Tired of Indian men

After several mostly hassle-free weeks, Indian men have amped up the harassment factor. Yes, they have always stared and leered and made smooching noises, but before this week, no one but little boys actually touched me.

So first, while walking around Old Delhi, someone slid his hand down my butt. I whirled around. “WHAT THE FUCK! DON’T DO THAT!” I smacked him in the chest. He didn’t look at me, and moved to the other side, and I turned toward him and smacked him again on the chest. The guy tried to point to another guy, but he was the only one there when I turned around. My guy friend grabbed the culprit and muttered something, though I doubt my harasser understood.

Breaking point in India

I yelled, “I HATE INDIA!” today. I’m not proud of it. But I just had it with the bureaucracy here. I just wanted to mail a package home. When I did it in Delhi, it took three trips to the post office. On the first trip, I learned that post offices don’t sell mailing boxes (which the men at my hotel had claimed). On my second trip, I learned that you have to sew a white cloth around the box. On my third trip, I finally managed to mail the package.

I thought I was ready in Mumbai. The day before the attempted mailing, I stopped by the General Post Office (GPO) and was directed to a man who sews the white cloth around parcels. We agreed that I’d bring my items the next day and he’d have a box ready. By 4:10 pm, I was there. He commenced packing, I commenced filling out the proper forms.

At 4:40 pm, he walked with me to the appropriate counter at the massive post office. Really, the process should have ended there. But no. The system was down. I waited for half an hour as they hoped the system would come back up. Finally, I went to the desk. “What can I do, ma’am, there is nothing I can do.” “Can you do some of this by hand? Just weigh it and charge me?” “No, there is nothing I can do.” “There must be something you can do, I’m leaving for Goa tonight.” (that added to the frustration) “I cannot help you, miss.”

Good-bye, Delhi

I’m in a plane right now heading to Mumbai. The expat part my trip has ended, and I’ll finish India as I started it, as a backpacker.

My ten weeks in Delhi has been mixed, mostly because there were a few weeks when I didn’t feel I was accomplishing much with my charity. With so much of India to see, I probably should have left two weeks ago. But right now, it feels like my time in Delhi was just enough. Delhi doesn’t have the best reputation compared with some of India’s other cities—too aggressive, too in-your-face, not exciting enough—but once I got past that, I found a Delhi filled with green parks, wide open spaces, and a thriving social scene.

And good people. That’s what I’ll miss most about this place. There’s a line from a song I love by Dolly Parton’s Traveling Through, where she says good-bye to everyone and adds, “…you meant more than I knew.” When I sing along, I always change that to “you meant more than you knew,” because the truth is, I always can tell how much someone means to me. They just never know the ways in which they’ve enriched my life.

So I’m thanking them all here, all those people who helped make Delhi a better place for me (even though I’ve told none of them about the blog and don’t intend to).

Crossing the street

There is a moment in Delhi where, for a few seconds, I feel utterly connected to the great throbbing mass that is India. I am talking, of course, about crossing the street.

In most of Delhi, you can cross the street alone. But then there are the city’s most crowded spots, such as the downtown commercial district Connaught Place, where cars, motorcycles, rickshaws, buses and pedestrians battle for such a limited amount of road real estate, all without a traffic light, that you simply can’t cross the street alone.

So here’s how it works: One person stands at a street corner and waits. Another person joins him. Then another. Then maybe a couple. We all just stand silently side by side until there is a critical mass. Someone will take the first step, usually holding out one hand to signal to cars to stop. What can that one hand do against a car? Yet everyone moves at once, joining this fearless leader. As a group, we have protection against that unwieldy conglomerate of motorized vehicles. As a group, we command their respect, insist they not only notice us, but make way for the era of the pedestrians—we’re here, we’re crossing the street, and we ain’t going back! Nobody puts us on a street corner!

Then we reach the other side and in an instant, everyone scatters, possibly never to see each other again. I always take a moment and lament that the powerful lobby I was so briefly a part of, which acted with one mind and without words to achieve a goal, is so quick to dissolve, so willing to let go of the grand connection that saw us safely across the street. 

Scenes from India: Shimla

Shimla is cute. There's kind of not much to do besides go for walks, so if you're by yourself like I was, it's not hugely fun. Oh, and everything closes at 8:30 pm. For a capital city, that's a bit early. But the views are really amazing.

The pedestrian mall.

Indian police to women: Don't want to be raped? Stay inside at night

A few weeks ago I met up with some female friends for dinner. One of them, who was in town for a wedding and was staying about an hour outside of Delhi, had hired a driver for the day. The male friend she was visiting said she should try to get back to her area by 10 p.m. 

But she wanted to have drinks with us. She told the driver to take us to a specific bar. The time was nearing 9 p.m. He reminded her that her friend suggested she be home by 10 p.m. She said screw it. He started talking about the safety issue for women, particularly outside of Delhi. Apparently we're not supposed to be out late by ourselves. He talked about women get attacked, that it had been in the newspapers. We said we hadn't heard about it. He said we were lucky.

When we got out of the car we all scoffed. Ethel said Indian men try to keep women fearful and under their control. The driver's argument was particularly fallacious because, well, the girl wasn't by herself, she was with him and she was in a car. Basically, the driver wanted to go home early.

But I learned today he's right in some areas: according to this article, there have been numerous rapes against women in Gurgaon, a booming industrial city just outside of Delhi. And worse than that, the police's tactic to fix this seems to rely on making women more afraid (Headline: Gurgaon: 'Stay indoors after 8pm if you don't want to be raped').

Taking the toy train from Kalka to Shimla

What exactly is a toy train? In India, it's a train with far fewer compartments than a regular train that only runs on historic railway lines through the mountains to the hill stations. And the Kalka-Shimla railway line is one of the most historic in the country. Back during the time of the Raj (when the British controlled India), the entire government would uproot itself to Shimla to avoid the hot, muggy Delhi summer.

Happy Holi! (AKA "I just threw a water balloon at your back!")

Holi Eve.

It was Holi last Thursday, also known as the "Festival of Colors." It's a spring Hindu festival that's mainly characterized by throwing colored powder and water on everybody, as well as by getting drunk and high (mainly groups of men). The week before Holi, small boys get ready early by throwing water balloons at unsuspecting passersby. My pre-Holi tally was five water balloon attempts, with three finding their target. In one case I was going downstairs into the subway when multiple bombs came from above (not including the F-bombs I lobbed back). In the other two cases, the boys ran after me to hit their mark.

Yes woman

You know that Jim Carrey movie "Yes Man" where he decides to say yes to everything? Well, as I'm in the middle of a four-month solo stay in India, that’s what I've decided to do.

Ok, I don't say yes to everything. Feel free to say no to drugs, touts, uncomfortable situations, absurdly high prices, and sex with people you don’t want to sleep with. But mainly, I say yes.

Want to change your plans and come to Udaipur with us?

Want to come to my party?

Want to talk to my friend who needs a roommate?

Yes, yes, yes.

Journalism in India

India is a democracy, yes, with a flourishing media, but the areas where Indian journalism differs from Western journalism fascinates me.

Take, for example, this article that ran in the March 3 edition of The Hindu, “Gujarat riot victims still awaiting justice: Amnesty.” It mentions that Amnesty International found that most of the victims of the riots that took place a decade ago still haven’t received compensation for lost homes, and warns that those living in transit camps are in danger of being evicted. Ten years ago, 2,000 people were killed in the riots, and today 21,000 people are still in transit camps.

What doesn’t the article mention? That the riots were perpetrated by Hindus against Muslims. Not once are the words “Hindus” or “Muslims” mentioned. Why in the world would the newspaper leave out such a crucial fact?

My main guess is that everyone already knows the facts and they don’t feel the need to repeat it. The paper had just run a larger article prior. But I still find that strange. At least say the riot was racially charged!

Days when India drives me crazy

There are days where India just drives me mad. Three days this week, little boys have thrown water balloons at me (balloons that twice found their target). They’re celebrating Holi, a festival where people throw colored powders and urine and dirt at each other, early. I shudder to think that the whole next week I’ll be a target until Holi passes.

But even when it’s not crazy festival time, India can be frustrating. Take just now. I walked to the nearby market to look for a restaurant that had left a takeout menu at my door. Bhutan Kitchen’s address: 85, Humayan Pur. Now, you’d think that the 80s will come between the 70s and 90s, but not in Humayan Pur, apparently. Goes right from 77 to 95.

Eventually, I found the 80-block. Now, you’d think that 85 would be between 83 and 86, but not in Humayan Pur, apparently. I called the restaurant.

“Are you guys a sit-down place? Do you have a restaurant, or are you only delivery?”

“Yes, we have a restaurant. We are behind 610-A, by the chicken place.”

There was not a chicken place in sight. I asked some men in a store if they knew where the chicken place was. No. And what the hell does 610-A mean?

I gave up, and ate Chinese instead.