The Sounds of Silence

Hello darkness, my old friend

Another day ends in Bangalore as the thunder rumbles and the bats come out to do their crazy stutter fly bat stuff – a light blinks on my - mobile a txt alert about a concert at a new venue just round the corner – a Simon and Garfunkul Tribute Band – might as well give it a go

Ive come to talk with you again

Tried to check when the band was actually on but had a typically missing conversation on phone with the ‘promoter’, and the venue website was similarly unhelpful. Nonetheless turned up around the initial indicated time and though a soul-less space with utilitarian decoration, early 80s hall of residence style, it was filling up quickly with Bangaloreans on their way home and eager to party in a mellow way

And in the naked light I saw

Air Guitar, yes Air Guitar to S&G at the table next to use, accompanied by some seriously annoying knife drumming at the table behind us. You would have thought that perhaps the some strange narcotic had been slipped into something yielding a forced bon-homie.

People hearing without listening,

Never once did the Indian audience stop talking during the songs, and the waving of table flags to attract waiters developed a manic semaphore quality as the eclectic service started to fall apart

And no one dared

To admit that India’s answer to S&G were really bad – every song was played at a 33 rather than 45rpm pace, and that they had no stage presence and conveyed not a jot of emotion all evening. I shuddered as they lumbered into Bridge Over Troubled Waters which was like watching a slow motion train wreck with your feet encased in treacle.

Hear my words that I might teach you

The duo on stage had the slightly forced manically cheerful demeanour of childrens presenters
Simon – Do you know what a boxer is boys and girls?
Garfunkul - We do and we also know a song about it - shall we sing it for you?

They also felt the need to protect the kiddies from naughty words so that the boxer occasionally took refuge in the ‘gals’ on 7th avenue (back to TOTP 1964 Rolling Stones!) – though why they had to turn Parsley (in Strawberry Fayre) to Paisley is beyond me.


And the people bowed and prayed

And we left at half time only because it took 20 mins for the bill to come and a further 5 for the staff to add 10,2 and 2


And whispered in the sounds of silence.

As we enjoyed a peaceful read in bed having escaped tribute band hell, Mrs R with her Vampires and me with the Siege of Assaye in 1803. We will keep trying with entertainment here but I am very happy being Terry to Mrs Rs June

Goodnight All

Why I love India- ??

It might be becoming apparent that I am not universally positive or enthusiastic about all things Indian. Recent things that have got my goat have included a waiter trying repeatedly to persuade us to have lobster, the complete supply chain failure regarding Weetabix availability, the difficulty in peeling mangoes, Banaglore belly striking again, and the complete inability of people to admit when they don’t know the answer.
So in the spirit of acting myself into a new way of thinking – here goes with 10 things I really love about India:

1. Fillet steak is only £1-50 a lb when you can find it
2. Sitting out on the Verandah of an evening
3. Our garden is full of fruit and flower surprises on a daily basis
4. The gym is so exclusive that I have it too myself virtually every day
5. The price of books (if not the quality of printing)
6. The thunderstorms which are both striking and cleansing
7. The price and availability of all pharmecuticals
8. The time for reading and painting – even if I don’t put it to good use
9. Coaching the kids at Rugby especially the Dream a Dream group
But mostly
10. Mrs Reiver lives in the same place

In my attempts at painting various demons seem to be released by the artistic process here, so there are potentially some Indian spirits on the loose including the Tree Dragon pictured. Maybe I am starting to get in touch with my spiritual side or more likely I am assembling a virtual army to take on life in India. None-the-less I am doing my pre-reading for my son’s visit with Sharpe’s Tiger on the bedside table – and the rooms beside Tippoo Sultans palace on the Cauvery river booked – whether I am caught up by the spirit of Wellington during the visit we will have to see…..

Art for Arts Sake?

No for once this is not me reverting back to classic songs of the 1970s for a theme - this time its the Movies! Ars gratia artis beams out the slogan at the start of MGM films accompanied by a roaring lion. As far as I can find out MGM never made a Frankenstein movie – that franchise being started off by Universal Studios – but it was the sort of weather which inspired Mary Shelly – voll Donner und Blitzen – which finally got us going being creative in India last weekend.

An additional factor may have also been being reliably informed (via the News Quiz on R4) that you have to be under 50 to enter the Turner prize – so my time is limited. I could of course fall back on my creative history suggesting that the discount shopping habits at Tesco in Chester-le-Street which produced such eclectic delicacies as pear and haggis risotto were a form of performance art representing a searing indictment of modern consumerist society and the pressures to conform. Unfortunately I understand that the Turner committee has had an ‘Emperors Clothes’ moment and actually wants paintings and drawings – so I will have to stick to conventional media- although I was quite pleased with the complex and reflective pools of sweat I generated whilst recovering on the tiled verandah after running on hot afternoons.

The visual artistic force does not flow particularly strongly with the border reiver clan – artistic efforts seem to focus mostly on heroic songs about other borderers which they have beaten in battle – an ancient precursor to the rugby song perhaps?. The force is however strong on Mrs Reivers side of the family, who generously try not to laugh whenever I attempt anything and can make a ‘you are really improving’ go a long way. What did you produce with the elements providing a Shakepearean backcloth to your artistic efforts and the complex sights, sounds and smells of India putting your senses into overload I hear you ask. Well you know Boy- Northumberland – Northumberland Boy. Mrs Reiver painted the boats at Alnmouth and I painted the family cat Emma (illustrated). She may not quite be a Percy Lion, and is more of purrer than a roarer, but her ability to rule and protect her domain of the rug, bedspread and garden is worthy of any Reiver.

Bloggers Block

A boy from Northumberland coming to terms with life in India – so says the Blog title – well I seem to be at the point where I don’t have much to say about it. This doesn’t mean I have come to terms with it, and in a country with a billion people and an ancient history I clearly can’t have exhausted the experience. I guess the original shock and awe has worn off and become commonplace – not normal but regular. In this inspirational vacuum I can only report on a few things that have caught my attention or made me smile over the last week or so:

- Saw my first sheep running free on the streets – made me feel strangely at home
- Sign for a local educational establishment advertising itself as a Pre-University Collage – surely a much more sensible selection process than A* A levels – prepare a collage that exemplifies your approach to University and learning – much more taxing than a UCAS form!
- Security guards that protect our home and person in slippers
- Got taken out at rugby practice by a 25 kg 7 yr old dutch boy
- Made surprisingly good mango mousse – courtesy of my sisters advice
- Listening to Fighting Talk podcast in the gym
- The Indian elections – interminable and incomprehensible
- A plastic orange rampant stallion ‘sculpture’ that we were presented with by Indian guests
- I love the smell of burning coconuts in the morning
- We had tomatoes growing wild in our garden – quite yummy
- My sister wearing 5 layers whatever the weather
- Dr Ingrams sense of humour

We have chose to holiday in the UK forsaking the golden tropical beaches for Alnmouth – you can take the boy out of Northumberland but ……. Now where is my Percy Lion never mind all this Tippoos tiger stuff

A Cabinet for Trophies

Before the blogsphere rumour mill cartwheels out of control I need to let you know that the recent quiet window was down to a near fatally injured computer – this has now been resuscitated but is suffering some amnesia – I just hope my laptop doesn't take on the persona of that bloke from Memento which I watched on the plane back to India. Can computers get tattoos ??

Anyway back in Bangalore the highlight so far has been the smile on Mrs Reivers face when she was able to locate an old shower curtain to press into action for protecting the small balcony from the monsoonesque squalls. This will clearly be used as yet another justification for her 'Hoarders of the World Unite' campaign against ever throwing anything out as if she needs one!

I am settling (if that is the right word) back into my 'Trophy Husband' role – although the unkind question has been posed – if I was the trophy what was the second prize – some people honestly.

My TH day goes something like this:

0630 – Slip on my exotic tropical robe and prepare Mrs Rs orange juice and tea

0645 – Counsel Mrs R in the 'What Can I Possibly Wear Today' game

0700 – Make Mrs Rs brekkie

0715 – Find Mrs Rs shoes (the maid hides them somewhere new each day)

0720 – Wave off Mrs R then return to bed

0730 – Listen to midnight news on Radio 4 on internet

0800 – Read (at present Arthur and George, and Accordian Crimes with White War next in line)

0900 – Prepare myself for the day and pack gym bag

0930 – Try to slip out of the house without the driver or guard noticing (managed it this morning – sure makes you feel safe) and walk to gym

1000 – Through armed security and metal detectors into Gym in bowels on the Leela Hotel, greeted by 4 different flunkies en route

1015 – 1215 Sweat, grunt, drink lots of water, iced tea, watch strange daytime movies on the treadmill (ie From Hell), cope with the power cuts (lights go out and treadmill keeps going is interesting, as is it going pitch black when half way through final set on the bench press machine today)

1230 – 1430 Slip into my lounging clothes and go to pool, swim, lounge with the other refugees, read, avoid eating anything (they are having a laugh with their poolside prices)

1430 – Walk back to house and have daily conversation with Maid I (Hi Anandi – Hello Sir)

1500 – Light Facebook sparring and decide what to throw together for dinner

1530 – BR extreme cooking accompanied by yesterdays Front Row (R4) and another R4 from internet

1700 – Loiter on veranda in cane chairs aftermuch anti bug spraying, try to avoid brain going to mush by reading, online games, blogging, catch up Star Trek watching on lap top ….

1730 ish – Have daily conversation with Maid II (Going now Sir – Goodnight Anandi)

Sometime later – Telephonic therapy with Mrs Reiver about the injustices of her day

Between 30 and 90 minutes later – Mrs Reiver arrives home and domestic bliss ensues

But enough of this I have a veggie banquet to prepare for guests tonight so will have to park my trophyness on the shelf for today.

Windy Scores on the Doors

Exploring the aforesaid cerebral rotating equipment devices as we cruise at 35000 ft over the middle east on a flight back for quickie Easter R&R in the UK, it is timely to review my performance during Q1 2009. Utilising an established scorecard approach my self evaluation is as follows:




Outstanding
- My reading rate and breadth is growing almost exponentially, and I am even starting to enjoy some Indian books – 2 in the last week White Tiger and In Custody, and I am toying with a Hemingway and Lawrence habit
- My detailed knowledge of Star Trek the Next Generation is approaching geek level
- Celebrity watch – my rugby training is with international players, I now know personally a published author, and have appeared with Mrs Reiver in the gossip column of the local paper

Above
- My word search performance on Facebook is close to 10k (sad or what)
- My cooking has been generally declared as adequate by Mrs Reiver
- I am getting fully moneys-worth from our new gym membership and have achieved new personal bests in sweating
- Our housewarming was a success

On Target
- The essential chocolate and cheese supplies in the fridge have been maintained
- Blogging has been maintained despite a slight drying up of the well of inspiration
- Rugby coaching has developed to include refereeing with hand actions and everything, although whether the Indian kids can differentiate these from Heads and Shoulders Knees and Toes is open to question
- We now have cable TV

Poor
- New headband to cope with gym sweatiness makes me look like a refugee from Fame
- Duetting Hotel California with Mrs Reiver’s Boss at Karaoke was definitely a crime against music
- Being refused entry to new Military based rugby training facility because I was the wrong colour
- Spending the weekend helping Mrs Reiver review architects plans for various new toilets at her work

Below
- Tolerance of Indian traffic, work processes, power cuts, security guards etc etc has left me occasionally howling at the moon and shouting at motorbikes – does pedestrian rage exist??
- Visit to Singapore – plastic, plastic, plastic!
- The Alchemist (play at the Leela) and the Book – schrott, schrott, schrott
- There is nothing worthwile on cable TV
- My knees still not right after the great January rugby de-skinning

So the challenge for Q2 – as the song goes will be to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative and don’t mess with Mr In-Between. With IPL, T20 World Cup, Lions Tour and possible cooking/guitar lessons, Prince II training, new sports club, refereeing course and junior revier visit to come – all is not lost – as Mrs Reiver is fond of saying ‘80% of success is turning up’. As Brucie would have said ‘Good Game, Good Game’

Whatever happened to those Heros

The (super)hero in India seems to be a particularly cricket based genre anticipated by the before their time Stranglers. The press reaction to Saruv Ganguly being removed from the captaincy of the IPL team the Kolkota Knight Riders by the dastardly Australian Coach John Buchanan was along the lines of 1,000,000,000 people simultaneously booing at a pantomime villain. The subsequent intimate TV interviews with an upset Saruv were reminiscent of Princess Di at her best. Perhaps JB could send an intelligent car to sort out Saruv or even captain the team – I would pay to see that - KITT fielding at extra cover would certainly cover the ground and if the floodlights failed could also help out.

Indian heros seem more along the Elton John stroppy diva type than the original Nietzchian concept of the Ubermensch ie something along the lines of- ‘A combination of ruthless warrior pride and artistic brilliance’ . The artistic brilliance seems lacking – where is C Aubrey Smith (England Cricket Captain and Hollywood Actor) or even Jack Russell (Scruffy England wicket keeper who lived on baked beans and could paint a bit) when you need them.

Of course in India the other real heroes are the kings of Bollywood, and Shahrukh Khan reigns supreme and surprise surprise is the owner of the Kolkata Knight Riders – so Saruv may well get a Bollywood happy ending – coming in to bat astride two magnificent dancing elephants – again I would pay to see that (apart from the airfare to SA).

I notice that my son has (very probably incidentally as philosophy was not a big topic around the breakfast table) declared his Superman ambitions on his Facebook site in which he described himself as ‘A Warrior Poet – A new breed of Athlete’. Whilst ambition is always to be applauded I would suggest that he aims for a more British form of superhero. I encountered a tentative role model whilst walking back from the shops last week – Is it a Bird, Is it a Plan – No its Bicycle Repair man – Watchmen come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough!

Traurig - Fruhstueck mit Jean Luc

Sometimes in a foreign culture you just need the familiar – so it was last Sunday – we needed to be back in Hamburg. Rolls, bread, meat salami, jam, butter, coffee and cheese fitted he bill to a tee. Quite what the juxtaposition of the nexus between series 3 and 4 of Star Trek the Next Generation allied with this meant became clear as we surrendered ourselves to Patrick Stewart. The writers had cunningly provided within the requisite episodes the opportunity for JLP to declame in Shakespearean mode on a multiple basis. Many tears were shed!.

Having a e-life german breakfast with the virtual representatives of the Federation of Planets proved to be remarkably relaxing.

India needs both Data, Worrf and Jordi, and appears desperately in need of real leadership as it moves into its election period with all sorts of factions jockeying for position – Captain JLP come in now and restore some RSC type order.

India needs guidance such as his and is split by factional and internecine tensions – interestingly Ferengi is Indian for foreigner - Cricket is the only glue but not one that binds. One feels the void - a blackhole of leadership.

I fear that Ferengi type trade offs will be the winner – sadly!

Acting Ensign BR

This is the Sound of the Suburbs!

I guess that we live in a sought after suburb of Bangalore – a modern day equivalent of the Surbiton of Tom and Barbara Good. Our own Bengaluran version of the good life is accompanied on a daily basis by a relatively reliable but eclectic version of the dawn chorus. I am not really sensitive to background noise having been brought up directly beside Newcastle Airport runway, but this proceeds regularly in approximately the following chronological order, and is starting to get on my nerves:

Ca 5am: Call to the faithful from the local mosque

Shortly after: Neighbourhood dogs have an early morning discussion which escalates to a vigorous Indian level

Ca 6 am: Strange half guttural squeaky noise (as yet un identified) passes by on the road

6:30 am: Just getting back to sleep when the incredibly annoying alarm from Mrs Reivers Blackberry goes off

7.00 am: In case we might drop back off to sleep builder drop of a load of bricks at the building site next door, throwing them on a brick-by-brick basis into a metal skip to ensure maximum impact

7:05 am onwards - persistent but stupid humming bird repeated tries to get through our bedroom window replicating the sound of a very hestitant hotel waiter trying to deliver room service breakfast

7:15 am: Driver arrives, car roars into life and moves its ritual 2 mtrs down the drive

7:30 ish: Local veg seller with cart passes by with his plaintiff cries of what sound worryingly like ‘she dies’…’’she dies’

7:45 ish; Traffic starts to pick up with ritual honking and major axle groaning as trucks pass over the sleeping policemen just outside the house

8:00 is: Daily election vehicle with unintelligible loudspeaker message passes by – all Indian politics is equally unintelligible to me

9:30 ish: Driver returns from dropping Mrs Reiver at work and starts his regular cricket game with the taller of our security guards up against the garage door – listening to to regular thump of the ball makes me feel just like Steve McQueen in the Great Escape.

So goes the days, and though incredibly comfortable it does sometimes feel like the cooler. Any resemblance of our next door neighbours to Margot and Jerry is of course completely coincidental, and rumours that I have already started two tunnels are completely spurious. To keep the good life vibe going though we do get the odd sacred cow stopping by next door - it all helps the MOOd music I guess

Fantasy Island Revisited

In India especially there is a need to escape from time to time from the dirt, dust, chaos and poverty into a different world. One happy bolt hole is to join the crew of the Enterprise as we work our way through Star Trek the Next Generation on an almost daily basis. As well as providing a virtual escape it continues to act as the source of the most relevant leadership lessons, although I am somewhat concerned that Mrs Reiver is starting to exhibit certain Worf tendencies in parallel with her Jean Luc Picard (with Data undertones) aspirations.
Yesterdays offering (Episode 2, Series 3) concerned a small fantasy house and garden recreated by a pacifist superior being after his planet had been wiped out. I was reminded of this little green oasis amongst the devastation as I walked around to the gym we have recently joined this morning. The gym is part of the Leela Palace Hotel which is a lush verdant 5star luxury blot on the vibrant scurrying chaotic and noisy real Bangalore landscape.
My preference in gyms is at the grunt and sweat end of the spectrum – exemplified by Daves Gym in Northwich – no frills, as many machines as possible in one room, equal parts sweat, chemical cleaner and testosterone in the air – one small dodgy shower as the only facilities - £2.50 a session. The Leela is a bit different and more expensive – there is a gadgee just to help you get changed who hangs up your shirt and trousers, and then post exercise puts your sweaty clothes in a little plastic bag – just a bit too ‘Suits You Sir’ for my liking. Then there are the towels and the water – they must have got a job lot as everywhere you turn you are being offered both.
The juxtaposition with real life becomes even clearer when you walk down to the pool and notice the there is only some palm trees and cunning green mesh which separates the poolside from the balconies of the cheek by jowel flats alongside with their balcony washing lines to the fore – one can only hope that the force field continues to keep reality at bay.
To continue the surreal feel after splashing about a bit in support of my delusional ideas of sometime doing a triathlon, I was reading quietly (2 ½ Pillars of Wisdom – v funny – recommended) when I noticed that a middle aged white lady was about to go into the pool. Nothing untoward – but then she put on trainers and gloves as she got in??! – One can only assume she was an American!
So I will continue my fantastical life in Bangalore renewed by the thought that “Fantasy is an exercise bicycle for the mind. It might not take you anywhere, but it tones up the muscles that can. Of course, I could be wrong.” (Terry Pratchett), and of course wait for…the Plane boss the Plane.

Eine Bibliotekwuste - Traurig!

Mrs Reiver virtually grew up in the public libraries of Manchester and so the complete lack of lending libraries in Bangalore has come as a big shock to the system. The compensation for this is that books are relatively cheap here – although that is often reflected in the printing standards – I had to prise apart my copy of (modern classic???) The Alchemist page by page – and wished I hadn’t bothered – new age twaddle of the worst sort. Anyway –in an effort to recreate a familiar atmosphere I decided to sort out the books in our library.

Stage 1 was the planar random tessillation by functional category approach as illustrated, but once I got past this we ended up with 15 sections as listed below. What can we learn from this ?

Category No
Literature 78
Popular Fiction 64
German 52
Cooking 50
Sci Fi/Fantasy 49
Business 47
Reference 45
Chick Lit 32
Popular Science, Philosophy, Economics 32
Poetry 31
India 29
Humour 28
Travel Guides 28
Childrens 26
History - Biography 20
Total 611

Despite the large number of cookbooks I will still insist in doing off piste cooking?

We love Hamburg - 9 of the guides were for there

Or more practically there are perhaps some new publishing niches which could potentially get cross segment appeal.

The german cookbook based on the adventures travel writer who was kidnapped by aliens and travelled in time (working title ‘A Brief History of Currywurst’) perhaps.

A travel guide to India delivered entirely in limericks, example:

There was a young man from Bombay
Who tried to explain he was gay
The Babus got flustered
Indignance was mustered
Forms stamped said impossible today

Or a combination of wild fantasy with business finance – oops I think real life has usurped fiction there!

And what is currently top of our local best seller list – it is the phenomenal publishing sensation that is ‘The Karnataka Shops and Commercial Establishments Act (1961) & Rules (1963) – with Notifications and Caselaws’ a real page turner – no further evidence is needed that one has to make ones own entertainment here.

The Vomiting Sheep & Other Ghosts

Singapore is not always somewhere that you would associate with being a barrel of laughs, but our visit there gave Mrs Reiver and me the best laugh we have had for a long time. There is much potentially depressing now with virtually all traces of the old Singapore subsumed by the concrete and steel vision of a premium brand led capitalist playground. The hawker food continues to provide welcome relief, and before attending the contemporary dance performance at the pineapplesque Esplanande arts centre we fortified ourselves with a rapid kway teow.

The performance was billed as ‘contemplating irretrievable loss in an age of unimaginable speed and technology..’ – I nearly irretrievably lost my cool when we couldn’t buy the tickets at the published price even at the venue (an agency fee applied everywhere) – advertising standards anyone??

I would have to say in its defence that there was some very elegant and poised dancing but for most of the performance Mrs Reiver and I had to sit apart as we were suppressing the desire to burst out laughing whilst everyone around was being desperately earnest. The performance was in a series of episodes with enigmatic titles, but this is my version of what I experienced:

1. Man gets tangled up in curtains and struggles to change the duvet
2. Extras from Star Trek (Class M planet captain, mid 22nd century technology) do the Singapore jumping the queue dance
3. Elegant women does the sweeping the path dance ( Stomp was much better in this respect – yes I am just a philistine)
4. Javanese dancer replicates the atmosphere at St Pauli when the home team gets a corner by rattling his keys above his head for 5 minutes
5. Formation ‘Ministry of Silly Walks’ team strut their stuff
6. Man in sheep mask emerges, pushes around a few hanging umbrellas and imitates the sound of someone throwing up after a heavy night on the Toon continuously for 5 minutes – it must have been a very bad pie!
7. Elegant women now does the carpet fitter dance struggling with an annoying bump in the carpet
8. Everyone struggles to get home after a night out doing the ‘You’re my best mate – I Love You’ dance – where they have to pick up their mates after falling over after a couple too many
9. Sick sheep does the ‘When you can walk on the rice paper and leave no trace’ dance

Written out this makes about as much sense as it did on the night. We had a short dilemma in choosing whether to go to this or see Rod Stewart – the available Rod tickets being a ridiculous £180 each resolved that pretty swiftly. No matter how silly Mr Stewarts haircut or however much he wiggled his bum he could never have provided a fraction of the entertainment we got. FYI – Officially the sheep being sick episode was titled ‘I am not the goat – I am the meaning of the goat’ – there is nothing further to say.

This is a man's world ??

I attempt in my humble way to give a feel for life in India and Bangalore through this blog, and it also has considerable therapeutic value. Earlier this week I felt like giving up blogging having read Hemingway’s epilogue to ‘Death in the Afternoon’ – which managed to pack in more evocative detail in one short sentence than I manage in a several blogs worth. Reading ‘essential’, and very manly, Hemingway also seems to have affected some of my choices – I ended up with a macho DVD watchathon over the last couple of days Casino/Godfather Part 2/Platoon. I was also prompted to get a copy of ‘The Old Man and the Sea’ which I did for ‘O’ Level several decades ago, and now am anticipating a dinner of barracuda and giant prawns.
I need to resist this and have put all the red tablecloths in a locked cupboard in case I feel the urge to try my matador skills with the local sacred cows, and I feel fly fishing in the local rivers would be rather fruitless. I clearly need to be careful with my reading, I will leave the ‘Snows of Kilimanjaro’ alone before flying off to Singapore later this week especially as my damaged legs have not completely recovered from rugby a couple of weeks ago.

Mrs Reiver has gone ahead, and it is worrying that she is finding it so reassuring just on the basis that simple things such as traffic, water and supply chains for food actually work there. Revisiting the OMATS was surprisingly pleasurable and I am hopeful that revisiting Singapore after living there nearly 15 years ago will be similar but I suspect it will be full of surprises. I may well miss the chaos of India, but probably not the dawn chorus of fighting dogs which woke me this morning. There are some linking themes through between the two counties, with Singapore operating its own ‘caste’ system but based on education rather than family history – as Mrs Reiver would point out these are however not independent variables. In Singapore there is also the concept of ‘Kiasu’ where extracting the most economic advantage out of every situation is celebrated, the same approach applies to interactions in India but on a more stealth basis. I will overtly extract maximum pleasure from my Singaporean weekend and possibly some covert payback if I happen to run into my ex Boss who still lives there – or maybe I have just spent too much virtual time with Vito Coroleone recently.

The Circuit of Life

There is much wisdom embedded in Disney song lyrics – and my personal philosophy is probably summed up best (if not tunefully when self delivered) by a medley of Jungle Book songs. I chose yesterday to dispense with the usual music whilst running round my local race loop (diagram attached) and felt that in this kilometre or so reminded me somewhat of ‘The circle of life’. Cross checking the Lion King lyrics they are rather apt:

There's more to see than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done
There's far too much to take in here
More to find than can ever be found
But the sun rolling high
Through the sapphire sky
Keeps great and small on the endless round

So as they used to do when I worked in F1 in my youth - lets take you on a lap of the tricky and variable Indiranagar Circuit.

Pulling away from Harmony with the rubber on my trainers smoking slightly there is a relatively easy down start but with regular speed bumps testing out the suspension in the dodgy knees. This circuit is littered with unexpected distractions so you must stay alert at all times. On the opening straight these consist of:

1) The open air ironing man – with still hot coals scattered around his stall – even more dangerous than the ‘marbles’
2) The building workers collected in a magnetic huddle around a hole watching one person work – if you slow down for a peek here your lap is ruined
3) The local HOPCOM selling fruit – you must ensure you are stocked up on papaya before leaving the pit lane

Then comes the tricky sharp ‘DON’T URINATE HERE’ lefthander negotiating the recently created 4) random piles of debris in the road. You can relax a bit on the shady tree lined bottom straight, hold you nose as you pass over 5) sewer bridge and then smoothly hit the apex and accelerate into the uphill back straight. You do have to keep your wits about you and your eyes open for auto-rickshaws coming up the wrong side of the road.

As you churn up the hill the pacemaker hits the limiter but it is critical that you are not tempted by any of the back straights wiles:

6) The Hindu temple – spiritual needs
7) The Street Vegetable Stall – 5 a day needs
8) and 9) The Electricity & Bottled Gas shops – energy needs
10)The Bakery – food needs (but of course not bread – at a bakery – come on!)

You are now approaching the prime spectator viewing areas as you negotiate 11) sofa corner (avoiding also the head tennis game that is permanently ongoing) and cruise along 12) Washing Line straight. As well as avoiding the washing lines, kite strings and small children being washed in the street – you need to prepare for the challenging corner combinations which end the lap.

Swinging left at 13) Bullock curve with the occasional misfire under braking, you need to watch your grip and then try not to titter as you pass the 14) ‘Vibrators for hire’ shop. The uneven surface of the next short straight tests the ankles and that suspected broken toe, but you can sniff the end of the lap as well as the coffee and ciggies of the blokes all standing outside the 15) local shop doing very little ( a national sport in India). Rounding the final turn is downhill all the way to the finish with the only real distraction being a 16) strolling lemon seller with a sack on his head.

Then in is into the pits supervised by the gate marshalls and definitely time to take advantage of some corporate hospitality!

DIY, Y, Y - Delilah!

It is always difficult to work out whether you may offend local sensibilities in what you do whilst in India. This is made no easier by there being a locally raging debate about what is appropriate ‘Indian’ behaviour in the 21st century, so that there are no real goalpost and/or they are possibly moving.

My attempts to cater for Vegans at our housewarming party suffered from the fact that in practice this also excluded (I later found out) anything that came out of the ground so my carefully assembled attempts languished wallflower like all evening whilst the beef and ham snacks disappeared almost immediately. Plus my wonderful mushy peas were assumed to be avocado – do I look like an avocado sort of person??!
Interestingly there are virtually no recognisable DIY stores as everybody who is reasonably affluent has workmen in to do things although often it is literally a workman (no tools, no equipment) that turns up. Most Indians I have met just cannot get their heads round why I would do my own cooking when we have a maid. I attempted a largely DIY approach to the event and the guests seemed to enthusiastically get the hang of the self service bar, but were less adept at noticing the direction to the toilets on the side of the fridge. I got quite a strange and frightened look when a young Indian asked about the location of the facilities and I just pointed at the fridge – he was much relieved at many levels when he found the directions!

Our DIY approach extends to my ‘haircuts’ which Mrs Reiver explores her shaping tendencies with electric clippers finding this both cost effective, relaxing and therapeutic. In the UK we would occasionally do it on the front step in poor white trash fashion, and I would then run around the garden twirling my shirt about my head – this suddenly sounds like a punchline to a poor taste joke so I will get to the point. Going for the ‘Easy like Sunday morning’ vibe today I had by hair cut by Mrs Reiver in her Jamas in the garden ‘biblical style’ with the Radio 4 Sunday service wafting over us and vivid butterflies circling. This took quite a while as she cannot help as a mathematician striving for symmetry, and rugby and life has rendered my head somewhat aesthetically unbalanced. Was this culturally insensitive or inappropriate? - we will probably never know what our security guard made of this performance, not because he is reticent to communicate, but because he was dozing in his slippers.

A Reivers Kitchen Nightmare

We have probably foolishly decided to throw a house-warming party on Friday the 13th inviting people over for drinks and nibbles – this then resulted in the debate with Mrs Reiver as to what nibbles constituted in an Indian context, as they seem to expect a full feed on most occasions. I am now charged with producing food and drinks for 30 or maybe 50 people covering carnivores, vegetarians and vegans with snack food but enough so that they don’t go hungry, and within the context that there may well be no electricity on the night – so no pressure then. Mrs Reiver even wants it also to be reliably edible and tasty – she should have learned by now that my experimental cooking is rarely both.

I am dredging my 70s past and pretending it is now posh – so sausages on sticks have now become chorizo kebabs, little sandwiches have become Ciabatta slices with Chinese fried fillet steak, and Pease Pudding has become garlic pea puree and chilli ‘hummus’. I have found supplies of Blue Nun and Mateus Rose extra-ordinarily limited and neither sight nor sound of a Watneys Party 7 – so we may have to rely on contemporary drinks, and I may still be tempted by trying a supply of India’s first Malt Whisky (from Goa).

The 70s will be well represented on the music selection although what our Indian aquaintances will make of the juxtaposition of some Manilow magic with a blast of the Pistols I am not sure. I was vetoed on working up the Friday the 13th theme too much and my idea for putting small blood stained pillows with and embedded axe in each of the bathrooms was not well received, neither was greeting the guests wearing a hockey mask and holding a cake slice.

The dry run last night was anything but with the disposable cups that we got proving far from water or wine –tight. Friday promises to be an interesting day, as we shop for a giant block of ice for drinks cooling, and hope that everything comes together, and that the building site next door doesn’t provide too much noise competition. In case they do I have the stocks of rum and coke and a Lindisfarne medley prepared for late night competitive collective Karaoke.

By the end of the evening guests may wish that they were ‘Sitting in a sleazy snack bar sucking sickly sausage rolls’ and hope that it was all a bad dream.

I Got the Music in Me

When I was a lad, music originally came out of radios or juke-boxes – or if you were daring you tried to record Top of the Pops direct onto your reel to reel tape machine. Technology advanced in the early 70s when there were ads for mini-radios with a single earpiece that you could secrete in your blazer and surrepticiously listen at school. Of course after that bloke at Sony did the Walkman it started to get out of hand with it being difficult to spot someone now who isn’t wired – and with adverts in India encouraging students to do (unflattering) electronic caricatures of their professors in lectures.

Whatever the delivery device the choice of music is always instructive – von Karajan famously selected 8 von Karajan pieces on DID many years ago. I found the other week that as well as being the Antidote to Panel Games that ISIHAC also worked well against Bangalore traffic jam fatigue.

So as I went tortuously jogging at 32C the other day I asked myself what my choice of accompanying running music said about me and my life in India. The current selection was:

• Could it be Magic – Barry Manilow (us proboscally endowed artists need to stick together)
• Peaches – The Stranglers (my ears still ring from hearing them live)
• Guns don’t Kill People, Rappers Do – Goldie Lookin Chain (humour is in short supply in India – especially that subversive type from the underground Newport Welsh rap scene)
• Stan – Eminem (I like songs that tell stories, plus a very good steady jogging beat)
• Dead Ringer for Love – Meatloaf (A song about music, alcohol, and having fun – strengstens verboten in Bangalore)
• Don’t Stop Me Now – Queen (with my taste bypass I enjoyed ‘We Will Rock You’ in the West End)
• Downtown Train – Rod Steward (On the things to do before I am too decrepit list is to see the man in concert with No 2 son)
• Wonderwall – Oasis (Happy memories of late nights at the Red Lion in Frodsham)
• Walk this Way – Aerosmith/Run DMC (I like contrasts and possibly kicking walls – and what were those girlies doing making a version – some things are best left alone)

At a total run time of 42 mins which includes my warm down routine (sit in deck chair – pant – sweat) it also says I am not running very far – our gym membership processing is proceeding with the glacial urgency of most Indian administration – perhaps I should add the 'Ballad of Urgency' by the Black Crowes to the playlists of those concerned!

Thirty Degrees of Separation

Whilst Bangalore is a ‘connected’ IT capital is still easy to feel remote from the rest of the world – especially if you occasionally forget to pay your ISP bill! and end up having to use an internet ‘café’ with cubicles that makes you feel extreme empathy for veal calves.

Earlier this week as the UK (well the South East) suffered its heaviest snowfalls for years and little else filled the airways - I was confined to barracks airing my knees in the garden in 30 deg + heat to facilitate the healing process. They are looking a lot better (thank you for asking). Using this forced reflection period I concluded that the trick is, I think, to stay grounded in where you are living, but sufficiently connected to where you are from. As I can’t resist lists – here are my ten top tips for staying connected with your roots whilst living in India (plus a little something extra for the gadgee).

1. Refer to waiters, shop assistants etc as gadgees as often as possible
2. Occasionally wear socks and sandals
3. Talk to your staff as if they are real people
4. Avoid any events with more than 3 expats present
5. Listen to at least 30 mins of Radio 4 comedy per day – preferably the News Quiz or ISIHAC
6. Use the Mantra ‘Whilst the Maldives are lovely – I would rather be in Alnmouth’ regularly
7. Remember that you used to find ironing somewhat therapeutic
8. Read the UK economic news regularly
9. Catch any head wiggling tendencies early
10. Continue to wear shorts and T-shirt when the Indians wrap up in scarves and balaclavas against the bitter 15 deg C winter nights
11. Keep the ‘sail before steam’ principle alive whilst sharing the roads as a pedestrian with the traffic

The original border reiver’s allegiance to family was always greater than to any country. I am afraid I don’t buy into the notion that you take on family responsibilities for your staff in India – anyway ours are far too well behaved and probably less than 50% of the required weight to remotely qualify as a member of this family.

I guess that's why they call it the Blues

If you discount the daily road antics of auto-rickshaw drivers and bikers – live entertainment is somewhat thin on the ground in Bangalore. It was so bad that we were forced to enter the dark shadows of the world of karaoke last week at a Goan themed bar close to the house. Mrs Reiver went initially on a works outing, and just as I was settling into a quiet evening in with a beer and Star Trek – The Next Generation Series 1, when I was called up to provide moral and vocal support. Mrs Reiver’s boss looked somewhat askance as we duetted all over Hotel California, and my miming of ‘stabbing with their steely knives’ left him checking where security were. The evening degenerated in predictable fashion and it was a merciful release, at least for any music lovers and all our livers, that Bangalore has good old fashioned chucking out time at 10:45.

We assumed the quality would be better at the Jazz and Blues festival at the weekend. What happens when you assume – it makes an ASS out of U and ME! The venue in the centre of Cubbon Park was pleasant enough, and of course it started late – but only fashionably late by Inidian (or Virgin Rail) standards. The singer from the first artists was described as a Mystic, a World Traveller, a Women’s Right Campaigner and a singer – Uh Oh. The content, mostly latin, was pleasant enough but the links about world peace and harmony had the alarms going off in my head. We thought we would at least give the next act a go. First of all they were French, nothing per-se against the French, but this guy was using urban backing tracks, had blond dreads, was wearing MC hammer pants, his physical stylings were pure 90s techno and he was playing the sitar as if he thought he were the re-incarnation of Hendrix. Three tracks from this outfit had me reaching for the lighter fluid! – so before I gave them some real audience feedback we left.

For a jazz and blues festival, sponsored by a whisky company the evening was entirely devoid of all three. In recession and credit crunch hit times you would think that the blues would prosper, there should be plenty of stories to tell. I soon realised that the whole event was a cryptic Indian joke with the music being so bad it made you depressed enough to drink their aptly named ‘Black Dog’ whisky. Churchill apparently coped with his ‘Black Dog’ by laying bricks to relax – so perhaps this blog should be regarded as ‘just another brick in the wall’.

To counter all this doom today’s picture is an un-identified pretty flower from our garden – which looks to me suspiciously like one of those killer ones from the original Star Trek series?!

POETRY PLEASE (no, no, no!)

It has been suggested that my prose can be a little convoluted, and I am also reading a book which encourages me to practise creativity through poetry – so today’s offering is in poetic form – Hemmingway meets Vogon Captain style. You were warned!

FORMS, FORMS & FORMS, FORMS

INSECT BITES & DOG FIGHTS
CELEBRITY BATS & PROGGY MATS
SACRED COWS & INDIAN ROWS
SULPHUROUS SMELLS & TEMPLE BELLS

FORMS, FORMS & FORMS, FORMS

TRAFFIC JAM & HUGE YAM
MARBLE FLOOR & CRICKET SCORE
SEEKING DIVINE & DODGY WINE
SMURF WIFE & JUMBLED LIFE

FORMS, FORMS & FORMS, FORMS

JIGSAW TREES & SCRAPED KNEES
PURPOSEFUL ANTS & BAGGY PANTS
SECURITY THREATS & JOGGING SWEATS
DREAMING DREAMS & PICKING TEAMS

FORMS, FORMS & FORMS, FORMS

PROCESS LACKING & FIREWORK CRACKING
PERSISTENT DUST & PAVEMENTS BUST
GENTLE SWING & BUTTERFLY WING
VEGGIE CURRY & PRICY DHURRY

LIFE, LIFE & LIFE, LIFE

Today's picture is the anti-poetic sight of an Auto Rickshaw driver returning to his vehicle after relieving himself on our outside wall - once they stop sprinkling in public I may reconsider my approach to PDAs (Public Displays of Affection - much frowned on)

Tigers ..... and Pythons

I should be at the stage of life where I have left all childish things behind me but I seem to be progressively getting more and more in touch with my inner child. Much of my recent reading could easily be classed as children’s literature for example. This was emphasised when I arrived home on Saturday evening with skinned knees that would have graced an excitable 7 year old. It also wasn’t difficult to see it coming – rugby training – hard ground – ball – run - tackle – ground – knees – ouch. Then repeat to ensure the full effect.

Whilst not entirely without sympathy (given her martial arts background) Mrs Reiver was a little disaffected that I had partially disabled myself for the long bank holiday weekend, when the multi-coloured big toe providing only limited visual entertainment. Perhaps I should take the Crocodile Dundee approach and rename myself the Tiger of Indiranger and regale visitors of how the tiger’s claws raked across my leg as I wrestled with it. In truth most of the wrestling involved at the rugby practice was verbal not physical. There seems to be something about the Indian psyche which means that even the most straightforward decisions cannot be taken without loud and very vigorous debate. The curious thing is that once things are resolved there is no hangover it’s just how things work – strangely like a street theatre version of the Monty Python argument sketch. I was given a book called ‘The Argumentative Indian’ for Christmas – I should get round to reading it to glean some insights.

India can seem remote from the real world and with my propensity for remaining childish I could become a lost boy in an Asian Neverland – maybe with a ticking tiger – plus of course a part for Lionel the Warthog. Growing up is always an option but as the rugby coach said to the rest of the twenty-somethings at training – ‘When you are in the pub you act like young men but on the pitch you act like old men’. I have always liked old men’s pubs – the ones without people - and so I will probably keep at it to provide some balance. After all cracked ribs mend magically in Neverland – well sadly they don’t, but my attempts to try and put my pants one handed without bending did at least bring a smile to Mrs Reivers face.

A Bored Reader in Bangalore

In my new circumstances in India I have considerably more time for reading than before, and I should probably have got together a proper reading list to help fill the gaping gaps in my literary education. As with many other things the book selection has been more organic and dynamic. I am not sure what my book selection says about me but here are my Hemmingwayesque reviews of my recent reading:

Keep off the Grass (Karan Bajaj) – Entertaining but disturbing
The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana (Umberto Eco) – A bit up itself
The Full Cupboard of Life (Alexander McCall Smith) – Reliably comforting
The Comfort of Saturdays (Alexander McCall Smith) – Ditto
East of the Sun (Julia Grigson) – Chewy Raj potbolier
The Red Carpet – Bangalore Stories (Lavanya Sankaran) – Full of East meets West tension
The Gravediggers Daughter (Joyce Carol Oates) – Evocative but too long
Being Indian (Pakan K Varma) – Just depressing
Shantaram (Gregory David Roberts) – A ripping 1980s yarn
The Lives of Christopher Chant (Diana Wynne Jones) – Eat your hat Rowling JK
Games Indians Play (V Raghunathan) – Frighteningly accurate
Fooled by Randomness (Naseem Nicholas Taleb) – Intermittently insightful
Culture Shock India – Patronising and dated
Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders (Giles Brandreth) – Literary Horlicks
Half a Life (V S Naipaul) – Half too many!

I was prompted to think that perhaps I should turn my attention to a medium which is more visual and suited to my shorter attention span such as TV cartoons for serious study. This train of thought chugged out of the station of possibility fuelled by the glowing sight of returning home yesterday to find Mrs Reiver distinctly Smurf like with blue hands after a less than effective attempt to clean up after some furniture redecoration. I never really got the Smurfs but this childhood throwback reminds me of my current reading – ‘Paddington Here and Now’ just like marmalade sandwiches real class never goes out of fashion.

Oh and I forgot ‘Eats Shoots and Leaves’ (Lynne Truss) – but no-one would ever believe that I had read it!

Healing Hands?

Yesterday was one of the regular Public Holidays in India, this one celebrating a form of harvest festival – the harvest in question being sugar cane currently sold by impromptu stalls on most street corners in 9ft lengths. We passed a cane stall whilst taking the opportunity to test drive our local Spa ( as opposed to our local Spar with which we are already well acquainted). This has the distinct advantage of being just across the road.

On arrival we were required to fill out and extensive questionnaire to help determine our Ayurvedic body type – these being one of Vatta, Pitta, Kapha. I was not entirely sure that my answers were unaffected by the Kapha type being characterised as phlegm-like, and for many questions none of the answers seemed flattering to my western eyes. I am unconvinced as yet of all this palaver.

Progressing to the changing room it became apparent that their garments were designed for the relatively diminutive south Indian build, so that I emerged from the changing room in a robe showing even more cleavage than that on display on a Friday night out in Chester le Street. The ‘very snug’ disposable paper pants completed my ‘relaxing’ outfit.

The massage began with the usual spiritual background music, which unfortunately resembled the theme music from the ‘Tales of the Unexpected’ TV series, which gave the experience a slightly sinister undertone. This was slightly amplified when it became clear that the masseur was not that familiar with nail clippers adding a certain frissant. The volume and consistency of Border Reiver requiring massaging also appeared to present a significant physical challenge to the male masseur looking after me. Having a now slightly panting man vigorously massaging my inner thighs might have been un-nerving if I had not had my rugby experiences to fall back on.

Things proceeded more conventionally with a sauna and shower (no thigh massaging involved) and being served herbal tea by a Char wallah whilst changing.

Mrs Reiver emerged rather more chilled out after opting for the hot stones version but did admit to ‘nearly decking’ the masseuse when she tweaked here sensitive back the wrong way.

So our spiritual quest through India has started, but (just as a Chester le Street Friday night) it is not yet clear whether it will end up with cosy intimacy or a punch up. Seconds out - round two – Ding Dong

Dressing to Kill and Another 24 Hours

Exec Summary (just for Holger)
Got back, shopped, ate, chatted, slept, breakfasted, meeting, shopped, ran, blogged – back to normal?

Full Version
Arriving back in Bangalore after and extended flight back from the UK (extended 12 hours due to the aeronautical version of leaves on the line – fog at Heathrow) – the reorientation process kicks in pretty quickly. Reflecting after our first 24 hours back in India it went something like this.

1. Met at airport by our excited driver who seemed genuinely pleased to see us – but has taken the period away to grow a dodgy goatee
2. Home unpack – most importantly the new shears – so that our staff no longer resort to cutting the grass with scissors
3. Mrs Reiver accosts passing fruit/veg cart and buys up most of its contents including an as yet un-identified brown fruit with a leathery rough surface
4. Shower and rock gently for a bit on balcony swing – but dangerously soporific – so decide to go out to eat
5. Dinner at local Italian – keeps us going especially surprisingly good long island ice tea
6. Video conference with Mother in Law before bed – with sound output fed through amp and speaker system combined with Harmony acoustics - Mother in Laws Voice resonates (somewhat intimidatingly) through entire house
7. Collapse – sleep
8. Get up very early and feed Mrs Reiver with mashed Banana, tea and juice before dropping her off at Electronic city after braving the Hosur Road flyover roadworks. Note – several near death traffic experiences involving narrowing gaps between buses and lorries can be a quite effective cure for jet lag.
9. Spend 3 hours in a meeting advising on the business and operational aspects of setting up an NGO in Tajikistan – fortunately adrenalin kicks in sufficiently – just
10. Droop in car on way back – but manage to restore food supplies on way home so that we can play with Mrs Reivers new cheese slice and especially my new chefs outfit (it is not just my kids that can play dressing up!) later
11. Finish unpacking sustained by Radio 2 courtesy of th’internet
12. Rescue my trainers from the maid (who was about to put them still muddy from Wythenshawe Park into the washing machine) and re-acquaint myself with the streets of Indiranagar – the Dragon is on the move again – fuelled by Run DMC. Something vaguely satisfying about mixing the mud of Manchester with the dust of Bangalore.
13. Blog to the soundtrack of Ken Bruce and ‘Popmaster’

Normality resumed then – sort of – as they say in HHGTTG – ‘anything you can no longer cope with is your own problem’

Abroad thoughts from Home?

After a couple of weeks back in the UK on leave I am forced to come to the conclusion that I am a creature fundamentally designed for cold weather – or perhaps that I just like contrasts. The streets of Bangalore may offer many delights as I attempt to jog my merry way around them but they cannot compete with the frozen park lightly dusted (as if with pudezucker) that Mrs Reiver and I trotted through yesterday. Running in the cold just seems somehow sort of more worthy whereas running in the tropics slightly foolhardy.

I have just finished reading ‘The 13 ½ Lifes of Captain Bluebear’ by Walter Moers – a birthday present for Mrs Reiver for Mrs Reiver senior but I managed to sneak in first when she was ‘chick lit’ distracted. I feel a bit like the central character in the book (I heartily recommend it) as he wanders from world to world trying to make sense of it all. Both Bangalore and Manchester are home (sort of) but like chalks and cheese - it is very good once again to have unlimited supplies of cheese (the Pecarino at my sisters was particularly memorable and tasty, as was the local cheese we brought back but for different reasons – the garden birds at least showed their appreciation)

Talking of cheese -Wallace and Gromit also make you proud to be British more than many for the more conventional achievements associated with the UK. We seem to have nett accumulated luggage mass during our trip so I hope that the Magrathean approach to such issues will not be applied or it could be a painful trip back.

Getting ready for returning to the tropical warmth and supported life of Bangalore I realise that I will miss parking more than anything – for sheer entertainment value the music-hall style banter and growing panic that accompanies Mrs Reiver and her mother trying to find a suitable parking slot, takes some beating – our driver back in Bangalore will have a lot to live up to.

Hoping that Angel and Buffy have not missed us to much …..