No fast lanes in Chennai

“Why Chennai?”
“Are you alright?”
“I can get you a job here in Delhi if you want.”
These were the typical responses I got when I told my friends I was shifting to Chennai from Delhi. Later when they realized I was serious about moving to the South, the responses were something like this:
“Let me know if you need help down there.”
“Any day you want to come back, just give me a call.”
My dear friend Pallav was okay with the decision after the usual “WHY?” He had studied and started his career in Chennai so he knew a bit about the place. He told me that the city was nice. “It is a metropolis without the trappings of a metro.”
I couldn’t fathom how right he was till I landed in Chennai.
Coming from a place which is forever on the move, Chennai was a bit of a shocker. I go to my local grocer every day to buy bread, eggs etc. The grocer is about 200m away and it takes me about half-a-minute to get there (yes, environmentalists. I am your greatest enemy. I drive even for a distance of 200 m). But it takes me about 40 minutes to get a loaf of bread and half-a-dozen eggs. Why? Because the shopkeeper talks on the phone for 10 minutes before moving his butt. Then even as he is picking out the eggs, his friend – the shopkeeper next door – says something to him and they start talking (BTW: In Chennai, even when two people are joking, to an outsider it sounds like they are about to come to blows.)
This is a great city.
At department stores – even big chains like Reliance – you have to wait in queue for about 20 minutes before you are served. And it’s not because there’s a huge crowd. Because the guy or girl supposed to be manning the counter decides to take a chat break. And then, even the manager can’t get her back to the counter.
Nearly every day, I drive behind an auto going at a speed of 15 kmph. When I somehow manage to overtake from the wrong side, I find there is a long trail of vehicles following a couple of cyclists who are talking and not giving anyone the way. The road ahead of them would be completely empty. And people behind the cyclists wouldn’t care either.
I thought money talks everywhere. It can’t utter a word in Chennai, it seems. I often ask my watchman to go to the market for me. I offer him money. But he just refuses. I ask a lot of my Men Friday to do something extra for me in return for a generous tip. They don’t bother.
This is a strange city.
But there's one upshot to it. I'm now thinking of buying a cycle or a scooty for a lazy ride around town. When I can take it easy -- even take the cycle to office. How many of us in Delhi or Bombay can think of doing that.

My years in Pakistan

A lot of people keep asking me about my experience in Pakistan – I spent nearly 4 years in Islamabad. So I decided to write about it here, even though the Pakistan I lived in was very different from the one we read about in the papers now. But anyway…

The first time I went to Pakistan was in March 1992. I took a train from Delhi till Amritsar and then a taxi till the Attari border. You have to cross the border on foot – but only foreigners or diplomats can do that. The average Indian or Pakistani tourist has to either take the train (Samjhauta) or get on a flight. It was a beautiful day – the sky was overcast and as people in Delhi know March is a beautiful month in that part of the country. If you drive down from Amritsar to Islamabad you do so on the GT Road (Grand Trunk Road, which Sher Shah Suri traveled on). The drive from Amritsar to Attari is through lush green fields – Guru Nank Dev University, one of the premier universities in India is the last major landmark on the way.
We crossed the border around 11 am and like I said, the sky was overcast. The border post is under huge trees and there is greenery all around. That day was also the first time in my life I saw No Man’s Land and the barbed wire fence along the border.
At Wagah (that’s the name of the Pakistani border post) we got into an old 70s Toyota automatic. At that time the Maruti revolution was sweeping India and the taxis here used to be battered Ambassadors that had seen a lot of action when militancy was at its peak in Punjab.
It’s a 50-minute drive from Wagah to Lahore and I spent the time trying to soak in as much as I could about Pakistan. There was a weekly market on the way. Vegetables were stacked neatly on racks but right in front were animal innards. I wondered how customers would buy their veggies when intestines were lying all over the place where they were supposed to stand. It was disgusting to say the least – Paskistanis eat a lot of red meat so I guess even the stink of rotting meat would be okay for them but I found it downright revolting.
The journey from Wagah to Lahore was uneventful. At Lahore, we got into an AC video coach and surprise, surprise! The bus was a Mercedes and they played Hindi movies throughout our journey from Lahore to Islamabad – some 300 km and 7 hours away.

A LITTLE BIT ABOUT ISLAMABAD
I used to live close to Faisal Masjid, built by King Faisal of Saudi Arabia, in Islamabad. The mosque is beautiful. The floor is so squeaky clean that you can see your face in it. There's a replica of the holy Mecca and Medina there. Nearly everybody who is anybody in Pakistan owns a bungalow near Faisal Masjid.
Then there is the Jinnah Super market -- the most upmarket in Islamabad. You can pick up the most exquisite -- and the most expensive -- watches, jewellery, apparel, shoes from here. This market turns into a major hangout at night after the shops shut down and is a hit with youngsters.
Super Market -- which houses the famous bookstore, Mr Books -- is about 5 km down the road from Jinnah Super. Mr Books is famous for two reasons -- it has the best collection of books in Islamabad and it was from this shop that Omar Sheikh, now on death row for his role in Daniel Pearl's killing, picked up a couple of books before he transformed into a "liberal" Muslim to lure Pearl into his trap (this is what Henri Levy says in his book, Who killed Daniel Pearl).
Then there is Aab Para, another marketplace, albeit a little downmarket. You can find Chinese good in hordes here. A little down Aab Para, there is a weekly market called Jumma market. As the name suggests, it comes up on Fridays on an open ground a little ahead of Aab Para. You can find pickles, carpets, spices, dry fruits, clothes -- both used and new, poultry, vegetables etc. from here. People generally go to this market to stock up for the week.
The Covered Market (called so because it is housed in a covered enclosure) has a lot of good things to offer too. It mostly has smuggled goods and whatever came from Afghanistan in those days.
All these markets fell in the order given above from my home to the Senate.
The biggest market was called Blue Area. It was a straight stretch for about 5 km or so. White goods and electronics items was the speciality of this market. It was also the commerical hub of Islamabad.
I am talking about nearly 14 years back, so things might have changed. If anyone of you has the latest update, please let me know.

WHAT THE PAKISTAN CONNECTION DID FOR ME
I was still in school when I first went to Islamabad. When I returned to Delhi, all my classmates -- kids I had known since Nursery -- had a different attitude towards me. Some became too polite, others hostile. One of my friends asked me whether I was a Muslim. I was taken aback -- did my name not sound Hindu enough, I asked.
"Then probably you are a Pakistani Hindu," he said.
I decided to leave it at that.
For the next months or so, I pretended that I was a Pakistani and used to abuse everyone in class, calling them Indians. Some got really angry but no one really protested -- they were probably scared of a "Pakistani" (a lot of you will probably stop reading this blog forever now, but let me get this straight. I was in High School then and you do silly things in High School, don't you?)
But what was more interesting was the kind of reaction I used to get from people in Pakistan ezpecially when there was a India-Pakistan cricket match.

(I have to stop again now. Please check this blog tomorrow)

Too hilarious for a title

I went to the Whirlpool showroom after I had been cheated by Next Shop -- a multi-brand electronic goods shop. Next had sent me a used and much abused washing machine and refrigerator. So I spoke to Whirlpool and they asked me to get in touch one Mr Muthukumar, who was in-charge of Chennai operations.
I spoke to Mr Muthukumar's subordinate one evening and next morning I reached the showroom.
There were a couple of salesmen at the showroom, but not Mr Muthukumar's subordinate.
I asked one of the salesmen for Mr Muthukumar. He did not speak English, so the other one came to my aid.
"I am here to meet Mr Muthukumar," I said.
"Mr Muthukumar not here," the salesman said.
"What about Mr Maniam (the subordinate)?"
"Out of station. Can we help."
"Yes. I am looking for a fridge and washing machine."
"Yes. Please look."
After inquiring about the price and generally whiling away my time, I asked for Mr Muthukumar again.
"Muthukumar not here, saar."
"Well, where is he."
"Up."
"WHAT?"
"Yes saar. Dead. Expired. No more."
I was shocked. I had spoken to his subordinate on his cellphone just 16 hours back. How tragic, I thought.
"When did it happen?"
"Six months back saar." The salesman had put on a solemn face.
"What? But I spoke to him last night."
Silence.
After 30 seconds. "Then he must be alive saar."
Then turning to the other salesman: "Who is Muthukumar?"

Chennai and the North-South divide

The first few days in Chennai very chaotic, to say the least. I could not understand what people here said, be it the autowallah or the humble employee in office. The first time I flagged down an auto and askedhim if he would go to Ambattur (an industrial estate in Chennai where my office is located) he just nodded his head sideways. I thought he didn’t want to so I walked away. He called out.
“What happened saar.”
“I thought you said you didn’t want to go.”
“No saar.”
“Okay, I’ll look for another auto.”
“No saar. I’ll go”
“OK. I thought you said no.”
“Yes saar.”
“So, will you take me there or not?”
He made an obscene gesture with his hand, which I guessed meant, “just sit in the freaking auto”.
And off we went.
A couple of days later, I reached office for the morning meeting. Finding nobody there I asked my boss’s secy if the meeting was on.
“You are coming for the meeting?”
Which meant that the meeting was on and I hadn’t missed it.
“Yes,” I said.
“Sorry, it’s not happening.”
“But you just said…” I realized that the present continuous tense would prove to be a continuous torture for me.
And another day. I walk into a conversation about booze. A nice bloke is telling the others: “We are looking for a liquor shop, no.”
That was interesting. Keep talking man.
“But we are not finding any place…”
Oh, it was something that happened in the past. In English, we would say something like: “We were looking for a liquor shop but did not find any…”
But then this is Chennai.

In Chennai, they can’t be fair
Autowallahs are complete louts. But in Chennai, the word lout takes on a completely different meaning. The moment the guy realizes you are from up north, he’ll start asking for Rs 10 extra for every turn of the wheel.
Like the other day when I went house-hunting in Anna Nagar, a posh colony closest to my office. I told the auto guy I had to go the Reliance Fresh outlet in Anna Nagar. The house I was to see was a few steps ahead. He asked for Rs 40 for a distance of 4 km from where I flagged him down, but I agreed. When he reached the Reliance Fresh outlet, I asked him to go a bit further down the road – just 20 paces, to be precise. Pat, he asked for Rs 50 when I got down.
“Rs 10 extra saar. You say Reliance Fresh. I am coming forward.”
“Then go backward. You have fleeced me enough already. I will not pay you a single penny more.”
He made that obsene gesture and drove off.
Later in office, a colleague who had seen similar gestures, asked a local man what it meant. The gesture was a combination of what you do when hitching a ride and when you want to tell somebody to jerk off. The Local Man told us that it meant what we thought it did – jerk off. But then he clarified. If somebody does it once, it means “What?”
But when they repeat the gesture several times?
It means “What the fuck,” the Local Man said.

The Transformation of Malaysia

I visited Kuala Lumpur for the first time in 2004 and I was totally sold out. Despite being a Muslim nation, the people looked pretty liberal, going about their national sport – shopping – with a smile on their lips. Never once did I see anyone – man or woman – glancing at another one wearing skimpy or weird clothes. Everything was par for the course.
Then I went to Kuala Lumpur again in 2007 and it took me a long while to figure out that these were the same streets I roamed in 2004. Only the Petronas Towers looked recognisable. And I went around looking for reasons for this transformation.
One, I guess, is the influx of the Saudi Arabian Tourist. Malaysia is quite modern, has decent facilities, is cheap and to top it all, is an Islamic nation. It’s quite secular though. So the Saudi Arabian Tourist, who I guess, finds he’s not too welcome in the West, has started flocking to South East Asian nations, particularly to Malaysia. By some independent figures, 6,837 Saudis visited Malaysia in July 2005. In July 2006, their number had grown to 10,788. The July 2007 figures are yet to come in but I reckon that would have gone upwards of 20,000.
When we went to Kuala Lumpur in August 2007, nearly every hotel was packed to capacity. The Saudi Arabian Tourist with wads of cash was visible at each and every shopping mall. A taxi driver told me that Saudi Arabians had started flocking to Malaysia because it was too hot in the Wahabbi nation at that time of the year (I was not able to independently verify this).
So there has been this change in Malaysia over the last three years or so. Mini-skirts and shorts which were the norm in 2004 when I first visited KL were nowhere to be seen. In fact, even jeans were very rare – only on Westerners (I must mention here that I stayed in KL for 2 days and it is a bit unfair to judge a city by staying there for 3-4 days – doing things that a regular tourist does).
To attract the Saudi Arabian Tourist, Malaysia has even named a street “Arab Street” in the Bukit Bintang area – the hub of shopping and touristy activities – to let him do the things he does all the time, smoke sheesha, dig into his favourite food, etc.
There were other ways in which KL did not appeal to me much as a tourist destination. The city has become really dirty – there were wrappers, paper and bits of garbage all over on the monorail tracks – and the traffic is maddening. In 2004, I was so impressed by the traffic movement. People would stop at least 15 metres from the vehicle ahead. Nobody honked the horn. I stayed there for 15 days and not once did I hear anyone sounding the horn.
But this year the situation was quite different. There were vehicles everywhere, and horns were being sounded freely in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. There was a bus driver I saw who had his hand on the horn button and was constantly honking it. And he looked angry – the scene wasn’t very different from the one in Delhi, where Blueline drivers muscle their way in and warn other road users by blowing the horn and coming within kissing distance of other vehicles.
The taxi drivers in KL were never honest but his time I found asking them to go by the meter was a fruitless exercise. Not only did they charge exorbitant rates, there taxis were very dirty and the aircon didn’t work well either. (In KL, taxis and buses have to have the aircon on all the time).
But what worries me most is the informal dress code imposed on people in Malaysia. Beyonce Knowles had to recently cancel a show in KL because “showing skin is against Islam”.
Reminds me of a certain city which went from skirts in the Eighties to a veil from head to toe in the Nineties. I just hope KL doesn’t go the same way – it’s just too dear to me to be lost to religion.

India and Singapore: Worlds apart

Two incidents that will forever remain etched in my memory:
I was about to leave my sister-in-law’s house in Singapore to meet a friend for drinks when the door of the room my daughter was sleeping in got locked. We tried every key in the house but the lock wouldn’t turn. The only other way into that room was through the bathroom window. The house was on the third floor, so that wasn’t an option.
We rushed to the security guard of the condominium and asked for a locksmith’s number. We told the locksmith that it was an emergency: my 20-month-old daughter was locked inside a room. He promised to be there in 15 minutes.
He reached in 10. I was not sure if he was the man but I called out from the third floor anyway. He started running towards our house and had climbed the stairs within 20 seconds – normally it took me about a minute even though I climb stairs very fast.
He got down to work immediately and broke open the lock within about 15 seconds. I could see that he was concerned about a child being locked inside: even more than the child’s own parents. The moment he unlocked the door, he asked if our daughter was alright. She was still sleeping and we all heaved a sigh of relief. It was then that he talked business: the lock had to be replaced and it would cost this much. We gladly obliged and, Indian that I am, I checked in the market if he had been fair: he had been.
Had the same happened in India, the locksmith would have fleeced us: worse still, he would have taken his own sweet time to get to the place and another round of “pehle thoda paani pila do” before he would have started working. But not in Singapore. The locksmith was a thorough professional – and a gentleman too.
The second incident:
Public transport is amazing in Singapore, to say the least. Taxi stands are earmarked and people have to queue up before they catch the taxi – and no, the taxi driver cannot refuse to take you wherever you want to go unless he’s finishing his shift and going home – in which case he will already have the place he’s going to displayed. This is true of all of Singapore – except Mustafa Centre, the hub of all things Indian.
At Mustafa Centre, a 24-hour shopping mall, the taxi stand holds no meaning. People do queue up there, but they are only Singaporeans or foreigners. And they keep waiting. Indians, on the other hand, run around the road – though jaywalking is a serious crime in Singapore -- flag down taxis before they reach the stand – some literally stand in the middle of the road, forcing the driver to stop – and haggle. Oddly enough, even the drivers, the same drivers who follow all the rules in the rest of Singapore, gladly oblige.
On weekends, party-goers wait for 40-45 minutes before getting into a taxi from places like Clarke Quay (pronounced Clark Kee), a riverfront hub of pubs, restaurants and an extreme bungee ride. Most shops here stay open till 3 or 4 a.m. on weekends and the mood is, obviously, very party-ish.
But not once did I see anyone cutting queues or trying other methods -- like Indians do outside Mustafa Centre – to get a taxi faster than the guy who actually deserves it and has been waiting.
But that’s what we Indians are, aren’t we? Different. Or, I should say, hideously indifferent to rules and laws.
And yes, another incident.
When I returned to Delhi, I had to fill out the immigration forms at the airport. I took three, kept my bag on the table and looked down to take a pen out. Within 5 seconds, a lady, again an Indian an a co-passenger on the flight, wacked the forms from right under my nose.
India Shining!



Yours truly at the Hard Rock Cafe, Singapore. And that's Eddie Van Halen's guitar.
This will be my next post: the bars of Singapore and Malaysia

Media and the Indian mindset

Around two years back, while returning home from work late in the night, I noticed a huge jam on the Dwarka flyover. It was pretty late and generally the road used to be deserted at that hour. I parked some distance away from the hold-up and noticed that a bus had rammed into three cars. Nobody was hurt. The police were there and so were the owners of the cars. The bus driver, apparently drunk, had hit the cars. No major damage. All the cars were capable of being driven on.
I asked one of the owners why he couldn’t remove his car, now that the police report had been written. What he told me was symptomatic of the society today. “We have called a news channel. We will not let the bus or cars remover till our quotes have been taken.”
The role of the media – especially broadcast media – has been pivotal in shaping our society today. Everybody and his uncle want their 15 minutes of fame. So what if thousands of other people are inconvenienced?
At a recent talk show on Doordarshan, the panel of editors was asked why journalists tend to air shows or news that titillate? Simple, because the audience wants it, said one. I think that is perfectly logical argument. In this day and age when any body can launch a channel – and most of them are – why would you want to air serious stuff that few are going to watch anyway.
Then another member of the audience asked a channel head why his journalists do not step in when they see somebody trying self-immolation or is any other kind of serious trouble. “We are not social activists,” was the answer.
Perfectly logical answer, again. Only, I would like to add something.
If a reporter out to cover a desperate measure by a citizen intervenes, he would have nothing to show. Which, in effect, means there would be no negative news, no social evils to report. Only a rosy picture. Now that would be something I don’t want to see every time I switch on my TV.

A Clockwork Orange - and white and green - in office

The movie was great but please, spare me this patrotism on I-Day

Wanted to write about the bars, streets, people and the stark difference betweeen India and its neighbours but a more important thought possesses me now. Today is August 14, the eve of our 60th Independence Day. People all around me are wearing sarees and kurta pyjamas to celebrate I-Day. Some are even playing the national anthem and other such songs laced with eye-swelling patriotism.
I am sure if were to mention the sacrifices made by our soldiers in '47, '65, '71 and Kargil wars, goosebumps will be everywhere. Some might even start crying. There are a few who would leave the office and head straight to an Army recruitment office.
I, for one, am wearing my standard cotton shirt, trousers and shoes - inviting the wrath of the all the patriots today.
"Mile sur mera tumhara" is playing in the background. It came right after somebody played A.R. Rahman's "Vande Mataram". I am waiting for Lata Mangeshkar's "Ae Mere Watan Ke Logon".
My office is on the second floor. I am wondering: Should I jump now or be tortured some more.

The boom-boom girls of Thailand

I saw them on the pavements of Bangla Road, probably the busiest and brightest street in Phuket. It has bars all around, eating joints, a kick-boxing stadium – the works. I was sitting with a few tour operators from India -- whom I would get to know better over the next couple of days – gorging on my pizza and having a Red Label. In walked a girl, pouty lips, red lipstick, tight skirt, and a bag in hand. The sole lady in our group pointed her out to us. Till then I had completely forgotten that Phuket was a haven for tourists seeking cheap sex.
I saw them outside the Pizza Company outlet off Bangla Road – scores of them. Little girls, tall ones; most slim, some plump, walking the streets with regular Western clothes, handbags slung from shoulders.
It was late – we had returned from Phuket Fantasea, a fabulous nighttime cultural theme park which had a splendid show based on the Ramayana. Fantasea is spread over acres and looks like a huge, huge school fete. We finished our pizzas and hailed a taxi to go back to our hotel.
I was to meet Thailand’s famed prostitutes the next day.

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It’s strange that in a country that attracts foreign tourists in hordes, very few locals speak English. I did not meet a single person who could understand what I was saying – I had to make do with hand gestures. Finding a taxi to go back to the hotel was another enormous task but that’s not what this post was about.
Next day we returned to Patong beach – the same beach on which thousands died when the massive walls of tsunami waves wrecked Thailand – and its tourism industry. The government had organized a cultural extravaganza for the 1000-odd journalists and tour operators from around the world it was hosting. Thailand wanted to show the world that the tsunami was behind it and it was ready to receive tourists again. But for some strange reason, everybody on the stage was talking in Thai.
After a couple of beers, I suggested to my group – some 25 people – that we move out. After about half an hour, most of us were back on Bangla Road and this time at a decent hour – around 10.30, I think.
We went to Tai Pan, a throbbing place with a live band that plays rock classics. We sat down for a round of Red Label. The band is all White and plays awfully great music. The place was very lively. I placed a request with the band for a song from Steely Dan but they had not heard of the group. After a few drinks at Tai Pan, I decided to move out. A PR guy from our group, in his fifties, told me he wanted to come with me. Done, I said.
Right outside Tai Pan, while I was looking at all the bars there – girly bars, go-go girls, transvestite pole dancers -- a couple of girls stopped me.
“Boom, boom?” they asked.
“Boom, boom?” I replied.
One of the girls, the smaller one, made a circle with her left hand thumb and index finger and started poking it with her right index finger.
“Oh, boom, boom,” I said.
“Your hotel. 500 bahts for one girl. All night,” she said.
“No, thanks.”
“You pay less. OK? 400.”
“No, thanks. Not interested.”
“You not like me?”
“No. Don’t want boom, boom. Married,” I showed her my right hand.
The girls moved on and stopped the Old PR Guy. The haggling began again.
I left him with the girls and got into a side street that was full of gyrating pole dancers.

**********************

“Most of them are transvestites,” a colleague had told me earlier.
So there I was. The street was like any in Chandni Chowk. There was barely enough place for two people to walk together. Open girly bars were everywhere.
A doe-eyed girl in her undergarments was playing a game of dominoes with a young man, probably a European. The guy was smitten, you could see it in his eyes. The girl was indulgent. The two looked like a pair in love. A whole lot of people had stopped to see them play – but nothing mattered to the two.
I ran into a couple of other guys from my group. Both were in their fifties but splendidly good chaps. One runs a travel agency, the other is a senior officer with an airline. We decided to have a beer each. They told me they had found a good disc. It was right above where we stood.
At the disc, a girl accosted us.
“No boom, boom, thanks,” I told her.
“No boom, boom,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“I like you.”
“What?” The music was loud. The crowd looked like it was in a trance. It was the last song, I think. Everybody wanted to have the last dance.
“What did you say,” I asked her again.
“You say no to friend for boom, boom. You say married. I like.”
“Well, thank you. You are a nice girl yourself. You should get out of this profession.”
“No. Can’t get out. Me like you. Let’s go hotel. No charge.”
“What? Are you crazy?”
Within half an hour we were back in our hotel. It had been a heady night. I wondered how many of those boom-boom girls had been brought back to the hotel.
I wondered about those girls. Why they were doing what they were doing. They looked like they belonged to nice families. In India, they would even be considered upper middle class. Then why, I wondered, would nice little girls get into prostitution?

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“The field a woman ploughs lies between her legs.”
That’s an old Thai saying. Contrary to what Bangkok’s gleaming buildings, its bumper-to-bumper traffic and mega malls tell you, Thailand is mostly a poor country. Tourism is the mainstay here. The girls that get into prostitution to support their families. And you would be amazed to see the kind of support they get from the men who escort them to hotels whenever a tourist bites the bait. These bike-taxi guys are all the family they have in cities they come to, to be ravaged by the tourist looking for cheap thrills and an even cheaper sex.
After speaking to a lot of locals and tourists, this is the conclusion I came to: An all-night jig with a girl will cost you around 400 baht (around Rs 500 or $10). A peg of Red Label at a place like Tai Pan will set you back by around 150 baht (around Rs 200 or $5). And Red Label is one of the cheapest “Scotch” doing the rounds in Thailand.
It was late. My thoughts were wandering. I pulled out a can of beer from the mini-bar in my room and went to the balcony. It was hot and humid. In the distance, I could see lights from the discos on Bangla Road. The loud thumping music in the bars landed faintly in my ears. I went back inside. Early next morning, we had to leave for Krabi. Thailand was just getting interesting. I don’t know when I dozed off. The music was still throbbing in my head. Or was I going to get seriously hung over the next morning?

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Krabi is a beautiful place. A sleepy town along probably the only beach that was battered by the tsunami. Close by are Phi Phi islands which bore the brunt of the walls of water. Many victims of Phi Phi were brought to Krabi for treatment.
“It looks just like New Zealand,” the guy from the airline told me.
After a quick bath in luxurious Pavilion Hotel, we headed out to town. “Foot massage,” somebody said.
“Foot massage. Yes,” all the girls in the group said, almost in unison.
“Foot massage,” the older amongst us agreed.
“Beer,” I said loudly. Or Red Label, I said to myself.
We were at the beach. Green sea. Beach littered with sea shells. “These are thousands of years old. You should not walk here,” somebody told me.
I stood at the seashore. What if there is another tsunami? I’m the only one standing here. What would it be like? What would it have been like for the thousands who were sunbathing or swimming in the sea when it receded and then rose with great fury, destroying everything in its path. The thought scared me. I quickly raced back towards the hillock.


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“Raruna,” the cab driver said. We had decided on having authentic Italian for dinner.
“Raruna?” our liaison man asked. “Abey ghodu, kahan hai yeh? Where is it?”
For about 10 minutes we kept looking for Raruna.
We found La Luna, set up by an Italian. Thais cannot pronounce “L”. Great confusion that caused.
It was a small place but very cosy. I found a Padi (Professional Association of Diving Instructors) instructor at the bar, smoking. I started talking to him about the tsunami and its effect on business in Thailand (you’ll find that story below, titled “Phuket struggles with ghosts; or is it guilt?”)
After our pizzas, we set out for a walk. The sea on the right, the market on the left and greenery all around. Krabi’s streets are squeaky clean. At one corner of the town were the discos, thumping music and all.
“Foot massage,” one of the girls groaned. It’s a very nasal kind of voice that most girls produce, when they want to implore the others. The stress was on the Ss.
I had had enough. “Foot massage people that side. Those who want to walk, come this side. We’ll meet here in 1 hour.”
For the next hour, we looked at clubs, decided they were pretty shady and moved on. I was scouting for the boom-boom girls. Not because of you-know-what but because they had intrigued me. I wanted to ask them why. What forces them into prostitution. Why can’t they get out. But none was to be found.
“It’s a very sleepy town. Let’s go back to the hotel. We have to catch an early flight tomorrow,” someone suggested. It was 11 p.m. The flight was at 10.30 a.m. Early flight, I wondered. But we quickly marched back to the hotel.

**********************

The drive to Krabi airport was really nice. The sea is green and has cliffs rising out perpendicularly. What a challenge those would be for rock climbers and BASE jumpers. Within hours we were in Bangkok, caught in the maddening traffic. Reminded me of Delhi, even though it was much more civilized than what we have back home.
As soon as I chucked my luggage in the room, the Old PR Guy and I were at a mobile shop in the hotel. The owner was a Sikh whose parents had come from Amritsar. I told him I was a journalist from India. For a mobile shop owner, he was very aware of current affairs and the Thai society. I asked him about the boom-boom girls. “It’s much better than the Netherlands,” he said. The government has mandated regular checks for all the sex workers, he said. Every month they have to go for an examination and they are taken off the street-walking circuit if the test throws up something.
“Very clean here,” he told me. “You should go to Pat Pong Street and see for yourself,” he said with a wink.
So our agenda for the evening was set.

**********************

We took a tuk-tuk (a taxi, basically a three-wheeler. Harley, I think. It has a roaring sound and I found tuk-tuks and their drivers very irritating) till Pat Pong. The Old PR Guy was giving directions (he used to frequent Bangkok, he told me). After about 30 minutes in the tuk-tuk we reached a very shady place. There were a group of foreigners standing outside a shanty that had a curtain for a door. They were standing under a dim streetlight. I asked the Old PR Guy where we were. He said he didn’t know but I was sure there was some kind of peep-show going on inside and the old man had deliberately brought me there.
“Let’s get out of here. This place is giving me the creeps.”
“Yaar, dekh lete hain kya hai. Kya harj hai,” he said.
“I’m bolting. You stay if you want.”
He gave the tuk-tuk guy directions and we were in Pat Pong street in 2 minutes.

Pat Pong has a bustling night life. It has go-go bars, peep shows and regular bars full of hookers on one side and a night market on the other. The market stays open till around 2 a.m. and you can pick up the standard stuff here – fake watches, clothes, trinkets, DVDs, music, etc. Somewhat like the scene in Beach where Leonardo Dicaprio is taken aside for a shot of cobra blood.
I was checking out the bars, avoiding the ones with the transvestite pole dancers dressed in white. I saw one which had a live band – with a local female lead. Her accent was good, and so was her singing. I sat down and ordered a beer. The Old PR Guy was getting impatient.
“Yahan kya kar raha hai. Aage chalet hain.”
Aage was where the shadier joints were. As you keep going ahead, Pat Pong keeps geeting queerer.
“Sir, you go ahead. I want to listen to some live music.”
“No, I won’t go alone.”
I enjoyed a round of drinks and some fabulous songs when the band decided to take a break. The DJ took over. I left the place.
Further up ahead, I found another joint – bigger than the last one (funny I never noticed the names of these bars) – which had a live band.
I settled down at the end of the disco. In the centre, tourists and a group of hookers were working up a frenzy. How people dance when a live band is playing is one of life’s little riddles that I could never solve.
The sofa adjacent to mine was rocking. I glanced and saw a girl on top of an American tourist, heaving. Both shouted a bih “Hi” the moment they saw me. I was embarrassed. I returned the greeting and quickly looked away.
After about 15 minutes, I felt somebody poking at my elbow. It was the girl on the sofa.
“We go dance. You come?”
“No thanks”
“Bags here. You watch. OK?”
“OK.”
Another 15 minutes passed. I finished a beer. The girl came back holding the American tightly. There were another 4-5 girls with her. One of them, their ringleader I suppose, asked me if the girls could sit with us.
“No boom-boom. Thanks.”
“Boom-boom,” she asked. “Oh, boom-boom,” she suddenly remembered. Maybe the prostitutes of Bangkok spoke a different language than those of Phuket.
“Okay no boom-boom. What are you doing here,” she asked me.
“Having a beer and listening to music.”
“But you are married.” She had noticed the ring on my right hand.
“Yes I am.”
“They why are you here.” Surprisingly, she spoke good English.
“To have a beer and listen to music.”
“You are a nice man. People like you should not come here. You want to dance.”
“No thanks. I just want the live music.”
Seeing I was not interested in the sex that she wanted to give me, she decided to leave. She asked her friends to get up.
“We go to another bar. Maybe you want to come with us.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You are a nice man. I would have wanted to dance with you.”
I did not ask her name. I do not know how many tourists she had met who were in the bar she worked in who did not want to screw her. I remember her as a decent little girl, trying to get by with the only asset that she has. I did not think of her as a sex worker. She was a regular girl, just like the one you occasionally run into near a movie theatre. But then again, she was just not like the regular girl you occasionally run into near a movie theatre.
It was 2 in the morning. The bar was shutting down. The shopkeepers were packing up. The Old PR Guy was cross with me because I did not accompany him to the sex joints nearby. I was tired. We got into a cab and reached the hotel in about 10 minutes.
I was feeling hungry. I called up room service for a burger and fries. The bellboy arrived in 20 minutes. As he was leaving, he asked, “Sir, you want girl? Clean, good girl. No one will know. Only 500 bahts.”
The sex industry in Thailand never sleeps.


What brings tourists to Thailand? The beaches are clean, the roads are smooth and well-maintained and the country is geared-up to serve all kinds of travelers. Some come here for a dip in the sea, a spot in the sun, mugs of cool beer on the beach, a good massage. Most want sex afterwards.
Alex Renton wrote in the Prospect that the average white tourist comes here to escape the “ball-breaking female” of the West.
LBFMs is what Americans used to refer to them as when they came to Vietnam. That's short for Little Brown Fucking Machines.
Thai women for most sex tourists are, well, just sex toys. People play out the wildest fantasies with them. There are a whole lot of massages these girls offer: foot massage, full body massage, sandwich massage, etc. They start with the massage and most tourists end up with a ménage à trois.
You’ll be amazed what kind of things these girls will do to attract tourists: there’s a peep show in which a girl smokes a cigarette from you-know-where. Ewwww.
Can the average man who orders girls into doing such things ever dream of asking his wife or girlfriend to attempt something even remotely close? I guess not. Definitely not.
That’s why Thailand lives on. And so do the prostitutes. Even after being used and abused every night, they still trust men – they want to dance with a man who tells them he does not want to have sex with them.

Hacker barks up wrong Zee

(Wrote this a long time back -- in 2002, I think, when Zee TV's website was hacked)

"This is the last time we are warning India to take off their hands from Kashmir…If you don't hear this your missiles and your nuclear weapons will be targeted at u."

If you try going to 'zeetv.com' and get this message, be assured that neither your computer nor the Zee network is to blame. A hacker who's less smart than he'd like you to believe, (he thinks Kashmir becomes Pakistan's territory if a mouse is clicked) hacked into zeetv.com and put out material such as the passage quoted above.

But he made one mistake: zeetv.com isn't the Zee site. "Our website is 'zeetelevision.com', somebody is just squatting on the domain name 'zeetv.com'," said Sainath Aiyar, Zee's spokesman, talking to The Hindustan Times. People at Zee say that the squatter's identity is a mystery. The only thing they know is that he's based in the US. "We've told our offices in the States to look into the matter," says Aiyar.

They might want to check with a Mr Rahul Dholakia of Tulip Drive, New Jersey. Dholakia bought the URL (unique resource locator — that's name, in English) 'zeetv.com' in 1998, through an Australia-based domain name registration site called oznic.com. The going rate for a registration on this site is currently $24 a year. Dholakia is probably paying even less, but he wants three 0s added to $24 in order to sell. Zee TV's problems with anything that involves adding zeros just don't seem to end. Incidentally, 'zeetv.net', 'zeetv.org' and 'zeetv.co.uk' have also been taken.

But there is a faintly sinister angle to the break-in. The hacked site has a list of items, most of which link to the website of the Kashmir Liberation Cell, government of 'Azad Jammu and Kashmir'. This site regularly puts out inflammatory material on Kashmir in the hope that somebody will read it. And the hacker would surely have been lauded for generating some traffic for it by his Pakistani friends.

Educated visitors, however, would be shocked at the poor quality of the content: the hacker appears to have every dirty word in his vocabulary, but lacks the English to string them into coherent sentences. Even so, he does seem to have a sense of humour. Here are a few samples:

Q: How do you disable Indian missiles?
A: Cut the rubber band.
Q: How can you tell when an Indian is lying?
A: His lips are moving.

These are generic jokes, and are absolutely hilarious if you swap 'Indian' with 'Pakistani'. Which brings us to the other crucial mistake the hacker made: he didn't give zeetv.com, the look and feel of Zee’s official site. As and when an Indian condescends to try the same sort of stunt with PTV, our edge in infotech will show.

Oori Baba! Kee bol chhee

Great one. With no offence meant to any of my dear Bengali friends.

A is for Awpheesh (as in Office). This is where the average Kolkatan goes and spends a day hard at work. And if he works for the 'Vest Bengal Gawrment' he will arrive at 10,(?) wipe his forehead till 11, have a tea break at 12, throw around a few files at 12.30, break for lunch at 1, smoke an unfiltered cigarette at 2, break for tea at 3, sleep sitting down at 4 and go home at 4:30. It's a hard life!

B is for Bhision. For some reason many Bengalis don't have good bhision. In fact in Kolkata most people are wearing spectacles all the time.

C is for Chappell. Currently, this is the Bengali word for the Devil, for the worst form of evil. In the night mothers put their kids to sleep saying, 'Na ghumaley Chappell eshey dhorey niye jabe.'
D is for Debashish or any other name starting with Deb. By an ancient law every fourth Bengali Child has to be named Debashish. So you have a Debashish everywhere and trying to get creative they are also called Deb, Debu, Deba with variations like Debopriyo, Deboprotim, Debojyoti, etc. thrown in at times.

E is for Eeesh. This is a very common Bengali exclamation made famous by Aishwarya Rai in the movie Devdas. It is estimated that on an average a Bengali, especially Bengali women, use eeesh 10,089 times every year. 'Ei Morechhey' is a close second to Eeesh.

F is for Feeesh. These are creatures that swim in rivers and seas and are a favourite food of the Bengalis. Despite the fact that a fish market has such strong smells, with one sniff a Bengali knows if a fish is all right. If not, he will say 'eeesh what feeesh is theesh!'

G is for Good name. Every Bengali boy will have a good name like Debashish or Deboprotim and a pet name like Motka, Bhombol, Thobla, etc. While every Bengali girls will have pet names like Tia, Tuktuki, Mishti, Khuku, et cetera.

H is for Harmonium. This the Bengali equivalent of a rock guitar. Take four Bengalis and a Harmonium and you have the successors to The Bheatles!

I is for lleesh. This is a feeesh with 10,000 bones which would kill any ordinary person, but which the Bengalis eat with releeesh!

J is for Jhola. No selfrespecting Bengali is complete without his Jhola. It is a shapeless cloth bag where he keeps all his belongings and he fits an amazing number of things in. Even as you read this there are two million jholas bobbling around Kolkata, and they all look exactly the same! Note that 'Jhol' as in Maachher Jhol is a close second.

K is for Kee Kaando!. It used to be the favourite Bengali exclamation till eeesh took over because of Aishwarya Rai (now Kee Kando's agent is trying to hire Bipasha Basu).

L is for Loongi, the dress for all occasions. People in Kolkata manage to play football and cricket wearing it not to mention the daily trip in the morning to the local bajaar. Now there is talk of a lungi expedition to Mt Everest.

M is for Minibus. These are dangerous half buses whose antics would effortlessly frighten the living daylights out of all James Bond stuntmen as well as Formula 1 race car drivers.

N is for Nangto. This is the Bengali word for Naked. It is the most interesting naked word in any language!

O is for Oil. The Bengalis believe that a touch of mustard oil will cure anything from cold (oil in the nose), to earache (oil in the ear), to cough (oil on the throat) to piles (oil you know where!).

P is for Phootball. This is always a phavourite phassion of the Kolkattan. Every Bengali is born an expert in this game. The two biggest clubs there are Mohunbagan and East Bengal and when they play the city comes to a stop.

Q is for Queen. This really has nothing to do with the Bengalis or Kolkata, but it's the only Q word I could think of at this moment. There's also Quilt but they never use them in Kolkata.

R is for Robi Thakur. Many many years ago Rabindranath got the Nobel Prize. This has given the right to all Bengalis no matter where they are to frame their acceptance speeches as if they were directly related to the great poet and walk with their head held high. This also gives Bengalis the birthright to look down at Delhi and Mumbai and of course 'all non-Bengawlees'! Note that 'Rawshogolla' comes a close second !

S is for Shourav. Now that they finally produced a genuine cricketer and a captain, Bengalis think that he should be allowed to play until he is 70 years old. Of course they will see to it that he stays in good form by doing a little bit of 'jawggo' and 'maanot'.

T is for Trams. Hundred years later there are still trams in Kolkata.Of course if you are in a hurry it's faster to walk.

U is for Aambrela. When a Bengali baby is born he is handed one.

V is for Bhaayolence. Bengalis are the most non-violent violent people around. When an accident happens they will fold up their sleeves, shout and scream and curse and abuse, "Chherey De Bolchhi" but the last time someone actually hit someone was in 1979.

W is for Water. For three months of the year the city is underwater and every year for the last 200 years the authorities are taken by surprise by this!

X is for X'mas. It's very big in Kolkata, with Park Street fully lit up and all Bengalis agreeing that they must eat cake that day.

Y is for Yesshtaarday. Which is always better than today for a Bengali (see R for Robi Thakur).

Z is for Jebra, Joo, Jipper and Jylophone.


Thanks a lot Mamta Di and Pranab Da.

Value your drink

Got this in e-mail from a dear friend. Simply loved it.

"The Value of a Drink"

Sometimes when I reflect back on all the wine I drink
I feel shame Then I look into the glass and think
about the workers in the vineyards and all of their hopes
and dreams . If I didn't drink this wine, they might be out
of work and their dreams would be shattered.
Then I say to myself, "It is better that I drink this wine and let their
dreams come true than be selfish and worry about my liver."
~ Jack Handy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they
wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're
going to feel all day. "
~Frank Sinatra

WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may create the illusion that you are tougher, smarter, faster and better looking than most people.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"When I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading."
~ Henny Youngman

WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may lead you to think people are laughing WITH you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"24 hours in a day, 24 beers in a case. Coincidence? I think not"
~ Stephen Wright

WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may cause you to think you can sing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"When we drink, we get drunk. When we get drunk,
we fall asleep. When we fall asleep, we commit no sin.
When we commit no sin, we go to heaven. So, let's all
get drunk and go to heaven!"
~ Brian O'Rourke

WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may cause pregnancy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."
~ Benjamin Franklin

WARNING: The consumption of alcohol is a major factor in dancing like a retard.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Without question, the greatest invention in the
history of mankind is beer. Oh, I grant you that the
wheel was also a fine invention, but the wheel does
not go nearly as well with pizza."
~ Dave Barry

WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may cause you to tell your friends over and over again that you love them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To some it's a six-pack, to me it's a Support Group. Salvation in a can!
~ Dave Howell

WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may make you think you can logically converse with members of the opposite sex without spitting.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And saving the best for last, as explained by Cliff Clavin, of Cheers
One afternoon at Cheers, Cliff Clavin was explaining the Buffalo Theory to his buddy Norm.
Here's how it went:

"Well ya see, Norm, it's like this. A herd of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo. And when the herd is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members. In much the same way, the human brain can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells. Excessive intake of alcohol, as we know, kills brain cells. But naturally, it attacks the slowest and weakest brain cells first. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine. That's why you always feel smarter after a few beers."

Run! It's a Pole

And I thought only us Indians were homophobes.
Ministers in the Polish government are so bloody scared of homosexuals, that they are trying to reform them. (Read original story on Guardian).
A man -- or woman's -- sexual preference is his or her own problem. (But show me a paedophile or a rapist and I'll beat him to death.) So why is it that people most people frown upon those who choose to make their own -- ummm, their own?
Let me drift for a moment to a discussion I had with fellow journalists over a round of drinks (and that was one huge round) at the watering hole called the Press Club of India. Is homosexuality natural, someone asked. Yes, homosexuality has been seen among animals, answered the other. I had read somewhere that hundreds of species practise homosexual behaviour (walruses, antelopes, bisons etc. etc. all indulge in gay sex -- lesbian behaviour has been seen among pairs of and Hanuman langurs and Japanese macaques).
Why, then, is the explanation for our repulsive behaviour towards homosexuals?
Well, I can give you one reason. There was this guy in my former office who was openly gay. I was a rookie sub and somehow this guy took a fancy for me. After talking to him a couple of times (when he asked me out for a drink at Maurya -- oh that scene was hilarious), I told him that I was fiercely heterosexual. But this guy just wouldn't back off. And believe me, I have met many more like him. And so has Sonu Nigam (gay magnets? Shit!).
But the poor Polish. They are having to run away in hordes to the UK to escape the government's plans to "reform" them. They are working on a set of "behavioural guides to assist parents and teachers so that they can recognise any warning signs of potential 'gay behaviour'."
Poland has been raped by one and all in the past. Remember the Nazis? They carried out the most horrific acts in history by murdering around 1.1 million people in Aushwitz, Poland. Most of the victims were Jews who were either gassed or confined in ratholes without water and food. There was very little oxygen going round in these ratholes. Sometimes, the odd German soldier would light a match just to suck out al the oxygen and leave the poor souls to die.
Nazis also systematically murdered thousands of German homosexuals in this camp of horrors.
BTW, I read somewhere that the Brits started the concentration camps and the Nazis just imported the concept. It was in the Boer War, I think. Anybody has any light to throw on that aspect?

The Chinese way of life: Conquering new heights

I have a confession to make. I was a bit thrilled when I heard that China was going to build a road right up to Everest base camp. I have always dreamt of climbing the Everest (okay, another confession. Not climbing really, but at least getting till the base camp). And I thought the road will get me there easy (the day I start earning obnoxious amounts of money like some of my editors do, I will head for Tibet, take the road to Everest base camp and spend a day or two there, drinking rum – just like climbers in Vertical Limit were doing).
But within seconds I was thinking about the impact that the road will have on the fragile ecosystem. Imagine tourists coming in truckloads to see the tallest mountain peak in the world and littering, the fumes from vehicle exhausts, and so on. And, who knows, if the tourist flow is steady enough, the capitalists might think of building a mall there pretty soon.
China came in for criticism even when it linked Lhasa with Beijing with a new railway line. Although (damn, Chaitanya Kalbag has ensured that all of us who worked for Hindustan Times never use the word ‘though’ simply because he doesn’t like it) it took more than an engineering marvel to build the highest railway line in the world, the Tibetan way of life could forever be destroyed in the years to come. Western influences and tourist inflows will ensure that the next generation will never be the same again.
And here comes another confession. I was, and still am, thrilled by the train from Beijing to Lhasa (still waiting for that obnoxious amount of money that will let me travel to the other side of the Great Wall).
I have always dreamt of travelling in trains like Paul Theroux and R.L. Stevenson and writing about my experiences (even though I would never be able to write as beautifully as Theroux).
Coming back to the money involved: A one-way ticket from Beijing to Lhasa costs $158 (that’s around Rs 6,500) for a cushioned berth. You could get a hard berth for $100. Can you believe it? 6,500 bucks for a 48-hour journey that takes you through one of the most stunning landscapes in the world. The Tibet travel permit sets you back by another $100. So, for a little over $400, you could go from Beijing to Lhasa (meals not included) and back.
I can speak a smattering of Chinese: ni hao (hello) and xie xie (thank you). And I know a decent bit about Tibet after watching Francis Ford Coppola’s Kundun and Jean-Jacques Annaud’s Seven Years in Tibet.
I think I will do well on that journey: have beef with fungus (that's a delicacy) on the way. Even try pangolins (horror or horrors). This is how the bastards kill the poor animal:
"We keep them alive in cages until the customer makes an order. Then we hammer them unconscious, cut their throats and drain the blood. It is a slow death. We then boil them to remove the scales. We cut the meat into small pieces and use it to make a number of dishes, including braised meat and soup. Usually the customers take the blood home with them afterwards."
Overall, it will be an interesting journey. Are you game?

Guilt trip in Phuket after the tsunami

I wrote this article for the Hindustan Times in 2005 after visiting Thailand -- for five days -- to see first-hand the tsunami reconstruction work. The trip was sponsored by the Thai Tourism Bureau and needless to say, they were very unhappy with this article. But this is what I saw in Phuket, despite what our minders wanted us to see.

Phuket struggles with ghosts; or is it guilt?

The beach umbrellas are back in Phuket, spanking new, like much else in this scenic tourist locale that was battered by the tsunami nearly three months ago.
Phuket is beautiful once more, back in business. But that's the point, there's not much business. This Thai resort town needs to exorcise its tsunami ghosts for that.
Ghost stories have been doing the rounds since the tragedy. There was a 'case' of a tuk-tuk (taxi) driver stopping to talk to foreigners on the road, but his passengers couldn't see anyone. Then there was a tailor who took a foreigner's measurements but later realised that the man had no legs.
But 'ghosts' are not scaring away tourists from Phuket, the guilt of having fun in a 'ghost town' is. Authorities are also battling misconceptions. This year, Belgians Natalie and Robert Bergen visited Phuket for the fourth time. It has been rebuilt and looks better, they said, but decided to leave after a day because they felt uncomfortable. Why? Because Robert said he had seen victims being buried at the beaches.
That is just the kind of misconception that has done Phuket in, said Andreas Kutschka, a diving instructor. He said the government had made elaborate arrangements to identify the dead and return them to their native countries. He said most of his customers were not returning because they felt having a good time in the sea that had killed thousands wasn't right.
This guilt is consuming Phuket's tourism, especially its once-bustling beachlife. The scene at joints along the beaches is eerie. The tables are all laid out in the evening but there's hardly a soul around. By midnight, the workers pack up and leave. This is when the 'ghost town' really haunts you.

PHUKET REVISITED
(Wrote this one because I loved Phuket -- and also because I had to placate some ruffled feathers at Thailand tourism bureau because of the article above)

This is probably the best time to visit Phuket.
Air fares are heading southwards and with tourist arrivals down after the tsunami, the government is going for a major push to woo visitors back. You'll get way too many deals and unbridled attention in the Thai resort town.

And the moment you land in Phuket, you'll fall in love with it. At the airport, you'll find smiling and helpful officials (and that's like a gust of fresh air if you are flying from Delhi). Outside you'll find clean toilets, smooth highways and roads and infrastructure that's really geared towards tourism ­ buses with high seating and low flooring (you have to climb seven steps to get to your seat and the bus is just one foot from the ground) are particularly amazing.

After the tsunami, Phuket looks even more beautiful. The umbrellas and chairs on the beach are all new, the yatchs and boats have got a fresh coat of paint, the unauthorised constructions are gone, and the sand and water are cleaner and greener.

But the killer waves have left a scar. Iyo Dufour, an Einstein lookalike who plays the great scientist in TV shows in Belgium, visits Phuket regularly. This year, he spent only a day there. He said would return for a longer visit next year, when things settle down.

It was sentiments like Dufour's that forced the government to give tourism a big push. Around a fortnight back, the Tourist Authority of Thailand spent Baht 15 million and Thai Airways another Baht 19 million to host over 800 journalists and travel agents from around the world to let people know that Phuket was back in business. But for a town that takes its tourism seriously, that seemed like extravagance.

Phuket is a sea of greenery and you would have to really struggle to find a spot of dust. And it has something to offer for everyone. If you are the shopping types, there are many malls (Tesco Lotus is the cheapest) or the local markets. If you want a spot of the sun and sea, there are a host of beaches. If you wish to rock the night away, try Bangla Road which has many pubs and restaurants and even a fight club.

Foodwise, the place has a lot to offer: from the legendary Thai food to Italian, Indian, continental... You name it, Phuket has it.

But the best thing to do would be to spare an evening for Phuket Fantasea, a nighttime cultural theme park. Spread over 140 acres, you could either shop for souvenirs or try your hand at the numerous games. Then, head for the Palace of the Elephants to see the Thai version of Ramayana. The dinner and show costs Baht 1,500 but every second of the show is worth the money.

Seeing the beauty of Phuket and its people, I guess I have become a statistic for Thailand. I would join the over-4 lakh visitors that visit Thailand every year ­ and come back a content breed.

Factfile
How to get there: From Delhi, there's a stopover at Bangkok. Tickets from Rs 10,000 to Rs 18,000
Where to stay: Several resorts along the beach offer spectacular views. Try Hilton or Thavorn Resort
What to do: Hit Bangla Road for music, food and to watch a fight in the ring. Must-visit is Phuket Fantasea, a nighttime cultural theme park

Delhi belly: Civic sense? Yes, I did study civics in school

E-T-T-I...
No it's E-T-I....
OK, E-T-I-Q-E...
No, you moron.
Q is nearly always followed by U.
OK, E-T-I-Q-U-E-T-E. Right?
Are you from Delhi?
Yes, how did you guess.
'Coz you don't know how to spell etiquette.

Civic sense, etiquette, ethics... words like these do not exist in an average Delhiite's dictionary. Sure, we live in the capital of one of the fastest growing economies in the world. But that doesn't stop us from spitting anywhere, treating walls like urinals, driving like a nutcase, gypping people... the list is endless.

Take the Metro, for instance. Cool contraption. Ferries around 5.25 lakh people every day. Is air-conditioned. Runs till late in the night. Ensures you reach your destination in the stipulated time, no matter what. Day after day. But look how the crowd behaves at some of the important stations. Some morons -- both inside and outside -- try to force open the door even before the train comes to a complete halt. Nobody gives a damn about people who try to get out. They cover the entire exit and rush in, taking along those who are trying to get out. So, was Mr Sreedharan wrong when he said Delhi doesn't deserve the Metro?

The situation is no different on the road. Everybody wants to go first. No matter what. And, God forbid, if the traffic flow in their lane stalls for a while and the other one is moving at a snail's pace, wham! They'll get into the other lane, cutting the guy who was supposed to move because his lane is moving. The Smart Ass has got an accelerator and a brake, you see. He needs to cut other people because his car can start and stop.

I never realised we are such morons till a met a group of tourists from Malta in Nepal some years back. They had just reached Kathmandu after being taken for a ride in Delhi. Realising I was a journalist from the city they had just been gypped in, they started complaining. As a journo, I should do something abou the cheats that hang around the airport, they said. True, I replied, we should do something. But I told them that Delhi has a mix of really nice people and just a handful of fraudsters. We got talking about the Indian society then. I told them that nearly all of the municipal workers in Delhi do not qork. And some people like throwing their garbage from their balconies, I told them. You really hate your people, that is DEFINITELY not true, I was told. No, serious, I said. The garbage collector dumps the waste collected from our housing society in a plot bang adjacent to ours, I told them. NO WAY, the guy from Malta said. That CANNOT be true. He just didn't believe me. How could ANYONE dump garbage outside their housing complex. Such things were unheard of anywhere else in the word, he said.

I returned from Nepal the next day thinking about what the Guy From Malta had said. Had I exaggerated a bit? Had I let my country down in front of foreigners? Was I guilty as sin? Just then, I had to go to the airport washroom. And all my doubts just drifted away. Never ever did I find the stink in the loo so refreshing. I had been vindicated. We truly are a bunch of dirty people.