Chennai
I spent only two days in Chennai and I have mixed feelings about that. Chennai was more along the lines of the India that I had been expecting. The streets were chaotic and the people were everywhere. In Kochi there were people with their hands out, but not as many or as aggressive as the beggars here. There is an energy here that I didn’t really find in Kerala too. The mystical spiritual India is mixed right in there with the trash and the traffic. Or at least the impression I got from my one healthy day of touring the city. I arrived at 6:30 am and waited around until 8:30 for an internet café to open. As I waited outside a coffee house a couple young guys sat down nearby and had their morning pick me up. One of them then proceeded to get up and puke in the street several times. It was kind of gross, so I looked away. When I looked back he had picked up my water bottle and was drinking from it. I stared at him and he just shrugged. I wasn’t going to argue with him over 6 rupees worth of bottled water so I told him just to keep what was left. That set the stage for the rest of the day. After internetting I booked a room and decided to go out and explore the city. While barely mentioned in my Rough Guide, a map of the city in the lobby of my guest house had the popular tourist attractions marked with a picture for each one. There is a large Hindu temple in town called Mylapore and it looked really neat, so I thought I would start there. I arrived at about 11am and went to look around. I was immediately seized upon by a guy who worked there so he could show me around. This also happens all the time. I figured I would pay him if the tour was good and not pay him if it sucked. I took my shoes off and he showed me the temple. He gave me a three minute version of Hinduism and told me what each alter was, ect. It was a decent tour, but he asked for no money. He said that I arrived during a big Hindu celebration that there would be a big procession at the temple at 3pm. After he said that the temple feeds and shelters some of the area poor and would I mind looking at the gift shop to help out. I was starting the think that this guy might actually be a legitimate helpful temple employee. ‘Sure,’ I said. Looking is free. “You wait here and take pictures. I will get a rickshaw and come back. We will shop and I will drop you off at St Thomas Basilica (my next destination)” Get a rickshaw??? Where is this gift shop anyway? Now I know I am being taken, but I still think ‘well, maybe it is for a good cause. Maybe it is just a few blocks away on a main street…….’ As I waited my patience shrank and my apprehension grew. This could be expensive and/or uncomfortable. Forget it. Just as I started to leave he found me and steered me towards the rickshaw. Crap, well, OK. “How much will the rickshaw be?” I asked. “Oh, not much. It is close.” OK. I got in and he got in next to me. I was taken to a government crafts store just like the ones on my last tour; just like all the ones in all the countries before it. I went in, looked around and left. Then another, then another. Finally I said, “I don’t want to shop anymore. Drop me off at the Basilica.” He looked a little put out that I didn’t want to see anymore overpriced shawls or carved elephants, but so what. This time when we got in the rickshaw I asked to get in first so I wouldn’t be trapped in if he demanded a high fee for services rendered. Sure enough, as we drove towards the cathedral he said, “How much for the guide service?” I paid him what I thought the tour was worth (about 150 rupees) and he got angry. “And for the rickshaw?” he asked. “The money I gave you was for the tour and the rickshaw. I think it is more than fair.” Normally tours are 200 rupees he stated as though I should know. “Well, you should have spoken up at the beginning then. Besides I let you take me to those tourist shops and I know the driver gets gas coupons for that.” I replied; wow happy that I was sitting on the outside. We rode for another 5 minutes in uncomfortable silence until the cathedral came into sight. I jumped out and he muttered a terse thanks before the rickshaw sped away. Aside from the being the resting place of the discipline Thomas there was not a lot truly remarkable about the place. It was big and white and looked strikingly similar to many European cathedrals…only newer. I messed around for a few hours and then went back to the temple to watch the procession gear up. It was a sight to behold. Once a year good Hindus give away food to the masses and there was food everywhere. Everywhere. Many kinds of rice and drink were offered to anyone willing to stand in line to get them. The streets were littered with plates of half eaten food. I squished and slipped my way around the temple circuit when I was approached by a beggar. He made the sign for eating and held out his hand. I smiled and motioned for him to follow. I led him the nearby stand with huge caldrons of flavored rice that they were giving out, made the sign for eating, and pointed to it. He actually followed me around for another 5 minutes tapping my arm and holding out his hand. No way buddy. Good day for the hungry, bad day to be a beggar. The procession itself was an experience. Right outside the temple doors groups of girls made lotus designs with flowers and colored powders for the procession to pass over. There were palanquins supported by straining young men and many Hindu icons. The press of the crowd was unbelievable. After 2 hours of waiting and watching I was beat and wearily made my way out of the masses to head back to the hotel. As the crowd thinned I was approached by a kindly older man who asked the basics like where are you from, where do you stay in Chennai, ect then he asked if I would like a cup of coffee. Well, alright. Perhaps a little genuine interaction was what I needed to put this jumble of a day into the right perspective. Beside, I didn’t have anything else to do. So I sat with him and he told me he was a social worker. Cool, we talked about that for a while, traded email addresses, and he wanted to show me emails from his friends from America. Five minutes he said. OK, sure why not I thought. The guy seems nice. He is older and single and I thought he probably collects international pen pals. It would be neat to chat with an Indian social worker from time to time. So we internet. Fine. Now I am tired and hungry and ready to go. One more coffee he says, whew, “OK.” I don’t want to be rude and the guy seems so enthusiastic it would be hard to turn him down. So we sit and order a couple coffees from the scowling waitress. He then invites me to a concert the following evening and it sounds like a good time. I agree to come with him and listen to music and hang out the next day. As we finish he reiterates that he is a social worker and he has a friend that has gone to the gulf to look for a better job to support his family back here in India, but things are not working out well for him. He can’t get a good job is having a hard time making ends meet there and can’t send money home. When I can, he says, I send him some money. Last time I sent him a $20 bill and he was so grateful. Uh huh, I say waiting for the pitch. Do you perchance have any dollars that I can buy from you to send him? Not really I say, being completely honest. I only have $50 bills. What I don’t say is that I only have one left and I am reluctant to part with it. No small bills? No. OK, forget about it.
When I finally arrived at my hotel I was famished, tired from the day and the journey the night before, and I wanted a beer. I walked around for half an hour to find the one recommended by the guide book for its good tandoori dishes and cold beer. “No, I am sorry sir. We do not sell alcohol” said the waiter with a look on his face as though I had offered to pay for 20 minutes alone with his sister in the storage room. FINE, no thank you, I would not like a Pepsi instead. I ordered and ate and paid in under half an hour, then I set out for the one bar I had seen on my quest to find the restaurant in the first place. The Submarine bar, so named for its undersea motif, was about three quarters empty and was blasting Eninem. Cricket was playing on the two large tv screens. Red and blue lasers traced the danced across the tables and walls. FINE. I ordered an overpriced beer and drank it slowly, trying to savor it despite the now thumping rhythms from a bad remake of Queens ‘ We Will Rock You.’ I finished, paid, and made my way back to the hotel where upon I latched onto the first foreigner I found, a girl from France, and related my recent beer story. One of the hotel workers overheard and offered to go get a beer and bring it to my room for a decent price and I accepted. I went up to the roof top expecting to listen to my ipod, drink my second beer in peace, and go to bed. Instead I found two lively hotel workers up there doing some drinking of their own. Lovely. We ended up staying out there until 2am talking about all manner of things including God and politics. The capper though, was when he told me that God incarnate was living just outside of Bangalore and I should pop in and pay him a visit. It seems that God is only willing to take a flesh form again in India, because only the Indians are spiritual enough to really appreciate him. Later in the evening he showed me a picture of God that to me looked a bit more like a wide eyed schizophrenic with bad hair than an embodiment of the divine. But who am I to judge. Unfortunately I had already booked and paid for all of the travel remaining on my trip. My relationship with God will have to remain less tangible.
I woke up the next morning feeling not so hot and planned a low key day of sightseeing. Happily on my way back from breakfast I ran into the couple from Iceland that I traveled with in Varkala. Today was their last day in India. I scrapped my plans and headed off with them. Mostly it was shopping, but I was glad for the company. Eventually though, the hangover got the better of me and I headed back to the hotel. I had just laid down to rest when the phone in my room rings. The manager downstairs informs me that there is an old man asking for me. Oh yeah, the concert. I was supposed to email that guy this morning. I got dressed and went downstairs. Chatted for a few minutes and I told him that I was not feeling well and would not be going to the concert. Oh, he said. And the other thing I asked about, the dollars. Do you have any? Only a $50 I replied. OK, he said. Come we will find and ATM and I will give you rupees for your dollars. I got the $50 by selling rupees to an English girl in Kerala, so I thought sure why not. I felt a little bad for ditching him on the concert and figured this was a way to make amends. We go off searching for an ATM only to find another coffee shop. I didn’t really want the coffee, but it did wonders for my hangover. After coffee he asked to see the money. Much to my alarm he then put it in his pocket and told me a story in injustice and financial hardship, culminating in the offer to pay be half now for the $50 and send me the other half later. OK, he smiled and held out his hand to shake. ‘No, I want you to give me my $50 back’ I said. And wanted to follow with ‘Do you know how many times I have been asked for money in India? Or even how many how many times today? I am harassed, followed, told sad stories, and blatantly overcharged as part of my daily experience. I accept it as part of the Indian package, but I am not giving you any money.’ He relented and apologized and we parted ways. I would like to believe that he has a friend in Kuwait and he really would have repaid the money, but I am not willing to bet $25 on it. Tomorrow I am off to the islands for a little attitude readjustment. I am very much looking forward to that.
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