Who Invited the Corybantes?

I am not a New Year’s Eve celebrating kind of person. It doesn't make sense nursing a massive hangover or just general fatigue on the first day of the new year. So most years, I've spent a quiet evening with my closer friends, watched TV at home or simply slept through it all.

This year was different. In the last hours of 2012, I found myself gawping at a bunch of dancers wearing grass skirts and engaging each other in frantic pelvic-thrusting and postures that would make the Kama Sutra blush and feel like a gymnastics handbook for toddlers.

I was at the picturesque Season’s Lodge on Pongwe beach in Zanzibar. A waiter, whom we fondly referred to as the Laughing Kenyatta, proudly informed us about the resort’s New Year’s Eve party at dinner the previous evening. He beamed from ear to ear as he read out the menu for the proposed party. “There will also be an acoustic band from Zambia,” he trilled, Cheshire-Cat grin spreading to reveal at least 53 pearly whites glinting in the moonlight.

The prospect of listening to some traditional African music appealed to everyone.

The “acoustic band” turned out to be two guys with bongo drums. The rest – about five men and three women – were dancers. A few men wore grass skirts. The leader had a whistle dangling around his neck, which he blew from time to time as the group pranced around in a circle, singing, clapping and hooting in an indecipherable tongue.

Then the group began pairing off in turn. Each couple would stand in the middle of the circle, gyrate suggestively and end with very frenzied coital poses. Once in a while, a few women would break off from the group and head over to a man in the audience. She’d then do what I have only seen some naughty male dogs do to unsuspecting human legs.

I pride myself on being very open-minded, a progressive thinker and by no measure a prude. But this proved too much even for me. I glanced over at the rest of the audience. Everyone – westerners and us from the subcontinent alike – had the same perplexed and somewhat stunned expression. My neighbour's eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets while his lower jaw fell into his champagne glass.

I clicked one picture of the group and then hastily stuffed the camera away. “Bad light,” I said, but the truth is I did not want to look like a skulking pervert. The resort clientele’s conversation at breakfast the next day was peppered with “shocking” and rolling eyes.

The performance seemed endless. The moves did not change. The only ones having fun were the dancers themselves. A couple of enthusiastic resort staff sang along and clapped with glee before their Punjabi manager told them to stop standing around together.

Soon, the complimentary bubbly, the wine and the incessant drumming and gyrating began to take a toll. Fatigue and headaches set in. With about an hour to go for midnight, we slunk off to our villas.

Lying on a sunbed, gazing up at the star-flecked African night sky and contemplating a lazy ocean gleaming silver in the moonlight as a cool breeze gently tousled my hair seemed a far better way of bidding adieu to 2012. I fell into an easy slumber.

As the clock struck 12, I mumbled sleepy “happy new year” wishes and nestled into bed, enjoying the sound of waves breaking at the villa front. It struck me only much later – the entire resort was quiet. The sound of the bongos had ceased. It would appear that the Whistler and his merry bunch of African Corybantes had successfully driven everyone into the refuge of their villas well before the witching hour.

It was an auspicious start to 2013.

Happy new year, y’all!

Getting that Yellow Fever Jab in Bangalore

[The procedure for getting the yellow fever vaccine in Bangalore appears to have changed since I posted this. Thanks to "Anonymous" in the Comments section for providing the updated procedure (as of Jan 2014). Here is what he/she says:

"The vaccine costs 400/- INR now. 

1. Get your appointment on Mondays, preferably before noon, by calling  080- 22210248 for an appointment for Wednesday (if Wednesday is a public holiday, the jab is administered on Thursday).
2. Carry a copy of your travel tickets & your original passport. 
3. Go to the center by 9:30 AM. Google Maps gets you there perfectly. You have parking as well. 
4. Your name is called out at 10:00 AM. Works very efficiently. Fill in the simple form, go to the room next door, pay the fees and you get a receipt. 
5. Come back with the form & the receipt. Your yellow card is issued with a number on it. Fill in your name, passport number, DOB & mandatory requirements. 
6. Go to the administrator & your number is called out.

7. Get the jab - if you are in by 9:30 AM, you can exit by 10:45 AM. 
Works very efficiently if you are organized. Extremely punctual & courteous, if you have all your paper work."]
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My original post in Dec 2012 about the procedure:

In preparation for my trip to East Africa, I realised it was mandatory for all travelers going there (regardless of whether you're headed to mainland Tanzania or Zanzibar) to get a yellow fever vaccination and certificate. They will ask to see your certificate at your port of entry. If you don't have it, you will be directed to the inoculation room at the airport before you can clear immigration.

There was hardly any information online about getting the shot in Bangalore. So here’s me doing my good deed for all those trawling for information about “yellow fever vaccination in Bangalore” on the internet.

While some private hospitals (like Manipal) do administer the vaccine (I’m not sure how much they charge for this), a certificate from them is not recognized.

The only place that can issue that all-important certificate (and administer the vaccine at a subsidized rate of Rs 260) is the Public Health Institute.

I groaned when I realised this. Government organisation. And we all know how any Indian government institute is going to be. The website will tell you that the vaccines are given only every Wednesday – for which you need to make an appointment over the telephone beforehand.

So I tried calling – but each time, either nobody would pick up (big surprise there?) or even if somebody did, they’d say all the appointments were “full” (only 10 appointments are given for each Wednesday) and to call back later.

That’s when a doctor neighbour who’d gone through the rigmarole himself gave me this invaluable piece of advice on how to go about it.

1. Go to the Public Health Institute in person first thing Monday morning (9 AM) along with your passport.
2. Wait in queue there (there were about three people already waiting when I reached).
3. When the guy in charge finally shows up (around 10:30 AM), he’ll open his register and ask each person when their date of travel is. This is where you FIB. If your date of travel is even 10 days away, he’ll ask you to come back the next week. So tell him your date of travel is about a week away – he will just have to give you the appointment (and they don’t ask to see your tickets!)
4. The guy will enter your name and passport number in the register and give you the date and time of your vaccination appointment.
5. On Wednesday, show up well in time with your passport and two disposable syringes. They have their own syringes as well – a lot of people did not have their own syringes – but do you really want to risk it?
6. Once the guy in charge has arrived, he’ll cross-check your name and appointment in his register and give you a form and the yellow fever booklet to fill in before sending you to another office to pay Rs 260 (take exact change to save time).
7. With the payment receipt in hand, you will now have to wait your turn as the doctors call out each name in the order entered in the register.
8. The shot is a trifle painful (intra-muscular), but it’s valid for ten years, so that’s a blessing.
9. The doctors will sign and seal your certificate/booklet and you’re free to go.
10. Wait outside in the parking lot for the inconsiderate morons who’ve parked their two-wheelers haphazardly, blocking your exit.

I didn't spend too much time waiting around for the shot. In the time that I did have to wait, I found myself conversing with two nuns headed to Congo.

I also had time to observe this braggart who was first in queue for the appointment. He looked dressed for Africa already – a safari hat atop his bald head and a long handlebar mustache. Was he headed on a hunting expedition? “Look at my passport,” he declared, rifling through the pages dramatically to show his neighbour, who looked on quietly. “I have been to so many countries, you know!” Obviously not pleased with his neighbour’s lack of adulation, he turned to the third person in queue and brandished his passport. “I have traveled everywhere!”

Okay, wise guy. Obviously, “everywhere” does not include Africa and South America – two continents that require you to have the yellow fever vaccination which is valid for ten years.

On the day of the vaccination, the guy had changed considerably – the hat and handlebar mustache were gone. What was even more conspicuous in its absence was his bluster. The wind had been let out of his sails and he sat quietly, glumly staring at the floor. I think somebody was mortally afraid of injections. *Smirk*

Public Health Institute (Opposite: S.J.Polytechnique college),
Near Atria Hotel/ K.R Circle, Bangalore-560001
Telephone Number: 080-22210248

(Landmark: Maharani’s College. The quickest route I found from the centre of town was from Vittal Mallya road, cutting through Cubbon Park and coming out onto the crazy roundabout at Nrupathanga Road)

Skybrawl or Something Like It

Something I thought quite impossible happened last night. I watched the new Bond flick “Skyfall”. In a theatre. I paid good money to watch Daniel Craig try to act in a role that I believe rightfully belongs to Pierce Brosnan. The only money I've paid earlier for Craig-as-Pains-Bond films is about Rs 50 for a DVD from Mr. Dodgy DVD Guy.

It was painful. No, don’t get me wrong. The movie itself was nice. I actually enjoyed it, even if I did wince now and then when I saw a striking resemblance between Craig and Alfred E. Neuman. (If you’re going to protest my opinion, I suggest self-immolation.)

The movie viewing experience was the painful part. As my rotten luck would have it, I ended up sitting beside a young boy, who looked about 12 or 13. I didn't think I’d have any trouble. At that age, there isn't any bawling and crying - unless you kick them in the shins or give them a really bad wedgie.

The movie was scheduled to begin at 9:30 PM. As always, it began with dozens of commercials. The boy’s reaction to this should have given me some warning about what lay ahead. He kept yelling, “Start the movie!” which was okay for the first 15 minutes, but then it really started to get old and, frankly, quite pointless. The commercials rambled on for a good 30 minutes, regularly interspersed with “Start the movie!” cries from my unrelenting neighbour. At 25 minutes, I saw his point. While Krook and KO nodded in support of his clamour, I beseeched, “Start the movie already! This punk’s popping my right ear drum!”

I almost clapped with relief as Craig flickered onto the screen and my neighbour settled down.

My relief was short-lived. I soon realized that he was one of those kids who couldn't keep still even for a second. He kept shuffling around, violently shifting about in his seat every minute. I theorized that his pubes had chosen that particular evening to start growing out and were prickly or something. Only that could explain such blatant discomfort.

The boy then put his filthy socked feet on the seat. That did not concern me. What irked me was that he then lay down sideways in his seat, leaning against his mother on the other side, while resting his toe-jammy hooves against my legs. When it became quite clear that I was to play footstool to this little punk, I voiced my protest.

“Excuse me.”

No response. From either him or his mother, who was also curled up in the same position, leaning against her husband. They looked like they were cuddled together on the family couch at home. Only, I was there. Being a freaking footstool saying "Excuse me". For someone who smelled like decomposing cabbage.

“Excuse me!”

Still no response.

So I did the next best thing. I jabbed him in the ribs. He sprang up as I hissed, “Move your feet.” With a mumbled apology, he sat upright for a little while.

Soon, he decided to curl his feet under him. While doing so, he kicked the tub of popcorn resting beside me on my seat. Another quick mumbled apology followed. Luckily for him, I was nauseous from the assault of toe jam and sweet caramel popcorn on my senses. I nodded benevolently and general bonhomie was restored.

Not for long. In time, while the uncomfortable shuffling continued, I felt his elbow touch my arm and then come to rest quite comfortably against it. I figured he wasn't aware of this clear violation of personal space – since he’d proved himself to be somewhat socially daft already. So I politely wiggled my arm a bit to alert him.

No response. The elbow was still comfortably nestling into my arm. My arm wasn't even resting on the arm rest. Little Punk had clearly breached the border and didn't care. Either that or he had a prosthetic arm. How can you not sense you’re touching another person?

With a sigh, I considered my options.

I could go with the idea that the arm was a prosthetic. I could yank it off and beat him with it.

Nice.

Only there would be hysterical parents and child abuse lawsuits and serial child beater tags to deal with for a long time after.

Reluctantly, I went with my second option. I shoved him with my arm, made a big “pssk” sound with my lips and glared at him, making Kathakali eyes.

Maybe that worked. Or maybe my threatening thoughts were conveyed to him telepathically in that moment. Or maybe he thought I was having a weird facial spasm that was contagious. Whatever it was, something worked.

He shrank away, drew his arms close to himself, placed his feet back on the floor and very quietly and motionlessly watched the rest of the movie.

A wise judgment call by him I’d say. One more infraction from him and I’d have boxed his ears so hard, he’d need closed captioning for his next Bond film. 

On Renouncing Random Revelry

I do not go to random parties any more. You know, the kind where you sort of know one person and this sort-of-known person invites you along to a party being hosted by a person sort of known to him/her at a location mostly unknown to everyone.

It used to be fun meeting new people. Although lots of the new people I have met recently have been, for the most part, uninteresting. True fact. Everyone seems to be so caught up in working on their outer trappings – what we look like, what we have, our next Facebook profile picture, what we are perceived as, climbing the professional and social ladder and so on. We seem to have forgotten just keeping it simple and keeping it real.

The upside of random parties is that it gives you anecdotes to narrate at other random parties or just a funny tale to narrate to the inner circle of buddies.

I am reminded of this party KO and I found ourselves at some time ago. As we walked in, we realized we were amongst the few Indians there. Everyone else was French. There was plenty of alcohol and not much food. This mad-hatter, we sort of knew, unwrapped what looked like a large mound of road kill and dumped it on the barbecue. He may have run over a cow on his way and robbed it of its entire rump. Or that could have been his missing roommate. Who knows? It just looked (and smelled) really dodgy. Nobody touched it. He ate most of it himself. The potted out French people spent hours examining and cooing over a dragonfly. I got into a contest of “who has the oldest friend?” with a couple of fetuses and won. The socially awkward host had a monosyllabic name that I cannot recall. The mad-hatter made the French people dance to traditional Indian folk tunes. The best part about that party was leaving it.

My first Spanish teacher’s Christmas party was another disaster. Bin, BC and I had high expectations, thinking this would be a really fun party with lots of new and interesting people. We drove around in circles looking for a “Basset Road” as my teacher had instructed. People gave us the strangest looks as we asked for directions to said Basset Road. When we finally reached, we learned why. It was “Basith Road”. There were just six or seven people at the party. Our fun gay Spanish classmate slipped out quickly and we were soon bored. There was a German Yoga teacher who bowed deeply each time she whispered. She only whispered. At some point in this group coma session, her cocky 19-year-old son trotted over to us and said, “You know, OUR parties are not like this.” I wanted to poke him in the head. My Spanish teacher insisted on collecting all our disposable plates before washing and scrubbing them. All the while she bellowed at her husband, “Jaaveed! Why you bought plastic plate? I hate eet! I HATE EET!” All of Basset Road must know that now.

At another party, hosted on the occasion of Diwali, the gates were flung wide open for anyone. Literally anyone walked in, off the street, for free food and booze. The terrace area was packed with energetic dancing people. Bin was doing the “looking-for-my-cockatoo” dance with random strangers. I found Krazy Frog welcoming people at the gate with hugs and handshakes –inviting people he didn’t know to a party he wasn’t hosting. In fact, he didn’t even know who the host was.  Nobody did. The stuffed shirt we’d met an hour earlier got into a fight with a drunken stranger. There was a scuffle. Suddenly, everybody wanted to beat everybody up. In the midst of that row, the host’s father was beseeching people to eat biryani. We left. There was more action there than we could handle.

So yes, I think I am done with the random parties (for the most part). Random parties may make for amusing anecdotes, but time spent with my closer friends makes for lovely memories. That’s a deal clincher right there.

Missing the Woods for the Trees

The blood relative I call my mother has begun taking driving lessons. After years of driving everybody around the bend and notorious backseat driving, she has now ventured behind the wheel. I watch the proceedings with a certain amount of skepticism tinged with amusement.

For years, my mother claimed she was fully capable of driving. This after learning at the most popular driving school in the hills I call home. 

This school boasts of an ancient Wilys jeep with just a single gear. There is no ignition. They teach you to start it by rubbing two wires together. There is no horn. The British probably stole it along with the Kohinoor. Instead, students must stick their heads out and yell. There are no wipers. One must stick the old neck out and drive during a downpour. They list a raincoat as compulsory safety gear in the school’s manual. The instructor has no dual control. In fact, he has no control. He chooses to nap while the jeep careens all around town and over the hillside. 

So you can imagine that a real driving school car with a real instructor and real driving came as something of a surprise to my mother. She’s learnt that cars can have as many gears as she has fingers on a single hand. Keep the car on the road, not the kerb. “Ooops, sorry!” doesn’t quite cut it when you nudge an old woman off the kerb. Don your seatbelt and not a raincoat when you step into the car. 

Not too shabby for twenty days of lessons, eh?

And before people begin chastising me for mocking a blood relative, let me tell you – I have high regard for my mother’s decision to get behind the wheel when others her age are getting on wheelchairs. Of even more significance is the fact that my maternal side of the family would not qualify, by any stretch of the imagination, for excellence in driving awards. 

While the younger lot have driven their cars into hedges and unwittingly parked their luxury sedans atop coffee bushes, my maternal grandfather earned the dubious title of “The Flying Thatha (grandfather)”.

His cars ran out of clutch plates faster than his house ran out of milk. He didn’t think it necessary to keep an eye on the road. Being slightly hard of hearing, he’d twist his head all the way around to listen to his passengers in the backseat while zooming up the winding roads. He’d lean out his window and wave – with both arms – at the innumerous people he knew walking along the road. 

However, his moment of fame came when his brakes failed and he flew off the side of the hill, crash-landing on trees in the valley a 100 feet below. While the car was a total write-off, he emerged quite unscathed with just one regret: “I lost my gum boot.”

What else would you expect from anyone who survived a near-fatal crash?