Pondicherry

https://photos.app.goo.gl/v2Xf3G7WQGz94FpH7

The road to Pondicherry went through a lot of agricultural land – rice fields, sugar cane, Tamarind trees lining the road often. Stopped to visit a few more temples. I will probably be a Hindu by the time I return. It was a nice drive.

Pondicherry is a coastal town, and also a small state with very low tax, especially on booze, which is why it gets very busy on weekends, and police check cars leaving the state. There is a ban on single use plastics here – very welcome.

It has an interesting French history, and currently appears to be trying very hard to be French. The streets all have French names, the restaurants are mostly French named, there is an Alliance Francaise here, croissants outnumber idlis and dosas, and it’s full of French tourists. I had an escargot au raisins that was not bad at all. They play syrupy French music everywhere. It’s an Indian caricature of France.

You can tell it isn’t France though – not a single waiter has been rude, the coffee is drinkable, it’s easy to get a taxi, and no farmers are burning cars in protests on tariffs.

They boil the milk here, but I’m OK with that (kills bugs…). The police still wear French police style hats.  When the French left here, they offered Indian residents the possibility to get a French passport and remain French citizens – many took up the offer (those that didn’t now seriously regret that). They are able to get French social security and disability payments, which exceed local average wages by orders of magnitude. I read an article where a guy said he hadn’t had to work since 1964. People they marry become French and also qualify for benefits, so the burden on French taxpayers increases yearly. The French hoped it would remain an island of Gallic culture, but it descended into a mire of permanent subsidy and corruption. Colonial Karma bites. 

It is trying so hard to be Euro, that it is sadly nearly impossible to find vegetarian dishes on menus. One thing this trip has shown is that being vegetarian doesn’t necessarily mean staring into bowls of sadness and despair.

I went on a tour, part of it on a cycle rickshaw. I wouldn’t have chosen this myself, as I wouldn’t be so cruel as to ask anyone to push my carcase around on a hot day, but it was part of a package. I almost suggested we change places, and I do the cycling (but I didn’t). It was an odd tour, as my guide was on a scooter, and would meet my rickshaw at designated points. Was the point of the rickshaw to experience colonial oppression from a colonial viewpoint?

We visited the Tamil quarter, the Muslim quarter, the Hindu quarter, the French quarter, the French colonised Afro Indian (Madagascar, Mauritius, Reunion) quarter (clearly ‘quarter’ does not equal 25%), and more churches.

Originally there were 2 quarters – the French ‘White Town’, and ‘Black Town’ for everyone else.

The markets were as always interesting, and I was very glad the fish market preceded the flower market, and not vice versa, as it was late afternoon. The fish market is entirely run by women – the men just provide the fish and ice.

This sounds like a perfect arrangement for many men.

Imagine the conversation in Australia:

“G’day, whereyagoin’, mate?”

“Out fishin’ on the boat all day, mate – the missus said don’t come back without a full Esky, but if I forget the ice again I’m done for, mate.”

“Ahh, ya lucky bastard – I have to stay home and mow the friggin’ lawn, mate, or I’m done for.”

When bidding the cyclist farewell, I tipped generously, but he still looked disgruntled. I could tell he was thinking “You fat bastard”.

I visited my first Ashram – the Aurobindo, started by Sri Aurobindo and his ‘partner’ Mirra Alfassa (known as ‘The Mother’). To enter you need to fully switch off your mobile, and be silent.

It was full of flowers, and calm, meditating disciples, quite a few western. No-one was levitating. I struggled to look suitably reverential – I felt everyone’s third eye boring into my skull. I was reminded of the book ‘Karma Cola’, by Gita Mehta, which was about flocks of hippies invading India in the 60’s, describing traditions of an ancient society being commoditised and sold to those who could never understand them. I bought it in Nepal decades ago, and it stopped me becoming a hippie. The Ashram is buying up lots of properties in the French Quarter, and renovating them lavishly – they have a LOT of money.

I also visited Auroville – a ‘Universal town where all can live in unity, harmony, transformation of consciousness, blah, blah’ – along with the Ashram a creation of The Mother, inspired by Sri Aurobindo. By now it was supposed to have a population of 50,000, but currently only about 2,000. I visited the Matrimandir dome viewing site– you cant go inside without a booking.In the visitors centre, I was so overwhelmed by their guiding principles, the potential for such inner peace, the opportunity for my soul to reach its full tranquintessentialessence (I made that word up – you won’t find it in OED) in the stars and galaxies above, I enquired about joining up on the spot. 

When they said they had no wine cellar, I lost interest. 

The visitor centre sells exactly what you would expect – incense, floral soaps, necklaces – standard hippie trinkets. Oh yes, I DID see someone there in low crotch fisherman pants (I have photo proof)!

Auroville is a fascinating story, along with the Ashram. Since the death of the original principals, it has been mired in political infighting and scandal (far exceeding anything Labor sub-branches or factions could ever get up to).

It required an Act of Parliament to intervene and impose governance. It is huge business, with opaque trust structures, and there was a BBC doco on pedophilia allegations. It gets funding from all over the globe (including DFAT!).

There’s something fishy about that much money for only 2000 people. Some things keep repeating – where have I heard about a charismatic guy and a female enabler and wealth and minors? Was it Epstein & Ghislaine? 

I wandered the streets, saw colonial buildings, and went to the beach at dawn to see sunrise.

The promenade was packed with walkers and joggers, and just one hippie dancing to the sun. The passeggiata here is early. It was so pleasant, and a breeze was blowing in from the Bay of Bengal, a cool, fresh ocean scent, with just a few high notes of microplastic nanoparticles for piquancy.Kids in the water were being chased out by a policeman because ‘NO SWIMMING’ – what is it with Indian beaches and no swimming???

There will only be one more missive in this India series. I’m off to Chennai for a brief stay before heading home, so might not be much more coming.