A wing and a prayer
Dateline: Mumbai-to-Delhi, June 3
The goal of Air Deccan, as the flight attendant announced as we taxied away from the gate (on time!), was to "make flying within reach of every Indian."
To which I have to ask: is that really such a good idea?
To start with, and I say this not to be snide, but as a matter of absolute fact, deodorant is a concept that has not really caught on in Indian society, outside a narrow socioeconomic band. Deodorant ads on TV, in fact, are pretty amusing, even when they're in Hindi, because they're pretty clearly trying to convince viewers not only of the virtue of the brand, but of the necessity of the product in general, which is not really something you see in the States. So, yeah, the plane stank. And just when I'd gotten used to that (as, rather frighteningly, one does), someone dumped half a bottle of cheap cologne on themselves, leaving me feeling nauseated the rest of the flight. And, yeah, cell phones were ringing the whole time we were in range. The guy in front of me, whose seat was reclined practically into my lap, was snapped at by the flight attendant to put it upright -- which he did, until she walked on, and then he was back in my lap. In fact, once we landed in Delhi, I had to point out to him that he really had to put the seat up, or else K and I couldn't exit our row, and he seemed rather surprised: oh, you want to exit? Mentally file and save, good readers, because I'll get around to an entire entry on Indian solipsism at some point.
As soon as we landed in Delhi, I disappeared. No, really. I barely exist in Mumbai, but Delhi is a million times worse. I was the first to spot the driver holding the sign withour K's name, and I smiled and made eye contact with the guy, who immediately sought out K's face and looked faintly embarrassed by my existence. He engaged K in conversation the entire way to the car, while I was seething, four steps behind. "Uh, gee, [my name], what do you think?" K tried to rope me in, to his credit. I started to answer, but the driver cut me off. What I think, when in Delhi, is utterly unimportant.
There was another man waiting at the car, which made the first guy not the driver, but what, then? It made me nervous. There were no seatbelts. The guy drove at absolute top speed, so I got only glimpses of Delhi, made more surreal by my being really tired and it being around midnight. I saw one of those ubiquitous three-wheeled trucks derelict on the side of the road, tilted up in a way I never knew they could, as if in heat and presenting itself. Perhaps its offspring will have four wheels. When we turned off the highway and started driving through some exceptionally seedy neighborhoods, down dark alleys choked with garbage and livestock, I kept jabbing K awake with my elbow, convinced we were being taken somewhere to be mugged and killed. Why else were there two men in the front? (The answer, of course, was "why not"? For the absurd sum we were paying for the ride -- 500 rupees -- we could have hired a fleet of palanquin bearers to convey us downtown. Perhaps next time.)
Our hotel, the Golden Something-or-other was in one of the dismal alleys, though one radiating a slightly less menacing air. (That's what we pay the big bucks for.) The oleaginous desk clerk filled out my registration card with total fictions, never consulting me (purpose of visit to India: tourist. Length of stay: 45 days) and then got upset with me when the facts of my passport and visa didn't match his story.
Our room had stained walls, stained bedding, bare light bulbs, and a filthy air conditioner that we couldn't figure out how to turn off, which coughed up icy drafts that smelled like they'd been expelled from a stale freezer. A couple of wires protruded from the wall. The bellboy offered to get us a TV to fit them, and paused significantly. It was 1 AM. I tried to dissuade him, and eventually had to pretty much push him out the door. The bed was hard as a board.
"Hey," I called out to K, "there's a big pool of blood on the floor by the bed -- fresh blood!"
I began searching for the source -- how exciting: fresh blood in a seedy hotel! Where's the corpse hidden? It was less exciting, when the source proved to be my foot (the fracture-free one). A split-second later -- funny how consciousness works -- and I was decidedly in pain. As I cleaned up the floor with tissues, I found a significant amount, though probably not all, of the broken glass that had been scatted about by the room's previous occupant.
K slept, while I tossed and turned miserably on the plank bed, and kept imagining I heard people entering our unsecured window that looked out on the neighboring slum. I pondered how my metaphorical itchy feet had landed me with two very literal broken and bloodied ones.
A lesson in that, somewhere.
The goal of Air Deccan, as the flight attendant announced as we taxied away from the gate (on time!), was to "make flying within reach of every Indian."
To which I have to ask: is that really such a good idea?
To start with, and I say this not to be snide, but as a matter of absolute fact, deodorant is a concept that has not really caught on in Indian society, outside a narrow socioeconomic band. Deodorant ads on TV, in fact, are pretty amusing, even when they're in Hindi, because they're pretty clearly trying to convince viewers not only of the virtue of the brand, but of the necessity of the product in general, which is not really something you see in the States. So, yeah, the plane stank. And just when I'd gotten used to that (as, rather frighteningly, one does), someone dumped half a bottle of cheap cologne on themselves, leaving me feeling nauseated the rest of the flight. And, yeah, cell phones were ringing the whole time we were in range. The guy in front of me, whose seat was reclined practically into my lap, was snapped at by the flight attendant to put it upright -- which he did, until she walked on, and then he was back in my lap. In fact, once we landed in Delhi, I had to point out to him that he really had to put the seat up, or else K and I couldn't exit our row, and he seemed rather surprised: oh, you want to exit? Mentally file and save, good readers, because I'll get around to an entire entry on Indian solipsism at some point.
As soon as we landed in Delhi, I disappeared. No, really. I barely exist in Mumbai, but Delhi is a million times worse. I was the first to spot the driver holding the sign with
There was another man waiting at the car, which made the first guy not the driver, but what, then? It made me nervous. There were no seatbelts. The guy drove at absolute top speed, so I got only glimpses of Delhi, made more surreal by my being really tired and it being around midnight. I saw one of those ubiquitous three-wheeled trucks derelict on the side of the road, tilted up in a way I never knew they could, as if in heat and presenting itself. Perhaps its offspring will have four wheels. When we turned off the highway and started driving through some exceptionally seedy neighborhoods, down dark alleys choked with garbage and livestock, I kept jabbing K awake with my elbow, convinced we were being taken somewhere to be mugged and killed. Why else were there two men in the front? (The answer, of course, was "why not"? For the absurd sum we were paying for the ride -- 500 rupees -- we could have hired a fleet of palanquin bearers to convey us downtown. Perhaps next time.)
Our hotel, the Golden Something-or-other was in one of the dismal alleys, though one radiating a slightly less menacing air. (That's what we pay the big bucks for.) The oleaginous desk clerk filled out my registration card with total fictions, never consulting me (purpose of visit to India: tourist. Length of stay: 45 days) and then got upset with me when the facts of my passport and visa didn't match his story.
Our room had stained walls, stained bedding, bare light bulbs, and a filthy air conditioner that we couldn't figure out how to turn off, which coughed up icy drafts that smelled like they'd been expelled from a stale freezer. A couple of wires protruded from the wall. The bellboy offered to get us a TV to fit them, and paused significantly. It was 1 AM. I tried to dissuade him, and eventually had to pretty much push him out the door. The bed was hard as a board.
"Hey," I called out to K, "there's a big pool of blood on the floor by the bed -- fresh blood!"
I began searching for the source -- how exciting: fresh blood in a seedy hotel! Where's the corpse hidden? It was less exciting, when the source proved to be my foot (the fracture-free one). A split-second later -- funny how consciousness works -- and I was decidedly in pain. As I cleaned up the floor with tissues, I found a significant amount, though probably not all, of the broken glass that had been scatted about by the room's previous occupant.
K slept, while I tossed and turned miserably on the plank bed, and kept imagining I heard people entering our unsecured window that looked out on the neighboring slum. I pondered how my metaphorical itchy feet had landed me with two very literal broken and bloodied ones.
A lesson in that, somewhere.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment<< Home