After a hectic week in Delhi and Bombay, I arrived in Chennai just in time for the weekend. I hate sitting in hotels on my own watching video channels and I keep making excuses not to head down to the gym and to go the bar instead. If I could, I’d be out Jalking (Jog + Walk) just after dawn to try and keep my jet lagged body functioning but you really take your life in your Nikes if you try doing that in a major Indian city. so, I decided that I’d head down to Pondicherry or ‘Pondy’ as the locals like to call it for the weekend.
Pondy is a former french colonial town, which is now pretty much a small city. The french actually pulled out around 65 years ago but the signs of their occupation are all around with blue enamelled street signs in french (and Tamil), french lantern street lights and the houses where La Francais used to live are coloured light blue, rather like the extremely non tactical uniforms they wore in WWI. The area frequented by them in their hey day was referred to as ‘white town’ -unsurprisingly because that’s where the ‘white folks’ lived. Outside of white town, it’s your usual chaotic provincial Indian city.
The local Police, some of whom still charmingly wear a red kepis, cordon off the side streets leading to Goubert avenue every day between 6pm and 6am to allow for foot traffic. This brings pretty much everyone who lives in that part of town down to the promenade at dusk and dawn and they well… promenade. Of course, being outdoors at those times makes the most of the slightly cooler parts of the day and you can’t blame anyone for that as it was well over 40 degrees C when I was there. Whilst I saw a couple of people obviously in their pyjamas for the dawn walk, most folks dress up for the evening parade and it’s clearly the place to ‘see and be seen’
Unusually for India where public displays of affection are not the norm, there are couples of all ages holding hands. Much older couples, with the chains of generational conservatism still holding them back, walk so closely to each other, that they might as well be holding hands and everyone seems to be in a good mood, smiling and nodding hello to each other. There are twenty-somethings, dressed in their finery, flirting together and others furiously swiping right, in the hope that they can find someone to flirt with. Traditional India Pondy might be, outside of white town, but not on the promenade.
The beach truthfully isn’t up to much and although there is a small bay where some brave souls do go down to the murky water, most locals seem to watch the action from the rocky man made breakwaters. Some just stare out to sea, others take selfies and some crowd around and eat from the street traders stalls; several of whom cook up their food on the spot. It smells really good, but I’m not sure I’d be game to try it, given that there’s no visible means of sanitisation around.
The promenade is actually quite like a Paris street in so much as it’s wide and stained by dog shit. There is also a large war memorial dedicated to the residents of ‘french India’ who died for the country in WW1. The site is considered to be french soil and becomes the focus of commemorations on Bastille day, with foreign dignitaries flying in and parades held. True, in some areas, it does smell a bit of urine, but the local authorities are clearly trying to do something about that as you don’t actually see the doggy landmines, just where they have been. Many of the alleyway walls back from the seafront have signs saying “Toilet this way, 100mts ->” The french would have had pissoirs set up of course, but sadly not here, not now and many dark corners seem to be used for that purpose. The beautiful bougainvillea that covers many of the buildings more than makes up for the occasional unpleasant aroma and I walked along in a bit of a daze from the loveliness of it all, having been moving through Bombay slums the week before.
There are many spectacular sea front mansions, some of them are sadly in ruins and there are several that have been taken up as government offices but have been allowed to become shabby over the years. Wonderfully, there are others that are clearly very well loved private houses. It has to be said that there are also some very prominent buildings that are being rebuilt in their original style, whether privately or officially, it isn’t clear.
I loved the small streets in white town and the cafes and restaurants really beckon you in. There isn’t the mesmerising smell of baking that you get early in the morning in other former french colonies as I think that must be done centrally elsewhere, but fresh coffee and flowers can be smelt everywhere.
I had planned to wander through the crowds along the seafront and have a drink at a small place I’d seen on an earlier visit. ‘Seagulls’ is at the southern end of the beach near the jetty and I was a bit wary of the name given that I didn’t fancy making like Rod Taylor in ‘The Birds’ fighting off the creatures while trying to have dinner. I thought therefore, I’d just have a couple of beers and eat elsewhere, but I needn’t have worried as I didn’t see a single seagull. Dozens of crows of course, but nothing hovering over me looking like it was about to open its bomb bay doors. ‘Seagulls’ doesn’t look elegant from the street and nor is it, but it has, as the french say – ambiance.
I usually look for a cold beer and a sunset to round off my days in the tropics. Preferably the sunset would be over water but as I was on the south east coast of India, the sunset was on the other side. As the light started to fade, locals appeared and ordered large bottles of cold Kingfisher beer. I was already a couple ahead of them by then and as one does, when sitting alone, I was people watching. Although I work with people, I am mostly alone on my travels and so I have a routine that works for me. Prior to the sunset, I’ll drink beer, watch people and read or try to write. Occasionally, I’ll strike up a conversation with someone as I try to talk to at least one stranger each trip I take.
The bar was patronised largely by locals who were mainly male but there were a few mixed couples of student age and a table of animated french families enjoying their pre dinner drinks. Pondy is still very popular with french expats who enjoy the mixed Indian and french food.
A lady of a certain age and her partner casually stepped in front of my table to theirs with an excusez-moi and a waft of expensive scent. She was casually dressed in the way that ‘Gucci meets braless backpacker’ is chic and they clearly knew the place and the staff well. The waiter darted forward unbidden with a tray of pastis and water and after exchanging pleasantries in fluent french, he left and they settled down to watch to the light fade.
Unusually for me, I wasn’t too irritated that they had sat in the way of the view and between them and the garlic fried peanuts that the waiter delivered, I was by now totally distracted from my book. He was probably in his early 60’s and Madame was possibly half a decade younger. He lifted his feet up onto the chair in front of him and she, in an impossibly languid and feline manner curled up next to him on the cheap plastic chair. I was happy for them, clearly in love and relaxed with being alone in a crowd together. I was also a little jealous to see how complete they were in each others company. They sipped their drinks and giggling at what he was saying, she nuzzled into his neck.
As day finally turned to night, I paid my bill and walked through white town and the crowds to a hotel I’d seen earlier in the day. Being far too early for most people to eat, the courtyard restaurant was almost deserted.
The lack of patrons helped with the service of course and the staff bustled around me fussing with the wine and food, all the time pushing me towards the sinful looking desert menu. I gave in, ate too much and there not being any more people to watch, waddled back to my own hotel. I really like Pondy and I’m sure you will too. So, if you ever get the chance to see it, please go.