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Published: February 11th 2013
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Notes from a Dug: Chennai Everybody, grab a bag. In fact, grab all your bags. We're joining the thousands that are doing the same thing on board the Shatabdi Express train into Chennai Central Station. It's a mix of order and gong show. We have no idea how our local tour rep is going to find us until we see two men running alongside the slow moving train, tapping on our window and holding our names on a placard. It's like winning the lottery, finding your white tourists in a sea of brown. They're more excited than we are at the sense of our salvation (and, apparently, theirs as well). In a city of 9 million, most of whom seem to be at the train station, many of them sleeping inside on the granite floors or outside on the bare concrete, it's a forever process to get out of the construction site cum parking lot. Due to arrive at 9:30 PM, we don't get out of the parking lot until 11 PM and don't check into our hotel until about midnight. It feels to me like we drove through a war zone - blackened buildings, no lights on, a few
barricades. What would morning bring?
Surprise, even though check-in involved a couple of room changes until we found a floor where the disinfectant hadn't been recently sprayed, the morning brought a new vision of the city. It was clean, relatively. It was orderly, relatively. It was a city in the midst of change, definitely. The signs are everywhere in its cities. Urban India is transitioning to the way of the West. Good or bad, it just is. Ironically and tragically, even the history in this, the fourth largest city in India, is written mainly in the buildings of the the British East India Company. Our four hour tour with the guide took us by the five most notable keepsakes from the past, only one of which I would call Indian. That was an ancient Shiva temple from the thirteenth century. The other four were marginally maintained structures from the British Raj, one of which housed an outstanding collection of Chula bronzes. Now, that was great. Ironically and oddly, this marvellous display of Hindu art and culture was presented in a two hundred year old British building known as the Government Museum.
Once the formalities of the official tour
ended, the real work began. FabIndia, the clothing Mecca for most of us, had a few outlets here and they must be explored. The first one showed much promise and a few articles were bought. The next one was, unknown to us, hidden deep in the maze known as Spencer Plaza. What appeared to be a dingy closet of a mall needing archeological tools to explore, soon unveiled its treasures. Unfortunately for me, I assumed this mottled collection of shops would be dispensed with in five minutes. So did the guide. Three women went spelunking and the guide became concerned. We had been left in a fast food joint sucking on some Lassis when, after 30 minutes, the guide realized the error of his ways. Leaving on a mission to find his wayward charges, he came back in five minutes having found them and received their assurances that they would be back in no time at all. He had blithely assumed that meant right away. I don't think he knows how a shopper's DNA is wired. After 15 minutes he became fidgety. After 30 minutes, panic set in. He enlisted help from two of the restaurant staff to mount a
search mission of the highest priority. Picture a fifty-six year old, kinda pudgy man and two barely twenty year old boys all doing the chicken dance. Spinning around three times and, in a puff of smoke, the three zappers were gone, all the while exhorting me to stay seated and stay calm (my heart rate hadn't moved a flicker since this all begun). I have been a witness to this situation playing out many times and in many malls over the years. What's the worst that could happen? More "gotta have's" being bought? Another suitcase needed? All of the above? Poor Mr. Nanda appears to lack my experience. His wife must not take him shopping or he is to busy eating Tuti Fruity to go. Driven to find his three little bunnies, he does not return until he has them all safely in tow and a big smile on his face. Disaster avoided. He lives to guide another day.
That night we tempt the fates. We go out in the darkness to find a roll-proof, T-bone impervious tuk-tuk. These things are soapbox bump 'em cars on a grass-fed diet. One slap from another vehicle's bumper and you're on your
way to the God of your choice. Two dollars later (100 rupees) and three miles down the road, we are eating a great vegetarian meal. Five main courses, two orders of naan, one order of rice, three desserts, two drinks. Total: $5.00 each. All the while, our every move is anticipated and admired by five male and one female staff. Only one male and, of course, the female do any work. I think we were the only white people in the room and, if we had stayed longer, our presence would have been blessed and our likenesses painted on their walls.
Our putt-putt chariot lands us safely back at our hotel where we edge our clammy, sweaty bodies between the sheets in preparation for tomorrow's trip to the beach community of Mahabalipuram.
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