Thursday 20 November 2008

Goubert Avenue, Pondicherry is a cross between Hastings and the French Riviera. Except of course, for all the Indian faces. The promenade has little seaside cafes, serving café au lait and crepes au banane, and is dotted with leaning palm trees and huge monuments in marble and gold. The street signs, the same blue and white design and typeface used in Paris, are in French and Tamil. Pastel yellow and mute pink houses with curlicued wrought-iron balconies line the streets.

In the evenings, Indians stroll along the seafront, perhaps picking up an ice cream, or a cone of nuts, or watching the waves crash against the sea wall. French expats and Pondy residents alike sit in bars, sipping the Chenin Blanc and Cabernet Sauvignon which is not only imported from France, but completely tax free. In a land where the cow is sacred, here people tuck into steak frites with gusto.


On the seafront a memorial stands, dedicated to “des Indes Francaises” who ‘died for their country’ in the First World War. It’s a strange facet of colonialism, that a government can not only claim a land, but claim it’s people also, drawing them into a conflict that would take their lives.

Not that Pondicherry seems to mind today. The policemen are dressed as gendarmes, with the cylindrical visored hats. The town hall is still known as the Hôtel de Ville. People lounge over two hour lunch breaks, and buisinesses open late into the evening.

Pondicherry is known as Le Côte d’Azur de l’Est, the French Riviera of the East. The French colonised Pondicherry in the eighteenth century, and finally left fifty years ago. Though two years ago Pondicherry officially changed its name to ‘Puducherry’, or ‘new town’ - its new name is seen neither on shopfronts, nor street signs; local chatter would never have you guess. The French still have ‘special administrative status’, and developers must receive official permission to demolish buildings, promising to rebuild them in the original French architectural style.

And yet there are only 10,000 Francophone residents in the Pondicherry area, compared to 820,000 Tamil-speakers. Taking a morning stroll, we are approached at all angles by men, their arms dripping with trinkets. Do we want necklaces, won’t we take anklets? Do we want peacock-feather fans? Or small carved African drums? Good price, madam. Or maybe we’re looking for a rickshaw, and a place to stay for the night – have we booked hotel? My His friend has nice place near the sea…

One approches with a small wooden chess board. “Chess, madam?” No, no chess. “You sure madam?” Yes, I am perfectly sure. At this he reaches for something behind his back and says, “snake?”

Out on the seafront, beneath the shelter of a straw beach hut, an Indian gendarme taps away at a text message. Beneath him, lying in the sand, is an old Indian man, wearing raggedy shorts and a t-shirt, trying to sleep in the blazing sun, his bony knees up to his chest, tucked into the foetal position. The policemen is too absorbed in his mobile phone to turn around, and when he does, he simply walks over him. There are some aspects of India even patisseries and paté couldn’t disguise.