We were somewhere around Barstow Bombay when the drugs began to take hold…

Today, March 12th, I have been on the road for exactly 9 months. Yesterday was a hell of a way to celebrate the quadrannual travel anniversary.

In my apartment last night at about 9:15 after an amazing day, an hour and a half after drinking a traditional Indian drink called “bhang,” I called my friend Andrew. This was apparently quite funny to me. The bhang was working. I heard his message and lost control while leaving him a voicemail. Then I found him on instant messenger:

me: you should probably listen to my voicemail right now
Andrew: ok
Andrew: LOL
Andrew: you are totally fucked up

He was right. I most certainly was. I had drunk bhang.

Then I called him again. Upon hearing Andrew’s actual voice, my giggle box didn’t just get tipped over — it was turned completely upside down, shaken, and fell crashing all over the apartment floor. I couldn’t form sentences, but I could quite effectively laugh with my entire body like an insane hyena. I laughed so hard that I cried uncontrollably and gasped for air between fits of gleeful madness.

I left a reckless, senseless trail of voicemail, instant message, and garbled email destruction to the three friends I randomly picked to communicate with. I laughed at Brian as he walked to class. Steve replied to my emails with the subject, “DUDE YOU ARE WASTED!” Andrew, at his office, continued on to say, “Wow. We’re all really enjoying this.”

I initially wasn’t going to try drinking bhang because I’d already had a great day, I don’t like being high, and had read that there was weed in the drink. However, a friend suggested I should go for it. The Indians I’ve met all said I should at least try it. “Okay. When in Rome,” I thought. It was the Holi festival, after all. An hour and a half into the experience, Google told Andrew that that there might have also be opium in my drink. This was news to me, but at that point, it seemed completely feasible.

This is the man (and his incredible beard) that sold me the feel-good beverage from a tarp-covered table on the side of the street:

Let’s go back a bit first, though:

The day had already been gloriously incredible and insane. Earlier:

• Countless Indians smeared colored powder and various muck on me.
• Water balloons were launched at me from rooftops.
• A mob on the beach picked me up and threw me into the ocean.
• CNBC India interviewed me.
• A little girl started crying when she saw my black face as I walked back to my apartment.

Running the Gauntlet to the Beach

I left the apartment at around ten in the morning with the intention of walking to Juhu beach. It’s about two miles from my apartment. I thought it might take until I got to the beach to get colored. Instead, it took about 1 minute and 60 yards from my front door before the below-pictured group of guys attacked me.

Their eyes gleamed and their mouths grinned as they saw the fresh, clean, white meat walking down the street. With a yell, they all ran over to me and I closed my eyes as some dude thoroughly smeared thick black goop all over my face, while others put brightly colored powder on my neck and hair. I expected to get some orange or pink colored powder on my face, but my first run-in turned me in to a black faced monster. Then we all hugged and shook hands. This was the first of hundreds of times the same exchange would happen over the next few hours. This is a different group:

“What for,” you ask? We were playing Holi.

Holi?

Holi kind of snuck up on me. I didn’t know it would be happening when I was here. In fact, I didn’t even know what it was before I got here.

Holi (pronounced like the word “holy”) is a Hindu festival which is also rightly referred to as the Festival of Colors. Holi is also crazy. The streets are full of music. Parties and gatherings are everywhere. Everybody smiles and dances. Everybody loves it. People celebrate by smearing and throwing colored powder and water on each other. Especially on out-of-place blackfaced white guys ambling down the street with stupid grins on their faces.

Ostensibly, it’s a celebration of the triumph of good over evil, a time when old relationships are renewed and refreshed, and when spring is officially ushered in. As one not well-versed in discerning the finer points and intricacies of a Holi celebration, it just seemed like crazy, awesome, free-wheeling, ass-grabbing, color-smearing fun.

Various other groups of five to twenty people hung out on the roadside during the walk to the beach. Everyone saw me, smiled, waved, and we yelled, “Happy Holi!” to each other. Then they’d beckon me over and we’d put color on each other and laugh. I usually got hit by a water balloon from an unseen assailant each time I stopped walking.

I loved it. Everyone else did, too.

Not exactly sure where I was going and with the walk taking a long time, I eventually got in an autorickshaw for the rest of the trip to the beach. We zoomed past brightly colored groups of Indians and eventually arrived. Full of revelers, Juhu Beach was an amazing spectacle. Little poofs of color exploded into the air above groups of people dancing to fast drum beats. Families hung out. Vendors walked by selling snacks and drinks. People swam and wrestled in the water. More color exchanging happened. You can see it in the video below.

The Mob Throws me in the Ocean

Eventually, I met an Aussie expat couple, pictured right. We stopped and exchanged laughs, grins, and repeated utterances of “Can you believe this place?” Matt had decided to damn the torpedoes and get in the ocean despite having heard that it was dirty and far from fit for swimming.

The group of young Indian guys forming around us was glad to facilitate this venture for him. They huddled around him, halfway picked him up, and carry-dragged him to the ocean. Splashing and wrestling in the water ensued.

I was the next victim. The guys grinned and eyed me. “Give this woman your camera. It’s your turn,” said one of them.

“Oh, well, I’ve got my cell phone and my wallet and stuff, too, it’s okay,” I replied.

He would hear none of it. “Come on! Put them in the bag!”

In the bag they went. The moment my shoes were off, I was scooped up and run to the water. We all went crashing and splashing down. We laughed and fought. I picked up Indian kids and chucked then into the surf. I went underwater numerous times. It got in my mouth. (We’ll see how clean the water really is, I suppose.) After a couple minutes, everyone started to settle down and the tempo eased. Then I suddenly yelled out, “CHELOOOO!” which is Hindi for “Let’s go!” and did a flying leap at an unsuspecting Indian kid.

Awesome:

CNBC likes the foreigners. The foreigners don’t like their asses grabbed.

The CNBC news crew on the beach took notice of the commotion and the reporter did a segment in the middle of the our group. The first attempt was cut short when an overzealous reveler threw a handful of purple powder in the air that went all over the camera.

While the reporter was resetting and giving the crowd a talking-to, the Aussie mom yelped. “One more person grabs my ass and you’ve had it!” she yelled out to the crowd. This is a fairly common occurrence for foreign women in groups of Indian men; anonymous hands reach through the crowd and cop anonymous feels. I moved behind her and tried to block her apparently-too-enticing ass from the crowd. Chivalry isn’t dead.

Attempt number two at the news bit was a success. The reporter got through his intro and then got gleeful sound bites from the three foreigners. Everybody cheered at at the top of their lungs when Matt declared he was taking Holi back to Australia.

I’ll try to get the footage. In case I don’t, though, just imagine something along the lines of MTV sending a crew to shoot spring break soundbites at Daytona Beach.

In the mean time, here’s a video I’ve cut together of the morning’s events (featuring a Holi-themed soundtrack!):

Holi at Juhu Beach in Mumbai, 2009 from Nathan Shipley on Vimeo.

When Little Girls Cry: The Before & After

I hitched a ride back to my apartment with the Aussies. They said they were worried their kids, who are scared by masks, were going to get freaked out by their dyed faces. In that same vein, one of the little girls who lives in my apartment building saw me coming and immediately backed up against the wall and started crying. I can see why:

A 30-minute shower and the most scrubbing I’ve done in my life wouldn’t get all of the color off of me. Exhausted and elated, I threw in the towel and took a nap while the sounds of parties carried on outside my windows.

If there was ever something that would make me love a whole country in a single morning, it’s Holi.

Later in the evening, though, I tried the bhang.

“We can’t stop here. This is bat country.”

“Strong or light?” asks the ornately-bearded bhang server standing behind a table in his make-shift booth covered in a green tarp on the side of the road. It’s 8:00 in the evening on the same day. The requisite autorickshaws zip by behind us honking. Throngs of people amble along the street. Like I said, I wasn’t even going to drink the bhang initially, but a small push from Brian The Enabler was what I needed.

I paused. Shit, I don’t know, I think to myself. I’ve never had this stuff. I’m not used to ganja in the first place, but I guess if I’m going to try this, I want it to do something, right? This is India, after all. It’s Holi! It’s a tradition! Who am I to get in the way of tradition? Just say no? Bah! Don’t take candy from strangers? Double bah!

“Umm… a little bit strong, I guess?” comes my meek reply.

He nods. This translates to three scoops of the green juice. He had already put in a scoop of white mystery powder from a plastic container. The picture of him shows my drink at the green juice and white powder stage of preparation. Next came the milk mixture. He takes the lid off the large stainless steel vat and dips a ladle into it. My drink is topped off with creamy milkiness and presented to me.

It swirls with earthy particulate matter and bits of fat from the milk. It is warm and, well, distinctly potable, as J & B would say. It looks like this:

I drink up, thank the man, watch him clean my glass (which consists of dunking it in one plastic container of dirty water and then into a second before returning it to the glass caddy on the table for the next customer), hand him his 20 Rupees (which is 39 cents), and wander back to sit around and watch the people go by. I plop down on the corner of a busy intersection near my apartment. The little girl seated next to me with her family has to go to the bathroom. Mom takes her to the curb where the one year-old takes care of business in front of the KFC and the rest of the walkers by.

The people watching in India is consistently good. Holi night is certainly no exception. The only difference today is that people have leftover color on their faces from playing Holi earlier in the day. Who thought you could make the world’s most colorful country even more colorful?

Twenty minutes passed and I decided to return home.

Reviewing my notes from last night (Yes. I did write notes about how I felt. Because I’m cool like that. This if for science!), I see that at T+ 52 minutes, I started feeling the effects of the bhang. It quickly became evident that the old man most definitely had the goods. I probably would have been fine with a “light” bhang drink.

Reviewing the chat log with Andrew, which also indicates the time I called him and laughed like a hyena, I see that I had devolved into a hopeless, silly, laughing nincompoop at T+ 1 hour, 32 minutes. Motor control was sub-par. Andrew tells me he read that there might have been opium in my drink instead of just marijuana. This part of the (explicit) conversation is in an image here, if you care to read it.

From this point, I went back and forth between attempting to talk to people, watching television, and listening to music.

At T+ two hours, thirty minutes, I sent this (equally explicit) email to friends Andrew and Steve. Brian got a stupid phone call at some point in there as well.

This went on for a while. I felt mostly good, though I don’t think I’ll be drinking the bhang again any time soon. I eventually fell asleep with my headphones on and a mix of Boards of Canada and Dr. Dre’s The Chronic blasting in my ears. Without feeling like the Good Lord gyped me.

What exactly was in the bhang? I’m not sure. Was the white powder actually opium? I don’t think so, but I don’t really know. Go ask Alice.

All in all, hell of a Holi. Thanks, India! You’re awesome.

The train keeps getting better. It’s still thrilling to hang out the side of it and feel the wind on my face. Here’s a short video that doesn’t do the feeling justice, but does show what it looks like. The sound at the beginning is of a band I recorded that was playing on the train, which is then replaced by the title track from the Bollywood film Jhoom Barabar Jhoom.

Mumbai Train Ride at Night from Nathan Shipley on Vimeo.

It was nighttime - around 10:00 - when I was headed north from Churchgate to Bandra on Mumbai’s city train. It was one of the new ones - shiny and nice compared to the rattling old trains. The train was almost empty heading south, but the trip back north was much more full.

A group of guys got in my car, took over a section of seats, put up a cloth banner on side of the train, busted out tambourines and started to sing and play. This is what it sounded like, if you want more than you heard in the video above:

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Upon taking out my camera to record the audio of the makeshift band, the guys sitting on the floor in front of me asked me to take their picture:

Upon taking a picture of these guys, Mr. Crazy Teeth, who had been standing next to me and staring at me most of the time, requested a picture of him and I. Gladly, sir. Stick of gum? Toothbrush?

They started asking me questions which were translated to Hindi for the non-English speakers. The standard stuff. At the same moment, a friend called my phone. It was impossible to hear anything over the band and the ten guys all talking to me. I just yelled in to the phone, “I’m on the train! What? What?? Almost to Bandra! I can’t hear you! There’s some band playing and a bunch of dudes asking me questions! I’ll call you back!”

The mess of guys heard me say “Bandra” and immediately went in to helpful mode which consisted of lots of yelling and pointing. I eventually understood that I was on the wrong side of the train. I needed to be on the right side to get off at Bandra, which would take some doing. I mashed my way through the humanity to get over there, flashing smiles and thumbs up to my helpful co-passengers.

As the train pulled in to the station before Bandra, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket with a text message from my friend. “Get off at Dadar,” it said.

Shit. I was pretty sure that was where the train was stopping right at that moment.

I yelled out to the guys, “Dadar?”

This elicited an immediate reaction: action mode. They all started yelling again and pointing at the platform outside the train. Which, unlike me, was on the left side. “Dadar! Dadar!” sang the chorus of Indian dudes.

They all started grabbing me; pushing and pulling me through the sardine can of people. I felt like a Play-Doh noodle getting squeezed out of the Fun Factory.

The train began to roll away from the station but I had not yet been propelled all the way to the door. With a final thrust, I squirted out of the moving train into an unexpecting group of people standing on the platform.

Managing not to fall, I looked back at the door, smiled, and waved to the guys hanging out and smiling back. The tambourine sound was replaced by sounds of the station.

I brushed myself off and wandered off out of the station in to a yet-to-be-seen part of the city.

I wanted a cell phone in India. It makes sense; I’m staying here for at least a month. I had the phone from Turkey.  All I needed was to unlock the phone, buy a pay-as-you-go Indian SIM card, put it in and I should be good to go, right?

Hold it right there, Nathan. Vodafone India would like to take this moment to make you it’s bitch first. I’d heard about Indian red tape and bureaucracy (and experienced a taste with the visa debacle in Turkey), but I hadn’t really felt it punch me in the guts before. I learned that as a foreign national dealing with an Indian system, failure is always an option. Read on:

Step 1: Unlock the Phone - 2 hours - Success!

A phone is initially “SIM locked” to only be usable on a particular carrier or in a particular region. With the right equipment, the SIM lock can be removed and the phone will work all around the world. This was relatively easy. An Indian friend suggested I go to a gadget mall called Heera Panna where they do things along these lines. It was sort of like Polvos Azules in Lima. Lots of small stores in a big building. This was the taxi ride where the driver yelled “mother choad” at me for not having correct change.

After asking around, I found that I needed to go to store number 73, which is difficult to find because there is seemingly no rhmye or reason to the numbering on the stores in the building. I walked up a half flight of stairs into store number 73, which was full of half-computers, walls lined with cables, phones, soldering irons, and three Indian guys. Perfect.

They plugged the phone into something, I waited about 15 minutes, and 200 Rupees later, I had an unlocked cell phone. Great success!

Step 2: SIM Purchase Attempt #1 - .5 hours - Failure

Inside the same building I asked around for a store that sells Vodafone SIM cards. The guy looked at my papers, looked at me, and said I need to go to a different Vodafone store without explanation.

Step 3: SIM Purchase Attempt #2 - 1 hour - Failure

I walked to the store he mentioned and they told me they do not even sell SIM cards anymore. I left.

Step 4: SIM Purchase Attempt #3 - .5 hours - Failure

A friend suggested a different store to try closer to my hotel. I went and asked. They asked what documents I had with me. I had my passport. That was good, but I was lacking:

- A letter from the hotel certifying that I was staying there.
- A passport sized photo to attach to the form.

Step 5: Get Documentation from Hotel - .5 hours - Success

The hotel manager was friendly enough to write me a “To whom it may concern” letter stating that I was staying at his hotel. He gave me some copies of receipts.

Step 6: SIM Purchase Attempt #4 - 1 hours - Success!

I returned to the counter with all of my documents. I filled out several forms. Expecting trouble down the line, I asked explicitly if all of the forms were correct and they would be submitted properly. “Of course, sir,” came the reply.

The put the SIM in my phone, called some number, and it worked! Incredible. I thought I was good to go. Until…

Step 7: Monkey Wrench #1

I received a text message a few days later from Vodafone stating that my documentation was filed incorrectly. I must resubmit my documents within 48 hours to avoid cancellation of my service.

Step 8: Return to store was SIM was purchased - 2.5 hours - Failure

Now living far away from the store, it takes about an hour to get there. I showed them the text message and they said I need to go to the proper Vodafone store (called a Vodafone “gallery”) to submit the documents. They told me where to go and off I went.

Step 9: Vodafone Gallery #1 - .5 hours - Failure

I took a taxi to the gallery. They only do these registrations until 7:00 pm. I was too late. I left.

Step 10: Vodafone Gallery #2 - 1 hour - Failure

I went to the main Vodafone gallery for all of Mumbai. They claim to have a 24-hour service center. This service center, however, was not accepting registrations at night, either.

They did tell me, however, that the SIM card I had was registered with an Indian Voter Identification card instead of my passport in someone elses name. Before they would help me, though, they needed to know the name of the person the SIM card was registered to.

Essentially, the guys at the store I bought my SIM card at didn’t submit my forms at all and used a different person’s name when they submitted my documentation. I had to somehow muscle them in to telling me the name they used to register my SIM card.

Step 11: Threaten Sheister SIM Shop with Police Involvment - 2 hours - Moderate Success

Now things started to get sticky. I needed to know the name of the person these guys registrered the SIM card under before Vodafone would help me. I explained the situation and he simply told me I needed to go to the Vodafone gallery.

“No, no. I was just there. They can’t help me until you tell me what name you registered the card under. It was an Indian Voter ID card and not my passport. I paid you 100 Rupees for registration. What name did you use?”

He wouldn’t answer. I began to get irate, which actually seems to get you further in India than being polite. An Indian friend told me that if I am simply polite all the time, I’ll get walked on.

He asked for my passport to make a copy of it again then he tried to hand me the same registration form. He wanted me to fill out it out and trust that he would submit it again. Right, buddy. No go.

Then he called Vodafone’s support number. The guy at the other end of the line eventually told me my SIM card was registered to someone named “Bashshar Shaiks.” Okay. I didn’t know why Vodafone was now telling me the information I was supposed to give them to fix my account, but it seemed like progress.

There was still the matter of the 100 Rupee registration fee I wanted back. He wouldn’t budge on this. Enter a phone call from my Indian friend:

My friend spoke with him on the phone at length, and then to the manager of the store. I don’t know exactly what she said or how she said it, but she kept their attention for much longer than I was able to. She later told me that she threatened police involvement if he wouldn’t give me a completely new, unregistered SIM card, my 100 Rupees back, and money for the credit currently on the SIM card.

He handed me a new SIM card, but it wasn’t the preferred “lifelong” card that I had previously purchased. She talked to him again. Things started happening. He gave me the lifelong SIM card and some recharge cards for the credit I had on the phone. I gave up on getting back the 100 Rupees.

Seeming success…

Step 12: Return to Vodafone Gallery #1 for Registration - 1 hour - Failure

I took my number and waited to speak with a Vodafone representative to register my new SIM card. They looked over my documentation, started filling out the forms but then had to check something with a manager. Apparently my note from the hotel was insufficient now. I needed a copy of the hotels power bill before they would accept it.

Good grief.

I asked if there was any other way for them to process my request. They said no.

Could they at least temporarily enable my SIM card until I got it registered? No, sir. No way, Jose. My worker-of-magic Indian friend called Vodafone and somehow got them to enable to SIM card temporarily over the phone anyway. I don’t know how.

Step 13: Attempt to get Hotel Power Bill - 1 hour - Failure

I called the hotel. The guy said he would give me a copy of the power bill. I took a taxi, but upon arrival he had changed his mind. He would not give me a power bill. He called Vodafone and explained to the representative that he thought it was a ridiculous proposal. I agreed.

Eventually, I ended up talking to the Vodafone representative who said I could fill out another form and every thing would be dandy. No hotel bills required! Unsure why they didn’t tell me about this form at the Vodafone Gallery, I had had enough pain and gave up for the day.

Step 14: Return to Vodafone Gallery #2 for Registration - 1.5 hours - GREAT SUCCESS!!!

The next day I went back to the main Vodafone Gallery (pictured right). I took my number. Vodafone employee Ashwini tended to my request. She did not ask for a copy of the hotel power bill. She did not ask me to fill out the form that the guy on the phone said I would have to fill out. She just smiled, made some copies, told me where to sign, typed some stuff on the computer and it worked.

Seriously? That was it? I couldn’t believe it.

“Really? That’s all you need?”

“Yes, sir. That’s all.”

“You don’t need the other form filled out?”

“No, sir. That form is very rarely used.”

“You don’t need a hotel utility bill?”

“No, sir. We have the letter and your passport.”

“And I won’t get a text message saying my service will be disabled in a few days?”

“No, sir.”

“And I don’t owe you any money for this?”

“No, sir.”

Incredible.

Still mystified that it actually worked this time, I got the hell out of there before some manager came by and said I needed to pat my head, rub my belly, and go get a notarized copy of my sister’s birth certificate and two kangaroos at the same time before they would approve my request.

Why did it work this time? I don’t know. I don’t care.

I have a SIM card. Thank you, Indian friend; your guidance and threats of police involvment made this all possible. And thank you, Ashwini; you are the one shining light in the convoluted quagmire of shit that is Vodafone India.

Total hours: 15  (excluding some travel time)
Total steps: 14
Average time per step: 1 Hour, 4 Minutes.
Number of successes: 5
Number of failures: 9
Success to Failure Ratio: .555555555 (repeating, of course)
Sentiment at end of process: LEEEEEEEROOOOOY JENKIIIIINS!

Just a quick note before bed:

I just got back from hanging out the side of a train for the last hour cruising around Mumbai at night. It felt fantastic. A blurry flash of completely new city, lights, people, cars, stupid-looking yet still beloved auto rickshaws, buildings, cows in the streets, trash, construction, smells, and rail posts of all varieties that seemed impossibly close to my face zoomed by. My grip on the pole is all that held me in. No railing, no door, and no injury or liability lawsuits cross the mind of planners or tenants of Mumbai’s rail system. It’s 3% of the price of taking a taxi for the same distance (~200 Rupees for a cab versus Rs. 6 for the train ticket.), faster because there is no traffic, and a hell of a lot more fun.

At the risk of sounding cheesy, it was a wind-in-my-hair, smile-on-my-face perfect moment.

A properly executed dismount from the train is done by hopping off the train while it is still coming to a stop at a good clip; preferably into a mass of people that are also trying to hop on before the train stops completely to stake out their own place to stand in the train.

The Indian I was with told me I looked like a kid on Christmas. Probably did. I sure feel good right now.

Editor’s Note:
This would likely be a lot more of a harrowing and less delightful experience at rush hour instead of 11:30 at night. My Indian friend told me the trains are so crushingly packed that you often simply can’t get off when it’s your stop; there’s no way to push through the people.

Mumbai is challenging at times, but Mumbai is great. I was even in my first car wreck last night!

Unfortunately, I’ve only been able to get online at internet cafes which is quite limiting for writing blog entries.  Wi-fi doesn’t seem to be very common around here.

Found a Flat

I should, however, have more regular internet access starting on Monday, when I move in to my sparkling apartment in Bandra West, which is apparently the part of town where the Bollywood movie stars live and hang out.  Exciting times in the world’s fourth largest urban agglomeration!

Bowels Bested, Weekend Wasted

<TMI>
With any luck, I will also have more regular stools by that point as well!  What was that I said in my last post? “Stomach bugs be damned?” The bugs must be reading the blog. Normally proud of my intestinal fortitude, battle tested against Peruvian tap water and street food of all shapes, sizes, price levels, and durations in the sun, I’ve been singing the diarrhea song to myself for the last couple days.  You know the one:  “When you’re sliding into first and you feel a sudden burst, diarrhea! Diarrhea!” Charming, no?  It (the song, that is) reminds me of being in elementary school and singing along with my brother.  It also gives creed to Seth Stevenson’s prediction that I would certainly get Delhi Belly while I am here in his 5-part article, Trying Really Hard to Like India. It’s worth your time to read.
</TMI>

A less wipeable byproduct of my gastrointestinal grappling and accompanying fever and chills was that I didn’t feel up to going out on either Friday or Saturday night. A pity. Another benefit of traveling slowly: there’s always next weekend.

Taxi Trials

Additionally, when I was headed back from Bandra in the taxi, bowels and all anxiously awaiting arrival at the hotel in South Mumbai where I have been staying, (it takes about an hour and a half and costs $4.00) we had a car wreck!  A big truck just muscled over into our lane and smashed the taxi up against the divider.  The driver seemed quite unperturbed by the ordeal.  We both saw it coming and we both gave it a “meh” reaction. No words were exchanged between he and I post-accident.  I just got a quick glance back from him.  He stopped the taxi, the truck kept going without stopping, the people behind him starting honking mercilessly at the thoughtless inconvenience he was causing, and then on we went.  We got jolted around a little bit, but the seemingly bullet-proof shit-box taxi amazingly only took cosmetic damage.  It kept honking incessantly, belching black smoke like before, and rattling along just fine.

This was actually less stressful than than the verbal assault I received in Hindi from the other taxi driver who got pissed that the only note I had was a 500 Rupee note for a 100 Rupee fare. I could only understand the words “mother choad,” but his facial expression said the rest. While he went to find change, beggar kids came to the windows and tried to sell me books. The first book was the screenplay for Slumdog Millionaire and the second was about Obama. The first wave of kids eventually went away and a heart-breakingly cute 5 or 6 year-old little girl came to the window and attempted a few lines of “Jingle Bells,” followed by some songs in Hindi. She was holding a baby. This is common. It’s rough.

Stay tuned, kids. More to follow. Especially once I have the tubes at my house.

Not much time to write at the moment, but I am in India.

Brief highlights from the last 16 hours:

• The taxi ride from the airport was the best taxi ride I’ve had in my life.  It absolutely got me excited.  A swirl of people, shit-box cars, motorcycles, tuk-tuks, horns, stores, walkers, sitters, standers, bright saris, colors, chaos, wind in my face, and grit blowing into my eyes.  I like chaos.  Eye grit builds character.  (Or that’s what I’ll tell my son one day when he bitches about it.)
• People sleep in the stairwell of the building my hotel is in - in fact, they sleep everywhere.  Sidewalks are a popular option.  I nearly stepped on several people last night while walking on the sidesleep.
• Within walking around for one hour this morning, I was offered several “Slumdog Millionaire” tours.  “Sir, ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ tour?  See where they make movie!  Slums.  Washing clothes.”  I’m not sure why he said “washing clothes,” but he did.  I said “no” and then he offered me drugs.  (Sidenote: That movie is all over the papers here today after it’s big Oscar round-up last night.)
• On this walk I also saw a tall, could-be-Aussie tourist with a big backpack blow up at a beggar kid, hurling a string of expletives at him and nearly slugging him.  That would be a 6′ 4″, 185 guy and a 45 pound kid.  That he nearly hit.
• You can still see some broken windows at the Taj Hotel, one site of the November terror attacks.  I went in to check out the lavish lobby and had to go through two different metal detectors.  They have an x-ray machine that luggage must go through.
• The first food I ate was street food.  Stomach bugs be damned!  Things close early here, so the only place I could find for food at 11:45 pm was a guy cooking omlettes on the street with the standard noisy blowtorch-under-a-metal-plate cooker.  I paid 20 cents for the delicious omlette, and I think I might have overpaid.
• The second food was Chicken Some-Green-Sauce Masalla, which blew my favorite Indianapolis Indian buffet out of the water.  And that’s a statement, because the Indian Buffet kicks ass.  It cost me $1 for the food, tea, an drink.  And that’s probably expensive by India standards.

Mumbai is going to be awesome. And a bit insane.

More later.  Time to go explore!