Flying out of Dubai and into Mumbai (Bombay) was getting our feet back on the ground again, both literally and figuratively. We descended over a series of shanty towns that made Rio’s favelas look like upscale villas. This is the touch of reality which I needed after the other-worldly fantasy of Dubai….
When Carol was in California before our trip she was talking to a friend about our upcoming trip and a lady who was browsing near them in the store listened and had a bemused look on her face. She asked Carol if she had ever been to India before and Carol replied no, but she’d been reading a lot…”seems a lot of good and bad,” Carol added. ….the lady smiled and said: “It’s all true, both the good and the bad.” Married to an Indian, she had been several times, hence the comment. We discovered that in short order.
Upon our arrival in Cochin in the state of Kerala in Southern India, we got a taxi to town, a 40 minute cab ride that should have taken an hour and a half. The Indian set of road rules seem to be simple:
There are no rules. The roads are dominated by buses and trucks which are big enough to throw their weight around and force others to knuckle under. Given the number of dents and scraped sides, this seems to be something that needs to be enforced often. Our taxi driver blasted down the road to town with abandon and the two lane road was that in name only as he passed others with other vehicles coming without hesitation. About one minute into the ride, I decided I needed to buckle up but there wasn’t any clip into which to put the strap. This vehicle definitely needed a flight attendant showing how to take care of basic safety rules. Motorized rickshaws, which are 3-wheeled canopied motor scooters and sound like lawn tractors on steroids, are at the bottom of the food chain and accordingly know that their survival is best preserved by going in a straight, unwavering line because cars, and the aforementioned buses whiz by so close you could literally reach out and ask for change. Should they vary their straight line they’d be road kill. Literally. Motorcycles and scooters zip in and out of traffic as only they can which adds to the Mario Cart feeling. They add to the excitement by traveling four-lane separated roads by going east in the westbound lanes…all to the accompaniment of the incessant horns blasting. The roads can be described as that but only marginally so. They are rutted, potholed affairs which cause the driver to slow slightly as he picks his way through them. Jerry Jeff Walker’s “L.A. Freeway” kept running through my head with a local twist: “If I can just get off this Cochin road without getting killed or caught.” Hundreds of trucks parked alongside the road for the night further constricted the passageway, but we made it safely, if not calmly to our hotel.
This morning we ventured out onto the city streets which in Cochin are basically the same but with gridlock. Pedestrians are at the mercy of the gazillion scooters and motorcycles which bob and weave with such dexterity I watched amazed that there were no accidents or spills. On the myriad of side streets intersections are a wonder. At one, there were 6 rickshaws, scooters and motorcycles all entering at the same time, nobody slowed down, yet they all got across safely. John Prine’s “four way stop dilemma,” had nothing on these people. Women, with saris flowing back behind the motor scooters, are equal to the task and give no quarter. In this aspect of Indian life, there is equality. Families ride on one scooter, the man driving, the woman holding on to him with one hand and onto the baby with the other.
The streets of Indian cities are a maze of connecting alleys and small side streets teeming with life…the major streets have sidewalk of a sort, albeit filled with holes into which makes for picking one’s way carefully. Larger holes are covered by 3 foot square blocks of concrete just placed on top of the hole and need to be stepped over. The sidewalks often have slits running across them so that you can see liquid below and from the smell it is obvious that it is a sewer line leading somewhere. Narrow alleys have no such sidewalks and so the streets are from left to right, open shops, parked rickshaws, pedestrians, vehicles passing at speeds which they shouldn’t in both directions, all with horns blowing, pedestrians, parked rickshaws and open shops…It’s a scene that occupies ones total sensory receptors.
Lest all this sound negative, let me just say that I find it exhilarating. It is so alive with real life and after the phoniness of Dubai it is a welcome change back to real life…I feel so alive here. When I’m in a store at home and the clerk says the bill is $16.36…I always reply, “Ah, yes, 1636. I remember it well. I was a potato farmer in Belgium. It was a cold winter……” or some variation thereof. In reality, I think I have always been like the people on the streets of Cochin. I’m a peasant at heart and always have been, I think. These are my kind of people…just making it through life as best they can. Contrasting this to Dubai where the ritzy-titzy females shop while their entourage following behind carrying all bags and paying for the goods as they just point to what they want brings me back to the reality of life for the vast majority of the, what is it, 8 billion of us who share this little rock. This is real, and I’m loving it, but I’m also paying attention lest I get run over.
One stop shopping
I entered India with a general plan of where we were going to go with a lot of leeway built in. I always like to have a trip sort of develop its own route. I’ve found that the road ahead will lay itself out to me. Here in Kerala, I wanted to see a tea plantation, a spice plantation and the lazy backwaters of the Louisiana-like bayous with palm trees instead of mangrove trees. Lonely Planet told us where a travel agency was that had good reviews from travelers and so we took off this morning on our walking quest to find it. I could have booked things through the hotel, but, hey, I’m a travel agent. Why would I do hotel bookings? Although unsuccessful at our original plan, we did come across an agency and went inside. I mentioned my general plan and they said they could arrange it all, which they did with variations which I could not have anticipated…while we were waiting for them to confirm bookings, I asked where I could change money. No problem, they knew a man just a few shops down who could do this and so that was taken care of. I had brought a phone with me that I purchased in New Zealand that I couldn’t make work here, but, hey, no problem, they knew a man down the street who could take care of that. Dead battery, I was told, buy a new one….100 rupees. $1.60. I now needed a sim card for India…no problem…100 rupees. This is the amazing thing about India…they epitomize the term “networking.” Everybody knows somebody who knows somebody who can solve your problem. So instead of having to run around town finding solutions for our needs, it was all done and with a pleasantness and warmth that the Indian people are known for.
Mr. Toad’s wild ride.
We wanted to see as much of the city as possible and had walked most of the morning in the steaming South India heat and so after a rest it was time for venturing out once more. This time it was by auto rickshaw. We held on as we bumped and weaved our way through the alley-ways and narrow streets which, although different, were amazingly similar to what we had trod earlier in the day. We got up close and personal with lots of different forms of humanity, and it’s amazing that nobody is killed in, or by, these things..We did get too close to another rickshaw and bumped it which led to an animated and loud discussion as to how and why it happened and what was to be done…in the end, it was all bluster and after everybody vented, we all went on our various ways….all this for, you guessed it, 100 rupees.
Sensory overload.
Sights, sounds, smells, tastes and touch are in abundance in any walk in India….the colors of the women’s saris are dazzling, rivaling those of Uzbek women in national dress…they are a myriad of colors, ornately decorated with gold thread and range from luxurious fashion statements to very simply articles of daily clothing.
The sounds are everywhere…horns honk constantly and there is a hierarchy of the noise, again rickshaws have the weakest voice and moving up we find motor scooters, motorcycles, cars, buses, and the big daddy of them all the air horns of trucks which can blast through any competing sound, human or mechanical. Indian people talk loudly even when there is not competing noise and walking down the street one hears instructions being shouted to workers and people trying to converse over all the competing horns and machinery. All this results in a cacophony of simply noise….It almost becomes white noise, yet something different will happen which brings it all crashing back to it’s fullness.
Olfactory awareness
It is impossible to walk down an Indian street and not be inundated by smells…the odors of hot oil frying the variety of street food waft constantly through the air and the vents from restaurants send the smell of curries into the street and beckon the hungry inside.
The smell of stagnant water gathered in pools is everywhere embellished by the sewer lines which run underneath the cracked sidewalk. The smell works its way up into the living space of the humans.
All this is offset by the occasional scent of blossoms, jasmine, being the most prevalent, which takes away all the negatives.
Tactile awareness
I always like to stop and talk with people in the street…men working with their hands, craftsmen fashioning a long list of wares, and just the cop on the street. They all look at me and I acknowledge and match their curiosity by shaking hands with them…some are strong-handed grips, some are weak-limbed dainty shakes, but they are all done with a smile and it is a contact that I both crave and thoroughly enjoy…don’t know why, but I really do continually reach out for that personal contact.
And taste
How can one come to India and not taste the variety of foods available…I am always advised not to eat on the streets when I travel, but I always ignore that advice because it is where the people eat, it is life itself…I remember being here in 1962 and how I had to eat whatever I ordered because I couldn’t waste even a dime. I learned the incredible variety of tastes that were available at that time, and I still enjoy them, although, now as then, they breathe fire into my stomach.
So now, I’ve just arrived in India and my total body is into it as well as my spirit and my mind…India is a place to live the total variety of the human experience. I’m sure that people can enjoy India on several levels, and it is possible to come and just see the positives by staying in 5 star hotels and having organized tours to take you to the safe and standard tourist venues…but it’s not the India I remember, and not the one I wanted Carol to experience. I want it all. Still more than a month of wonders yet to come…bring it on.
The streets of Indian cities are a maze of connecting alleys and small side streets teeming with life…the major streets have sidewalk of a sort, albeit filled with holes into which makes for picking one’s way carefully. Larger holes are covered by 3 foot square blocks of concrete just placed on top of the hole and need to be stepped over. The sidewalks often have slits running across them so that you can see liquid below and from the smell it is obvious that it is a sewer line leading somewhere. Narrow alleys have no such sidewalks and so the streets are from left to right, open shops, parked rickshaws, pedestrians, vehicles passing at speeds which they shouldn’t in both directions, all with horns blowing, pedestrians, parked rickshaws and open shops…It’s a scene that occupies ones total sensory receptors.
