Our thanks to New Works Review
for allowing us to reprint this article
of Crow's trip to India in 1997.

 Editor's note:  This is the first of three installments of a fascinating saga.

First Plunge into India

     Perched in the calm waters behind a rock while inches away the river rolled and bubbled past, I braced a paddle and pushed off into the stream. That instant was one of full commitment and a pounding heart -- exhilaration.
     As the current grabbed the nose of my white duct-tape
patched kayak there could be no hesitation, no turning back -- ready or not I was part of the river, going where the river would go.

My kayaking days were nearly 18 years ago in North Carolina. I never
expected to feel similar gripping sensations as a baby-boomer American
visitor in southern India.

 

December 2nd, late at night, I got to Mumbai (Bombay) after over 30 hours
in airports and airplanes. I still didn't understand out how crossing the date line could involve losing a day, but I felt jet-lag-giddy, disoriented and really tired. In Arkansas it was nearly noon. Waving goodbye to my dear husband in Fayetteville, Arkansas the night before, all I could imagine was that it would be new and exciting (changing planes in Dallas, Los Angeles, Seoul, Bangkok before landing in Bombay for a rest.) Two days later, I would fly to Trivandrum near the very southern tip of India and be in more rural settings, visiting people I'd met a couple of years earlier in Austin.

I usually select economy motels in the US.   Anything bug-free, relatively safe and quiet enough for ear-plug-assisted sleep is okay. Touring musicians develop these economic and social survival tricks. "Do yourself a favor," a friend advised, "believe me, the flight is really hard on your body. You will really appreciate a nice hotel and creature comforts." Veteran travelers give good advice. I took notes and carried 12 rolls of toilet paper, flip-flops, saltwater nasal spray, American postage stamps, medications and cosmetics, a camera, tape recorder, and a dozen rolls of film. Korean Air could teach American airlines a lot about customer service. A big screen showed free movies and a world map, "you are here," tracking our progress, altitude, kilometers to go. My companions in economy class carried slippers ("Your feet swell up. You won't be able to get your shoes on.") and found ways to sleep sitting up.

By 10 a.m. I'd slept enough so that the highly polished marble hotel could neither hold me nor entertain my curiosity. Eager to lay eyes for the first time in daylight on this city and its people, I slipped down the white stairs.  Stepping out the big brass and glass doors, passed the Siek doorman with his turban and sword, passed the driveway guardhouse, out to the rock wall and iron gate, I felt like an escapee. The gate divided two worlds. I stood looking at a mixture of ancient and modern, familiar and strange, my heart pounding. I hesitated and pushed off into the current.
 

Third: the exploring (Background is print of actual sari material.)
The road was narrowed by construction. Stones at least 12" high and painted white marked the center of a two-lane frantically bustling street. Cars use the left lane. All my senses reeled with the swirl of colors, sounds, and smells. Three wheeled black-topped motorized rickshaws scooted like beetles between tinted windowed taxis and brightly painted trucks. Horns honking non-stop provided a wall of sound. The glossy guidebooks had shown handsome smiling faces and outrageously colorful trucks with Hindu statues and fringes. A camera pointed in any direction from where I stood, would capture a scene equally as colorful.
The footing was uneven. Broken pavement pieced with rocks for footsteps across open water in gutters. A fragrant slurry of oil, trash, diesel fumes, and human waste mixed with spices and food stall aromas. I expected shops where I could wander around, so I headed to the left.

Across the street, women in saris carried baskets on their heads. Men in short sleeved western shirts passed me. A slender woman in a spotless flowing green silk sari, trimmed in gold threads, sailed by me. She had a smooth confident stride and a five year old boy in tow. I fell in behind her trying to match her unruffled gliding steps. One thick black braid reached half way down her back and swayed with each step, accentuating her gracefulness.

The first shop I passed was a drugstore. I ducked in, wandered up and down the two isles, and purchased a large bottle of filtered drinking water. ("Before you know it, you can become very dehydrated and sick. Remember you are going to the tropics! You have no experience in that climate."  "Even in a 5-star restaurant, watch the seal being broken and drink only bottled water.")
Out the door, I continued North expecting at any minute to be identified as an impostor, an outsider, a foreigner. The ambush would be swift. Maybe I would be face to face with tribes of beggars or gangs of little children who would follow or poke at me. In 1968, I'd narrowly missed being knifed in the back streets of Tangier. But that was at night. So why not get as far as I can before hailing a cab back to the hotel? (-- the hotel where everyone called me "madam" and acted really happy to see me.)

Seconds turned to minutes. I fell in behind others on this "river" of people and took in all I could. As the minutes accumulated, I began to feel "invisible."  It was wonderful. Near the hotel the shops were fancier, with doormen. But then, one stretch about two city blocks long was solid with unattached corrugated metal shacks, not much larger than refrigerator crates. Women squatted at cooking fires tending naked toddlers and went on with life as usual. The few lazy dogs didn't bark or move out of the way. There was a nod here or there, eyes met eyes. Still I passed unapproached, unmolested.

Street vendors sold food and gossiped in the midday sun. Three blocks farther down, the road intersected others. Feeling curious and confident I turned onto a side street and followed it four more blocks. The road narrowed to less than one car's width. Squatted shoulder to shoulder were kiosks for jewelry, fruit, cooking pans, food and fabrics. It was an animated relaxed social scene, not unlike farmers' markets in Europe or Arkansas. I saw no other tourists yet I moved unhindered, breathing in every color, sound and smell.

After leaving the gray winter in the Ozarks, heat and sunshine felt wonderful. 

I sucked on my bottled water and perspired profusely.  In a gem shop, the owner served me tea and asked who had brought me. I explained that I'd come on my own. He said no I couldn't get there without a cab driver bringing me. ("A commission is paid to the cab driver or hotel for most sales.")
 

In other shops and on the street I saw miles of silks in all the bright colors of my gypsy dreams. There were piles of spices next to sandalwood carvings of elephants and Hindu and Christian gods. I walked two fat blisters on my right foot and kept going. The blisters broke and I kept going.  ("Antibiotic ointment is a good thing to take in your suitcase,"  I'd been wisely advised.)  The decision to turn back came only when I ran out of water and realized that it would be a long, long amble back.

Everyone I initiated communication with on that walk was friendly. One rickshaw driver asked if I wanted a ride. Maybe a "fareingee" wandered by every few days and it was "No big deal" to these people. Friends later suggested that since I have long dark hair, I may have "passed". I wore western clothes, but so did many Mumbians. Southern India is matriarchal, women control much of the home and business. Perhaps women command more respect?  I don't know. The pace was frantic, as one would expect in any big city-- but the people seemed infused with a tropical calm that I admired.

Bombay at night

     My plunge into the river had begun. I felt lucky and grateful.  Sometimes the river is sweet; she sings to you revealing her heart and  allowing safe passage.

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