On Arrival in India
On Arrival in India
By Benjamin Alexandra
The moment I stepped through the exit gate I was flocked by a crowd of touts. The first one to reach me yelled, “come quickly, my bus, very good price, come now, I take you, good price, only four rupees.”
He was pushed aside by another tout who yelled, “no! No, him bus too expensive, no good bus. My bus good price, come my bus, cheaper, very cheaper, only three rupees.” I did some quick mental math – we were talking about a difference of five cents – I took the cheaper one.
I climbed on to the filthy bus and sat down on a grubby bench that would be too small for two westerners. I managed to squeeze in with both my knees crumpled up in my face. On the back of the seat in front of me was a spray-painted sign:
Look under seat
Find bomb
Raise alarm
Earn reward
What the hell am I doing in India? To make things worse, a family of three sat down on the half seat
next to me.
I cannot even begin to describe the streets of New Delhi: the sounds, the smells, the vendors, the beggars, the cows and the rickshaws.
“Hello, my friend, what your country?” I turned around to see a grinning, clean-cut, handsome, Indian youth walking towards me. I had only just arrived at the park and I already had a friend, how nice. I told my new friend that I was from America.
“I have many friend from USA. Here, see in my book.” He showed me a small, diary-like book with handwritten inscriptions. He pointed to one which said:
I felt so relaxed after my full body rub-down.
Thank you, Habib!
Dan, Illinois, USA
And another:
I felt so relaxed and healthy after my massage.
Thanks,
Sue, Los Angeles.
Not being used to people approaching me in parks, offering to give me a full body massage I told Habib that I was not interested. I turned to find a sharp, charismatic looking street kid leading a group of his friends towards me. His English was excellent and he was incredibly confident. He said, “hello, Mister, your shoe is broken. Come here and sit down, we want to fix it for you.” Before I knew it, I was on my ass in the middle of the Connaught Place, with both shoes off. I was so busy watching the kids examine my shoes and making sure they didn’t walk off with them, that it took me a minute before I realized that someone was massaging my foot. I looked down to see the toothless grin of an old man. I asked him what he was doing. “No problem mister,” he smiled, “I give you free foot massage.”
When in Rome . . . So, I went along. After thoroughly examining my shoes, the leader told me I would have to pay them 400 rupees ($20) to sew up the sides and glue the sole back on.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said asking for my shoes back. But they were not letting go so easily. OK, how much you want to pay? After much ado, we agreed on 40 rupees ($2) to glue back on the soles. The whole time I was arguing with these boys, the old man who was giving me the ‘free foot massage’ was working up my legs and asking, “is it OK?” I told him it was good.
A small crowd of Indians had gathered to watch the fun. Before I knew it, another small, diary-like book was shoved in my face, this time by an ear-cleaner. I tried to tell the him that I wasn’t interested, but he had no intention of going away. Things were quickly escalating. I was being turned over to get my back cracked by the foot massager. I was still watching the kids to make sure they did not leave with my shoes, and the ear cleaner was still sticking his book in my face. Then Habib, the first youth, came over and started helping the old man. The boys were sewing up my shoes and telling me to pay as much as I liked. I figured I would give them a few extra rupees. Suddenly my ears were full of liquid and the ear cleaner was cleaning them out. Then, as quickly as it began, it ended and everyone wanted money.
I left the park and wandered back to the guest house in a daze. I had been in India for less than two hours and had already been ripped off. The free foot massage had cost me $20. The old man had tried to get me to give $20 to Habib – and had pretended to be angry when I wouldn’t. The ear cleaner got $10 and the kids wanted 400 rupees, because they had sewed up the shoes and that was the original price. They walked away with 200 rupees ($10). I kicked myself the whole way back.
I collapsed on my cot, rolled over and hid my head in the pillow. I felt so lost. There I was, 19 years old, alone, naïve, and in India. Although I had done extensive traveling in Europe, I had never been to a country where I stuck out, where I glowed, where I felt like a walking neon dollar-sign, where everyone stopped to look at me.
After an hour or so I ventured out again. This time was even worse. I let myself wander and ended up in some of the poorest parts of Old Delhi. The living conditions just sent me into another layer of shock. The tin shacks, with earthen floors and old tires weighing down the roof, housing ten times as many people as they should, the filth, the poverty, the sickness, the smell, all sent me running back to my bed. I lay there, the images of the city running though my head, tears rolling down my face. I had never seen leprosy before. I had never given to a beggar with no legs and no fingers. I had never seen people dying on the side of the road while hundreds of people stepped over him without even noticing him. I had never seen cows wandering down the middle of the street and sick dogs being beaten away with sticks from the crib of a dying child. As my tears soaked the pillow, I wished I were home, safe, away from this hell. I wished I had a friend with me.
I fell asleep with these thoughts in my head and a knot in my stomach. When I awoke, I did my best to go back to sleep, to run to that paradise of dreams, to leave reality again, to leave this hell – if only for an hour. There I lay, alone in this huge room, alone in this huge city, alone and lonely. As I lay there, I wondered if it was too late in the day to buy a ticket back to America – or back to Europe. How could I have been so stupid as to come here? I looked outside and saw it was getting dark. I sat up thinking that if I hurried. . .
What the hell am I thinking? I can’t leave. I came here for a reason. I came here to get a look at the other side. I came halfway around the world. I can’t leave now. I can’t give up so easily. I won’t quit.
I made a deal with myself. I would stick it out for two weeks. If, after that time, I still needed to leave, I would. And if I wanted to stay, then I would – as long as the $850 in my pocket lasted.
I could not have made a better decision. I set myself free and let in India. I spent three days in shock, getting used to this new life, talking to people and learning how to adapt. By the fifth day, I could deal with it. By the eighth, I no longer felt sick at the sights on the streets. By the tenth, I was actually beginning to enjoy it and by the end of the two weeks, you could not have dragged me away.
I spent three months in India and Nepal, riding camels through the deserts, trekking though the Himalayas, visiting the Ganges to watch the bathing Sadus and the burning bodies, volunteering in Calcutta for Mother Theresa and Dr. Jack, living with primitive tribes in the tropical islands of Indonesia, and learning Chinese in Taiwan and China. I supported myself by teaching English in Hong Kong, Korea and Taiwan.. These were all wonderful experiences, which I would have missed if I had not stuck it out to the end.
I was thrown into those first few days in India and they proved to be some of the most difficult and intense moments of my life. But, as would be expected, they became a source of personal expansion and understanding and provided perspective useful in any part of my life.