companion - here for a week long conference - was slightly shellshocked by the sheer weirdness, while I was left thinking that a night in the Samuel Pepys in Hackney would never quite measure up to this.
Times are changing for Delhi drnkers, with new laws are coming in to allow the sales of beer (not liquor) openly in shops other that licenced liquor shops. The younger generation is more partial to beer than their fathers, and some bars have begun to introduce draught beer which was almost unheard of in the past. The government has taken the view that they would rather have the population drinking beer than hard liquor with its associated problems, and so is making beer easier to obtain. A friend and lifelong Delhiite reckons that an explosion of beer bars will be hot on the heels of the new law, whether government sanctioned or not.
Back to new years eve.
Asking in a few bars didn't exactly inspire confidence; all said midnight closing except Volga, who were closing an hour early. The other major concern was that, with so few bars, they would all be absurdly crowded thus interfering with bar service and the serious business of drink flowing as required. Having spent one sober new year in Gujarat a few years ago, sobriety (either total or partial) is not an experience I ever intend to repeat.
Our friend Amit was on the case though, and had in mind a hotel bar in Main Bazaar that he assured us would be good for a late opener. Being as he was also the travel agent who managed to "forget" to book seats for a return leg of an air ticket (his mother was close to being childless for a few days) we were more than a little skeptical, but running out of options. We could have gone further afield to Delhis outskirts, but the prospect of trying to get home at 4am held little appeal.
Still paranoid about bars so packed it would be impossible to get in, we plumped for an early start - to the bemusement of Amit who assured us the bars would be almost empty. So, 6pm and we were the only customers in Nirulas bar for a few early evening sharpeners. Amit arrived at 7 bearing a vast bunch of flowers for Kirsten (the bane of her life is sharing a birthday with the biggest night of the year). Several hundred rupees later we headed off to the outer circle to meet up with two other friends of Amits. We found them in one of the dhabas on the outer circle doing what was to set the tone for the evening; eating vast plates of food. Both are only late twenties, and although slim, their waists are beginning to show the consequences of a slightly disturbing preoccupation with rich food.
The authorities were paranoid about security and terrorist attacks for new year, and as we headed toward main bazaar, we passed wall to wall cops at each of the roads leading into the circle. The roads were blocked off to traffic, and four walk through metal detectors had been set up to screen people entering the circle.
The bar restaurant at the hotel was charging a 300rs admission, but with a little negotiation Amit got them to agree that we could pay the 300 and it would be taken off our final bar bill. So far so good. The room we were led into was basically a restaurant with about 20 tables and a band on a small plinth at one end playing popular Hindi songs. Half the tables were full, and excepting the two female singers, Kirsten was inevitably the only woman in the room.
Beers were ordered, then Raj and Anil got down to the serious business of ordering - or so it seemed - the first half of the menu. The Indian necessity to eat "salty" when drinking seemed to be taken to its extreme when the table disappeared under a pile of plates. We finally found out what the mysterious "Drums of heaven" were; chicken pieces covered in a delicious batter. They didn't last long, but were quickly replaced by Tandoori paneer and chicken.
Beer and liquor flowed, food appeared and disappeared, the room filled up and the topic of conversation was dominated for half a drunken hour by a woman who had come in with a group of guys and sat a few tables away. Amit and Raj - with that immovable sense of black and white Punjabi certainty - declared that she must be a prostitute; how else to explain an indian woman sitting in a bar drinking with men? As Punjabis, Germans and those of Scottish birth get progressively more stubborn as they get drunk, the ensuing conversation resulted in little enlightenment on either side, but did fill in the time between chicken dishes and rounds of beers.
By now the band were having to compete with the increasingly loud noise of drinkers rediscovering the amplifying effect of drink on the human vocal chords - except when they covered some classic Hindi film song, when the crowd would sing along far more tunefully than an equivalent London pub crowd could ever aspire to. One or two got to their feet and danced briefly for the catchier tunes. Papers were handed out for punters to make requests to the band, and our table managed to hit on about the only song they didn't have in their repertoire, although by this point the ledgibility and coherence of our writing may have been to blame.
Amits forhead was by now dipping forward, with his eyes rolling upward when he spoke, rather in the manner of a bull about to charge; a sure sign that he is either very drunk or fancies the person opposite - unlikely as opposite was Raj demolishing another plate of "salty". In any case the first must have applied as the volume of Amit's voice had reached the critical mass of "Punjabi looking for an argument" level, and everything was being repeated at least six times just in case a salient point was missed.
With midnight approaching, Amit insisted (six times) that the five of us should all see in the New Year with identical drinks. After a blurry perusal of the bar menu we eventually settled on a Tom Collins because we had heard of it but none of us had any idea what it contained, but we thought anything with an Irish sounding name must be strong.
The band must have struck up with a popular Punjabi number, because half the room including Anil, Raj and Amit got up and danced loudly and unsteadily for five or ten minutes. With all the flailing arms the waiters were having trouble manoeuvering their trays of drink through the crowd to the tables, but somehow our Tom Collins and a few supplementary beers landed sucessfully in the middle of all the tandoori debris.
There was a last minute debate about whose watch would be used for the countdown, I think mine was chosen on the basis of my claim it was set to "BBC time" - or something. Drinks at the ready, we counted off the last few seconds of 2003 and all five of us got the (rather fizzy) Tom Collins down in one go, followed by a round of handshakes, embraces and kisses and loud yelling. I must have tried singing "Auld lang syne", because it was the only thing I could remember, but as my singing is awful and no-one else knew the words, it died the death. Then it was the turn of the balloons hung on the walls around the room, everywhere people were bursting them with lit cigarettes. Raj being a non smoker, we loaned him a lit fag so he didn't miss out on all the fun. At this point I must have decided it was a good idea to yell happy new year at my family located at GMT + 0, only to find everyone else in Delhi had the same idea, as the Airtel network had decided to go down on the stroke of midnight. I scrabbled through the phones various menus and came up with a network that would let me call, but the fact that it wasn't my "home" network probably accounts for the unhealthy bill 2 weeks later. I have vague memories of phoning a few other people, possibly irritating them as they were five and a half hours more sober than we were and I doubt I would have been very coherent.
After that its all a bit hazy. More drink was consumed, then my brain does what it seems to do these days when it feels I've been wearing it out by having an excess of alchohol related fun; it shut down and I went to sleep in situ, only waking up when the bill was being presented and a minor Punjabi argument was going on concerning the veracity of the total. As Amit (nor anyone else) was in no condition to deal with arithmetic, the objections were token, and he passed a comment to the effect that the few beers extra slipped on wasn't too bad as such things go. We wobbled our way out into main bazaar, still reasonably full with people in various stages of innebriation. We must of headed for a Pan wallah, because I have some vague recollection of spitting the remainder into the bin in the hotel, then headed back to Connaight Place. By now the cops had removed the barriers and metal detectors, and only a very few people were still around in the circle. A few sweepers were brushing up the debris of the celebrations as we said a drunken goodbye, and headed upstairs to sleep the sleep of the truly wasted.
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February 4, 2004
Highway robbery, Delhi styleIn December 2002, Delhi's rickshaw drivers went on strike to demand higher rates as a reward for accepting the new electronic - and allegedly tamper proof - meters the government was foisting on them. On paper the argument seemed reasonable; the rates had not been altered for several years, in which time fuel had gone up and drivers had incurred large expenses in switching to the new "green" CNG powered machines. The more salient truth was that they were reluctant to give up on such excuses as "the meter doesn't work" and an entrenched system of overcharging.
The drivers launched protests and rallies and tried to play for public sympathy. Delhi's public responded with a large grin of satisfaction at the boot being on the other foot after years of the various shenanigans visited on them by the drivers. To find a Delhiite with a hint of sympathy was almost impossible; articles in the press denounced the drivers as cheats and readers letters to the same papers exhorted the government not to give in to the demands. Commuters struggled to work on buses, the extra cars on the road meant extra long jams, yet commuters enjoyed the discomfort of the drivers more than the discomfort of bus travel. Eventually the drivers gradually trickled back to work, the strike ended, the rickshaw wallahs found a way of fiddling the meters and the government did increase the rates - although by less than demanded - and generally life got back to normal. Normal, unfortunately for the rickshaw weary citizens of Delhi meant a new choice; pay the overinflated rate demanded by the three wheeled vultures, or be overcharged due to the driver "pulsing" the meter with an extra wire.
In the year that has passed, I have largely missed new developments on the Delhi rickshaw scene, but there seems to be a 3rd option to the other two methods of overcharging on offer; let the customer know exactly how much they are being overcharged by! This has come about largely because of increased zealousness by the authorities in checking that meters are being used and not being fiddled. The method is simple. You try to arrange a price with the driver, he gives you a choice; 40rs for the fare with the meter switched off (a risk to him if he is stopped) or 30rs with the meter on. Yes! You get to pay 30 rs at the destination whatever the meter reads. How much you get ripped off on this method depends how familiar you are with the official prices and Delhi distances. On a recent trip to Rajender Nagar from Connaught Place we paid 30 rs, whereas the meter read 24.25 rs. A good deal as we were only overcharged by 5.75 - scarcely 2 cups of chai after all. A previous trip where we guessed wrong cost 30 rs instead of 19.50 rs - so we lost out on 2 chai and 2 samosa. Damn
The whole thing is like one of those banal TV game shows where at the end the unlucky contestant is shown what they could have won if they had been more skilled. "Look! you could have been ripped off by 5 rupees instead of 50!! Never mind, better luck next week".
There is a tendency for tourists new to India to think they are the only victims of these scams. Spend long enough in Delhi and you will end up feeling profoundly sorry for those pour souls who live there and who have to deal with the crap these guys dish out, day in day out. And those who live on the outskirts suffer more than most, with many drivers refusing to go from the centre to outlying areas without a hefty premium. Just sitting on a street corner where drivers hang out and watching the drivers interaction with potential victims is highly revealing.
What really gets up my nose about this is not being overcharged - we always knew we were being ripped off and had our own personal list of rates we were prepared to pay for given distances - but the fact the the shafting is being shoved right in your face in glorious tamper proof LED red lights. Personally I would rather keep the meter off and view the extra 10 rs as a down payment on a ringside seat the day a cop does pull the driver for not having the meter on; if being turned on a spit was the potential punishment 20rs a trip would be worthwhile.
The average nonplussed reader of this might wonder where this vehemence comes from - unless of course they've spent more than a week in Delhi and needed to actually go places. It is not the money that annoys me; I appreciate most (but not all) of these guys dont earn a mint, and I probably wouldnt want their families to starve. I merely want to keep the shafting to a reasonable minimum, not be told about it, and most of all (dear god) put up with 15 minutes of wheedling bullshit every time I try to get a bloody rickshaw. And I never EVER want to hear the word Emporium again.
I confess that the simple fact is I am not a big fan (put very politely) of cabbies anywhere in the world - with a few honourable exceptions, they are all basically the same irritating w******s, only the methodology of irritation differs. I often use private minicabs in London, and rarely have an axe to grind; prices are reasonable, the drivers (often Indian or Pakistani origin) are friendly and pleasant. But every time I get out of a London Black cab, I swear I will never do so again. Their meter is a license to print money - overpriced if your moving, handsomely overpriced if you're stuck in traffic; something that always seem to make the driver smile as you sit and haemorrhage money while watching Hyde Park corner crawl by. Failure to offer a tip at the end will usually earn you a curse. The exorbitant price would be tolerable if you didn't have to put up with the Witty Rapartee for which these guys are famous - "I dunno Guv, its all these bloody immigrants wots causin' the bloody problems in this country - ain't wot it was when we woz beating the Germans in the War". Quite. And so on for half a nauseating hour as you sit thinking that Jerry Springer would not only be a more interesting, but cheaper supply of inanity.
And so it seems it is in every city in the world; the official licenced cab services will screw you and bore you to tears assuming you are unfortunate to have a language in common. New York cabbies certainly share Londoners grisly verbosity, Greek drivers share the Indian fixation for overcharging as a divine right. Bangkok taxi drivers, however, deserve an honourable mention; 99.2 percent of the time they will use the meter without being prompted, the cabs are cheap, clean and aircon. Their fares haven't been raised in years either and I am more than happy to tip them. The language barrier prevents them sharing their valuable insights on a variety of subjects - although I doubt they are prone to that in any case. The 3 wheeled Tuk Tuk drivers of Bangkok, however, share all the less attractive aspects of their Indian counterparts - and for tourists are invariably more expensive than Taxis.
If the Delhi Governent ever has the spare cash and spare space for a new statue to stand alongside those of past politicians and heros of the Independence movement, it should be dedicated to the daily routine of suffering of Delhi's Unknown Commuter.
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No whitewash hereThis story on the BBCs Web site reports that a committee of 15 Indian MPs has upheld the earlier findings of the Centre for Science and Environment (CSE) that samples of soft drinks from Coca Cola and Pepsi contained harmful pesticide residues and posed a risk to human health.
Last August, at the time of the original highly contraversial CSE report, both multi national companies disputed the findings, claiming the CSEs methodology for the tests was not sufficiently accurate. The CSE stuck to its ground and both Coca Cola and Pepsi suffered protests in addition to huge losses in sales. The damage to their corporate reputations was compounded when both companies were fined by the high court of India for being complicit in the painting of adverts onto large rocks on the road to the Rohtang pass close to Manali. Coca Cola was the subject of loud protests from the villagers of Perumatti in Kerala who claim that the cola giant was stealing excessive groundwater and pumping toxic waste sludge into the environment making their lives unbearable and livelihoods untenable.
Many of the Perumatti villagers were in attendance at the recent World Social forum meeting in Bombay, seeking to further highlight their case and demanding robust government action to control the environmental damage and excessive water consumption caused by unscrupulous MNCs such as Coca Cola.
The predictable response of the fizzy water merchants to the parliamentary report was that they were still studying the report. Or in more simple terms, no comment.
The fact that Coke and Pepsi have lax quality control comes as no big surprise. A while ago we were sitting in a chai stall in Dunghri and saw a bunch of guys standing in a group looking at something and shaking their heads. Curious, we went to see what they were looking at; it turned out to be a glass bottle of Coca Cola with a couple of juicy maggots floating at the top of the sealed bottle.
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OpportunismWe arrived back in Manali by HP tourism bus on the day the Big Snow started - forecast by the Avalanche research Institute to last 72 hours. It had rained most of the way from Mandi, and we started to see snow on the ground around Katrain, getting heavier and deeper as we neared Manali. By the time we got to the HP tourism bus depot about 6 km before town, the snow was 6 inches deep and the bus driver had had enough and refused to go any further. At the time we couldn't see why; the HPTDC buses - unlike the private operators - usually have decent tread on the tyres, but in retrospect I imagine he was more worried about getting stuck in Manali for 3 days.
The Indian nose for a lucrative niche market with a high markup value had already swung into action, and help was already on hand in the form of one or two Mahindra Jeep taxis waiting near the bus. On asking the price to town, we were told 100 rs per head - not a bad profit for a 6 km trip that would normally cost 50 rs for the whole vehicle. Pricey, but after idly contemplating the 6 km walk with heavy backpacks and thickening snowfall for all of about 2 minutes, we caved in. Most of the other passengers from the bus were Indian newlywed couple carting vast suitcases and with too few clothes, and they too swiftly bowed befored the overwhelming might of the God of Supply & Demand. The drivers grin was extending beyond the confines of his face as he loaded the luggage onto the rack and packed us into the jeep; 10 people at 100 rs each makes a tidy crust for 20 minutes work.
Much as the newlywed couples were gratified to have been saved from a long, cold walk, they were less happy to discover that they hadnt read the small print when the driver announced the end of the line at Ram Bagh, the small garden close to the top of Manali's main market. Many had booked hotels up on the Hadimba temple road, and with no possibility of a rickshaw or taxi to take them, had a further one or two km uphill walk to look forward to in snow that was by now a foot deep. With half of the women wearing open toed high heels, I didn't envy them.
Someone in Mayur tried to justify the slavering opportunism of the charge for the vehicle by suggesting the drivers were taking a big risk. He was stuck for an answer when I suggested the risk would be a little less if the drivers used tyres that were not total slicks. The logic of risking a 4.5 lakh vehicle in fresh snow with totally bald tyres escapes me when tyres are extremely cheap in India, and 2 runs such as we took would probably paid for a new set. The fact that he would have some grip would mean more runs and therefore more 1000 rs per hour. As usual, the logic is perverse and a motto for the drivers could be "why buy a halfpenny worth of tar when the ship is floating OK?"
Unfortunately for the drivers of these Jeeps, snow time is now almost the only time they can make money. Many bought these expensive vehicles at a time when most tourists would arrive by bus, but want a large taxi for sightseeing, and a few years ago this would have been a good earner. Now, with more middle classes people having more money, many hire large Toyota Qualis cruisers to take them from Delhi and stay with them the whole week, bypassing the local drivers. Many others have their own Qualis or other large wagon and drive themselves. So the local owners of these large Jeeps make the most of the few days of snow when they are the only vehicles that can get anywhere, and charge a hefty premium for the privelege.
Our own trudge to Old Manali laden down with backpacks and bags took an hour and a half, the most interesting bit being trying to work out which bit under the snow was path and which was fresh air with a 20 foot drop. Our timing could have been worse though, 24 hours later and we'd have had to contend with 3 feet of snow instead of one.
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