Namaste - Welcome to India
January 2007, published in The Malta Independent
Image source: beetlesandhuxley
29 January 2003
“Be prepared for the worst – it will be worse than that!” I remember a friend’s advice as I step off the plane and walk through the tunnel that leads me into Mumbai airport. The air feels thick and heavy, and smells so peculiar that it makes my nose wrinkle as it tries to adjust. I can already feel it complaining that it’s working overtime! I wait in line at passport control. Everything looks strange and unfamiliar – the people, their clothes, their body movements (why do they keep wiggling their head from side to side – is that a yes or a no?), the décor… I get the feeling that I have travelled about thirty years back in time, or to some different planet, not just quarter-way around the globe...
Finally I walk out of the airport and get slapped in the face by the heat, which really shocks me because it is two o’clock on a January morning! A heavy cloud of mosquitoes hums a welcoming orchestra over the heads of at least a hundred unknown persons who are waiting – for me! The crowd looks at me with big round eyes. They shout and wave their hands, wanting my attention. They tug my backpack (while it is still strapped to my body) in different directions, while pointing towards funny yellow-and-black cars that look like something out of a 1950’s movie. I manage to retreat back inside the airport, with the calls of, “Here Madame, cheap price!” drifting in behind me. Oh dear, WHAT IS THIS?
Next thing I know I am in one of the afore-mentioned taxis, in the safe companionship of two total strangers with whom I have only two things in common: 1) We are foreigners; 2) We are equally bewildered! We drive two hours in silence, absorbing the scene of Mumbai in the dead of night – observing the corpse-like figures covered in white sheets that lay everywhere in sleep, which would come to life at sun-rise.
We are dropped off in front of one of the many cheap hotels in the area known as Colaba. We trudge up two flights of narrow stairs to a small reception room where the receptionist is lying asleep on the reception desk. We giggle as he wakes up with a start! We haggle over the price of a room, which we know is heavily inflated due to our fresh weary arrival and the time of the morning. One hour later we are walking to the train station because we refuse to hand over our passports to the receptionist for ‘safe-keeping’…
People are about by now, and steadily increasing in numbers by the minute. We ask for directions and the amount of time it should take us to reach the Victoria Train Station. We discover, the hard way, that: 1) Indians will not tell you that they do not know, and will make something up in order to “help” you; 2) Time in India moves at a different speed!
Seven minutes which are forty minutes later, we are standing in front of the majestic VT Station building. The ceiling is particularly impressive – quite a contrast from the dwellings made from scrap cardboard and plastic we passed on our way here. There is an uncomfortable film of sweat between my backpack and my back, a symptom of an ever-warming day and the result of an unexpected marathon.
The number of people around us is intimidating by now. The streets are as crowded as a football stadium on a Sunday afternoon, yet nothing particular is happening – this is just a normal day: people walking, people working, people drinking tea at a road-side stall and people standing around staring, seemingly with nothing better to do… lots and lots of people! The roads are full of cars, motorbikes, three-wheeler motor-rickshaws, bicycle-rickshaws, bullock-carts, wandering cows and mischievous monkeys… and there seems to be only one road-rule: If you have a horn, hoot it (all the time!)
As if by magic, a moustached Indian man with a turban (a Sikh?) suddenly appears beside us. Wiggling his head in that usual manner (I am still not used to it and have to consciously stifle a giggle!) he asks in a sing-song manner, “Tickets to Goa? Train in one hour leaving!” We eye him suspiciously. We are aware of the scams – we had been warned! Looking around we realise that, as tired and lost as we feel, we are at his mercy. “How much?” we ask. “Five hundred rupees each!” he replies. We know that includes a substantial commission, and that there is a possibility that we give him the money and never ever see him again, but we decide to trust him anyway – we have little energy left to argue or find alternatives at this stage. I have been awake for thirty-two hours, travelling and dealing with one unexpected episode after another!
My heart is in my mouth for the next twenty minutes, and finally I see a moustached smile flashing at us between the crowds – a sign of success! “Come, come!” He rushes us to the right platform, ushers us to our second-class sleeper coach, and bids us farewell like a dear friend. Once he is gone, we look at our tickets and realise we have been ripped off 200 rupees each – a rather decent profit for our ‘friend’ by Indian standards, if you consider that the fare was 300Rs for a 750 kilometre journey! We shrug, glad to be heading South… towards palm-trees and beaches and out of this smelly, overcrowded, filthy grey city – which has its charm nonetheless!
I smile as I think about the last few hours, since landing in this strange place. Images of the extreme contrasts I have already experienced rush through my mind – India Gate standing large guarding the harbour as we passed it by taxi, the 26-inch colour television I noticed in the slum-hut and the broad bright smiles of those scantily-dressed bare-footed kids with matted hair, to mention but a few.
It is now 9.30 am but we are all in surprisingly high spirits considering our ‘ordeal’. It is not quite what we are used to in terms of hotel service, transportation and tourist information and assistance – quite a memorable welcome for the independent traveller. Culture shock? I smile to myself, feeling somewhat happy – maybe thanks to that little bit of adrenaline from the novelty and the adventure shared with these two strangers-come-friends who are already nodding away beside me. But now, I just need to sleep… where is my bunk?
22 January 2007
That is how it all began, four years ago. Over eighteen months spent in the sub-continent since, I came to love India, hate her and love her again, with equal intensity from one moment to the next – she who like a mother taught me more about the world and myself than I could have given her credit for: embracing me when I needed solace, and whacking me in the face when I needed just that!
In a week I venture out into the world again. Again I leave the Rock to go globetrotting, beginning with a (longish) visit to the Land of Mystics and Holy Cows. This time I will land in Kochi, in the South-Western State of Kerala.
Although in some way it feels like I am going home, in another its uncertainty excites me. Backpacking is unpredictable by nature. Doing it in India is particularly crazy! Yet amidst the madness, things happen that touch your very soul – just now I remember an episode that showed me what it really means to be human…
One evening I took the bus from Pondicherry to Mahabalipuram in the South-Eastern state of Tamil Nadu, or so I thought, after several enquiries at the bus-station providing those familiar “helpful” directions! Several kilometres along the road, the light gone from the sky, it transpired that the bus was going direct to Chennai, sixty kilometres out! The by-pass was ten kilometres from my intended destination, with no means to make the bridge at that time of night.
A baby cried constantly in the seat in front of me, the man next to me sniffled, the bus sped over bumps at the usual death-wish speed while I considered my situation – it was little short of nightmarish! Finally we stopped for a break at a road-side chai-stall, where everybody got off the bus for a small cup of spiced-tea worth 3Rs.
I stood around clutching my plastic cup, contemplative in silent prayer, when a young Indian man, curious as ever, approached me with the usual string of questions, “What is your good name, Ma’am?”, “Which country?” and “Marriage?” in that order – it is the same every single time (all the time – Indians are very curious about foreigners) and in every part of the country! We talked a little and I shared my concern with him, hoping for some advice. I had to get to Mahabalipuram that night – it was imperative due to my circumstances involving my belongings waiting to be collected and a ferry to catch for a three-day crossing from Chennai to the Andaman Islands the next day. No other alternative was possible.
“You are guest in our country – your safety very important!” the young man sang, with the now familiar head-wiggle. And he disappeared. I saw him talking to the driver and then to a few people who were on the bus, and soon he re-appeared. “Our population agrees that you, esteemed guest in our country, should be taken safely to your desired destination. Bus will go to Mahabalipuram first, then Chennai. You happy?” He grinned, flashing his white teeth, proud that he could help.
Happy? I was flabbergasted! Amused by his choice of English, I had to smile wider, although I could hardly believe how nobody batted an eyelid at his proposition, which would delay their arrival in Chennai by at least half an hour.
These are the faces of India that I hope to share with you in the following weeks…!
India General Information
Country dialling code: +91.
Conversion Malta Lira to Indian Rupee: Lm1 = Rs134
Time zone: GMT + 5.5.
Electricity: 220 volts AC, 50Hz; round two- or three-pin plugs are standard.
Recommended Airlines serving Malta-India: Emirates via Dubai; Lufthansa via Frankfurt (overnight stay required)
Medical: Contact the Health Centre in Floriana for requirements according to region.
Mumbai (Bombay) City Statistics
Location: Maharashtra State, India.
Population: 14.8 million (Greater Mumbai).
Average January temp: 24.5°C (76°F).
Average July temp: 28.5°C (83°F).
Average annual rainfall: 2,160mm (85 inches) Jun-Sep.
Distance from Delhi: 1407km
29 January 2003
“Be prepared for the worst – it will be worse than that!” I remember a friend’s advice as I step off the plane and walk through the tunnel that leads me into Mumbai airport. The air feels thick and heavy, and smells so peculiar that it makes my nose wrinkle as it tries to adjust. I can already feel it complaining that it’s working overtime! I wait in line at passport control. Everything looks strange and unfamiliar – the people, their clothes, their body movements (why do they keep wiggling their head from side to side – is that a yes or a no?), the décor… I get the feeling that I have travelled about thirty years back in time, or to some different planet, not just quarter-way around the globe...
Finally I walk out of the airport and get slapped in the face by the heat, which really shocks me because it is two o’clock on a January morning! A heavy cloud of mosquitoes hums a welcoming orchestra over the heads of at least a hundred unknown persons who are waiting – for me! The crowd looks at me with big round eyes. They shout and wave their hands, wanting my attention. They tug my backpack (while it is still strapped to my body) in different directions, while pointing towards funny yellow-and-black cars that look like something out of a 1950’s movie. I manage to retreat back inside the airport, with the calls of, “Here Madame, cheap price!” drifting in behind me. Oh dear, WHAT IS THIS?
Next thing I know I am in one of the afore-mentioned taxis, in the safe companionship of two total strangers with whom I have only two things in common: 1) We are foreigners; 2) We are equally bewildered! We drive two hours in silence, absorbing the scene of Mumbai in the dead of night – observing the corpse-like figures covered in white sheets that lay everywhere in sleep, which would come to life at sun-rise.
We are dropped off in front of one of the many cheap hotels in the area known as Colaba. We trudge up two flights of narrow stairs to a small reception room where the receptionist is lying asleep on the reception desk. We giggle as he wakes up with a start! We haggle over the price of a room, which we know is heavily inflated due to our fresh weary arrival and the time of the morning. One hour later we are walking to the train station because we refuse to hand over our passports to the receptionist for ‘safe-keeping’…
People are about by now, and steadily increasing in numbers by the minute. We ask for directions and the amount of time it should take us to reach the Victoria Train Station. We discover, the hard way, that: 1) Indians will not tell you that they do not know, and will make something up in order to “help” you; 2) Time in India moves at a different speed!
Seven minutes which are forty minutes later, we are standing in front of the majestic VT Station building. The ceiling is particularly impressive – quite a contrast from the dwellings made from scrap cardboard and plastic we passed on our way here. There is an uncomfortable film of sweat between my backpack and my back, a symptom of an ever-warming day and the result of an unexpected marathon.
The number of people around us is intimidating by now. The streets are as crowded as a football stadium on a Sunday afternoon, yet nothing particular is happening – this is just a normal day: people walking, people working, people drinking tea at a road-side stall and people standing around staring, seemingly with nothing better to do… lots and lots of people! The roads are full of cars, motorbikes, three-wheeler motor-rickshaws, bicycle-rickshaws, bullock-carts, wandering cows and mischievous monkeys… and there seems to be only one road-rule: If you have a horn, hoot it (all the time!)
As if by magic, a moustached Indian man with a turban (a Sikh?) suddenly appears beside us. Wiggling his head in that usual manner (I am still not used to it and have to consciously stifle a giggle!) he asks in a sing-song manner, “Tickets to Goa? Train in one hour leaving!” We eye him suspiciously. We are aware of the scams – we had been warned! Looking around we realise that, as tired and lost as we feel, we are at his mercy. “How much?” we ask. “Five hundred rupees each!” he replies. We know that includes a substantial commission, and that there is a possibility that we give him the money and never ever see him again, but we decide to trust him anyway – we have little energy left to argue or find alternatives at this stage. I have been awake for thirty-two hours, travelling and dealing with one unexpected episode after another!
My heart is in my mouth for the next twenty minutes, and finally I see a moustached smile flashing at us between the crowds – a sign of success! “Come, come!” He rushes us to the right platform, ushers us to our second-class sleeper coach, and bids us farewell like a dear friend. Once he is gone, we look at our tickets and realise we have been ripped off 200 rupees each – a rather decent profit for our ‘friend’ by Indian standards, if you consider that the fare was 300Rs for a 750 kilometre journey! We shrug, glad to be heading South… towards palm-trees and beaches and out of this smelly, overcrowded, filthy grey city – which has its charm nonetheless!
I smile as I think about the last few hours, since landing in this strange place. Images of the extreme contrasts I have already experienced rush through my mind – India Gate standing large guarding the harbour as we passed it by taxi, the 26-inch colour television I noticed in the slum-hut and the broad bright smiles of those scantily-dressed bare-footed kids with matted hair, to mention but a few.
It is now 9.30 am but we are all in surprisingly high spirits considering our ‘ordeal’. It is not quite what we are used to in terms of hotel service, transportation and tourist information and assistance – quite a memorable welcome for the independent traveller. Culture shock? I smile to myself, feeling somewhat happy – maybe thanks to that little bit of adrenaline from the novelty and the adventure shared with these two strangers-come-friends who are already nodding away beside me. But now, I just need to sleep… where is my bunk?
22 January 2007
That is how it all began, four years ago. Over eighteen months spent in the sub-continent since, I came to love India, hate her and love her again, with equal intensity from one moment to the next – she who like a mother taught me more about the world and myself than I could have given her credit for: embracing me when I needed solace, and whacking me in the face when I needed just that!
In a week I venture out into the world again. Again I leave the Rock to go globetrotting, beginning with a (longish) visit to the Land of Mystics and Holy Cows. This time I will land in Kochi, in the South-Western State of Kerala.
Although in some way it feels like I am going home, in another its uncertainty excites me. Backpacking is unpredictable by nature. Doing it in India is particularly crazy! Yet amidst the madness, things happen that touch your very soul – just now I remember an episode that showed me what it really means to be human…
One evening I took the bus from Pondicherry to Mahabalipuram in the South-Eastern state of Tamil Nadu, or so I thought, after several enquiries at the bus-station providing those familiar “helpful” directions! Several kilometres along the road, the light gone from the sky, it transpired that the bus was going direct to Chennai, sixty kilometres out! The by-pass was ten kilometres from my intended destination, with no means to make the bridge at that time of night.
A baby cried constantly in the seat in front of me, the man next to me sniffled, the bus sped over bumps at the usual death-wish speed while I considered my situation – it was little short of nightmarish! Finally we stopped for a break at a road-side chai-stall, where everybody got off the bus for a small cup of spiced-tea worth 3Rs.
I stood around clutching my plastic cup, contemplative in silent prayer, when a young Indian man, curious as ever, approached me with the usual string of questions, “What is your good name, Ma’am?”, “Which country?” and “Marriage?” in that order – it is the same every single time (all the time – Indians are very curious about foreigners) and in every part of the country! We talked a little and I shared my concern with him, hoping for some advice. I had to get to Mahabalipuram that night – it was imperative due to my circumstances involving my belongings waiting to be collected and a ferry to catch for a three-day crossing from Chennai to the Andaman Islands the next day. No other alternative was possible.
“You are guest in our country – your safety very important!” the young man sang, with the now familiar head-wiggle. And he disappeared. I saw him talking to the driver and then to a few people who were on the bus, and soon he re-appeared. “Our population agrees that you, esteemed guest in our country, should be taken safely to your desired destination. Bus will go to Mahabalipuram first, then Chennai. You happy?” He grinned, flashing his white teeth, proud that he could help.
Happy? I was flabbergasted! Amused by his choice of English, I had to smile wider, although I could hardly believe how nobody batted an eyelid at his proposition, which would delay their arrival in Chennai by at least half an hour.
These are the faces of India that I hope to share with you in the following weeks…!
India General Information
Country dialling code: +91.
Conversion Malta Lira to Indian Rupee: Lm1 = Rs134
Time zone: GMT + 5.5.
Electricity: 220 volts AC, 50Hz; round two- or three-pin plugs are standard.
Recommended Airlines serving Malta-India: Emirates via Dubai; Lufthansa via Frankfurt (overnight stay required)
Medical: Contact the Health Centre in Floriana for requirements according to region.
Mumbai (Bombay) City Statistics
Location: Maharashtra State, India.
Population: 14.8 million (Greater Mumbai).
Average January temp: 24.5°C (76°F).
Average July temp: 28.5°C (83°F).
Average annual rainfall: 2,160mm (85 inches) Jun-Sep.
Distance from Delhi: 1407km
