It is said that in Mumbai there is no escaping the poverty that surrounds you.
I can now vouch for the authenticity of that statement.
Even the wealthy areas have all too obvious pockets of poverty like no other place I have visited. You might be waiting at a busy junction in Bandra, Queen of the Suburbs, when a tapping at the window will draw your attention to the inevitable alms seeker.
There exists in Mumbai an inverse hierarchy of begging. The less able a person appears to have the wherewithal to support themselves, the more readily one should contribute to their welfare.
I have taken the lead from our drivers, who have a consistency in their approach to giving.
The rules are pliable but appear thus:
1. If the beggar in question is a healthy adult of working age, then give nothing.
In this city of gold everyone has the opportunity to work, no matter how demeaning their role nor how poorly paid their task might be. To see people both living amongst and sifting through garbage in order to eek out a living is both disturbing and humbling at the same time.
These people however retain their humanity. They work, they eat, they survive.
The local or “Desi” population feel it is poor form to resort to begging and it highlights an underlying laziness on the part of the poor wretch who resolves to such action.
It may sound callous that someone earning a western wage should not give freely, but if one were to donate upon ever request, the inconvenience would be more in terms of time and sourcing of change than that of purely gifting money.
I think the only way forward is to find a local charity of choice, one that I believe is making a difference, one I can donate to in bulk.
2. A woman holding a young child is not necessarily the mother. Give with discretion.
I understand, though have no basis for my belief beyond that which I have been told by our driver, that it is commonplace that women borrow the children (at a rate of 50 rupees/day) from the natural mother in order to turn a profit at busy road junctions.
I can accept that this occurs though expect it’s frequency is somewhat overstated.
It is sad to witness a young child in arms mimicking the mothers hand to mouth gestures with no understanding of what they are doing or why they are doing it.
What chance in life if this is their trade before they are even able to speak?
3. Older people are deserving. Donate freely.
If a person has survived what has likely been a tough life and has managed to bag a life innings of 1st world proportions, then that has to be respected.
Their seniority itself dictates that they are no longer productive and therefore relatively incapable of supporting themselves.
Donate small denominations but with frequency.
4. Lepers should not repulse you, donate freely.
Being some of the most unfortunate members of society, this should go without saying, though being a typical “Britisher” my instinctive response to my first encounter with a leper was one of shock and fear.
I guess this is only natural as seeing as leprosy was eradicated in the UK waaaay before my time, and the sight of a bandaged stump or a hand with an obvious absence of finger joints does shock the fight or flight instincts into overdrive.
Fortunately, the usual status quo of having a car window between oneself and the “under handed” local sorts offers an element of security and safety, though I keep telling myself it is only ignorance that generates fear and I consider myself rather educated on such conditions.
Christ, you could spend months, nay, years, working with lepers an still come out of it with all major extremities intact.
After all, Ernesto “Che” Guevara did well enough to fight and fire in a revolution following his time spent with lepers. It was the Bolivians that got him in the end.
However, regardless of the early work of communist icons, there still existed that niggling doubt in the back of my mind which turned to outright fear and repulsion when whilst sitting in an auto wearing only shorts, shirt and sandals, a toothless and handless old man motioned towards himself as a sign to donate.
It was then whilst I was frozen with an immediate and temporary paralysis coupled with a twinned reaction of verbal incoherence (most likely emanating from the fear that had enveloped me due to his immediate proximity or perhaps more specifically the lack of a protective paneling between myself, and what now appeared a far too contagious disease) that he decided to reach out with his relatively good hand and touch my bare foot.
Jump???
I almost shat my pants.
Sod Donating. Sweet Jesus, charity was the last thing on my mind right then.
I just wanted the auto driver to do his best Lewis Hamilton impersonation and race out of his P4 grid position before we had even received the green for go.
It was only upon later reflection I realised that instinct is a powerful thing and in the nature/nurture debate, I am backing old mother N every time.
Thursday 30 October 2008
Wednesday 29 October 2008
Flight Lt Colin Blythe and his unflinching standard of forgery
Right, I'm getting to grips with this place. Time for my lucid rants to begin.....
I had been forewarned about the unique concept that is Indian bureaucracy, but to experience it first hand certainly teaches tolerance and directs one toward the goal of suppressing any urge to yell.
As seems par for the bureaucratic Indian process, nothing can be simple.
Any foreign national planning to spend more than 6 months in the country must register their intent with the authorities. This is of course is despite the fact that you have already been granted a Visa to stay for such a duration when you made our initial application.
In fact, given that said application was made online, almost all the required information for this second stage registration was already held by the Indian authorities.
Nonetheless, it took two visits to the office in South Mumbai before I successfully acquired my documentation. The first visit (which involved a two way car journey totaling nearly two football matches worth of road time) was fruitless because, well, because they said so.
This is after all bureaucracy central and there is no point in arguing.
The second visit (better traffic conditions, there in 70 minutes, back in 50) proved successful yet still involved a 3 ½ hour wait at the offices during which time I had to enter the already once submitted personal info on their computer system, as well as writing out the same within my newly provided identity card which I had finally acquired following a pointless queueing process and a small bribe to the surly admin exec.
I once read about the strong correlation between corruption and poverty within a given regime.
This I assume was the theory in action.
Given the undue bureaucracy and the attention to detail, one might think the final supplied documentation would be somewhat more sophisticated than the identity cards produced by Donald Pleasance in "The Great Escape", but no, even a progressively blind WWII PoW would consider these ID cards as somewhat retro.
I swear a junior school art class could be more creative.
Luckily for me, it was not me, but her indoors who registered our shipped belongings. This meant that I would avoid the frustratingly tedious 6 hours she spent in a non air-conned building somewhere out back of the airport where our boxes would be opened and sorted through with a fine tooth comb.
Fortunately the customs officials had little idea of the value of our belongings which they had decide to tax in their entirety. In fact she undervalued our two bottles of champagne at a paultry 5 squid each. Tidy.
How embarrassing would it be for a single young man with some "adult art" titles within the shipments? Please estimate value of dog eared Western pornographic literature sir...... Uh, thats not mine!
There's a lot to be said for marriage you know.
I had been forewarned about the unique concept that is Indian bureaucracy, but to experience it first hand certainly teaches tolerance and directs one toward the goal of suppressing any urge to yell.
As seems par for the bureaucratic Indian process, nothing can be simple.
Any foreign national planning to spend more than 6 months in the country must register their intent with the authorities. This is of course is despite the fact that you have already been granted a Visa to stay for such a duration when you made our initial application.
In fact, given that said application was made online, almost all the required information for this second stage registration was already held by the Indian authorities.
Nonetheless, it took two visits to the office in South Mumbai before I successfully acquired my documentation. The first visit (which involved a two way car journey totaling nearly two football matches worth of road time) was fruitless because, well, because they said so.
This is after all bureaucracy central and there is no point in arguing.
The second visit (better traffic conditions, there in 70 minutes, back in 50) proved successful yet still involved a 3 ½ hour wait at the offices during which time I had to enter the already once submitted personal info on their computer system, as well as writing out the same within my newly provided identity card which I had finally acquired following a pointless queueing process and a small bribe to the surly admin exec.
I once read about the strong correlation between corruption and poverty within a given regime.
This I assume was the theory in action.
Given the undue bureaucracy and the attention to detail, one might think the final supplied documentation would be somewhat more sophisticated than the identity cards produced by Donald Pleasance in "The Great Escape", but no, even a progressively blind WWII PoW would consider these ID cards as somewhat retro.
I swear a junior school art class could be more creative.
Luckily for me, it was not me, but her indoors who registered our shipped belongings. This meant that I would avoid the frustratingly tedious 6 hours she spent in a non air-conned building somewhere out back of the airport where our boxes would be opened and sorted through with a fine tooth comb.
Fortunately the customs officials had little idea of the value of our belongings which they had decide to tax in their entirety. In fact she undervalued our two bottles of champagne at a paultry 5 squid each. Tidy.
How embarrassing would it be for a single young man with some "adult art" titles within the shipments? Please estimate value of dog eared Western pornographic literature sir...... Uh, thats not mine!
There's a lot to be said for marriage you know.
Friday 24 October 2008
Continental drift
So I’ve been here almost two weeks, I think the world is due is a brief sample of my musings.
Day1
Arrive in Mumbai to a sultry 32 degree welcome. It is the Dassera Holiday today so the place isn’t as hectic as one might imagine and fortunately the smell isn’t anywhere near what I had been led to believe it would be. I thank the cooling breeze blowing in off the Arabian Sea and jump into our car which has successfully honked its way across a line of traffic . The journey is both noisy and eventful with a relentless cacophony of car, bike and autorickshaw horns accompanied by unusual visual stimulation such as urbanite bovine and fowl, an orange haired guru-like mystic and the strange and slightly disturbing sight of two young boys appearing from an open manhole.
Spend the afternoon exploring Juhu where we stop for a beach front Coke which sets us back about 25p inclusive of straw.
Times of India:
“Cops barged into a Juhu pub on Sunday night and picked up 240 youngsters on suspicion of “doing drugs”. Policemen had earlier visited the pub on Thursday but failed to arrest any of the alleged peddlars.”
“100’s gathered at a roadside Cross of Jesus Christ in Chakale Road on Thursday evening when water was seen seeping from its toes. Several devotees filled water bottles…. The statue is centuries old but has been recently renovated and is made of fibreglass”
Day 2
2 Cows, 0 chickens, numerous stray dogs, 1 x goat, 1 x naked guru, 3x hawkers selling giant balloons.
Visited the historic centre of South Mumbai, swiftly left the Gateway of India as it was under renovation and largely wrapped so you couldn’t see it. The sun was baking as it reflected off the light coloured floor surface so we dashed off to a local Parsi Café where I sampled my first mango lassi.
My intro to Indian cricket as the 1st test vs Australia begins with the Ausies amassing a decent 400 odd total.
Slowly, the language of incessant use of car horns is beginning to reveal itself….
Day 3
6x cows, so many stray dogs they don’t bear mentioning, 1x pot belied guru, 1 hawker selling maps, street kids begging and tapping at our car window.
Those car horns are nothing but background noise now. Even the art of crossing the road seems simpler than at first glance. I think you basically step out into oncoming traffic and force them to stop. Extending your nearside hand towards their bonnets whilst nonchalantly looking away seems to be the technique of choice.
We are already gearing up for the next holiday in a few weeks time.
Diwali is a big one. The Indian Christmas I have geared it described as.
Well, in so far as it is the “festival of lights” it does kind of match Sandfields, Port Talbot for a brazen display of seasonal illumination except the lights are rather more tasteful and the displays lack the ubiquitous Santa/Rudolph combination so beloved of those council house rooftops. I can but hope it remains so.
Day 4
0x cows, 4x goats, 1x donkey
Not just the sound of vehicles, but the sight also has become the norm. Most vehicles in this city are for hire and are consequently coloured a two-tone black and yellow to help distinguish them from all those other two tone black and yellow vehicles that swarm like so many wasps around the arterial roads and gullies of the city.
We visit South Mumbai again and watch some spontaneous cricket matches played upon Oval Maiden. The backdrop is of a gothic picture postcard Victoriana and simply screams ‘Empire”. I notice the streets are much quieter and free of autorickshaws. Our driver explains they are banned from entering this far into the heart of the historic city centre and that they are limited to a point on one of the entrance causeways. Mumbai was once a series of Islands and much of the modern day city centre and adjacent areas have been reclaimed from the sea. The city is now scarred with creeks that act as nothing less than open sewers. These effluent highways snake their way across the urban landscape caring not whether an area is rich or poor, though it is often found that the poorest of society will be “housed” along their banks, vulnerable to both seasonal flooding and malarial risk.
Day 5
The first day of work.
Our office is located somewhere amidst a labyrinth of gullies, somewhere behind the Grand Hyatt hotel, hidden upon a sprawling hinterland of a business park. When I say business park, I don’t refer to the manicured lawns and columned entrances of such parks in the western world, no, this is more like the small unkempt industrial estates one might find in working class towns where pavements are optional, fly tipping is to be expected and deeply rutted roads are standard.
Upon entry to our workplace it reveals itself as a bit of a throw back to the 70’s, which though it was expected, it still comes as a great relief to hear we are moving into new premises over the next few weeks.
Hallelujah! There is aircon.
The CEO draws us a map of Mumbai, and against all my understood conventions, North and South, East and West are flipped to a mirror image of what we in the West would call the norm.
I guess it is all a matter of perception and there are no wrongs and rights, but hell, it would be a damned sight easier for me if everyone stuck to the rules.
But that I guess is the essence of India in so far as I have thus far understood. Rules are there merely as guidelines, not necessarily as objects of control to always be obeyed.
If you happen to be driving on the “wrong” side of the road, it is only ones perception of what is wrong that makes it so.
Perhaps it is our rigid Western way of thinking that needs to be examined? Already I am aware of so many dichotomies in this country, though I am sure I have only just scratched the surface.
The city is constantly busy, 24/7, yet nobody is in a rush. There is an inordinate volume of vehicles on the road, each following their own rules and with no apparent system of priority, yet the traffic somehow keeps flowing.
There is great poverty and great wealth in close proximity yet still I am oblivious to any latent animosity between societies haves and have nots.
India is going to take a lot of understanding, and I am excited about what experiences lie in wait.
Day1
Arrive in Mumbai to a sultry 32 degree welcome. It is the Dassera Holiday today so the place isn’t as hectic as one might imagine and fortunately the smell isn’t anywhere near what I had been led to believe it would be. I thank the cooling breeze blowing in off the Arabian Sea and jump into our car which has successfully honked its way across a line of traffic . The journey is both noisy and eventful with a relentless cacophony of car, bike and autorickshaw horns accompanied by unusual visual stimulation such as urbanite bovine and fowl, an orange haired guru-like mystic and the strange and slightly disturbing sight of two young boys appearing from an open manhole.
Spend the afternoon exploring Juhu where we stop for a beach front Coke which sets us back about 25p inclusive of straw.
Times of India:
“Cops barged into a Juhu pub on Sunday night and picked up 240 youngsters on suspicion of “doing drugs”. Policemen had earlier visited the pub on Thursday but failed to arrest any of the alleged peddlars.”
“100’s gathered at a roadside Cross of Jesus Christ in Chakale Road on Thursday evening when water was seen seeping from its toes. Several devotees filled water bottles…. The statue is centuries old but has been recently renovated and is made of fibreglass”
Day 2
2 Cows, 0 chickens, numerous stray dogs, 1 x goat, 1 x naked guru, 3x hawkers selling giant balloons.
Visited the historic centre of South Mumbai, swiftly left the Gateway of India as it was under renovation and largely wrapped so you couldn’t see it. The sun was baking as it reflected off the light coloured floor surface so we dashed off to a local Parsi Café where I sampled my first mango lassi.
My intro to Indian cricket as the 1st test vs Australia begins with the Ausies amassing a decent 400 odd total.
Slowly, the language of incessant use of car horns is beginning to reveal itself….
Day 3
6x cows, so many stray dogs they don’t bear mentioning, 1x pot belied guru, 1 hawker selling maps, street kids begging and tapping at our car window.
Those car horns are nothing but background noise now. Even the art of crossing the road seems simpler than at first glance. I think you basically step out into oncoming traffic and force them to stop. Extending your nearside hand towards their bonnets whilst nonchalantly looking away seems to be the technique of choice.
We are already gearing up for the next holiday in a few weeks time.
Diwali is a big one. The Indian Christmas I have geared it described as.
Well, in so far as it is the “festival of lights” it does kind of match Sandfields, Port Talbot for a brazen display of seasonal illumination except the lights are rather more tasteful and the displays lack the ubiquitous Santa/Rudolph combination so beloved of those council house rooftops. I can but hope it remains so.
Day 4
0x cows, 4x goats, 1x donkey
Not just the sound of vehicles, but the sight also has become the norm. Most vehicles in this city are for hire and are consequently coloured a two-tone black and yellow to help distinguish them from all those other two tone black and yellow vehicles that swarm like so many wasps around the arterial roads and gullies of the city.
We visit South Mumbai again and watch some spontaneous cricket matches played upon Oval Maiden. The backdrop is of a gothic picture postcard Victoriana and simply screams ‘Empire”. I notice the streets are much quieter and free of autorickshaws. Our driver explains they are banned from entering this far into the heart of the historic city centre and that they are limited to a point on one of the entrance causeways. Mumbai was once a series of Islands and much of the modern day city centre and adjacent areas have been reclaimed from the sea. The city is now scarred with creeks that act as nothing less than open sewers. These effluent highways snake their way across the urban landscape caring not whether an area is rich or poor, though it is often found that the poorest of society will be “housed” along their banks, vulnerable to both seasonal flooding and malarial risk.
Day 5
The first day of work.
Our office is located somewhere amidst a labyrinth of gullies, somewhere behind the Grand Hyatt hotel, hidden upon a sprawling hinterland of a business park. When I say business park, I don’t refer to the manicured lawns and columned entrances of such parks in the western world, no, this is more like the small unkempt industrial estates one might find in working class towns where pavements are optional, fly tipping is to be expected and deeply rutted roads are standard.
Upon entry to our workplace it reveals itself as a bit of a throw back to the 70’s, which though it was expected, it still comes as a great relief to hear we are moving into new premises over the next few weeks.
Hallelujah! There is aircon.
The CEO draws us a map of Mumbai, and against all my understood conventions, North and South, East and West are flipped to a mirror image of what we in the West would call the norm.
I guess it is all a matter of perception and there are no wrongs and rights, but hell, it would be a damned sight easier for me if everyone stuck to the rules.
But that I guess is the essence of India in so far as I have thus far understood. Rules are there merely as guidelines, not necessarily as objects of control to always be obeyed.
If you happen to be driving on the “wrong” side of the road, it is only ones perception of what is wrong that makes it so.
Perhaps it is our rigid Western way of thinking that needs to be examined? Already I am aware of so many dichotomies in this country, though I am sure I have only just scratched the surface.
The city is constantly busy, 24/7, yet nobody is in a rush. There is an inordinate volume of vehicles on the road, each following their own rules and with no apparent system of priority, yet the traffic somehow keeps flowing.
There is great poverty and great wealth in close proximity yet still I am oblivious to any latent animosity between societies haves and have nots.
India is going to take a lot of understanding, and I am excited about what experiences lie in wait.
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