Let me cut to the
curry. I have never held a
strong desire to visit India.
Where some are drawn to India's rich history and spirituality, I was repelled
by its poverty, its backwardness, its challenges for solo travel. Where others see nirvana and
human warmth, I imagined being swamped by cold desperation, poked and prodded
by relentless thieving touts.
Beautiful villages? I
predicted heaving my way through mountains of sewerage to find a beach littered
with coke bottles.
"India, stands for 'I'll Never Do It Again,'" says DJ, a fellow
round-the-worlder I met in Prague. It would not be if I got seriously sick, it would be when.
"I was in a hospital for five days," one guy tells me. "I had to carry a waterproof
vomit bag for a week," says another. I looked at a couple of travel forums
online and the negative advice was overwhelming. Watch for thieves! Watch for peepholes! Be careful at night! Don't trust anyone! Don't eat anything! Can you see how India held little appeal for a
spiritually cynical gastro-coward? When the Indian consulate in
Dubai yo-yo'd me back and forth, causing me to postpone one flight and possibly
miss another, I felt a sense of relief, thinking I could skip over the
sub-continent altogether.
The visa came through shortly before my flight, and a frantic rush
later, I was sitting on a crowded flight to Bombay, telling myself to get a
grip. "Bring it on!" I
psyched myself up, imagining a mob at the airport, having to punch and kick my
way through like Batman through zombies. The plane landed. And then a funny thing happened
on the way to my Expectations.
At the airport, the passport
control lady, decked out in a stunning turquoise sari, smiled. This immediately unnerved me,
because smiles and passport control go like cheese and gorillas. A few meters away, there's a tourist
booth and a polite guy (who kept calling me "Sir") recommended a hotel in the
Colaba strip downtown.
My baggage arrived without incident; I got a pre-paid taxi receipt and
took a deep breath before stepping out the airport. People were everywhere, but nobody was touching me, calling
me, poking me. I dodged one half-hearted
beggar, found my designated taxi and hopped in. The driver had a severe tic and kept shaking and snapping
his head. He didn't try
ripping me off or taking me somewhere else, in fact, he didn't speak
English. He just shakes, rattles,
and rolls. The taxi, a
Morris Minor-like Indian dinky toy designed to run on gas or diesel, was small
and rusted and narrowly avoided slamming into a cow, a bus, three children, a
dog, a motorbike, a rickshaw and a one-legged beggar - at the first
intersection. There was so much to
look at, everywhere, in every direction, a complete bombardment of my
senses. In one cognitive
moment I could smell delicious curry and the unmistakable rot of feces; hear
horns, screams of agony and barreling laughter; taste thick exhaust fumes and
look at absolute squalor alongside an official Levis store. Everywhere I saw a
sepia picture - a moment in time that somehow illustrated not just what life is
like in India, but what life is like in general. A fine balance, as Rohinton Mistry wrote, between joy
and misery.
For two hours through
traffic of the most unbelievable chaos, the driver shook with his rigor mortis
twitch, somehow avoiding an increasing list of obstacles. Potholes, police, magazine sellers,
scooters carting a family of five, trucks with butane tanks hanging out the
back, flea markets with real fleas, holy men, bicycles, random trees in the
tarmac, garbage, babies.
Everyone sounded their horn every few seconds, and not even the madness
of the drivers in Lima could come close to this mobile form of anarchy. Small children crossed the road
unaccompanied and somehow made it alive.
Bombay became Mumbai in
1996, but, as one local told me, "you can't erase history by changing the
spelling." I prefer Bombay,
as does seemingly most of the population who live there. Shaped like an island,
there are only two main arteries to the southern tip, where Colaba is located. Along the way, there was little
distinction between the stricken slums and the suburbs, the good and bad and
ugly on every street throughout the city.
I passed the famous Taj Mahal hotel, opposite the imposing Gateway of
India, a block away from shanties.
Hawkers lined the streets selling everything you could imagine; their
tarp stalls doubling as homes after sunset. The taxi pulled up at a building housing four hotels,
one on every floor, made up of cubicle rooms sharing a basic bathroom. I scored at the Sea Shore
Hotel on the 4th floor with a clean room and fresh breeze coming in
from the ocean-facing window.
Collapsing in my sheet-bag, utterly overwhelmed by the intensity of the
day's journey, I read a few more pages about Hinduism and passed out to the
sound of cars blaring their horns throughout the city.
The Monsoon, the name given
to the storms that arrive every year as a result of strong winds picking up
moisture on the Indian Ocean, was deadly this year. On August 26 it bombarded Bombay, flooding the streets,
knocking out power, overloading the sewerage system, killing hundreds and
causing a disease epidemic.
A week later, life had returned to normal, which is more than one could
say for New Orleans.
Whereas disaster in the U.S.A led to gunfights, rape and looting, Bombay
was awash in stories of the desperately poor helping out anyone in need. "Can you imagine, they baked small
breads to hand out to the hungry, these people, who hardly have a roof over
their head," says Sandhya, the next day over chai. The sea level was still dangerously high,
and from my hotel room I could see waves crashing over the seawall onto the
streets. Thousands lost
everything, but thousands didn't have much to begin with in the first place,
and quickly started over. The
contrasts between the poor of India and the poor of New Orleans were
obvious. This latest disaster
seemed to unite all of Bombay; unlike the way Katrina tore New Orleans neatly
apart along its fractured racial fault line. But how do the slums co-exist with the
suburbs? How is it possible I can
walk shady streets at night, harassed by beggars but in little danger of
getting a gun to my head?
Perhaps the answer lies with the cows. They roam the streets, given right-of-way
in traffic, eating their way through the garbage, pooping as they go. If you're a cow in India,
you won the cow lottery. In Africa, I recall a story in which
security guards at a new suburban mall ate the imported swans on the mall's
manmade lake. Apparently they were
hungry, and swans taste like chicken. In Africa, one cow could feel a village. Amongst the starving in India,
they are regarded as holy.
People are hungry, but they still have faith. The spirituality that everyone talks about in India,
the enlightenment that attracts thousands of lost foreigners seeking a better
path - I can see it. It
exists. It has to. Otherwise nothing makes
sense here. Put in a similar
situation, the civilized west would violently consume itself. "People
here accept their lot in life, " explains Sandhya. "They are not jealous because you have more money,
they do not fall into despair when they lose everything." Karma means you roll with the
punches, and everyone gets what they deserve, if not in this life, than in the
next.
I learn
that India is an umbrella nation for 28 diverse states. Different cultures, food, customs and
deities. People in India speak
over 1000 different languages!
I also learn that Hinduism is a general term for a theology that
encompasses hundreds of different paths, so that the same God here is a different
God there, but they all fall under the same God, if that makes any sense. You can worship whoever or whatever you
like, because they are the all the essence of the same spiritual energy, or Brahmin. Given the warring between
different tribes in Africa, and the violence stemming from religious
differences everywhere else, it defies belief to find over a billion people of
different cultures and religions somehow getting along with each other and
calling themselves India. (While
there is sporadic violence between Hindus and Muslims, who make up 11% of the
population, India remains a relatively peaceful country). Explains Piroj,
poolside at the very proper Bombay Cricket Club, "Take one twig and break
it. Now take many twigs in a
bundle and try breaking them.
Together, we are stronger. There is unity in diversity." In the province of
Maharashtra, which includes India's biggest city Bombay (population 20
million), Ganesh is all the rage.
He's the god with the elephant head, and is known for wisdom and good
fortune. I happened to
arrive the day before his major festival, in which hundreds of thousands pack
the streets with Ganesh idols, banging drums and detonating cherry bombs,
dancing in ecstasy as they make their way to the beach to submerge the idols. The city was covered in lights,
and processions of revelers were causing a royal ruckus. I spent two hours in a cab making
my to Powai to meet Sandhya, a screenwriter for Indian TV and a contact I got
from one my readers (thanks Joyce!) The taxi driver promptly got lost, often
stopping in the middle of the street to ask everyone for directions, twelve
times in case the last guy lied, which he probably did. I didn't mind the least, peering
out the window, utterly captivated by the action around me. We drove through stinky slums and over
backlogged bridges, pathetic beggars tapping on the window. Begging in India is a profession, not a
social condition, and the only way I could get by was to avoid eye contact and
ignore them. Several times I
saw people making Number Twos on the streets, which are absolutely blanketed in
advertising in both English and Sanskrit.
Suneet, a professional photographer, later explained how corruption is a
way of life, and the only way anything ever gets done. Roads take a decade to get fixed,
and building rot as landlords bicker over tenant rights and squatters. Things do happen for the
right price, and for those who can afford it. "We have people in India who are living in 2005, and
we have people who are still living one hundred, two hundred, even a thousand
years ago." Slowly, the gap
is narrowing as foreign investment pours in, the stock market continues to boom
and a middle class grows. Everyone
I spoke to felt positive about the future of India. More and more Fortune 500 companies are outsourcing manpower
Ð from IT support to call centers - to India. Today, there are over a hundred schools offering
internationally recognized certifications. A decade ago, there were three.
I had been in India for less
than a day, but it was time to see a doctor. Actually, a dentist. I remember way back in Peru meeting a girl who had to fly
home for gingivitis. Just
because you travel, doesn't mean you don't take care of your teeth! Here I am, six months later
getting laser treatment because my flossing is non-existent and it's possible I
haven't been getting my vitamin C and B12. Sanjay the dentist is all smiles in his cramped
office, where patients walk in to say hello while he's holding a laser to my
gums, burning out the baddies.
It cost a fraction of the price as it would in Canada, and I'm back on
the road, my pearls glowing.
I take to the streets to see some of the Ganesh madness, although I
confess that facing half a million people, drunk on the beach was more than I
could handle on my second day.
Instead I explored the cricket grounds where dozens of games were being
played simultaneously. Balls
were flying everywhere, with the higher league players dressed in spiffy
whites, surrounded by lower leagues made up of ragged slum dwellers. Cricket is another religion in India,
because according to Suneet, it is the only sport that India can compete
internationally. Cricket,
the gentleman's game, as being passionately played by illiterate street kids. Back at the hotel, I was
disappointed to hear that I missed some producers looking for white faces to
appear in a commercial.
Marcus from Canberra got paid10 000 rupees (about $250) to hang out for
a few hours with some pretty NGO volunteers. White skin
still goes a long way here in India; part of what Piroj calls the "colonial
hangover." It struck me as
odd to see so many billboards with white faces peddling product to brown
consumers. Lighter skinned
Indians seem to enjoy a higher status too, much like lighter skinned Brazilians
did in Brazil. I stroll into
the Taj Mahal to use the toilet (oh the luxury!) and even in my filthiest
backpacker-ware, the big Sikh at the door smiles big and addressed me as
"Sir." That night, Marcus and I ate veg curry and I overtipped. ÒWhy not hand the money to some of the people on the street,Ó he asked, which made sense. So we wandered about looking for worthy victims of a random act of kindness, placing 10 rupee notes (25c) under their sleeping bodies. The beggars saw us and chased us all the way back to the hotel. Without the doorman, they would have chased us right into our rooms. As the monsoon season draws
to a close, it was still overcast, hot and humid. I was originally supposed to land in Delhi, but after
the consulate shenanigans in Dubai, I was forced to re-route to Bombay. I took the opportunity to explore Goa in
the process. A Portuguese
colony until as late as 1960, Goa is the beach paradise of India, for decades
popular with hippies, lately with Israeli trance freaks and UK package
tours. I booked the night-train
ticket at the special tourist office at the grand Victoria Station, happy to avoid
massive line-ups of masses and spend as little time as possible in the
station. There were parts,
and people, that smelt worse than the worst toilet in Scotland. Sleeper second class was cheap
(about $8 for a 12 hour journey) and the Railways are thoughtful enough to put
the tourists together. There are
no cabins, no locks, and every two minutes someone walks by screaming
"Cha-eee!" I meet some
German guys, French girls, an Italian and Slovenian couple, and we cling
together like an island in an unchartered sea. My seat is by the window, and during the night I
become familiar with smells that could crumble the walls of Jericho. Apparently it will take a week or two
to get used to the unique smells of India. There are several beach towns in Goa, so I followed
the group to Arambol. It is
still low season and the masses hadn't arrived yet, so I found a quiet, clean
yet rustic room for $3 and ate a perfectly grilled slab of fresh king fish for
another 3 bucks. The
price is always right in India!
I am instantly reminded of
Jericoacoara in Brazil. The same
type of rugged beauty, the same kind of weather, and the same kind of people. Just like Jeri, there are large
groups of Israelis, happy to be meeting non-Israelis. "There are parts of India that could be somewhere in
Israel," Roy tells me. Hebrew
signs, Israeli menus - it's a flashback to South America after months of
European travel. Meanwhile
in Arambol, leathered hippies are smoking pot in the cafes to chillout music,
herds of free cows roam the beach with their doggy friends, some kite-boarders
are zipping over heavy waves, fishermen are Number Two-ing on the beach, and it
takes one evening before I know most of the travellers hanging about. Nobody is in awful hurry to leave, even
to check out the next town, south along the coast. The food, as it was in Bombay, is incredible. I've always loved Indian food, and
every dish I order is a rave for my taste buds. Although the Israelis assure me the meat is safe, I am going
to stick to vegetarian, no uncooked food and no eggs. I have yet to meet a traveller who has not got sick,
and my clock is ticking. So, India. Not the hellhole I thought it would be
at all. In fact, there is so
much here to inspire, to write about.
Bolivia, Brazil and Albania were ample preparation for the culture
shock. The more I read about
the Hinduism, the more I understand how people with nothing can live like they
have everything. The longer
I stay here, the more grateful I am for the opportunity. Ave Maria Hotel Arambol, Goa 20 September 2005