Indian Vibes 1: Luke warm in Ooty

It all seemed like such a good idea at the time. Skinful of Ale, sit through Slumdog, wistful memories of being there as a child - and plenty of travel shows on the box - with the Clarkson trio galavanting across Indochina on motorbikes. I mean, to a chap-about-the-empire travelling around the sub continent ought to be child's play.
So with heady dreams of walking the trail of the mutiny and chuffing steam trains, punkah-wallahs and palanquins, Dear Northerner and I strolled into the Leeds branch of a well known flight brokerage and bought ourselves a couple of return flights. Into Bombay and back home from Madras.

There are many tales of this trip - all quality blog fodder so I am shall reminisce of them from time to time to share with my readers - and I hope both find it entertaining.

The South of the Sub-c appealed to us both. I could swelter in linen suits and a pith helmet while DN wafted in and out of scented bazaars regaling herself in Ill Fitting Ethnic clothing and acquiring a taste for curry a life in Leedshire inexplicably deprived her.

We had been in the true tropics for about a week and were plotting the break-out into the ghats. The brochures all waxed lyrical about cardamon scented groves and chirpy tea stalls - but after a week away from the more cosmopolitan Bombay the image had been corroded away into the filthy grime that is, frankly, the third world.
As both in our 40s, and reasonably well travelled, the sort of gaffs that would appeal to the average wide-eyed gapper or earnest Guardian reading teacher desperate-to-prove-how-down-they-are-with-the-desperately-poor (Ill fitting ethnic clothing again) would certainly not do. No sharing of rooms in railway retiring rooms - inside loos a must unless in some tree house or boat and a source of bottled water or a container I could sterilise was a must.
This part of the world does back-packer or four star - not a lot in between.
So we had abandoned ideas of strolling into towns and finding clean and tidy accommodation and had to do some serious planning in Ernakulum.
Our destination was Ootacumund - Ooty for short. Weeks poring over the guide books had told us of a fine hills station with classical architecture, pleasant parks and lakes and the like. All sounded a bit like Sussex in the tropics.

The problem was getting there. With Christmas fast upon us we had a reservation in the hills and we really had to get there.

Ernakulum station dealt us the sort of arranging one has to make with the lesser spotted station guard in Penge we found - except rather than sullen ignorance, the fellows here are only too eager to please. They will assess you for what you want and tell you precisely what they have calculated you wish to hear - with no relevance to mere reality. Which is why buying a train ticket in India is worse than getting your name off the Reader's digest mailing list.

Desperate questioning and refusing to accept the first head waggling answer giving to us by railway staff revealed a new horror to add to the amoebic discomfort.
Our route to Ooty was not there.
Gone.
Ceased to be - Doctor Beeching's revenge on the empire and all that.

The rains had come and washed away the railway and the fast coach route to the station.
No steam trains for us. No canteen bearing char-wallahs to while away the hours bartering with.
We had to negotiate a way from Ernakulum via Munnar across Via the road-head at Coimbatore to Ooty itself.

I shall share with you the delights of Munnar another time - suffice to say what lay ahead was not the genteel rail journey to the junction across into the Ghats and across the nature reserve and finally up to our end destination but 300km across the most dangerous roads in the world.

The last 90km was forecast to take 4 hours with the roads open. More as we couldn't go the direct route.

So after a five hour drive to Coimbatore (losing camera on the way - another story) we sound ourselves at the rat infested sewage spotted eastern depot in Coimbatore looking for an Ooty bus.
The journey may have cost us 50p each but the ramshackle vehicle and bus driver urinating against the wheel said we may be getting value for money.

Oh how us mighty have fallen!

However we took heart from how they drove. Buses in India are notoriously dangerous - mostly as their drivers drive extremely fast. They over-take on blind bends and race each other in the face of oncoming traffic fearlessly.
It's only 90 odd K we said - surely we will be ok.....!

The bus was busy - DN and I were separated. A fruit seller cam about selling sliced pineapples - a sure source of worms but we were hot, and thirsty. I chanced it having already suffered at the hands of Shiva's Revenge and therefore reckoned I was used to it. Two minutes later fruit wallah is back demanding more money.
I damned his impudence and sent him on his way. Blasted wallahs cant be trusted.
He came back immediately - white lady sent him. Turned out DN had bought herself some too and sent the boy forward for me to pay. She didn't want to get her money out as the old lady next to her was coughing and eyeing up her watch. No doubt hoping diphtheria would flatten DN and she would have the watch away.
Oh well - I handed his coins over.

And so in 32 degree heat we bounded and crashed and hooted our way off the road to Ooty.

It was all going swimmingly until the climb up the hills. Unable to read due to sheer terror the hilly landscape proved a welcome relief to watching the repeats of one's life every five minutes.

A road sign! Ooty 65KM....looking good.

It was now getting dark  - not that seemed to indicate to the driver we needed any lights.

Hairpin bend....over-take tuk-tuk.
Hairpin bend....over-take tuk-tuk.
Hairpin bend....over-take tuk-tuk.
Hairpin bend....over-take tuk-tuk.
Hairpin bend....over-take tuk-tuk.
Hairpin bend....over-take tuk-tuk.
Hairpin bend....over-take tuk-tuk.
Hairpin bend....over-take tuk-tuk.
Hairpin bend....over-take tuk-tuk.

It started to rain and get cold. The bus heaved and groaned and I was marvelling at the strength of the chap throwing the wheel around - arms like popeye.
Two buses stuck on hairpin - neither giving way, much hooting anf shouting.

Half the road gone - much hallooing and hooting shouting and comings and goings.

Another sign: Ooty 65KM

And another: Ooty 70KM.

We had already learned the numbers on the road signs are merely there for the amusement of the sign writers and bear no relationship to actual distances, directions or locations.

Ooty 55KM

Police Check point. Lady behind me is sick into hanky, tries to hurl it from the window - rebounds and covers window with a fruity tang. Shivaite next to pees himself. Women weep, men curse, children sob and still we climb on into the deepening night.

And lo five hours into the now freezing night we round a curve and we see lights in the valley to our left - not miles away but close - could this be Ooty at last? We get stuck again. This time going down hill for the first time in the journey - so near yet so, so far.
We speed up into brighter still lights....bone shaking terror as we scream past goats and pariah dogs.
All desperate for the loo as we bounce and shake into a town ahead - it's now 9pm - we have been under way since 3.

Now Dear Northerner had arranged this part and after all manner of woe in the Munnar Fawlty towers we had a reservation at the Taj. Comfort, safety and civilisation would be restored at some point. The challenge of course is getting there in one piece.
Our experience of the Taj in Bombay was one of genteel elegance, refined civility and all very pukka and up our street.
We had had enough of rip-offs, dirt, filth, rickety transport and appalling roads and driving.

We were deposited at Piccadilly Circus in Ooty. The rain was leaving rivulets in the dust and brake grime on our legs as we shivered to extract waterproofs from our packs. It felt very much like Yorkshire in November. We were supposed to have escaped this. Garish neon winked through the stinging drops as tuk-tuk drivers hawked inflated prices. When we first arrived in India we laughed up our sleeves at rickshaw drivers ripping off prickly-heated coated indignant Sahibs for a pennies in our money. After a week since Aleppy being charged a pound still felt expensive - but we paid it all the same.

This was a chap reduced the status of some awful back-packer. No howdah to carry me forth, just rain, shit and slowness. Not to what I was accustomed at all. But resolution is all in these matters and a stiff upper lip and a stern resolve works wonders with the natives I have found.
So spattered we were as we chugged up into the mist past lights and cows sheltering from cold in doorways.
Down a dark unmade road. We read of tourists being taken up back roads and robbed - and fearing the Northerner's life and my manly virtue we clung to one another - mostly for warmth mind.

The road opened up to a gate house and a uniformed and turbaned guard peered into the back and stood smartly up and lifted the barrier.
Dropped by a door way in a car-port from the rain we collected our things and trudged into the reception. Soothing yellow lights and a huge vase of lillys adorned the desk. Mustachioed white jacket at the desk looked up and beamed.
'Mr D? We have been expecting you.'
We suddenly felt dirty, ragged and not at all well heeled in such salubrious surrounds.
'Welcome to the Taj, sir - please I will get a boy for your bags - you needn't carry anything here, sir."
A warm glow not unlike peeing yourself on a wetsuit came over us both.
'Table for Dinner sir and a drink at bar first perhaps while the boy runs you a bath and lights a fire in your room?'

Civilisation indeed. After the tribulations of even getting alcohol at all in Kerala let alone any without formaldehyde preservatives - a wine list at all had me soaring to elysium. A cigar humidor with burning embers to light it, a half decent red, a soak and a fire with which to warm DN for bed and you know - it might even have been worth it. The very mention of a bath had the Dear Northerner pink with delight.
Oh the water wasn't as hot as she would have liked - but it had a plug, some salts in a glass jar and our suite really did have a fire. Christmas at last............

Ooty, through a hole in the clouds

One of those days

This happy-chappy is presently faced with returning to the slopes for more terror and muscle-twanning delight.
I am eschewing solo 'lone fox' operations in Austria mit Walter unt his Schloss Adler. Oh No.
this time I am travelling to France. I will be assured of a decent meal (if a little over-rich) with long queues and petulant service - such as we have become accustomed to a society benighted by socialism.

Still, the Snow is good, I have my fans with me to cheer me on and bask in my chaply munificence as I hold court nightly: champers in one hand, foie-gras nibble in the other - chest deep in an outdoor jacuzzi whilst i wonder if I will ever escape from such a hellish place.

It was seized with a bit of post holiday vim that i sought out my insurance documents. Should I break a nail, chip a tooth or worse - sprain something - I would want to be immediately airlifted by Chinook to a decent private hospital for convalescence and cunnilingus in a discrete private clinic nestling in the Chilterns.
Not for me spending 97 hours on a filth encrusted gurney in some garlic soaked sweat-pit of a breaks clinic - designed to cater for those of a more foetid continental persuasion.

However, I could not find my policy.

I regularly purge my life of many things and paperwork is one of them. It would seem that a recent iteration of removing scraps of prior life from current existence I had burned the policy document. It was no where to be seen. (Saying that - there is a good chance that Donna Da Lodga moved it in either a fit of pique or tidiness).

I recalled the underwriters and attempted to reach them. Some odd sounding address in town with an 'Axe' in it.
The girl was most helpful - but did ask some odd questions.

Particularly one which was to be the theme of the day:

'Good afternoon - I have lost all my policy information and paperwork, but I recall you may have set it up - can you help?'

'Have you got a policy in front of you?' Uh-oh...one of those calls.......

'No, I have lost all my paperwork and have no references.'

'Oh, have you got a policy number?'

'No, I have lost all my paperwork and have no references.'

'OK, have you got a broker or brokers cover note?'

'No, I have lost all my paperwork and have no references.' (Think it is going to sink in?)

'Ah, so you haven't got any reference information? What's your postcode - I could try a search'.

Ye gods.

Search produced nothing in my name - and she game me their Internet broker details to renew afresh. (I have particular insurance requirements as I tend to command vessels in international waters, things your £4.99 Tesco policy would seriously exclude)

'Can I not renew direct.?

'No sir, please use our broker...'

I braced myself for more fun on the phone.

'Good afternoon, ------ can I help you?' Uh oh. Sing song estuary English.

Repeat facts regarding paperwork. Grip desk in anticipation of more witless dialogue while I explaining I really don't have any details.

'Not a problem sir, post code and your name is all I need.......(clicky-typing noises) here you are sir - would you like me to email you a copy?'

My flabber was gasted.
It was like the re-worked parrot sketch at one of the secret policeman's balls - where Palin wrong foots the audience and Cleese by just giving him his money back and a gift voucher for the mrs..........

Still. Email is yet to get here. I may yet be looking forward to the joys of European Health care.



UPDATE: French healthcare is substantially better than ours. Go figure.

Passchendaele Nomember 1917

One word.





Ninety years ago Today young men stood and died in the pouring rain in the fields of Flanders, defending the freedom of others against tryanny.

In hindsight the tactics and weapons appear crude. The reality is that the likes of Currie, Plume and Haig did everything they could to preserve the lives of their men.
The used the very best weaponry and tactics available. Airborne reconnaissance for the artillery - and the creeping barrage just about viable in the murk. Ground too wet for tanks meant that the armoured advances at Cambrai could not happen. Truth be told, the guns of the day were not accurate enough to coordinate with tanks and aircraft - as was seen at the Somme Canals in 1918 anyway.


The last gasp of the battle took place form the 6th to the 10th of November with Canadian troops attempting to hold a line against determined German counter attacks.


But what for? The Guardianistas of then and now sneer at the loss of life, and view the world through rose tinted spectacles. What was being fought over? As usual, the drawing rooms of Islington provide scant learning for the realities of warfare, then as now - especially as the legal eagles who make up the kleptocracy who run the show demonstrate when they fail to appreciate the men they send overseas.


Ypres was the gateway to Belgium - and the Salient was there to keep the ports open. Lose the hub at Ypres, it is a short march to Oostende and Zeebruge - effectively closing supply routes from the East of England to the front lines.


This was known by the generals and the men at the time.


Armies must be supplied - and supplied with the best. Unrestricted Submarine warfare and heavy mining by the remnants of the Kaiser's fleet meant any route to the whole of the western front had to be kept open, on land and sea. Flanders was about defending the northern flank, and keeping the arteries open. Attack is always the best form of defence - and the three battles which ended in the Passchendaele were as vital and as dynamic as 'Market-Garden', 'Goodwood' and 'Dynamo'.


The men who fought did so with the courage and determination and bloody minded professionalism of the Men who scrabbled for a beach head at Omaha, who cleared trenches - by hand - at Wireless Ridge or today - in Helmland province.
They stood their ground as did their forefathers at Rorke's drift or in at Quartre Bas - a place not so very far from the Ypres Salient.

And Brown dares to even speak of their courage?

It churns my stomach to see that thieving, mendacious, idiot of a coward even talking of the bravery of these men and then cutting their supplies today.


It is the nobility of those who stand on parade and honour the fallen in the name of our freedoms - in front of their Sovereign - which will stop them booing Brown.


He is not fit to hold the wreath, let alone lay it.


To my readers, remember: on the Eleventh Hour of the Eleventh Day of the Eleventh month, the guns fell silent.



Stand silent and stop - for their name liveth for ever more.


Wear your poppy with pride, chaps.

Hamster Wheel

Students of Nicodemus E. Chap esq., will be aware that today was a big day in the world of work.

For those of you who know / care / or frankly couldn't care less - I have a simple phrase which will strike envy into the: Government/NHS/Lefty cultural establishment/Public Sector IT delivery bods/Simpering apologistas for the political class of no-hopers. (delete as appropriate)

On time. On Budget. On scope. To the minute.

Don't hear that very often nowadays do you.... not with this lot running the show.

Chappy misbehaviour, regular pithy blog posts and more discombobulatory adventures to come!

I've earned them.

Burma - The North Korea of the Indian Ocean?

One shares the usual horror at what is happening with Burma of late - The Greek Chap puts it much better than I - and includes links.

My mind casts back to the velvet revolutions of the late 80s - and the successes they had. Is the Burmese regime more brutal than that of Romania? It's hard to judge. What is different to then is the sponsor - the skin in the game as we call it in my profession.

Back in 89 - the Soviets were a busted flush. And as their support crumbled their satellite regimes did with them. It would appear that China - hardly a paragon of democratic openness - potentially sees Burma as a satellite - and would gleefully prop up it's regime, and clearly sees the lives of fellow humans as rather cheap.

One wonders why.

Perhaps we see the world slightly differently to them. The Cold war view isn't there anymore for us. We forget the great game between the blocs fought in the buffer states from Angola to East Germany. Things may look a tad different to our chums in Beijing. All that has happened is the Old Bear has gone bankrupt. But There is a lot of her claws left.

I also think there are a host of geopolitical factors clearly at play.

I'm no expert - but I am familiar with some of the terrain - so here's a few guesses.

Could it be unofficial empire - long memories there in the land of the dragons. From suffering at the hands of Japan in the 30s - and a hundred years before that through the colonial manufactories in the great rivers - the Pearl northwards - would suggest that a few satellite regimes with resources and friendly goons at the helm give china a sense of comfort as it grows and flexes it's economic muscles.
The Pacific rim is lined with hostiles - Japan, Taiwan and the Americano-Australian bloc. Recent interventions in the Celebetic Archipelago to defend interests of the old SEATO bloc obviously unnerve China - so landward borders with friendly or propped up regimes may tip a local balance of power in her interests.

Could it be an interest in challenging an Indian economic bloc? India represents the Anglo-Saxon model of capitalism, free trade and democracy that clearly concerns China. How else to maintain the regime if you keep the people in ignorance. With a Maoist insurrection stoked in Nepal, ongoing hostilities in Kashmir - how better to play the great game with India - a Nuclear India after all, than by keeping a modern day East Germany fizzling away to her eastern flank - to hem in any pretensions an economic powerhouse waiting to happen that is the old Raj.
Also If you can keep Kim and his cohorts ranting at the Americans across the 38th parallel and Burma worrying the Europeans - eyes can be blind to other pressures that she may wish to push - Japan - or West into the Sino-Russian frontier. Not the first time they have come to blows either. With a stroppy Russia to contend with - the great game can be played up against the old west and at the same time the old bear can be baited at leisure.

Finally - good old sea lanes. China's navy and therefore her ability to project her interests beyond the Pacific Rim is hampered by her Pacific Navy being largely littoral and the fact as far as she is concerned the scrap with Shek and Mao isn't done yet in Formosa / Taiwan - and all that island represents is the same scale of unsinkable aircraft carrier as we were to the threat of Soviet expansion across the Elbe in 45-89. With the Sea of Japan sonar-ed as tight as the Greenland - Iceland - UK gap was in 88, the Indonesian Archipelago a theocratic bloc - and the Malaccan straits covered as far as fleet movements are concerned - a friendly port in the Bay of Bengal is an ideal place to project interests to your trade enemies.

Power projection is still rated in Flat-tops. When Saddam went buying petrol in Kuwait - Both Maggie and George's Daddy asked the same question - where are my carriers? George 1, of course knew of these things - being a decorated navy pilot himself. She hasn't got them right now - but you can bet they are being built - or bought. (Good article here: Here)

In short - is Burma the soft underbelly China wants to the Indian Ocean? Or a buffer state for security in a cold war mind-set? Either way - this could be the first move in the Dragon flexing Geopolitical muscles beyond her old backyard of the Mekong to the south and represent a push in her interests Westward.

Gweilo ought to watch his step.

Lois Maxwell

Most of you know Lois Maxwell died at the weekend.

With IMDB crediting her with over 82 key appearances she will be sorely missed.

Many of us remember her for her regular slot as Moneypenny - M's long suffering secretary.

However - she has a certain cachet amongst the spods among us. Who can forget her dulcet tones as the Lt. Atlanta Shore of W.A.S.P. Troy Tempest's bit of stuff - however, why she hung around beat me because he was always chasing that annoying fish girl that Matt Munroe droned on and on about.

She was also a regular voice-over on Thunderbirds, and appeared in Several episodes of UFO. To complete the collection of cult 60's appearances - she also showed up in The Persuaders, The Saint, The Avengers and the ever silly Randall and Hopkirk (deceased). She was almost as prevalent a voice as the great Shane Rimmer.

Put simply - her transatlantic tones coloured the soundscape of my childhood.

Farewell, Lois.

Blogging will be light

Something has gone somewhat awry so I shall be offline for a bit.

I will report on my latest venture on the waves, Monday.

have a good weekend.......

The only reason why I love the EU

A title that would enrage the Devil himself, but my wits are not so discombobulated in laudanum - for I have one very good reason.

Now - I don't buy all their statist laws, the CAP is a joke, their fishery policies have plundered our waters, their socialist federation dreams are a nightmarish reality and their directives display an ever growing evidence that we are slipping into a hell of their making.

No - I have a singular and what I believe the best possible reason to love the EU - or especially - France.

In 10 days I am trundling over to France courtesy of Mr Peninsula and Mr Orient and driving to a little area south of Dijon known locally as La Bourgogne. It has a reputation for decent plonk.
Now personal taste is one thing - and whilst it can be a little inaccessible (and this is likely to stir up a heated debate more than anything else) I believe a decent Burgundy will knock the spots of all but the finest Bordeaux.

In the past Nanny has decreed that we can't bring home too much as we will make ourselves poorly and Gordo won't get all that lovely duty. The revenue men would stop, search and on the merest whim take away one's hard earned vino.
Now one can whine on about limits and the like - but this is the bit I like.

I can move freely into France from this sceptered isle and buy as much decent plonk as I wish, and not a red cent will go to the British Government.
I can bring it back in tranches of 10 cases (I reckon three trips will do it) and still not give anything to Gordo. If I personally have less than 10 cases at a time it is construed by customs to be personal (which, of course, it is).

This is just as well - because (And you heard it here...) 2005 is being heralded as the Best Vintage probably ever.

I shall be selling a kidney to ensure I have enough of this incredible year to enjoy far into my old age. I shall open every bottle safe in the knowledge that not one red cent of my enjoyment is going to the Government here.

It's not as good as free - but free from the clutches of the Whitehall Thieves is the next best thing.

Thank you France.

Lest we Forget

90 years ago today, men stood and died for freedom. A freedom those who govern us now take terrible liberties with.

Passchendaele

Their courage is beyond our comprehension - for my generation have been spared the horror. Have we a land fit for heroes - or one where those who seek to risk everything in the name of their country are sneered at by their paymasters.

Sleep well, brothers in arms.

Their name liveth for evermore.

Half Way Mark

And he shall wither unto decrepitude when faced with the terrible mystery of the spheres

Half way is an interesting milestone for many things….
At the Round the Island - half way was St Catherine's point.
When I use the machinery in the Exercise Dungeon - halfway is a good milestone on the cross-trainer normally the 10 minute / 2 mile mark and I know it is metaphorically down hill from there.

One normally associates 'half-way' with reaching the summit, the pinnacle, the zenith of the endeavour. You have got the hard part out of the way and it is plain sailing.

Except when it comes to age.

Over the hill.

Past it.

Middle Aged.

On reflection - at my age, my parents generation were 'middle aged' at this point. They had children, slippers, and gave dinner parties for friends. They paid their mortgage and had a summer holiday.

But by most terms I am a 'kidult'.
Between sailing, flying, skiing, snowboarding, motorcycling, fiddling with electronic music, dashing around the country working for Big Grey and being a committed pseudo-chap politico blogger - I am wondering - have I actually got time to be middle aged?

I say half-way because as of Sunday I will be officially 'Nearly Forty'.

Thirty Nine years old.

I reckon about the half water mark for my span in this mortal coil - before I pull down the curtain and join the choir invisibule.

Interestingly, I didn't feel this way when I turned twenty nine. This is far more positive.

Thirty loomed terribly - but actually life got better and better.

You finally find out who you are, your finances sort themselves out and you learn to have a lot of fun in a way that in your 20s and before you are too self conscious to do.
So on reflection - the thirties have been fun. New hobbies and new friends, and a broken heart more than once. But certainly worth every booze drenched, tear soaked and laughter filled second.

My expectation is that forty will be even better.

Sure, there will be humps to get over and if the challenges thirty bought are anything to go by, then they will be huge. But the bigger the hill, the bigger the high.
You turn thirty in fear - for it is the time when you are supposed to have grown up. Turning forty is odd, because you have grown up and if you don't like yourself by now - you never will.

Turning forty is actually good fun, because you get to hoon about without shame as it is your fortieth birthday.

Thirty is the training ground for forty.

Forty is the New Thirty (In the same way that Black is the new err... Black)

On reflection - it is downhill. But not in a bad way. You get as much fun, you just won't have to pedal as hard.

I for one am looking forward to accelerating away with it all. The pressure of being thirty-something wanes - and by now you stop caring what people think…..it is in a way liberating.
Bring it on.

One year to go until out come the slippers, pipe and lawnmower (Can you really see me doing that?)

Hop on for the ride gang, scream if you want to go faster.

End in sight

It would appear, well by Alan the Artisan, that the horrors that were my drains - are now fixed. The Bathroom is finished, and he will complete the kitchen today.

All over, bar the hoovering, getting the dishwasher out and working again and repainting the garage....

I can now return home and spend the rest of the weekend clearing up. Other than a bit of light aeronautical adventures of course.
I will need to hose down the motorbike though. Apparently the nastiness may have reached her.


But to other matters. I have taken the bit of the post down where I was rude to The Scot. On reflection doing that to a conversation wasn't very fair. I can be big about this. Points made all round.

Nothing to say about the Cutty Sark, as it was headline news in the blogsphere. Very sad, though. I still think we should sack Calais, just in case it really was the French.
Nice day in Croydon, as well. If such a thing can exist.