Pictures: http://jengill.smugmug.com/gallery/2224172
ROLD GOLD
Oh, this is so cheating. Don't tell the other backpackers. They might revoke my membership.
1) I didn't go overland - backpacker betrayal numero uno.
2) A personal driver picked me up from the airport. I didn't have to haggle with taxi touts. I didn't have to take a long, crowded, nauseating bus ride to the center of town, only then to haggle with taxi touts.
3) I am staying in a real home, with sofas, a toilet that flushes (I had to ask if I could throw toilet paper down the drain), a shower that maintains a constant water temperature for longer than 30 seconds, an Internet connection that doesn't require you to pay by the minute and - the literal cherry on top - a refrigerator stocked with items from the US Embassy market: pretzels, tortilla chips, salsa, California raisins, cereal, graham crackers. You may find my exuberance regarding edibles rather boring but I'm willing to put money on the fact that few of you have gone without Mexican food for a year. It can make you lupe.
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In trying to find the kitchen light switch, I've unknowingly rung for the cook. A lovely woman comes into the kitchen while I'm talking to myself trying to do a self-portrait (Still Jen with Appliances) and says "Somebody ring my bell?" It's Sunday and this is her day off. I feel so unrefined. I don't know the difference between a servant bell and a light switch. And now I've got that song in my head.Monday morning I arise to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. I sheepishly ask Sonu if I can have some. "Ma'am. The coffee is for you."
Opps. There I go again. Hehe.
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It's 2 days before Zeba, wife of pal JJ and the consummate host, can get me out of the house.
"Do I really have to go out there?'
"Don't you have some shopping to do?"
"Yeah, I guess."
But really, who cares if the underwear I've been wearing for a year is falling apart from frequent washings. I've got a TV remote in my hand and a stack of DVDs in my lap.
Five feet out the front door and Raju, the Nepalese driver, has the car door held open for me.
"Can I sit in the front seat?"
"Yes. Of course, ma'am."
"Can I drive?" Kidding.
Raju clearly has dreams of improving his life situation. He asks me questions about living and working in the US, even about how to get a visa. I feel as if there's this assumption that because I'm American I know how an immigrant would move there, how much it would cost him to live and where he could find a good job. I try to answer his questions, but what do I know? I don't even have a job. And while he's an honest, intelligent, hard-working man, I would think that it takes a bit of luck and the right connections to make it in any new country.
Raju takes me to Basant Lok, a shopping center in this affluent neighborhood. This translates into an outdoor shopping area with only 3 or 4 cows strolling about. To get into the Sony store you must step over dung piles. To enter the Adidas shop, you must maneuver around cracked concrete steps. Fancy schmancy.
Have I been away too long? When did cross-trainers get so distressingly ugly? Red and gray space shoes with reflector strips? Is that a trend that started in the US or has Nike saved this fashion statement for ultra-hip Indians? And if Chinese labor is so cheap how can it be possible that a pair of disco-tennies be US$100. China's right next door!
The salesman at the Adidas store assures me that the only pair I find remotely wearable - navy and powder blue - is, indeed, the shoe for me. "Ma'am. This is the shoe for you." As it's between these and the shimmery pink and sparkly gray, I have to admit that he's right. Though I remind him that he doesn't know one thing about what is for me. I see him as the equivalent to the American encyclopedia salesmen - much too optimistic and friendly for my "leave-me-alone-while-I-shop" sensibilities.
I use a credit card for the first time in 10 months.
Now I can go jogging in the morning. (Like that's going to happen. What a spectacle I'd be. This large-bosomed woman bouncing down the village road in synthetic, quick-drying fabrics while sari-clad locals walk 10 miles to their work site where they will be hauling tray-fulls of dirt from one pile to another for 12 hours a day.)
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Zeba is prolific with apologies for not doing more to make my stay more comfortable. She obviously cannot grasp where I've come from.
"Zeba, your bathroom is inside. I'm in heaven."
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After I have washed every article of clothing I own in an actual washing machine that uses hot water and isn't filled with a hose from the bathtub, I hesitantly ready myself for my return to the world of budget traveling.
Zeba questions my desire to get the cheapest train ticket to my next destination, when it's only US$10 for a first class seat.
"Yeah, but I could go for $5."
"But it's only $10."
"Yeah, but I could go for $5."
"But it's only $10."
My last time in India, I never even thought about first class. I easily cave in. Let's see how the other 10% live.
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This site has nice pictures of the different classes on an Indian train.
http://www.seat61.com
Click on the "India" link in the left hand column and scroll down the page.
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A FIRST CLASS SEAT
Like a girl the day after Senior prom, I am ruined forever. How will I ever go second class again. Forget about the comfortable, slightly-reclining seats. I don't even like the air-conditioning. The meal and bottled water is a nice touch but something I could forgo. The clincher is that people leave me alone. I'm just a regular ol' person taking the train. Nothing to stare at for 5 hours here. This is a different side of India: the side with money, explicitly visible by cell phones, laptops, shoes that aren't plastic - the growing middle class.
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RISHIKESH
My pack is absurdly heavy. I've just shipped a box of winter clothes and other extras home, so the weight of electronic accessories, books and an array of facial products is a curiosity and remains a burden, especially in the afternoon heat.
I trod down Lakshman Jhula Road, through the Tapovan neighborhood. I forgot how long this road is and, once again, my pride in refusing to be overcharged has me on foot instead of in a rickshaw. I just saved a dollar!
I am standing at the top of the stairs which is the entrance to the popular backpacker and freak hangout, The German Bakery. I'm smiling and willing her to look up at me. We both start laughing as our eyes meet and as we hug for the first time in 2 years, the past 2 months of heartache and alone-ness comes on strong. I'm just going to stand in the middle of this crowded cafe and cry on the shoulder of my friend.
We talk like girls do.
"Isn't it great that you have love inside you? That you can feel it?"
She has a point.
During the next few days Limor cooks for me. She peels my oranges. (Anyone who peels oranges for me has a place in heart forever.) She lets me not talk. She understands my melancholy.
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THE DISTRACTION OF LIFE
For a bit of a laugh I like to sit in The German Bakery, pretending to read my book while listening to others' conversations.
A 22 year-old who, by the volume of his voice I'm guessing is American, is expounding the meaning of life to an attentive Brit. I'm not sure I'd let this kid explain the meaning of chewing gum to me, let alone how to find eternal peace.
Others compare yoga teachers, Ashrams, the energy of merely sitting in the presence of a certain guru. They say things like:
"I'm really sensitive in my thrid eye."
or
"I'm working to release my crown chakra."
or
"Papaya really fires up my pitta dosha and I get angry easily.
And I chuckle at all of it. That is, until I start espousing my own knowledge on yoga teachers, ayurvedic doctors and astrologers.
THE CRANKY ASTROLOGER
All the Israelis are going to Prateek the Astrologer. "Oh, he's good," they say. I decide to go for lack of anything better to do in my day. You tend to have time for these things when traveling.
"What do you have planned for today," Limor may ask.
"Go to yoga. Get some breakfast and read for a few hours. Hit the Internet cafe. Maybe take a walk along the Ganga. Lunch. Perhaps a nap. 5pm yoga. I'll meet you after that for dinner at the place with HBO."
Let's see if I can squeeze Prateek into my hectic schedule.
Prateek sits cross-legged on the floor in front of his laptop. He has a doctorate in Yoga and Vedic Astrology, an advanced degree I didn't even know existed. Despite his thorough knowledge of yoga, which must be practical as well, his belly protrudes like any middle-aged, beer drinking, American football fan.
I provide my date and place of birth and Prateek enters it into the computer program. His only demand is that I not ask when I'm going to die. "What? You can see that? Geez. I don't what to know that!" I'm already freaked out.
WHO I AM AND WHO I'M NOT
First off, I'm not a Cancer. I'm Gemini. Vedic astrology uses a different chart. Right off, I'm not at all the person I thought. I'm very attached to my astrological sign. I have notebooks and t-shirts with little crabs. Thank goodness I never got
tattooed on my ass.My sun, moon and ascending (Mercury) are all in Gemini. Thus, I think a lot and am led by my emotions. Let me rephrase...I think about my emotions a lot. I'm not spending hours pondering supernovas or discussing Nietzsche. I'm thinking about me! Though this should hardly be news. The world is full of people thinking about themselves.
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Mind you, I'm writing furiously as Prateek spouts off these statements about the essence of me and I am not getting it all. He gets irritated when I ask him to repeat himself, thus "the cranky astrologer", but I calmly assert that I don't understand his accent and he's talking very fast and I'm paying for this and I want to understand.
"Well, sometimes I don't understand the American accent."
"And if you asked me to repeat myself, I would happily do so all the while talking
c l e a r l y a n d s l o w l y."
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On we go...
- Mars is in the 6th house so I have bitterness.
- Venus is in the 12th house so I travel a lot.
- Moon is in the 1st house so I am my own mother and I change places many times.
- My stomach, shoulder blade area and ears are not good.
"What?"
Hehehe.
MY PAST
He tells me that I have a great love of music. Whow! 1988 was a time of much music. This is when I started junior college in Aptos and was taking mostly music classes. Whow again.
I also have a strong connection to music in past lives. I was possibly a composer in an old country like Egypt.
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"In 1992 communication was strong." This is when I was in Israel, so I'm not sure if communication was strong or the need for it was strong.
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"2001 was also a changing time." I don't know. Not so much change: lost my job, was evicted from my apartment and left the States.
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"I see many marriages with your parents. Maybe your mother twice and your father twice."
Oh, this will be fun.
"Well, not exactly. My mother once. My father 6 times."
It's the usual reaction: wide eyes and some interjection. I usually qualify the statement. "Yeah, but most of them were in my formative years. He's been pretty stable since I left home for university." Okay, maybe that's not a qualification; more like an explanation for my own neuroses.
Prateek makes note of his underestimation. Apparently, this one little fact has made my chart more interesting than most. Prateek and his assistant talk about it after I leave. I should have Prateek do Dad's chart.
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ADVICE
"Younger men from other countries are good for you. Older men from your country are bad for you." Yep, this guy is good.
"You shouldn't live in America." Well, this throws a wrench in the works. If I move home I'll never meet a younger, non-American man. Otherwise I'm starting over somewhere new, again.
"You love to write."
Whow, again!
"You should write something for women: articles, movies, help of some sort.
"Your mercury is strong. You should have your own business."
"Be careful of people in uniform."
"When you are 42, DRIVE CAREFULLY." Everyone please make a note on your computer calendars to remind me of this in 2011. And the party will be at my house.
"Don't wear red." This is curious as that Chakra woman in Thailand a year before told me I need more red. My new age sciences are clashing.
"Don't drive a red, gray or silver car."
"Never marry a Muslim." No shit, huh?
"Don't take hormone weakening medication."
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MY FUTURE
I won't have stability until August 14, 2007. This is the best time for work. My bank account does not agree.
"Your last relationship was with a good man." Prateek touches his heart when he says "good man" and my eyes well up. I'm such a wuss.
"A short relationship is coming that will act as a bridge for a bigger relationship." How short is short? A night? A week? Anything more than this is hard to imagine happening until I'm actually in one place for longer than 7 days.
Unfortunately, a good relationship won't come until I'm 38 or 39. This does not leave me much time. I have asked one hard question: "Will I have children?" He says that if I'm not pregnant by the end of November 2009, I'll never have children. I have an expiration date. So that leaves me perhaps a year to meet a younger, non-American, get married and conceive.
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Well, I'm glad I did that. I am now freaked about driving, finding a job when I get home, going home at all, and meeting an immigrant who likes older women.
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PANCHA WHATA?
Limor is in the midst of a treatment called Pancha Karma. "It is the Ayurvedic art of detoxification, purification, and rejuvenation, and is a powerful way to address the root cause of disease and has been used for thousands of years as a method for staying healthy, young, and vital."
There are traditionally 5 (pancha) actions (karma) utilized in re-establishing harmony in the body, though gentler methods have mostly replace the more archaic.
1) Vamana is a special medicated vomiting procedure to remove toxins (mucus, phlegm) from the sinuses, lungs and mainly the stomach.
2) Virechana is a process of purgation used to flush toxins from the small intestine.
3) Basti is a medicated enema to remove toxins from the colon and to tone and rejuvenate the colon.
4) Nasya is a group of herbal therapies applied through the nose.
5) Shirodhara is when warm oil flows onto the forehead. It improves the immune system and relieves stress in the muscles.
*Blood letting, rarely used today, removes the excess toxins in the blood.
During the Pancha Karma period, the patient eats simple, warm, easily digestible foods consisting mainly of kitchari (rice and dahl), flour free soups, light fruit and ghee (clarified butter). Normally ghee is taken at bedtime but Dr. Arora says I already have enough fat in my system and can skip the ghee.
Daily oil massage and periodic steam baths also aide in releasing toxins.
OKAY! SOUNDS LIKE FUN! SIGN ME UP!
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Day 1
Dr. Arora listens to my pulse. My pitta is low. My kapha is high.
"How can this be? I love pita."
Pitta (i as in sit), kapha and vatha are the 3 doshas, or energies, within the body.
Vatha is a combination of air and space.
Pitta is mostly fire with some water.
Kapha is mostly water with some earth.
"Overall well-being and striving for longevity depends on keeping your doshas balanced. Any imbalance among the tridoshas causes a state of unhealthiness or disease. Factors that can bring about balance of the tridoshas are diet, exercise, good digestion, and elimination of toxins. "
The importance of strong digestion is, in my opinion, overlooked in western discourse about health. We're obsessed with carbs and protein and fat and calories, but we rarely talk about how efficient our body is at taking in nutrients and expelling the rest.
Dr. Arora continues...
"Your eyes and tongue are good. Your skin is bad. Have you ever been depressed?"
HA!
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MY FIRST MASSAGE
Devi is 18 years old and a tiny little thing who, I soon guess, takes showers once a week.. She lives with her family across the river in Ram Jhula and isn't allowed to go out at night by herself.
She tells me to undress.
"Everything?"
She gives the Indian head tilt which can mean anything: yes, no, maybe. I'm thinking she means "yes".
So I undress as this child watches. She then tells me I'm big. Sigh. Another women, Lahkshmi, comes in and they proceed to give me the most amazing 4 handed massage. They are in perfect sync, moving their hands up and down the body with, not only the same speed, but the same pressure.
Included in the ayurvedic massage is quite a bit of attention to the stomach and breasts - areas of vast importance wholly overlooked in the west.
At one point, I swear one of them touches my labia.
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Day 4 - Purging
Today I drank a pitcher of water with honey and rock salt - a concoction that smells like rotten eggs. I then stuck my finger down my throat and threw it all up as Lahkshmi performed a very gentle Heimlich manoeuvre.
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Day 6
My first Shirodhara. I hate this. Oil flows from a copper pot hanging from a wooden plank over the massage table onto my forehead for over 1/2 an hour . And I can't move. Otherwise oil goes up the nose. I'm stuck in this one position. My back hurts. My neck hurts. My muscles are not relaxed.
Becoming balanced is not comfortable.
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Day 8
More toilet talk. Tonight it's medication-induced diarrhea. I take the herbal powder with water and sleep fitfully waiting for the first strike. That's all the information I'm sharing.
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Day 11
I'm not sure I can talk about this anymore. I've gotten embarrassed all of a sudden. Humm?
I'm going to talk about something else for a while.
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JEWS
There are so many Israelis in Rishikesh that everyone assumes everyone else is Israeli.
All the young Sabras congregate at the Freedom Cafe. It's a chill spot, with mats and pillows on the ground and a beautiful view of the Ganga. After taking a hit of the chillum (that would be a hash pipe), they hold it to their foreheads as a thanks to Lord Shiva.
"What is this? Dude, you aren't Hindi. You first heard of Shiva 3 weeks ago. You should be thanking your parents for supporting you while you saved money enabling you to spend your days in India stoned off your ass. Just smoke your drugs, quit bogarting the chillum and pass it here!"
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AN INDIAN WEDDING
Lahkshmi, my massuese and enima giver, has invited Limor and me to the wedding of her husband's brother's daughter. At least we think that's the relationship. It seems as though everyone in Tapovan is related: aunt or uncle or sibling or cousin. However, if cousins grow up in the same house they will forever refer to each other as brother or sister. This can get confusing for the foreigner when trying to figure out who is the parent of whom.
We are at the bride's home and the women invite us in as the bride get's ready. The family home consists of 2 rooms: bedroom/kitchen and bedroom/living room. The men are lounging on plastic chairs outside where a groomed garden and patio - twice the area of the house - advertise a celebration in progress: flags, streamers, a cloth canopy
Auntie applies kohl (Indian eye liner) to the bride and her younger sister. Auntie, a huge woman, is the make-up artist for all.
Indian women take make-up and accessories seriously. I try to think of other cultures where it is the historical norm for women to do themselves up so elaborately; where little in that tradition has changed over the centuries.
The bride it sitting in a plastic chair in a corner of the bedroom/kitchen...waiting. Her red and gold sari is elaborate (though I imagine another class of Indian might characterize it as cheap and gaudy), as is the bindi design on her forehead and the jewelry that hangs from any body part that protrudes: nose, ears, wrists, fingers, ankles, toes.
The phone keeps ringing and the bride is having some lengthy converstations accepting good wishes or passing on phone numbers. She is visibly fidgity. It's a big night for this 20 year old. I haven't been able to ask anyone about the wedding night for young virgin Indians. I imagine it's similar to any other 20 year old virgin. But this is a love marriage so it won't be nearly as awkward as if it were arranged.
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At Laskshmi's house down the cement path that connects the houses of the neighborhood with each other and the main road, more women gather in bedrooms and fix each other up. Limor and I are included. A beautiful 18 year old "cousin" does our hair and expertly applies kohl to our upper and lower lids. As usual, I feel ridiculous in heavy make-up, like I've been playing in my mother's bathroom.
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Two hours later we're down in the town square where the party tent from the recent Bengali festival still remains. The family is taking advantage of the free decor.
A buffet is set up and curries are dished out for the bride's family. The salad bar is self serve and consists of cut tomatoes, cucumer and onions spread across a table coverd in plastic: no containers, no serving utensils. Party-goers literally grab handfuls and use the fresh veges to cool the spice of everything else.
It's another hour and everyone is looking rather bored. The groom is still with his family doing their own celebration before the two families come together. But it's 11pm and I'm tired. There is no alcohol or live music to keep me entertained. I'm going to bed.
On the walk back up the hill, we see that the groom is finally on his way. His entourage is led by a brass band and the musicians stop so that Limor and I can get good photos. Sentries carry poles strung with christmas lights on each side of the narrow road. The groom, himself, is riding shotgun in an economy car. He's wearing a funny little hat that looks like the top of a western wedding cake. I haven't seen any real wedding cake.
The whole spectacle is like Mardi Gras, minus the co-eds showing their tits for beads. I wonder what I'd get if I showed mine!
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AN INDIAN HOLIDAY
Diwali is India's "festival of lights" and is celebrated by Hindus, Jains and Sihks, though for slightly different reasons. However, we can say, in general, that it is the triumph of good over evil and commemorates the new yeasr - it is seen as more of a national holiday.The major attractions of Diwali are sweets and fire. During the 5 festive days, businesses and homes are generous with trays of kajre burfi, sancha peda and other tasties I can't pronounce or identify.
On the big night, families and friends gather on rooftops and light 'em up. No going to the neighborhhod high school football field. This is do-it-yourself fun with fireworks (pataka).
Limor, Yaron and I make the rounds. First stop is Yaron's guesthouse. Yaron reports with pride and wonder that our hosts have spent nearly US$100 on rockets, snakes, sparklers, fountains, and Roman candles. This is probably the equivalent of someone spending $5000 on Burning Man, though not nearly as creative or drug-laden.
The men of the family light the fusses while the women stand back at a safe distance - safe being as far as one can get when standing on a roof of a house.
The day after Diwali, newpapers dutifully report the many occurances of firework-related injuries. Limor and I become statistics. My clothes and hair are singed from a Roman candle 25 feet away. Limor burns her hand on a sparkler.
On the walk back to our house where we've been invited for more treats, rockets fly overhead and bomb blasts bounce back and forth off the hills on either side of the Ganga.
"I feel like I'm in Gaza."
Yaron answers her with our new favorite and all-inclusive word, "Pataka pataka."
She responds in kind, "Pataka."
We stay alert to falling sparks from the homes we pass.
"Watch out! Pataka! Pataka!"
After filling up again with our landlords, Satpal, Bubli and family, we are welcomed into the home of more relatives of Lahkshmi where we must, regretfully, turn down more food. Inside the old folks watch the Star Movie channel. Outside, the kids light up small sparklers. Limor keeps her distance, as does a little one who hides in the folds of her mother's flowing sari. Looks like she's the smart one.
That night as I snuggle in bed visions of katushas and firebombs danced in my head.
Pataka. Pataka. Pataka.
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FINISHING PANCHA KARMA
Let's just say that Pancha Karma does not do wonders for my digestion. The massages are great but the rest is somewhat anti-climactic. And because I am supposed to rest after my morning "therapies" I haven't been going to yoga all that much. I'm feeling lethargic and bored.
It's time I start thinking about leaving Rishikesh. Stuck in a rut? Split town! If only normal life where that easy.
I go to pay Dr. Aurora the remainder of my $200 fee. I ask him if he has dietary advice for me.
"Don't have sugar."
"That's it? That's the big insight? I pay you $200 and you tell me not to eat sugar?!
This guy has got a good scam going. Devi and Lahkshmi, whom he pays next to nothing, do all the work and he sits at his desk all day doing Soduko.
(Insert Indian head tilt) "What to do?"
The upshot here is that a similar treatment in the states can charge $2,675 for a 10 day program.
So it's a $200 experience. I've spent more money on stupider things.
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BACK TO CASA DE JJ
A 5 hour bus ride back to Delhi turns into 9 hours.
A helpful passenger helps me figure out where to get off the bus so that Raju, JJ and Zeba's driver, can pick me up near their house.
When I step off the bus in front of the Hyatt Hotel in southern Delhi, Raju is waiting with outstretched arms: for my bags, not me.
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THE GREAT BRITISH BEER FESTIVAL
So it's a big night tonight. JJ and Zeba are taking me to a garden party at the British High Commission.
"Um, my nicest clothes are jeans and a clean t-shirt."
"No worries. It's in the garden and they're serving beer and BBQ."
"How much?"
"2000 rupees."
"2000 RUPEES!!! THAT'S LIKE...$40! OH MY G-D!"
"Jen, it's not that much. And it's all you can eat and drink. And there will be dancing."
"Not that much! Not that much! That's food for 8 days. It's accomodations for 2 weeks. $40 for a night out? And I haven't had alcohol or meat in well over a month. Two beers and a kebab and I'll be wrecked."
But how often do you get to go party with diplomats.
I dress up by using a scarf as a belt, applying make-up and pilfering some of Zeba's perfume. And we musn't forget the shoes: teva flip flops. They're black.
The garden at the High Commission is beautifully decorated with candles and white cloth covering tables and chairs. The microbrews are plentiful as are the dead animals.
I spend most of the evening talking with Zeba's co-workers. These US Embassy employees ask me travel tips on Nepal and Tibet: visas, treks, transportation. Seems as though they've spent their lives going to school and learning 9 different languages but they've never actually been anywhere. Funny.
The DJ sucks! Kylie Manogue, The Village People, Abba, Wham UK. I don't know much about specific DJs but didn't the Brits give us Paul Oakenfold, Moby, John Digweed and DJ Food, to name a few of of the more mainstream spinners. But instead they hire someone to play The Spice Girls. Wow.
At the end of the evening, we get some nice Latin tunes and JJ is twirling Zeba like a guy who knows how to twirl his lady. They move like people who know each other: that comfort you see with long-time married couples at weddings.
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We all sleep late the next morning and then spend a couple hours in the backyard drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. Sunday morning at home.
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Zeba's father and brother are arriving Monday evening. I've lost my spot at Casa de JJ.
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I must now go be amongst touts and theives in Pahar Ganj, the traveler area of Delhi. Limor, Yaron and I have a final dinner together at United Coffee House in Connaught Place. The name is misleading as this restaurant dons clean table clothes, cushioned booths and chairs and comparatively high prices.
When Yaron comes back from a trip to the bathroom he assures us that this place isn't so nice. The bathroom always tells you everything you need to know about an eating establishment.
It's late that night when I say my final farewells to Yaron and Limor. Despite numerous arguments and reconciliations with Limor, we hug like sisters. Actually, the numerous arguments and reconciliations is what makes us more like sisters than friends.
I'm heading south in search of a warm place to do yoga and she's trying to find a school to study Ayurvedic medicine. We have to follow our own dreams. We don't know if we'll see each other again in India. It maybe years before I'll have to pleasure of having her tell me what to do. (She doesn't like my sarcasm and wouldn't appreciate that last line, but I'm betting she doesn't take the time read these stories.)
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READY TO RUMBLE
I've pre-paid the travel agent for my taxi to the airport. It's 6:30am and I'm going south to Bangalore, the Silicon Valley of India, on my way to Mysore.
My travel agent is asleep on the bench in the closet they call an office.
"Hey! Hey! Where's my taxi?"
He groggily walks out the door and returns with another guy.
"Follow him."
I follow guy #2 down the street where a cluster of Ambassador taxis await. Well, I could have done this myself.
#2 tells me to wait while he gets the money to pay the taxi. Already this sounds suspicious. He knowingly comes to a taxi without money? After a few minutes the trunk opens and he's loading the luggage of another couple.
"Whow! Wait a minute. How much did you guys pay?" I ask the nice, quiet couple.
"180 rupees."
I glare at #2.
"Okay, so you give me half my money back and you give half their money back and we go together."
"I don't have any money."
Let me just preface the next sentence by saying that Delhi pisses me off. Too much stimulation for me. Too much.
"Don't lie to me you little fuck."
Indians hate it when you use bad language. He puts his finger in my face and tells me not to talk to him like that. But there's no way I'm backing down. I am so ready to kick this guy's ass. I squint my eyes and clinch my jaw and get right up in his face.
"You lie to me! You steal from me! I talk to you how I want!"
I don't remember how the scene ends. We don't brawl. Punches are not pulled. I think I become aware of the nice, quiet couple and realize that I've totally freaked them out. There's nothing worse then having to deal with other foreigners having a fit. It's like watching someone yell at a bank teller for some bank policy they have no control over. We think that guy is impatient and rude and oblivious to the system in which he lives. Today, I am that guy.
But I change gears. These people probably have a plane to catch. As do I. Which is exactly why #2 knows he can get away with what he's doing.
"Guys. I'm sorry. You can totally come in the taxi with me. It's fine. I just don't want him to think that what he's doing is okay."
It's a cordial ride to the airport. I try to be friendly but I certainly won't be on their Christmas card list.
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And off we go with the prosaically named airline, "Go Air". It was the cheapest ticket I could get and I'm hoping the mechanics take more time with their job than the marketing folks.
