This is the third time this month I’ve taken a sick day off work. The sum total before that since I arrived was half a day, if that.

I want to blame it on my maid, who actually had me feel her arm to show me how hot it was. When I realized how feverish she was, I pointed at the door and said, “Go home and sleep!”, miming sleep. She did. Though she washed the dishes first. I rewashed them.

That was two weeks ago, Friday. Saturday I went into Delhi to have a lunch with a co-worker. Felt mostly okay, though not 100%. Sunday, I felt even worse, though still went back into Delhi to have dinner.

When I can tell I have a fever without a thermometer, I know I’m sick. Monday morning, I emailed my team, took some ibuprofen, and slept on and off most of the day. I should have taken a sick day Tuesday, too, but I hate taking days off work.

As I rode in my taxi to work on Tuesday, I noticed a guy on a motorbike trying to get my driver’s attention. As you might have guessed, it is very difficult to get the attention of another vehicle on the road in India. Because honking certainly won’t help. But I noticed him so I alerted my driver. Turned out, we had a flat tire! I can’t believe neither of us felt it, it was all the way down to the dregs. Luckily, I live within walking distance (more or less) of work so just went the rest of the way on foot.

Filler photo from market outside work. “Abhi” means “Now”

I felt mostly better on Wednesday and Thursday (and the taxi sorted out its tire issue), then felt crappy again on Friday. On Friday morning, because it is just about the end of the month and so convenient timing, I decided to let the maid go. I don’t know for sure whether she has gotten me sick the last two times, but I’m kind of tired of re-washing dishes because they don’t meet my standards. I sometimes feel like she brings in more germs than she cleans away, which I guess is kind of a mean thing to think. I told her it was because of my wacky schedule and because I am leaving India soon. I didn’t want to make the neighbor translate firing her again.

Saturday morning, I woke up covered in a rash! My arms and legs were covered in itchy pinpricks of red. (I had thought a mosquito had attacked me at first.) My hands and feet were red, swollen, and tingly all day. Mid morning, there was an earthquake. Not a very big one, but the first one my neighbor had ever felt in the building. Both my neighbors were sufficiently nervous that, together, we all (including husbands and kids) walked down 12 flights of stairs. Apparently no one else on any other floor cared as we were the only ones outside, where we hung out for a bit (neighbor informing me that the building could withstand a 7.5 so I kinda wondered what we were doing out there) before deciding to go back up. Taking the elevator. All righty, then.

I’m an idiot, so I did not cancel my plans to go to a Tai Chi class in Lodhi Garden with the Women’s Group despite the rash and swelling. I got an auto to the metro (the first auto inexplicably turned me down) then I found a seat on the metro, one bonus of getting on at the end of the line. And a minute into the Tai Chi, I was so light-headed, I couldn’t stand any longer. Great. So I just sat there on the grass for an hour. Then I took a taxi home (the first taxi inexplicably turned me down) though enjoyed a nice lime soda at the Lodhi restaurant first with the teacher from Holland who is coincidentally acquainted with the couple that organized my trip to Leh.

On Sunday, my landlord sent his uncle and some maintenance people over to finally fix the leak in the air conditioner pipe (that was caused by the bolt in the brackets piercing the pipe.) It is finally done, yay! They also fixed my geyser (hot water heater)! Yay for not-cold showers!

Since the maintenance folks borrowed a ladder from the neighbor, I took the ladder opportunity and looked in all the closets and attic space I could never reach before! Nothing interesting, but my curiosity is satisfied. Also, I finally cleaned the ceiling fans which I had been wanting to do for ages, but couldn’t reach them.

Attic Mystery Solved! It’s… well, an attic. Over my hallway. Containing dust and an empty box.

So because every single Indian person who knew I was sick has been telling me to for the last week, I finally went to the doctor on Sunday evening. I took a rickshaw to the only hospital I knew (the reputable “Fortis Hospital” chain near my work) and went to the Emergency Room, despite that it wasn’t an emergency.

I generally wasn’t impressed. First of all, I went in the main entrance, not the emergency entrance, so it took me a good 15, 20 minutes (a lot of that waiting in line at reception while other people cut in front of me) to find the emergency area. I had to walk through a door that said “Patients Only” and had to ask several people if I was in the right place.
To their credit, the doctors were able to see me immediately, which was kind of awesome. Not as awesome was that they wanted me to lay on a bed that had clearly been lain on by previous patients. I declined. The doctors were nice enough (even the one that randomly asked if I was Christian because my name is a Christian name, which it isn’t) but they did not really tell me anything I did not already know from the internet. They just checked my blood pressure and were like, “Yep, you don’t have a fever now.”

To see the doctor was astonishingly cheap. Like $6. To get a blood test was astonishingly expensive. Over $80! Now, I might be mis-remembering (or maybe I only know the insured rate) but I thought blood tests in the U.S. were closer to $60. If I had any notion it would cost that much, I never would have bothered. It did not seem to matter if I had insurance here, unless I was admitted. Though it was kind of cool that I could look up my blood test results online to see that I didn’t have dengue fever or complications from dengue. (I didn’t think I had dengue because I suspect I would have been out of work much longer than a day. But no one had any other good explanation. And dengue is going around.)

A week later, I still don’t feel great. I had a headache so bad at work, I raided the admin team’s medicine stash (kindly labeled with which to take for what since the drug names are not the same) and found 400mg of ibuprofen. Yeah, I was all over that.

Today, I discovered that, after two wonderfully gloriously hot showers, my geyser is broken again. Awesome. At least the water isn’t freezing, just kind of swimming-pool cold, and it is still fairly hot out so it is not horrible yet, just annoying.

Tomorrow, I head to Dehradun for the weekend. Hope I can manage to not feel sick. And maybe I’ll get a hot shower.

Last weekend, I went to Dehradun, a town at the foothills of the Himalayas. The first half of the several-hour drive is on the same highway that goes to Rishikesh. The first time I rode on this highway early in the year, I could not stop staring out the window, taking it all in. Now, it seems familiar.

We stopped at the same Haldiram’s as last time (for the river rafting.) I was told that the concept of a roadside restaurant complex is relatively new in India. (They are a dime a dozen in the States.) Restaurants other than Haldiram’s at this rest stop include McDonald’s, Baskin Robbins, and Subway. I had myself some chole bhature (poofy fried bread with spicy garbanzo bean sauce) for breakfast.

Three vehicles went, all maroon, so we were a matching procession up the highway. I was in the Scorpio with two very friendly teenagers, the children of one of the couples going on the trip. This trip was a private trip – not through Internations – and so was all Indian couples except for me and three adolescents. I think the other couples kept forgetting I wasn’t one of the kids, but that was okay since the kids spoke more English anyway and were up on Western pop culture, more so than I, even.

Dehradun is apparently trying to be Delhi’s new suburb, despite the distance. It’s a city of three quarters of a million, though did not feel that big as we drove through the small, curvy, crowded streets with not a highway in sight. I did not actually get a good sense of Dehradun as a whole. Most of the time, we stayed at a quiet resort along a small river that eventually joins up with the Yamuna, which flows into Delhi. The place we stayed was called “Rio Resort”.

Gazebos and My Cottage at Rio Resort, Dehradun

The rooms were very nice and comfortable. And the bed was soft! That was a first! Even the bed at my apartment is as hard as a rock. Though, the sheets and towels were only “India clean.” I found the requisite black hair under the pillow (that otherwise looked clean enough) and towels that really could use a good washing with hot water and bleach. Just like pretty much every non-5-star hotel in this country.

We met the friendly owner of the resort at one point. He said he had named his resort Rio because he was looking for a short word that meant “River”. When he found the Portuguese / Spanish word, the name was decided, but he pronounces it “Rye-o” instead of “Ree-o” which I found kind of cute, though strange. It does make me take for granted how many Spanish words I automatically know how to say because I am from Colorado. Or listen to too much Duran Duran.

Rio Resort River, Looking up to Mussoorie

In the evening, we drove to what I assume is downtown Dehradun, a very busy road lined on both sides with fancy shops, restaurants, arcades, etc. They had a well-known bakery called “Ellora” on the main stretch in which I ate the most delicious baked good I’ve ever had in India, despite that the guy behind the counter as well as the guy he handed it to for heating both touched my brownie with their fingers. At least it got microwaved afterward. We walked up and down the street which was mostly a loud and harrowing experience. There were sidewalks but they were being used by cars and motorcycles as parking, so you had to walk in between parked cars and traffic. You couldn’t let your attention slip for a moment. I grabbed the arm of the person next to me before attempting to cross. The shops were nice, though there were a surprising amount of child beggars / balloon sellers on the street.

The next morning’s activity was definitely the highlight of the trip.

Only ten minutes by foot up the road from the resort was Robber’s Cave.

Someone lent me flip-flops (as my awesome sandals got lost during the Ladakh trip) and then we stepped into the river.

Crossing the River to get to the Entrance

Further In…

I had a smile plastered on my face. This. Was. Awesome. Worth the whole trip. I can’t imagine having been the first person who discovered this path, risking the unknown depths and destination.

Looking Back

Looking Up!

At the other end was a little pool surrounded by wet, climbable rocks, which we all started climbing. It was a bit slippery on the way up but since I am stubborn, I refused any help. Also, I needed both of my hands for scampering.

Inside (Over?) Robber’s Cave

So, at the end of the hike was a waterfall. At first, I was like, “no way”, least of which because I was carrying my camera. (And it was pretty hard to keep it dry even in the vicinity of the fall.) Then the guy in front of me handed his glasses and phone to one of the local workers to hold. He stood under and got pummeled by the water, then stepped out.

So I said, all right then. I gave my camera to the same dude and walked toward the waterfall.

The other guy had stepped under, got super wet, then had stepped out, but when I stepped under the waterfall, I dropped. The ground under the waterfall was (in hindsight, obviously) deeper than the surrounding ground. Much deeper. I sank, pressed down by the fall, my flipflops both flew off in a second. Underwater, I started swimming for it, wondering if I would be trapped. But then two hands of either some random other guys or the locals who were accompanying us, pulled me out. From then on, I dropped the stubbornness about them helping me.

Waterfall

Soaked from head to toe, I headed back out to the group (most did not go all the way to the fall.) Then we all started the walk back together, walking downstream making it more difficult to keep flipflops on. I really missed my sandals. When one of the mothers – the one who was nearest to my age – told me I should hold someone’s hand for the walk back, the stubbornness returned. I innocently stated that if someone needed their hand held for the walk back, I’d be happy to oblige. She did not reply. I have a strong feeling they all thought I was in my early twenties and treated me as such. I wavered between wanting to say, “I’m almost forty, people!” and not wanting to discourage the youthful misconception and/or embarrass them. And my fake youth gave me an excuse for my stubbornness, so why advertise that I should be more mature.

After we showered up (glad I know how to use a geyser) we started driving into the mountains and had lunch at an acquaintance of the Major’s at a place called The Marigold, which is known for its fresh daily food. The woman was able to accommodate all 12 of us (and three extra meals for the drivers) no problem, I was impressed. Although someone had called it a “light snack”, food just kept coming out. Momos, noodles, rice, the list went on. And tasty!

We continued our drive up the twisty mountain roads (paved and with barriers) to Mussoorie, a small town (26K pop) that has a pedestrian mall similar to Shimla. The drivers dropped us off at the entrance and we started to wander. It was a snack-fest with the peanuts, popcorn, and other munchies. We passed by a chocolatier and I got myself a fairly decent truffle from the man behind the counter who put on a plastic glove before handing it to me (and I didn’t even have to ask!)

Mussoorie (not Missouri like I keep hearing…)

It was a cute town, but the view back down to Dehradun, which I can tell would have been stunning, was instead just a bank of fog.

The dinners provided by the resort were pretty decent and the service was good. (One of the main guys even came out to the main gazebo with a spare umbrella during a particularly brutal thunderstorm.) The food was served standard India buffet style and there was plenty of it! Though the chicken was just pre-packaged nuggets. I learned a new card game that was easy enough for any age (and we ranged from mid-teens to mid-70s I think) that involved building up and down the four suits. We passed some time playing that.

It was this trip that, for the first time, I really felt the effect of the Indian Food Offering I had read about. When I was researching India before I came, there was a lot of reference to the behavior that, when someone offers you food, you are supposed to decline first, regardless of whether you want it. Then that person is supposed to offer it again. First off, if I really want what is offered, I just CAN’T decline, despite knowing this. I like my food. And sometimes there is no second offer. (I’m not yet savvy enough to figure out which times I will get offered again.) If I only sort of want it or feel like I really shouldn’t have that second helping of dessert, I get very weirded out when it is offered twice. I feel like they either ignored me or did not respect my “No, thanks” boundary. If it is offered a third time, I contemplate taking it just so they’ll stop asking, even if I do not want it, because wow, they really must want me to have it. It took me half the weekend to catch on that this was a cultural difference, and one I had actually known about. The food dynamics were weird. I felt like I was getting over fed Italian-Grandmother-style most of the trip. Granted, this is infinitely, infinitely preferable to the reverse, like during my Delhi Tourism trip, where they seemed to not understand that their guests might want more than one meal a day.

For our trip back to Delhi, someone suggested doing something that I did not understand. I said, “I have no idea what that is, but sounds good!” The others laughed, but I probably should have double checked…

We went to a Sikh temple for lunch. None of us are Sikh. I recognized what the temple (on the border of Uttarakhand and Uttar Pradesh I think) was immediately when we arrived because it was so similar to the one in Delhi.

Sikh Temple Dome

These are some things about visiting a Sikh temple:

• Sikh temples require everyone (men and women alike) to wear head coverings. I was the only one in the car who apparently did not carry a head scarf around in their bag, so I had to use a shared one provided by the temple.
• Sikh temples require that you remove your shoes (like most temples here) and there is a fairly long section you have to walk where there are both shod and barefoot people. (You walk through water to clean your feet before mounting the stairs to the main temple.)
• In the temple itself, you can receive a handful (literally, a hand full) of mystery squishy food from a holy man. The others kept offering to get me some when I did not get some for myself. You can sit inside on the floor of the temple (many were) or just walk in a clockwise direction around it.
• Sikh temples provide a free vegetarian lunch to anyone – ANYONE – who comes in. This is provided in an adjacent hall. As you might expect, they have mass food service down to a science. Several dishwashers wash the metal trays and put them in a big container that you take a tray and a bowl for water from. Then you sit along a (obviously not very clean) thin rug in tight rows. Men come down the row with various food like rice, curries, fresh roti, soup, water, etc that they put on your tray on request. The ‘on request’ is important because apparently (and thank God someone told me) you are supposed to eat everything on your plate and leave not one bit behind.

If you do not understand why any of the above may have bothered me, you may understand when the older teenager asked shortly later, “Do you have OCD?”

I don’t have real, true OCD, but I’m particular about certain things. This includes a strong desire to have clean feet, clean hands, not eat food other people (especially strangers) have touched, not eat anything that has come in contact with India water (most Indians agree with me here), and not sit down in dirty places. And the above experience, especially at the end of a long, somewhat culturally frustrating trip, caused me a lot of embarrassing stress.

There was one piece of information that would have helped immensely. A piece of information that I would have had absolutely no way of knowing as I have never seen this or heard of this anywhere else in India. The water used to clean the trays is apparently RO-filtered water! That was the primary reason I refused all food and drink. From my point of view, I was eating contaminated food and could not believe that the others – the same kind of people who carefully wipe plates with a napkin at a restaurant to be sure they are fully dry – were just eating straight off the wet trays (and worse, drinking from the wet bowls!) ‘Disease factory’ was the phrase that came to my mind and I sat in absolute shock as everyone hurriedly ate (apparently, you have to eat fast) and I refused everything that came down the line.

If someone had told me beforehand that the water used to clean the trays was filtered, I would have been happy to try the food. As it was, I probably gave the impression that I must be some kind of freaky, picky eater. The organizers of the trip assumed I was starving after that (even though I was still stuffed from breakfast and snacks on the road) and they kept trying to feed me the whole way home, which embarrassed the heck out of me. I am happy to live with the consequences of my ignorance and OCD-like tendencies without being coddled. Notably, the teenagers did not partake of the meal either and no one coddled them. (They were the ones who told me about the RO filtering and pointed to the giant area where the filters were.)

It was also a little weird – but maybe in a good way – to be sitting down to a meal with someone who could be anyone. Who could be homeless. Could be a billionaire. I cannot think of an equivalent back home. There is charity food (soup kitchens and the like) and there are pancake breakfasts. But the audience doesn’t mix. I did feel a little guilty, though. I mean someone is paying for the food at some level. And we can afford to eat out. Aren’t we wasting resources? Aren’t there people who could use this free meal more than us?

On the whole, Dehradun and Mussoorie were nice areas that reminded me a lot of Shimla. Someone told me on the trip, that once I’ve seen one “hill station”, I’ve seen them all…

So my geyser (hot water heater) is now “fixed” as in, if I turn it on, I will get hot water, and fairly quickly. But, if I forget to turn it off, I will probably burn out the heating element (which is why it broke last time.) The thermostat is still not functional. Well, hot water is hot water I guess?

Why I like to overpay:

At the moment, I take a taxi to work and catch an autorickshaw home. I made this change because the evening taxi always seemed to be at least an hour late and I wanted to have more control over when I left work. But also because it saves me 150 rupees ($3) a day. So, do I get overcharged for the autorickshaw? Absolutely! But here is why I don’t mind:

• I don’t have to deal with small bills or the elusive 50-rupee note, I can just hand over a single 100 bill and be done with it. (Actual market rate is 50-70 rupees I think.)
• No haggling, no arguing, no delay
• The auto drivers that hang out at my office now know me, know where I live, and are ready (and eager) to give me a ride when I walk out of work. I barely have to say a word.

Downsides to riding in an auto instead of a taxi:

• It is dirtier, and sometimes I smell a whiff of pot when I step in (though I guess that makes my driver more relaxed?)
• It is a bumpier and less safe ride. Also, if it is raining, I get lots of droplets since there are no windows or doors on an auto. Come winter, this ride will be cold as well.
• I feel slightly guilty because I’d hate to think they assume all foreigners are pushovers when it comes to auto fare. Though we are, pretty much.

As I’m now counting down my time here (just over two months left, and a chunk of that traveling), I’ll probably stop my morning taxi too which has taken to being regularly 30-45 minutes late every day, except for the one day I slept in. But I’ll have to walk out to the street to hail an auto. On the upside, the price the hailed ones offer is always cheaper than 100. (Only the bicycle rickshaw drivers, ironically, ever attempt to charge me more than double.)

Random Holidays

So, it is Navratri. Again. I was confused at first, asking my co-workers, “Didn’t this happen already?” It did (mentioned in my April 13 entry) but apparently this occurs twice a year at the beginning of spring and the beginning of autumn. Besides the “fast” which is less a fast and more just abstaining from certain things (meat, onion, garlic) or restricting yourself to only milk and fruit or having one meal a day, etc, for all nine days, there are a lot of related events and festivals happening on those nights.

For example, the one outside my apartment last night. It kind of looked like my housing society put on a rave in the courtyard with all the lights and techno beats. I saw a very dressed up family walk by. The celebration was apparently called Dandiya Rass. My neighbor who lives in the same tower but facing the courtyard, took this photo of the festivities from his balcony, which is why I even knew what to Google:

Party Time: Dandiya Rass at my Apartment Complex

This afternoon, I was walking down to the gym when I saw a little bonfire in the middle of the grassy area (where the stage in the above photo is). Most of the decorations had been taken down. As I strolled down the sidewalk next to it, out of nowhere, a deafening crack like a gunshot sounded, then another. It wasn’t a bonfire, they were firecrackers! The weirdest part to me was that it was surrounded by giggling and shrieking small children. There were a couple adults present, but seems like no one minded that there were mini fireballs all around, crazy loud cracks, and no one stopping these elementary-aged kids from making sure they did not get catch fire.

Granted, the kids were smart enough to run away and put some distance between themselves and the exploding firecrackers before they went off. Which just goes to show that perhaps Americans like me take safety precautions too seriously. (Or more Indians have burn scars on their hands than I thought…)

A local told me that the laws in India are very strict. But everyone ignores them. And that’s the way it is.

Firecrackers / fireworks / loud bangs were on the roster for the rest of the evening. I kind of wish the building had informed me of the festivities happening in the complex. I mean, even if I knew it was a holiday, how would I know what was planned? Interestingly, someone here pointed out a related difference between India and America. In the States, you don’t get help as often from people because you simply don’t need it! The system helps you sort it out. In India, it is a little more chaotic, so you almost require help to figure out how to do anything. So it might not be entirely my fault that I seem to have no idea what is going on half the time… or most of the time.

There was a fire drill (or actual fire?) at my work last week around quitting time. A recorded woman’s voice came over the loudspeaker, as well as an alarm, and instructed us to leave the building. This was odd because:

• We don’t get an alarm / recorded voice for earthquakes. Everyone just files out. I guess no one pulls a “earthquake alarm” though.
• The recorded woman’s voice had an American accent! (In other words, I didn’t notice an accent. Then noticed that I did not notice an accent.) Most recorded voices I’ve heard here are, if not in an Indian accent, than in a British one.
• No idea who would have given the OK to go back inside. There was no sign of fire or emergency vehicles. After hanging around for 10 minutes, I just decided to go home because it was 6pm anyway.

There seem to be more mosquitoes around than there were in summer. Also, mosquitoes REALLY LIKE the back seats of taxis for some reason. I have ample personal experience to support this assertion. On a similar note, from the Emails I Don’t Get In My Home Office Department:

The temperature is cooler, but not significantly. And it’s still fairly humid. I have not turned off my A/C overnight yet, but we’re getting close.

In other news, the majority of construction across the street appears to be over. I mean, the scaffolding around the outside was taken down a week or two ago but it was only today that I noticed that most of the shantytown was gone, too! That has been there since I arrived. Weird to see it all gone. Maybe they just moved down the street closer to the other buildings still in an earlier state of construction.

Last night, I was flipping through channels and discovered that Star World was playing old The West Wing reruns. Last night’s episode was the one where the president had to deal with a skirmish along the Line of Control that separates Pakistan and India in the northernmost state of Jammu & Kashmir. I had seen the episode before many years ago, actually, but it gives it a different perspective actually watching it in India and hearing about places I just visited a couple months ago on a road trip.

So, then I see this headline on the news today, same location:
Pakistan violates ceasefire again, fires at Indian posts

Dude!

But I suppose it must not be that big a deal as it did not make it to BBC or anything. Only locally.

In unrelated news…

There are many Gods in India. But none so worshiped as:

Sachin Tendulkar

If you live in India, then you know about this dude. He’s “widely acknowledged as the greatest batsman in cricket.” After playing his 200th game, he will retire next month.

This news did make the BBC.

And tonight… the conclusion of The West Wing arc. Hope it ends peacefully!

It’s amazing how many traditions and festivals India has! They already have so many that they have to institute a floating holiday system at work so only ten are taken. But it seems like there are plenty in between, many not important enough to warrant a day off but still widely celebrated.

Today, Oct 22, is Karva Chauth. Today, women fast from sunrise to moonrise for the “long life and health” of their husbands. And this is a true fast. No eating, and usually no drinking, the entire day. They also tend to dress in wedding-like finery, often colored red (“the married women’s color”, says one of my co-workers) and have henna done. The Wiki article goes into very interesting detail. Especially the various critiques and responses to the fact that it is a very female-oriented holiday and whether that makes it oppressive or empowering.

So, today at work, there were lots of women dressed up beautifully with gorgeous designs on their hands and arms. Even my maid had henna. And many men left early. Why, you ask? I asked, too.

“The woman may break her fast when she has seen the moon and her husband’s face.”

Ah.

In fact, at least one newly-married man took the whole day off.

Karva Chauth Henna I Saw Today

I have to say, I am impressed. Women in North India must have very strong will power. The woman who sits next to me fasts once a week and I think the woman across from me does too. (One for finding a decent husband, the other in honor of her decent husband.) I’ve never fasted. I might try one day because I think it would honestly be good for me to know what it feels like to go a long time without food. Also, I heard it might even be healthy to give your digestive system a break? Not sure, because it also seems like it would mess with your metabolism. That’s the problem with being raised in America. So Much Nutrition And Weight Loss Information / Misinformation stuffed in my head. I do know one thing, though. Many, many cultures fast. So it can’t be all that bad for you.

I’m trying to think of some equivalent in the U.S. but we have few widespread traditions that just kind of happen without any federal holiday attached to them. Offhand, I can think of Valentine’s Day and Halloween.

Both of which involve consuming chocolate.

Super Bowl Sunday? Burgers, ribs, chips ‘n’ guac. Black Friday? Well, consuming everything. But you have to get lunch sometime during all that shopping, right? In fact, do we in the U.S. have any celebration that doesn’t involve consuming more than usual rather than less? Perhaps Mother’s and Father’s Day…

Granted, apparently a big part of Karva Chauth is the shopping. So, there’s that.

An informal survey of my male co-workers’ answer to the question, “Is your wife fasting?”

• “Yes, but I don’t require her to. I tell her she can eat whatever she wants. But she fasts anyway.”
• “She has to.” After I laughed, he smiled and said, “No, not in a chauvinistic way. I mean She has to, not She has to.”
• “Yes, but we count me calling her as seeing my face. So she can break her fast when she hears my voice.”

I think I was most surprised at how widely celebrated it was. Everyone I have seen in the last two days who is married was undertaking (or their spouse was undertaking) the fast.

I’m going to go look for the moon now.

In completely unrelated news…

I got takeout from Vaango (the South Indian fast food joint…. not to be confused to Van Gogh) the other day partially because I got a text message that I would get a free masala dosa if I ordered 200 rupees worth, though mostly because I was in the area and thinking of going over there anyway. I didn’t order this, though:

For an Explosive Lunch

I’m finally, finally, done my Leh trip blog. Whew. Just in time for Thursday when I am off to Dubai! My first trip to the Middle East.

Looking back, it is kind of amazing that this happened.

So here I was, planning my first trip outside India since I arrived and my first trip to the Middle East. My friend lives near Dubai and when would I be this close to UAE again? After doing some initial searches and ruling out Abu Dhabi as an airport destination due to lack of well-timed flights, I decided that I wanted to take Emirates Airlines (the nice one) to Dubai because it was only a little more expensive and it would be a nifty treat.

After checking out the usual suspects (makemytrip.com and ixigo.com), I found I had the urge to go with the cheapest and settled on an Air India flight that left at 4:30pm. All seemed well. A little over two weeks before my departure date, I got an SMS from MakeMyTrip telling me that the flight was now leaving at 8:40pm and that my return flight did not leave until after midnight (getting me back to my flat after four in the morning when I had work the next day.) Meanwhile, that Emirates flight had nearly tripled in price.

After some scrambling around, involving spending some time on hold with Make My Trip (whom I had been on hold on with a lot lately due to the Srinagar fiasco) and Air India, I cancelled my flight, got a full refund (!) in a timely (!!!) manner, and booked myself on a new option: Air Arabia to Sharjah, which is basically a suburb of Dubai, leaving at 1:10pm.

All seemed well.

Then I arrived to the check-in counter.

To make a long story short (too late) Air Arabia did not issue me a boarding pass. They required proof that I had registered at the Foreign Registration Office when I arrived, which of course I had done. Eight months previous. My documentation literally sitting in a drawer since I had received it. The woman in charge behind the desk did make a couple calls on my behalf, but for naught. I was not allowed to get on that flight without proving I had registered at the office.

I stood there in confused shock for some time. How was this possible? I had my passport. I had my PAN card (my India tax card.) They really expected me to carry the two full-size sheets of a handwritten form on stapled paper that comprised my FRRO around with me? They had no other way to confirm I had done this? Apparently not. I think what stunned me the most is how I had never heard about this on any forum I’d perused, site I’d visited, or book I’d read (and I’d read quite a few.) Possibly, these sources did mention the need for this and I had simply forgotten after all this time? Or assumed anything that I was supposed to carry around would, of course, be in convenient card form like *everything else I need* is.

It was about 11:30am. My flat was an hour away by taxi. There was simply no way possible for me to make it back by 1:10 (I need to start giving other people copies of my flat key for times like these). I had to get on another flight if I wanted to carry on with this trip. Figuring there was nothing I could do until I had my FRRO in hand, I headed for the door.

THEY DID NOT LET ME OUT THE DOOR!

It is in moments like these where I realize that India is a more dangerous country than I thought. You need proof you are booked on a flight to even enter the building. And once in, there’s no turning around! Stress was compounding and I was nearing breakdown. I felt the urge to hurry but I Could. Not. Leave.

The guards at the door said I could only leave if an airport employee personally signed me out. I was in such a state of helpless panic, they finally had someone accompany me back to the Air Arabia counter to explain the situation and confirm that I wasn’t…. I don’t even want to imagine the reasons they could think of for denying me exit.

It seemed to take a ridiculously long time (I’m sure it was not all that long) before I was confirmed, signed out (passport number was required) and able to exit. Luckily, there was an elevator that led down to the Arrivals level where all the taxis were. I had never actually taken a taxi from the airport on my own, but I knew they were there and I barely cared at this point if they overcharged me.

At first I was surprised, as I stood near some taxis, that no one was calling out, “taxi, ma’am” then I realized these were hired from a nearby desk. I got myself very quickly onto a Meru taxi. For a reasonable rate. (Good to know this is here for future reference!)

I proceeded to spend the entire taxi ride on the phone (and on hold with) Make My Trip to both cancel my original trip and book myself on a new one. (Insert mini-panic I felt when the call dropped just as he listed my alternate flight options. The thought of calling back and starting the process all over made me cry. I begged him to call back. And, he did.) Looked like I was going to get to try Emirates after all!

The Emirates flight left at 4:15pm. I got the last seat on the flight. (No joke.)

But I had to reach the check-in counter 45 minutes before the flight so I was cutting it close, no question, and I soon realized there was only one way I was even going to have a chance of making it.

I was going to have to keep this taxi driver. No matter what.

The kind man (who had probably been listening to my long-winded reservation conversations wherein I also booked a return one-stop flight on Oman Air, the possibility of keeping the latter half of my original reservation not occurring to me) agreed to wait for me as I ran up to my flat. I left my luggage in the car as collateral, but also did not pay him, just in case there’d been confusion. The whole time, I had my phone to my ear talking to a very patient man on Make My Trip who couldn’t accept my Axis bank (local bank) debit card over the phone to pay but also could not charge my U.S. credit card until I had given him written (e-mailed) permission for that amount.

Guess when my phone suddenly refused to connect to Hotmail? Yep.

Luckily, my FRRO was just where I left it. Now I had to beg the taxi driver to take a side trip – luckily a short side trip – to my office where I could send MakeMyTrip an email. And print out a boarding pass while I was at it. Because, knowing how the day I was going, I feared I would be denied entry into Delhi International because I could not connect to Hotmail and prove on my phone that I did, in fact, have an e-ticket.

There was a massive amount of traffic and parked cars on the street of my office. Even now, I have no idea why. I’ve never seen it that crowded before or since. I was concerned that my driver would not have a place to wait and would give up on me. But I still had not paid him. And I still left my luggage in the car. So I hoped he would find a way as I ran up to the office, luckily no one bothering me about my ID or keycard.

It seemed to take forever for the payment to go through and the e-ticket to be issued. Luckily, it was lunchtime, so I was not wrangled into conversations – work or otherwise. The printer (THANK GOD) worked. I was literally jogging out the door with printouts, my returning co-workers looking at me, a little confused, and meanwhile, I crossed my fingers that my taxi driver was still there, waiting.

He was.

It was now about 1:40pm. Then we hit traffic on NH 24. Like you do.

I looked at my phone a lot, checking the time. When the driver needed to stop for gas, I begged BEGGED him to keep going, saying I’d give him extra money, because I was cutting it so close. He understood enough to keep on going, though I was never clear on just how much of my English he understood.

It was before 3:00 when we finally entered the area of the airport. But it still seemed to be so far away. I was a little nervous when I saw the signs for Terminal 1 and Terminal 3, Domestic and International respectively, and the driver started toward Terminal 1. I mean, the driver must have known that he was just taking me back to where we both started, right? But I could not help but ask why we had just driven by the exit to Terminal 3.

“It’s a faster road,” he promised.

“Okay, I trust you!” I said. It was after 3:00pm now. The flight was at 4:15. Indeed, he went past Terminal 1 to get to 3.

As we neared the terminal (seriously, why was it not getting closer faster) I took out cash ahead of time. 1,000 rupees for the way there (which probably only came to 800+), 1,000 for the way back, and 1,000 because he saved my butt (and made the side trip to my office and waited for a quarter hour there.) Best $50 I’ve ever spent. I’m thinking the driver probably agrees.

As soon as the car stopped, my arms already around my bag, I handed him the cash, quickly explained the breakdown, encountered no objection, then basically ran to the terminal, scanning for the shortest line at the several doors, jumping ahead of someone, waiting while the guard confirmed, then booked it to Check-in counter H. I practically collapsed in front of the Emirates desk, panting.

“Wow, I didn’t expect anyone else,” the polite man said. “There’s only five minutes left.”

EPILOGUE

I made it!

At first, I was thinking about what an awful turn of events this day had been. But then it occurred to me that it was actually extremely serendipitous. Consider the following:

Goal: To reach Dubai on Thursday evening.
Fact: I was completely ignorant about the need for my FRRO documentation.

I am pretty sure there is actually NO OTHER WAY I could have met my goal given my lack of knowledge. If I had booked on Emirates first… If Air India hadn’t changed their time… if I hadn’t switched to Air Arabia… I would have never made it to the airport with sufficient time to book another flight.

And, in case you were wondering, the nice young man at the Emirates counter did need to see my FRRO paperwork. Now I know. And now you do, too, for next time you domicile in South Asia.

(UAE blog should be up sometime in the next few weeks. Less a blog and more an ode to my first avocado in nine months. And the jaw-droppingness of hearing the MakeMyTrip hold music suddenly playing in an Abu Dhabi mall. Well, okay, I’ll talk about that tall building as well. If you insist.)