Friday, August 5, 2022

Mussoorie Road- motor-head’s delight

 

Mussoorie Road- motor-head’s delight

 

There was a movie I had seen in 1970s with an intriguing name- ‘If it’s Tuesday, it must be Belgium’, the plot long forgotten. If it is around 7am on Mussoorie Road, and I hear the off-cadence blat-blat----blat-blat typical of Harley Davidsons, I know it is Saturday.

 Harleys are dime a dozen in Dehradun and every Saturday, come rain or sun, the HOGs make their weekly pilgrimage to Mussoorie or beyond. They disturb the late risers with their loud exhaust noise, all headlights blazing, their riders lazily ensconced in their low seats, feet forward, open face helmets, silk scarves and leather jackets. I envy the looks they demand from the passersby, but not their ride. I know for sure  the discomforts of getting your right calf slowly roasted medium rare by the twin exhausts on slow rides and hot days, the inability to raise your fundament of the seat while riding over a bump.They personify lazy riding, more suited to the rolling, straight interstate highways, and not for the narrow, twisty Uttarakhand roads, but what the hell, if you have money to blow, why not flaunt it?

Then there is the frenetic passage and banshee scream of the high revving Kawasaki Ninjas. There are about a dozen Ninjas of the 900 or 1000cc in Dehradun. In their Kawasaki Green livery, the riders in their full mask helmets hunched over, ratcheting the gearbox through the curves, swinging their fundaments across the seat to get the proper lean angle,, they are a visual treat. I envy their riding and the sheer physics of riding fast on the myriad curves in the these 18km between Dehradun and Mussoorie. They herald their passage from well over a kilometre away, here come the Ninjas!

Then there are the Triumphs with their almost soothing parallel twin exhaust beat, closely emulated by our very own Royal Enfield Interceptors. The riders sitting straight, hands comfortable on the handlebars are a visual delight, a throwback to the days of simple motorcycling. Bullets and their ilk are non-entities, there are just too many of them. One day I noticed an unfamiliar silhouette, chased it and found it was a  Mondial 300! AndI thought the Italian marquee was long dead and buried in the motorcycle brand cemetery!

There are exactly two Mustangs in Dehradun, one fiery red and the other fluorescent yellow, with off-centre black stripes. I pity the owners, because by my reckoning these behemoths with their 5 litre V8 engines probably never manage to go beyond second gear!

One of the most amazing sights was a grey BMW Z3 followed by a Ferrari 911, probably, both with their tops down chasing each other up towards Mussoorie. ss delight

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d- motorheads delightsssss delight

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Saturday, September 19, 2020

My encounters with European pickpockets

 

My encounters with pickpockets in Europe

                     Athens 2017

Athens, the eternal city and ahead of Rome in my eyes, was a city I had first visited in 2013, returned in 2015 and again in 2017. What made Athens particularly attractive to me was my friend Professor Evangelos Afendras. He gave us conducted walking tours of Athens with a dose of history at each step. Every lane, every old building had a story that drew me closer to this city. All my previous trips were official trips, either for attending a conference or liaising with a partner business school, but the evenings and spare time on weekends brought me closer to Athens with every trip. It was also home to Philomena Godfrey, a Banglorean Anglo-Indian by birth. We had a chance meeting during an island cruise, which blossomed in to friendship. Philomena was in to her late seventies, had migrated to Greece via Australia in her thirties. She must have been a beauty in her times as a model for Khatau Mills! Every trip to Athens included a visit to her home and a sumptuous meal.This was late in September 2017 and we were in Athens, my young colleague Safal Batra and I. Safal was Assistant Professor of IIM Kashipur.  We had come with a batch of eighteen participants of our Executive MBA program for a one week immersion program. The group was being hosted by our partner institute the Alba Graduate School of Business, Athens. The program, scheduled during September 18, Monday to September 22, Friday and consisted of lectures and discussion with industry captains in the pre-lunch sessions followed by visits to companies around Athens.

We stayed at the Hotel Athinais, barely 200 metres across the road from Alba Graduate Business School. The program ended on Friday evening and we had two full days and two nights free before flying out on morning of September 25 Monday. As Santorini was very expensive and no last minute connections were available, Safal had booked an early morning ferry to the island of Mykonos, an island in the Cyclades. We were supposed to take a cab to the nearby port of Raffina and then a three hour ferry ride to Mykonos. Two days were reasonable enough to spend exploring the island, which boasted fantastic beaches and nightclubs.

Our hotel was equidistant from the two metro stations of Ippokratto and Megaro Moussikis.  So at around 6pm, after the program ended, we decided to spend the evening seeing the sights before leaving for Rafina late at night and boarded the metro at Megaro Moussikis.

In every foreign visit, my essential documents and money were always in a leather fanny-pack gifted by Tulip, my daughter. During this trip too, I had my passport and some cash in a fanny-pack around my waist, and most of my cash was in the inner pocket of my all-weather Tommy Hilfiger jacket. We boarded the metro and were about to disembark from the metro that I felt someone jostling and a hand went to my fanny-pack. I walked forward in my momentum.  The moment I alighted on the platform instantaneously realized that my pocket had been picked.  The buckle of the fanny pocket containing the passport was open. I immediately turned back but the door had closed and I could see the face of the person who had picked my pocket and the train sped off. The man must have been as artist of the highest order, having been able to open a buckle in the fraction of a second as I was walked past him.

There was a policeman on the platform and as I complained to him, he asked me whether I had lost my money or something else. I told him that I had lost my passports. Actually I had four passports attached back-to-back to maintain continuity of visas. It hurt because the US visa valid till 2023 and Schengen visa valid till 2018 were gone too. The policeman told me that the pickpocket may throw the passport because it would be useless for him and we might just find it discarded on the track or garbage bin in the subsequent stations. So we took the metro to the next three stations on that line, meticulously searched the garbage bins on the way top the exit, but alas no such luck!

Next came the vital business of registering the case, because here I was in Europe without any document to prove that I had entered it legally, if caught it was definite going to land me in jail. We were directed to another police station on a different line. Luckily we had bought weekly metro passes. The search for that police station involved repeated asking for directions. This was Friday evening. The police station had a deserted look and there were just two young policemen. We were asked to wait. I had my visa and passport copies in my phone as also my flight ticket out of Athens. I had to wait for half an hour before the man at the desk saw my visa, passport, hotel booking on my phone and finally my case was registered. The policeman seemed bored, but helped me fill up the form, which was written in Greek, and finally I had a copy of the original police report. Then we slowly made our way back, by then it was well past 9pm. I decided to go to the Indian Embassy. I asked Safal to continue with the Mykonos trip alone, as it would be imprudent for me to travel without a passport, even within Greece. Safal steadfastly said that he would like to be with me. So the trip to Mykonos went down the drain.

It was during one of our evening walks around Athen earlier during the week my Greek friend Dr Evangelos Afendras had shown us the Indian Embassy. Little did I know that I would be required to visit it so soon! Predictably, the Embassy was closed, as it should be late on a Friday night. I pressed the bell and banged the gate for a good ten minutes before a person came down to the gate and enquired. I explained my plight, pulled rank, explained that I was an IIM Director on official work and that my flight out was on early morning on Monday. I demanded to meet a consular officer. Finally I handed my visiting card with my contact number. Safal and I then had dinner, a very morose dinner, slightly alleviated by a liberal dose of ouzo. I felt guilty at having spoilt the trip to the island for Safal. On an inspired moment, I phoned my secretary Ravi Gupta back in India and got my Twitter password. I posted a lengthy tweet to our then Foreign Minister, Madam Sushma Swaraj, explaining my plight. By the time we went to sleep it was well past midnight.

Precisely at 8am, my phone rang and it was from the Indian Embassy. The person over the phone asked me to reach the embassy at 10.30am with two photographs and copies of my passport and Schengen visa. Breakfast forgotten, it took some time to locate a studio in the lane behind Athinais Hotel and get my picture taken. A quick cab ride I was at the embassy and at exactly 12.30pm I had a temporary travel document that enabled me to catch my flight back to India on Monday morning as planned. What amazing efficiency! The embassy person informed me that my tweet to the Foreign Minister had worked, because it was officially tracked by a senior Foreign Service officer on behalf the minister.  This was one the small but significant changes instituted by Ms Swaraj, God bless her departed soul!


 

Rome 2019

Cut to 2019. It was a family trip consisting of wife Shampa, daughter Tulip, son-in-law Manu and yours truly. In the sixteen days between December 22, 2019 to January 4, 2020 we had planned to spend Christmas eve in Barcelona, Christmas in Lisbon and usher in the new year in eternal Rome, before resting a little at Athens prior to return. Shampa and I had seen Athens before and Tulip had been to Rome before, and Manu had seen neither. He wanted to appreciate the buildings of Rome, architect that he was. So eternal city of Rome was allocated the maximum of four days.

Having gone through Barcelona and Lisbon, we reached Rome in the night of December 28. Rome stay was planned till the morning of January 1, 2020. From where we stayed Free Hostel, Rome’s biggest rail and metro station Termini was a 15 minute walk. The ladies had planned trip on December 29th morning to the famous flea market at Porta Portese which opened only on Sundays. Sunday morning we took the Green Tram Line 3 from Manzoni for Porta Portese. The flea market is amazing; time and again I was tempted to buy a pair of Italian boots from one of the myriad stalls, but somehow managed to control myself. The return was planned by the same tram, to get down at the eponymous station Circus Maximus. With the earlier traumatic   experience in Athens in 2017, I was hyper careful about not carrying my passport and distributing my cash and cards all around my person, in different pockets and garments. My inventory was as follows: purse with euro 500 in right front pocket of jeans, credit cards in a small card purse in left front pocket of jeans, main cash in inside pocket of jacket, phone with Europe sim in right outer jacket pocket.

I was nearest the exit and as I exited the déjà vu occurred! Same jostling at the shoulder and a deft hand snaked in to my left jeans pocket. Unfortunately for the pickpocket, I followed him out of the tram. Three steps down from the tram and I caught the man by his collar from the back and in my sternest voice asked him to give me back my purse! He was a seedy looking man, short and thin. He looked at me, perhaps not used to being confronted by a foreign but belligerent victim, perhaps shamed! He gave small sigh, said “Ok”, calmly handed me back my small black card purse and quickly disappeared in to the crowd. By that time, my entire family had followed me down, mystified by my sudden rush from the tram and found me holding my card purse. The story came pouring out of me and my sudden release from the adrenaline rush left me rather drained. Realization dawned  that I had created a record of sorts, getting my purse back from a pickpocket in the Mecca of pickpockets!