It is both sad and strange how a little personal discomfort and inconvenience can serve to override your most deeply held principles. One of the ongoing mysteries of the Indian experience is, which workers are on strike today, what National holiday is it today or is it a particular event or celebration today, all of which have much the same effect on the business traveller – nothing will happen that day as the city, state or country shuts down. Having carefully avoided the latter two situations, it was with joy that I discovered that the taxi drivers would be on strike for the day. It is common wisdom that only cockroaches will survive a nuclear war. I beg to differ. The indestructible Kolkata yellow taxis will probably still be operational in a post-apocalyptic world, though even Mad Max would probably refuse to travel in one. The lack of taxis was however the source of a problem for me. Needing to get across the city for a meeting, I could have booked a hotel car (at considerable expense) only to find that, as the result of a diplomatic summit of some type, all the hotel cars were booked. Always the optimist, I set off outside the hotel to see if all the taxis were off the road and indeed a few were running, but none were stopping for an increasingly reddening foreigner outside his hotel. After enough time to become charbroiled, and having spotted a stationary taxi a little further down the road. I should at this juncture point out that I spent the day before my departure involved in the running of the resolutely Socialist Wigan Diggers Festival, in keeping with both my political persuasion and self-destructive need to fill every moment of my time with things to do. Having sauntered down to the parked taxi, I managed to enquire of the man standing next to it if he would take me into the city centre, at which point it became apparent that it wasn’t actually his taxi. He indicated a small alley behind the taxi, then disappeared down it, reappearing with both the taxi owner and a small group of interested parties, who then proceeded to have a discussion, the content of which was a mystery to me, although it appeared that the result of this was the taxi driver was in a minority of one and therefore comrades, I had my strikebreaker and for considerably less than 30 pieces of silver. Once underway, my guilt was compounded by the finding that the taxi driver feared getting into a fight if he was seen by other drivers. This was something I hadn’t understood but he explained that his ‘friends’ had persuaded him to take me against his better judgement. For the sake of safety, I got him to drop me just outside one of the outdoor police stations at the end of the street containing The American Consulate, having paid him before we came to a halt (at least he was pleased by the price of my conscience). Despite him being immediately surrounded by potential customers, he drove away as quickly anyone could in an overweight, underpowered Hindustan Deluxe. After finding a more politically correct manner of returning to my hotel (driven by the chauffeur of the person I had been meeting since you ask) and working for a couple of hours, a short sit by the pool soon raised me above comfortable operating temperature. It would have been a good time for an ice-bucket challenge and indeed, having been nominated, I had considered completing the task whilst in India. Trying to explain the concept to hotel staff had proved rather difficult. In a society that now worships success and celebrity, the idea of intentional self-humiliation was as alien to them as the idea of betraying my principles had been to me a few short days ago. The idea of a staff member being an ice-bucket wallah to one of their guests appeared to be one that filled them with the dread of upsetting the entire moral, social and above all, financial schemes of things and so that pleasure will have to be saved for another day. Speaking of pleasure, as we were. Having spent several days hunched over a hot laptop, as I was in a 5 star hotel with a spa, I had awarded myself a short break involving a neck, shoulders and back massage. Now, given the reference to pleasure, this isn’t quite going where you may think it is. I can get considerable relief from a massage, the legacy of a car accident several years ago and so is something that I occasionally resort to, so I thought that I knew what to expect. Reader (assuming that there are any) I was quite wrong. The spa is every bit the oasis of calm that you might predict and having booked in, a very nice gentleman took me into the men’s changing rooms and encouraged me to disrobe. Having got as far as I thought was necessary for a back massage, he indicated a degree of displeasure and so I proceeded as far as I thought modesty should permit in a country where women can be stoned and worse for casually glancing at men not meeting the full approval of their extended family. Suitably re-covered for my transition to the massage room the nice gentleman indicated that I should take my position on the massage table and a young, if slightly muscular young woman entered the room, introduced herself and bid me lie down face first. It was soon after this that I began to suspect that the nature of the transaction had been somewhat lost in the translation. As oil was gently applied to my upper back, it came as a genuine surprise when, taking a firm grip on the waistband of my modesty protection, with one swift movement, there was a lot more of me exposed that either I had bargained for from previous back massages, or that you may wish to imagine. Given the technique that followed and the area covered, I spent some time worrying that a request for a back massage had been interpreted as ‘provide me with colonic irrigation without an entry permit’ at best, or ‘every time I travel abroad I have my prostate checked by strangers, please oblige me’ at worst. The remainder of the massage passed largely without upset, although every time she moved southwards, so to speak, the amount of oil previously applied made me fear an international invasion incident . When the treatment finished, I was offered the opportunity to shower to remove the oil but as it hadn’t been made clear how lonely an experience this would be, I opted for the cleansing with ‘hot towel’ as the safest choice, even allowing for the optional sperm count reduction placing of the heated cloth that was thrown in as an unforeseen extra. Once reunited with the nice man, the relative safety of the gents changings rooms and in particular my clothes, I resisted offers of further treatment such as a manicure and pedicure on the grounds that I had no idea where these might lead or what they might involve. Having undergone intensive stress release, I now needed to relax and placing my newly tenderised buttocks on a poolside chair adjacent to a table containing a large and very cold beer – now that’s an alternative therapy I could cope with. Cheers
Posted on: Sat, 20 Sep 2014 19:35:23 +0000