Barely legal alien

Last week Harry took sick. He got a nasty fever, with his temperature up to a scary 40.5 °C (105 °Luddite). He was sweating and shaking at the same time. I didn’t write about it earlier because I thought a jokey post would be in rather poor taste if he died. But he survived, so now he’s fair game.

To set the story in context I’ll need to say a word or two about hygiene. The Indians I’ve met are extremely hygiene-conscious. When they share a bottle of water, they pour it into their mouths without touching their lips. They’re bloody good at it too, rarely spilling a drop. Try it; it’s harder than it looks. Harry’s got it down pat, but I have to rest my hand on my chin like a spazzo who still needs training wheels.
Another example: one day on set, Laura sat down and put her feet up on an equipment case. The technician concerned gave her quite a serve. The soles of your feet are considered the filthiest part of your body around here, and it’s quite an insult to put them on things or show them to people.
So the awareness is certainly there, it’s just directed at the wrong things. The equipment cases, for example, sit around in the dirt all day. The very same dirt that the soles of our shoes have been touching, in fact. The real hygiene issue has become mixed up with religious/superstitious ideas, reminiscent of the dietary restrictions in the old testament.

Similarly with the bottle thing; it’s certainly true that some diseases can be spread by saliva (like TB, which you’ll find in undeveloped countries and, er, the USA). Nonetheless, there are other, much nastier, things to worry about over here than spit. People often comment on the seatless toilets in India. They tend to maintain a discreet silence, however, on the absence of toilet paper and soap. We’re staying at one of the ritziest hotels in town, and even here you have to request them specially. The expectation is that you’ll just splash your arse clean like everyone else, then give your hands a rinse.

Now given that food is eaten with bare hands around here, and many foods are also prepared with bare hands, stored at room temperature and served lukewarm, you can begin to see why this is the discerning microbe’s preferred holiday destination.

Then there’s the tap water, which is untreated groundwater, often contaminated with traces of sewage. That means it’s bursting with the fresh, natural goodness of viruses, bacteria, amoeba and other faecal pathogens. And with no chlorine or other artificial additives, it just has to be better for you, right? When I travel, I insist on all-natural groundwater. Billions of people can’t be wrong – Drink Shit!™

But seriously folks, you want to be drinking bottled, treated water. And you want to break the seal on it yourself:

There are other rules you can follow, like avoiding raw vegetables and peeling fruit yourself, but basically if you’re here for more than a few days, stay within sprinting distance of a lavatory. At this point I can’t resist quoting Irvine Welsh’s immortal words on the topic from “Trainspotting”:

“Ah whip oaf ma keks and sit oan the cold wet porcelain shunky. Ah empty ma guts, feeling as if everything; bowel, stomach, intestines, spleen, liver, kidneys, heart, lungs and fucking brains are aw falling through ma arsehole intae the bowl.”

Four of us five goras here have had the runs to date. And so, contrary to popular mythology, have a good many of the Indians working on the film. One was hospitalized; another quit and went back to Mumbai. This reminds me of my trip to Pakistan a few years back. Our van was crawling through heavy pedestrian traffic, and one of the pedestrians stopped, casually vomited, then kept walking. Our foreign-born tour guide said her local workers ignored her pleas to boil their water etc, and were therefore regularly unable to work, sick as a dog. Mumbai itself has occasional outbreaks of cholera and typhoid.

So that’s the context in which Harry fell ill. We bundled him off to one of the local hospitals. The hospital and doctor were recommended by my travel health people, SOS International. They’ve been great; don’t travel the undeveloped world without them. If you get really sick they’ll even evacuate you to a top hospital in a private jet fitted out for intensive care.

Here’s Harry’s bed in the emergency ward.

Here’s a closeup. Note the bloody handprint on the bedframe, and the unidentified stain on the brown mattress cover, which I chose not to investigate further.

And remember, this was the best in town. SOS told me they don’t have people treated there; they get them stabilized, then ship ’em elsewhere pronto. Here’s the sink, which went unused. Now where’d that soap get to?

We had him moved to a room of his own. It had an ensuite, complete with bonus items at no extra charge:

How thoughtful of the previous occupant.

Even with a fever Harry never lost the drinking magic.

The nurses and cleaners wore fairly dark blue or grey uniforms, like mechanics (don’t show up the stains like those pesky white ones). If you want more detail, Harry will probably tell all in his blog. To cut it short, I was so enchanted by all this that I bought him a plane ticket to Mumbai to go to a proper hospital. Laura accompanied, in case things got even worse on the way. The final verdict was the usual gut bug, but combined with probable malaria. Although the tests were negative – apparently malaria parasites can hide in your liver between bouts of fever. Creepy. He’s taking pills and the fever’s gone. He’s even shooting again, which is good because this episode put the schedule back considerably. Yay artificial chemicals!

Harry and I recently shot a brief scene together. Hari Nair, the cinematographer, shot it beautifully as always. It was surreal to watch the playback of this gorgeous feature film footage with me and Harry hamming it up.
We two evil British officers were discussing the push for independence. Gandhi got a mention, needless to say, but also a little-known contemporary of his, Subhash Chandra Bose. Bose also wanted the Brits out, but where Gandhi used passive resistance, Bose preferred a bit of the old ultraviolence. For the gringos, think of him as Malcolm X to Gandhi’s Martin Luther King.

The line about Bose and his party was not in the script, but was made up just before the take. We found it hard to decipher the handwriting, so one of the numerous assistant directors read it out to us. But we were still baffled by the phrase “they have nazzies.” After some discussion, we translated this to “they’re supported by the nazis.” Turns out he was on Hitler’s side.

On a tenuously connected note, a confronting sight around Bhuj for the uninitiated Gora is the profusion of swastikas. It’s actually an ancient Sanskrit symbol. Hitler chose it because number one, it looked cool. And you’ve got to admit, it does. Like Sarah Silverman says, “Nazis are a-holes. Although they’re cute when they’re little, I will give them that. They’re sooo cute. Why can’t they stay small?”

But number two, the Aryans came from India, believe it or not. So to Hitler the swastika was a symbol created by white men who conquered an inferior race.

Now to us, and especially to Europeans, that episode has irrevocably tainted the symbol. It’s only used by maladjusted schoolboys who want to shock someone. But to Indians, it remains just what it was: an ancient symbol. And when I say ancient, I mean ancient. It was already ancient when imperial Rome was the latest thing. To indians, the fact that the symbol was coopted for just 12 years of that time, by a failed painter on the other side of the world who was short on graphic design ideas, just doesn’t come up.

Dahlings, I’m finally an artist!

Our first day of shooting was supposed to start at 6 am, so we got wakeup calls at 4.30 am. We were supposed to shoot the scene where we arrive in the village on horseback. They wanted the three of us who can’t ride horses to learn in the half-hour before dawn. Hmm. The horses had arrived the previous evening, although Harry had been promised several days to get used to them.
One of the horses had a bad leg and was limping, and another had a horrifying eye infection, leaving only one usable horse.
Harry got on to go for a ride, but the trainers hadn’t tightened the girdle, and at the first turn the whole saddle slowly rotated to the side and dumped him unceremoniously on the ground. Fortunately he wasn’t hurt. Less fortunately, I wasn’t there to get a photo.

The donkey was in better shape, but didn’t look quite as imposing.

With nothing to ride, we ended up driving into the village in a vintage Ford.

Here are some of the “name” actors in the film. The ravishing Madhu Sharma, who is even more magnetic in person than the photo suggests.

The luminous Sheetal Shah. Reigning queen of a national beauty pageant (not bad out of a billion people), in-demand painter, and just starting her PhD, but friendly and approachable. Doesn’t she just make you feel totally inadequate?

Harry chats to his onscreen love interest, Khooshboo {something I can’t pronounce starting with G}. The grin says it all.

In case it seems I’m displaying a gender bias, here’s some beefcake. Right, the preposterously handsome and muscular Ashmit Patel, very friendly and self-effacing. Left, Rahul Dev, one of the biggest names in the film. Chiselled and weathered, he’s got an intense screen presence, reminiscent of Clint in the man with no name trilogy.

Ah, bugger gender bias. I heartily endorse these traditional backless dresses. Cholis I think they’re called.

Excuse me for a moment while I wipe my drool off the keyboard.

The costumes are designed by talented and unflappable siblings Bhakti and Hitesh Kapopara. When hundreds of extras are in their costumes, the effect is stunning.

There’s a lot of waiting around on a film set. I had time to read some papers I’d downloaded in the excellent Nonu Cybercafe in Bhuj, and do a bit of writing. The wonders of technology, eh? This drew quite a crowd. Amid the stream of Hindi I couldn’t miss the occasional “laptop!”

Keep smiling, and bye for now.

(* 2000 Rs = U$46)

You’re probably thinking: for a blog about a film shoot, there’s been precious little mention of filming so far. In fact, I’ve been thinking the same thing. We goras (white people) were supposed to have started shooting some time ago, but the director wasn’t happy with our uniforms. We would go to a fitting, and the required alterations would be recorded. Then a few days later we’d go for another fitting; usually nothing had changed, but sometimes things got worse. Finally, after about five fittings, our costumes were a reasonable fit.

The film is called “The Flag”, and it goes like this: some British army officers visit an unspoiled Indian village to find recruits for the war, but when the recruits’ bodies start coming back wrapped in the union jack, things turn nasty. There are four British officers in total, played (fittingly) by three Australians (me, Harry and Glen) and a Swede (Marcus). Marcus asked me not to mention him in my blog, and asked for the address so he could check. Marcus says he once got into a “blog war” with someone who mentioned him in a blog. Hi Marcus!

Harry plays the evil commanding officer, who goes by the chilling name of Garry. I was miffed to find that my character, Simon, had no lines. But they improvise freely, so you never know. In an early draft of the screenplay, Simon molested a beautiful innocent village girl. But in later versions he only cuts her hair. What a gyp!

We’re not just in the tropics, we’re on one.

The evil brothers finally in costume.

Harry and Glen do a readthrough.

This is trickier than you’d think:

The goats round these parts look funny.

They act funny too. One of them tried to eat my pants.

The camels are not quite as calm as the cows, but close.

Is that the wall of a hut? Why no.

I’ve got a lot of lovely shots that I won’t be sharing yet, because the director Sajeev doesn’t want me to give away details of the film. So for now, only shots that don’t give you a clear idea of what’s going on. Next time featuring more people.

Kicking around waiting for shooting to start, we went downtown to see a Hindi movie. Apparently, if there’s no singing and dancing, it’s not Bollywood, it’s a “Hindi movie.” Asking if a Bollywood film is a musical is like asking if a Hollywood film is a non-musical. Matter of fact, for all my use of the B word, what I’m in is a Hindi movie. Much more on that in later instalments.

The film was “Nishabd.” The poster is very understated, no? You might get the idea it’s soft porn, but this is India. There were perhaps two kisses on the lips, no tongue. Even then, the film has provoked riots over its immorality. The film follows in the tradition of Lolita, To Sir with Love, Network, Sin City, American Beauty … gee, old men sure love making films about nubile young women falling in love with old men, don’t they. Admittedly I’m in an increasingly weak position to judge.

We sat in the first class section, which cost an extortionate $1.50. The audience made a racket, yelling at the screen, cheering, wolf-whistling etc. What amazed me were the languages: here was an audience of extremely poor uneducated Gujarati speakers, watching rapid-fire dialogue in a mix of Hindi and English without subtitles. And they were lapping it up.

The main Lolita character’s catchphrase was “Take light!” – which was apparently meant to mean take it easy. And her accent drifted from America to Australia to parts unknown. The film is obviously meant to be tragedy, but in the serious scenes, I couldn’t take my eyes off one of the supporting actors. He had such profuse ear hair (nay, fur) that it actually formed a kind of pointy halo, like an elf or Dr Spock. Good god man, get it dealt with.

PS – Harry has a blog of his own. He linked to mine a while ago, but I was too much of a primadonna to reciprocate. But now, all will be revealed:

www.myspace.com/breakersblog

On Sunday we celebrated Holi. The best description I heard of this is “the Hindu festival of colours.” If you want the true story, google it – your net connection is faster than mine. The upshot is that everyone runs around throwing coloured powders at each other. It’s a National Geographic photographer’s wet dream.

First you buy your pigments:

Then your enemy approaches. Steel yourself.

The enemy opens fire.

The moment of impact:

We return fire.

Victory.

And the rest pretty much writes itself. Shankar and Tarana share a moment:

Our masterful cinematographer Hari does his best zombie:

You know you sometimes see Swedish tennis fans made up in the national colours? I think India’s colours are way cooler.

Dagnammit, I used to think MY moustache was cool. Advantage Deepak.

And of course, once the fun’s over you need to hose yourself off, providing an entirely non-gratuitous opportunity to show starlets in wet t-shirts. The guy with tattoos is our exuberant costume designer Hitesh. More on him later.

Later that day we watched the rough cut of Harry’s sex scene. They shot it in a Mumbai studio before I arrived. SENSATIONAL! Think the sex scene from Top Gun as performed by David Hasselhoff, in superslo-mo, with more gaudy chiffon than you could poke a stick at, and an indoor waterfall which mysteriously appears in the desert. Next up, a night at the (Hindi) movies.

We are now in Bhuj, in Gujarat, where most of the film will be shot. We took the overnight train from Mumbai. Fortunately, we weren’t on this one:

The name Bhuj may ring a bell – the place suffered a terrible earthquake in 2001, wreckage from which is still apparent everywhere.

However, a huge amount of aid flowed in afterwards, much of which went towards a very flash-looking hospital, one of the best in India I’m told. It certainly looks it. I’ll be glad it’s there when we start firing guns off the back of horses.

Certainly beats the pants off this place:

The region looks very dry and dusty to me, and reminded me of central Australia. Costume designer Bhakti told me, however, that it’s actually looking unusually green “because it rained last year”. And here I was worrying about malaria. Haven’t seen a mozzie yet.
The locals get around on very colourful trucks and motorbikes.

Curiously, the mirrors on this one all point at the rider. Who are those handsome devils?

But we get around in tuk tuks like this. Pile in!

The Brahmin (?) cows are everywhere, and are amazingly calm around people:

and vehicles:

So that’s why Tyler Durden says “Calm as Hindu cows.” Tune in next time for the coolest holiday ever, the Hindu festival of colours, Holi.

I used to have a weight problem. I tried everything: diet, exercise, pills, even surgery… but nothing worked. I was at my wit’s end.

But then I discovered amoebic dysentery. Now I can eat whatever I want – even chocolate! – and just spray it all over the porcelain half an hour later. And the best part is: I don’t feel deprived! I eat as much as I like – I’m just never hungry. My friends don’t recognise me, what with my sunken eyes, gaunt cheekbones and zombielike expression. Wow, they say, you look just like a supermodel!

I’m exaggerating slightly. It’s hard to find decent chocolate around here. BOOM BOOM! I’m here all week, try the veal. But seriously folks, my extended stay in the shared bathroom of our salubrious Mumbai hotel had some highlights. When you want hot water in the bathroom, you switch on the heater and wait a few minutes. Note the bare wire above the switch. Hot water … or instant death?  YOU decide.

I also liked the sink, which drains onto your feet:

Harry has observed a disturbing phenomenon on his travels, which he has dubbed “the shitting hour.” If you look out a train window early in the morning, as you pass a river you’ll often see large numbers of people shitting communally into the river. Then they’ll head downstream for work, where people are collecting their drinking and cooking water. Mmmm.

On Tuesday we took the overnight train to Bhuj, the location for the shoot. Fortunately we didn’t get blown to smithereens by Islamic militants. In Bhuj, things got very weird. Find out how in the next thrilling installment.

Last year my nefarious half-brother Harry moved to India and got an acting job in Bollywood. I’ve pestered him ever since to line something up for me. His first film never got finished, but he recently lined up another, playing an evil British army officer. I emailed some pictures, he showed them to the producers, and they decided I looked evil enough. They actually gave me a small speaking role! White men are always the baddies, needless to say. I would have to be in Mumbai in under three weeks, and the shoot would last a month.

So I asked my boss for a month off work to shoot a dodgy film in India. I was expecting him to be at least slightly bemused, but he didn’t blink. So I mailed off my visa application, started growing a beard and set about tying up loose ends at work. Those of you who know the story of my move to America will know how chronically last-minute I am, but this frolic is a new personal best.

I didn’t want to book my ticket until my passport came back with the visa. This happened five days before my intended departure. I bought the plane ticket two days out. The travel agent laughed incredulously and said “wow, that’s crazy.”

I bought my camera for the trip at B&H photo video superstore in New York. This is surely the most mind-blowing camera shop on earth. Vast, ridiculously cheap, run with military efficiency. Staffed by orthodox Jews with skullcaps and long curly sideburns. Chatting to a girl in the queue who worked in fashion photography, she said it’s hell getting photographic supplies on Rosh Hashanah, because B&H is shut. And you know when it’s closing time on Friday because someone blows a shabbat horn. That’s a ram’s horn to you and me. And yet the place is the slickest hi-tech operation I’ve ever seen.

I got my vaccinations at 7.30 pm the night before departure, rather than weeks before like you’re supposed to. I’d lost my old record, so I wasn’t sure which shots I needed. I bought the medicines my life was about to depend on at a quarter to midnight from a 24-hour pharmacy and took my first antimalaria pill 36 hours before arrival, not a week as required for effectiveness. As a side note, the doctor had warned me that this drug (mefloquine) could cause weird psychedelic dreams. She seemed to think that was a negative.

On arrival in Mumbai, Harry and his girlfriend Laura picked me up and we went for a costume fitting. Turns out the film is set in WWII, not the 1850s as I told some of you. But I will get to wear a pith helmet. Jolly good, what ho? Wait a minute, pith helmets in WWII? Hmmm…
Harry will also be sporting Ray-bans and a zippo lighter. Dude! That is, like, so totally British. With the emphasis on the ish.

That night we went out for drinks. Mumbai nightlife is one big sausage party.Local women are not allowed to go out drinking, and foreign women who expose their (gasp) shoulders get ogled and groped. So not many show up. But no-one wants to look at a bunch of men, so here’s a picture featuring some hot blondes. But believe me, this was not representative. Who’s that reprobate with the beard?

Apparently Harry and I were not the only people around who drank too much. Next morning, someone’s abandoned car was looking very much the worse for wear.

Next day I trimmed the beard into my best attempt at a matinee villain’s moustache. Harry stuck with a beard.

For the sentimental types, here’s a gratuitous shot of a cute kid who took my water bottle. Every day, thousands of kids like just like him die of thirst after taking empty water bottles. Please, give generously so that his next bottle contains water. The pain is real. The hurt is real. But the hope is also real.