Oh Calcutta!
We LOV E our Oasis!
It's quite amazing how a four hour flight can
transfer you from the most efficient and clean place on the planet to the
complete reverse! The first hint that we were no longer in "OZ" was the
hour-long wait for our baggage to move the 100 or so metres between the plane
and the 1950's era luggage belt. I might add that we were the only flight to
have arrived and bags did manage to dribble out starting about 20 minutes after
arrival. Why some bags took 20 minutes and others over an hour (there were still
a large number of people still waiting when we left) is one of those questions
only answered with the patented Indian head wobble (more on this later). This
procedure certainly produced all sorts of comments from the locals around me
such as "thees place is rrreally going to the dogs" and "vat is wrong vith this
country"? We left the mutterings behind and ventured out into the main section
of the airport where I changed Cdn$20 - and a miraculous amount of money was
handed to me. One prepaid taxi receipt later and out we headed into the great
unknown.
We had a good chuckle at our first taxi interaction. Our luggage was loaded into this rather creaky and bent Ambassador (picture a 1952 Morris Oxford - still being made now) and, who we thought was the driver, hopped into the cab and started driving off. We got about 30 feet and then he stopped....which naturally resulted in a "Hey...what's up?" from me. "Oh no sir....your driver is just coming" came the reply. Before Luggage Loader/Warmer Upper of the cab hopped out, he'd made sure he let us know that he was a poor man just trying to eke out a living loading luggage and warming up taxis. Sheesh....ahh well...he got a tip for his troubles. Our real driver finally arrived and we meandered off (I mean that literally) winding our way along the divided highway between sleeping dogs and peeing cows. A 1/2 hour drive (through a rather incredibly smoky atmosphere) and we turned into the oasis - the Tollygunge Club. Check-in was the usual entertainment with the older clerk and his younger assistant doing a credible imitation of a Saturday Night Live skit. Young clerk: "Sir, you are being a member here?" Old Clerk: "No, no...this sahib is having a reservation". Young clerk: "Very sorry sahib....please be filling in the registration book"....and so on and so on. Once the registration festivities had been completed, the usual army of helpers arrived to carry our luggage to the cottage. Rolling the bags was, apparently, far too modern a concept for this rather traditional establishment - so the bags were hoisted onto a variety of heads (not ours). The rooms were quite nice (entry area with a sofa and chair overlooking the golf course, huge air-conditioned bedroom with an attached bathroom). The door key was quite hilarious (picture Victorian-era). The room number was written on a long rectangular piece of metal - which you had to put into a slot inside the room to have the lights come on. Of course, nothing is that easy in India....every now and then the lights would mysteriously go out and we had to jiggle the key fob...and back on they came.
Maybe it's the tropics... but 5:30am...and there I was wide awake! Definitely never happens at home! So out of the room I sneaked and watched the early morning golfers go by in the morning mist.
Amber finally rolled out of bed at the slovenly hour of 6:30, peeked her nose out of the air-conditioning...and said "Oh....I forgot! (referring to the early morning 28 degrees outside). We meandered over to the "Shamiana" which is an outside restaurant overlooking the 18th hole where we prepared to while away a couple of hours sipping tea and reading the paper. I have to admit, we were very successful!
We had decided we were going to take it easy for the day and a half we would be in Calcutta before heading off to Darjeeling and, so much to the decadent delight of all concerned, we discovered that the Club had spa facilities! Well...there went the afternoon! We arrived to much tittering from the staff and soon Amber had them wrapped around her finger. Before you could say the words "hot oil treatment", Amber was signed up for one of those & shampoo and blow dry.
I found myself being pedicured by a guy who was in the midst of putting colour into his own hair and manicured by one very shy girl.
We certainly provided the entertainment for the afternoon....especially after they discovered Amber was a hair pro. Next thing you know there were deep and profound conversations going on about the intricacies of hair colouring, perusal of their surprisingly up-to-date L'Oreal colour lines and comparisons of customer preferences 12 time zones away. My little excesses had been completed while Amber still had to get her eyebrows threaded (it's a mystery to me!). So...off I went to explore parts of the club. Since I completely forgot to bring along the camera, we'll post descriptions and pics when we come back after the Darjeeling jaunt.
I had hoped to go and meet up with the Secretary of the Lake Club (which was the rowing club my Grandfather had belonged to - and where I have some very fond childhood memories). Of course, actually connecting with a telephone number over a Calcutta landline is a task best seen in the light of buying lottery tickets. So...after numerous attempts resulting in a variety of beeping noises, wrong numbers and cryptic telephone company messages ("Thees number does noot exeest"), I gave up and decided to simply show up. So out we ventured from the Oasis into the teeming streets....
That's not what I call a "Streetcar Named Desire"!....that pith helmet, on the other hand...??? That taxi (an Ambassador) is also pretty indicative of the average. It had rained for a bit that afternoon and by the time we were venturing out, it was steamy in the extreme. It took about 15 minutes to get to the Lake Club and, of course, my quarry wasn't there. So, after some heavy negotiating with the local bureaucracy, I left a note for him suggesting we meet up on our second Calcutta leg. Then, brave and ignorant souls that we are, we thought we'd go into town (the Clubs are both in the southern end of the city) for dinner. After having a look at some descriptions of Calcutta restaurants, we decided on Mocambo, which was quite a famous jazz club in the 1960's. A journey that should have taken a 1/2 hour ended up being about an hour and a half - due to the insane traffic caused by last minute shoppers looking for Diwali (festival of light) presents. Combined with the fact that the rain had pushed the humidity levels up to, in sporting terms, a 110%, it was definitely an experience! It doesn't surprise me that the creator of Bikram's Yoga comes from Calcutta - because, one can only understand the context from which he decided to heat his yoga rooms up to 110 degrees Farhenheit when you sit in a Calcutta cab, post rain-storm, surrounded by diesel-spewing lorries, praying that the traffic will move so a mere breath of air will waft over your body. We were both tempted to assume the Lotus position in the back seat in the hope that some kind of Zen state would help us survive to the next green traffic light. At least after a Bikram's class you can have a shower!
Mocambo was the perfect example of the time-warp parts of Calcutta indulge in. Everything about it was retro '60's...from the seats to the lighting...to the menu (which I'm sure hadn't changed in either content or form since 1965). We both had fish dishes...and didn't finish either. I guess neither of us is used to eating food smothered in cream accompanied by vegetables that bore a striking similarity to things you'd find at Madame Toussaud's. Oh well...but the dessert (Baked - and flaming - Alaska) was fab! We wandered off down Park Street to this Starbucks style cafe (Oh Mel...we thought of you) called Barista. There, we sipped decaf coffee frappe (they whip in vanilla ice cream). The weird part was that they charged extra (half again as much) for decaf! They also had a guitar hanging on the wall and encouraged anyone to strum away. The crowd was quite a mix of locals and visitors (Swedes for the most part). By this point, we were looking forward to getting back to Tolly - but needed to find a bank machine. Much to my horror, neither of the two we found would give me any cash. Amber, special as she is, was happily dispensed funds. I was then pondering the rather attractive possibility of being a kept man for the rest of the trip.....(Amber shrieks...finally I'm wealthy!).
Back to the Oasis....and zzzzzz......
We had a good chuckle at our first taxi interaction. Our luggage was loaded into this rather creaky and bent Ambassador (picture a 1952 Morris Oxford - still being made now) and, who we thought was the driver, hopped into the cab and started driving off. We got about 30 feet and then he stopped....which naturally resulted in a "Hey...what's up?" from me. "Oh no sir....your driver is just coming" came the reply. Before Luggage Loader/Warmer Upper of the cab hopped out, he'd made sure he let us know that he was a poor man just trying to eke out a living loading luggage and warming up taxis. Sheesh....ahh well...he got a tip for his troubles. Our real driver finally arrived and we meandered off (I mean that literally) winding our way along the divided highway between sleeping dogs and peeing cows. A 1/2 hour drive (through a rather incredibly smoky atmosphere) and we turned into the oasis - the Tollygunge Club. Check-in was the usual entertainment with the older clerk and his younger assistant doing a credible imitation of a Saturday Night Live skit. Young clerk: "Sir, you are being a member here?" Old Clerk: "No, no...this sahib is having a reservation". Young clerk: "Very sorry sahib....please be filling in the registration book"....and so on and so on. Once the registration festivities had been completed, the usual army of helpers arrived to carry our luggage to the cottage. Rolling the bags was, apparently, far too modern a concept for this rather traditional establishment - so the bags were hoisted onto a variety of heads (not ours). The rooms were quite nice (entry area with a sofa and chair overlooking the golf course, huge air-conditioned bedroom with an attached bathroom). The door key was quite hilarious (picture Victorian-era). The room number was written on a long rectangular piece of metal - which you had to put into a slot inside the room to have the lights come on. Of course, nothing is that easy in India....every now and then the lights would mysteriously go out and we had to jiggle the key fob...and back on they came.
Maybe it's the tropics... but 5:30am...and there I was wide awake! Definitely never happens at home! So out of the room I sneaked and watched the early morning golfers go by in the morning mist.
Amber finally rolled out of bed at the slovenly hour of 6:30, peeked her nose out of the air-conditioning...and said "Oh....I forgot! (referring to the early morning 28 degrees outside). We meandered over to the "Shamiana" which is an outside restaurant overlooking the 18th hole where we prepared to while away a couple of hours sipping tea and reading the paper. I have to admit, we were very successful!
We had decided we were going to take it easy for the day and a half we would be in Calcutta before heading off to Darjeeling and, so much to the decadent delight of all concerned, we discovered that the Club had spa facilities! Well...there went the afternoon! We arrived to much tittering from the staff and soon Amber had them wrapped around her finger. Before you could say the words "hot oil treatment", Amber was signed up for one of those & shampoo and blow dry.
I found myself being pedicured by a guy who was in the midst of putting colour into his own hair and manicured by one very shy girl.
We certainly provided the entertainment for the afternoon....especially after they discovered Amber was a hair pro. Next thing you know there were deep and profound conversations going on about the intricacies of hair colouring, perusal of their surprisingly up-to-date L'Oreal colour lines and comparisons of customer preferences 12 time zones away. My little excesses had been completed while Amber still had to get her eyebrows threaded (it's a mystery to me!). So...off I went to explore parts of the club. Since I completely forgot to bring along the camera, we'll post descriptions and pics when we come back after the Darjeeling jaunt.
I had hoped to go and meet up with the Secretary of the Lake Club (which was the rowing club my Grandfather had belonged to - and where I have some very fond childhood memories). Of course, actually connecting with a telephone number over a Calcutta landline is a task best seen in the light of buying lottery tickets. So...after numerous attempts resulting in a variety of beeping noises, wrong numbers and cryptic telephone company messages ("Thees number does noot exeest"), I gave up and decided to simply show up. So out we ventured from the Oasis into the teeming streets....
That's not what I call a "Streetcar Named Desire"!....that pith helmet, on the other hand...??? That taxi (an Ambassador) is also pretty indicative of the average. It had rained for a bit that afternoon and by the time we were venturing out, it was steamy in the extreme. It took about 15 minutes to get to the Lake Club and, of course, my quarry wasn't there. So, after some heavy negotiating with the local bureaucracy, I left a note for him suggesting we meet up on our second Calcutta leg. Then, brave and ignorant souls that we are, we thought we'd go into town (the Clubs are both in the southern end of the city) for dinner. After having a look at some descriptions of Calcutta restaurants, we decided on Mocambo, which was quite a famous jazz club in the 1960's. A journey that should have taken a 1/2 hour ended up being about an hour and a half - due to the insane traffic caused by last minute shoppers looking for Diwali (festival of light) presents. Combined with the fact that the rain had pushed the humidity levels up to, in sporting terms, a 110%, it was definitely an experience! It doesn't surprise me that the creator of Bikram's Yoga comes from Calcutta - because, one can only understand the context from which he decided to heat his yoga rooms up to 110 degrees Farhenheit when you sit in a Calcutta cab, post rain-storm, surrounded by diesel-spewing lorries, praying that the traffic will move so a mere breath of air will waft over your body. We were both tempted to assume the Lotus position in the back seat in the hope that some kind of Zen state would help us survive to the next green traffic light. At least after a Bikram's class you can have a shower!
Mocambo was the perfect example of the time-warp parts of Calcutta indulge in. Everything about it was retro '60's...from the seats to the lighting...to the menu (which I'm sure hadn't changed in either content or form since 1965). We both had fish dishes...and didn't finish either. I guess neither of us is used to eating food smothered in cream accompanied by vegetables that bore a striking similarity to things you'd find at Madame Toussaud's. Oh well...but the dessert (Baked - and flaming - Alaska) was fab! We wandered off down Park Street to this Starbucks style cafe (Oh Mel...we thought of you) called Barista. There, we sipped decaf coffee frappe (they whip in vanilla ice cream). The weird part was that they charged extra (half again as much) for decaf! They also had a guitar hanging on the wall and encouraged anyone to strum away. The crowd was quite a mix of locals and visitors (Swedes for the most part). By this point, we were looking forward to getting back to Tolly - but needed to find a bank machine. Much to my horror, neither of the two we found would give me any cash. Amber, special as she is, was happily dispensed funds. I was then pondering the rather attractive possibility of being a kept man for the rest of the trip.....(Amber shrieks...finally I'm wealthy!).
Back to the Oasis....and zzzzzz......
Posted: Wed - October 22, 2003 at 06:30 AM
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Published On: Nov 21, 2003 04:41 PM
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Published On: Nov 21, 2003 04:41 PM