Chennai – What an Introduction

Three flights in 24 hours and we were riding a battered taxi from Chennai airport to our hotel, The Grand. And it really was. We wanted a gentle introduction into the mayhem that is India and that’s what we got. It was a great way to escape the heat and havoc when we needed too. But that havoc is awesome.

Highlights of our time in Chennai were the auto rickshaw or tuk tuk rides. Better than an Alton Towers roller coaster, they cost 100 rupees or about £1 wherever you want to go. And the drivers are experts in the local area and will show you things you would never find in a guide book.

An early afternoon trip to the Cathedral of St. Thomas [Southern India is more Christian than Hindu] was fascinating given that the Church is one of only three in the world to be built over the tomb of an Apostle. The others are Santiago de Compostela – St James and The Vatican – St Peter. However, I’m afraid to say even that was overshadowed by an evening trip we arranged with the same tuk-tuk driver.

After battling through Pondy Bazaar, an incredible street market, still a bubbling mass of humanity at 9pm, we headed to Marine Beach. The idea was to join in the fun on the beach where there are hundreds of stalls selling street food, souvenirs and all the same tat you get on a British promenade. It was a great sight and made for awesome photographs. Wonderfully coloured sarees, flourescent lights, samosas and candy floss – just point and shoot!

But there was a different side to this journey. He took us off the beaten track – an area of the seafront that was dark and desolate. This was where the 2004 Tsunami smashed in to unsuspecting Chennai. Over 130 people lost their lives in Chennai alone and across Tamil Nadu the figure was 16,000. The devastation was caused by 5 metre high waves and today, appallingly, the area remains as it was in the aftermath of that dreadful event. The authorities have simply hidden it behind a wooden fence. Even worse, the survivors who were left homeless now sleep on the pavement outside the barrier. 15 years later.

Amidst such scenes, I didn’t want to be a tourist. I took no photos. There wasn’t much else I could do to show respect.

Loving Their God

Later that evening, the tuk-tuk driver dropped us off outside a large Hindu Temple. ‘Take your shoes off,’ he said, ‘and enjoy seeing my temple’. We did as he said and wandered into a building that was, in many ways, completely alien to us. The smells, sights and sounds were from a totally different culture – they hammered our senses with a reminder that we were thousands of miles from home. In the most blissful, joyous way.

The heady, over-powering scent of sandalwood incense hit us first. Closely followed by the chanting and ringing of bells. As we walked in to the harshly lit interior of the open-sided temple from the pitch darkness, we saw statues of Hindu Gods, elephants and monkeys, gold-shrouded stone figures with painted black faces and huge white eyes, thick, intricately carved pillars decorated with yet more Hindu gods and then there were the people. People rubbing bunches of a herb against the pillars until it left a green stain, people walking round and round the statues in a daze and then a man in his eighties struggling as if it was the last mission of his life, to lay himself prostrate on the bare concrete floor before a statue of his chosen God. The soaring power of the spirituality within this building brought tears to my eyes. I had never seen faith like it.

Mahabalipuram – Monuments and Mummy

The tuk-tuk driver who had provided such insights into Chennai, wanted to take us to our next stop, Mahabalipuram. But the thought of a 50 mile journey in a bone-shuddering tuk-tuk that never got above 25 miles an hour was too much for Gina and I so we decided on a bus journey instead,

Then we saw the buses. No windows, just bars. No AC. Bits of bodywork hanging off. People hanging off. They were cheap – about £2 for the 3 hour journey – but an air-conditioned taxi provided by the hotel just tipped it.

I had researched Mahabalipuram and discovered that 2 miles outside of the town which is renowned for its unbelievable 5th Century monuments, is a fishing colony where the locals launch their long and narrow boats from the shore and eventually return to auction their catch on the beach. The buyers are the women of the village who then sell the catch at local markets. As a photographer, the possibility for wonderful photos was irresistible Through AirBNB I booked a homestay villa right on the beach.

As we pulled up at the back of the property in it’s ramshackle little fishing village, we were both a little doubtful about my decision. The area was a bit tatty and the village had definitely seen better days. A long time ago. But the greeting from Babu was warm and friendly and he lead us to the top two floors which were ours. And then we saw the view over the beach to the sea – the Indian Ocean and the Bay of Bengal. It was breathtaking. Huge waves rolling up to the beach, lines of beautiful little fishing boats, each painted to the owners unique design in gaudy colours that were fading into pastel shades with names hand painted on the side – Pride Of India, Indian Hope, were pulled just beyond the water’s reach and nets of all colours were laid across the sand to dry. It wasn’t a tourist beach, it was undoubtedly a place where a crust was earned, where lives were put on the line every day as the locals worked to feed their families.

The problem, as Babu explained to us, was that a cyclone out at sea had put an end to all fishing from boats for the past 3 days. That meant no fish were being caught, no money was being made and food supplies were running out fast. As a result, a young lad was stood up to his knees in the foaming water, casting a single baited line, no rod, about 40 metres out to sea. And, unbelievably, catching small Seer fish. We wandered down to the shore to watch and he wandered closer to us, obviously keen to chat. He asked me if I liked fish and promised to catch me some. I laughed and captured photos. Eventually we shook hands and parted. I thought no more of it.

That evening, Babu cooked us a fantastic meal, 2 courses for £2.50, and we then sat back to relax for the rest of the evening. But that wasn’t to be.

The young fisherman appeared on our verandah. ”I have cooked your fish’ he announced. ‘Please come to my home’. We were completely taken aback. It was pitch black and the little lanes between his home and ours were quite daunting in the dark. But we couldn’t say no and Babu joined us for support.

We followed the young lad in total darkness to a concrete, single storey structure that was comprised of two tiny rooms. Inside, the walls were once bright green, the floor was bare concrete and there was no furniture. A tv appeared to be the prized possession – it was 12 inches across and blaring out Tamil music. We were introduced to his beautiful 3 year old son, his mum and dad and a sister, who all shared those 2 rooms. He pointed to a picture on the wall and said it was his wife. I told him she was very pretty and asked where she was, Babu tugged my arm and whispered ‘She’s dead’.

The lad’s mum, wizened and about 4 feet tall, appeared with three small fish cooked in a spicy crust, on a metal plate. Two plastic patio chairs appeared for Gina and I and a third broken one was employed as a table. The absence of cutlery meant this was my first time eating with my right hand only and the fish was piping hot. I said it was hot and suddenly a small jug of water was produced. Having eaten 2 of the 3 fish, which were delicious, I dunked my hand into the jug to wash it. The family, who had been watching my every move, fell about laughing. It was meant to be drinking water. Gina also fell about.

When everyone briefly disappeared, Babu quickly explained the awful reality of the tragic death of the young fisherman’s wife, the 3 year old’s Mummy. She had hanged herself in the room we were sat in. The inference, according to Babu, was that she had done so because she had always wanted to marry another. But love marriages don’t often happen in Tamil Nadu and when they do, it means complete isolation from both families and a life lived in disgrace. The beautiful woman was not allowed to marry the boy she loved – she was promised to the fisherman as a traditional arranged marriage. And she had no choice.

The next day, the lad’s fourth day with no income, Gina and I walked back to their home and paid for the meal we had been given. The young man protested but by stressing that we were simply buying a meal he had provided, we managed to persuade him to accept. He smiled and for a brief instant, the hurt in his eyes was lifted.

Mahabalipuram – The Seven Temples

For hundreds of years, the locals have passed on tales of missing temples in Mahabalipuram – 6 copper-covered spires were apparently once visible poking above the waves. But nobody living had ever seen them. Until December 26th 2004. The Tsunami.

As the tide subsided to unprecedented levels in the minutes before the monstrous wave arrived, there they were. Hidden for centuries under thousands of tons of sand and silt, 6 temples not seen for centuries. They were arranged in symmetry with the Shore Temple built in the 5th Century on the beach. They are under water again now but easily seen by divers as the silt covering them was washed away. Google it!

The town is renowned for its absolutely awesome, beautiful monuments discovered by British archaeologists in the 19th Century. They really do take your breath away. Lifesize elephants, chariots and temples carved from the top down by hand when metal hadn’t been invented. Stone used to carve stone and these monuments are 40-50 feet high – temples carved from single rocks.

Ponducherry – A little taste of France in southern India

We just loved Ponducherry. The people, the scenery, the town, the bazaar, the Ganesh Temple and Hotel De Petit – it blew us away. We hadnn’t allowed enough time for our stay but one day we will go back.

Pondy as it’s known was ruled by the French and their influence remains to this day. Our hotel was in the heart of the French quarter, known as White Town and just 200 yards from the sea. Opposite the entrance to the hotel was a shop called ‘Oui Croissant’ – this was obviously a completely different side to India to anything we had seen before. Southern India generally is quieter, cleaner and much more sophisticated than the north. The people are warmer, keen to chat and desperate to have their photo taken with you. And Pondicherry is the epicentre of that different nation.

The French Quarter is immediately recognisable by the burnt orange ochre of many of the French Colonial buildings – our hotel was no different. It was a stunning place and the people who worked there were the loveliest you could ever wish to meet.

Gina and I unpacked our bags and set out to explore the town. 100 yards from the hotel Gina told me to look up as an elderly gent, his daughter and two Grandchildren were waving to us from the balcony of another stun ning french style property. We waved back and I asked him if I could take a photo of his lovely family. He said I could and I did. Then he told us it was his birthday and his daughter immediately asked if we would like to go up for some birthday cake. Without a moment’s hesitation we agreed and he instructed the guard at the ground level gate to his home to show us up to his apartment. I told you this was a different kind of India! His home was wonderful and we have new friends for life.

Later that evening we grabbed a tuk tuk to Pondy’s famous Ganesh Temple. It’s famous because it has it’s own elephant. Unchained and loved by everybody, he has a party trick. Hand him rupees and he will pass them back to his carer and then bless you by tapping you on the head with his trunk. The temple was stunning, painted in the most flamboyant, garish colours you’ll ever see and heaving with happy, elated people. People who again demonstrated the overwhelming power of their faith.

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