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| Bombay, India |
Bombay, India
I thought I was prepared for India, having heard from everyone how different and crazy it is. Words cannot prepare you for India, however.
Our flight from Frankfurt to Mumbai (Bombay) on India Air was a very good one, and similar to domestic ones I’m used to with two exceptions: one, the plane food was the best I’ve ever had, and two, shortly before landing a guy came cruising through the aisle with two aerosol cans of nice smelling spray. It sounded at first like something had gone wrong, maybe the oxygen masks had deployed or a compressor was leaking somewhere. But it was just a flight attendant choo-chooing on by, looking like a locomotive holding two aerosol spray cans just under face level, each shooting mist straight up.
For the very first time in my life, there was a guy outside the airport holding a sign with my name on it. Why no other countries have recognized my high status before is beyond me. But India got it right, and we were shuttled to our hotel (an hour away) in an incredibly old car, which I soon found out are the only kind in India. The drive was surreal. It was the middle of the night, and we soon learned it was the last night of the Ganesh festival (Ganesh is the elephant god thingee). We drove by mile-long stretches of makeshift homes (loosest interpretation of the word) – tiny spaces built from what looked like all types (and colors) of leftover building materials. People were *everywhere* - on the side of the street; sleeping on the side of the road; in the street celebrating. This was at 5am, mind you. Amidst all this were stretches of beautiful hanging lights (they looked like Christmas lights). Once we later heard about the Ganesh festival, I figured that is why they were there. At Marine and Chowpatty, a place famous for walks along the water, men were carrying a huge float full of lights, and Ganesh himself was sitting at the top. They were walking toward the water, no doubt to dunk Ganesh (or his likeness, that’s part of the festival). My introduction to India was very representative of what I’ve experienced in my time here so far (only a couple days), which is lots of people, and poverty right next to opulence.
Our first time out of our hotel, we made the mistake of walking around the corner in an attempt to get to I don’t remember where. It was like trying to get a feel for swimming by diving into the open sea. The sharks smelled fresh blood. We were hounded and harassed like I have never experienced. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw an Indian guy spot us, and yell “white man walking!” down the street. Every person we walked past wanted to sell us something. Every person wanted money from us. Every person wanted to drive us somewhere. See, in India, they have this stereotype that every person who is white is rich by their standards. Oh, when will the horrors of stereotyping end?
Now, I’ve been to Thailand. So I have some experience with everybody and their brother (literally – they’re usually with their brother) trying to sell me something. But although poor by many standards, Thailand lacks the sheer magnitude of homeless, needy, and loitering people on the street. Also in Bangkok (the Bombay of Thailand), there are tons of easily recognized foreigners milling about all the shops and markets. Here in Bombay, by contrast, Kelly and I are virtually alone in our non-Indian-ness. We went to two bazaar areas yesterday, and saw only one white guy, who gave us an unmistakable oh-thank-god-you-are-my-race smile of recognition.
I’m sure much of why he smiled at us was because in India, everyone stares at you if your skin is not brown. I have never longed to see whitey more in my entire life. Kelly and I grew somewhat self-conscious being the only visible foreigners, because the stares of everyone refuse to let you forget it. Indians stare. Five years ago when I moved to Hillcrest, I remember being scared to go to the local gym because I was afraid the gay men would stare at me. Later, I felt guilty for that fear because I was never stared at (hey, wait a minute, why isn’t anyone staring?!) But I should have saved my fear for India. I feel really bad for Kelly, because for every stare I get, she gets three, and they’re a lot longer. Our first guess was that men were staring for the obvious reasons. But then we noticed women and children were staring just as much. I mean long stares that cause (American) humans to grow uneasy. I should point out that although it may feel like it, the stares are completely non-threatening. I think the Indians are just curious because of our differences…you know, in that stalker kind of way. On the receiving end, however, we are constantly reminded (and poor Kelly especially) that we’re different. When that other white guy saw us, it was like he had found his brother and sister, and I instantly had a new perspective on black people in America, and their insistence that as a white person, you simply cannot understand. Whatever people’s intentions are toward you, there is an unmistakable, comfort-zone shattering glare they can give you when you look different from the majority.
Having quickly learned our lesson from attempting to walk places, we took a cab. Awesome. You get in, tell the driver where you want to go, and after the half hour drive is over, you pay him $1. Did I mention India is cheap? Yesterday Kelly and I wandered quite randomly into a vegetarian place:
1 large bottled water
2 Pepsi’s
1 Tikka Masala (tofu I think)
1 Mushroom Masala
1 order of rice
2 orders of naan bread
Total: $5, and it was the best Indian food I’ve ever eaten (and this is with no meat, mind you!)
One thing you have to watch out for in a taxi is the begging children. It is very hot here (note that although it is very hot, 85-90 or so and humid, it is almost October and therefore not ludicrously hot), so we had the windows down at a stoplight. Oops. Hands appear from everywhere. First from the front but eventually also from both sides of the back seats as well (once they figured out where the money source was). I gave one of them a 10 rupee bill (25 cents), and the number of children doubled. Each child showed up with one of two faces put on to coerce me into parting with some of my cash: happy face or sad face. How do I know they are put on and not genuine? The proof came from one girl I handed money too, standing all alone at the front passenger window. After I paid her and then some other kids, she continued standing there with a horribly pathetic look on her face. I mean a look you would expect if she were starving and the cab had just run over her foot, only she couldn’t feel it because she didn’t have the strength to carry the pain signal all the way from her foot to her brain. Not buying into it, I shot her a look that said “busted!” and said with a smile “I just gave you one!” Her pained face instantly, and I mean instantly, transitioned into a bright smile. A smile that said, “Look how cute I am and yes that was just a fake sad face, but hey, how about another 10 spot…did I mention I’m cute?” In the end, I cut her off at the original 10 rupees, and everyone else as it turned out, because on my other side, attempts to reward a begging little girl went awry when the little boy I had just paid continued to box out all the other children. What can I say, he had quick hands. Now we keep the windows mostly up, at least above child hand level. I don’t mind handing money out, but you’ve gotta make sure the crowd is manageable.
When I don’t like handing money out is when I’m getting scammed. The first scammer we encountered managed to hook me, but I was able to squiggle free from the line before being plucked from the water. A woman approached with baby in arm saying she needed formula. I cannot think of a more worthy cause for a donation. I got out some coins from my pocket and was ready to hand some over, when she informed me that she didn’t need money, but rather milk (formula), from the stand which was right behind us. She explained that she was not allowed to buy it from the stand, that I had to. I raised my internal scam advisory level to orange (it was already at yellow when we landed in Bombay). I followed her to the stand, and asked how much the formula was. I was told it was 270 rupees. Internal scam alert now raised to red, I retreated to our nearby hotel, ignoring all the way the woman, who at first lowered her request to a smaller can of formula, and finally to just please some of the money I was going to hand her in the first place. Why did I abandon this mother in need? The huge lunch for two we had just eaten had cost less than she was asking for the formula. No way do Indians pay anywhere even close to this amount for whatever they truly feed their babies. (I am fairly confident) This is a scam by which money is given to the stand owner, and the formula given to the woman is promptly handed right back as soon as whitey is around the corner. Sadly, I’m willing to bet the woman gets the lowest take out of everybody involved…no, scratch that, the baby does. Other scam-worthy details: the stand was a part of a restaurant, selling some of the restaurant’s food, ice-cream, and as luck would have it, baby formula. It was just the most out of place item you could imagine. Also, when I asked how much it was, the guy awkwardly turned around to ask one of his associates how much was the baby formula again? The only canned product on the shelf, sitting awkwardly alone, and the guy can’t remember the price? And when he does, it’s 27 times more expensive than an admission for locals to the Prince of Wales museum?
Not ironically, dozens of women have since asked for formula for their baby (or brother, whoever they say the little tyke in their arms is supposed to be). The most annoying was one who followed us around for literally an hour. At first, we told her no. Oh, the humor I find now having thought then the tactic might work. No, she kept at us, purposely walking in front of us so we would have to keep awkwardly sidestepping around her. We stopped into a guarded inlet of shops which she is barred from entering, only to return 15 minutes later to find her still waiting. At this point, I stopped, looked her straight in the eye, and said “We’re not going to give you any money, you need to go away now.” Nope, nothing. There was no reasoning with her. She just kept coming back with “Why? Why you don’t want to help him?” We stopped into a rug store for a full half hour, viewing several rugs for possibly us and friends. We came out of the store, and finally she had gone. NO SHE HADN’T! Soon after this she did actually stop following us, and I grew suspicious, finally extracting a confession from Kelly that she had given her 100 rupees to go away. I was furious. Okay, not furious, but aggravated that this woman’s incessantly annoying tactics had been rewarded, and rewarded with an amount of money some Indians earn from a full day of work (yes, it was only just over $2, but just like the pilot of Firefox, you have to think in rupees, not think in dollars and then translate). My compassion instantly hardens when someone is attempting to scam me, or, additionally, using excessive guilt and endless pestering to get what they want. Some reading this may still feel sorry for her, but my take is that the scam runners are relatively well off, it’s the people outside the big cities, who we’ll probably not see on this trip, who are hurting most.
Driving in Mumbai is crazy. I had seen crazy driving already in Bangkok, so I thought it really couldn’t get any crazier. But Bombay achieves a whole new level of crazy with the addition of one ingredient: people. Pedestrians are as much of traffic here as cars. Because traffic almost always resembles a parking lot, and Bombay is 4 times more body-dense than New York, people constantly scurry in front of, around, and in between cars. I can truthfully say I don’t think my mom could handle it. She gets pretty freaked out by erratic driving, and here near car-to-person collisions are just normal. As always, even though it is the craziest driving I have ever seen, there is a system everybody understands. Horn honking is *constant*, by each driver. Honking is a thriving language here. There is the long “you are about to get in my way and I intended to pass you” honk. There is the very short “thanks for getting out of my way” honk. There is the “here I am” honk. I think we have all these in America too. With the sheer number of honks and sometimes apparent randomness of them, however, I think there is a unique-to-India “yep, the horn still works” honk.
A few more tidbits. There are heaping piles of trash all around the city, and in many places it smells as bad as the inside of an outhouse. We saw two monkeys. We saw two oxen pulling carts amid the traffic. We saw two adults, four children, five crows, one cat, and one dog all gathered around and some exploring a heaping pile of junk/trash.
This is only the beginning. Kelly and I are just starting to feel more comfortable here. In a couple more days we’re going to head away from Bombay, and I’m expecting India will become less intense. I’m betting this big city, like Bangkok, is the harshest in the country to be thrown into.
