Michael's Round-the-World honeymoon

We were up early for our Bollywood appointment. I was hungover from the strong beer and Joanne had been bitten all over by bed bugs, despite the fact she had slept in her silk sleeping bag liner, which usually protects against insect attacks. Joanne counted nearly 50 bites. Now we realised why Johnny's skin was looking so bad: his face had been covered in bedbug bites. While getting ready to go, Joanne noticed something on the floor. Is it a bat? Yes it is! Rather than wake it up and risk it biting us and giving us rabies, we decided to leave it there, assuming it would be gone by the time we returned, after all we were expecting to be back after dark, by which time it would be out hunting. Our pick-up time meant that we would miss breakfast at the guesthouse, but we had been promised free food and water on top of the Rs500 we would earn for our day's work.

Dead bat in our room

We were picked up on time by a minder in a taxi, arriving outside our guesthouse with the scout who spotted us the day before. Joanne asked him if she was still OK to work, as she had several bites on her face, and two below her left eye were starting to make her look like she had a black eye. He said it was no problem and they dropped us at the Central Train Station, where we met the three other Westerners working as extras with us: three Dutch school-leavers, one boy and two girls. Our minder got us tickets for “general class” and we got on the train. The train was busy. I gather Indian train are almost always busy, after all there are an awful lot of people in India, so we squashed into the carriage, and by a small miracle we managed to get seats. Rather than squashing the rest of us up more, one of the Dutch girls, Milou, sat diagonally opposite us all, clinging onto some European idea of personal space. Of course at the next station more people poured on the train, some squashing in next to us, some squashing in next to Milou. The Dutch girls had obviously not done any research into acceptable dress in India, or even read the “Women Travellers” or “Culture” section in their guidebook. If they had they would have known that, for example, you are likely to attract a lot of attention if you expose your shoulders. In Milou's case she was wearing a spaghetti strap top, which was also very low cut. So shoulders and and tits exposed, here she was sitting on her own in general class on a rush hour Mumbai train. As the men filed on and sat around her they took turns staring right at her cleavage. In the West, the top would have had the same effect on men, of course, except that we would have taken quick furtive glances, but that isn't the way it works in India: the men just sit there a gawp. As the train got busier, the men next to her really started staring right down her top, then the men on each side appeared to be afflicted with arm problems that needed rubbing. Mere circumstance, of course, would have it that the problematic part of their arms was located right next to her breast on the men's respective sides. Just as she swatted one set of probing fingers away and shifted to prevent another attack, the one on the other side would grasp his chance. I felt very sorry for her but I couldn't help also thinking “what a silly girl”. In India this behaviour is known as “Eve Teasing”, and this kind of sexual harassment is quite common in crowded places, particularly trains. While not really considered a serious sexual assault in Western culture, Indian men seem to see this as quite innocent. Of course any guide book about India warns about this, and explains that you can reduce the risks by dressing conservatively. Being white probably makes you more of a target, but Indian women are also victim to such behaviour. When we stopped at a station and our minder indicated it was our stop, Milou made an understandable bolt for the door, and as we got on to the platform and I was thinking “poor silly girl” again, Joanne said “Oh!” and looked back scowling. Apparently someone had just groped her bottom, despite her conservative dress. Less than 24 hours there and I was already brewing a strong dislike for India and Indians.

Behind the scenes

Our fabulous changing room

We arrived at the set and I started to become slightly suspicious about the “Bollywood” credentials of the film company. It was a screen set alright, but it looked very basic, whereas I had been under the impression that Bollywood was all about big productions. As soon as we entered the place a pushy man I assumed to be gay took custody of us, leaving our minder behind. Thankfully he arranged for plates of food to be brought to us, so at least we had breakfast. He seemed in a hurry and, before we had really finished, ushered us to the dressing area, which was really just a small room in a concrete hut.

The Dutch enjoying their breakfast

We were to be Hare Krishnas; the structure on one side of the set was a Hare Krishna temple, it was explained. What a load of Europeans were doing as Hare Krishnas in India was left to our imaginations; apparently they just like to give their productions an “international feel” by having some whites in the background. The girls were dressed in Saris, and the Dutch boy and I were put into wrap-around trousers and long shirts. The finishing touch was a paper clip, dipped in yellow paint, then daubed on our foreheads between the eyebrows to create our religious markings. Then the true final touch: a little bag to place over our right hands, apparently an essential part of the Hare Krishna uniform. I've always wondered what they are for, and always joked that Hare Krishnas are avid Scrabble players, constantly shuffling letters in the bag, however these bags were empty. As soon as we were dressed we were urged onto the set. I was last dressed and I had apparently missed everyone else's first scene. My first, and the others' second required us to stand around outside a fake shop front, pretending to talk. I was a bit put out that I was asked to turn around and make conversation with Joanne, denying India a view of my face.

Hare Krishnas

Joanne with near black eye from bedbugs

To begin with it was very confusing and nobody really told us what was happening. But soon a pattern emerged: before the started filming each shot the director would shout “passing people” at which point we would all have to rush to corners just off set then, once everyone was in place, he would shout “rolling” then “passing” and we would all have to start walking across the set, and shortly after he would shout “action” and the real actors in the centre of the set would begin their scene. As if it wasn't absurd enough that this meant the same people appeared in the background of every single shot they filmed that day, including some easily recognisable white people, I'd have thought, when we got to the other side of the set, we would be asked to turned around and head back across the set in a slightly different direction, sometime crossing the set four times in the course of a thirty second clip.

Lights

Now I'm prepared to believe that the audience attention is so focused on the actors that they don't pay much attention to the passing street scene behind, but surely when a white Hare Krishna with dreadlocks walks by four times in one shot and appears in each other shot in one day's worth of filming, people are going to notice! That was our job for almost the whole day: lots of standing around in the hot sun between cuts, as the director and actors reviewed on monitors what had just been shot, before, more often than not, reshooting the same scene. The director is a perfectionist, one of the actors told us. As the day wore on everyone relaxed more and more and we spent some time chatting to the other, Indian, extras in between scenes. Most of them were extras full time, and they had been on this set for a couple of weeks already. They were very nice and friendly, which was a relief as we were beginning to get the impression that all Indians were unfriendly and unpleasant, and could not understand why we were not planning to return to the set the following day or, indeed, for the next several weeks. “We want to see lots more of India”, I explained.

Milou and Jessie with Indian extras

Nice Indian lady extra

During that day I realised that nobody in India has the slightest clue where Scotland is. They know England; they know South Africa, so Joanne was OK; they know Australia, New Zealand, and anywhere they are good at cricket. Actually, since a couple of Indians have told me that Scotland has qualified for something or other in cricket for the first time; could it be the World Cup? Seems unlikely, but apparently they have done something small in cricket recently, so a few Indians have now heard of the country. In Europe people say “yes Glasgow Celtic, Glasgow Rangers” when you say you are from Scotland; in South East Asia most people said “Braveheart”, but in India they only really watch Bollywood. I've now started saying “Scotch Whisky”, which is what people in Thailand new Scotland for, and which drops the penny for some Indians as they love whisky too, but so many of them don't drink I usually have to resort to “next door to England”.

The main actor from this episode

We finally got a lunch break about half past two after a particularly harrowing scene involving the actor appearing most that day, lifting a young boy on his shoulders to retrieve something from the shop roof. I'm sure all actors can allow themselves to indulge in prima donna behaviour from time to time, but this scene brought it all out. First of all, the young boy seems to be something of a star and was pampered terribly from the moment he appeared on location: he was constantly offered sweets and drinks, was having his costume and makeup re-arranged for him, and he was followed everywhere by flunkies carrying a parasol over him. I gathered the man who seemed to be playing his father is a big star, as he arrived just before his scene, was also followed everywhere with a parasol, and left immediately after. The boy was very badly behaved and we watched him have several tantrums, start crying, demand things be brought to him, and caused each of his scenes to be reshot several times. When it came to lifting the boy on his shoulders the “main” actor who seemed to be in every scene that day had clearly had enough. He didn't seem to be a big enough star to get the parasol treatment most of the time, although he was during this long stretch of shooting in the middle of the day. After several attempts at the scene being messed up by the, frankly overweight, spoiled little brat, the actor with the boy on his shoulders took a very dramatic swoon, causing everyone to run after him with water, a fan, and chairs for him to rest on. I think he was just upset because the boy had knocked his wig off, although he had clearly had enough of the boy. After a substantial break, shooting resumed using clever camera angles to enable to useless little boy to stand on a ladder instead of sitting on the beleaguered actor.

"Passing" rickshaw extra

Hare Krishna Michael

After lunch the extras had relaxed even more and by the end of the day, nobody was really listening to what they were being told to do. Everyone was just having fun and walking this way and that, and taking turns being driven by the “passing” rickshaw drivers. The rickshaw drivers had been a bit of a pain all day actually because it's not that easy to turn one of them in the confined space they had on set, just to drive it back across set again, especially when the people driving them are not real rickshaw drivers, I suspect.

The shop in the set

By the end the sound engineers, the stage hands, and even the guy who had dressed us (who actually seemed to be something to do with money and paying people) were all taking turns as extras and being driven on a rickshaw in the background. After a bit of asking I discovered that it's definitely not a Bollywood production (I got plenty of laughs for asking that), it's a new soap opera called Swarg, which is Hindi for heaven, starting on the 16th June on Colors TV. Anyone who is able to track this down please record it or download it for me as I want to see just how often we appear in our episode. I estimate that I appear about forty times in what can't be more than fifteen minutes of footage, and some of it I'm right in the foreground, between the camera and the actors.

Hare Krishnas

When it all finished we changed and were paid and taken back to the train by our minder. This time he said to the girls, “you get on here”, pointing to the “Women Only” carriage. What an indictment of Indian society that women are so abused on the trains they need their own carriages! Afterwards Joanne told me that even on the women's carriage Milou was getting plenty of stares, this time highly disapproving rather than ogling. After the train our minder flagged down taxis and said goodbye. He handed me a twenty rupee note and said something like “the fare should be 18 rupees but just give him 20”. I didn't completely catch what he said, but I was a bit worried that 20 was too little. When we arrived the driver asked for Rs80. I had been expecting it, so I told him that we had no money and our Indian friend (who had already discussed the fare with the driver) had given us only 20. OK, sixty, he said, then soon after, OK, fifty. I was trying to explain that I was serious, and that I wasn't bargaining, when I remembered I had the number of the scout from the day before, so I called him. “No way!”, he said, “Do not give him any more than twenty”. I told the driver this, but he wouldn't go lower than fifty. Just then two obviously drunken Indian guys came up to the taxi and joined in the argument. They said they were taxi drivers they told me that 80 was a fair price and since I didn't want to pay it they reached in and locked down the door and said “right – drive to police station”. I wasn't certain whether the Bollystars guys or the taxi driver(s) were lying to me, but someone was, and given taxi drivers' record I was inclined to believe the twenty fare, but it was all getting a bit intimidating, so I told him I'd have to go upstairs for the money. When I came down, the other two were gone, so I said “there's the 50 you agreed” and handed it to him. He grumbled but drove off. Later we met up with the Dutch people and discovered that they had been charged 25 for going slightly further than us so it, in fact, the greedy taxi driver, going back on the fare our minder agreed and trying to rip off the foreigners. The Dutch were also told the fare was twenty, but a small tourist rip-off like 25% extra is something most people can live with; our 300% however is a bit cheeky!

While we were on set, the kiosk our SIM cards came from called sounding concerned that we hadn't yet produced the mountain of documentation required, but they seemed reasonably happy when I explained we were working and would bring it the next day, but it was already closed when we passed it anyway. We bought some insecticide before returning to our room to try and get rid of the bedbugs. The bat was still there. It seemed to have changed position, so I didn't think it was dead, although I couldn't explain why it was still there as it was well after dark. We called the grumpy concierge, who swept the dead bat up with a brush. There was a blob of blood under where the bat had been, so I think it must have been mauled by a cat or something, then just managed to make it through our bedroom window where it had its final writhing moments of agony. In the dorm it sounded like there was a bit of a party, so we wandered through to find lots of people drinking or smoking dope, with absolutely no regard for the rules, apparently. Every single person we spoke to in the whole place had bedbugs, we discovered, so stuff their rules! Joanne sprayed the room and our mattresses thoroughly with the insecticide then we brought our Glen Livet through to the party and had a few drinks.

written by

The Happy Couple on May 21, 2009 from Mumbai, India

from the travel blog: Michael's Round-the-World honeymoon

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Breakfast at the Sally Army

After spraying loads of insect spray the night before, Joanne only had a few suspected new bedbug bites. This time we were able to enjoy the delights of the Red Shield included breakfast. Terrible! Three bits of white bread, a small banana, and a plate of cold, watery beans. And lunch had been so nice as well. We got chatting to Matthew and Jessica, the couple who had arrived at the guesthouse just after us. They, of course, had bedbugs as well. Their plan was to go to Nepal after a longish stay in India. They had messed it up a bit, they said, because they've discovered that India wasn't exactly their favourite place, but now they were stuck here. How so, we asked. Apparently they were waiting for the “correct” time to go to Nepal, which starts in September, but is primarily October and November, after the monsoon has finished in late August to early September. At this point I despaired. We had originally planned our trip to stay ahead of the monsoon, which is why we were in India after South East Asia, where it hits earlier. We had been plagued by early monsoon in SE Asia, compounded by the fact we kept staying longer than scheduled. And now we were in India, people had told us that Goa has already “shut down” for the monsoon and the rain has started; it's already been raining in Kerala for a few weeks; and now we were learning about the monsoon in Nepal. For some reason I had not thought about monsoon in Nepal at all, perhaps because I thought that being mountainous and away from South West coasts it would escape the South West Monsoon. Our plan had been to head south from Mumbai to Goa, then onto Kerala, before heading northwards, eventually into Nepal. I asked to borrow Matthew and Jessica's Nepal guide and read that the monsoon is generally considered to start mid-June, although the season is considered to run from October to April. I also read that the Anapurna Circuit, which I had intended us to do, takes about three weeks. I hadn't realised it was so long. Maybe I should have done more research! There were some shorter suggested treks, but ten days seemed to be about the shortest of the decent ones. That decided it: we had spent far too long in SE Asia and all the delays had now truly caught up with is. We discussed it and quite quickly came to the conclusion that we should forget about Southern India and head straight for Nepal. We could see Northern India in the rain when we returned, but trekking in the rain in Nepal would not be fun (the leeches are awful apparently), and Nepal was one of my “must do” places when we were first planning our route.

Cricket on the way to the station

So that decided it: get a train to Gorakhpur for Nepal, according to the Trains at a Glance book belonging to the Red Shield, and get out of Mumbai as soon as possible. The booking office wasn't too far away, so we walked, getting constantly harassed to take rickshaws, buy hashish, buy milk for baby brother, as we breathed in the air thick with pollution. We eventually found the booking office, where the queues were a bit difficult to understand. At one end we noticed a counter for foreigners to buy an Indrail Pass, which we didn't want to do, so Joanne stood in that queue while I stood in the information queue. There was quite a bit of jostling but I got to the front, where I was told that the train we wanted for Gorakhpur via Lucknow was full “because of the holiday”.

Indian bureaucracy at the ticket office

Or was it just the foreigners' quota that was full? I couldn't quite understand because, having not quite yet tuned into Indlish, I couldn't really follow with all the background noise everyone else seemed to feel compelled to produce so much of. The next train she could offer us was in three days and there was no way we were staying in Mumbai that long. I gave up and joined Joanne in her queue, where she was speaking to a guy from Brazil who told her how unhappy he feels in India because it seems so dangerous. There are plenty of things to dislike India for, but being dangerous I think would be near the bottom of my list, and this guy was from Brazil, for goodness' sake! We got to the front of the queue and discovered it's not just for Indrail passes. Apparently the school holiday is on, so the trains are very busy. She was unable to find any route to Gorahkpur leaving in the next two days, so we thought on our feet and tried via Agra instead of Lucknow. Yes she could get us a ticket to Agra tomorrow, but we couldn't travel onwards for a couple of days. Brilliant! OK, so this would get us to Nepal no earlier, but at least we'd be stuck in Agra with the Taj Mahal, instead of in Mumbai with the high prices, the filth, the poverty, and the harassment. We weren't sure what class to book but Matthew and Jessica had told us that it's worth splashing out on Second Class A/C because you get a lockable compartment to yourselves so the security is much better. We had heard some really good things about Indian trains, but security is a concern, so we asked about 2nd Class A/C and it was much dearer than we'd been expecting. We didn't really want to be frozen half to death by the aircon, so we asked about ordinary Sleeper Class, and was it just the same, just as secure, but without the aircon. Yes, yes, just the same she assured us, and at about a third the cost we were very happy with the price too.

Indian traffic genius on way back from ticket office

When we got back Joanne had to lie down with a sore back, probably from standing so long in the queue at the booking office, but maybe from all the standing around doing our “passing” work the day before. I headed out to take the photo, passport copies, visa copies, and hotel receipt to the SIM card kiosk who had phoned to nag again. I decided to check out another of the drinking places nearby as I was curious; Mumbai seems to have more places to drink than I remembered Delhi having from my last visit, or maybe Indian culture was changing. It was ostensibly a food place, but it was the usual drab Indian place, set up like a cafe, with no atmosphere. Men (only) were sitting around, not speaking to their companions and drinking sullenly. Again I was the only white there. At the table next to me I watched an incredible display of what in Britain we would these days call binge drinking. Two mean sat opposite each other and they literally did not say a single word the whole time. They each had an empty and a half-full “peg” of whisky, which is about a quarter bottle, which they seemed to be drinking with coke. They also had a whole bottle of vodka which was about two-thirds full when I sat down. In the space of no more than twenty minutes the whole lot was gone. The vodka was the most incredible; Indians sharing water do not put their mouths to the bottle or jugs: instead they just pour it in from above their mouths. One of the two guys was doing this with the vodka: pouring a large mouthful in then putting it back on the table then, as he was swilling it around his mouth and swallowing it, his friend was pouring a large amount into an empty glass and downing it. Then the first one would take another large mouthful. They repeated this until the vodka was gone, at which point they got to their feet and left, in a bit of a hurry I thought, perhaps hoping to get home before they blacked out, or just outside before they puked! While all that was going on, the atmosphere in the place had actually lifted because the first election results had started coming in and there was a bit of a buzz; and I had ordered a very nice masala papad to go with several Indian whiskies, working my way down the list in the hope of finding a palatable one. I tried four and they were all terrible. I decided to keep a note, giving them a mark out of ten, in case I ordered one of them again in the future. Haywards Fine got 0, Officer's Choice got 1 as did Bagpiper, then the champion, Green Label got a fabulous 2 out of 10. I suspected there might be a bias as the score seemed to be increasing with alcohol consumed, but I did start with the cheapest as well, and surely four units wouldn't cloud my judgement too much!

Cheery Indian drinking den

After unsuccessfully trying to change to a cleaner room, get the hostel to pay for our laundry or show any kind of contrition for the terrible state of Joanne's skin, we gave up and sprayed more chemicals around our room, deciding instead to write a comment on the “India Mike” website, from where the glowing recommendations for this hovel had come. When we checked out and paid the next morning, the horrible concierge just said “show downstairs” when he handed us the receipt; no smile, no thank you, no sorry about the disgusting state of the place. The guy downstairs on the door was actually quite friendly and managed a smile. Outside we were crowded by taxi drivers, but they were all really greedy. We were now certain the fare could be no more than Rs20 as the station we were going to was much closer than the one we knew the fare to be Rs20 to; maybe Rs25 including a charge for the luggage. Nobody would go lower that Rs80, and most realising that we were getting a local train, wanted to take us all the way to the main train station instead for Rs250. In the end we just said “you're all greedy!” and walked. The train was only Rs12, meaning that we'd already saved over Rs300 by the time we got to the main train station, with an hour still to spare before our train for Agra departed.

It turned out that the woman at the ticket office had been talking nonsense: the compartment was not lockable and there seemed to be half again as many people on our carriage than there were seats for. So much for reserved seating! On the train we phoned ahead to book Shanti Lodge, which is place I thought might be one I remembered from my last day visit to Agra, which had an incredible view of the Taj Mahal from its rooftop restaurant. I remembered it looked like it might be an OK place to stay too and the food wasn't too dear. On that journey we learned quite a bit about Indian culture: people sneaking onto the section they're not allowed, one friend buying a more expensive seat so the rest can share with him, and the litter. Most of them sat the whole time eating snacks then, as soon as they are finished, the wrapper goes straight out the train window. It doesn't matter if you're in a station on in the countryside; it doesn't matter if it's paper or plastic; it doesn't matter if it's just a little sweet wrapper or a whole plastic bag full of rubbish: just chuck it out. When one guy noticed that Joanne and I were keeping our empty plastic water bottles, he indicated the open window with a confused look on his face. “Just throw it” someone else said, then another “why are you keeping that?”. They actually laughed at us for not littering. We didn't reply, but really I should have said “because we don't want to contribute to this country being any more disgusting than it already is; don't you mind that your country looks horrible and filthy, and smells disgusting?”. These were not children; these were not rebellious teenagers; these were normal, apparently moderately wealthy families and businessmen, I'd guess. The more I get to know India, though, the more it occurs to me that they do behave like children; Matthew had offered the explanation for the “Eve teasing” as sexual immaturity in Indian men caused by keeping the sexes so separate as they grow up, so that even grown men have the sexual maturity of teenagers; now it seems like they act as if some parent will pick up their rubbish after them too. At least we learned why the country is so filthy. Some people did get off before it came to sleeping time, but when the seats converted into beds, there were still some people sharing and a person sleeping in aisle between the bottom berths. This made me a bit nervous about our belongings, but I reckoned since I was on the bottom berth I'd be able to keep half an eye on the bags below my bed / seat. All night people swapped seats for floor and vice-versa, presumably some sharing pact, but it didn't do much for our relaxation or quality of sleep.

written by

The Happy Couple on May 23, 2009 from Mumbai, India

from the travel blog: Michael's Round-the-World honeymoon

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Michael's Round-the-World honeymoon

a travel blog by The Happy Couple

Bollywood Stars!

Mumbai, India

Escape from Mumbai

Mumbai, India

Agra, India

Arrival in Agra

Agra, India

Agra Fort

Agra, India

Finally the Taj

Agra, India

Gorakhpur, India

Sunauli, Nepal

Transport Trauma

Sunauli, Nepal

Kathmandu, Nepal