PHYSICALLY SPEAKING
While Egypt and Morocco tax your cultural limits, India taxes your physical ones. Randy often made comment on how the Indian people are able to withstand a colossal amount of physical discomfort; these comments were generally made at a time when we ourselves were experiencing something aggravating or irritating. Whether it relates to our bodies or to our environment, it's been a bit of a strain.
Some discomforts are directly related to our physique -- we have big bodies, Indians have small ones. Very small. And this one difference can take on great meaning. For instance, furniture is made according to those who will use them. Squeezing our frames into their small chairs, bus seats, rickshaws, beds -- their space in general -- is a constant challenge. And the sheer
number of people can be overwhelming. They are able to fit an incredible number of people into a small area. For instance, two of us take up a bench seat on a bus, whereas they can fit 5 or 6 people in the same area (no exaggeration here). The good news is, we've learned a lot. For example, we learned that we don't need two rickshaws to take us from the train station to the hotel with our packs -- one is just fine. We put one backpack into the well behind the passenger seat. I sit in back with Candi and two other backpacks (one on the floor, one on our laps), and two day packs and the food bag, also on our laps. Sometimes one of us has to stick a leg or foot out the door, but that's okay. Randy sits up front, sharing the driver's seat, with his daypacks. Sometimes one of them has to stick a limb or two out the door as well, but usually it's not the driver. We look like a clown car!
Other discomforts relate to our "space" (or lack of it). If we don't lock our hotel room doors, a constant stream of people will enter to ask if we need anything; more likely this is just an excuse to just get a look at us and see what we are doing. Staring at foreigners is a popular pastime, and not altogether unexpected. But when they pull up a seat two feet away from you at the train station and stare for 30 minutes, or turn around in their bus seats and watch you for the duration of the ride (sometimes for hours), it's unnerving. (Asking them to stop has proved unsuccessful.)
Still other displeasures relate to our environment. On a serious level: the pollution here is shocking; each night I wash off a disturbing layer of dirt and grime caked on my skin, clothes and hair. And the infamous pre-monsoon heat ranks right up there with Florida weather. On a less-serious note: like me, you probably don't think about electricity very often, about how it powers the creature comforts of home. For the most part, it's pretty much a sure bet in the States. In India it's a sure bet, too: it's 100% guaranteed that the electricity will go out at some point during your day. Scheduled blackouts are called "load shedding," which help the beleaguered hydroelectric plants keep up. Shortly after the power is shut off, you can hear the rumble of gas-powered generators cranking up at the more prosperous establishments. If you hope to cool off under a fan or an air cooler, you'll find yourself following the hum of these generators.
For the most part electrical problems, stemming from more mysterious sources, are on-again off-again bleeps lasting little more than a few minutes. My guess is that someone or something disturbing the tangled mess of tenuously draped electrical wires causes them. I've learned to keep my flashlight nearby, but even if it isn't, most hotels provide a candle and matches on the nightstand. And candles certainly create wonder. I've eaten in many restaurants that continue to operate by candlelight (no electric stoves or microwaves here), though it's sometimes hard to read a menu in the soft light. And those rooftop restaurants that place candles on the street and up the stairs to help you find your way are delightful -- we do that only on special occasions back home! Sometimes, though, it can make you curse in frustration when the power goes out during the dramatic climax of a movie, or as you're lying in bed dripping with sweat because the fans don't work. It's during these moments that I recall the image of a street scene in Old Delhi:
A power outage has allowed the darkness of night to descend on the sweltering and teeming mass of humanity. I can see the anguished faces of bicycle rickshaw drivers hauling cumbrous loads, and I try not to breathe in the choking fog of pollution spewed out by the buses and trucks. And as I peer out the window of an autorickshaw, I spy the street vendors cooking their wares by the light of their propane stoves. There, off to the side, sitting on the crumbled cement of the sidewalk and near a leafy old tree, is a cart full of fresh, cool, sliced watermelon and burning candles.
My final gripe is that India has no worthy beer, and Diet Coke (or any "diet" soda) is a rare and expensive commodity. I am eternally in search of a "cold one."
