Bangalore, India - not quite perfect, but trying

December 2006

Following our five day R and R in Singapore, we flew, again with Singapore Air, to Bangalore, in the heart of southern India.  Our first introduction to India occurred on the plane, when the Singapore Air staff announced that they were sorry, but that the Government of India required the plane to be sprayed with a “non-toxic spray” before landing.  Upon which a couple of stewards walked up the aisles with little spray cans (of Deet?) spraying the upper baggage compartments.  What earthly good this actually does I cannot imagine, but it speaks volumes about India’s love affair with fatuous efficiency.   

This incident was followed closely with our first sight of the country, Bangalore’s airport, where little men on tractors (yes, farm tractors) were pushing planes and baggage carts around on the tarmac.  And coming off the plane (we were amazed that they actually had a skywalk, as we almost expected, when we saw the tractors, to see one of them pushing a set of stairs towards the plane, like in the good old days), all of the passengers’ hand-baggage was carefully scanned (again, what on earth for?), but the efficiency of the process was somewhat diminished by the fellow behind the machine who was too busy chatting up a pretty young Indian girl in a beautiful sari to bother looking at the screen!

It took forever to get through immigration, all of us having to have our papers checked and double-checked, and then we went over (not down, there was only one level) to the baggage “carousel,” which was not a carousel at all, but two conveyor belts arranged in an L-shape.  Where the two belts intersected there was a metal post, topped with what looked like an old coffee can, which was supposed to direct the bags from one belt to the other.  The coffee can kept wiggling off its post, as passengers jostled for their bags and bags banged into the thing, and whoever was nearest it just casually replaced it, with a broad smile for being an integral part of such a wonderful piece of technology.  We could not suppress our laughter.  It was all just too good to be true.

 

Our first hotel in Bangalore was not to our liking (too strong a smell of disinfectant from the bathroom), but was worth seeing just for the doorman, who was dressed in an incredible outfit, sort of like a Ghurka, but minus the sword.  Very dashing.  We switched to another hotel which looked better, but we forgot to try the beds, and ended up spending two very uncomfortable nights (sleepless for Doug) on lumpy coir (coconut fibre) mattresses that were as hard as rocks.  Bangalore itself, although it’s known as the up and coming hi-tech centre of India, was dirty, decrepit and derelict.  In some ways it reminded us of Cuba - decayed and decaying grandeur, like an old woman gone to seed.  

The streets are absolutely choked with traffic, a seething mass of cars, trucks, buses,

tuk-tuks (little three wheeled “taxis” that run on lawn-mower engines), bicycles, ox-carts, push-carts, cows, dogs and people.  It’s a free-for-all for everyone except the cows (and to a lesser extent the dogs), which the traffic parts or swerves around to avoid hitting.  We saw one dog lying in the middle of the road sleeping, while cars sped by and around.  The law of this vehicular jungle is simple:  HE WHO HESITATES IS LOST.   

As a pedestrian, once you’ve started on a course, don’t stop, even if a bus or tuk-tuk is headed straight at you.  They are counting on you to continue in the same direction and at the same speed, and are plotting their own trajectories accordingly.  They aim for the near miss, swerving just ever so slightly so as to avoid hitting you, but if you falter, if you stop to wipe your sweaty brow or look for a street sign (there are none), you’re going to get hit.  And yet despite the apparent chaos, we saw not one accident.  Amazing.

 

What I loved most about Bangalore was the colours.  Many of the women, possibly most of them, continue to wear beautifully coloured saris, or salwars and kultis (a pants and tunic combination with matching scarf).  And as there are so many people, everywhere, even bus-queues are colourful.  It was great to see young sari-clad women, wearing helmets and weaving in and out through the traffic on their motorcycles, saris and shawls spinning out behind them in the breeze, like colourful comet tails. 

We hired a tuk-tuk driver for a day, and he took us round to see the various “sights” of Bangalore, including a quite impressive botanical garden (although no match for Singapore’s botanical garden and orchid garden).  His name was Khan, and despite our protestations, he slyly and insistently managed to snare us into going to some very exclusive and expensive shops (he called them “museums” and “art galleries”).  

 

And so it was we found ourselves, dressed in really what constitutes mere rags to the well-healed, being shown fabulous Kashmiri carpets in the $7000 to $1500 (U.S.!) range by a most distinguished Kashmiri man, and drinking cups of exquisite green tea with cardamom, cinnamon and crushed almonds, served by beautiful girls, from beautiful flowered tea-cups, as we admired and spoke (we hope knowledgeably) about the artistry of the rugs he was showing us.   He brought out his “treasures” for us, he said, because he could see that we truly appreciated the rugs (they were antiques, and exceedingly beautiful).  When we left without purchasing one (of course), the shop-keeper seemed not at all concerned, but poor Khan was devastated.  He would have gotten a shirt and a pair of pants had we bought the rug.  We paid him handsomely for the day and hoped he would forgive us for not spending $7000 to make sure he got a new outfit!

 

Meeting A family from Bangalore

 

The train ride from Bangalore to Chennai (Madras - remember the shorts?) was a pleasure.  We met an Indian family (Daddy, Mummy, two 20-something sisters and one of their children) with whom we chatted for almost the entire trip.  The older sister, who was divorced, following an arranged marriage, and I talked about women’s roles and rights in India and in North America.  The younger sister was on her way to a final interview for a job in New York.  She will be going for three years, and her mummy will go with her for the first year.  While I think the young woman will be fine - her English was perfect, and she, like many of the young men and women in India, is hip to the ways of the Western world (the multinational companies, satellite dishes and internet have made sure of that).   I wonder how her mummy will fare.

Her mummy is a traditional Indian woman, who has not strayed far from home, and never worn anything other than a sari.  She speaks little English, and is timid and shy.  I gave them a little advice on things they could do to help ease their transition (like maybe bringing mummy’s sewing machine with them, so she can sew), and I offered to be whatever assistance I could, long-distance and by internet, but seeing their excitement, and knowing their fierce desire for a new and better life, and all that hangs in the balance for this little family, I felt a pang of concern, mixed with perhaps a sense of  our collective guilt, that families like this one would risk the loss of their traditional values to catch such an ephemeral star as “the good old American dream.”