Incredible !ndia Indeed!

Cows and mud - my life

11 February 2009
Indira Ghandi International Airport
Delhi, Uttar Pradesh, INDIA

India is an irrepressible, full-on sensory experience. There is so much visual novelty for a Westerner – from dress to transport to shops to animals to the composition of the roadsides themselves (mostly dirt and trash with concrete curbs and sidewalks only in a very few inner city blocks). But even more than what there is to see, it’s the overwhelming volume of actors and activities (I’m quite sure I’ve seen more people in the past week than I’ve seen in the past five years put together, and that includes some trips to New York City and a few festivals) and the constant, churning motion – a fast moving river of cars, people, cows, bicycles, motorbikes, camels, buses, rickshaws, elephants, trucks, dogs, tractors, auto-rickshaws, hand-pushed carts, running children, and brightly coloured sarees.

NOTE: THE PHOTOS IN THIS POST ARE NOT MINE – STILL WAITING FOR THE RIGHT CABLE TO GET TO MY PHOTOS – THESE ARE ON THE WEB BUT MATCH MY EXPERIENCE VERY WELL.

India traffic

My view for much of the trip (click on photo to see more)

The strangest thing is that it still seems fast moving even when the streets are clogged in heavy traffic. Though lane lines have been painted on the paved roads, their sole purpose seems to be to make the British and other Westerners feel more comfortable because they are completely irrelevant as far as everyone here is concerned. The streets and intersections are always giant seething, throbbing, pulsing beehives of thoroughly non-linear scrambling, jostling, darting and zooming. With larger vehicles completely stopped or slow-moving, the people, bicycles, animals, and motorbikes (often with a family of 4 aboard) slip in, around, and through every narrow opening between bus and car and cart and truck. It’s like shallow water making its way through a rocky streambed in which even the rocks are moving.

Jaipur - one of the gates to Old City (click on photo to see more)

The sound of all this glorious chaos is a symphony of horns of every timbre, rhythm and even melody, alongside the shouts of thousands. I am tempted to say that Indian traffic must have been the inspiration for the relentless musical style of Philip Glass, but Philip Glass is too unsettled, unresolved and unharmonious in his melody – full of fear and anxiety in his discordant keys. But my experience of the chaos of Indian road traffic is infinitely harmonious. In spite of every available space being filled with people, animals, bikes, cars, buses or trucks, I did not witness a single accident – not even a bumper tap or sideswipe or twisted ankle, though vehicles were rarely more than a foot away from each other and constantly edging each other out – all accompanied by horns and shouts. It is important to note that the horns are not solely for aggravation, but appear to be a fantastic distributed guidance system. In such close quarters, rearview mirrors wouldn’t last long. The road rules for passing are dictated by honking to advise that you are coming up from behind. In fact, all the trucks and busses have “HORN PLEASE” painted on their rear bumper. There is also clearly a sort of Morse Code in the rhythms of the horns, with different syncopations having different meanings. Some were obvious – short taps indicating a friendly alert and sustained blasts signaling more critical aggravation or power plays. But there also seemed to be a much broader range of audio symbols and meanings that I was unable to decipher.

Surprisingly, as compared to other countries, I saw and heard few chickens or roosters. Perhaps when faced with their audio competition they simply gave up and went away to quietly sulk.

India challenges the definitions of so many words: street, shop, crowd, bus station, dwelling. I could write a book, but this is merely a travel journal – notes from my experience to give you a hint of what my trip was like. Actually, I might just transcribe for you the notes I scribbled as I travelled along – triggers to remind me of the related stories, which I would never be able to write out in full here.

But to return to the sensory experience, there are also the smells. Sometimes they are pleasant, like fragrant incense or even the colognes of some of the people in the more upscale restaurants and hotels. Sometimes they are putrid, like the stunningly ever-present trash and raw sewage. Not only are there ditches with runoff and sewage in them, but even in the heart of the city, men think nothing of stopping anywhere to relieve themselves, without need for privacy of any kind except to face away from the street. And sometimes the smells are new and unusual, like the strangely unique smoky aroma that I can’t quite place. There are many fires all about from people burning trash or other things, but there’s also been a strangely “tart” kind of smoke – somehow sweetly bitter and partly acidic, like a fruity musk? Perhaps a kind of wood, I don’t know. I may never know.

Burning trash

Typical trash filled roadside (car is much too nice though)

And what of taste? Well of course there are a thousand tastes here, but I must confess to minimum experience on this one, for two reasons. First, although I am not averse to spicy foods per se, here in India I am definitely a lightweight. Not only was I unable to sample the full range of Indian fare, but sadly the subtle and exotic flavours of much of what I did consume were lost to me as they were hidden behind an overture of hot spices that my continental palate simply could not get past. The second issue involves that delightful phenomenon affectionately referred to as “Delhi Belly”. A few years back, an accidental sip from a water glass wiped out 3 days of my holidays in a Mexican seaside village – most of the third day spent crawling the 1 kilometre to “town” to the chemist for more bottled water and diarrhea medication. I was keen to not have a repeat of that and kept my culinary selections extremely conservative and abbreviated. The ice cream, I will note, was quite to my liking – a very important measure as those of you who know me well can attest. I also liked the yoghurt. It has more texture than US or Australian yoghurt and a fresher flavour – more like Greek. Aside from dishes that I already knew I liked, I especially enjoyed the Kashimiri Aloo I had last night – balls of potatoes, spinach and cheese in a delightful sauce with peas and raisins.

Last, but not least, India is a physical presence you cannot escape. Even in my highly controlled and artificial environments (hotels, meeting rooms, cars, private coach buses mostly), I felt India everywhere. Make no mistake. India is a dirty, dusty, filthy place. The dirt is everywhere – on the road, in the buildings, in the air. I experienced it most intimately on my 3-day drive around the Golden Triangle of Delhi, Jaipur and Agra. My skin, under my nails, my feet, in my nose, the creases of my eyes, my ears, my hair – everywhere. A grimy friction when rubbing my fingers together. A blackened tissue when blowing my nose or wiping my face. I hate being dirty. I can barely stand eating with my fingers. And those of you who know me well will be surprised to learn that I actually somehow got used to it over the course of the week.

Sharing the road with elephants

The following comparison isn’t really very good, but for those of you who have been to Central America, it is somewhat similar in terms of dirt and poverty and poor dental hygiene, but to get a sense of India you just need to multiply the people, animals and vehicles by 10! Sounds crazy, but hopefully someone who’s been to both places will comment. And yes, that’s a lot of really bad teeth! In Delhi this is juxtaposed with an upper middle class, in suits and fine shoes, and it was the extreme range of the human experience in one place that was the most arresting. While waiting for my photos, you should check out this string of photos of the road from Agra to Fatehpur Sikri (which I travelled) – they are all scenes I saw hundreds of times over 3 days:

Agra to Fatehpur Sikri

It is 12 noon and we have just now taken off from the Indira Ghandi International Airport. Goodbye India. You can be sure that I will hurry back to you and stay much, much longer next time. I usually laugh at country or state/provincial slogans as silly marketing campaigns. In particular, I thought that “Incredible !ndia” was a bit much. But I gladly gobble my hat, as this past week has been truly, madly, deeply incredible!

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