| INDIA |
|
|
Wed June 2, 10:33pm - Yatri Guest House Today was very, very trying. We arrived at 2:30am Delhi time. There was some initial worry about Tamarack's bag not arriving, but it did. We then exchanged money and found the hotel taxi driver. All was good. The car was a typical hatchback. I sat in front, and thus had the best view of the total chaos that driving in India is renowned for. The fact that our driver was the most aggressive out of all the drivers on the road made it all that much more exciting. (Yes, even at 3am on a Wednesday the roads were busy, but mostly it was large supply trucks). Here are the basic
fundamentals of Indian driving as I understand them thus far: Though I'm not sure of the need for one, I had wanted to get an International Driver's License for the trip, but ran out of time. I've changed my mind about even entertaining the notion of driving here. Our room at the Yatri Guest House consists of two queen sized beds with hard, 2-inch mattresses which the four of us are sharing. The bathroom has an Indian-style shower (a drain that fills a bucket that has a smaller pail, all in the name of water conservation) and a Western toilet (though toilet paper here goes in the trash and not in the drain). The bathroom also has a pet mosquito that I've tried in vain to kill. There were some holes in the window screen, but on Megan's suggestion, I stuffed the holes with one of the socks that the airline gave us and that seems to have worked. As I'm not on one of the best anti-Malarial medications, and since I hate getting bit (who doesn't?), I immediately went into full-scale red alert mode. On my last trip to Adventure 16 travel store, I bought a portable bivvy (short for bivouac, which is short for something else, I believe) which pops out into this mosquito netting that covers my top half. Hopefully my bottom half stays put inside the sleeping bag-like sheet that I liberally doused with intended-for-fabric bug spray. We went to bed around 4am and all got up to some degree or another at 7. However, I was able to go back to bed until 11 or so while the others talked to Sanjay, the owner of the guest house and had eggs for breakfast. As usual in group settings, I was the last one to be ready to go, although this time I had the excuse of not knowing the others were waiting on me. I just thought they were off smoking and hanging out. The hotel is set back from the main drag on a long, thin, dead-end street. As the four of us in our tourist regalia approached the chaos, I had in my head what Tamarack said as we waited to leave the plane: "Hey, Ryan. Do you like being stared at?" Sure enough, at the end of the road were two boys with nothing better to do than to gawk at us. I steeled myself for a day of this, but found that it's just the kids who stare. The only adults who pay you attention want your money. I was totally confused as to what was the plan for the day, so that fed into my trepidation as we hired an auto-rickshaw to take us to Connaught Circle (also known as Connaught Place). I was baffled, and a little shaky as three of us piled into the cramped back seat and Tamarack nestled in next to the driver in the one-person front seat. As Tamarack later put it, one's first ride on an auto-rickshaw is like a rite of passage in India. As it was 12:30pm and I hadn't eaten, we went to a tiny little place called the National Restaurant where I had some oily but very good palak paneer and chapati, while the others nibbled on some cheese bread that Tamarack bought. After that, we headed for a tailoring shop suggested by the guest house owner so that Megan could get some blouses made. It looked like it would take awhile, so we all split up: Tamarack bought some material for a dhoti, which is basically a house skirt for men; I bought a SIM card for the mobile phone I bought last year in Italy, which until this trip was completely useless -- as it turns out, India and Europe are on the same band; and Crissy and Tamarack went to an Internet Cafe. After getting my phone reactivated, I found Megan in the process of selecting fabrics for her shirts. Much like when we were going rug shopping back home, she would indicate which patterns caught her eye, and then a man would flip the fabric out from the stack that lie on top of it. Fortunately for the man, fabric is much lighter than rugs. It seemed like so much fun, I decided that I wanted a shirt of my own. But all the fabric designs that I suggested Megan pooh-poohed as being "Too Hammer Pants". I admit that I once owned a pair of baggy sweats that I bought when I was 17 or so, and the pattern is busy and darkly colored and I ended up giving them to Megan soon after she moved in. But I really liked some of the designs there and she nixed them all! All except one that we compromised on. The fabric purchase completed, next she went leafing through a book of designs at the tailor's. Though she used some of the designs, she had to draw a picture of what she wanted for the rest. What's strange was that even though my shirts are being made off the same pattern that Megan drew for her clothes, the tailor said I had to get mine made at another tailor who did men's fashions. So, wouldn't you know it, I've got three shirts coming to me on Friday night. But since we both packed light in the way of clothes because of the fact that clothes -- even hand-made clothes -- are cheap here, this is not an outrageous purchase. A couple of doors down from the National Restaurant we found the tiny, narrow Internet cafe where Tamarack and Crissy were typing away. At the front was a small desk where two men were sitting, and across from them was a bench about 3 feet long and 10 inches deep. One of the men at the desk asked where I was from, and I told him, "California." He said, "9/11 was a horrifying thing. Everyone here watched the images on TV in horror." I replied, "It was horrible. But to me, it is more horrifying that the goodwill that the whole world felt towards America has now completely evaporated." Thus began a wide-ranging conversation between myself, the desk clerk and Tamarack that lasted for about 45 minutes. It was mostly a meeting of the cultures, covering Iraq, Bin Laden and overall comparing Indian views of America and vice versa. Of course, we Americans mentioned how people in the States are keenly aware of jobs being outsourced to India, and he said that people all over the world believe that Americans are not interested in doing "low" jobs, like fieldwork or factory jobs. It was a great conversation that I'm sure we'll be having with many people, and hopefully my saying we're American will be met with openness more often that hostility. Tamarack later said that while Megan and I were getting measured for clothes he was asked by someone on the street where he was from. "Canadian,"
he replied. The plan wasn't to stay in Delhi for that long, but because of the tailoring, we'll be here until at least Saturday. After the events of today, however, I'm not sure I'll be able to take much more. The plan for the evening was to meet up with an Indian contact Megan was introduced to through a family friend. We called at 3 and arranged to go to his place at 6. So after some relaxation at the guest house, we set out to get a taxi to our friend of a friend's place East of Kailash, which was all the way across town. This was easier said than done. We spent 10 minutes at a roadside stall where the vendors said they'd call for one (presumably on a commission), but the price was too high and it took too long, so we left. We then got on an auto-rickshaw back to Connaught Circle to find a taxi, and we were approached by a man in a beige turban, shirt and slacks who cordially but doggedly pursued us all day. It turned out that he works at an office that arranges tours to the Taj Mahal and other places, so he's always on the lookout for foreigners, especially since Connaught is right near the rail station. I had no interest in talking to him, and indeed I groaned whenever we saw him, but Megan was open to his advances. So there we were, being lead into his office so a taxi could be called and a commission could be arranged. I refused to go in and instead stood outside. After a couple of minutes a one-armed teenaged beggar came up to me. I acknowledged his presence, which was my first mistake, and then attempted to dig coins out of a zippered pants pocket which, when unzipped, revealed the two 50 rupee bills I had just put in there for pocket change. That was my second mistake. When I dug out the 2 rupee coin for him, he moaned "Chapati!" at me. So in response I thought to myself, "Well then fuck you if you don't want my money," and walked into the shop. My timing was good as the negotiation was at an impasse -- we were told 150 rupees for a taxi, the turbaned man was quoting us 600 -- and the others agreed to leave the shop with empty promises to return the next day. Outside we talked to one auto-rickshaw driver, and then another, and then the turbaned man appeared in a last-ditch attempt at a commission. Then another commissioner hailed another rickshaw. Then the beggar boy was in my face moaning "Chapati, chapati." Then I heard Megan tell Tamarack she got an 80 rupee quote from one driver, which was a steal compared to the 60 we paid three times just to get to the circle from the hotel and vice versa. So I made my way over to their hire. I asked Crissy if she wanted to sit in the middle, and I almost insisted since she was a constant monkey in the middle. But unfortunately I didn't insist, and all of a sudden the beggar boy was back in my face. I completely tuned him out to the point that I didn't notice that he had put his hand on my pant zipper. As the auto-rickshaw left, the beggar had tried to leap onto me, but he was only on me for a couple of seconds before we pulled away. On the road a couple of minutes later, Crissy asked if I had had anything in my pocket. Sure enough, the zipper was undone and the hundred rupees were gone. Crissy asked, "Didn't
you feel him trying to get at your pocket?" My emotions cycled
through the usual arc in the next few minutes: "He needs the money more than me." "Stupid! I am so STUPID!" Finally, I realized that this was a very good lesson to learn, particularly on the first day in a very different country. I'm not exactly sure what the lesson was, but it was a good one. Oh, and a hundred rupees? It's a little over two American dollars. [Incredibly, I saw the One-Armed Bandit again three days later and got off this picture.] The auto-rickshaw was simply not meant to traverse the length of a large city like Delhi, especially carrying five people. Three in the back is squishy enough, and then the fourth person has to share the smaller front seat with the driver. I have concluded that there is nothing more exciting and harrowing then a 45-minute long auto-rickshaw ride through Delhi at rush hour. Along the way we struggled up inclines the way 4 cylinder cars climb the Grapevine in California. We bounced through potholes. We narrowly avoided getting crushed by buses and several times came close to hitting cars, people, bicyclists, roadside vending carts, you name it. We saw our first Indian cows and our first riverside shanty town. It was a wild ride, the kind that Mr. Toad would have loved. Close to our eventual destination, Tamarack pointed out a gaudy temple with plenty of lighting and neon, saying it was a Hare Krishna temple, and that the Krishnas weren't very well respected in India. (I don't think they're respected in the States either, come to think of it). When we finally found the address of our host, Anand, we couldn't get anyone to respond to our knocking, but after a cell phone call he opened his door. Anand is an architect in his 30s who is doing well enough that he bought a brand new Nissan hatchback just last Sunday, and he's having a house built for his family to live in, which includes his mother, aunt, brother and one or two others. As for himself, he plans to move to Vancouver and get an architect's license there. "So you're
building a house for your family and you're not even going to live there?"
I asked. He asked what we would like to drink, "Coffee? Tea? Cold drink?" As it was around a hundred degrees outside, we all answered, "Cold drink." While Anand and Tamarack were busy talking, I asked Megan what she thought 'cold drink' meant, and knowing full well that I was alluding to the fact that we're not supposed to drink the water here, not even the ice, she replied, "'Cold drink' means a bottle of soda." His aunt came out carrying a tray of 4 glasses of juice with ice cubes and a glass of coke with ice cubes. I was now faced with one of those instances that I quizzed Megan on before the trip: "Suppose we're in a person's house and they serve us a drink with ice. What are we going to do, refuse their hospitality?" So I proceeded to drink the very yummy spiced mango juice as quickly as one can nonchalantly do in a social setting, thinking that the warmer the drink got, the more water would melt. I then sat with the glass in my lap, my fingers covering the fact that I'd finished. The living room was nice, simple and homey -- quite a nice departure from the hectic streets. I had put my bag down out of the way next to the couch, not wanting to clutter the room. As I couldn't see Tamarack's bag, I asked him where he put his. At which point his face froze, a look of realization broke over his face, and he slowly rested his head back against the wall. "You left your
bag in the auto-rickshaw?" Crissy asked. Tamarack nodded. I enjoyed talking with Anand, his mother and his aunt very much. They were quite open and charming. Anand asked what we would like to do. Everyone but me was starving, but there was also talk of seeing some architecture since, after all, that's his field of expertise. So we went down and got in his new car, which was delightfully reeking of new car smell. Every surface of seat and flooring was covered in plastic. We ended up going to the very Krishna temple that Tamarack pointed out. Going to a Hare Krishna temple in India is strange enough for me since I used to semi-regularly eat lunch at Govinda's Restaurant at the Krishna Center in West L.A. It's a great place to get a heaping pile of low calorie food for 4 dollars. I only felt proselytized once in all the years I ate there, and that was just from a man wanting me to view their Bhaghadavita Museum. But I stopped going when I did some research and realized I had been supporting what amounts to a cult, and I'm virulently anti-cult. So lo and behold, there I was at a temple that my money had helped to build. Not only that, but there was a restaurant at the base of the complex named -- what else? -- Govinda's! There's an opulent use of water, with fountains and a waterfall that coats a large wall as you climb the entrance steps. But this wasn't what interested me. What interested me most of all were the words "ROBOT SHOW" on this sign. Temple? Sure. Restaurant? Fine. ROBOT SHOW?! Judging from the signage, it turns out to be the religious equivalent of the Lincoln exhibit at Disneyland, with animatronics used to tell the story of Krishna. It really makes a lot of sense. The church has been struggling to bring young people into the fold in recent years. How do you attract kids increasingly seduced by technology and the modern world? ROBOT SHOW! As most of us were hungry and our host was running the show, we did not see the ROBOT SHOW. But as we're going back to Anand's tomorrow night, I'm gonna lobby hard for us to visit... THE ROBOT SHOW! Anand wanted a home-cooked meal to be prepared for us, but there simply wasn't enough food in the house, so instead he brought us to a place called Sagar, which we had already heard about from the guest house owner. Quite the reputation! However, both men had sold us on the virtues of Sagar's South Indian cuisine, and when the four of us minus Anand perused the menu (he was off parking the car), we were surprised to see nothing South Indian. And indeed, the menu pointedly read "North Indian". When Anand came in, he informed us that we were in the wrong restaurant. I felt pretty bad leaving the place after unfolding the napkin and Crissy ordering a bottle of water (she hadn't opened yet, but still). It turns out that there are two Sagar's, one for Northern cuisine and one for Southern. So we went down the street a little and up to the third floor and got our South Indian on: Tamarack and Megan had thalis, I had an uthapam and an idly, and Crissy had one of those lentil doughnuts and something else akin to an uthapam. Megan also ordered me a "Fresh Lime Soda" while I was at the "Wash Basin". You can get them "sweet" or "sweet and salty". The sweet and salty is better. When the food arrived I realized two things: I had ordered too much food, and Anand was going to insist on paying for all of us. In fact, this had been on my mind on the drive over. But I still made the mistake of ordering two things, and, even though I think I was making too big a deal of it in my mind, I thought he became a bit cold towards us around the time the food arrived. But he was probably just concentrating on stuffing his face, same as us. After the meal, out in front of the restaurant, I saw a young Sikh wearing a brand new Eminem shirt. Earlier on that same street, I saw an Iron Maiden shirt, and there were two guys blasting Shaggy out of their hatchback. South Delhi is definitely more affluent. In the car, Anand asked what else we might like to do, and Megan began asking about late night places in Delhi. The rest of us, however, chimed in with how exhausted we were, especially with the on-setting food coma. So Anand said he would drive us home. This was a very nice gesture, especially on top of paying for our meal. And none of us wanted to endure another auto-rickshaw journey. Tamarack asked our host if he was concerned about getting his car scratched in all the crazy traffic. This would prove a prophetic question. Anand's driving was quite reserved compared to everyone else. He rarely honked his horn, and only flashed his light as a precaution, not as a warning. He politely glided through traffic, seemingly oblivious to the madness surrounding us. Indeed, it's easy to be oblivious when you're in one of the rare Indian cars that has A/C. Your windows are up. The noise, pollution and proximity to fatal collision is... over there. Except for when you're forced to stop suddenly and a motor scooter crashes into your bumper, which is exactly what happened to Anand's four day old car. It felt really, really bad to be there at that moment. And then he got lost due to the construction for the Delhi Metro messing up all the streets around the guest house and we ended up stuck in this nighttime bazaar filled with sullen faces and open fires and sacred cows. That was when I felt the most strange about being a stranger here. I really wanted to film some of that street, but it was enough that I was a white man in what for India is an affluent car. After desperately hoping that we'd find our destination soon, we did. The dent in the back was slight, but still pronounced on an otherwise flawless automobile. We all shook hands and promised to be at his place tomorrow for a home-cooked meal. That should be the perfect follow-up to the ROBOT SHOW!
email: ryan[at]monkeyduck[dot]com
|
Transport: Due to what I guess is the time change and the hot weather, most international flights don't arrive in Delhi until after midnight. Ours got in from Hong Kong at 1:30am, so by the time that we got through customs and exchanged money, it was 2:30am. Thankfully, Megan and Tamarack arranged for us to stay at a guest house that offers pick-up from the airport.
Accommodations: We stayed at the Yatri Guest House, and while they charged more than we ended up paying almost anywhere else in India, the pick-up and their excellent service made them highly recommended.
Eating Out: Sagar |