I can’t avoid more posts about my trip to India. It was simply too freaky an experience for me. I should have been sharing my experiences while I was over there, but I was just too wiped out by the end of each day. I don’t think I ever adjusted to the jet lag even after 10 days. I was exhausted the whole time there, but it took less than a day to get “reset” when I returned to North America.

This was a business trip for me. But I made attempts to get out and about in the evenings and on the one weekend I had while I was there. There was always something interesting, different, or shocking to see. Even everyday traffic was full of memorable sights. People hanging out of buses, four people on a motorcycle, trucks overloaded, motorcycles with cargo stacked high, auto rickshaws, oxcarts, traffic EVERYWHERE!

I went on a tour of a local temple with a business counterpart. As we walked through the temple, she shared with me the history, reasoning, and religious significance of every detail of the experience. Everything was explained. Everything had a reason and intention. Why the red dot in the middle of the forehead? Partially because women are the weaker sex. Being the weaker sex, they would be easier to mesmerize. The red dot distracts the attention of a possible hypnotist and this prevents the mesmerizing from taking place. Why do you eat with the right hand? Because the left hand is considered the devil’s hand; it’s the hand to wipe your ass with. Why are their woven rugs on the stones of the temples? Because the stone gets hot during they afternoon sun… This last one struck me funny for some reason. I was waiting for some symbolic reasoning, some divine explanation, some clever anecdote of its origin. I didn’t expect “the stones get hot in the sun and will burn your feet.”

We visited Marina Beach, in Chennai. This is apparently the second largest beach in the world. It was also hit very hard by the Boxing Day tsunami of 2004. It was here that I tried Samosa Channa and Kulfi. Delicious food, but the local folks in the office were surprised that we ate food prepared at the beach. Might explain why I spent the first half of my trip farting endlessly and the second half of my trip being afraid to fart. I am still suffering the after effects, like some intercontinental gastro-intestinal hangover.

The poverty and sanitary conditions really hit me hard. It was not uncommon to see garbage piled along busy roadways. It was also not uncommon to see cows, goats, and even pigs “grazing” in these piles of garbage. It is also very disturbing to see the conditions that some people are forced to live in. There were folks living on the side of the road in grass huts or under tarpaulins. Sad, very sad.

Before I clue this post up… can anyone tell me what this hose is for? More specifically, how is it used to do whatever it is for?

From my last two posts, you can tell that I was on a trip to India.

I figured I’d send you all a funny story about my trip coming over here while I was on my way going home. I’ve set the timestamp on this post to publish while I was in the air on my way home. If you happen to be reading this within 24 hours of the timestamp at the bottom of this post, you are reading it while I am somewhere in the air between Chennai and Moncton.

When I was boarding the plane in Montreal, the lady at the gate told me that I was moved from my window seat to the aisle seat in the same row due to the fact that the electronics in the seat weren’t working and I would not be able to recline the seat during the flight. I thought, “I wanted my window seat, but that’s a reasonable compromise.” Either way, it’s still a business class seat… it would be fine. Well, when I get on the plane, there’s some dude sitting in the window seat that should have been mine! I mentioned to the stewardess that the check-in lady had moved me due to the malfunction and I was surprised to see someone sat there. She was unaware of the issue with the chair and told me that unless I wanted to de-board and go back to the check-in, there was nothing she could do. I was pissed. I felt lied to. Then a few minutes later, she came back and asked the guy in “my” seat to check if it would recline. Lo and behold, it was malfunctioning. So they moved him to another seat. Then a few minutes later, they brought another dude over and gave him the seat. He was moved up to business class from cattle class. Well, this guy was a cross between Richard Simmons and Bullwinkle, with a British accent. He was wearing a Rolex, Italian shoes and was reading a Dupont Registry auto seller magazine. Ferraris, Maseratis, Lambourghinis, you name it. He looked like he was shopping more than dreaming. Then the meal choices came around. Beef, Chicken or Salmon. The stewardess asked him, and he opted for the “boif”. I asked for the beef as well. A few minutes later the stewardess came back and informed Bulltwinkle that they had run out of beef and that he would have to choose something else. He said, in his most pretentious accent, “I ordered before this gentleman (me), why should I have to change my preference?” She said, “Is it true that you were moved to business class from coach? It’s nothing personal, sir, but we must show preference to the passengers that have paid business class fares to be here.” Ha, ha! F you, you limey muthatrucker! Nobody gets between me and my ternderloin! For the rest of the trip, it was all I could do not to spit snots laughing every time he pressed the buttons to recline his chair, pressing harder, jiggling the buttons… I even reclined a couple of times, as far back is it would go, when I didn’t really want to. I just wanted this Rolex Royale to eat humble pie. It was funny to see him all hunched over forward trying to sleep while I snoozed away, reclined and comfortable. I hope I snored.

… Is that mean of me?

You heard me. Pondy Bazaar is an important commercial hub in Chennai, India.

It consists of streets lined with stores and street merchants. It’s crazy crowded. Walking through the streets your senses are assaulted. The sights of thousands and thousands of people sifting past each other and through merchants’ wares; the sounds of music and announcements over loudspeakers; the smells of thousands and thousands of people sifting past each other and through merchants’ wares; the taste of the local cuisine and custard apples; the gentle touch of the pickpocket caressing the inside of your back pocket.

One of the highlights of my visit to India was a trip to this place. The rickshaw ride there was exciting and death-defying. Upon arrival, my friend, Matt had to use the men’s room. We found one at a gas station. As Matt headed to the door, a gas station employee came running. “Don’t go in there, don’t go in there! Too smelly!” Too late. Matt had already passed into another dimension. He emerged a couple of minutes later, white as a ghost, looking as if he’d just passed through the bowels of hades. “You gotta get a picture of that.” I didn’t dare go near it. I figure that if a gas station employee in a town like Chennai figures it’s too disgusting to pee in, I don’t want anything to do with it.

Then we walked through the bazaar. The onslaught of merchant persistence is mind-boggling. “Sir, I give you best price. Only 300 rupies! For you, 250.” They unwrap and display their goods the moment you make eye-contact. Stop and buy one, they insist you buy two. The beggars are equally persistent. Little old ladies, children, people sitting in carts, missing toes, dressed in rags. Tugs on your heart strings, but I’m told by the locals to keep walking. “Ilay! po PO!” ( The equivalent of “No! Piss off!” ) Then I felt something in my back pocket. I turn around, fist cocked ready to swing at….. a cute little girl, about 4 years old, in a pretty yellow dress. Yes, this little girl was trying to steal my wallet! She then had the nerve to start asking me for money! “Food, sir. Food.” Heart breaking.

It started to look like rain. So we stopped for a glass of fruit juice. They grind and blend the fruit on the spot to make the juice. Delicious pineapple juice for me, some sort of lime something for Matt. The place wreaked, though with flies everywhere. So I stepped outside. The merchant who sold us the juice came outside and passed me a spoon and half of a weird looking fruit. He said it was a custard apple. Butt ugly, full of hard seeds, but VERY delicious. It had a taste and consistency identical to custard. Scoop the custard, spit the seeds.

I left the place with a bunch of souvenirs and memories tattooed to the inside of my brain. Today is my last day in India… I could write more posts about my trip, and I probably will. This was indeed an experience I’ll never forget.

Check out the attached videos. This first one is of the final few minutes of our auto rickshaw ride to Pondy Bazaar. Listen to the driver at the end say “Pondy Bazaar sir.”

This next video is a short video I took while walking through a section of the market. Forgive the jumpiness of the video. I had my camera held against my chest as I walked through the crowd.

Check out other Youtube videos of India I’ve posted.

I am in having the greatest pleasure in my being a visitor to India!

That’s right folks. I’m in India. The land of curry and cows in the street. I arrived here late on Monday on a business trip. The flights here, airport to airport, took 26 hours. Long and grueling and I’m not yet over the jet lag.

You learn a lot when you are in a foreign place. This place is as foreign as it gets. I’m in a state of culture shock like I’ve never experienced before. The traffic here is insane. I thought the traffic in Poland was bad, but this place is insane. There are more motorcycles than any other vehicle on the street. There are cars, buses, bicycles, rickshaws, cowcarts, people, motorcycle, you name it… all flowing harmoniously on the streets, paying no attention to lanes, traffic signals, police or other vehicles. It’s a wonder to me that there aren’t more people killed in traffic accidents on a regular basis.

All in day’s work for my Indian friends.

Monday, Oct 8, 2007 - Canadian Thanksgiving.

You know, we all have problems. Lately, I’ve had a couple of occasions where I know I’ve rubbed folks the wrong way. I’ve approached difficult situations with the best of intentions but somehow they’ve seemed to backfire on me. I’ve been forced to choose between the lesser of two evils only to be left wondering afterwards if I’d made the right choices. It’s easy to start feeling down when you start to doubt you own normally good judgment. It’s easy to be pissed off at life.

But, today is Thanksgiving. If you take it seriously, then you should take some time this day to give thanks and appreciate the good things in your life. You should count your blessings. I have many. And I am thankful for them.

There’s a song by Montgomery Gentry that nails it for me. Lucky Man does a good job driving home this very point. Here’s a portion of the lyrics:

I have days where I hate my job
This little town and the whole world too
Last Sunday when my Bengals lost
Lord, it put me in a bad mood
I got moments when I curse the rain
Then complain when the sun’s too hot
I look around at what everyone has
And I forget about all I got

But I know I’m a lucky man
God’s given me a pretty fair hand
Got a house and a piece of land
A few dollars in a coffee can
My old truck’s still running good
My ticker’s tickin’ like they say it should
I got supper in the oven, a good woman’s lovin’
And one more day to be my little kid’s dad
Lord knows I’m a lucky man.

I wanted to include a video of the song, but found it difficult to find it. But I did find this YouTube video of some dude doing a very good job on the song.

Paranoia. Slight paranoia, but paranoia nonetheless.

I recently bought some new shirts. They were on sale and I needed them so I bought them. Simple. Take’em home take the tags off, iron, and wear to work. No problem, right? Wrong.

I was at work yesterday, proudly wearing one of my new shirts. A couple of people I was talking to would occasionally lose eye contact with me and glance down toward my shirt. Were they admiring my stylish choice of attire? Did I leave a price tag on it? Was there a hole, a missing button, a coffee stain? I went into the bathroom and checked it out. None of the above… just super cool Steve, dapperly dressed in his new clothes. Shake it off… no need to be paranoid.

Then I go home. My wife greets me with a hug, kiss and a “that’s a nice shirt on you”. Remaining paranoia removed, almost. We sit down to the supper table and I ask, “Is there something wrong with this shirt? Does it look funny, or is there something on it?” She says, “No, it looks fine. It really looks nice on you. … wait a minute… what’s that there?”

I look down, and both of my armpits are flaming orange. This nice tan coloured shirt has rings around both my pits that are glowing like summer sunset. What the f…? I don’t sweat that much. Even if I did, would the shirt turn orange? Do my pores emit Clorox bleach? I went upstairs and grabbed my deodorant and wiped some onto my sleeve. Lo and behold, as it dried, the shirt turned orange!

Nice shirt Steve. (giggle)