The heat is on...

Feeling hot, hot, hot. Heat wave. Hot in the city. These are just the few of the songs that seem to be on an eternal loop in my head as I enjoy my new commute to work...

So yes, predictably it’s hot at the moment. It reached 44°c here last week which is abnormal for this time of year. Global warming? Who can say, but it’s only going to get hotter. So I was somewhat relieved when I found out my new commute to work was only going to be 25 minutes long. Some may say its a bit mad dogs & Englishmen to be out walking in this weather, but I think it’s helping me keep acclimatised and my panting normally subsides fairly quickly after I’ve reached the office thanks to our very swish air conditioning.

I tend to start my commute somewhat irritated. This is due to lack of sleep. I seem to be having a love/hate relationship with my air conditioning unit at present. Don’t get me wrong I can’t live without it, but it seems to need a lot of attention. I love it for its ability to churn out waves of magical frosty air within seconds but it’s quite vocal about it. The sound varies between a small Cessna taking off to Concorde landing. Ear plugs are sadly not doing the trick yet, so I tend to have a ratio of two nights of no sleep to one of heavy sleep brought about by exhaustion. So by the time I hit the proverbial pavement I tend to require minimal eye contact, sound and interruption to keep me focused on the day ahead.

In India that of course is never possible. I firstly amble through Kailash Colony Market, AKA cycle rickshaw depot. Weaving my way through, I am constantly accosted by rickshaw wallahs most distressed at my pedestrian status. Their usual way to get my attention is loudly slapping their seats, ringing their bells with a “Hullo Madam”, driving straight towards me or slowing down as I cross the road so I’m forced to either choose them or have my buttocks clipped by a passing motorist. Once I’ve managed to avoid at least 30 of them I then hit the ring road. This ring road is getting the royal treatment for the Commonwealth Games. So, it’s another building site. The middle of the road is currently housing the ribs of the Metro extension and is covered in scaffolding and construction workers. As the traffic tries to squeeze through, teams of construction workers pour through.

Health and safety is only limited to hats in India. Most of them are dressed in what can only be described as ‘pulling shirts’ (nylon & skin tight). They look as if they decided to go to a fancy dress party as one of the Village People but gave up from the neck down. At least due to the repression factor none of them shout out things like “show us your white bits”, it’s more just the usual Stare Factor. To be honest I’m sure they are not staring at me but are in a catatonic state of sheer exhaustion. I was pleased to read in the paper last week that after a successful strike they’d managed to get time and a half for the final three hours of their 27 hour shifts...

Apart from the construction work and traffic the real challenge is crossing the road. There are no traffic lights so it really is a case of timing and courage. I haven’t quite got up the balls to try what I like to call the TST (Tiananman Square Technique). This involves walking out into the traffic with your arm held out and I’m sure using mind control techniques worthy of Paul McKenna to make vehicles and cows stop. I normally wait 10 minutes and sneak behind some school children, power walking with determination.

Highlights: I never thought I would say it but power cuts – with no AC we’ve rediscovered the joy of our balcony at night that’s marginally cooler than being indoors and a beer outside is always the best option to beat the heat, mango season – it’s started and long may it reign, my new breakfast special is muesli, yoghurt and fresh mango, discovering the American Embassy does free Friday night films with seriously good AC – god bless Obama.

Retail therapy time...

The good thing about living in a capital city is that whatever you need to buy, you can get it. The bad thing about living in a capital city as a VSO volunteer is that whatever you want to buy you can’t really afford. This weekend I indulged and headed off for a bit of retail therapy Delhi style…

Saturday was another blistering hot day, reaching a sizzling 43°c by lunchtime. I decided to hit Select Citywalk the swanky shopping mall because a) it’s got amazing air conditioning b) I managed to snap my sunglasses during some vomiting incident in Varanasi so was in dire need c) I really needed to start looking for a bridesmaid dress for my sister’s wedding in July. The first thing I needed to do was to decide what to wear to go shopping. You definitely know you are acclimatised when you decide to wear jeans. It sounds like madness but it’s actually a bit of a treat to go out in Western clothes, temporarily shed my volunteer skin and do what I like to call the ‘London Thing’. So off I headed (only mildly perspiring in the denim).

Entering into the mall there are strict security checks. I say strict, but you walk through a wooden scanner (which I swear is not even plugged in) and have your bag half heartedly poked at by a bored security guard. Inside its all magical sparkly lights, pristinely clean with serene piped piano music, deliciously frosty with random bits of modern art. So just like any other shopping mall in the world. It’s a little slice of Dubai in Delhi. There’s a smorgasbord of Western shops, including bizarrely an M&S. The mall was packed full of other Europeans and tottering gangs of groomed girls who were high on stilettos and serious about shopping. I decided to look for dresses first. It seemed my options were limited. Unless I fancied turning up to the wedding as a day-glo, pole dancing, blinged up Bollywood strumpet leaving not much to the imagination below my décollage and above my thighs, my options seemed limited. I gave up and decided to concentrate on the sunglasses.

I’ve finally worked out that there is a formula when it comes to customer service in India. Basically for every one salesperson required there are always three. Within seconds of hitting the cheapest sunglasses shop I could find, I had been surrounded like Jordan on a stag do. Having tried on a million pairs and bonded with Manoj who seemed the keenest to get his commission, I asked for his opinion. Manoj seemed unable to commit and just kept saying “‘Madam looks stylish”. I suspected he would have said that if I had come in dressed as a nun.

I finally made a decision, was pleased I had not spent too drastically and thought I would soak up some of the cooling AC before heading home. Wandering around without a mission was probably my downfall and made me vulnerable to attack from a preying Cosmetic Dolly. The Lancôme shop had decided to decamp to the centre of the mall to give facials and in true Pavlovian volunteer style when I heard the word “free” instantly agreed. Firstly I had to go through a skin check and felt quietly confident I would pass with flying colours, as Indian women are obsessed with getting paler skin to the point they buy whitening products (how ironic considering in Europe we are obsessed with getting darker skin). I was specifically asked about my “skin worries”. I realised I had none and instantly started to worry. Having identified my age the Cosmetic Dolly ticked the anti-ageing box. When I protested she then said surely anti-ageing was a worry due to my “pigmentation marks”. Somewhat confused I asked her to clarify what “pigmentation marks” were, from her concerned face and dotting motion I realised she meant my freckles. I corrected her but she continued to refer to them as “pigmentation marks” and firmly inked it in the form despite my declaration that this was a sign of being an English Rose. She was having none of it.

I then slipped into a not so private booth – the three tiers of the mall had full visibility of my “pigmentation marks” being exfoliated. I shut my eyes and realised that the piped piano music was now rather aptly playing ‘Bridge over Troubled Water’ and tried to relax. With my “pigmentation marks” still intact and my wallet marginally lighter I decided it was time to slip out back to the afternoon heat and dust that is Delhi as only mad dogs and Englishman do. It was sweaty outside but at least it was reality...

Highlights: air conditioning – the world’s best invention, I can now finally sleep at night, our new office – it’s so swish and has AC, finding out our monthly allowance has been increased by Rs1,000 (£13.33) – must restrain from using this for further retail therapy, being back in the land of living – it’s so nice to be eating again and the joy of having my first beer in a longtime – when it’s 43° outside Kingfisher is always your friend.

The Varanasi weight loss plan...

We’ve just returned from a very jolly Easter weekend in Varanasi. The holy city (also known as Benares) is on the banks of the Ganges and Hindus believe it is auspicious if you die there, as you avoid the cycle of rebirth. So yes, effectively it’s the city of death and disease, as many people pre-warned us we would get sick if we went. But never one to turn down an adventure, it took us three simple steps to discover you never come back from Varanasi your (whole) self...

Step #1 Travel on the Ghost Train. The Indian Railway System, an adventure in itself. Despite booking early, we appeared to be Waitlisted on the superior Shiv Ganga Express, so 24 hours before leaving we rebooked to guarantee leaving town at all. The problem was the train we booked was a new service nobody knew about when we arrived at New Delhi station. It did not appear on the boards, nobody at the counters knew about it and the chances of finding any type of railway employee is slim to anorexic if they are not behind 8” plexiglass with throngs of men shouting at them. It was by chance someone vaguely pointed us in the direction of Platform 9, we charged down the stairs, to see our train slowly chugging out of the station...

So like three Edwardian ladies departing on a grand tour aboard the midnight sleeper to Florence, we started yelping and waiving luggage expecting someone to help us, and then running after it. It was more Die Hard than A Room with A View as we leapt onboard, clinging on with our dear lives. But we made it, burning a few calories on the way. Sadly our train did not live up to its new status. There was no food available and by 10pm our bedding had not arrived so we were hungry and shivered in the AC. No one slept well as, we had an attempted bag snatch on one of our bunks, the train appeared not to fit the tracks so violently lurched the moment sleep visited and we were paranoid we would wake up in Bihar, Naxalite (Maoist rebels) territory, a seriously badass region which is best not visited at night. Anyway, we arrived in one piece shaken but not stirred to await the delights of Varanasi.

Step #2 Visit Varanasi when it’s the hottest place in India. It was hot. Really hot. Delhi had been hitting 40° before we left but we arrived to 43° by 10am. The temperature was probably not helped by the fact we’d decided to stay budget so not get an AC room and I’d managed to choose the guesthouse closest to the burning ghat. The burning ghat sounds slightly romantic with an Olympicesque eternal flame. It’s actually a big bonfire. Where they burn bodies. It’s going 24hrs and every time you walk past you need to avoid being hit by the heat and a funeral parade with the body wrapped up and being carried on high through the narrow streets.

The place is very beautiful, the Ganges snakes through and a rooftop view reminds you of a Canaletto painting, with passenger laden boats rowing their way along. It’s also very dirty, in a charming Medieval squalor way. The streets are very narrow, with roving livestock from cows, goats, buffalos, motorbikes, trustafarian travellers (plus the odd dead body hoisted through) as well as Hindu pilgrims. We stayed out of the sun as much as we could, its hard work not to burn a few calories in the heat walking up and down to the ghats as the old city seems to be built on stairs. We went on a dawn and dusk boat ride which was beautiful, watched the sunset puja (offering) and life on the river. We also went shopping for the famed Benares Silk. It was shopping heaven as we nested for 4 hours at one shop and drooled over reams of silk, oohing and ahhing over cups of chai and even got to try on a few saris. Of course we also ate lots of Western food to suit the backpacker crowd and some street delights such as lassi, which perhaps was our downfall when it came to Step #3 in the weight loss plan...

Step #3 Get the cursed Benares Bug. So far, I’ve been extremely lucky not to get the infamous Delhi Belly, but it had to strike once and of course before boarding a 16hr train home. Once again we appeared to be Waitlisted, but this time we ended up getting downgraded to 3rd class. The train wasn’t so bad and it was my decision to choose the upper third bunk for privacy in my moments of gut wrenching agony. I now know what it’s like to live on a submarine. I also had not calculated my need to spend most of the train journey in the 3rd class squat loo. So between alpine hikes up to my bed, abseiling down and then toning my power thighs to Fatima Whitbread style proportions embracing said squat loo, I returned fairly toned.

It’s taken 4 days of antibiotics, one injection in my right buttock to stop the vomiting and I’m now through the worse. Never fear, with regards to weight loss I’m no Cheryl Cole (think a toned early 80s Cheryl Baker, I could proudly display my pins if a Velcro skirt was required) and looking forward to eating again, being back in the land of the living – I guess it’s all part of the India Experience...

Highlights: I really don’t want to think about food, but thank you for the humongous postal Easter chocolate donations from home that arrived in the last few days – they are slightly melty but greatly appreciated and will be devoured, getting our AC fitted – I can’t tell you how good it feels, being bought a get well soon present of a bottle of Ribena – blackcurrant Vitamin C goodness heal my body now please, being in my bathroom – ‘nuff said..!