Our New Car

Well, after some four months of sitting on the fence about what kind of car to get, we finally bought our Ambi. Her name is "Betty" - short for "betty, betty good, Sir." You can figure it out.

Four months - it's a long time. But the choices are several and, of course, there was the peer pressure of virtually all my colleagues owning India Scorpios - a rather popular 4x4 (well, virtually all of them are 2x4, but that's not what counts). On Indian roads, size counts for alot.

Indian drivers don't look behind...

That's what Peter told me when he was giving me advice about the challenges of bicycle riding in New Delhi. "They don't look behind." I didn't quite get it. I heard the words; I thought I understood.

But there is nothing like a first-hand, visceral experience to crystallize the intellectualisms into something pure and understandable - something that you just know. Like "Duh - now I get it!"

This is what happened when I took the wheel for the first time in India. We had been looking for a vehicle to purchase and I had gone for "test rides" as a passenger. But even though the price of taxis is probably as low as it can get anywhere, the desire to get out of the city and drive is starting to catch up with me. Also, taking taxis all the time does have it's drawbacks. Each time a new driver. Will it be "the Zen master" (quite, careful driver, never available); or will it be "grumpy old man" who only speaks Hindi and never knows where anything is; or will it be "Suicide Sanjeeb on Speed and Chew" a young driver who's naturally aggressive driving habits, amplified by lack of sleep and addiction to chewing tobacco, made it so that the taxi company never send him out alone - that is until he became our de facto daily chauffeur.

Alternatively there are other concerns in a driver so important that you may not wish leave to chance. For instance, will the driver have his pants on? This is no joke - it happened. Thank God my daughter still prefers to speak in French. As we were sitting in the back seat of the cab, Laodice piped up and laughed "Regarde maman, le monsieur n'a pas de pantalones!" After living in India for a couple of months you no longer questions these things - kinda like "Oh, of course, today is a no pants day." The reason is believe it or not quite explicable and, viewed from the "India perspective" not unexpected. It lies in the fact that the majority of these fellows live at their respective taxi stand under make-shift lean-tos and on traditional Indian farmer beds. Washing, cleaning and toilet facilities are about as sophisticated as they are in your favorite rustic camp site. And just forget about that "wardrobe space" - just does not exist. So what does a working fellow do when he has to wash his pants?

All this means that, cost of transport apart, there are other considerations that strongly favour (1) having your own vehicle and (2) a good, courteous driver - with a superior command of the English language; and (3) a pair of pants.

We are at step 1: getting the car.

So, our first test drive was on a Mahindra Bolero. A cheap Jeep-like vehicle with high ground clearance and a price tag that won't make you cry when the car gets its first nick, scratch, dent, etc. I say cheap because in addition to being inexpensive, it is cheap. Not luxurious, but all-Indian, easy to repair and supposedly rugged. However, the finishing touches are indeed "cheap"; the a/c only barely adequate and the radio probably not worth it - best to put in one's own. But then these are the reasons to take a test drive.

So off we went to test drive the car. The salesman took a fellow with us and he drove to get some fuel. Just afterwards it was my turn to drive. Now you have to understand that I've never driven on the left-side of the road. But that is really only a minor issue when it comes to driving in Delhi. You see, driving in India is like a dance of mutual adjustment and ego management - Brownian motion in action but not with molecules but with heavy metal vehicles, dancing in the less than perfect Delhi streets along with other vehicles, motor cycles, scooters, bicycles, motor rickshaws, bicycle rickshaws, tractors, people, horses, camels, cows, sheep, goats, elephants, donkeys (and I'm just talking about what I've seen in Delhi) - trust me - it gets "better" when you leave the city.

Of course what you can't miss, as a western driver, when you take the wheel is the fact that the side-view mirrors are folded up. This is so they don't get torn off by passing vehicles. Indeed on a "good" traffic day, two lane divided roadway (with a breakdown lane) fits anywhere from 4-6 vehicles across. I now know why the Indian's like the cars with sliding doors - you just can't get out of your car when stopped in average Delhi traffic. If there was enough space, it would be quickly filled with a scooter or motor cycle or whatever vehicle or animal would fit. Hence, the folded side-view mirrors.

The next experience I had was navigating in the flow of traffic. You see, unlike in Europe and North America people tend to stay in their lanes - a concept the Indian's refer to as "lane discipline". In India the concept exists but the practice does not. You find this out quite shortly after driving in the streets. This is where the mutual adjustment comes in - and it is awesome. What I mean to say is that Indian drivers are probably the most responsive and careful that I've seen. I'm not kidding. To be able to drive the way they do (i.e., no "lane discipline") with anything less than major road accidents is nothing short of a miracle. I know that all the cars are banged to hell, but would you expect any less?

Anyway, the point is that either Indian brains are evolutionarily adapted to sophisticated and challenging driving conditions or they are like the rest of us and they make sacrifices elsewhere. I believe the answer lies in the latter - they just do not use the rear-view and side view mirrors like we in the West do. Indeed all their attention is forward and to about 45 degrees to straight ahead. This focus allows them to successfully navigate in the "flow" (a.k.a. chaos) that is Indian road traffic.

As for the Bolero, we found it too "cheap" a car and kept on looking. And looking forward to the next test drive.

Trout Mask Replica goes well with India

It's a little after 11:00 am on a Sunday morning here in Delhi. I've put on some music to listen to whilst playing cards with the little one. Bébé Lily (one or my daughter's favorites) has been repeating for the last hour or so. As my daughter is now watching Sunday morning cartoons (OK they are 24-sur-24 here on the Cartoon Network). Yet another impact of globalization on our former cultural references... So, I'm now checking updating some photos, checking e-mails and wanting to listen to something different; time for a change...

I start to browse the Squeezebox web menu for the what music we have available. Unfortunately, since I've now got the system setup on a Linux workstation, I've not yet quite figured out how to get the library to be recognized like it was under Window$.

So, that means I have to browse the music folder for the CDs we have. I've organized our CDs by artist - alphabetic order. First page pops up and Captain Beefheart catches my eye. I have Trout Mask Replica. If there was ever a Captain Beefheart album to have, it's this one. Just ask Roger.

Anyway, I put this on and continued reading e-mails and getting photos in order. And then it happened. It slipped out of the air, into my ears and struck my brain. It was clear. If there was ever a place where this music "fit in" (if Captain Beefheart can fit in anywhere) it would be here - in Delhi. I can't explain it. I just know it. Like a philosopher who proves that a concept is innate, a priori, I know Captain Beefheart was made for Delhi.

15 August 2007, Kathmandu, Nepal

Kathmandu is a much cooler place than Delhi. Even though it is raining, I'm immediately attracted by the cooler temperature, the more human scale of things (only 3m people vs 16m for Delhi). The buildings are quainter. I have not yet seen one person urinate in public - and I've been here for three days. There appear to be lots of quaint little shops scattered here and there. And... The surrounding mountains (even through largely blocked by clouds) look inviting. Such in the initial impression of Kathmandu.

After three days, I ready to leave. Student protests are planned for the day of departure. We had planned on leaving shortly after noontime; however, our colleagues listening to the radio confirm that the altercations between student groups are heating up and it is decided best to leave for the airport as soon as possible...

We leave the safety of the office compound and we find police at intersections with rifles and canes. We move on further and the road is "blocked" with tires burning in the streets. There are lots of people in the streets - many with bandanas covering their faces; some are menacing passers-by and vehicules with rocks and bottles with an unspecified clear liquid inside.

We're in a convoy of three vehicules heading out of the center of town towards the airport - the most barricaded route. This is the big "au revoir" from Kathmandu.

As I see a rock hurrled at the lead vehicule, I'm hoping that we get out of the city without incident.

I'm also hoping that the flight to Delhi is not cancelled; otherwise we may have to return on the same route back to the hotel in the city-center to stay the night until we can take the next day flight.

At last in the safety of the airport, we wait... Flight delayed... Finally... we board... we take-off...

What I'm now sure of...

Being in a new environment gives a certain space for reflection and discovery. After almost two weeks in Delhi and I am now sure of :

1) my deep appreciation of the lady or gentleman who invented toilet paper;
2) I want to buy a 4x4 with good suspension;
3) why Western society is losing its "brain work" to outsourced contracts in India;
4) that 30°C can actually feel cool

Toilet paper - don't leave home without it

Toilet paper. In the Western world we take it for granted; we look at the fine points such as whether it's three ply or four ply or two ply; whether it's scented or unscented; new or recycled. But I can assure you, all of these are moot points when you are faced with a bathroom in an Indian civil service building and a desperate need for Imodium.

Let's just say that I was doing pretty well for the first week or so since arriving in Delhi. But last weekend I became a little more adventurous: I went out to a popular and well reputed restaurant in the Defense Colony market; and, I also started drinking water not out of a bottle but processed through a reverse osmosis machine. Whether it was the restaurant, the machine, or just that I ran out of luck, the infamous "Delhi belly" came on in full form.

That would not have been so bad, in principle, had it not been for the fact that I had a meeting in a ministry office and no more than 15 minutes into the meeting I had to excuse myself. While being escorted to the bathroom I received a somewhat apologetical somewhat informational brief to newcomers -- that the standards of the facilities were indeed subpar.

Now, I don't know about you, but subpar means one ply toilet paper. Subpar means it smells bad. Subpar means means it's dirty. Subpar means it has the dreaded North African/French toilets (i.e. the white porcelain whole in the ground with no seat -- I still not sure how you use one of these especially when you have a business suit on). Subpar is like the outhouse I used during a camping trip in New Mexico. But subpar has nothing to do with what I discovered this morning.

To my surprise, the bathroom was clean, there were sinks with soap. There were urinals on one side and stalls on the other. I went to one of the stalls and open the door and found the toilet, a brush, and a smallish bucket sitting on the floor with a small spigot just above it. What I didn't find was toilet paper. I exited from the stall and went into the one adjacent. Same arrangement, North African toilet though; no TP. So, I went back into the original stall. I need not elaborate further.

I now know why certain cultures only eat with their left hands.

No Person Should Urinate Here (but they do)

"No person should urinate here". These are the words plastered on a segment of wall leading to the Defense Colony market. Normally, I would've found that kind of kitsch. But at 48°C, urine takes on a different form. It becomes pungent (I do believe it's the first time I've used that word) it becomes noticeable -- very noticeable.

It's the second day of high temperatures and the effects of the heat seemed to be giving me a headache and a good dose of lethargy, so I've decided to try to stay at home most of the day.

Unfortunately, the cable company hasn't changed my subscription yet, so I'm still limited to Star Movies and HBO, CNN or some 10-20 local channels in Hindi, Punjabi or Tamil.

48°C

48°C. That was the temperature today in New Delhi. And the record temperature for the year it was.

I don't think I've ever been in 48°C -- at least not in the recent past. There was that time when, one summer's day, and I was about nine years old that the family drove through Las Vegas. I think it was the time when my father and I spent the early hours of the morning going from casino to casino searching for my grandmother. The sun was just coming out when we spotted her coming out of a gambling hall, packed her in the car and headed back to the motel. Later that morning when we left the motel and loaded in the car to continue our travels, I recall being the temperature displayed on a sign - 115°F. But that was a long time ago. And, there is virtually no humidity in the desert.

Anyway, today it's 48°C and I have one room with one air-conditioner; the second bedroom, living room, kitchen and hallway have no cooling and only windows for ventilation. I closed the doors to the various rooms and am only cooling the bedroom. Unfortunately, the bedroom opens to a hallway which then opens to a kitchen which is only separated by a screen door and which has an exhaust fan leading outside. So any attempt to air-condition beyond the bedroom automatically becomes a bit of a battle to see if the air-conditioner can overcome the incessant infiltration of the heat from the outside.

48°C changes your perception of things. For instance, I set the air-conditioner for 30°C -- a temperature which would be considered unthinkably warm for for someone having lived in Switzerland for some 14 years. However, believe it or not, when walking in from 48°C into a 30°C room, it feels absolutely glacial.

Another surprise is that moving around in 48°C is not such a bad idea. For instance, just a little bit before noon time I decided to head out and go to the market. I had to visit the cable company, the Internet company, buy some groceries and the like. What I noticed is that as long as you're moving, 48°C is not too bad. The problem is is when you stop. And the problem is perspiration. You see, at 48°C if you're moving, you are perspiring. But it's evaporating fast enough that the perspiration is cooling you off. But when you stop, much of that evaporation ceases. So the moral of the story is keep moving or find in air-conditioned venue and have a beer.

On leaving Disneyland and the fun of air travel

Today I'm leaving Disneyland. Well, not really Disneyland -- I'll be leaving my home and family in Switzerland to take up a position in New Delhi, India. And although my wife and daughter will be joining me in a few short months once the worst of the summer heat has passed, I am nonetheless leaving. No one wants to leave Disneyland, right? Perhaps not right away, but I've been here for some 14 years, and change was in the cards. Set stress level to one.

We plan to leave for the airport with the family at 5:30 in the morning. Enough time to make the one-hour journey, handle a minor traffic slowdown, and still get to the airport in time to make my flight. I was told to get there at quarter of seven; and certainly no later than seven o'clock. However, our little one was having a bit of a fuss that morning, no doubt related to all the change associated with the impending family move to India. Although she "knows" about it, with Dad leaving it becomes all the more concrete and she does not really know what to expect. In any case, we don't really leave our home until almost 5:40. At 6:45 we were just getting off the highway at the airport exit. Increase stress to level 2.

In the past, whenever we traveled on a morning flight we tried to get a hotel room close to the airport so as to minimize the hustle, bustle and stress of traveling. However, no such luck this time. Geneva was hosting several large international meetings and our timing was poor. Fortunately, I had checked-in the three large suitcases which contain most of my worldly possessions that will be with me for the next several years while in New Delhi. All I brought with me today was a carefully selected, small carry-on handbag packed to the teeth with a laptop computer, external hard disk, cables and all the other paraphernalia required to maintain contact within the networked world in which we/I live.

We arrived at the airport parking entrance, I pushed the button to get the parking ticket. I grabbed it and it fell to the ground in a place inconvenience for easy retrieval. Increase stress to level 3.

I hate flying. No, I hate the fact that flying doesn't like me. Perhaps it goes back to when I first got on an airplane as a small child, traveling from California to the east coast to visit the place which we would soon call home. It was one of the very few times where I had a strong premonition that something bizarre was going to happen. As I buckled my seat belt and prepared for the takeoff I put my hand on the armrest, my fingers gliding down its side, finding their way into a natural position. It was just then that my index finger encountered something that shouldn't have been there. I quickly retracted my finger see what it was, but nothing discernible was there; just something moist. I put my finger up to my nose to see if I could further figure out what it was. The strong scent of day old "what's left after the air traveller gets sick" penetrated my nose and into my brain. I desperately wanted to get out of my seat to wash my hands, but of course it was too late. The plane was already getting ready for takeoff and I need to stay where I was pukey finger and all. It was the first time I got air sick but not the last. Since then most every "untreated" flight has been plagued by chills, upset stomach and eventually the urge to throw in the towel and not fight the fact that I get terribly airsick. My father used to tell me that it was "mind over matter". But given the vast quantity of motion sickness remedies available on the market, I believe he was wrong. Probably some bullshit macho explanation for why he didn't get airsick.

In any case, over the years ritually pre-flight medicate with Dramamine, Bonine, Marazine and other over-the-counter medications. They all work; however, in addition to giving me bizarre sensations in my legs during flight and being contraindicated with alcohol (a friend of the stressed-out traveller), they also have the wonderful attributes of leaving me in a zombielike yet irritable state that lasts from the time of taking through up to several hours after the completion of my travels. At best the result has been stilted "get reacquainted" conversations and "how nice to have you back home" (NOT); however, in extrema during a recent trip to Spain, the combination of driving for six hours, the medication, new flight regulations on the quantity of liquids that one can pass security with as well as a little "language problem" between myself and the young security consultant led to a misunderstanding where the young lady decided I was a rude traveler and pondered whether I should be held off the plane. Indeed, I am convinced that the drug-induced irritable zombielike stupor contributed to the loss of several rather important items at the security counter during one travel.

However, once having moved to Switzerland I started traveling with some doctors who informed me of a product available in Switzerland which had fewer side effects: Stugeron. Yes, that's right, it's called Stugeron and I swear by this one. No funny feelings in the legs; no zombielike behavior and -- best of all -- no one's threatened to take me off of a flight yet!

In any case, now inside the airport I confirmed my tickets, went upstairs to the departure area and popped a Stugeron. Now all would be better. I said goodbye to the family, passed passport control, and headed to the gate with my carefully selected, I carefully sized and carefully packed carry-on bag accompany me.

In all of the excitement and distractions associated with a international move of this nature, I had forgotten about some of the formalities that accompany air travel in our modern era. Specifically, I had forgotten about the drill that we must do now when passing airport security. I don't really know how I could've forgotten this, but as I'm not a frequent traveler I guess it's easy to forget. In any case, thankfully Geneva doesn't make you take off your shoes. However, one does need to empty the pockets, place change, keys and cell phones and other metal objects into the little tray so it can be passed through the x-ray machine. However, I had not anticipated that they would ask me to unpack my bag. When it was my turn, the young security consultant indicated that I needed to remove my laptop computer so that it could be passed through separately. And of course, that small bottle of cologne and I, at the last minute, shoved in the bag needed to be removed and packed in its own separate plastic sealable bag which I needed to pick up some 10 meters behind me at the beginning of the queue for the scanners. Sheer panic! The laptop was carefully if not "architecturally" packed below my empty briefcase, mouse, various cables, power adapters, the microphone/headset, the power supplies, my 500GB hard disk, document folio, case of CD/DVDs, notebook, the perfume and, last but not least, the box of "TravelJohn" disposable urinal bags -- given as a joke by some of our friends as a going away gift. Quickly, I hurridly pulled all of these things out of the bag. The box of TravelJohn's falling onto the floor so as to be picked up by the security guard. I could only imagine what the security guard as well as my fellow travelers immediately behind me thoughts of this. Then, all items but the laptop and the perfume were stuffed back into the suitcase to go through the x-ray unit. On the other side, heart pounding, I again had to take all of the other items out of the suitcase once again, place the laptop and perfume back into the carry-on bag, and then rapidly repack up all of the other 10 to 20 items so that the bag would close properly. 15 minutes before departure. Increase stress to level 4.

Exiting the security screening area, I started to run towards the motorized walkway leading to the gate. I simultaneously pushed on the button and then pulled on the telescoping handle of my newly purchased, carefully sized carry-on luggage only to find out that the handle, after 30 minutes of use, would no longer extend to the full position. Consequently, I proceeded to "run" to in a bizarre crab like fast-walk in order to get to the gate as quickly as possible. Increase stress to level 5.

Once aboard the aircraft I found my business-class seat occupied by a young lady who avoided my eye contact. No doubt she fully understood that she took the window seat and was going to just play dumb to see if I would say anything. Not wanting to let an opportunity like this go without making the point, I suggested that she may have said in the wrong seat and that, unless she had a preference otherwise, I would not mind staying in the aisle seat. Of course, she preferred to sit in the window seat. Bitch. Increase stress to level 6.

I won't go into all the details that happened upon our arrival in London. I needed to change flights to catch the flight from London to Delhi. The security in Heathrow is impressive/oppressive. In particular, everyone must pass security yet one more time when transiting the airport. This time, shoes had to come off. But the bag did not need to be unpacked nor did the liquid need to be taken out of the bag. He would've been nice if the two airports could have had some "middle ground". I think I would've preferred taking my shoes off in Geneva instead of unpacking and repacking my luggage with a bunch of equally stressed and deranged travelers behind me.

In any case, the flight from London to Delhi was relatively empty. The business-class "sleeper" seats were spacious and comfortable and the James Bond film, which I had not yet seen, was a pleasant surprise. Of course, business-class seating does have its privileges on such long-haul flights and the menu and the treatment of the stewards and stewardess made the remainder of the trip quite enjoyable. Thank you, BA.