Wednesday 20th February - Festival Time

We sleep well and hit breakfast on the dot at eight. This catches out the staff who are only half way through laying out the buffet. We take the window table and watch a lady marking out a kolam with pink powder in front of the school opposite. We realise that yesterday must have been some kind of local holiday as there were no school children in evidence, whereas today they abound. When the buffet is ready we collect some cut fruit and put bread in the toaster. Yesterday we learned that two minutes is just right and the machine pings when time is up. We return to our table followed by the waiter who brings a plate with very slightly singed bread on it. No doubt he means well. Today's special option is luchis, which R has with a fried egg. D sticks to the tried and tested, masala omelette.

This morning's plan is to visit the Botanical Gardens in the hope of seeing some birds. It is a walk of about a mile,  which takes us out of the historic part of town and along a busy street lined with off licences. The streets are definitely busier this morning than yesterday. At the entrance to the Gardens we pay our Rs 50 per head Foreigner fee. Immediately we see something interesting on a dead branch near the top of a large tree. At first we think it must be a small woodpecker but closer inspection reveals it to be a Coppersmith Barbet. The boop-boop sound of these birds is common across India but we have only made the spot a couple of times. This one hangs around for photos.

After this good start things go downhill a little. The Gardens were set up by the French in the 19th century and obviously had serious money spent on them a few years ago but they are not well maintained. The only other birds we see are crows scavenging amongst the rubbish. When we find ourselves attracting clouds of small biting insects we decide enough is enough. The park does have a small railway system advertised as a Kids' Joyride. It may well be the only narrow gauge that we see on this trip so here is a picture.

The passing auto asks 80 rupees for a ride back to the hotel, where we apply the bite soothing cream and replan. The Puducherry Museum is not too far away and actually remains open beyond noon so we go for that. It is a no photo zone and employs a lot of people who sit in chairs to ensure that this rule is enforced. The building is some kind of colonial era mansion, with high ceilings and masses of fans. The notices attached to exhibits are trilingual - English, French and Tamil, as well as being brief. 'Fossil' may be accurate but not very enlightening. 'Furniture made of wood' is also unlikely to win an award. The best room had a load of statues of Hindu deities, but pride of place went to a bust of V.I. Lenin. 

There was a very interesting room all about the Roman Empire remains found at nearby Arikamedu but the custodian of that room was not derelict in her duties so no picture. Attached to the museum was a small picture gallery that had some local and some European style art including one piece ascribed to Titian. Our expert expressed some doubt about this. On the way to find somewhere to sit down with a cold drink we stop off at a bookshop that isn't Higginbotham's, but which has a few gems on the shelves. D is very tempted to extend his collection of RK Narayan stories but we still have to carry stuff around for two weeks.

The Cafe des Arts provides shady seats under a fan and very passable lemon sodas. An American on a nearby table complains that his lemon soda doesn't taste of anything. The waiter solves this by stirring in three dessertspoonfuls of sugar, which mollifies the chap. Why doesn't he just order Seven Up? It is now hot enough for R to decree a siesta and we make our way back to the Bull. Still no laundry list but at least the WiFi is working.

Venturing out after the heat has died down a wee bit we go to collect the laundry. This one is also called Snow White Electric Dry but our Tamil does not run to "Does your brother run the branch in Hyderabad?". Our Tamil is, in fact, totally deficient and we have been caught out a couple of times already when locals shake their heads, which means yes in these parts. On arrival at Snow White's, Grumpy (or is it Sneezy?) tells us to come back at six p.m.

Pondy has a serious two wheeler problem, almost on the same scale as Saigon's. In places it is not possible to cross the roads because there is a wall of motorbikes and scooters in the way. What you don't get in Vietnam is dozens of idiot pink tourists, who want to drive scooters on the wrong side of the road, and who have no ability to integrate into the cut and thrust of Indian traffic. There is currently a political bust up going on here between the lady who is the Lieutenant Governor, appointed by the Modi government, and the local Chief Minister. One of the trigger points has been the LG's attempt to instruct the police to enforce the law regarding the wearing of crash helmets. If she gets her way the Pondicherry gaol will soon be full of ageing French hippies.

At six o'clock we set out again, this time successfully. Snow White's representative wasn't Grumpy, he was Happy, especially when D forked out for the bill. D returns to the hotel with the very neat pile of clean clothes, while R sets out to the yoga class that she booked yesterday. On the way back D sees that some kind of large display piece is being set up by the local temple. Could this be a Pandal? The more knowledgeable may wish to comment. The spillchucker on D's phone translates Pandal to Landslide! What are they on at Google?

D has an hour to himself and decides to reverse his decision on R.K. Narayan. The shop is in the Chambre de Commerce building in the very French Quartier Francais. Quite a large part of the shop's stock is in French but the two books that caught D's eye earlier are in English. Very correct English. On an earlier visit, at PitterPatter's recommendation, D has bought a couple of collections of short stories by Narayan. The two books on sale are longer novels of about 200 pages each. He writes about the characters who live in Malgudi, a fictional small town somewhere in central South India. The short stories contain humour, tragedy, philosophy and, most of all, believability. The two books have now joined the luggage and are in the reading queue, behind the book of North Indian short stories that PP gave D in Bangalore.

R's yoga class works to Indian time and decants at twenty past eight. D has found a pile of breeze blocks under a street light so he can read a few pages of Mr. Sampath while he waits. The class has gone well. We take the short walk to Villa Shanti, which gets great reviews for its restaurant. On the way we pass under a large illuminated fish, hung across the street. It is made of single use plastic water bottles and advertises a design studio. We have to wait for a table but the beer is cold and we are in no hurry. When we get a table the food is excellent. Butter chicken almost as good as R makes, rice with peas likewise, excellent Meccano Dal and a lovely crisp naan bread. The best meal we have had so far.

As we walk home along Mission Street we can see something going on. At the crossing with Vysial Street, on which our Hotel sits, the Pandal D saw earlier has attracted a large crowd who are celebrating something. A small band of musicians are playing clarinet type instruments and drums. A team of men are pushing the cart supporting the Pandal, and a second team pulling another cart, on which sits a generator, attached by cables to the first cart. People are making offerings of food and money. In procession behind there are other brightly lit constructions, including one so large that its support cart has an extra large generator, pulled by a small tractor. Each has its own musicians, walking ahead and playing with gusto. The procession turns up our street but away from the hotel so we should be able to sleep. We have not been up this late, except to catch a train, for at least a month.