This is Radio Mali

On a rain-soaked day, after a tumultuous journey through 3 West African airports over the best part of a night and a morning, we have arrived at the town they call Bamako. Ali Farka Toure’s Bamako, the bars and the cafes where Manu Chao, Ry Cooder and a host of other luminaries from the world of music have played and recorded at. The Bamako that’s the other end of the Dakar Rally, the Bamako at the bank of the Niger river, the Bamako that is the capital of the country that towards its North-East extremities has a place that is as close to nowhere as is known to man. A place called Timbuktoo.

This is Radio Mali. Turn it on, leave it on.

Je ne parle pas francais...

Please monsieur, I do not speak French.

Having learnt my first meaningful French phrase after spending a lifetime dodging about with ce va’s and bonjour’s and merci boucoup’s, I was feeling particularly vulnerable on my first foray into Le Francophone Afrique, despite the good fortune of having the company of KO, my multilingual (French/English/Others) colleague for support. We had spent the better part of the night negotiating our way through myriad West African airports, embarking at Accra Kotoka on a Virgin Nigeria flight, and for some strange reason, flying all the way out to Dakar, capital of Senegal, before flying halfway back and upwards to Mali. The journey had been eventful, to say the least.

Highlights would include spending 5 hours in utero in a glass cubby-hole known as the transit lounge of the Dakar airport, where some Senegalese officials had confiscated my passport for safe-keeping while I waited in transit. Not to mention the health officer we encountered when we touched down in Mali, who demanded to see our Yellow Fever Vaccination certificates. We didn’t have them, alas, and were promptly marched into a room bearing the title - Medical Officer. Once inside, Mr. Medical Officer proceeded to light up a long-tipped cigarette. Right there, in the middle of Mali International Airport!! Me and KO were too bizarred out for a couple of minutes to react properly, wild thoughts running through our heads no doubt... injections from unsterilized needles administered by strange Touareg-looking Malian Health Officer, Marlboro dangling from lips... fortunately, it turned out okay, as he merely produced a tattered pamphlet which listed fines for different offences. Our’s came in at 18000 CFA’s, and after some skillful bargaining (KO), we managed to wrangle ourselves out of disaster area, and into the welcoming arms of a bunch of dudes in Nestle T-Shirts, and from there-on, full corporate fortification.

Purquois une brand essence?

My first Only French workshop is not the disaster I expected it would be. Thankfully, KO is an articulate and effective translator, and the (very few) instances I have needed to speak, it has been fairly easy to do so. I am sitting in a room full of Nestle managers from different countries across West Africa, who are flinging powerpoints at each other with unerring accuracy. Thankfully, everything is in French, so I can conveniently keep scribbling the mineral water bottle label literature on my notepad... eu minerale naturelle Tombouctou 0.5 litre... recommendee pour toute la familie... We are in this room to display our good intentions, and represent to our gentle hosts that we are not afraid of sending Indian people into African boardrooms where business is conducted in French.

Consommateur is always the king!

Last evening had turned out fun. Soon after arriving, we had walked downtown. Not that there is much town to walk in Bamako, although the Grande Hotel is located strategically, amidst tree-lined military barracks on either side, crumbling yet majestic colonial structures from the French era... the post office, the ministries, and culminating into the piece de resistance, the Grand Musee De Mali.

Spread over a large area of over a hectare or more, the Musee is located at one end of Bamako town, away from the river. A cliff rises from within the museum premises, and along the foothills, there are interesting pieces of installation art. We spotted a dinosaur family, a miniature of the mosque at Djenne, a life-size bush taxi, sculpted with meticulous precision that looks deceptively life-like at first glance. We would have entered the Museum, but unfortunately our ploy to pass me off as a Ghanaian (and therefore eligible to an entry fee of 500 CFA as opposed to 2500 CFA that foreigners had to pay) did not work out. KO could not deal with this, got violent and all, and so we were reluctantly leaving, when an enterprising Bamako taxicab man convinced us to jump into his car. The fact that it was a good looking (though beat-up) Mercedes Benz may have had something to do with it. Soon, we were climbing steeply up the cliff, and shortly, reached the summit.

The view atop Musee hill was breathtaking. More so because directly below the cliff, an Olympic-size track and field stadium opened up unexpectedly, giving us a helicopters-eye view of the majestic stadium below. We had turned into eagles, flying over the Niger delta... the sprawl of Bamako stretched out below, the Musee, the Stadium (where 3 days ago the Ghanaian Black Stars had put paid to Malian World Cup ambitions 2-0). Further behind, the Niger river bisected the town into two. As far as the eye could see, the land lay flat, and the vegetation sparse, a prelude to the harsher Sahelian desert that stretches North. But from that vantage point, that afternoon, harsh desert was still some distance away... the air was cool and clean, markedly different from the heavily polluted town below. It felt good to be there. We lingered there for quite some time. Finally, the sun tore through the clouds, and we decided to head back to the comforts of our hotel before we head out for the evening.

The Azalai Grand Hotel of Bamako deserves a worthy mention here. Situated centrally, the Grand is registered as a Four Star property, and is part of the Casablanca-based Azalai Group of hotels. However, in more ways than one, its features are ‘deluxe’ as opposed to ‘superior’... Italian marble and zero-volume opera in the toilets that segue into livelier Creole sounds as you move from toilets to lobby areas, for example. High-speed internet access in rooms, wi-fi across, well-appointed salon, antique shop, well-stocked bookshop, travel agency, it’s all here, and discreetly done. One killer feature that we enjoyed- 2 swimming pools in the premises... the main one, and then, in the extended grounds which also houses tennis courts and sports facilities, an identical-sized second pool. We began to understand why this works really well on our first afternoon itself, when about 45 kids spent the best part of the day splashing-sploshing noisily. But neatly tucked away in the second pool. The main one was stylishly quiet, and in a sense, out of bounds for the little fellas. Brilliantly done, we thought. The food, staff-responsiveness, and bang-for-buck (we were staying in rather well-appointed rooms with high-speed internet for $60 per night) make the Azalai Grande a recommended choice for future travellers.

The bustling nightlife of Bamako town... music spilling from nooks and crannies that we were expecting to encounter on our first evening... eluded us on the first night. We went to a couple of places where we were told it’s still too early (things apparently kicked off midnight onwards). Dejected, we went to a street they call the Rue De Princesse, which was better, with a bunch of cafes, bistros and restaurants lined up along a dusty side alley. We blindly tried one of the places, called La Terrace. Turned out to be a great choice, really... a cavernous and beautifully designed open-format place where a lot of beautiful people were hanging out. A bevy of beauties were manning the bars (Ivorians, we later learnt), so bar stools were a natural choice. John Fogerty was belting out old CCR hits 20 years too late on the giant video screen, although that was not the high point of the ambience. In all, when in Bamako, look up Rue De Princesse for an early evening session, before the serious stuff.

The serious stuff, we glimpsed on our following evening. After a day spent visiting markets, talking to consumers, and basically working our bones off, we needed to chill in a large way. There is a street in Bamako which houses all the fine-dining stuff. TexMex, Thai, Italian, Lebanese, they have it all. We went to a French/Mediterranean restaurant at a wrap party that the Nestle people were throwing. It turned out to be memorable, not for the food so much, but for the house band... a blind keyboard player and a sunburnt guitarist, played distilled versions of French/Polynesian/Acoustic classics. It being a corporate type sit-down dinner after a hard day’s work, the party retired at the polite hour, leaving us stranded somewhat. Thankfully, our gentle host Desiree really shined here... Our main man lost the crowd, and thereafter proceeded to drive us to where the action was. From nowhere, his buddies emerged, and before we knew it, we were plush inside a jazz club with class written all over it, and a full-fledged band playing breathtaking jazz in the house. Finally! We settled in like the proverbial birds. Mr Jack was in da house, and all was well with God’s world.

No visit to Mali is complete without a mention of what struck me as its greatest asset... it’s artisana. This has got to be one of the most artistic nations on earth. Take the fine weaving of the Bogalon fabric, where mud fabric is all hand spun with earthy African motifs, and then the entire piece of fabric is dyed in tea made from the Bogalon tree found in Mali... or take the breathtaking Malian masks, Ebony wood carvings, the Djembe drum of the Dogon people, ancient Moslemic brass weaponry, the scriptures of Tombouctou, the list goes on and on. As one of the earliest seats of Moslem learning and culture, Malian art is a heady Molotov cocktail made of diverse ingredients... the Tuareg, the Songhai, the Dogon, the Bambara, all these people and cultures contribute, and make Mali one of the most artsy cultures in the world. Struck me as a pity that the government of Mali or France has never really been able to represent the wealth of the material available, and exploit its tourist potential.

Perhaps it’s better left so...

Et si l’Afrique refusait le developement?

What if Africa refused to be developed, intentionally?

Mali Lynx

The Festival of the Desert | The legendary Festival of the desert every January attracts tourists from the world over.

http://africaguide.com/travel/package/1708.htm

Et si l’Afrique refusait le developement? | Axelle Kabou’s 1991 Classic on developmental economics where she argues the case for an Africa that refues to be developed along Western lines, and argues what if it is deliberate.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Axelle_Kabou

Mia Mali | If you happen to visit Bamako, definitely check out this gift shop. Admittedly boutique, it is still very decently priced for the kind of stuff on offer.

http://www.elainebellezza.com/

Azalai Hotels | A good choice. We were at the Azalai Grande, which is a really nice and cost-effective option. However, the Azalai Nord Sud (which we visited) has a super-duper Jazz club and is even more upmarket.

http://www.azalaihotels.com/

Artisana | The open market near the Courts leads to this amazing Crafts bazaar where the best of Malian crafts are available in a haggle and haul bazaar environment that will please even hardcore street market buffs. Do not miss.

Timbuktoo Scriptures | A New York Times piece on the ancient scriptures of Timbuktoo that gives insight into its past and perhaps future significance.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/07/world/africa/07mali.html?_r=2

First Thoughts on Africa

Although it feels like months, it’s exactly 2 weeks now since we have arrived in Africa. Today it rained for the first time since we’ve been here. The first rain of the season, it seems, officially ending the dry season that stretches from December till middle/late April. And the beginning of the first of two ‘wet’ seasons... This one will stretch from now until about August end. Then it will go away, only to reappear again towards late October for a month and a half of ‘reverse’ monsoons. And then, from December on, it will be dry. It is during this time that the Sahelian desert winds will blow the ominous Harmattan over the plains of West Africa. The dusty desert winds that will reduce visibility to only a few metres, and fill the air up with a permanent haze that will last for weeks, even months, in the land-locked hinterland of Chad, Niger, Burkina and Northern Ghana. Eventually, the smog will lift, as the harsh equatorial sun will blanch everything else in its wake. And another calendar year will have passed in one of God’s nether zones.

Accra. Capital of modern day Ghana, Kingdom of the Ashanti warriors. As our British Airways flight touched down on Kotoka International Airport, we had reason to be nervous. It was our very first time in Africa, after all.

Africa.

A-F-R-I-C-A.

Always in uppercase in the lexicon of God-fearing middle-class denizens of the (non-African) world. Like me. Probably my wife as well, sitting next to me, peering over my shoulder to follow the antics of the Rastafarian looking co-inhabitant of our middle aisle. No doubt thinking dark thoughts of what lay ahead.

So we disembark. It being a tiny little airport, the plane had almost pulled up to nearly the edge of the Airport Entrance gate. We hear strains of reggae music, as our bodies brace the tropical humid air for the first time. It is pitch black for some reason, as we take a few tentative steps towards the entrance gate. As our eyes adjust to the darkness, we see a white Police Car with orange stripes, parked over by the wayside. Three policemen seem to be inside, sitting in foot-tapping positions, loud reggae music blaring from within. This breaks the ice. Suddenly, we feel a surge of pure joy. It washes over us, delirious, we feel those first tentative steps turn to strides. Into Africa.

Accra. Capital of modern day Ghana, Kingdom of the Ashanti warriors, is a reasonably well-kept secret. As you step out of the airport, you are greeted by a large throb of touts who will try to carry your trolley, get you a hotel, even help you find your car (as ours tried to). Fortunately, the impact of the landing was cushioned by the fact that the company MD himself, along with his main man, our Senior Art Director, were personally there to whisk us away in what they kept calling the company car (a battered VW Golf from the last millennium). Before long, we found ourselves in a western-style Serviced Apartment, complete with accoutrements.

So that was two-weeks ago. And now we’re two weeks old here, and already, the city feels so much more familiar. So how exactly IS this place like? For the abysmally low amount of footage that Accra/even Ghana seems to consume, I have to reiterate, this place is a well-kept secret. Roads are good, traffic is heavy, but orderly (left hand drive, lights work 24 hours, people follow rules, and honking is rare by Indian standards), quality of life seems fairly okay (no signs of those type of images one tends to see in UNESCO brochure covers), people drive good imported cars, and dress in western outfits, the women seem pretty progressive in their clothes, nails and manner. Western style shops, cafes and restaurants abound, and every day, we find a new place that feels more western than we expected to find around here. Yes, they have shopping malls, with giant Walmart style supermarket chains, and cinemaplexes too. There’s a bunch of nice hotels, with expatriates patronizing pool-side cafes and live jazz bands, all of that.

Yesterday, we visited the city beach, known as Labadi Beach. There is a great energy in these people, a rhythm that is unique to this part of the world, and music flows like water. Housing is expensive, and very upscale indeed. We are still struggling to find something that sits in our budget, the prices in the swanker parts of town are comparable to those in several western cities. The people here are friendly and well-mannered to a fault, although keeping time seems to be a challenge. They call it GMT (Ghana Maybe Time), because the country shares the same time zone as their erstwhile colonial masters.

The local currency is called Cedi (denoted by a C that’s cut vertically like a $). 1 Cedi roughly is 0.7$, or about Rs. 35. There are taxis available that may be flagged down from almost all areas, and although they are non-aircon, they are usually Toyota or VW, and fairly comfy. Best of all from our (rather narrow) perspective, there are some very good Indian restaurants in town, and two large Indian supermarkets that stocks everything from Kissan Jams to Kohinoor Atta, and everything in between. We’ve been told there is also an Indian cultural centre, where they are ‘having cultural programmes’. We have resisted the urge thus far, and have limited our socializing to Pakistani and French expatriates up until now. But it’s nice to know that there is a place we can go to when the inevitable crave for a Dosa, or a Dhokla strikes.

The ‘Office’ is a large two-storeyed bungalow with grounds that have eight fruit trees, including mango, avocado and lime. It is quite nice just to sit out and hear the birds twitter towards evening. The birds here are a sight to watch. The most common one, their equivalent of a sparrow I suppose, is a blue metallic double-toned colour. Also, there are these lizards which are multi-coloured blue/green that vignette to earth gold, extremely visually appealing to look at. The other thing about here. The business day begins strictly at 8 am. Again, bizarre fact for someone coming in from my part of the world, South Asia, where people saunter into work at around 11ish. Here, people (everybody) leaves home for work by 7 am, and all businesses are fully up and running by 8 am! And so I find my body clock completely changed, leaving the apartment by 7.45 am! Likewise, evenings post 5 pm are usually free (although how long my advertising job will allow for such luxury is probably not hard to imagine).

The nation is completely football crazy. The other day, we were at this place called Ryan’s Irish Pub, where I spotted some Wigan (Wigan?) fans actually cheering on during their Premiership game with Durham or some such, so you can well imagine the atmosphere during the bigger games. Everyone is extremely up to time on their soccer, and the Black Stars (the Ghanaian National team, fronted by Michael Essien and Stephen Ebebe) are a National treasure, and Chelsea the National Premiership team. As we arrive into the country, the Black Stars just beat the neighbouring Squirrels (The Benin National team for some reason carries the odd moniker), and have started their bid for a place in next year’s World Cup (to be held for the very first time in Africa, viz. South Africa) in a rather strong fashion. God forbid the guys make it to the World Cup Finals, for the strain of not doing so will surely out in ways I’d rather not imagine.

Today it rained for the first time, and it’s been raining all day long. We have spent the whole Easter weekend mostly reading, reflecting, and scribbling. They show ad-free films on the telly, so that is the other major pastime. G has been whipping up miraculous Indian khana like a maestro every now and again, today we had khichri for lunch on a rain-washed day. The pleasure of this, perhaps only an Indian will understand.

It still feels a little bit unreal. But in a nice way. One of these days, when my Pidgin picks up, I’ll probably be able to articulate it like a Ghanaian could.

Dat be da day.

August Rush is Hogwash

The tagline calls it 'An incredible journey at the speed of light', as the PR girl dishes out production stills and feel-good vibes to all unsuspecting who file through the preview theatre door. What follows over the next two hours is possibly the most eye-popping daft, saccharine-soaked, half-baked dribble ever seen on the silver screen.

August Rush, launching in theatres near you on St Valentine's Day (in probably a desperate last-ditch salvaging effort by the guys over in Marketing), comes with fairly decent credentials on paper. Starring Jonathan Rhys Meyers (Bend It Like Beckham, Matchpoint, and Mandrake in the upcoming 2008 Chuck Russell spectacular) and Keri Russell, the film leaves no cliché unturned.

The story: Young orphan boy is a musical prodigy, roaming New York streets, hoping to find parents. Intercut to flashback (a super helpfully says – Eleven Years Ago) when an Irish band fronted by Rhys Meyers is up on stage playing a gig with a guest cellist (Lyla Novacek, played by Keri Russell).

Later in the evening, the two meet and exchange some inane philosophical talk that culminates in sex. Cut to her impervious father, and next thing we know, the two are separated, and what's more, she has given birth to a love child without really knowing she has.

More banality etc carries them through the next 10 years of their lives, while the kid (played by Freddie Highmore) struggles through life on the streets. Until he finds a rag-tag Robin Williams, who works a network of street kids. It is under Williams that August discovers his immeasurable gift for music, and the next thing you know, he is a scholar at the prestigious Julliard School of music.

What's more, he composes his own masterpiece overnight, and is the top-billed artist at the Concert At The Park, the annual Central Park summer special! As expected, his mom is the guest cellist, and dad, disillusioned with selling real estate out in the west coast, also saunters back in town, catches a billboard, and shows up at the Park. The rest? Well, never mind.

The predictable story, the ineffectual performances, and the sheer inexperience in direction could all have been tolerated if the central premise of the film, the music, was on the level. Unfortunately, on this note too, we are treated to excruciating insipidia. The '90s boy-band style oeuvre is dull and totally out of time, and as for the boy-genius' stuff, all we get to hear is some beginner's acoustic guitar riffs.

Interestingly, the Academy seemingly did not think so. The song Raise it Up has been nominated as an entry in the Best Achievement in Music Written for Motion Pictures, Original Song category. In any case, you have been warned.

Verdict: Avoid, unless you have nothing else to do on Valentine's Day!

VH! Jazz Masters Series

Earl Klugh & Bob James at the NCPA


It wasn’t much I was expecting as I arrived at the NCPA on Saturday evening. The Tata Theatre was looking resplendent with quiet dignity, as the sea waves came thrashing into its face at one end of Marine Drive in Mumbai. Certainly, the setting for one of the more exotic concert venues in this part of the world. However, a concert by the so-called pioneers of ‘smooth jazz’ was not sounding exactly awe-inspiring to your humble reviewer. The latest edition of the VH1 Jazz Masters series featured a concert by Earl Klugh and Bob James, with unknown element Patti Austin, backed by musicians from the Thelonious Monk Institute. The same series had brought such luminaries as Herbie Hancock and Wayne Shorter before, and is usually on the ball, so it is with mixed anticipation that I entered the plush interiors of what was arguably the city’s finest concert hall.

We started late. Not that many seemed to mind, as alcohol was flowing freely courtesy the sponsors, who encouraged you to enjoy responsibly. Finally, the band came in, and got straight into a promising sounding piece fronted on saxophone by Bobby Watson. Watson was trained formally at the University of Miami along with fellow students Pat Metheny (also from the Kansas City area), Jaco Pastorius and Bruce Hornsby. Watson claimed fame as member of The Jazz Messengers, and was a sought after sessions man who has played with Max Roach, Branford Marsalis, and fellow Messenger Wynton Marsalis.

Watson was a revelation. Throaty, grand old Jazzman, Watson also took up the self-confessed role of MC for the evening. After an introduction of the Thelonious Monk Institute, and interesting things they were doing there to propagate Jazz across America and the world (you can find out more about their programs at the TMI website at www.jazzinamerica.org), the James/Klugh duo came in with much fanfare and flourish. However, the grande entry was rendered rather dull by what followed, a weak rendition of Marcus Miller’s Mabuto. Patti Austin, the unknown factor in this edition of VH1 Jazz Masters, came in for the next track, and started with a lukewarm version of the standard Baby come to me. She also congratulated the audience on their grasp over the nuances of the English language, which the Bombay crowd treated with loud guffaws. She followed this up with a nice Gershwin double, where she segues between Love Walks In to Love is sweeping the country for one of the highlights of the evening.

Bob James took centre stage next, performing a track called Angela, which incidentally is also the theme from the popular TV show Taxi. The band was tepid, with the rhythm section playing clean lines, achieving an overall uncluttered sound, which was clinical, but boring. One had to struggle not to nod off in some of the passages, as not much seemed to be happening musically. Earl Klugh added some funk into the fray with his first set closer, a track called Dr. Lakumba. Incorporatin Latin elements, this track somewhat upped the ante, as we went into recess.

The second set definitely picked up where we had left off. The sinewy Limoncillo was another high point of the evening, fronted by Watson and backed by the TMI group. Klugh played some more of his smooth melody hits such as Carrie followed by Heart’s Train while Patti Austin came into her own on Round Midnight, delivering a powerful, cheeky version of the Thelonious Monk composition. In fact, even James was upbeat with the band breaking into a scatty version of Westchester Lake, which James described, perhaps aptly, as their ‘Bollywood’ number.

The Mumbai crowd seemed to lap it all up with great gusto, although I suppose many among them were braced already for what someone yelled across the aisle moments before the gig began to another- a little light music.

On that count, the evening kept its promise. As I filed out of the theatre amidst the usual South Bombay club set that usually frequent these do’s, I wondered how so many seemingly well-informed people could applaud middle-of-the-road ‘muzak’ so vociferously. It amused me to remember that jazz was a sanctuary of elitist taste, and large swathes of so-called jazz-lovers basically were not really there for the music. It was a social function, a club evening out, where one met old buddies, yelled a few yeah’s and wow’s, and pretend to be interested.

Here’s hoping that the next few installments of the VH1 Jazz Masters series are geared more towards the artistes and performers that are breaking new ground in an American institution called Jazz.

Terminal Part Deux

The Far Eastern Chapter

It’s been slightly over 28 hours now that I’ve been stranded at the Suvarnabhumi International Airport, Bangkok. I sit here, marooned, guzzling yet another Singha beer out of sheer boredom, as my advertising campaign (the reason I’m here in the first place) gets shot in downtown Bangkok.

Over the last four hours, I have not budged from the famous @ Airport Bar & Bistro. My Pad Thai (overpriced, like an airport café typically is), has just arrived at the table, and I’ve got guava bits still clinging underneath my teeth, as I contemplate whether to go for yet another Singha beer, or its counterpart, Chang this time around. In Thailand, it seems the Singha/Chang relationship has taken on the Cola War manufacturing machinery pretty much head-on.

Pad Thai over, I suppose I should start at the very beginning as to what made a Gunga Din of me. I remember being particularly excited as we disembarked TG318 yesterday and scrambled to be the first guys on the ‘visa on arrival’ queue. It seemed laggards had to wait a whole 45 minutes for this process to come through. Somehow, this had seemed a tad inconvenient at that point of time. So forms filled and passports in position, we waited for the Thai authorities to wake up to the morning rush (for at 4.45 am, we were most definitely the first lot to show up), and breeze us through immigration.

‘The Setup’

As the scruffy-looking lady finally arrived at the counter, and looked up, I confidently handed her the neatly stacked pile of forms, tickets, and passport I had assembled to facilitate a hasty clearance. Everything seemed de rigueur and mundane procedure. She was leafing through the individual pages of my passport, glancing slantily up at me. I’d been there before, I was thinking. Hurry up!

The scruffy lady kept leafing through my pages, till she finally settled on the cover, and in particular, the top right-hand portion of it, and began to shake her head vigorously. Perplexed, I waited. Finally, she lifted the thing up, and displayed to me (us) the cause for her consternation. There appeared to be a miniscule hole punched at the top right corner of my passport. Now, I had noticed this earlier, but did not assume it meant much, considering that as recently as two months ago, I had flown abroad with the very same passport.. I had even called up my travel agent and chided him for mistakenly punching a hole on my passport, which he had vehemently denied, and assured me repeatedly that it was no cause for concern. Apparently not. I was informed shortly that any disfiguration on a passport rendered it cancelled, and there was no way I was to be granted an entry visa into Thailand, and that I may as well pack off.

A security personnel belonging to the Thai Immigration Police chaperoned us (my hapless colleague was still around, although his visa had been granted already, thank god) to the Thai Air back office situated in an obscure part of the gargantuan airport that I’ve come to know well since. There, I was duly booked on the next Bombay-bound flight, scheduled to take off at 7:40 pm that evening, sollee danku vellymuch.

‘Empire Strikes Back’

But all hope was not lost. The motherland hosted an embassy in the land of Siam, and it is to them that we now turned. My colleague wished me luck, and finally set off for the hotel, so I was truly on my own now. Sitting in the back office on a slinky sofa that had been almost torn to shreds (by other unfortunates perched for long hours, days even, no doubt), I drafted a passionate letter to the First Secretary, informing him of my plight. With great difficulty (the Thai know exactly 3 words in the English language), I managed to fax across my pledge to the Indian Embassy.

Still longer hours of waiting+reading+walking around aimlessly later, I was told that the Embassy had decided to help me, and have drafted a letter that I need to take to the Thai Immigration authorities that may (or may not) help me. Oh, sweet mercy! I was elated, even when the Thai Airways official asked for a whopping 2000 Baht (almost 2600 INR) just to send a courier boy to bring this letter back from the Indian embassy. It seemed there was, finally, a ray of hope.

Reenergized, I finally awoke to the shopping paradise that is the B’kok Int’l, and began aggressively to feed in the deluge of goods and services the western world had to offer. Memorizing sticker prices of duty-free liquor may not be anybody’s idea of fun, but it’s better than a slinky sofa in a grim government back office. In a fit of elation that I’m only hours away from being sorted out, I even gave in to the promised luxury of a Thai foot massage (300 Bahts, 30 mins). Mostly, I was killing time.

After walking the length and breadth of a 3 storied duty-free shopping zone that’s easily a couple of miles long, I finally found my slinky sofa again, severely dismayed that 4 hours had passed by since the courier boy had left the premises, yet still not returned. Another hour and a half later (by now it was 6 pm), he finally returned with the magic letter. I was contemplating that Nehruvian philosophy had its pluses after all as we marched into Immigration HQ (level zero, off gate 13, to add to my superstitious woes).

‘The (Anti) Climax’

A tall, very thin officer was sitting at a computer terminal. I waited a full 15 minutes before he looked up. Squeamishly, I handed him the documents + letter, and was asked to sit down, which I did. Almost disbelievingly, I watched him go through the letter, the passport, the letter again, and so forth, for at least 20 minutes. He then returned to his computer, and spent another 20 minutes doing something that had nothing to do with my case I am guessing, for I could not know better going by the light of the computer screen that reflected on his narrow-rimmed glasses. Finally, he got up, and took the papers to his colleague seated on the adjacent desk. Now the other guy started to go though the documents. At this point, I stopped looking, and decided to concentrate on happy thoughts instead.

Another half hour or so later, the man finally appeared in the room, looked up to me for the very first time, and said just one word.

Ok.

It was over, I was thinking. I am saved. The two officials seemed to assemble a lot of paperwork which included photocopies of my passport (by now I was even allowing myself a smile, of sheer relief no doubt), and began to staple these together.

5 more minutes, I was thinking. 10, max. And then it happened. His facial expression suddenly changed, as he kept staring at the top right corner (again) of the letter the Embassy had sent. Finally, he began to shake his head, and it started to dawn on me that he was not about to stamp clear my passport anymore. Finally, he handed me the letter, and then I realized what had happened. The date read 13.01.2005. That’d be exactly a year ago, for we were nowadays in the Roman Calendar Year 2006. In typical fashion, the Babus had fopped it. And I was to bear the brunt of it.

As panic set in, my first thought was to request the guys to overlook it, but the giant ISO 9002 board hanging like a talisman outside the office made me realize instinctively it won’t work. So I fell back on the other ready tactic every subcontinental is armed with almost genetically. I feigned extreme anguish, nervous breakdown, downright bad luck, even tears welled up to my cheeks. Sympathetic glances were about all I managed. I was well and truly done.

‘The Death’

Back at the Thai office, I was informed that it was too late to catch the Bombay return flight that evening, so I’d have to spend the night at the airport. Duly, I was chaperoned to the 3rd floor, and to my amazement, found myself in a plush ensuite hotel room. The illusion was pretty good, but if you pulled the drapes, you could see long queues of potential visa applicants queued up along dozens of counters 2 levels below. I shut the drapes, and turned on the telly.

I hadn’t called home yet, as earlier I had hoped to do so after having gotten sorted out. So now I had to break the news to my wife, and boss. Painful as it was, I had to reassure all that I was okay, and hopefully will be sorted out first thing in the morning. As luck would have it, the next day was a Saturday, and the Indian Embassy was closed for the weekend. In my heart of hearts, I knew my likely outcome seemed to be aboard the Bombay flight next evening, although I could not bring myself to share this information with neither wife nor boss.

So here I was, trying to organize a smoking room (they had given me a non-smoking one), when I met Al. Al (short for Alla Raka, I later learnt), was a TV baron from Florida, who had somehow managed to lose his passport (or it somehow got nicked, he was convinced it was the Greek woman who sat next to him on the long flight from Kennedy). Being a TV baron, Al knew everyone (including Rupert Murdoch, and yes, Martin Sorell too) who were all extremely concerned for him, going by the frequency of calls he was receiving on his WAP-enabled thingamajig.

We hit it off right away (as if we had a choice), and decided to make the most of it. So we went downstairs to the @ Airport Bar & Restaurant, and took up a table for supper. Al had the curious habit of completely losing his cool every once in a while, and then being profusely sorry for it the next minute. For example, he would recount the story of how the Greek lady was coming on to him through the flight, and bang the table really loud, muttering curses to go with it. Next moment, he was the very picture of benevolence, asking my forgiveness for the vulgar display of temper, and that of patrons in nearby tables who were also now clued into the antics of the man. Since I had nothing to lose, and a whole night, a whole morning, and an entire afternoon to kill, I somehow got back to good spirits. We drank till quite late into the evening, till there came a point when Al\s temper tantrums begun to turn violent. I excused myself then, fearing further damage to my already dismal situation.

Exhausted, I returned to my room, and watching the dribble of mindless mushy Thai commercials on the telly, I called it a night. Tomorrow, as somebody said, would be another day.

‘New Morning’

I decided to sleep late, and not bother. My colleague called in early, and informed me that the Embassy had decided to rectify their mistake, and send across a fresh letter with the correct date imprinted on it. By now, I was really past care. I hmm-hmmed through his reassurances, and went back to sleep. Finally, I showed up at the back office. By now, I had a bevy of friends and well-wishers there, and was welcomed to my slinky sofa once more. The letter was on its way, I was told (4 hours, I quickly calculated), and I settled into my novel.

Thankfully, it was indeed, a new morning. The spell had passed. The morning courier returned at just under 2 hours, and armed with a letter that had the date right, I marched once again into the netherworld of Thai Immigration HQ. It was déjà vu, so I was careful not to look at the officials, and concentrated on my novel instead. A good 45 minutes later (I managed to look up at about the same time as the official did this time around), I was ushered into the ‘Visa on Arrival’ queue, where I found the place invaded by a sea of loud Italians who had evidently just landed a while ago. The Immigration official asked me how much I would pay him if he worked out a hasty 10 minute release for me, as opposed to the gruelling 45 minutes I\d otherwise have to wait.

For the first time in days, I had reason to smile.

In fine Compagnie

An insider’s look at the making of a heritage hotel


February 4, 1673 is an important date in the history of Pondicherry. On that day, the French arrived, and went on to rule Pondicherry for the most part till 1954.

When Dimitri Klein arrived in Pondicherry from Paris five years ago, it was love at first sight. Having freshly sold a very sucessful advertising agency in Paris that he created from scratch to the Omnicom Group, Dimitri was looking for a new challenge. Enter Dilip Kapur, leather baron, and owner of Hidesign. Together, they concluded that Pondicherry deserved a hotel befitting its unique heritage.

After scouting for the perfect location, the partners settled on the 18th century villa of the 'Maire' (Mayor) of Pondicherry. Located in the heart of the old White French quarter at 5, Rue De La Caserne, the villa was in a state of advanced dilapidation, and would require full scale restoration. Undaunted by the challenge, Dimitri roped in architect Eric Locicero, who taught at Le Villette (School of Architecture), Paris. Eric sent across a talented young architect named Niels Schoenfelder who was training with Eric, to spearhead the project.

In the meantime, the original bungalow of Governor Dupleix collapsed completely. The duo managed to save about 44 columns and 7 ceiling panels of exquisite Franco-Indian carved woodwork from the demolished house of Dupleix. A team of 25 carpenters were put together to work on the restoration. Restoring each of these panels entailed almost 300 hours of work. In some cases, parts were missing. Two dedicated restoration carpenters worked dedicatedly to finish and age such missing parts.

Niels wanted to refinish the walls with the original 'Chettinad Egg Plaster', a mixture of egg white, powdered sea shells and yoghurt. Dimitri discovered that it was almost a lost art. He connected with Visalakshi Ramaswamy in the town of Chettinad. Together, they facilitated a workshop for the dying art of Chettinad egg plaster in Kanadukathan, Chettinad. Masons from all across India participated. The Master craftsman, 90 years of age, came down to Pondicherry for one month to lay the egg plaster foundation. Each of the rooms painstakingly incorporated the Chettinad egg plaster, keeping the walls cool, and also retaining an almost marble-like sheen to walls.

Each of the rooms have been designed with meticulous detail, and subtle sensitivity by Niels Schoenfelder. The level of detailing is astonishing, as is the ingenuity of material usage. The woodwork is teak only, polished specially with linseed oil to replicate a period setting. The toilets, again ingeniously designed, use glass mosaic tiling and red oxide flooring. Interestingly, each room is designed differently, almost thematically, and draws from a range of period colonial styles. Much of the furniture has been created using period designs, and aged. Particularly noteworthy are the embroidery designs provided by Vastra Kala, Chennai-based heritage furnishings outfit. After 4 years of restoration work, Le Dupleix opened in late July 2004.

All rooms are equipped with contemporary features such as air conditioning, internet connectivity, bathtub, minibar, tea/coffee maker and so on. Each room also has a snug family room with a television. One can keep the veranda doors open throughout the day and experience great scenic beauty. If you fancy a nice evening al fresco, climbing the planked staircase with its tiny waterfalls will bring you to the sit out. The lobby features a fantastic fountain sculpture by Francois Weil, sculptor-in-residence at AIR (artists in residence), Pondicherry.

Eventually, you are likely to step down to the Governor's Lounge, the gourmet restaurant at the garden serving a host of Continental, French & Indian specialties. The cuisine, like everything else about Le Dupleix, lives up to its reputation. The restaurant sports a bar alongside, which serves international wine and a wide array of cocktails. And if you’re the coffee-drinking sort, choose from a range of award winning coffees carefully selected from plantations in the Nilgiris.

Classic French design, genuine hospitality, distinctive music and splendid food with the seashore just a few minutes away, Le Dupleix is a remarkable achievement, a chic designer hotel with the charisma of a forgotten era.

Historical Caption (Set in inset box, preferably with a picture of Dupleix as supplied)

Joseph François Dupleix (1697–1763), came to India in 1721 as an officer of the French East India Company. In 1731 he was appointed governor of Chandannagar, where he made a considerable fortune, and in 1742 he became governor of Pondichéry. On the 17th of April 1741, he married Jeanne Albert, widow of Jacques Vincent, ex-adviser to the Superior Council of the Compagnie des Inde, the French East India company.

Born of a French father and an Indo-Portuguese mother, Madame Dupleix was of Hindu faith. Nicknamed “la Begum,” she played an important role in Pondicherry’s history, heavily influencing her husband’s political decisions. Born in Pondicherry, she spoke several languages (including Tamil) fluently, and is often described by historians as a strong- headed woman. She mothered eleven children, and, with her custom-made silks and “Indiennes,” introduced a new fashion at the court of the governor.

When the War of the Austrian Succession brought the French and British East India companies into conflict, Dupleix supervised the capture of Madras (1746) and successfully defended Pondichéry. In Europe, Louis XV signed the Aix-La-Chapelle treaty, which returned a number of territories (including Madras) to their former colonizers. But in Pondicherry, Dupleix kept up the conquests, gaining more and more territory for the French. Dupleix then formed a vast project for establishing French supremacy in India. Intervening in native politics, intrigues, and warfare, he controlled the Carnatic and nearly the entire Deccan by 1751. Soon, however, the British began to regain ground under the leadership of Robert Clive, and the French government, anxious to avoid war and uninformed of Dupleix's grandiose schemes, recalled the governor in 1754. With Dupleix, the last hope of a French empire in India vanished. He ended his days in poverty and neglect.

An According to Hoyle Miracle

The facts behind Pulp Fiction


Oh. My. God!

One way to describe the 154 minute adrenaline rush that came packaged, warts and all, as Quentin Tarantino’s second offering to cinematic audiences across the world.

Another way to describe it would be to call it the sum total of 50 years of American pop culture carefully, carelessly tossed together into a smoldering cauldron that sizzles long after the last of the fire that fuelled it has died down.

And yet another way to describe it would be to call it a tribute to the pulp tradition, those trashy fast-paced, lurid magazines with thrilling cover art that dominated 20’s and 30’s America, long before television and manufactured bestsellers relegated them to the dusty back-shelves of literary misadventure.

Whichever way you look at it, Pulp Fiction is a landmark piece of work. With its motley bunch of memorable, real characters and visceral dialogue interplay, it revived the pulp tradition for a whole new Generation X, bored with dumbed down big budget Hollywood spectacles, and thirsty for fresh approaches to cinema.


Cut to… The Chase

May, 1993. A young Quentin Tarantino is hanging out with writing bud Roger Avary in downtown Amsterdam. The two had met as Video Store clerks in Manhattan Beach, California, and had become friends who often collaborated on stories. As things panned out, Quentin went on to become the most famous writer/director of his generation, while Avary spent the tail end of the decade doing script rewrites and polishes.

It was at the Betty Boop Coffee bar in the Centrum district of Amsterdam, where much of Pulp was allegedly written. In Holland, the coffee bars doubled up as hash bars where soft drugs such as cannabis and hashish were sold over the counter. Quentin stayed for several months, and left the video rental store Cult Video with an unpaid bill of about $150. And with a trashy script that will become the yardstick for a generation of film-goers and filmmakers to match up against.


Trash (as in, The Plot)

Pulp Fiction uses a non-linear narrative to cover the exploits of 3 central characters whose lives collide in badass downtown Los Angeles. Vincent Vega (John Travolta), longtime hitman in LA gang lord Marsellus Wallace’s crew has freshly returned from a 3 year stint in Amsterdam, and now teamed up with Jules Winfield (Samuel L. Jackson). Butch Coolige (Bruce Willis), aging middleweight boxer, is looking to have one last haul before he can cop out to somewhere like the Samoan Islands with his delicate French sweetheart Fabienne. And the duo of Pumpkin/ Honey Bunny (Tim Roth/ Amanda Plummer), small-time robbers of back-of-beyond liquor stores, are now looking to graduate to the big time, and how. They’re about to rob a restaurant.

To narrate the story to the uninitiated would be an exercise in futility. What’s more interesting are the nuggets that catapult a brilliantly conceived script to the status of a cult classic. What is it about the Misirlou dance sequence at the JackRabbit’s Swing Contest that came to dominate the celluloid screen of the nineties? What is is about foot massages that can spark an engrossing intellectual debate between two gangsters on their way to a cleanup job? And if the boss’ wife OD’s on grade heroin by mistakenly snorting it up thinking it’s cocaine, is it really true that piercing her breastplate with a shot of pure adrenaline is going to work?


Let’s cook some cult tonight

The ‘cult’ factor in Pulp Fiction is not format driven. It lies in the minutiae. It’s the details that are so laugh-out-loud funny, or hard-hitting, as the case may be. Sometimes it’s situational (Vincent shooting the boy in the car accidentally), while at other times, it is deep (Jules’ reinterpretation of Ezekiel 25:17). Sometimes, it is an exaggeration (Wolf, the cleanup man is a wonderful ‘what if’ character, somebody who may or may not exist in the real world, but is a killer idea of a character). This particular style of exaggerating minutiae as key plot points has come to be known as signature Tarantino (the Like A Virgin conversation at the breakfast table from Reservoir Dogs is a good example, where seasoned pro-league gangsters about to get into a ‘job’ discuss the true meaning of Madonna’s 1984 hit single).

Layered carefully within such constructs, are a million in-jokes, cross-references, and embedded pulp factoids. To the casual viewer, these easter eggs will remain invisible to the naked eye. But to the ardent follower, every repeat viewing will be rewarded with new and interesting embeds. Examples? They abound.

The marquee where Butch boxes, advertises the following fight: "Coolidge vs Wilson" is a reference to United States Presidents Calvin Coolidge and Woodrow Wilson.

The exchange in which Mia Wallace asks Travolta's character "Can you dig it?" to which he responds "I can dig it" is a nod to Travolta's role in Saturday Night Fever.

The motorcycle movie Fabienne is watching when Butch is waking up (before he discovers that his watch is missing) is called Nam's Angels. It's about the Hell's Angels fighting the Viet Cong.

An ad for Jack Rabbit Slim's can be heard during the torture scene in Reservoir Dogs.

Jules's Biblical passage (allegedly Ezekiel 25:17) is a typically obscure Tarantino reference to Karate Kiba/Chiba the Bodyguard, a 1976 film starring Sonny Chiba, whom the director would later cast in Kill Bill. Karate Kiba opens with a nearly identical misquote, likewise attributed to Ezekiel 25:17

And a whole lot many more to list here…


Hit and still running

Pulp Fiction went on to win the 1994 Palme d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival and the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. Although it was his second film (Reservoir Dogs had opened in late 1992), it practically unleashed Quentin Tarantino as a potent force in post-pop American cinema.

In retrospect, the timing of Pulp was brilliant. It happened at the right time, when the world was ready for it, and therefore it tipped over and became such a mainstream blockbuster. If you really look at it, there were too many gambles thrown in that might not have worked the way they did. Travolta was a lost cause, a seventies boy wonder, who had been all but forgotten. Uma Thurman was virtually unknown, even known as a bit part wannabe star. The rest of the cast were also throwbacks from a different generation. The music, which played such a huge role in the film’s success, was not contemporary either. They were radio hits from obscure seventies one-hit wonders.

It all just came together in one masterstroke by a truly visionary pop culturist. And the world simply lapped it up. A bevy of Hollywood have-beens owe their revival to this film. An entire genre of sound owes its revival to this film. An entire generation of pulp literature found a new market thanks to this film.

Tarantino has gone on to create some of the most memorable Hollywood pictures over the last decade or so, and has developed a major cult (some would say mainstream) following along the way. Pulp Fiction, in particular, spawned a stream of non-linear, fast-paced nuovo gangsta flicks-. Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Go and Snatch are only a few examples.


An according to Hoyle miracle

A final mystery for true buffs. Speculation abounds about the exact nature of the glowing contents of Marsellus Wallace’s briefcase. The most oft-repeated theory is that it contained Marsellus Wallace’s soul. The story goes that when the Devil takes a man’s soul, it is removed from the back of the head. When we see the back of Marsellus’ head, he has a band-aid covering the exact spot. Interestingly, we see Vincent opening the briefcase using the combination number 666, which further substantiates this.

Fresh theory, anyone?