Dances With Chazzwazzers

Towards the close of play at Eden Gardens, the stadium’s big screen zoomed in on England’s new captain standing in his usual languid style at the non-striker’s end. His face both contemplative and determined. Another Test Match century, his 23rd. The record books continue to be rewritten.
The stadiums watchful hawks performed their last swoop of this famous old arena. The cooling westerly breeze and the ever present smog and drawing dusk doused the last of the Bengal sun’s power. Billy the Trumpeter played Rule Britannia.

Am I doing the right thing? Quitting my steady if soporific job in the middle of a recession to gallivant un-worriedly around the world? How the hell am I going to get a job when I get back? How long before the money runs out?

It didn’t matter. That moment. My raison d’être.

England are still one hundred runs behind with nine wickets in hand and three days to play. All three results still possible. As an England fan, I’ve been here before. Hope, damn hope.

A moment to savour though.

The queue for the eagerly anticipated Third Airtel Test Match stretched around the walls of this iconic old ground. The promise of a day’s play at the home of Indian Cricket, the redoubtable Eden Gardens.
Rather than looking contemplative, the emotions etched on the faces of the gathering crowds was of collective resignation. What was it going to be today?

Every morning of every Test has been the same. A farcical inspection of your possessions and a full-on frisk of your person, rigidly carried out by at least four gopherish police officers, one after the other, each with their own take on the rules of confiscation, as their overbearing, weasel faced Colonel Blimp-like superiors look on, and occasionally join in (especially the frisking). Next in line to the BCCI come the Indian Police Force.
Utterly loathsome. Together they form a horribly tyrannous alliance.

Cameras? No, you’ll sell your pictures to unaccredited sources who will print them thus undercutting any BCCI profits. Bottles of water? No, you’ll use them as missiles. Insect repellant? No, could be used as missiles and you could spray people with it, thus inciting a riot. Barely read copies of The Times of India? No, you’ll set light to them and use them as missiles. Bottles of suntan lotion? No, you could use them as missiles and inadvertently slather someone with it, thus inciting a riot, albeit a nicely bronzed one. Bananas? No, sorry sir, missiles etc etc.

Yes, really.

Everyday, the same scene. According to Lucky Paul’s mate Mark, the police in Mumbai, to their great amusement and his great embarrassment, made him eat a samosa he was cunningly trying to secrete into the ground in his pants in front of them.
What next, as one tour veteran opined in Ahmedabad, shoes?

So imagine my thoughts when I see a gargantuan stash of these being sold in the ground earlier today…..

So, we’ve got the idea here. Missiles are out. Right?

And, presumably, water bombs are definitely ok then?

Will the last sane person at the BCCI please turn out the lights?

Post Script: They tasted foul. The blue dye that came off on your hands as you drank made it worse.

Having said that, there are a few thousand England fans who would happily drink them all day for the next four days in return for more days like today. Superb start to a big, big game.

Plucking at the great daisy of travelling thus;

I love India, I love India not, I love India, I love India not, I love India, I love India not, I love India, I love India not….

Today was one of the latter. A day of endless asphyxiating bureaucracy, of maddening misdirection. Straight, straight, left. Left, straight. Straight, straight, straight, left. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

No.

A day of no. A day of pointless queuing. Of getting nowhere supersonically quickly. Up and down Park Street and Chowringhee Road and the corridor of uncertainty that passes for the tranche of tat-shifting market stalls stuck immovably over the pavement. In among the chasing gutter kids and the hounding stall holders wanting their pound of foreign flesh.

A day that ended among the thousands of thousands of Kolkatan commuters on their way home in darkness. Midnight? Early evening. The smog leads in the night quickly out east. The Metro carriage is packed to its last square inch. And the next one. And the next one.

I’ll get the next one.

My stop. For the only time in India no one wants my money. Tuk tuk and taxi drivers both refuse to take me the relatively short distance home. Honour among thieves? So I take a ragged stroll back through the busy back streets to my hotel. The gutter kids and stall holders aren’t as persistent out in the suburbs but they’re an ever present reminder of India’s great disparity. I wipe the turd from my shoe on an angry jeweller’s door step. I fist pump a well wisher. I shake my head through disbelief at the never ending cacophony of horns and ponder, just, why? Its always worse on days like these.

I love India, I love India not, I love India, I love India not, I love India, I love India not, I love India, I love India not….

Hotel. Supper. Elbow. Bed.

A day tomorrow watching the cricket.

Third Tier A/C, it sounded slightly different, but I expected similar to my previous experiences on Indian Railways. Rock up, get your bunk, wobble your head at your compartment travellers (a little less wobble for the other passengers and their curious gawping, you don’t want to get too friendly too early and you certainly don’t want to share bunk space). Cling on to the surface, try and get comfortable. Take it in turns to hang out the open door. Try again to get comfortable. Press your face up against the window rails for a view if you can’t get near the door. Regret never ever having been to Pilates in preparation for this type of carry-on. Try once again to get comfortable.

As soon as we entered Coach B-2 for the De-Mille-esque journey ahead of us, everything looked the same, but different. The carriages from the outside looked as I remembered them, a sort of sky blue and darker blue appearance that once upon a time Coventry City may have used for their home kit, with a tinge of yellow that they probably wouldn’t. The bunks with their gloomily unwelcoming chains, the fans set at rakish angles (Hello Michael!).

Then it struck me.
Tinted windows. Sheets? Pillows? Blankets? Sockets.
And yer actual A/C Unit.
This wasn’t exactly how I remembered it.

How naive. I presumed A/C meant doors and windows open 24/7, dust on demand, get your fresh air when you can. I’d lost something in translation, or, as is often here, application of the translation.
A kindly Merchant Seaman, on his way back to ship for another voyage (and we thought Mumbai- Kolkata by train was a bit of a wrench) to wherever work next took him, corrected me on my assumption. Explaining that Third Tier A/C meant a modicum of comfort we bunkered down for the 34 hours journey ahead of us.

Smart arse me, feeling over qualified (knob) through my extensive (knob) adventures of this wonderful country, I took it upon myself to explain to my fellow travellers exactly (knob) what would happen on these over night excursions. Turns out I got things a bit wrong. What James and Vicky (an absolutely delightful couple who I’d spent the last day or so with) did get was two nights of reasonable sleep and enough A/C to hoodwink a Polar Bear into putting another layer on. And reasonable food for a very reasonable price. They got somewhere to plug in the IPad to watch Borat (thanks James) and somewhere to stoically, and relatively untroubled, finish the latest Marion Keyes novel (kudos Vicky). They also got to play I Spy (see below).

What they didn’t get was the thrill of hanging on outside a train while it powers through Maharashtra, Madhya Pradesh, through Jharakand and on into West Bengal and the exhilarating sights, sounds and smells this experience allows. The wailing eunuchs, the cherubic tat salesmen, the suspicious looking vendors all will have to wait for another day.

Like buying a ticket for an Iron Maiden concert and getting Crowded House instead. Tedium rather than tangible, India through a tinted window rather than the in your face, roller coaster thriller a joyride in Sleeper Class* provides.
Out of my brain alright. Through boredom sadly.

*All these years thinking A/C and Sleeper were the same thing. That’s another great thing about India, just when you think you’ve got the place sussed, it turns round and bites you on the arse.

Spent ages doing a video clip to upload showcasing my latest digs in Mumbai.

Blog providers want £40 for the privilege. Have tried to Tweet it.

That doesn’t look promising either.

So it’ll have to wait till I get home. Sorry folks.

33* hour train journey to Kolkata ahead, so no posting now till Monday. Have a great weekend all.

*Yes, 33. T-H-I-R-T-Y-T-H-R-E-E.

The busy market stalls around Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus. Lunchtime. In search of some bargain bric-a-brac on my way to the station. It is a smorgasbord of the obscure.
Screwdriver selections, alarm clocks, Abibas clothing, Goochi purses, scrubbing brushes, rings, bangles, fake Chelsea shirts, mobile phone chargers, headphone sets, pants, sandals. So much tat. So little time.
I settle for a miniature wind up plastic elephant….

Henry: How much? Quick!
Stall Holder: What?
Henry: It’s for my nephew….
Stall Holder: Oh. Fifty Rupees.
Henry: Right.
Stall Holder: What?
Henry: (putting the money down) There you are…
Stall Holder: Wait a moment.
Henry: What?
Stall Holder: We’re supposed to haggle.
Henry: No, no — I’ve got to get to the ticket office…
Stall Holder: What do you mean, ‘no’?
Henry: I haven’t time — I’ve got to get…
Stall Holder: Give it back then.
Henry: No, no — I paid you.
Stall Holder: (calls) Bert!

Bert, a massive man, appears.

Bert: Yeah?
Stall Holder: This bloke won’t haggle.
Bert: (looks around) Wont haggle?
Henry: Oh all right — I mean, do we have to…
Stall Holder: Now I want fifty for that…
Henry: I gave you fifty!
Stall Holder: Now are you telling me that’s not worth fifty?
Henry: No.
Stall Holder: Feel the quality, that’s genuine local sweat shop right there…
Henry: Oh — I’ll give you forty five , then…
Stall Holder: No, no. Do it properly.
Henry: What?
Stall Holder: Haggle properly. This isn’t worth forty five.
Henry: You just said it was worth fifty!
Stall Holder: Bert!
Henry: I’ll give you thirty.
Stall Holder: That’s more like it (angrily). Thirty?Are you trying to insult me? Me? With a poor dying grandmother…? Thirty?!
Henry: Thirty two.
Stall Holder: Now you’re getting it. Thirty two? Did I hear you right? Thirty two?? This cost me thirty four— d’you want to ruin me?
Henry: Forty two?
Stall Holder: Forty Two?!
Henry: Forty five?
Stall Holder: No, no, no — you go to thirty seven now!
Henry: Thirty seven?
Stall Holder: Thirty Seven? Are you joking?
Henry: That’s what you told me to say! (desperate) Tell me what to say, please!
Stall Holder: Offer me forty one.
Henry: I’ll give you forty one.
Stall Holder: (to the onlookers) He’s offering me forty one for this!
Henry: Forty one?
Stall Holder: Forty one. My last word. I won’t take a rupee less, or strike me dead.
Henry: Forty!
Stall Holder: Done! (shaking Henry’s hand) Nice to do business with you. Tell you what, I’ll throw in this as well. (Gives Henry a pair of socks)
Henry: I don’t want them, but thanks.
Stall Holder: Bert!
Bert: (appearing rapidly) Yes?
Henry: All right! All right!! Thank you.
Stall Holder: Where’s the forty then?
Henry: I already gave you fifty.
Stall Holder: Oh yes … that’s ten I owe you then. (starts looking for change)
Henry: … It’s all right, it doesn’t matter.
Stall Holder: Hang on.

A pause while the Stall Holder tries to find change.

Henry: It’s all right, that’s ten for the socks — that’s fine!
Stall Holder: Ten for the Socks? !! Look at them, they’re worth twenty if they’re worth a rupee.
Henry: You just gave them to me for nothing!
Stall Holder: Yes, but they’re worth twenty.
Henry: All right, all right.
Stall Holder: No, no, no. They’re not worth twenty.
You’re supposed to argue. ‘What? Twenty for those? You must be mad!’

Exasperated, Henry pays twenty and walks off hurriedly with the socks

Stall Holder: Ah well, there’s one born every minute.

N.B. Reproduced and reworked with an earnest doff of the panama to Idle, Chapman and the others. Thank you.
Heroes all. You continue to inspire.

Windsor. An evocative name to most Englishman. Our Gracious Queen. Davies. Babs. Knot. Soup.

Sadly my current digs simply do not do the name justice. One example at breakfast mixes hotels California and Fawlty Towers.
Taking my place at breakfast next to Tim, a monosyllabic Swede on a spiritual journey, and Sailesh, an Indo-Finnish physician, and careful not to place my elbow in the left overs from the previous diner’s visit, I take a moment to get my bearings. I order breakfast.

Sailesh isn’t short of a word or too. Tim is. I’m treated to the former’s views on everything from Sai Bibi to Angry Birds, Steve Jobs to Swedish women, gurus, ice hockey, Finland, Finland, Finland. The nutty professor is in his element and none more so than in his intermittent admonishment of our waiter.
Yes, he is a complete moron. But there’s no need to remonstrate quite so pointedly and dramatically.
Then Kevin, a Londoner, and a veteran of more than one of such morning matinees, informs me he is the worst waiter in the world.

Paratha? No, omelette. Chai? Yes, where is it?

Minutes later. More talking. I scan the room and the punters. Remembering, I tiptoed through these very facilities about eight hours ago to the fridge for a bottle of water and in the process woke up a dozen or so kitchen staff scattered around the dining room floor…..

Coffee? No chai. Please. Omelette? Yes, where is it?

The chef’s dog makes a nuisance of itself in the passageway between dining room and kitchen….

The omelette eventually arrives. Chai? Yes, where is it?

The fixtures and fittings of the dining room are, in keeping with the rest of this squalid place, awful. Shit beige and shit shit coloured walls, the chairs are the the same colour. The tables are the like the ones you keep meaning to take down the tip but always find a reason not too.

Coffee? No, chai. Oh for, fu….

I’ve got coffee.

Meanwhile, seemingly having exhausted his repertoire of soliloquies, Sailesh has left the waiter alone and turned his interrogation on Tim. “So you have family?” “Yes, a brother.” “You must fight a bit, yes?” “It is hard to do when he is disabled.”

Silence.

Time to shampoo the cat. Or stick pins in my eyes. Or see if they can rename the hotel something more appropriate.

Like Bon Jovi. Or Ronaldo. Or Balls.

Derderderderderderderderderder, derderderderderderderderderderderder, der, der, derderderderderderderderderderderder, derderderderderderderderderderderder, der,der, derderderderderderderderderderderder, derrrrrrr, derderderderderderderderderderderder, derderderderderderderderderderderder….*

Readers. Technical hitch.

Buggered if I know what’s going on. Normal service will resume soon, hopefully.

Something to do with WiFi and 3G and synching or something. I’ll do some digging on WordPress, see what I can find out.

Technology? Honestly.

*With acknowledgements to Albarn, Coxon, James and that Labour MP wannabee. Really? Get over it mate.

What time does it start? What time can you make it? So goes the joke every Luton fan has to endure at some point in their supporting life.
My return to Navi Mumbai and the Dr D Y Patil Stadium and it felt a bit like living the off told gag for myself.

I half expected commemorative plaques screwed to the backsaw of the seats where Tesco Nige (Hello mate!) and I witnessed IPL 3’s epic conclusion back in May 2010. The memories came flooding back. Tangibly what hit me, as I watched the England Performance Programme XI take on the D Y Patil Academy XI, was, just where the bloody hell was everybody?

Then. Fireworks, Mexican Waves, that funny parping noise that originated at the Rugby World Cup in 2007 that stadium announcers use to gee up the punters. There was A.R. Rahman, S.R. Khan, dancing girls, a packed crowd replete with bouncing, screaming Sachin crazy locals and not as many soon-to-be-smug supporters who -wisely as it turned out- made the journey from Chennai. There was Dougie Bollinger at the peak of his powers. There was another chapter unfolding in the memorable career of M.S. Dhoni. It was all going off.

Now. Me. And an empty bowl of a stadium with rows and rows of empty blue seats, white seats, all finished off with an unloved and suffocating dusting of, err, dust. England’s fringe players were doing their best to nudge the selectors with the next Test just a week away as the game, but considerably weaker, opposition went forlornly about their business. And due to all that earlier mucking about on the trains, no sooner had I got there than the players walked off for lunch.

The interval was signalled by an ear splitting blast of that God awful noise that signals an appearance from Angelos Epithemiou on Shooting Stars. And then another burst of a similarly moronic accompaniment. It would’ve woken the dead. If they’d have bothered to turn up.
Taking this as my cue, I went for a wander of the impressive facilities the good doctor has provided to the local area. As well as an under-used stadium with practice fields, swimming pool and gymnasium, there is a hospital and a medical college not to mention something for the keen naturalist as well. “Snake, snake!”, shouted one of the local maintenance staff. I stood immediately to attention as this huge reptile slithered down a drain.
Feeling in need of sustenance, I repaired to a local vendor and picked up two bananas, a bottle of water and two packets of Parle cashew and butter cookies to help coax some sanity back into my life. Returning to my seat to catch the closing refrains of Skat Man John, my choice of brunch hadn’t seemed to have done the trick.

The teams returned and England’s middle order set about their counterparts with untroubled abandon. Their fourth wicket put on a quick hundred runs with the ease of a Pringle sweater clad Michael Parkinson interviewing Sting, Paul McCartney and Jamie Cullum from his armchair in front of a gently smouldering fire while supping a dram of Glenmorangie.

After nearly two hours and with little chance of anything approaching a contest happening soon, I gave up and left. As the score climbed steadily, I bet the Academy XI bowlers wished they could have done the same.

Post Script. As the continuing nonsense between the BCCI (yes, them again) and the independent photo agencies shows no signs of abating, and because Jocelyn Galsworthy definitely wasn’t there (I checked), if anyone’s interested, here’s a picture from today’s action.

Jocelyn Galsworthy? Jocelyn Angloma more like…..

Panvel, the usually more than reliable gentleman at the hotel reception informed me when I asked the nearest station to the Navi Mumbai Stadium.

Not even close.

It took the intervention of some laughing students at the tuk-tuk pick up that to put me on the right track, literally (I am really just Alan Partridge, aren’t I?) towards the aforementioned station.

No, Nerul, was in fact my destination.

So my going up and down the wrong line, the train in vain, had shaved hours off my day’s activity. What it had done however, was give me a unique insight into the daily trials and travails of your average Greater Mumbai commuter.

To call the carriages of a Mumbai West Coast train a meat wagon isn’t too exaggerated. Eerily reminiscent of the days as a kid when on summer Sunday mornings I used to help my farmer uncles with loading their cattle on to the truck.
Steel base. Steel grids. Steel roofs, where handles, shiny like butchers’ hooks, dangle rigidly to the salvation of those below. The seats, a welcome respite for the lucky few, in crimson wood. The paint job, newly sprayed and sparing, in dull aqua blue, conceals the old colour. That crimson again, appearing to be running from the ceiling, like, well, you know what.

Then come the crowds. After a relatively calm embarkation at Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus through Sandhurst, Dockyard and Reay Roads, a seat and a further revel in the Times of India’s post mortem of their team’s horror show in the last Test, before the carriage begins to fill up.
Eager not to miss my stop (hmmm), I opt to stand up and filter towards the permanently opened doors.
The Kurla- Sanpada leg of the journey proves to be the most eye-opening. The carriage is full to bursting as Mumbaikars start their working day by jostling, shoving, pulling and grabbing their way into position. No quarter given. A feral, half mosh-pit, half cock-fight of a frenzy ensues.
My pristine white (hmmm again) shirt will resemble a Darlington home shirt by the end of the trip, my back glued to the grid and its sticky, sweaty rails. My right wrist is locked into a grip on my bottle of Bisleri and newspaper, my feet as immovable as the Indian middle order in the eye of a Monty storm. It’s a bit close.

And just as suddenly as it started, this Mumbai melee disperses into something approaching tranquil. Workers disappear to their workplaces to be replaced with the many morning views of Maharashtra. My journey goes left, right and eventually, thanks to the lads mentioned earlier, but hours later, I arrive at my stop.

I’ll never, ever complain about First Capital Connect again, promise. Or any of the other London/ South East based networks. Thanks for the ride though Mumbai, it was emotional.