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March 7, 2005
Emus, Rest Stops and The Chocolate Debacle
I woke up unexpectedly at 6am Sunday when I received an unrequested wake-up call from the hotel asking me to get up, even though we wouldn't be leaving Baramati until 8am. I was already packed, so I certainly didn't need two hours to get ready. But once I was awake I couldn't fall asleep very well, but I did my best to get a little extra shut-eye, particularly since I didn't know when I'd get a chance to sleep again. Over the course of the day, we'd make our way to Mumbai, then I'd head to the airport in the evening for a 2am flight to Paris. I usually don't sleep well on flights, so I faced the prospect of pulling an all-nighter on the 10-hour flight, then waiting six hours for my connection, then another eight hours to arrive in Boston around 3pm Monday. Not exactly my idea of fun.
Rather than driving directly back to Mumbai, the group would make two stops: one to a milk processing plant, another to an emu farm that also had a wireless Internet kiosk. I could understand why we were stopping at the emu farm, because it provided Internet access to the surrounding farms, but I didn't really understand the milk processing plant. Perhaps I'd find out when we got there.
We had been invited to have breakfast at the milk plant, but during M S Swaminathan's closing speech at the conference the previous night, he noted the problem that India's milk farms have when it comes to keeping their products salmonella-free. That sapped the appetite out of some of us, so we grabbed a quick bite at the hotel prior to leaving Baramati: a simple breakfast consisting of fried eggs, toast and a spicy potato pancake that someone aptly described as a Maharashtra latke.
It took us an extra 40 minutes before we left the hotel, as the group had to split up into a convoy of Toyota 4X4s that would take some of us to the farms and at least one person directly to the Pune airport. Eventually we settled into our cars and began what would be a nine-hour journey.
Our first stop was the milk processing plant. Initially I'd expected to see an idyllic Indian farm with dairy cows joyfully giving milk, while a variety of funky technologies would be used to process and package it. Instead, I only got to see the latter; the processing plant was an industrial complex with nary a bovine in sight. We were led into the plant's headquarters, where we were invited to have breakfast. It was a little awkward because most of us had eaten breakfast, but we did our best to accept modest portions and nosh on their food. Breakfast consisted of couscous and a very salty omelet, accompanied by the only fresh toast I ate in India. We were also served copious amounts of Tropicana orange juice; I politely declined my own carton's worth because I had been suffering from heartburn since leaving Paris, and orange juice would have burned terribly. The waiter took the carton away from my placemat with a dejected look on his face.
After breakfast, we were silently led to a conference room, where a man walked over to a TV plugged in a video tape. For the next 15 minutes we watched the TV, learning that the milk processing plant was one of the largest in India, certified to meeting a long list of ISO standards that meant absolutely nothing to me. We also learned the plant is the exclusive supplier of processed cheese slices for McDonalds (though it was unclear that exclusivity pertained to India, the region or the entire planet), and served as the producer and packager of products ranging from Tropicana orange juices (oops!) and Lipton Iced Tea. The question regarding the scope of their McDonalds cheese monopoly lingered in my mind as the video ended, so when the man returned to eject the video tape, he led us back to our cars without saying a word. No questions, no tour, no cheese. I looked at my watch and wondered if this little excursion would cost me the chance to go into downtown Mumbai later this afternoon.
Our second stop, however, was much more interesting and enjoyable. We drove for some time into the outskirts of Baramati, passing through hundreds of acres of pomegranate orchards and grape vineyards. Baramati, it turns out, is one of India's leading agricultural areas for table grapes. We'd previously seen row upon row of women selling enormous bushels of white grapes on dusty rugs along the roadside, while men generally seemed to sell the grapes from little carts. I wasn't sure how they ever made money of the grapes, since the market seemed saturated with them, yet without any buyers. (Colin Maclay of Harvard's Berkman Center later quipped that they weren't selling the grapes but were waiting for them to turn into raisins.)
Now, though, we arrived at the farm; a pair of women with several young children pumped water from the farm's well. We were greeted by the farmer, who invited us to walk with him to the emu pens. Passing the main house, we found ourselves in front of several large pens. In the first pen, dozens of young emus, no more than two feet tall, frolicked around with boundless energy, emitting a surprisingly relaxing coo noise reminiscent of doves. The emus darted in between each other, some moving in groups, others on their own. I saw one of the emus collapse to the ground and start rolling in the dirt; I cringed in horror thinking it was injured. It then kicked up the dirt, made a playful noise, then darted into another part of the flock. I then realized that emus throughout the pen were going through the same motions, dropping to the ground, rubbing into the dirt, then darting away. Either the dirt was an emu bird bath or part of an unspoken emu game.
Beyond the main pen, there was another large pen, but this one was home to a sole adult emu. While not as large as an ostrich, the emu was enormous. I've heard stories of ostriches being able to kill a person by kicking them; this one, while perhaps not being able to make you meet your maker, it could certainly end your dancing career if it was so inclined. In between the two large pens was a smaller holding pen containing a large cage. Inside, several dozen baby emus, only a few days old, picked at some feed while making that same cute cooing noise.
The farmer then began explaining the history of the farm. He had previously been a chicken farmer, and was invited to host a computer kiosk utilizing wireless local loop technology to connect to the Internet. That way, he and his surrounding farmers could have up-to-date access to agricultural market prices and techniques. Not long after this, he was searching the Internet searching for a local source to buy chickens. He struck up an email correspondence with another farmer who'd started raising emus. He asked the other farmer why he'd want to raise such an unusual bird rather than a more typical farm animal, and he replied that five-star hotels across India were serving emu burgers, emu steaks and other flightless delicacies. Emus, apparently, were as hot as, well, ostrich meat. So the farmer ordered a few emus to give it a whirl. Soon, he was making 10 times more money he could have ever made as a chicken farmer.
Participants from the Baramati conference had visited the farm two years ago, and back then they had a few dozen emus. Now, there were literally hundreds. Besides the emus we met in the outdoor pen, there was an indoor pen with at least another 100 week-old emus running around. We were invited to enter that pen and take a look around; the emus never got too close, but it was pretty strange being surrounded by so many of these cute little birds. Meanwhile, another room contained a high-tech incubator that served as the temporary home to dozens of two-day-old emus, and another incubator reminiscent of a giant rotisserie oven that was used to keep hundreds of enormous black emu eggs warm and cozy until hatching.
As fascinating as the visit was, the experience got a lot of us talking about vegetarianism. "Every time I go on an agricultural site visit, I become a vegan for at least six months," one of the group said. Fortunately, this farm was just the place where they raised the emus, but I couldn't help thinking about their ultimate fate. Too bad the little ones grew up to be enormous animals; otherwise they'd make an adorable pet.
It took us a while to get organized and leave the farm. At first I couldn't figure out what the delay was all about, but we soon learned that the person who'd left the hotel prior to us to go directly to the Pune airport had managed to have his bag stuck in one of our cars. This meant that all three cars would have to make a side-trip to Pune rather drive around the metropolis and proceed directly to Mumbai, adding at least an hour to our drive. I wasn't particularly happy about the situation, but there wasn't much we could do.
Back in the car, we headed off for Pune, only 100 kilometers away, but more than two hours' drive due to the poor conditions of the roads. The roads actually weren't as bad as I would have expected, but we found ourselves having to stop to allow goat herds and the occasional gaggle of buffalo to cross our path. I was sitting in the front passenger seat, so I kept leaning out the window to shoot photos and video clips.
About two-thirds of the way to Pune, we reached a medium-sized village. As we drove through town along a boulevard lined with peepul trees, we passed two bullock carts carrying a group of pilgrims. The bulls and the pilgrims were all covered in reddish-pink dye.
"Are they preparing for Holi?" I asked my colleague Archana, who lived in Mumbai.
"No, Holi is still a few weeks away," she said. "There's a community festival dedicated to one of the local gods, and they making their way to the festival."
The driver offered to pull over the car so we could get out and watch the carts overtake us. I walked back down the road to meet the carts halfway and shot a short video, along with some photos. The pilgrims seemed to be evenly divided among those who wanted to wave and mug for the camera, those who were indifferent and those who didn't want the attention, so I kept the video short to avoid causing offense. But they let me walk alongside the cart for a few moments as they caught up with our car, heading on their way.
Within the hour we arrived in Pune; a city with more than a million inhabitants, it's still considered small and pleasant when compared to India's megacities. Many affluent Indians actually choose to live in Pune, with its lack of humidity and rapidly-growing suburbs, and commute three hours by train into Mumbai. Pune was a bustling town, but didn't seem to be saturated with people in the same way Mumbai is. Rolling down the window, I noticed how dry it was outside; the forecast for the day was to hit 100 degrees Fahrenheit, but the heat wasn't extreme at all thanks to the constant dryness.
Eventually we arrived at the Taj Blue Diamond hotel. For some reason we didn't park in the lot; instead we drove in and out, then park along a busy road, all three 4X4s lined in a row. We then stood around for about 30 minutes, trying to figure out what exactly was going on. Two or three times we were informed that the missing bag in question had been found, but then told it was a false alarm. In the meantime, a poor woman dressed in rags carrying a dirty, malnourished child went from car to car, banging loudly on each window, chanting the sad mantra, "five rupee, 10 rupee." Meanwhile, several of us got out of the car, just to make sure that our bag wasn't accidentally sent to the Pune airport.
Somehow the confusion got sorted out, so we were ready to hit the road. One car's worth of people wanted to stay in Pune for lunch, while the rest of us wanted to make up for lost time and head for the Pune-Mumbai expressway. My bag was in the car that was staying for lunch, but it didn't seem to matter, as all three cars would rendezvous at the Kohinoor Hotel near Mumbai's airport well before 6pm, giving us plenty of time to be reunited with our luggage.
We started our drive out of Pune, passing through the army base of the Bombay Sappers, India's mine and ordinance division. On one side of the road I saw signs for the Sapper's boys school, the other side their high explosives depot. On the outskirts of the town we reached the Pune-Mumbai expressway, the only modern highway in India. Six lanes wide and only a few years' old, the highway was a pleasure to drive, not unlike an American highway. Archana explained that the Indian government was in the process of creating similar highways throughout India, as part of a plan first initiated by former prime minister Vajpayee.
Somewhere between Pune and Mumbai, we stopped at a highway rest stop. Like American rest stops, this place had a selection of restaurants. But thankfully there weren't any McDonalds or Pizza Huts or Arby's; instead, we found a courtyard of kiosks each selling regional cuisines from all over India. Whether you were looking for a snack from Maharashtra, Gujarat, Punjab, Tamil Nadu or Bengal, you'd find whatever your stomach desired. Archana explained how it worked. First, you went to a central kiosk to pay for your meal. They'd ring it up for you and give you a receipt, which you would bring to the appropriate kiosks. If you ordered everything from one kiosk, you'd be squared away; otherwise, they would rip of part of the receipt representing what you'd just picked up there, then you would go to the next kiosk and pick up more food.
Our group scattered throughout the courtyard. Colin Maclay and I went straight for the Maharashtran kiosk and ordered two potato patties, each placed in a hamburger bun and drizzled with a sweet sauce. They put several chilis on the side as well; I spared my stomach and skipped them but Colin showed no such restrain. Meanwhile, the patties were spicy as hell anyway, so after eating them I went to a small pastry kiosk to buy a selections of sweets to share with the group and negate the burn on my tongue. Colin, still hungry, ordered a bal puri chaat, a spicy snack mix that was custom mixed for him.
We hung out for a little while in the packed courtyard, finishing our lunches and sampling the sweets I'd purchased. The best of the lot was a shredded wheat square that melted in your mouth like cotton candy. My next favorite was a diamond-shaped cookie made of cashew paste, coated with silver leaf on one side; Susanne and I had tried them in Rajasthan two years ago. My least favorite turned out to be an orange ball of semolina couscous, pressed and soaked in a sugary syrup that had no discernable flavor. Meanwhile, Archana showed up with a scorching hot plate of jalabi, an orange syrup dough shaped like pretzels, fried in oil, and served fresh. I'd seen jalabi on every trip to India but had never tasted them before. They were truly sinful, the crunch of the dough contrasting with a squirt of syrup and oil. One jalabi was more than enough.
Back on the road to Mumbai, Archana offered to have us over for tea at her suburban flat. As we approached the city, we veered off the highway towards an enclave of apartments and shopping complexes, all of which had been built in the last few years. The site was an enormous construction project, with most of the buildings still being completed. Eventually, hundreds of thousands of middle-class Mumbaikars would call this place home.
We pulled into Archana's apartment complex, much to the surprise of the other two cars, who had no idea why we'd left the highway and gone here. A quick explanation sorted out their confusion, and we went upstairs to her flat, where we were greeted by her mother, younger sister and two little dogs. We relaxed in the apartment as her mother made masala chai and one of the dogs nipped at me, with MTV India running in the background. It was one of the few times I've been invited into an Indian home, so I was honored to spend part of the afternoon there drinking tea and chatting.
Once we had polished off our cups of chai, we returned to the cars and continued towards Mumbai, crossing a small mountain range that separated the humid megacity with the more comfortable suburbs, then following a long causeway that brought us to the islands of Mumbai. Traffic -- human, vehicular and otherwise -- picked up significantly as we entered the city, slowing down our rate of transit. It took us another 90 minutes to get the hotel, which wasn't bad since we were driving on a Sunday rather than a weekday. Otherwise the drive could have been an hour longer. I recognized much of the last 30 minutes of the drive into the northern enclave of Andheri, home to our hotel, but that didn't stop us from taking a right at the last light rather than a left, delaying our arrival to the hotel by another 10 minutes.
Finally, we pulled into the hotel just after 5pm. In the car we'd talked about going into Mumbai for a few hours before heading to the airport, but as staggered into the hotel lobby, I decided I was in no condition to commute yet another 90 minutes into the city and out just for a couple hours of sightseeing in the dark. Others in our group hadn't spent any time in Mumbai at all, while I had a great day with Rohit and Dina earlier in the week. So while Archana led a small contingent of people back into the city, I commandeered one of the hotel rooms for a few hours, which would give me time to shower and relax before heading for the airport at 11pm.
After settling into our rooms, several people went down to the bar for some tea or beer, depending on how healthy they were feeling. In the meantime, I opened my laptop bag and discovered in horror that the two bars of chocolate I'd bought in Paris and forgotten about had melted some time that afternoon, probably at the rest stop. So rather than joining the group downstairs, I spent the next 30 minutes emptying out my backpack, scraping out as much chocolate as possible, and sopping up the rest with toilet paper and a couple of handtowels that turned black as oil rags. Eventually, I left the backpack directly under the air conditioner, hoping it would harden the remaining chocolate, then went downstairs to join Colin, Tom and Chris. Colin enjoyed his small pitcher of beer while Tom and Chris, who were sick and sicker personified, drank masala chair. I joined them for a cup, then returned to the room to excavate more chocolate from my bag and watch Meet The Parents on Indian cable TV.
At 11pm, Raul, Jen and I shared a ride to the airport. I was able to jump to the front of the line because of my frequent flier status, but my luck apparently stopped there, where I was unable to get a complimentary upgrade to business class. It was a 10-hour flight to Paris, and we wouldn't take up til 2:30am or later, so coach class was probably going to be hellish. I still had a couple of hours before boarding, so Jen and I joined Paul Moritz, a retired Microsoft exec who managed the rollout of Windows. We relaxed in the lounge and compared purchased we'd made over the years on our business trips, from miniature paintings to marble table tops.
After Paul and Jen left for their flight to Amsterdam, I wandered through the duty free shops before settling at the gate, where I joined a group of French students watching a bad Bollywood musical that appeared to focus on a gang of middle-aged Mumbai thugs who dressed like the characters in Michael Jackson's Beat It video. Amazingly, my stars fell into alignment when my name was called a few minutes before boarding. A Delta agent handed me a new boarding pass marked Seat 1B: business class. Walking on a pillow of imaginary clouds, I smiled the whole way down the jetway, settling into my seat next to a Keralan man living in North Carolina, traveling the world as a representative for Ruby Tuesday's restaurants. We chatted and swapped business travel stories until the flight took off just after 3am; I then put on my eye shades, leaned back as far as I could, and drifted into sleep.
Posted by acarvin at March 7, 2005 5:08 PM
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