The Trivia of Travel
Friday was the first day our plans diverged. Walter wasn't feeling
well, and we had errands to do before leaving Mumbai, so I gamely
headed into the heat. First stop: Sony World. We'd been assured we
could buy an ethernet cable there (to make connecting the laptop
easier in 'net cafes). Alas, no luck. Next mission was an ATM
stop. No problem. Then I tried to re-locate the place where we'd
purchased the pre-paid chip for our phone (the phone will receive, but
not send, SMS messages).
I remembered buying the chip in the ground floor of a tall, decaying,
dirty-beige building. Unfortunately, our hotel was surrounded on
three sides by tall, decaying, dirty-beige buildings. After a few laps
around the neighborhood, I went back up to the room to change into a
cooler shirt (the dark-colored blouse I'd foolishly worn was trashed)
and get my bearings.
Second try -- success. I found the shop, the proprietor
remembered me, but he had as little luck as I'd had with the SMS
problem. Finally he suggested I take a cab to one of the mobile
provider's offices ("Orange" is the company name). I bought some
batteries and sundries as a thank-you, and was on my way.
The Orange store was worth the trip in an unexpected way; I got to see
some of the young Indian technorati at work. Slender young women in
saris greeted customers at desks, then referred customers with technical problems to a group of t-shirted men and women -- none a day over 22, to my
eye -- for tech support. The elegant sari-clad girls would
follow the t-shirt crew and watch the problem-solving with what looked
like complete fascination. The techie kids struggled with my Treo,
but ultimately gave up.
"Since you have purchased Orange service, it's our duty to try to help
you," I was told, "but we are not familar with this type of phone." Ah
well. We geek-bonded for a moment and agreed that it was probably a
character-set problem somehow. Nothing for it now, though. Maybe
there's a manual online somewhere. Then I spent a half hour or so
observing the intricacies of the head-bob as I canvassed the district
around the Orange store, looking for the elusive computer cable. Once
the last merchant I asked referred me back to my starting point, I
decided to hop a cab back to the hotel.
Walter recounted the rest of the day, so I won't repeat it. Although I
don't know if
anyone could adequately express the chaos of CST
at rush hour. Walter lost a few semi-valuables from a lower pocket,
and although he's not sure, I suspect they vanished during our stunned
traversal of the station. It was the first moment I had even the
slightest thought of just chucking this whole trip and heading home.
The thought was fleeting, of course.
Once we were on the train, though, everything was lovely. Fortunately
for me (unfortunately for Walter), I sleep like a baby on trains. Just
put my pack under my head (arm through a strap for bonus security) and
I'm out in seconds. I'd open my eyes briefly when folks came through
offering coffee, food, and chai, then sink back into blissful slumber.
Now we're in gorgeous, steamy, tropical Goa. Walter's still feeling
unwell, but I'm only suffering a mild sunburn. That, and the
occasional wish for a burqa. My more-than-ample American bust,
combined with the thin blouses that weather dictates (buttoned up and
modest, of course -- complete with camisole underneath) mean I get more
than my share of hoots, smooch-noises, and enthusiastic greetings from
passers-by. Makes not a whit of sense to me, given the gorgeous Indian
women everywhere (slender, beautifully dressed and coiffed, and not at
all red-faced and damp from the heat).
Which reminds me. I have to know:
why don't Indian women
perspire?. I see men -- fat and thin -- mopping their
faces with handkerchiefs, and soaking through their shirts. Not as
much as we are, but still. Men sweat. Women here, from what I can
tell, are either genetically blessed, or dip their entire bodies in
some kind of magic antiperspirant every morning. I know, I know, it's
trivial. But when you're soaking through your shirt and yet another
perfectly cool, unrumpled woman strolls past, you just gotta wonder.
Posted by Liz at June 15, 2005 04:51 AM