Like many decisions made at the age of 20, I do not put much thought into going to India. An attractive sorority girl in my economics class suggested I apply for the study abroad program. I spent an evening reading the program description and googling the locations we’d visit. I’m less concerned with the bits about call centers, manufacturing plants, and ‘providing an invaluable experience to learn cultural’ blah blah. I am more concerned with the Taj Mahal, and a weekend spent in Goa with Economics girl.
I apply and am accepted. Economics Girl and I book tickets to leave earlier than the rest of the class, bound for Varanasi. I am excited about this, after all, Economics Girl is a romantic pursuit of mine. But as the departure date approaches, I am not sitting where I’d like in the race for her heart. There is another suitor; a pre-med student from the fraternity across the street. He can grow a beard and facebook tells me he listens to a lot of NPR. I’m positive our trip to India will bring us together. A country of exotic romantic landscapes. I can picture us picnicking in-front of mausoleums built by star crossed lovers which will surely infect us with a similar admiration. The land of kama-sutra and castles adorned with voluptuous spires and phallic towers will be too much for us to deny. My months of being second fiddle were destine to come to an end.
Our flight lands in Varanasi at eleven in the morning. The journey over was pleasant enough; a couple super hero movies were available and we had a row to ourselves. It was long though and our eyes are heavy as we gather our checked luggage. The airport altogether seeming quite nice. Upon walking out, India greets us with its signature hello (familiar to all who enter its lands). The sliding door opens and the sun momentarily blinds us as we take a few steps toward the madness. At first our ears are overwhelmed by chaotic roar but slowly discernible cries of “best price!”, wails of “yes sir, this way!”, and shouts “come, I take you now!” can be heard. The scent of unwashed moist body oder consumes our nostrils then worse, the feel of it presses against us. The horde of richshaw and taxi drivers suffocates us as we are caught in the net of bodies. We lose each other as they pull our arms and luggage in separate directions and the empty void quickly filled by the hungry mop. We swim through the mass of bodies and grab at each other, securing a death-like grip as we are reconnected. We make a push for freedom, eventually reaching the outer rim of the horde, we stumble as we break free. We take quick hurried steps as they attempt to overtake us again, but we continue to keep one side of us free as we breath open air. As we push and yell they give us some breathing room realizing momentarily that we are passed a state of culture shock, and have entered survival instinct. A pack of wolves eyeing their prey. After a few heavy breathes, a more controlled soul walks up to us and says he can take us to where we are headed, we tell him the name of the hostel. He tells us it is closed for construction. Quickly realizing this is a trick, I snap to take us to our hostel, he complies this time in fear of completely losing his prey.
The taxi driver reaches speeds that surpass conventional wisdom considering the congested, potholed, and degraded roads. There’s a vibration of dubious structural integrity to the car but that becomes the least of my worries as we start turning down back alleys that look like they live in the fantasies of Ted Bundy. A stream runs next to the road that looks like valuable real estate for someone dumping bodies. I smile to my travel companion trying to provide a false sense of security as I’m panicking deep down. The only thing keeping me calm are periodic children using the stream either as a bath or a toilet. Nevertheless, we make it to the hostel.
A kind elderly man shows us to our room. I have never been happier to see a bed. It is nothing special but it is a bed with walls around it. We even have a bathroom with a shower and a toilet. This seems like paradise. It isn’t much but it is ours. My reassuring smile turns genuine. Our hotel is a bit out of the way, no one else seems to be staying here and it’s about a mile walk to the big sights but christ all mighty, we are safe here. I am grinning ear to ear in this nirvana, this my kingdom. I may never leave the room. Until, my travel companion testifies “Ants!”. I look around and there is in fact a small trail of ants traveling from the semi-shut window down to the drawers to which they disappear behind. “This is sooooo gross”. I dont even mind ants. “I’m not sleeping here!”. Ants are probably my favorite insect. “We are leaving!” My brother use to keep ants as pets. “Get your stuff”. Alas I am overruled and the ants, it is concluded, are unsanitary pests unfit for our company. We tell the hostel staff there are ants in our room and we’ll be moving properties, their heads bobble with….uncertainty or understanding this head bobble thing is new to me.
We get to the start of what I’ll define as the “tourist” area, at least what seems to be touristy as there are some whities like ourselves. We are greeted by a creature that emerges from the very seems of India – the child hawker. Dirty, unrelenting entrepreneurs who will use every tactic imaginable to sell you their goods. Pity, sympathy, logic, reason, force are all in the repertoire of these tiny salesman. Putting a bracelet on your wrist then requesting, nah, demanding payment as if you attempted to steal the bracelet is common. Then crying that they haven’t eaten in weeks when you give it back, like you are physically taking the food from their lips. Gordan Gecko would be proud of these capitalistic munchkins. We eventually brush them aside as we see a sign for the hostel we are in search of. It is down a narrow alley. Blocking the entrance is the holiest of creatures – A Bull. It glares back at us, sensing our fear.
I am shoked, surely this bull is kidding. It barely fits in this alleyway, its horns bounce off the walls as he moves his head from side to side. “You go first”, Fuck me why didn’t I think of that. I cleverly reply “You watch the stuff” and I make my approach. I would love to throw rocks at it but that would be the equivalent decimating a crucifix. I turn my body sideways and shuffle past it as the horns graze against my chest. If this bull had any knowledge for how cows are treated in the west and wanted to avenge his comrades he could impale me with one swift crank of his neck. Leaving me to bleed out in this dirty Indian gutter. A death befitting Hemingway himself, surely I am unworthy. Luckily, this cow is merciful and lets me live. I get past, tell the hostel about the cow, and the staff escorts my travel companion in through another entrance. We ask to see the premises in an inspection seeing if it befits our Royal Highness. They have squatty poties and the bathrooms just generally are unkept so we thank them for the offer and move to the next hostel.
We reach the street and start to walk… Mind you, it is reaching three o’clock with our bags in toes. The air is warm, sun overhead feels cancerous, and Her Highness is ginger. We should not remain in the sun for long… we are being assaulted with the cries of rickshaw divers “Best Price”. I am trying to remain cool headed through all this but I am breaking underneath and plead to her Highness “Can we just go back to the first hostel, maybe another room doesn’t have ants”. She relents, and we hire a rickshaw to drive us back where we started! We get a different room and decide it is up to her Highness’s standards.
During the rest of our trip we argue. Where we eat becomes an issue and I involuntarily enter a week long abstinence from meat. The Hindu god of destruction, Shiva, smiles at us from above. Frequently we argue while sitting on Assi Ghat and to break our bickering we converse with those very same devilish-hawkers from before. The kids begin to recognize us and instead of shoving trinkets into our pockets demanding payment they ask us questions. We ask them their favorite subjects in school. They sit next to us and we take out notebooks and write out math problems. The circle of rickshaw drivers when we first arrived is replaced with these children. Grin’s hungry for our wallets, are replaced with grin’s hungry for knowledge. They pull at our arms asking if we’ll write a problem for them next. This form of tug-a-war is much more welcome than the taxi drivers. They ask where we are from. Someone produces a map, to which we snap that we aren’t buying, they laugh and say they know, just want us to point to where we are from. We comply and on our last day we buy things from each of them.
India broke us and although we finished out the trip on speaking terms, there was little contact afterword. Most of my memories of India remain less than ideal and to this day I seriously question anyone who speaks of India favorably. But I do remember those kids transforming from nuisance to welcome distraction to friendly entertainment.
Culture Capital 