Chennai.
I worked for several years for a company, a banking software
provider, that like many others has a significant presence in this south east
Indian city on the Bay of Bengal, but in all that time I never visited the
place. In fact I’m probably one of the
few people who worked for the company for more than about 6 months who didn’t
make the trip.
Many of my friends did, multiple times in some cases, so I
had heard conflicting stories about it – many good, most bad. I came close once, when I was confirmed on a
training course there, but by the time it came around some months later, budget
cuts cancelled the trip a few weeks before I was due to leave. I left the company the following year.
So there is a kind of irony that my client bank now chose to
send me to my old employer’s office for some software testing. The bank is a major user of the system I
spent 13 globetrotting years supporting, and are adding a lot more
functionality to cover new business lines that happen to fall under my
speciality (which is why it recruited me in the first place, to work on the
system build). So when the vendor
scheduled a weeks’ worth of testing I agreed to attend from the bank-side
(colleagues from Amsterdam and Singapore agreed to join by conference call but
refused to travel).
Fine by me – while not an ambition particularly to visit,
I’m always happy to go somewhere new and without question India is an
interesting destination. It stood no
higher on my personal Travel To Do list than did the Lebanon, say, or Kazakhstan
and Chile, but regular readers will know I’ve been to all three and had a great
time in each. And in any case, the trip
itself was short, only 6 days – which is actually half the time it took to
obtain my 6 month multi-entry visa.
So off I went, early one Saturday morning.
I needed the early start just to get to the airport. I had been staying at my sister’s place in
North Norfolk (see a post of that name from a couple of weeks ago if you’re
remotely interested), so faced a near two hour train journey, then tube and the
Heathrow Express to get there. I needed
to be at Terminal 5 by 10 to check my bag for a lunchtime flight (a bit earlier
than strictly necessary perhaps, but it is the peak holiday season after all,
and I do hate arriving out of breath and sweating at my departure gate) so had
to drive into King’s Lynn for a train before 7.
But it was worth it really, travelling (as I was) Business
Class for the first time in nearly 4 years – since Chile in fact. This gave me Lounge access (again for the
first time since then) so I wanted time there for some breakfast and The
Independent before boarding. It was my
first visit to the BA Lounge in T5, and I have to say I preferred the old one
in T1 that I used to haunt back in the day when Business Class travel was standard
for my old employer, before the accountants took over from the entrepreneurs
that ran it when I first joined. There
seemed a smaller selection of food and drinks available than I remembered, and
at the coffee machine I managed to get the last clean cup for my cappuccino (no
saucer though, I had to use the second last sandwich plate). Perhaps I just arrived at a bad time. But the armchair was comfortable enough, the
food and coffee tasty enough and the paper was, well, the paper.
My flight to Chennai turned out to be on a brand new 787
Dreamliner, and very nice that airplane is too.
Admittedly flying Business ensured that, but the Economy section that I
looked into when I boarded seemed spacier than most. The windows are a good bit bigger, as Boeing
never cease to publicise as if it’s a major advance in the design and
construction of airliners, so for those who like me enjoy the view on any journey, especially
to a new location, it is indeed better, but all the company’s song-and-dance
about it is a bit over the top. The
seating is of course very comfortable as you would expect at the pointy end,
but not significantly better than it was on my Chile flight back in 2011 on a
BA 747 (which in turn was less comfortable than the huge armchair LAN Chile
provided me with on the Sao Paulo – Santiago – Sao Paulo flights). But still – a huge improvement on my normal
LOT Economy, WizzAir or EasyJet seat.
The service was excellent (two glasses of champagne before
we taxied out, a very pleasant dinner and a tasty English breakfast) with cabin
crew who were under 65 years of age, smiled and were happy to serve me. There was also a very good selection of music
and movies on the InFlight entertainment service, a decent sized screen to
watch them on and a good noise-reduction headset for audio. So no complaints there. I even managed to sleep for about three hours
on my fully reclined (but not quite flat) bed, which is highly unusual for me
and certainly eased the 10 hour haul considerably.
So a big thanks to BA.
They may no longer be The World’s Favourite Airline (no matter what
their advertising may proclaim) but they remain mine.
My lunchtime flight dumped me in the airport in the middle
of a hot and steamy Chennai night: at the tail end of the monsoon season it was
muggy a 28C. Another advantage to
Business: quick exit from the plane means a much smaller queue at passport
control, at least at 3 a.m. I was
through and in the baggage hall within 15 minutes of the doors opening.
The hotel car was a very new BMW 7 series saloon, all plush
leather and power everything, with a smiling driver called Joseph in full
chauffeur regalia – starched maroon trousers with a black satin stripe down
each leg, a cream tunic dripping with gold buttons and braid and a cap to
match, and spotless white cotton gloves.
Very welcoming he was, and gave me running commentary on the drive in
from the airport. He pointed out the
Basilica of St.Thomas (one of only three such buildings in the world, he
advised, like St.Peter’s in Rome for instance – but he couldn’t remember the
other one), and further in, quite close to the hotel, a small chapel that
fronts a cave where St. Thomas hid from the Brahmin mob that was trying
(ultimately successfully) to martyr him.
Apparently on the floor of the cave there is a miraculously preserved
footprint of the Saint’s – it’s something I’d like to check out for myself, but
that will have to be on another trip – no time on this one. But Joseph made a wonderful change from the
usual surly local cabbie, all tobacco stink and sweaty armpits, that tends to
transport me to and from airports and hotels the world over.
The hotel was splendid, the most luxurious I’ve ever stayed
at (with the possible exception of the Wyndham Grand Regency in Doha that I was
quartered in about 18 months ago). There
is marble everywhere, highly polished brass (or possibly gold) fittings in the
public areas and lifts, very comfortable sofas and armchairs all over the
place, a good selection of restaurants and bars, and more staff than I’ve ever
seen in a hotel, even at that ungodly hour, all of them smiling and
welcoming. My room was equally
comfortable and well appointed, with a king sized bed, 40inch flat screen tv
showing a good selection of English language channels (including sports
channels with EPL football plus good old BBC World News and CNN), a marble
bathroom with separate shower and toilet cubicles, and a walk-in wardrobe about
the size of my bathroom at home. There
was a good-sized balcony too, but unfortunately my room didn’t have a sea view
(the place is about 300 yards from the Bay): instead I overlooked a
construction site that this time next year should be a Marriott hotel, I’m
told. Given the heat of the day a lot of
the building work is done at night, so it was not the quietest room
either. But you can’t have everything I
suppose, and as and when I come back I’ll make sure I’m booked into a better
room – in the meantime for a 5 night stay it was more than bearable, especially
as someone else is footing the bill.
The grounds are nice, with beautifully maintained gardens overlooking
the sea and on the third floor roof above the dining areas, shops and business
centre that is adjacent to the main 10 floor accommodation block there is another
garden area containing a sun terrace and lovely outdoor swimming pool with kids
area. Very impressive it is too, when
the sun goes down and lamps are lit.
Plenty of sun loungers as well, none of which were loaded with Germans
on the evening I used it.
The food is good, with the obligatory Indian cuisine, as
well as separate Chinese wok and Japanese sushi outlets and another dining room
that offers a good selection of European cooking, including roasts, Italian
pizza and pasta dishes. All of it is on
offer through room service (or Private Dining as the hotel label it). This restaurant is also the breakfast room,
and at this time as well there is a good selection of local, Continental and
Full English available. Their omelettes
are particularly good, and there is a delicious selection of Berliners, cinnamon
sugar ring donuts and other pastries as well.
The breads are very tasty too, as is the cappuccino that gets me moving
in the morning.
I like this place.
And what of the city?
Well, it’s everything I’d heard and most of what I’d
imagined. Bear in mind that I’ve seen
very little of the place – basically the area between the hotel and the office
– but even that has been quite an eye opener.
The first thing you notice is the traffic. I’ve written before about the chaos in Beirut
and Cairo, and the Kubica wannabes in Warsaw.
Chennai seems to be a mix of all three.
Even on my way in from the airport in the middle of a Saturday night
there was a fair bit of traffic on the roads, most of it cabs and hotel limos
collecting and dropping guests, but also many private cars. There were also a significant number of
trucks, and my driver Joseph explained that this was because a good deal of the
construction work goes on at night when it’s cooler. And there is certainly a massive amount of
development going on. A new elevated
metro system is being built for a start, and there look to be a lot of new
buildings – apartment blocks and shopping malls mostly I think – going up
too. Add to that the inevitable road
works and service delivery vehicles (trash trucks and sewage tankers in
particular) and it’s a busy old town.
During the day it’s far worse. The construction carries on, so all the night
time traffic is still there, but now there are thousands of shabby yellow and
black tuk-tuk cabs and buses and cars and motor bikes and scooters and push
bikes and cycles and bullock-carts and pedestrians adding to the chaos. Traffic rules and lights seem to be obeyed
with reluctance, and mirrors and indicators seem no more than adornments of no
practical value. There is a constant
cacophony of roaring engines and hooting horns, and a fog of exhaust fumes to
rival that in Cairo. Not pleasant, and
another place on my list of Places Where Not To Drive.
Then there are the streets themselves. In Beirut and Cairo and even Warsaw, they are
generally wide and well laid out, with clear road markings at junctions,
sometimes clearly delineated with concrete barriers (especially in
Beirut). But in Chennai the only wide
road that I’ve seen is the one that runs parallel to the beach, Kamarajar Salah
(it says on my map) that took me half way to the office. All the other streets are just a total maze
of narrow winding streets in an incomprehensible one-way system that is not
infrequently ignored by those travelling on two wheels rather than four. Every journey took a different route as far
as I coiuld tell, and I still have no sense of position or bearing at all.
The streets are lined with invariably old, shabby and
crumbling buildings, some of them little more than plywood and corrugated iron
shacks that house tea stands and street cafes and shops selling all kinds of
things at rock-bottom prices – India is still a poor country despite the
comparative affluence of the business centres in Mumbai and Delhi and Pune and
of course Chennai itself. But the people
with any kind of wealth are still very much in the minority even here – the
slums and squalor in Mumbai was vividly captured in Danny Boyle’s Slumdog Millionaire movie a few years
back. Rubble and trash and scrap wood
and cardboard boxes are piled high everywhere, when not cannibalized to build a
home of sorts by the poor.
Even the office blocks look equally shabby – I worked in my
old company’s development centre, a 10 floor modern office block, on the edge
of the Nungambakkam business district, that is not much more than ten years old
but looks three times that, with a dirty courtyard and car park area, a
reception and security hall that looks as though it hasn’t seen a paintbrush
since it was built, and threadbare carpets and stained wallpaper throughout. Even the Executive Dining Room (it said on
the door) on the top floor is poorly furnished and smelly. There are two slow and small lifts, one
serving odd numbered floors the other even, so getting in and out from the upper
floors can take forever unless you’re prepared to use the stairs (three flights
per floor). I wasn’t.
Close to the office is a rather grand looking white colonial
style mansion in reasonably well maintained grounds, surrounded by an eight
foot high concrete wall topped with broken glass, and protected by
security-guarded wrought iron gates. I
thought it might be a hotel or Embassy or something of that nature, but no –
it’s the Indian Railway Officers Club, South Indian Branch Headquarters. And very nice too – you wouldn’t get that
working for Virgin Trains or East Anglian or Network South East. A mile or so away is another high walled
compound, this time topped with outward curving wrought iron spikes with wicked
looking points. There are concrete
barriers maybe 10 yards along either side of the massive hardwood and iron clad
gates that are (of courses) closely guarded by armed men. It is, of course, the Embassy of the United
States of America. The building itself
is a typically utilitarian glass and steel block with myriad aerials on the
flat roof (electronic surveillance evidently still an important part of the
staff’s duties there). So a typical US
Embassy building then (the one in Warsaw is not dissimilar) and guaranteed to
draw attention to itself and its occupants.
I didn’t seen anything resembling the shopping malls that
I’ve spent time roaming around in every city I’ve ever visited (including
Almaty), nor did I spot a Starbucks, a McDonald’s or an Irish pub (or any other
kind of pub for that matter), so I was pretty much imprisoned in the five star
luxury of the Leela – it’s nice but not really my sort of place to eat and
drink I’m afraid, even leaving out the more expensive fare on offer. Nor did I see many more hotels except for a
Holiday Inn or Marriott or something like that, close to the airport. There are more 5 star hotels here, according
this hotel’s advertising which insists it is the best in town and the “only
beach front 5 star hotel in Chennai and the envy of its rivals” but I’ve not
spotted one – presumably I was in the wrong neighbourhood (not for the first
time). Incidentally, the ads don’t say
that the beach it fronts is about 300 yards away and closed to visitors on
safety grounds – to get to it you have to walk through the fishing village for
which the beach is reserved.
I’ve been past it a couple of times in the limo, and I would
not consider making the trip any other way – it looks far from safe. It stretches for a mile or so north towards
the city centre, and lies on the Bay of Bengal.
Fishing boats, fifteen or twenty feet long and powered by sail or man
power (no outboards that I could see) are pulled up on the dirty sand, when
they are not bobbing about at sea. Then there is an open area for kids to play
on and fishermen to swap stories and information and get drunk or
something. Then skirting the road that
runs parallel to the beach is a succession of what I can only describe as hovels. Made of old scraps of wood and cardboard
boxes and old carpets and curtains, these double up for the fishermen’s family
homes and business premises. The men
catch the fish, then their wives squat on the side of the road, the fish piled
up on rickety plywood tables, selling them.
There were piles of big prawns, crabs, what looked like big mackerel,
and one guy had what I think was a blue tuna a couple of feet long. I lowered the window to take pictures and the
stench made my eyes water – the reek of rotting fish mingled with human and
animal waste was overpowering. Goats and
wild dogs roamed around and carrion crow and gulls circled overhead or hopped
along waiting for scraps to fall their way.
It’s an awful place, and yet home to hundreds of families, to judge by
the number of shelters there. Little
kids, four or five years old, dressed in dirty tee-shirts and shorts, were
playing amid the junk and filth, older children played football on the sand (a
couple of iron goals were erected) and old women (who were probably younger
than me but looked as old as Methusalah) washed clothes in a ditch full of
dirty-looking water, draping them over lines strung between shacks to dry. There was no sign of toilet or bathing
facilities anywhere. And yet – I could
see smiling faces and hear laughter all along there. It’s life but as not as I know it……
Reading back through this as I edit, it reads as though I
dislike the city, but this is not the case.
I don’t know it well enough, nor have I seen enough it, to form any kind
of opinion good or bad as yet. There is
no doubt that despite the advertising Chennai is not yet a modern or wealthy
city, although it is clearly working hard to achieve that. There is still way too much filth and poverty
to be anything more than a Third World conurbation that aspires to be something
better – but that seems years away. I’m
62 and expect to live for another twenty or more years, and I would be frankly
surprised if it achieved that in my lifetime.
The people I’ve met – again a very limited number – have
been unfailingly polite and friendly.
The guy on the Immigration Desk at the airport set the ball rolling with
a warm and welcoming smile and greeting, wishing me a pleasant stay with a
handshake – never had that before. The
staff at the hotel were astonishingly efficient and unfailingly friendly, and
nothing was too much for them to make my stay enjoyable, whether they were
security guys on the door, the front desk staff, the wait staff in the
restaurant or the guy in the Business Centre who brought a pen-drive to my room
so that I could copy my boarding passes and print them for me the day I left.
The limo drivers have been great too, efficient, safe and
making sure the air conditioning was comfortably set and the music not
intrusive to make my journey most pleasant.
They have pointed out landmarks like the various Embassies and monuments
and basilicas and temples to Vishnu or Krishna or whichever deity, and
suggested places to visit in my spare time (none this trip unfortunately). If there has been an exception it was the guy
who drove me back from work on my last day.
He was of course polite and attentive to my comfort and well-being, and
pointed out a number of landmarks, most of which related to his family life –
the temple close to his home he visits regularly, the school and college his
children attend, the little hall where he goes to evening classes to improve
his English. But when he (like other
drivers) asked about my circumstances to prolong the conversation (which is
fine for me: it can make the drive more interesting) he didn’t seem to listen
to my answers or If he did, not really understand them. This too is fine – his native tongue is
Tamil, and English is his third language after the local southern Indian
dialect, and that is two more languages than I can speak. But throughout the conversation, he was
emphasising how little he was paid, how expensive his wife and kids were, and
how this was not important because the needs and safety of his passengers (i.e.
me) were paramount, and in any case if he did his job properly and cared for me
then God would support him with the help of his guests (i.e. me again).
In other words, GIVE ME TIP AND MAKE IT A GOOD ONE. Well, sorry, pal – no. I sympathise with your probable financial
situation – I’ve been around hotels enough and seen sufficient programmes on tv
to know that the hotel trade does not pay very well – but I will decide who and
when to tip, I do not need or expect to be told this by the driver, or waiter
or whoever. Your service was excellent –
although I do wish you hadn’t talked so much as it actually disturbed me (had I
not been a polite Englishman I would have told you to shut up) – and I would
indeed have given you something, but by demanding it like that you changed my
mind. Sorry.
The people at the office were great too. Some of them I had worked with on projects years
ago, and hadn’t seen since, and I finally got to meet a couple of people that I
had co-operated with remotely for a good ten years but never seen before.
So it was an interesting and successful trip. A similar exercise is being planned for November
so I might get back there and hopefully for a couple of weeks that will give me
a weekend to see more of the extraordinary city.
Chennai.
