Camels and rats... very many... rats, that is..

Upon returning from Mumbai, I was supposed to immediately continue to Jaisalmer together with Italian friend Dario. Unfortunately, things did not turn out exactly as planned; Dario was unable to go because of his exams and I decided to go to the far less visited town of Bikaner, in the Rajasthani desert, instead.

Things started off really well – for the first time since I started travelling in India, the sleeper bus was easy to find and (now, brace yourself) left on time! Stunned by this fact, I was completely taken by surprise by what came next. For the first time since like 1992, I became bus sick and seriously so. Not a super feeling when you know the bus ride is a 14-hour one and you are all alone, but the bus driver was a very nice man, who let me sit up front and look out through the windscreen for many hours. I owe him multi.

Bikaner is far off and there are very few tourists, though enough so that there is still a small industry catering to their needs. Oddly enough, I contributed to a temporary Swedish invasion of Vijay’s Guesthouse, as there were a family of four and three girls from Stockholm staying there at the same time. The last three, two British girls, a Lithuanian group of four and I immediately set out on a camel safari and spent the first night in tents in the desert. Riding a camel is rather like riding a horse, though somewhat slower. Thanks to friend Emma and her riding classes I was better prepared than most people and suffered no pain the day after whatsoever.

Bikaner is a very nice city, bustling with activity. Rather small by Indian standards (our guide said about 600,000 inhabitants) it houses a most impressive fort, the ground stone of which was laid in the 16^th century, and an extremely charming old city. The town seems pretty affluent and most houses are well preserved. Since so few tourists find their way there, the hassle factor is also quite low.

Another good thing about Bikaner is its closeness to Deshnok, a mere 40-minute bus ride away. Here there is only one thing of interest, but interesting it very much is. Here you find the Karni Mata Temple, or as it is more commonly known, “the rat temple”. Hundreds of holy rats have it as their home and they are everywhere and totally fearless. They run over your feet, climb your back and very much enjoy being fed. I was delighted to, of course.

After three days in Bikaner and another 14-hour bus ride (though without complications) I came back to Ahmedabad this morning, for what is my last day on the IIM campus. There are a few brave exchange souls left and we will share a nice dinner tonight. Early tomorrow morning I will fly to Delhi, where I will spend the next five days. Right now I am mostly looking forward to the Lucia celebration at the Swedish Embassy tomorrow night, to which I have been invited. I am unsure to what extent I will update the blog during this visit, but I will return to Sweden Thursday, December 16.

Pictures show: rats at Karni Mata Temple (feet are mine); Bikaner fort; old city balcony; me and my camel Kadu

Mumbai

This weekend I did a short trip to Mumbai. As fate would have it, Handelsspexet friend Micke K had been temporarily assigned to this Gateway to India, as the British used to call it, which provided ample opportunities to catch up. An odd mixture of Western, Indian and Gotham City-esque architecture provided interesting contrasts with plenty of modern history lessons attached. Though I spent what seemed like most of Saturday in a traffic jam, I did find time to visit the Prince of Wales Museum (which definitely has nothing on British royalties on display), the old synagogue and the Taj Mahal Hotel and its assortment of various high quality teas. I was also given the opportunity to see the first run-through of the one-man commedia dell'arte performance that Micke is currently directing. That, too, a fascinating experience.

After a quick stop in Ahmedabad, I will leave for Bikaner and the desert tonight. Update to come.

And that's it.

This morning saw me taking the final exam for Mergers, Acquisitions and Corporate Restructuring. As it turns out, this was also the final exam for me here at IIM. Free as a bird, I will fly to Mumbai tonight to meet up with friend Micke K. Will be back in Ahmedabad Sunday night.

This Mirinda contains no fruit whatsoever, so no worries.

6,400 steps in Palitana

This Saturday, Zirong, Dario, Charlotte and I visited one of Jainism's holiest (also, hilliest) pilgrimage sites: Palitana. After a not so very pleasant 3:30 am wake-up call, our rented driver took us on the four-hour ride to this magnificent site. It is a temple complex built on the top of a mountain. To get to the top one has to climb no less than 3,200 steps. The rewards, however, are immediate and absolutely stunning. It is a marvelous place with pilgrims dressed in white robes everywhere, chanting prayers in different temples. Free food is served, which is all vegetarian and contains no root vegetables, as eating the root would a) kill the plant, and b) risk killing more microorganisms than necessary. To the followers of this very ancient religion, all life is holy and they are very particular about this. They are also immensely affluent; as a group they constitute no more than 0.42% of India's population, however pay 24% (!) of collected taxes. They also have the highest literacy rate in the country.

That everything was built on the top of a mountain several hundred years ago makes the experience even more incredible. Climbing the 3,200 steps took about an hour and a half - dragging rock the same way... probably longer.

India, please take note

India is in many ways an absolutely terrific country. The people are friendly, the economic progress impressive. But there are a few obstacles to realising its full potential; corruption, extreme poverty and bureaucracy are a few of them, but there is no point yelling and demanding that it does something about it, because those are relatively complicated matters, which will take a lot of time and effort to resolve.

The question of economic literacy on a corporate level is an entirely different matter. If you want to realise your full potential as a company, you really must learn how to bundle goods correctly. This is no joke, as the following story reveals an ocean of incompetency on the part of the owners of PVR Cinemas. There you can buy a menu, consisting of a Pepsi and large popcorn for 120 rupees. I am all fine with that, it is just that I would much rather prefer a bottle of water with my popcorns. Of course, it is not possible to exchange the Pepsi for the water, because rules were not meant to be broken. I can, however, order a large popcorn and a bottle of water without ordering the menu. Now it costs... 100 rupees! This immensely incompetent company simply refuses to let me pay 20 rupees extra for the water. I would boycott them as a matter of principle, if it were not for the fact that I leave with more money left in my wallet than necessary.

There are very many sounds in this bus...

Last weekend, Thomas and I did a short trip to Kutch, about two and a half hour away by car from Ahmedabad. Instead of going for the rather lame expat-friendly private car alternative, we went by public bus. It is interesting, because in the previously mentioned course "Digital Inclusion for Development" there has been a lot of ranting about how good it is with local Internet kiosks, where villagers can access government services, instead of having to go by bus to the city and some physical office.

Although this was to me understandable on some theoretical level, the whole concept now became very hands-on.

Travelling by public bus is very cheap, for which there are reasons. There is a seat supply deficit. There is very little suspension. There are very many sounds. And there are sometimes cheating bus conductors, all of whom should take careful note of the fact that you will probably earn more money if you only try to cheat the clueless foreigners, instead of simultaneously trying the same trick on the not so amused locals, because then the foreigners get sympathy points and protection and you end up with nothing but the standard fare. Poor you.

Kutch is home to a wild-life reserve, with some of India's last remaining wild donkeys as its main attraction. As you can see from the pictures, the landscape is quite special. The top photo contains a barely recognisable donkey, if you can make it out. By the way, I have absolutely no idea why Blogger keeps messing with the format.

Field trip to Pij

Yesterday I had the opportunity to visit a SEWA (Self Employed Women's Association) centre in the village of Pij, about an hour and a half by car from Ahmedabad. The field trip was part of our final project in the course Digital Inclusion for Development, where we look at how information and communications technology can help achieving development goals in various parts of the world.

At this centre, among other things, they offer computer literacy classes, costing a fraction of the prices at ordinary computer schools. Some 20-25 people take these courses every month (the village has about 25,000 inhabitants) and are thus able to learn Microsoft Office, surfing the Internet and operating accounting software. Basic English, necessary if you want to use many quite ordinary functions, is taught via video link from SEWA's head office in Ahmedabad. With their newly acquired knowledge, students are then not only able to apply for jobs as cashiers and IT café staff, but some even buy their own computers to set up business, offering services such as burning CDs for other villagers. The loans with which to purchase the hardware they get by showing their computer knowledge certificate.

We made a short film about the visit. It is only about seven minutes in length, but if you do not feel a desire to watch the whole thing, I suggest you concentrate on the final part. I think it says something fundamental about human nature. The computer teacher says that before she started working with SEWA, nobody in the village knew who she was. Now when she walks down the street, they point at her and say she is the computer teacher. "I now have an identity of my own."

Udaipur

Friend and fellow Amul ice cream lover Zirong and I went to Udaipur this weekend. Udaipur made the number one place in India to visit in Lonely Planet's second last update and it is described as Rajasthan's, perhaps India's, most romantic city. How they reached this conclusion is beyond my imagination and apparently the description no longer fits as Udaipur is now not even to be found among the highlights in LP's 2009 version.

Something must have happened during this time, but still I had got very positive reviews from some of my fellow exchange students. I admit I had some high expectations. Maybe it is because I am not in my most romantic mood at the moment, but I must say I was rather disappointed. There is very little genuine atmosphere left, as often happens when busload after busload of Western middle-aged tourists swarm the place. For James Bond fans there is the white cake palace in the middle of Lake Pichola known from Octopussy, dare I say one of the highlights of the Roger Moore era. The town is immensely proud of this connection with at least two restaurants claiming to show the movie every night. There are also the fairly overrated City Palace, which was drowning completely in tourists (maybe we should not have gone there on a Sunday, I know...) and some narrow, nice streets with unfortunately too many too touristy shops. One fun part, though, was the folk dance and puppet show we went to in the evening (Rajasthan is apparently famous for puppets). Also, the stone carvings of the Jagdish Temple were pretty impressive.

The return bus trip proved to be far longer than acceptable with the bus regularly having to stop to cool down the engine. Just to make it even a little bit longer, it also stopped for lunch... It felt good to get out of campus, though!

Celebrating Diwali

Yesterday saw the celebration of Diwali, the festival of light. It is apparently celebrated in remembrance of the god Rama returning from 14 years of exile together with his wife Sita. To show their happiness, the villagers, according to tradition, lit candles everywhere, a custom still very much adhered to among modern Indians. The goddess of wealth and happiness, Lakshmi, is also celebrated during this festival, which mostly resembles a mix of Christmas and New Year in Western tradition. It is a festival of joy, happiness and kindness. Lit candles, firecrackers (loads and loads of them, preferably at 3 am...), the occasional exchange of gifts and dining with family are important parts to it. Since our families for obvious reasons are not present, your fellow dorm mates will have to double. Activities yesterday once again showed the very likeable Indian habit of actively including their foreign peers in activities important to them, something which I found quite moving.

Decorating your home is an important part of Diwali and the campus cultural committee had organised a competition between the dorms. Among the things we did was a coloured sand image of a peacock, the process of creation showed in the pictures above. Being my first (and quite likely, only) sand image I must say I was rather pleased. Have in mind, the image is comprised of sand sprinkled on the floor only, there is no paint, crayon, glue or other tools to aid you. We did not win, however were awarded a special mention for outstanding effort by the panel of judges.

Day 4: Panjim

The nightly bus ride from Hospet to Goa's capital Panjim (or Panaji, as it is also known) proved to provide an endless array of jokes on the format "How many Israelis does it take to get off a bus?" and "How much time do x Israelis need to get off a bus and what will be their decibel level as they go along?" Goa is obviously a long-time favorite among backpackers and the bus made several stops along the way. These people were quite the stereotypes. Rasta plaits, cargo pants and mini drums in bands across the chest, which they to my regret enjoyed playing in the middle of the night. One was even wearing a t-shirt with the text "God created grass, man created booze. Who do you trust?". I would argue God also created toadstools, however that does not mean I intend to consume them. What troubled me the most, though, was the way one (the gentleman in the marijuana t-shirt) treated some beggars in Hospet. Yes, sometimes I too think beggars are annoying, but that does not in any way justify a condescending behaviour of yelling "shoo, shoo" with eyes wide open and accompanying hand gestures. It is, to put it mildly, not the way to behave when you are a guest in somebody else's country.

Upon arriving in Panjim, we were immediately stricken by the beauty of the town. By all Indian standards, it is clean, quiet and well behaved. The Portuguese heritage is extremely visible in everything from churches, secular architecture, clothes (especially the females') and, dare I say, mentality. This is not at all odd, considering the Portuguese did not leave (or rather, they were kicked out) until 1961. Panjim truly is a natural pearl among Indian cities.

After too much looking (thank you again, LP incomprehensible maps...) we found a very pleasant guesthouse, where we had planned to spend the night. After the best breakfast I have had since arriving in India (there was coffee, and no loads of added milk and sugar...) we set out to see Old Goa, the former capital, 25 minutes away by bus. Back in the days, this was no tiny colonial outpost; in fact, it had more inhabitants than both London and Lisbon. Due to some nasty and unfortunately recurrent outbreaks of malaria, it was however abandoned in 1835 and became what is best described as a ghost town (though it has lately been revived a little). Quite a spectacular one, I would imagine, considering that it is home to some pretty impressive buildings, including the Sé Cathedral - apparently the largest church in all of Asia. There is also the Basilica of Bom Jesus (which holds the remains of St. Francis Xavier), the Church of St. Francis of Assissi, the Chapel of St. Catherine and... well, to be honest there are very many churches in old Goa, but to come to their defence, they are all very beautiful. Something that moved me especially were the wrecked tombstones of 17th century Portuguese men and women, now since long forgotten, around the quiet Chapel of St. Catherine. I specifically remember one piece with a faint, though still clearly visible, fragment of a catholic bishop's crest. A peaceful and tranquilising final resting place they have been awarded. A stone's throw away lie the remarkable ruins of the town's Augustinian monastery. I have always had a soft spot for ruins of that kind and this was really one of the best I have seen.

After returning to Panjim we expored this town further, wandered its narrow streets up and down, discovered the wonderful, but tiny, Top Gear Pub and ate some truly terrific food at a hotel, the name of which I have by now forgotten. There is not much to tell about Panjim, because really it is not so much a town for exploring as for sensing. It has a rhythm of its own. It is best experienced in listening mode. A favorite of mine.

Pictured clockwise: Basilica of Bom Jesus; Panjim; Sé Cathedral; Augustinian monastery ruins

Days 2 & 3: Hampi

There is no way describing the awfulness of the road between Bengaluru and Hospet. Yes, it does indeed run from point A to point B, but that really is about it. To make it brief, it is full of holes. They are everywhere and they are huge. Every time the bus encountered one you would literally lose touch with the bed and hover in the air for a few tenths of a second before coming crashing down again. Not much sleep for any of us that night, that was for sure.

Our somewhat fragile condition upon arriving in Hospet in no way bothered the armada of ricksha drivers who put their heads through the windows and even entered the bus to offer their services for the last thirty minutes of our trip to Hampi. My evil me was happy to see their enthusiasm go away as soon as they found the bus company set out to foot the bill as it turned out we had in fact purchased tickets with Hampi, not Hospet, as our final destination. Bus company pays = less money than you can try to extract from a clueless foreigner. Touché. We teamed up with two French guys we met on the bus, one of whom had already once been to Hampi and was able to show us to the very pleasant Gopi Guesthouse, where we would be spending the coming two days.

After breaktfast, Thomas and I decided to cross the Tungabhadra River in order to see the Hanuman Temple, believed to be the birthplace of the monkey god with the same name. Just as in Bengaluru, our LP map was now to fail us miserably. Intuitively it seemed as if we were supposed to go left through the village of Virupapur Gaddi. After ten minutes of walking we decided to consult the map, just to be sure, and found the opposite was true. We walked back and continued in what we believed to be the right direction right until the moment the road was no more. Instead there was a field, with I believe rice growing all over it. Confusion was abound. A new look at the map (why do we keep trusting it?) seemed to indicate (once again, I pose this very question...) that we were in fact walking parallel with the road that goes past the temple and not very far from it - lucky us! If there only were a way to get across this mountain ridge that separated us...

So instead of going around the mountain, taking a ricksha, renting a bike or any other kind of perfectly sane option, we decided to cross it. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. Two hours or so later, after a brief encounter with a family of cows and what seemed like and endless zig-zagging between giant blocks of rock and impenetrable terrain and with an absolutely lethal sunburn, we emerged on the other side. The road was indeed there, but the temple still perhaps a kilometre away. After a comparatively easy walk along this dusty road, we could then climb the 570 or so steps up to the temple (the second mountain to climb that day, may I point out...), which suitably enough is populated not only by a priest and his television set, but also by very many monkeys.

After walking down again we teamed up with a Belgian guy to get back to the village and engulfed in a fascinating negotiation with a ricksha driver who considered each of us paying 30 rupees as too little, but grumpily accepted to take us there for a total of 80... And by the way, we very soon ended up at the exact location where we had decided to turn back again after consulting LP...

In the evening we had dinner at the wonderful Mango Tree restaurant. On our way back to the guesthouse it started to rain. Increasingly. Monsoon kind of rain. Soon everything was water. Water stood like a wall all around us and we were walking in it up to our ankles. Just to add to this perfect night, it was also completely dark, as we tried to navigate our way back to the guesthouse. Everything, absolutely everything, was completely soaked - money, LP, passports, cell phones, clothes, notebooks, shoes, whatever we had carried in our pockets and rucksacks. Trying to dry them during the night was an attempt that proved an utter failure in most cases, but let us not dwell on details here, as there are too many of them and they are sometimes quite painful.

The next day we stayed on our side of the river, in Hampi. Hampi truly is a spectacular place. It was once the capital of the mighty Vijayanagara Empire, which fell in 1565. At its peak, Hampi was a major trading centre with some 500,000 inhabitants. Now, it is merely a small village, the inhabitants of which in some cases have settled in the ruins. That does not matter for any visitors, because the area is almost covered by ruins, most of them very well preserved. The place is enormous and you really get a sensation of how large and vibrant this city must once have been. You are continuously running in to temples, bazaars, palaces, gardens, baths, elephant stables and other constructions that you simply have to go inside to have a look at. The road from the village to the architectural wonder of the Vittala Temple seems to take forever, even if it is only two kilometres, simply because of the distraction. I dare say I have never seen anything like it and I loved it. It is like Rome, but without most of the people.

Speaking of Mediterranean countries, that same evening we set out again, this time with our eyes on former Portuguese colony Goa.

Pictures from left to right: Hampi elephant stables; the 55 metre tall Virupaksha temple in Hampi; interior of the Queen's Bath; view from the Hanuman Temple; entrance to the Vittala Temple.

Day 1: Bengaluru

Early Saturday morning, Thomas and I were sitting in an auto ricksha, bound for Ahmedabad airport. There, a

GoAir Airbus was waiting to take us to the city of Bengaluru, formerly known as, and still frequently called, Bangalore. It is no more than a two hour flight from Ahmedabad, but the differences between the two cities are huge. We only spent the afternoon and the evening there, so it would be a shame to say we got to know all the ins and outs of the city, but I can tell you this: Not a fan.

Yes, it by all measures more Western than probably any place in Gujarat. You can eat beef if you want to (and yes, we did - thank you Hard Rock Café). Most people do not find your skin colour exciting. And there is beer for anybody who likes it. So far so good, but still it is missing something. Charm is, I believe, the word that I am looking for.

Bengaluru is hectic, traffic is awful and the ricksha drivers refuse to go by the meter. Negotiating the price quickly gets tiresome, when the gentleman in front of you insists 250 rupees is the fair price to go to an address a few blocks away. (I do not think there are two places in India a ricksha drive in between of which would amount to 250 rupees...) There is really not that much to see. After an absolutely delicious Western lunch (Subway, but still) we went to see the not super exciting Tipu Sultan's Palace, from where we walked a considerable distance to the Bull Temple. That the distance covered on foot turned out to be this massive was mostly the result of Lonely Planet's Bangalore map clearly telling us to take a right, when in fact left was the answer. The LP maps were in fact to evolve into a continuous ordeal during our journey. To briefly summarise the Bull Temple, it was pretty cool, though oddly enough came with a corporate sponsorship.

A dinner even more Western in nature than the lunch left my stomach not really in uproar but still somewhat grumpy, as the sudden inflow of Hard Rock Café amounts of dead cow was something it was no longer used to. After what seemed like a long day, I was looking forward to the night sleeper to Hampi, which was supposedly only a few minutes away.

Private bus companies, unfortunately, do not leave from the main bus station in Bengaluru, from which only government buses are allowed. Instead, they leave from... well, other places. It is chaos. We had an approximate address (near a roundabout and a Ganesh temple) to help us locate the place, but this turned out to be far from the smooth ride you desperately want at that hour. Nice gentlemen kept pointing in completely opposite directions. Luckily (we thought...) we suddenly stumbled upon the bus company's office, where they pointed out a location about a hundred metres away, where the bus was supposed to pick us up. There, the people said they had never heard of any such bus and we were directed back to the bus company's office, where they then sent us back to the position from which we had so recently come. We decided to hold our position and hope for the best.

All of a sudden, my telephone rang. The man on the other end obviously spoke no English, a fact he tried to compensate for by instead talking louder than normally. After two failed attempts at communicating I was able to locate somebody who looked nice and well educated enough to be able to interpret whatever was coming out of my phone. As it turns out, the man with no English skills had simply wanted to tell me that our bus was five minutes late, which at this point really did not seem like a very big deal. All was more or less well and suddenly the bus even showed up. We hurried to get onboard only to find out that it was the wrong bus. Apparently, the people at the bus company office (how I do not fancy these people) had got the buses mixed up. Realising the mistake, we were taken to another stop, where the genuine, true and air conditioned Hampi sleeper coach was peacefully awaiting us. If only we knew then what to expect from the ride...

Stay put for days 2 and 3 on Hampi.

The pictures, some of which stolen from Thomas' memory card, show, from left to right: The exterior of the Venkatamaran Temple, which we unfortunately could not enter; the cow-inhabited interior of a temple we found while we were heading in the wrong direction to see the Bull Temple and which some children (pictured) showed us; and an interior of theTipu Sultan's Palace.

Off traveling

For the first time since I arrived in Ahmedabad I'll actually have more than two days off from school, providing me with some time to travel and discover other parts of India. So early tomorrow morning new-found friend Thomas and I will take a ricksha to the airport. We fly to Indias IT hub numero uno Bengaluru (Bangalore), where we'll spend the afternoon and evening. From there we take a sleeper coach to Hampi, an old village with many ruins. It's a world heritage and something we both have been wanting to see. We stay there for two days, upon which we catch a second sleeper to old Portuguese colony Goa. Having been to Macau earlier, I wonder to what extent the Portuguese heritage can still be experienced. Goa only gets one day, as we must hurry back to Ahmedabad for classes that start on Thursday. Update and pictures to come!

As I run through the valley of the shadow (not really...) of death

Today saw the IIMA 5 kilometer run. Anybody could participate and so they did. By the gates at the New Campus a masse of people had assembled at 5 o'clock, as stipulated. As always in India, the actual thing didn't start until at least 20 minute later. I'm not judging here; I just say things don't start on time.

Five kilometres is a relatively short distance, I think most people would agree. When temperatures have well exceeded 30 degrees Celsius, it doesn't seem so short. It was warm. It was sweaty. It was long. It was sometimes absolutely horrid. And in the end, it was over. I'm proud to say that the exchange students dominated and took places 1 through 4 among the males and 2 and 3 among the females, despite being the visiting team on the ground.

And I shall dwell in dorm 15 room 24 forever.

Pictured are happy contestants Hubert (France), Thomas (Switzerland), Ole (Norway), me and Pierre (France).

Nothing to fear but fear itself

I've lived in Moscow, Shanghai and Ahmedabad. I've flown Soviet-era Tupolevs. I've gone by car through the pitch black nights of Kyrgyzstan highways. I've had coffee with the Baku police force. I was even once followed by the Belorussian KGB, while sightseeing in Minsk. Despite these experiences, nothing has ever been able to compete with the level of fear I've had to encounter when engulfing in one particular activity, regardless of which foreign city it took place in: getting a hair cut.

At home I feel very comfortable at the hairdressers. I look forward to the visits, even though I tend to postpone them for as long as possible for Filofax-related reasons. I admit I enjoy the sensation of having somebody else stick their fingers in my hair. Above all, I usually prefer the way I look when I leave, as compared to when I came. This is where the hick-up shows up.

I know (or at least I used to know) all the moving and quite a few static parts of a tank in Russian. I can spot a leutenant-colonel of the motorised rifle infantry from a hundred meter. I can make the distinction between an active and a passive hydrophone on a Russian nuclear submarine, at least when it comes to terminology. In short, I'm very capable in some areas, many of them quite useless. What I don't know is how to say "short on the back and sides" to a Moscow coiffeur. And did you ever try to avoid having your hair dyed in Mandarine ("wo bu xiang ni ran wo de toufa", you all yell, and yes, that's very true, but you also have to get all the tones right; otherwise he'll just stare at you with the puzzled look I find so frequent among Shanghainese hairdressers/waiters/taxi drivers/most people.)?

I don't know how to communicate the way I want my hair to look in most languages. In India many people have an advanced command of English, but far from everybody. They usually know numbers, so they can charge you money (even if today the difference between 120 and 170 rupees wasn't all clear). Really, today's hairdresser didn't even speak to me about my hair. He just cut it, and that he did at warp 9 for all you Star Trek lovers out there. (For all you other people, it means he was really fast.) Happily enough, he was also not entirely unskilled, as can be seen in this newly taken photograph of pretty me.

NB: I've changed the security settings for this blog, so now everybody who so wishes will be able to post comments. I've been unaware of the problem until now, but they were pointed out to me by my very good friend Lars. He has promised that from now on he'll comment on every entry. It wasn't exactly put that way, but it was in between the lines.

(Here I'd like to pause for a moment and convey to you that I believe I just heard an elephant.)

Navrati

This week has seen the celebration of Sharad Navrati. It is a nine-day celebration with, I believe, dancing taking place every night. It's a huge hit in Gujarat. I believe it's a celebration of the feminine side of creational divinity, but as my knowledge of Hindu traditions mostly rests upon a foundation of Wikipedia browsing, I just might be incorrect. Indian readers must here feel free to correct or complement this interpretation in the commentaries. Anyway, this Friday saw the IIMA campus invaded by people from all around Ahmedabad campuses to perform garba, a ritual dance. Exchange students happily contributed, often wearing Indian traditional outfits, as can be seen in the picture with Stéphane (France), Hadrien (Belgium) and an unidentified bloke. For some reason, the video previously uploaded video didn't work very well, so it has been deleted.

The haggling

Yesterday evening we frequented the absolutely wonderful Barbecue Nation restaurant, which is I believe the only place where you can eat excessive amounts of meat in this highly vegetarian city. (The school mess serves meat only three dinners a week; one of those days the meat is usually eggs...) I'm a fairly enthusiastic carnivore back home, but since I arrived here there has been very little of the kind obviously.Today my stomach has been suffering from somewhat of an unexpected protein shock, which will under no circumstances prevent me from reliving the experience in the future. Luckily, today was spent mostly by the poolside at the Gateway Hotel and their Sunday brunch. It was an incredibly peaceful experience, which I hope will be repeated sometime in the immediate future.

Both these happenings indeed provided me with an immense amount of pleasure and joy. There is, though, in these and all similar instances a part to it that can quickly turn into a true fly in the ointment moment. Ahmedabad really wasn't made for walking, so wherever you go an auto rickshaw will normally take you there. Quite often the driver will try to rip you off if you're a Westerner. It's perfectly understandable, since 20 rupees are indeed less to me than they are to him. Still, pride makes one want to avoid it and then the matter of 20, or even 10, rupees too much can matter a great deal.

The rickshaw system works like this: Either you decide on a price beforehand or you go by the meter. The meter is a small round machine that spits out numbers nobody really seems to comprehend, but the driver usually has a laminated sheet of paper that transcribes these highly confusing numbers into spans of 5 rupees, giving a rough indication of the proper amount to pay. The asked for sum can often drop 10 rupees the moment you request to see this sheet, so it's a good thing it's there. Sometimes it's claimed the sheet doesn't exist, an occurrence which is usually correlated with a suspiciously high tariff of the day. When the address is a place where I've been before, meaning I know roughly the amount the driver is trying to overcharge me, I sometimes give him 10 rupees less than what would in fact be the proper price and then make a run for it, simply to make a point. I can be a bit moody, so sometimes I don't care enough to risk my life and go for the debating option instead, even though it can often be a less than joyful and sometimes truly annoying experience.

What surprises me, though, is that the haggling skills sometimes really don't even meet even the lowest rickshaw driver standards. Consider the following example, which is based on a true story:

Driver: To where you want to go?

Me: IIM.

Driver: IIM, ok. 40 rupees.

Me: No, by meter.

Driver: By meter it's 35 rupees.

Me: So why should I pay 40?

Driver: Stunned silence, upon which I turn to another man, who is happy to accommodate me. The price in the end? 30 rupees.

And there was humming and singing.

Temperatures: indoors, outdoors and bodily

Winter hasn't come to Ahmedabad yet. It was supposed to, but cooler weather was instead put off for some time. Only time will tell when weather and calendar will again function not as separate entities but in harmony with one another. To answer your question here and now: it's 36 degrees centigrade. This, however, is only outdoors. In the classrooms the ACs are working on all thrusters, creating an artificial climate that is incapable of reaching anything above 21 degrees. That's a 15 degree temperature difference that I'm exposed to several times daily and which certainly has health repercussions. One really wouldn't expect to catch colds here this frequently, causing annoying disruptions to my several-times-weekly football games, but here we are.

Luckily, my room is only equipped with a gentle ceiling fan, which provides a little bit of relief from the murderous coolers in other parts of the campus. The only trade off is the constant dilemma of which humming level to set it on in order for it not to wake you at night but still drown out the sounds of the campus dogs trying to kill one another, or fighting the campus monkeys - actually quite possible judging from the sounds sometimes emitted. Decisions, decisions...

The illusion of normality

India is different in many aspects. It's poorer, more chaotic, friendlier, often happier, warmer, more humid, spicier and in desperate need of small change. I come to think about my Moscow days, when, with pockets full of nothing but 1,000 ruble bills thanks to the well-to-do target clientele of the Radisson SAS teller machin, I desperately tried to stuff my shopping basket full of biscuits, crisps, expensive Belgian chocolates and other sweets simply to avoid the social stigma of asking for more than 100 rubles in change at my local grocery store. The local chemist here once awarded me some rupees worth of Mentos, as their local balance sheet didn't have enough cash at hand to support operations, at least not of the appropriate very small values.

There are, though, places of conceived normality (from a Western person's perspective). These are the Ahmedabad malls, which look fairly similar to their distant Western cousins. Their supermarkets at first sight should leave nobody disappointed. They're huge and well stocked, with everything from clothes to groceries, kitchenware, sports equipment and electronics on display. Now this might all seem well enough and like a place to discreetly run away to when the need to experience something home-like (at least if you squint somewhat) sets in. An illusion, indeed. The bubble first bursts at about the time when you have successfully acquired a bottle of shampoo, then asks for some body wash to go with it. "I'm sorry, we're out of it." 16 different kinds of shampoo and not a single bottle of body wash spell supply chain management 101 utter failure like nothing else. Disregarding the sudden disappointment you then quickly try to pull the illusion back together again, however the project almost instantly fails beyond recovery with the following short dialogue: "Excuse me, do you have toilet paper?" "No."

Bought an electric kettle, though. And there was much rejoicing.

A reminder of things better not to think about

A gentle reminder was offered us today that not everything about India evolves around economic development, a truly multi-cultural democracy and happy, smiling children. The following email reached all of us today:

"As you all must be aware, the verdict in the Ayodhya case is due tomorrow at 3:30PM. In the light of that, it is advised to everyone that please do NOT go out of campus after today evening till you are sure that the situation is normal after the verdict has been pronounced.

Exchange students: we would advise you to take special care and make any travel plans (inside Ahmedabad or even outside over the weekend) after consulting a local person who would be able to tell you more about the situation."

The Ayodhya case is about a plot of land, where once a mosque and before that a Hindu temple stood. The Babri mosque was burnt by a Hindu mob in 1992 and in the violence that followed some 2000 people died. The verdict spoken of will determine whether the previous Hindu temple was demolished for the mosque to be built, or whether it was simply modified. Apparently, this will decide what might consequently be rebuilt, thus the anxiety.

Ahmedabad has sizable Hindu and Muslim populations and has seen riots before. In 2002, roughly 1000 people were killed as the result of communal violence in the state of Gujarat and many Ahmedabad buildings were then set on fire. The riots were the result of some 58 Hindus, mostly women and children,murdered by a mob attacking the train they were travelling in. All in all, the possibility of renewed violence should not be discounted. I, for one, will remain on campus doing some much-needed reading.

The picture shows the Babri mosque and has been downloaded from Wikipedia.

Dorm naming ceremony

One of the really good things about IIMA is the fact that all students reside in dorms in groups of some 25 people. Not only don't you have to bother about finding your own accommodation, they also have people come clean your room, do your laundry (albeit for a small fee) and frequently spray the corridors against mosquitos. I'm not sure about the cost-benefit analysis when it comes to that last thing, as the hallways after this always resemble a scene straight from the Battle of Lützen in 1632 with myself as a later version of Gustavus Adolphus Magnus [sic!] attempting to make it back from enemy lines (the communal bathroom) without too much superfluous inhaling. The smell is distinct, that's for sure.

Another good thing about living in a dorm (in this particular case, no 15) is the dorm culture, which is extremely friendly and helpful in all sorts of ways. There are parties and dinners, cinema visits and traditions. One tradition is the dorm naming ceremony. All residents here go under a particular name, which obviously wouldn't be the one they were given as children and, as obviously, not one of their own choice. I received mine yesterday in a most intricate ceremony, which I have no intention of describing in any detail as that could ruin the experience for any future student here. Let's just say there was water and screaming in Hindi (that would be me... several times).

The dorm name is supposed to be based on a story about yourself; I chose the one in which friends of mine (by accident I'd assume...) abandoned me at a St. Petersburg underground station, causing me to almost (a matter of centimetres) miss the night express to Moscow. Based on this incident, my new dorm name, a combination of English and Hindi, is... dam-da-da-dam: RusTy. Not only based on one of the defining moments of my life, it also corresponds with the colour of my hair.

Fruit freak show

Siamese banana twins - not for sale in the European Union

The Indian cellphone ordeal

There are a few things I'm unable to grasp when it comes to India. Admittedly, many things here are different from the way they are at home, but that doesn't change the fact that most things can be understood on at least some level. At this particular moment I find the cellphone issue a little bit extra incomprehensible.

Getting a prepaid sim card is more complicated than at home, however still quite manageable, as long as you have a passport size photo of yourself and haven't forgotten your dorm address in Ahmedabad, your permanent address in your home country and your father's name. Yes, for some reason beyond my imagination you have to fill in your dad's name, information about whom has now been filed in what I imagine is the very large archive of Airtel.

After all this work one could at least hope to have as little as possible to do with one's network provider, as any contacts would most likely result in further paperwork. Yesterday I had to top up my sim card, so I went to the Airtel kiosk on campus expecting it to be a rather straightforward process. I gave my phone to the people on duty, who then made a phone call and texted some messages, using sometimes mine, sometimes their own phone. They then told me that the company had for some reason deactivated my card, making all calls and texting impossible. Imagine my surprise as I received this information as I had been texting people that same day. They then told me to wait ten minutes. Now, it's been activated again, they said.

Now, this would have been good news of course had they been true. You see, the same evening as I attempted to text Lovisa I was suddenly unable to text or phone anybody. (Mind you, everything had worked brilliantly up until the point when I first tried to make use of Airtel's services, which they of course charge for.) Somewhat restless I returned to the kiosk after today's lunch and did my best to explain that I was now perfectly able to receive any incoming messages that came my way, however unable to return the favour. The woman then yet again made some phone calls and texted some messages. After ten minutes she said: "Now, it's working again." I'd better cherish the moment.

An Ahmedabad cappuccino

This week has so far been pretty, dare I say very, calm. Most days I only have one class; the exception being today, when I had none. This is because I've made a few changes to my schedule - dropped a few courses and added others. Some of my courses haven't even started yet, which contributes to the rather sleepy situation here. This Saturday will, however, see the beginning of Mergers & Acquisitions and Corporate Restructuring, which is known to be a killer even among Indian students. It's also known to be one of the best courses on offer, so even if it's bound to bring with it a substantial workload, I'm still looking forward to it.

Today we did a few excursions, first to the wonderful café Chocolate House, which really is exactly what it sounds like. It was good indeed, however as with everything western in Ahmedabad they try desperately to get it right, yet somehow fail every time. It's too spicy (almost everything), too salty (pesto penne), too watery (brownies, hot chocolate, mocktails), too sweet (coffee) or too really anything. Therefore, imagine my surprise when we discovered a Lavazza café at the Iscon Mall, which served an almost decent cappuccino - a taste of home in the same sense as the occasional sip of Indian whisky mixed with Pepsi. I was also able to get my hands on the last copy of Joe Sacco's comic book Footnotes in Gaza, and that at a pleasant 15% discount.

Speaking of food and drink - I've been desperately losing weight ever since I arrived, to the very much so expressed concern of Lovisa, my girlfriend. It seems I've now been able to halt the development, assisted by some protein supplements. I shall, though, be careful not to make any alterations to the carefully composed mix of sugary biscuits and fatty crisps I regularly consume at night, so not to jeopardize my recovery.

The intricate decorations of a 16th century Ahmedabad mosque on picture.

Ganesh Visarjan

Today marked the end of Ganesh Chaturthi, the Hindu festival of the god Ganesh (the famous one with an elephant head). It's called Ganesh Visarjan and was celebrated on campus, first with a priest singing various hymns in front of a Ganesh statue outside the mess; this was then followed by a procession around campus, accompanied by drums and dancing. For reasons of tempo we then took a number of rickshaws to the Sabarmati River to immerse the statue and say farewell to it. We were, though, not the only ones. A number of similar processions were spotted on the way and the river bank was covered in people. Many were children (exceptionally happy ones) and apparently the funniest thing in the world is to have your picture taken by a Westerner. We were happy to comply.

Of course, the Swedish election doesn't go unnoticed here. Charlotte and I will have a fun all-nighter clicking the refresh button on various Swedish news sites, while eating biscuits.