On Bangalore - Day 1

I wake up a bit disoriented but not too confused. It occurs to me that I didn’t take my pill and I wonder if it is ok to take on an empty stomach. Looking at my watch that still shows east coast time I wonder what the local time is. I reason that it is probably around 10:00 and I better get downstairs before they close breakfast.

I throw on some shorts and a shirt wondering what breakfast might look like. I stop by the front desk to inquire about the time and am surprised to learn that its 8:00am. I guess I didn’t miss the morning after all.

The restaurant looks nice but is entirely empty. A buffet is laid out, each item neatly labeled. I don’t recognize a single label and can’t identify much of the food on sight either. The cook offers to make an omelet. Seems reasonable. The ingredients are fresh but they are all going to be cooked, right? I take a tortilla looking flat bread from the buffet and ask what people eat with it. There is a bowl of soupy white topping that seems to go with the tortillas. It doesn’t quite look like raita or any other thing that I can identify. I put a small dab on my plate. I put a bit of a few other items on the plate to round it out and take a seat. What can I drink? It suddenly occurs that I have no idea what “Don’t drink the water” really means. I know that I am supposed to order bottled water only, but what about other drinks. Is coffee ok? They heat the water. How about juice? Probably not. I decide coffee is ok. I need coffee, so it seems worth the risk. “Would you like milk in your coffee?” Uh, no? Is milk ok? No idea. “No thanks, just black.” How about butter for the toast? This is going to be harder than I imagined.

Full, I head upstairs to finish getting ready for the day and get my camera. I want to find a local market to take photos. I don’t want to sightsee exactly. I spray myself with DEET and get ready to go. The spray makes my skin feel greasy and I nearly wipe out walking across the slick spot on hardwood floor formed when I sprayed my legs.

I check Google maps and it seems like the public gardens are just a few blocks away. I figure if I head that direction I will probably find interesting things. Across the street from my room are clay tennis courts and I watch as a boy warms up with a friend. For no particular reason I notice that he has an especially elegant backhand.

The road is not too busy and the sidewalk more walkable than I imagined. There are kids playing on a pile of dirt by a construction site who smile at me and mug for my camera. Unfortunately I didn’t notice them in time as the sun disappears behind a cloud ruining the light on the kids before I can take a picture.

Virtually every auto-rickshaw pauses as it passes me and I grow quickly accustomed to waving them off. “No, I am just walking.” This doesn’t seem to placate them but they reluctantly drive off. I am foreigner and an easy mark.

By the second rotary intersection I realize there are no noticeable road signs. Figuring out my way back to the hotel may prove somewhat difficult. Also there are large walls on both sides of the road so that the public park that seemed so close on Google may not be the least bit accessible. I keep walking, relieved to remember that I have the address of the hotel stored somewhere in my phone and assuming that any rickshaw driver could tell me how to get back.

I arrive to a fairly busy intersection and am amused by the lines of motorcycles, scooters & rickshaws at the light. I notice that the restaurant on the corner is the Hard Rock Café, which strikes me as completely out of place.

“The market this way is closed, sir” is a constant refrain from the rickshaw drivers as I head across the street and toward what seems like an open area. A driver offers to take me to all the “sights” – showing me a brochure of a few tourist spots around Bangalore.

I keep walking but when the next driver says “the market is closed. I’ll take you to the open market – 10 Rupees,” I finally give in. “Fine.” However, I start to walk back to the guy who wanted to show me the sights. “Want to take me to the open market?” He and this second driver begin a protracted argument in what I assume is Hindi. It seems rather confrontational as they usher me into the back of the rickshaw. Driver one gets in the back seat next to me as Driver two settles in up front. I am now pinned in the back seat with no way out. They continue their heated exchange as we start off. “Everything ok?” Driver two tries to explain. “We are brothers. We’ll take you.” That ends it. I nervously snap picture of the driver figuring that if they steal me or kill me, at least there will be some evidence. Of course the camera is with me so I am not sure how sound this logic might be.

“The market doesn’t open until 10:00 so we’ll stop at nice shop” I am informed. Wait a minute. I didn’t ask for a shop, I asked for the market. “Just a few minutes. You see if you like anything.”

We pull into a somewhat secluded little parking lot. A security guard opens the door to the shop and the drivers wait outside. How is this supposed to work? What happens if I don’t buy anything? I look around. Walls packed with wooden and marble carvings. The shop owner begins to walk me through everything in the store. “You are my first customer of the day, you buy something it brings me luck. I give you special deal.” Of course you do. I find a couple of little things for the kids that seem like they would be inexpensive. Total comes to like 1500 rupees – about $30. What? I figure this is the real price of getting the rickshaw – not the 25 cents they told me it would cost. Probably got off ok I reassure myself.

The drivers take me over to the old city market. This is more like it. Streets packed with brightly colored trinkets and people in equally brightly colored garments. Everyone seems to be heading somewhere. The pace seems frantic. The driver stops and walks me into a vegetable market. Ok, this will do. Of course I won’t buy anything since fresh fruit and vegetables are strictly off limits. I snap a few photos. The driver keeps following me. I can’t decide if I am comforted by him being there or annoyed that he won’t leave me alone. I decide to feel comforted.

Leaving the market the drivers load me back into the rickshaw. “We take you to nice shop.” “I don’t really want to go to another shop, I want to go to another market” I protest. They pretty much ignore me as we weave through hoards of people, frequently coming within inches of other rickshaws and buses. Each time I feel my body tense waiting for the crash, and each time I am surprised when it doesn’t come. The drivers seem entirely unfazed.

We stop at another store. “You will like this shop.” I am ushered inside by another security guard. The shop looks exactly like the first one. If it weren’t upstairs instead of downstairs I would be hard pressed to point out differences. The shop owner walks me through everything there. I manage to escape without buying anything – a small victory. The drivers seem annoyed that I come out without a bag. We drive on.

After another store, I remind them that I want to go back to the market. They agree but since I am hopelessly confused about what part of the city we might be in, I figure I have to play along. “Just one more shop.” They give me some story about vouchers and gas. I don’t quite follow other than understanding that I don’t have much choice in the matter.

We stop at another store. Following what has become something of a pattern I head in. “Which one you like?” comes the refrain from the shop owner. I try to blow him off with “I’m just looking,” but my weak protest stands little chance in the way of his assault. He requires me to look at jewelry. “Which pendant would you like? I give you the chain, no charge.” I don’t really want jewelry but I can’t see a way out of this. “I will need to think about it.” I try. He launches into “You are my first customer of the day. You to buy something… it brings me luck.” Oh no you don’t. I see other customers in the shop. “I will not bring you bad luck,” I rebut. He gets angry and tells me to get out of his store. “What is there to think about? I kick you out. Get out of my store.” I feel a strange combination of shame and victory.

I ask the drivers where the botanic garden is located. They tell me not far and we head that direction. The driver tells me they will charge me 20 Rupees an hour. “Ok.” We drop off the second driver and head to the botanic gardens. Roughly half way he informs me that we have to stop at a few more shops. “What? No, no more shops,” I tell him. He mutters something about gas and “after the garden.” I figure I can fight that battle later.

We pull into the gardens and the driver stops to get a ticket. I can’t tell if he needs the ticket for me to get into the park or for him to bring the rickshaw. An official guide pokes his head into the backseat flashing me some sort of badge that is around his neck. I get out and the new “guide” and I start walking up some enormous granite steps that lead to a monument.

The monument is decorated with blue genie type figures and apparently marks one of the boundaries of the gardens. The guide speaks much better English than my driver, so I am happy to have him along, though I wonder, not seriously enough, how he gets paid and how much to tip. The driver tells him we only have 45 minutes, which sounds about right to me but I am curious why the driver thinks my time is limited.

We walk around the gardens and snap pictures of things I find interesting. The guide keeps stopping and suggesting shots I should take. I find myself increasingly resenting this, ultimately resulting in my not wanting to take a picture of anything he suggests. However, rather than protest it seems easier to fire off a shot whenever he points. I delete most of these pictures while we are walking.

After about 45 minutes we make it back to the gate. The guide mentions that there is a concert at the band platform near the glass house starting at 6pm and I make a note that it might be nice to come back. I am not sure how I would get there since I refuse to go through the “stopping at every shop” aspect of the rickshaw ride.

The guide tells me that the charge is 750 Rupees for a half hour tour and since we have been together closer to an hour I must decide. “Decide what?,” I ask. He smiles. “Decide what?” I say to my driver. Still no reply. “Decide how much to pay you?” I ask again. I get a half smile along with a strange shaking of the head. I pull out 1000 rupees which seems like entirely too much. Since I don’t know what would happen if I don’t pay, I hand it over. What else am I going to do?

The guide disappears and the driver and I head back out in the rickshaw. “That was too much” my driver offers. Thanks genius. You couldn’t have said something back there? You just cost me like $20. What kind of service is this? “We go to one more shop,” he replies.

You have got to be kidding me. “I need to get to the hotel.” “Which hotel?” he says. “The Regaalis. Near where you picked me up.” “Ok. We stop at one shop.” “I really need to get back.” It is about 1:30 and I am hungry. We drive along and I spot the Hard Rock café. “Here, you can drop me here,” I plead. He pretends not to hear. “I have a phone call for work that I have to make. I need to get to the hotel. ” I lie. “Which hotel?” “The Regaalis, I told you.” I am getting nowhere and we are way past the Hard Rock. “Where are you going?” “One nice shop, you will like it.” Seriously? How am I ever going to get back. “What if I pay you extra and we skip the shop?” I ask. He doesn’t reply. I think about what it would be like to jump from a moving rickshaw. Probably not a good idea.

This shop is the same but different. Same items upstairs - items that I now view with complete disdain. The wooden elephant with a mini elephant statue inside that seemed interesting and a marvel of carving a few hours ago now seems like a cheap party trick. I wonder what factory churns these out and sells them to every “art” shop in Bangalore. Downstairs there are rugs and duvet covers. I try explaining that I have no need for rugs but since the shop owner has required his assistant to show me all the different types and qualities, I feel obligated to play along. The process takes a good bit longer than I wanted.

Back outside the driver is surprised that I did not buy anything. “You were in a long time not to buy anything.” “Just take me to the hotel.” I am relieved as we get back within sight of the Hard Rock corner. He pulls over. I get out quickly. “That is 500 rupee” he says. “No, you said 20 rupee per hour. We have been out for three and half hours and most of that time was going to shops that I didn’t want to.” “200” he says. “Here is 100. That’s 5 hours. That’s plenty.” I walk away and he smiles. I’m calculating just how much this little outing has cost me. I am also wondering if I have any idea how to get back to the hotel from here.

Back in my room I lie down exhausted. I blame it on jetlag but I know better. I download pictures to my computer. Some look ok so I feel somewhat vindicated. I wonder if I should have been more concerned carrying two-thousand dollars worth of camera equipment around the city but figure it is a little late to worry about that now. I dose off on the bed.

There is a restaurant in the hotel so I poke my head in for lunch. I am surprised to find the patio packed with people at 2:45. They have some type of buffet so I figure it will be easy. Lunch is good. The waiter seems surprised when I order 7up to drink rather than a beer – which just about everyone else in the restaurant is having. Rather than order a second soda, I cave and ask for a Kingfisher. The label calls it the “King of Beers” and I wonder about India’s trademark laws. I also wonder if Budweiser stole the slogan from Kingfisher – or if Kingfisher is, in fact, made by Budweiser. It is probably the most consideration of beer I’ve ever given.

After lunch I go back to my room. I’m soundly asleep until 7:00. So much for the band concert at the gardens. It probably would have been too much of a pain I justify. Dinner doesn’t appeal so I walk to a street shop to buy some soda and crackers. It is hot, cramped, and foul smelling in the little stand and it seems they are in the process of closing up. The shop is lit by a couple of bare bulbs. I grab a couple of sleeves of what appears to be tea biscuits and some kind of chocolate cookies. Thankfully they have a Diet Coke in the fridge. “40 Rupees.” That’s more like it I think as I’m leaving. It’s the best purchase I made all day.

On Bangalore - Arrival

The flight landed remarkably smoothly and breaking seemed, inexplicably, rather unnecessary. It was as if we had come to a stop in the air and did not need to slow down to taxi.

We pull up to a modern jet bridge even though I had been cautioned that Bangalore hs an an open air field with exterior stairs. I was pleased since I hadn’t bothered to apply DEET as advised by the travel nurse. I keep looking at the field lights and feeling surprised that I can’t see any bugs flying around – let alone mosquitoes.

I wait in the health screening line. A nurse wearing a filter mask is taking everyone’s temperature with some sort of light thermometer pointed a bit like a gun at their foreheads. I wondered why she is wearing a mask since no one else in the room has one, or whether I should have one.

After passing through customs I step outside where I am confronted with a string of perhaps 50 drivers, each with a name placard. Given my past difficulty in locating people in crowds I am struck by momentary panic that I might never find my driver. However, I am relieved to spot a PharmARC sign after just a few seconds and am off with the driver quickly. He takes my suitcase from me, which makes me slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps I have watched too many international suspense movies. The supposed “driver” always steals the bag, right?

Outside the air is tropical with a cool breeze, like arriving in Florida on a pleasant night. From warnings of others, I expected strong fumes and foul smells at the airport, but the air seems fresh and clean. The ground is lush, covered with thick grass and tall palm trees. I wonder if the place would look completely different in the daylight.

Of the three shops on the platform outside the airport, two are a Subway and a Baskin Robbins. Perhaps Bangalore is more like the US than I expected.

The car is a small compact. The driver grabs my bags, loads them into the front seat, and opens the back door for me. The steering wheel is on the right side of the car like in England – a fact that makes perfect sense but surprises me having never thought about it before.

Lining the road on the way to the hotel are a mix of third-world looking shacks and taller, modern buildings. Most everything is covered in advertising, much the way of European cities. I have always been struck by the quantity of advertising in foreign cities versus the US. I am not sure I can quantify it, but there is definitely a difference. I wonder what they did before cell phone companies as most everything was covered in cell phone ads, including enormous billboards that line the highway.

I arrived to the hotel around 1:00 am. It is a somewhat hidden entry as the driver has to honk repeatedly to get someone from the hotel to open the gate. The hotel is a good bit smaller than I expected based on the fact that some man on the Hertz bus in Philadelphia claimed to be familiar with it when he asked where I was staying. But given its size (about 50 rooms), he was probably thinking of somewhere else.

A bellhop takes my bags up to my room. I realize that I have no idea how much to tip or if that is even appropriate. The lights in the hallway seem to be burned out or turned off and the bellhop has to fumble with the lock before letting me into the room. He turns on the room lights and leaves without much of a pause as if he was expecting a tip. I mumble something about being sorry that don’t have any money. I don’t know if he heard or understood.

The room is small but nice. There is a twin bed – maybe bigger than a twin but not quite a full. I wonder if they have rooms for couples or if this is pretty much it. There is a nice TV and a rather large leather massage chair that takes up a good portion of the room. It seems out of place, but it makes me smile.

I plug in my laptop which fortunately fits the international outlets. I feel smart for not having bought the $30 travel set in Philly. I was afraid that I would be sorry. It doesn’t matter much since my attempts to connect to the internet fail. I figure that I will work out the internet problem in the morning. I text Rachel on my phone that I have arrived and crawl into bed.

I fall asleep fairly easily. I set my phone for a morning alarm but as I am entirely uncertain what the local time is (and can’t get online to confirm), I figure it will be whatever it is going to be. I think about the fact that it is probably time to take an anti-malaria pill as I am falling asleep.