Delhi: Of drivers and riders.

If I thought Kolkata’s traffic was bad, I wasn’t prepared for Delhi.

At least 10 times larger, Delhi’s traffic is permanently at a stand-still, the honking never ceasing for a minute.

And the main reason for the jams is due to the fact that drivers here don’t give way.

At every intersection without a traffic light, drivers attempt to do the impossible by cutting across where they want to go, with little regard for oncoming traffic and with zero understanding of the concept of giving way.

The result? Unnecessary honking and further delays.

Hapless policemen attempt to wave and direct traffic at these intersections, but more often than not, they are blatantly ignored.

To get anywhere in Delhi, you need a good driver who is aggressive enough and who knows his way around traffic.

Or in some cases, a good rickshaw rider. Here, they call them 2-wheelers.

I got on a 2-wheeler near Delhi’s Red Fort to take me to the monument entrance, across crazy 2-way traffic and then around the Chandni Chowk (bazaar) right across the Red Fort after.

Raju came up to me and said he’d take me for 20 rupees to the entrance of Red Fort. But if I wanted, he would also take me around the Chandni Chowk.

I asked him how much that would cost.

“You happy, you pay me anything you want, madam,” was the reply, with the signature head sway.

As I got on the rickshaw and Raju expertly wheeled around traffic , we got into introductory conversation.

“I’m 28 years old, madam, recently married, only 6 months,” he told me with a toothy smile. Then he turned his head back again and added proudly, “Love marriage, madam, my wife and me, “

It was interesting that he thought it significant to add that final point. I suppose in a country like India where match-made marriages are still the norm, love marriages become a rare, and precious occurrence.

Raju made it a point to remind me as I got on and off his 2-wheeler at each site,

“Don’t take guides inside, madam”

“Don’t buy souvenir inside, madam, very expensive, you go market and buy better”

“Be careful your bag, madam”

Taking a rickshaw ride is quite an unforgettable experience here. The bumps, potholes and swerves are so much more acutely felt; the blares from the cars tailgating the 2-wheeler become excruciatingly sharp to my ears; I had to hold on tight to the sides whilst attempting to take photos without losing my camera with each pothole we went over.

Midway, Raju turned around and asked with a toothy grin, “Madam, you are very beautiful, what about me?”

I saw oncoming traffic nearing our little rickshaw and managed to give him a thumbs-up sign with time enough for him to make a swerve, whilst I closed my eyes and hoped that that wasn’t the last conversation I had in this lifetime.

As our tour came to an end, I handed Raju some rupees and told him to take care of his wife.

With his signature toothy grin, he replied, “Ya, ya, of course, madam,”

Later in the day, I recounted my 2-wheeler encounter to Nick as we headed to dinner at Connaught Place.

I pondered how funny fate could be, that Raju and I were the same age, but our paths in life were so divergent.

Nick peered over his glasses and said knowingly, “Well, at least he’s happily married, and a love marriage at that!”

Touché.

Kolkata: Battle for the plane.

After 3 days of wedding festivities in Kolkata (of which I’ll write more about later), it was time to bid adieu to the city and head over to Delhi.

My friendly driver, Uttam, said arriving at the airport 1 hour beforehand was sufficient for domestic flights.

I got to the airport promptly an hour before my flight was due to depart, but what greeted me was a massive crowd milling outside the airport, people rushing to buy air tickets at the last minute at the counters, drivers honking other drivers for hogging the drop-off spot.

I hastily attempted to make my way into the check-in area, not before I had to make a large detour around the crowd to find the little entrance in the railings.

Then, another queue awaited. This time, to screen all baggage before passengers were allowed to go to the check-in counters.

Loud chattering echoed through the halls, lines formed all over the place for different airlines, people jumped queues randomly, and there was no sense of urgency to get passengers through quickly.

I started to panic. With 45 minutes to go, I was still in line to get my baggage screened, and no where near the snaking lines in front of check-in.

Then suddenly, all these Indigo flight officers started appearing and calling out for Ahmenabad passengers. Apparently the flight was leaving in 15 minutes and they had to get the Ahmenabad-bound passengers on the plane.

What ensued was an organised mess of people emerging from the lines waving their Ahmenabad tickets, rushing to the front of security screening, then being escorted to the check-in counter to get their boarding passes.

However, I was still relegated to standing in line and as I managed to get my baggage through, my next task was to find the check-in counter for Delhi.

Problem was, none of the counters indicated the destinations for checking in.

I stood at the end of the shortest line I could find, then managed to flag down an airport officer to ask for help.

He casually waved me towards another line at the end of the hall and proceeded on his way.

Not sure what to do, I looked haplessly around. Then, something caught my eye.

One of the counters had produced a sign that read “Delhi”. I picked up my belongings and rushed forward.

Funnily enough, I got through all the formalities with even 15 minutes to spare before boarding time.  No mean feat by local standards.

Being in India was a test of my patience. But also a good lesson for me to learn to chill and trust that the process will get me to my destination. Urgency is not a commonly-accepted nor understood concept.  

That lesson held me in good stead for the rest of my journey.

Kolkata: Rules to live by.

Kolkata. 

After 3 days in this interestingly dusty city, I’ve come to 4 basic understandings of living in Kolkata:

1. Blowing your trumpet is a way of life.

And I mean literally. Honking is a 24-hour/7-days-a-week affair. You’re not a legitimate driver if you don’t honk your way out of any traffic situation.

There’s an unmistakable drone of honking that blankets the entire city of Kolkata.

Even at the airport, near the runway where they transport passengers from plane to terminal via bus, the bus driver honks away at the traffic controllers milling around baggage containers under the huge airplane wings.

The funniest part is, the honking doesn’t do any good. Considering that nobody follows road markings (you’d be mocked if you tried to follow any traffic rules), few pay attention to road signs and pedestrian crossings, and pedestrians cross the road like their grandfather owns it.

And half the vehicles on the roads don’t have side-view mirrors. They really don’t. Nobody uses them, and they become more of a hindrance than a necessity since traffic tends to be backed up bumper to bumper, with barely an inch between cars side-by-side on the roads. There’s no space for side-view mirrors here.

But drivers honk all the same. I suppose it’s a psychological and cultural driving etiquette here. Honk loudly and frequently enough, maybe you’ll be able to honk all the slower drivers out of your way, and speed your way across town.

When that happens, hold on tight. It’s like getting on a 3D adventure simulation ride in Universal Studios – the bumps, jolts, zig-zags. Except that it’s live.

The irony? Signs along the roads that say “No Hurry, No Worry”.

I’m not kidding.

2. Ya-ya-papaya

“Ya, ya.”

That’s what you say when you’re expressing agreement, certainty, or just a space filler.

The Kolkatans use it like we use “Can” in Singapore.  With a little left-to-right shake of the head in rhythm with the 2 syllables.

“Can you call my driver, please?” “Ya,ya, no problem, madam.”

“The traffic is really bad here...” “Ya, ya, everyday is like that here, madam.”

“Your wife is really beautiful...” “Ya, ya, I is lucky, madam.”

Ya ya. I like it.

3.  Don’t queue, just join in.

Queuing is not a common concept here.

Actually, let me rephrase that. Cutting queues is a perfectly acceptable norm.

Everyone does it, no matter where - at the airport checking-in, at the booth counter buying entrance tickets, at the markets buying things  -  the concept of waiting for your turn in line does not exist.

You can distinguish the tourists from the locals by the fact that the former patiently wait in line whilst the latter blatantly join mid-way or elbow their way through the front.

And it’s perfectly acceptable. Nobody tells the queue-cutter to get back in line, nobody feels embarrassed by jumping the line. It’s just a way of life.

I decided to do it Kolkata-style when we were trying to buy entrance tickets to the Victoria Memorial grounds the other day.

I elbowed all these local men out of the way with aplomb, barked at a local who tried to cut in front of me and positioned myself right in front of the counter, stuck my hand through the small gaping  hole and demanded for 4 tickets.

My friends found it rather amusing to say the least. And I think the locals were also a bit stunned at this tall, crazy Asian woman with big camera and all pushing in.

Well as they say, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. In this case, do as the Indians do.

4. You can ask for anything.

You literally can.

In our hotel at the Chrome, there’s even a button on the phone that says “Anything”.

And if you want something, and don’t know who to call, just press the Anything button.

It’s synonymous of the culture here, you really can ask for anything, the Kolkatans are a really hospitable people.

But when you get what you ask for is no guarantee.

Yesterday, I was trying to put on a sari for my friend’s wedding. Clearly, that wasn’t going to work without any help.

What to do? Call “Anything”.

Although we had to call twice before someone came up finally.

Two ladies from the hotel staff very gamely attempted to drape the sari around me. First they twirled the cloth around me, then they twirled me around the cloth. This went on several times, alternating between one and the other.

Finally, one of them admitted that it’s easy to dress one’s self in a sari, but very difficult to do so for someone else.

After more than 30 minutes of trials and attempts, they finally managed to pin it onto me, not without the help of at least 6 safety pins.

See? You can ask for anything. Even sari dressers.

India: First Impressions

It started just as the plane hit the tarmac in Kolkata, before we parked at the gate. Mobile phones started ringing, polyphonic tones of all sorts buzzing from each corner of the plane. Despite repeated announcements from the crew to keep all mobile devices off till the plane came to a complete stop.

Looking out the window, the smogginess of pollution that descends upon the city was unmistakable.  

Getting through immigration was a breeze, not least because the officer scanning all incoming hand baggage was busy talking on the phone rather than paying attention to the screening.

I lost my customs declaration slip (which was a very little flimsy slip that was torn off the immigration arrival form) before I got to the exit .  After some sad looks and hapless protestations, the customs officer brought me to the side table, rummaged through some older slips and took out someone else’s slip that wasn’t filled completely, scratched out the signature on it and then asked me to fill it in. No passport number, nothing.

Calcutta reminds me of Indonesia en route to the hotel – the chaos outside the airport, haphazard parking and reckless pedestrians crossing at will, long stretches of pot-holed roads across barren land, with the occasional cement castle of an edifice rising from the ground every now and then.

Tomorrow the adventure begins.

Welcome to India.

Packing for India

I got my typhoid and flu vaccines yesterdaay.

Visa should be ready tomorrow. I hope.

I've got the hae bi (dried shrimp) and the toilet paper to take to my buddy with whom I'll be staying with in Delhi.

Wait.

Toilet paper?

Yup, he specifically asked for toilet paper.

Apparently toilet paper is a luxury good in India, coveted by many but afforded by few.

It's also apparently not a mass cultural norm to use toilet paper during you-know-when occasions.

Well I'll find out for sure on this trip whether this is really true, but in any case, I'm definitely bringing some of it myself, lest I be caught in an awkward situation.

I'm really looking forward to this trip, not least because it'll be an adventure in a uniquely different country, I'll be attending a true blue Indian wedding (hopefully there'll be elephants!) plus I'll be a single Asian female travelling by myself.

Oh the tales of locals grabbing your boobs as you walk by, being accosted and molested in every possible public situation and various other stories have assailed my ears by loads of people who've heard about my solitary travel plans.

I've tended to dismiss them as over-exaggerated travellers' tales so far, although at the back of my head there's a little niggly feeling of unease. Then I opened the guidebook and read the snippet about female travellers and almost fell off my chair.

It confirmed a good majority of all these travellers' tales. The guidebook attributed it to the latent repressed sexuality in India.

I didn't know whether to laugh out loud or crease my brows in worry.

On top of defending my modesty, I also have to figure out how to feed myself safely. Practically everyone I know who's been to India has been attacked by food poisoning during their trip, even with the most careful precautions.

My dad is freaked out to say the least. Especially with the Mumbai bomb attacks in 2008 and the security threats in Delhi leading up to and during the Commonwealth Games a couple of months back.

But as a friend said, if you don't live on the edge sometimes, you'll always regret it.

And it's not like I'm going to be hanging off a cliff or anything like that.

I'm actually staying in a fairly fancy hotel in Kolkata while attending my college friend's traditional Indian wedding. Plus, a simple search on tripadvisor turns up enough horror stories about accomodation to make me want to pay that bit more for extra comfort.

Some other friends eventually got onto the bandwagon and will be flying in as well. So I won't actually be alone by myself all the time.

But then I'll be heading over to Delhi on my own on a domestic Indian airline. At the back of my head, I've got this image of riding pillon on a motorcycle to the airport, battling crazy Kolkata traffic, only to be turned away because I wasn't there 2 hours earlier. Or getting my luggage lost in the middle of my trip.

And then there's the going to Agra to see the Taj and the Fort on my own. Besides the fact it was quite the undertaking to find a safe and decent way to get there, and that I had to fork out a small fortune to get a guide and a driver to take me, since I was not about to spend 4 hours on the local train with the risk of getting squashed like a sardine, molested and harrassed out of my wits and possibly not getting there in one piece.

Or not getting there at all.

Especially since I have little time on this trip, time is of the essence.

Then it occurred to me that for all the safety precautions, the driver or the guide could simply just whisk me off anywhere after they picked me up and there would be practically no way anyone could find me. I'd be in the middle of nowhere, for goodness sake.

But, hey, having an overactive imagination does nobody any good when travelling. Plus, the whole point about travelling to Incredible India (as their tourism slogan proclaims) is to learn and be immersed into a whole new culture, isn't it?

I'm psyched (once I get past the toilet paper apprehensions)!

Washington, DC: Hoya Saxa!

Each time I walk through Healy Gates at 37th and O, a huge ball of nostalgia wells up at the base of my throat as my brain inadvertently brings back memories of the years I spent roaming the campus as an undergrad.

The spires of Healy Hall - a National Historic Landmark - greet you as you walk through the gates at 37th & O Streets



The back of Healy Hall - from Dahlgren Quad

 After all, some of the best years of my life, and probably the most formative in many ways, were spent in the hallowed hallways of the Harry-Potter-esque towers dating back to as early as 1789, when the school was founded by John Carroll, a Jesuit priest.

The school's main campus architecture is styled after Gothic, Georgian brick and Romanesque architecture, surrounded by sprawling green lawns, over-arching trees, blooming flowers of the season and free-ranging squirrels. 

Dahlgren Chapel accorded its own serenity in the middle of campus

Copley Hall - an upperclassmen dorm

I remember that something was always going on at Red Square, the centre of campus activity (not unlike the Red Square in Moscow in many ways) - it was, and still is, here that students campaign for their causes, call on fellow activists to petition for social justice, perform and promote upcoming student events and shows; it was, and still is, here, that people of different race, colour, religion, political affiliation, socio-economic background can stand next to each other and campaign for opposite causes, but still be friends and respect the differences that create such a vibrant atmosphere for intellectual conversation to thrive.

Red Square in front of the Intercultural Centre - quiet on a Sunday afternoon

It was on this same campus that I spent beautiful spring and fall days sprawled on the lawn reading and/or dreaming (usually both), met amazing friends from all backgrounds (whom I still remain in touch with today) and acquired an entire new perspective on life from a different education system.

I used to walk out of class after a fervent discussion on culture and politics, inspired with youthful intellectual idealism on how to change the world, armed with Michel Foucault and Amartya Sen (amongst other luminaries) as my guides.


Squirrels have a field day roaming free across campus and amusing students with their brazenness

As I walk past current students enjoying the campus like I used to, I cannot help but feel the pang of envy that my time has passed, for what would I give to spend a day as an undergrad again?

DC / Virginia: Cheesecake Factory Revisited

I couldn't resist.

My last dinner in the US, and I still hadn't had a full meal at the Cheesecake Factory yet.

Preposterous, really.

Cheesecake Factory food isn't gourmet or anything Michelin-starred lest you wonder why I rave and rant endlessly about it.

But it's delicious American grub (not always the healthiest), HUGE portions and affordable prices.

What's not to lilke about that??

Here's a tribute to my much-loved American diner.

Thanks Ji, for taking me all the way to Tyson's Corner to fulfil my cravings!


My all time favourite - Avocado Egg Rolls



French Country Salad
With grilled asparagus, fresh beets, goat cheese, candied pecans and vinaigrette

Appetiser crabcakes - with mustard and tartar sauce



And you can't leave without their famous cheesecakes!
This is a Halloween special - Pumpkin Pecan Cheesecake.
It's really 2 desserts in 1 - pecan pie at the bottom, pumpkin cheesecake on top and finished with fresh whipped cream!