J’adore Pondicherry

Pondicherry is a city I’ve wanted to visit since I read Yann Martel’s Man Booker prize-winning novel, Life of Pi, a story about Pi Patel, the sole survivor of a ship-wreck who lives on a lifeboat for seven months with a Bengal tiger from Pondicherry Zoo, where his father is proprietor.

Living the Life of Pi

It’s lovely to finally be here, and from the minute we arrive in Pondicherry, or ‘Pondy’ as the locals call it, the city’s French presence is obvious and enchanting. We open the double-doors to our room off a shared conservatory and reading area at our hotel, the gorgeous Les Hibiscus B&B in the French Quarter on the east side of town. The Hibiscus’ four-poster beds, matching furniture, and mod-cons are a very welcome sight. The French part of Pondicherry is incredibly quaint, with its cafes serving crepes and pain au chocolat, and a French Riviera-style boulevard leading to a giant statue of Mahatma Gandhi (who also has the main shopping area named after him – ‘M.G. Road’ to those in the know). Its cobbled streets use the French Rue, and we’re told that 70% of the population here speaks the language of love.

From Rues to ruins

Sadly, there’s something not quite so lovely about Pondicherry right now. It was hit badly by Cyclone Thane that swept through Tamil Nadu last week, and there are signs of destruction on every corner we turn. Its central park has been completely ripped to shreds and is cordoned off. Every tree in the park has been lifted from its roots, and bushes, branches, debris and tree stumps lie over the Rues we traverse. The people of Pondy remain upbeat and are working industriously to clear the rubble, and some local boys enlist Barn’s help to pull a fallen tree over a church fence, tug-of-war style. The boys laugh candidly when they fail in their attempts, and happily persevere, but it’s a heart-wrenching sight. The crumbled red brick walls we see are an all-too-soon reminder of Christchurch. The damaged churches, too.

Tug of war with nature

Pondy is a city of more than 220,000, and so it doesn’t quite escape the maddening Indian road culture. We lunch at a café called The Little Big Shop at the newly built Villa Shanti hotel on the east side, before venturing further into town to the Pondicherry Bazaar, on the busy M.G. Road. We’re swept up into the frenetic traffic, but slowly gain more confidence in walking out onto a street with hundreds of scooters and autorickshaws heading straight for you. I’ve now worked out that the majority of tooting (a couple of short beeps every 5 or 10 seconds) is more of a courtesy – an ‘FYI, I’m right behind you’; it’s when you get the 10-second long hand-on-horn that you know you’re really in the wrong.

I drag Pete into a fabric shop and survey at the array of colours and styles of scarves on offer. I decide on a paua-shell bluey-green, but it’s not hemmed, so the owner of the shop takes us down underground, beneath the shop, to have his tailor finish it. We watch him work the machine practically with his eyes closed, and have the obligatory conversation about New Zealand, and ask a couple of questions of our own.

Dinner later in the night is at the Satsanga, as recommended in Lonely Planet, but we arrive late and there’s not much choice left. The vegetable curry I end up with is delicious, though, and we both polish off more large bottles of Kingfisher. I can see a worrying trend here. Those who said I’d lose weight in India were completely mistaken.

Moove out of my way

The next day I photograph huge cows in the street, rustic old bikes leaning against brick walls, and more of the mass cyclone clean-up. I go and get passport photos taken, as I need some to purchase a sim card for my phone here, and the photo studio I go to has a roomful of Mac operators out the back, busy on Photoshop, lightening dark faces in family photos of Indian weddings. It seems strange to me that in the East they’re obsessed with pale skin, while we Westerners go to such pains to tan up in summer.

Barn and I navigate our way through the busy M.G. Road again to a Vodafone India store where a poster advertises ‘Matrimony TXT Alerts and more!’ While I’m there, it dawns on me that for once in my life, the Vodafone helpdesk is in the same country as I am. I imagine I’d still get the same poor service, even if calling from here. Before we left Auckland, we rang them to get our phones switched to roaming, and when I told the operator I was going to Nepal, he sounded completely baffled. “Nepal? What is this? I have never heard of it.” Barn received a similar response from his Vodafone customer service representative: “Is that the N-E-P-A-L one?” he said, typing a search into his computer.

After the most delicious South Indian Thali lunch (breads and rice accompanied by 10 small dishes of curry, chutney, sauces, pastes and yoghurt) at Surguru, also recommended by Lonely Planet, we farewell the cyclone-torn but still beautiful French city of Pondy, and I swear I’ll one day come back to see it in its full glory. Pondy – je t’amie.