Mr Weasel & Mr Innocent Motorbike Man

I’m in the back of a rickshaw. It’s late Tuesday evening and my belly is full of South Indies delights. It’s been raining and cool air is blasting down my neck. I pull up the collar on my jumper.

My driver is a shadow, sitting squat in front of me. This shadow is small, skinny, and a bit of a weasel. Mr Weasel thinks I’m a dumb tourist. He’s trying to rip me off by making a huge detour into random backwaters whilst assuring me we’re taking a “short-cut”. I’m not falling for the bait. I’m calm, relaxed, the epitome of serenity.

Yes, Mr Weasel you can play your games, but I will have the last laugh. My plan is to just ride along with Mr Weasel for as long as he likes. Then upon arrival at the guest house, I will make a wild dash inside, chuck Rs100 at him, and seeing whether he has the balls to follow me inside to demand the rest of his fare. So I pull out my book – Slaughter House Five – and get stuck in, ignoring Mr Weasel’s sight-seeing tactics.

But weasels are cunning creatures, and this one is onto my tricks. He corners an innocent motorbike and starts jabbering away at him. The man translates: “Where do you want to go? He wants to know if you want to take the short cut?”. Me: “He knows where I want to go. And he’s driving me all around town. Tell him direct or no money.” We carry on like this for 10 minutes, sitting on the side of the road, honking traffic speeding past us, splashing arcs of gray water from the puddles.

Mr Weasel gets the better of me. My blood boils, I froth at the mouth, and I prepare to grab Mr Weasel by the throat and throttle this treacherous wretch. I catch myself just in time, jump out of the damned rickshaw and set off up the road.

But now Mr Weasel wants his money. He scampers after me and grabs my arm. “Gimme 50, gimme 50!” he shouts. Mr Weasel is not worth 2 cents let alone 100. He’s half my height but still he stretches out his palm, ready to administer a flying slap. Bloody weasels! I pause and wonder whether I can really knock his head off his shoulders.

And then Mr Innocent Motorbike Man arrives. But he’s no longer Mr Innocent Motorbike Man. He’s now Mr Mounted Conflict de Conflicter, Bringer of Understanding and Peace Amongst Men. He quietly negotiates Mr Weasel’s surrender and extracts Rs 50 Rs 50 from me as a peace settlement.

Mr de Conflicter transforms himself into Mr Benevolent Transporter of Cheated Foreigners. We zoom along Bangalore backstreets and tree-lined boulevards. He instructs me in local ways of beating wily weasels. A full 35 minutes later we arrive at Cunnigham Road. Again, he morphs into Mr Humble refusing my offers to contribute some money towards petrol. “Pray for my family. That is all”. We shake hands, I thank him profusely again, and he slips off into the night.

No Gold in Bangalore

One of my priorities this weekend was to find myself a gym. Not really because I'm a work-out-aholic, but because my knee demands it. Without rigorous and continuous physical therapy I won't be doing much running come the autumn.

I did extensive internet searches, made an aborted attempt to convince the Oberoi to let me be a member of their plush spa/fitness centre for 2 months, and hunted in back alleys for local players with dodgy sounding names like Futura Fitness and Right Shape Gym.

I about to give up when I finally stumbled upon Gold's Gym's website. Memories of RC Strategy flooded back to me. Jan - hunched enthusiastically in front of his blackboards armed with over-sized coloured chalks - stared meaningfully at me and said: "Test the strategy's internal consistency: does expanding the geographical scope help to enhance Gold's Gym's competitive advantage." I wasn't really sure, but what I did know that I had a huge willingness to pay.

Ecstatic at having found a modern gym which appeared relatively close to the guest house, I jumped in a rickshaw and set him off in the general direction. But although the detailed address appeared wonderfully precise, it turned out to be superficially so. I couldn't find it and I certainly couldn't explain to the rickshaw driver how to find it.

I fell back on Plan B: ring the handy number posted on the website. Ring ring. A man answers.

Him: Hello?
Me: Hello. Is this Gold's Gym?
Him: Yes
Me: Great, can you tell me how to find you, I'm near Cubbon Park but I can't find you.
Him: You want international?
Me: Huh? I want Gold's Gym near Cubbon Park.
Him: How did you get this number?
Me: I found it on the internet. On your website.
Him: This is international. Don't ring me.

Click. Mysterious. Confusing.

I joined a gym a few minutes walk from the office, just off Cunnigham Road. It's called Power Fitness. It's not too dodgy.