India (Part One): "There's Always a Price to Pay for Good Value"

45 minutes ago

“I am going to give you something to clear that cold of yours. Under no circumstances can I tell you what is in it. If you ask me, I will be forced to lie to you. Okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” says Andrea, leaning forward on her seat, her face grim, determined. The man in the chair beckons to the boy at the front of the shop, who then enters the cramped office space where we are sitting with three jars of different white powders and crystals. The man in the chair carefully unscrews the caps off each jar and takes a pinch of powder from each, placing the white substance onto a small, square piece of wax paper.

I look over at Laura, who is sitting on the other side of Andrea on the wooden bench we are sharing. I imagine the look on her face to be the same as mine: eyebrows raised, denoting a feeling of skepticism and uncertainty, as well as a sense of relief that it’s neither she nor I that’s being asked to snort a mixture of white powder and crystals up our nose.

64 hours ago

This guy’s asleep! He’s really sleeping. And driving. Sleeping and driving! Wait, wait. I need to be sure. Maybe he isn’t sleeping. He’s definitely driving. We’re moving. Fast. Slow. Slow. Fast. Horns blaring. Cars whipping by us on either side. He almost hit that meridian! Does he really know where he’s going? I’m so glad we waited in line for an hour in the freezing cold – isn’t it supposed to be hot in India? - outside the airport in Bangalore to secure a legit taxi. Sure, those guys touting taxi rides outside the airport entrance dressed in tuques and long black jackets used to conceal crack and stolen watches for sale would probably have driven us off to some remote site on the outskirts of the city and mugged us and beaten us within an inch of our lives and would have left us to die, our bodies torn apart by packs of mangy, rabid dogs – so many fucking dogs in this city! At least we’d have been certain about our fates had we chosen to ride with them. Instead, we had to line up like responsible tourists in order to ensure that a certified city taxi would deliver us to our guesthouse with the utmost speed and safety.

Instead, we were going to die. And to think we’ve only been in India for fifteen minutes, well, an hour if you count customs and baggage claim. And those few minutes spent waiting for the veg samosas we ordered from Café Coffee Day.

I look over at Laura. She seems pretty calm, unaffected. Maybe I’m overreacting here. This is India after all! Maybe this is the way things are done in India. The driving, I mean. Perhaps it’s perfectly normal to drive and sleep at the same time. It would certainly make the trip go by faster when you think about it. You get in your car, start her up, get her going, lay back, relax, close your eyes; next thing you know, you’ve reached your destination. I’ve just got to trust this guy. This is a country of one-point-something billion people; a statistic that surely wouldn’t be a reality if there were many car accidents.

I sit back in my seat, look behind me, and through the rear windshield, see the face of the driver of the bus behind our car mere inches from my face.

40 minutes ago

She’s really going to do it. She’s really going to snort this shit. I have to say, I’m quite impressed. I don’t know what I’d do if placed in the same situation. Would I buckle under the pressure, risk it all in the hopes that this guy was on the up and up, that he could be trusted, that he was playing cricket? Or would I bolt, make a run for it? I’d like to think I was the stronger person, that this shyster’s assertive yet unassuming sales tactics would have no impact on me. I’d sure show him. I’d storm out of there in a flurry of anger and disbelief. Create a scene outside the shop! Attract a flock of the curious, all there to hear me denounce this quack for who he really is.

Right. Let’s face it. If I were in Andrea’s place, I’d be putting on the same game face and crossing my fingers that I’d not find myself in a coma in the following minutes.

The man in the chair is now folding the wax paper into quarters, enveloping the white powder and crystals within. He places the folded wax paper underneath his ledger.

50 hours ago

A marked distinction between public parks in Bangalore and Canada: piles of burning rubbish.


Fig. 1.1 - Burning rubbish and dogs.








We are walking through Cubbon Park in between drinking coffees and shopping – is there anything else to do in Bangalore? There are piles of rubbish where grass should be – toxic smoke billowing upwards through the trees. Oh, and the dogs. We can’t forget the dogs. No discernable genus. A mix of various breeds, several hundred generations from any pedigree stirred together in a canine curry. Those dogs really love those burning piles of rubbish. As do the street kids, who squat and shit beside the smoldering remains of plastic bottle and candy wrappers.


Fig 1.2 - Laura and Andrea in Cubbon Park.







We walk around the perimeter of the park, which spits us out onto a busy thoroughfare on its western side. We stop to take pictures amidst the ceaseless honking and clouds of exhaust that blanket the air around us in a hazy blue. Without warning, a voice from behind chimes:

“Where are you from?”


Fig. 1.3 - Bangalore's finest, now made famous worldwide because of this blog.














“Canada,” I say, turning around to see an Indian man, hair parted in the middle, stylish moustache and sporting a well-worn khaki button-up shirt.

“These are the parliament buildings,” he says, pointing at the two imposing colonial structures before us.

“Ah, I see,” I reply, having already considered that the sign that read “Parliament Buildings” has been a dead giveaway. I turn back to finish taking the shots.

“You need rickshaw?” he asks, patting me on the shoulder. “I have nice rickshaw.”

“That’s alright,” I reply, “we’re happy just to walk.”

“No, no. I take you in my rickshaw. Where you want to go? Special price. I take you to my shop on the way.”

“No thanks,” I say again. I motion towards the girls and we continue on our way down the street.

We walk two meters when all of a sudden, our new-found friend emerges ahead of us from the crowd of people and rickshaws loitering alongside the road.

“My friend!” he says, coming towards us, a wide grin extending from one side of his face to the other. “Please come in my rickshaw. I show you my shop!”

“We don’t want to see your shop,” says Andrea, the three of us continuing to walk at a brisk pace.

“We just want to walk,” adds Laura.

“No walk. You take rickshaw,” he says, begging, pleading almost. I get the sense that he’ll be on his hands and knees at any moment.

We insist once more that we have no intent nor desire to accompany him in his rickshaw, to which he disappears once more into the school of rickshaws fighting, jostling their way upstream.

Moments pass and through this throng of auto-rickshaws comes our man careening wildly through traffic, swerving to the curbside once more in a last ditch attempt to convince us that if there’s one rickshaw to get a ride in in Bangalore, it’s his. We’ve decided to just outright ignore him, a difficult feat considering the constant barrage of shouts and honks directed at us from his direction as he follows us at a walking pace in his rickshaw. I feel like giving this guy a few rupees just for the sheer entertainment value. This is India! This is a true Indian experience! This is what it’s all about! This is a pain in the ass!

Fig. 1.4-1.6 - The Conversation.














30 minutes ago

This guy just won’t give up. He really wants me to buy some oils. He’s got the girls hooked. Fine enough. They probably feel pressured into getting at least something. They want to seem nice. At least Laura will smell good. If she’s happy, then I’m happy. We’re all happy. We’ll all be happy once we get out of this shop. How is it possible that this guy is still talking? Does he get that lonely sitting in this cramped office day in, day out? He asks us if we know “so-and-so” from Canada. Why do people always ask me that when I’m abroad? It’s not that I would ask them the same question: “Oh, you’re from Ireland, you must know Mick from Dublin,” or “You’re from Pakistan? You must know Rob!”

On a side note, Andrea does know the people acknowledged in the dedication of the book Laura is reading. They are from Canada.

26 hours ago

“You! You! Get out! South Gate!” the security guard at the Mysore Palace shouts.

I stand there dumbfounded. What is this guy’s problem? First he tells me I can’t come in with a camera, then he says I can. Then he says I can only bring the camera in if I give my word not to use it. Fine. I put it in Andrea’s backpack. Next thing I know, he wants money. Of course he wants money. What would India be without a little grift? I’d say it wouldn’t be India at all.

Besides, I’ve always wanted to palm a guy some cash to bribe him off. Those guys who do it in the movies make it look so slick. I suppose they get in a lot of practice between takes. I had one shot and I had to make it good, subtle, discreet.

I gather from his wild gesticulations and hysteria in his voice that I’ve failed.

We leave but decide to come back at night when the whole place is lit up, and we are pleasantly entertained by a troupe of musicians – one of whom is a master of the lost Indian art of making music by tapping small bowls filled with water to make sound.




Fig. 1.7-1.9 - Images of Mysore Palace

Fig. 1.10 - Man playing bowls of water.









20 minutes ago

She doesn’t have to snort it after all. Thank God. I can see a look of relief wash over her face. Still, her face looks a little sullen. Ashen.

He is rubbing Andrea’s forehead and temples with the oil produced by the powder and crystals that have melted in the folded piece of wax paper. He starts talking about holy men and people possessed by demons and the impact of ayurvedic medicine on impotence.


Fig. 1.11 - The purging of demons.











3 hours ago

“This is delicious,” I say, scooping a dollop of palak paneer with my chapatti. We are sitting on a rooftop restaurant in Mysore, a couple of blocks from the hotel. The barrage of noise and smells from the streets below a mere din from above.

“I can’t believe how good this is,” adds Laura. “I love Indian food!”

“Just think, we’ll get to eat this straight for the next three weeks!” chimes Andrea, excited about the gastric pleasures that await us all.

We get the bill. It adds up to about six bucks for the three of us. Beers included. Damn good deal.

“This is an incredible value,” I say. “Six bucks for one of the best meals I’ve ever had.”

“You really can’t beat that,” states Andrea.

We return to the hotel and get in the rickshaw that is waiting for us. We’ve arranged for a tour of local industry, including a silk factory, a shack where old men roll tobacco into beedi, and an ayurvedic specializing in medicinal oils and incense.


Fig. 1.12 - A man rolling tobacco into beedi.















Now

Andrea is pushing me through the shop’s narrow corridor. She seems frantic, desperate to escape.

We get out into the street and I look over at her, her eyes, panic stricken, scan our surroundings. In a series of quick jump cuts a disorienting montage ensues:

1) A trail of vomit appears in front of me leading to the alley across the street.
2) Andrea is hunched over a few meters ahead, our rickshaw driver offering her some tap water from his plastic bottle, she refusing.
3) A stoned Muslim with bloodshot eyes standing languidly in the middle of the road gives us a thumbs up as we cram into our rickshaw and pull away.

2 hours later

Laura cradles the toilet bowl, hurling the contents of her stomach through her mouth, and most unfortunately, her nose.
After seeing that she gets to bed, I leave, guidebook in hand to make some bookings for the following few nights. So far so good for me. In fact, I’d say I’m a little hungry.

End of Part One


More Pictures from Bangalore and Mysore






























































Fig. 1.13 - Bazaar in Bangalore.
Fig. 1.14 - An armada of tuk-tuks, or auto rickshaws.
Fig. 1.15 - On the train from Bangalore to Mysore
Fig. 1.16-1.17 - A market in Mysore
Fig. 1.18 - A cow.
Fig. 1.19 - Kitsch.