India #2

India, Journal 2: This city is trying to kill me. I’m not sure, but it could be because I have red hair. On the other hand, the fear of death seems primary motivating factor out here sometimes. So far, I’ve had three different sicknesses, multiple near death experiences, and I’ve breathed a poisonous fume that would rival the darkest lands of Mordor. Never before have I seen so many awesome things and so many insane things all at once.

The first day was a bit of a stress test. I have become accustomed to the toilet with two buttons to flush it and the combination garden/kitchen hose in the bathroom. I’ve gotten used to housekeeping coming in at all hours with my underpants. Freshly ironed underpants.

So that’s all good. What I haven’t been prepared for is all the different ways India tries to KILL you. The first day was really a test of death by traffic. Nothing about the traffic makes any sense. People drive the wrong way ON THE FREEWAY. I hope you fully understand the gravity of what I’m staying. People hurtle at oncoming traffic AT googledyplex infinity kilometers per hour. I have no idea how fast a kilometer is. But we lots of them per hour. Cars there are nice, except I think they were all created before the invention of modern vehicle suspension. My head now tilts about twenty degrees to the right from frequent collisions with the roof of the car. Meridian in the way of an easy turn to your exit? SMASH IT TO THE GROUND AND DRIVE OVER THE CRATER. That’s right. If you can’t turn somewhere because of something, you destroy the something.

The other problem is the noxious gas. At five o’clock in the morning, all of the smog from the sky sinks to the ground. It really smells as if a collection of rabid, infected dogs died in the drain of a sewage treatment plant. On a good day, that’s what it smells like. This might have something to do with the fact we drive past a river that also serves as a toilet, bathtub, and day spa. What blows me away is how happy these people are. Never before have I seen people who have so little who are so happy. Even our drivers are thrilled, and they work six days a week. Plus I’m pretty sure they pick us up at 5 AM and drop one of the crews off at 11:30 PM. I have no idea when those guys sleep, but I have never seen them unalert on the freeway. The drivers communicate with car horns. Every major vehicle has fancy calligraphy on the back that says exactly these words – over and over again: “Horn Okay Please.” Over and over again on the freeway – big trucks, usually filled to overcapacity, with five guys sitting in the back and the words “Horn Okay Please.” Occasionally, we’ll see an Elephant with facepaint, and sometimes we’ll see a family of four on a motorcycle. My favorite so far was a guy riding a motorcycle wearing an 1850’s style Samurai Helmet, complete with awesome dragon facemask and golden crescent moon shaped horn-ornament on top. He’s probably the coolest guy in India. That said, with characters like this, it’s amazing we survive. Truly.

That brings me to the second day. I learned very quickly that the head of Reliance’s Media Division is a passionate vegetarian. So passionate is he, in fact, that he serves everyone at the building ONLY vegetarian foods. Imagine my joy at learning that meat would not be served during at least two of my three meals per day. On the second day of work, I had for breakfast several pieces of banana bread. I actually asked for toast, but got none. I have asked for toast every morning. I have asked for toast each DAY I have been in India. My waiter clearly understands. He always asks if I want white bread. Then he asks if I want butter. But no toast ever arrives. I don’t know what happens to my toast. I assume it vanished to the mysteriously absent 4^th or 5^th floors of the building, but one can never be too sure of toast.

Having eaten my banana bread and muffin flavored with double bland, I headed to the office, where I was treated to four different kinds of rice for lunch. To be fair, the rice was actually pretty good.

Now, I’m not sure if it was the banana bread from the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet no toast guy or the rice, but I began to feel a little ill. Slightly queasy, as it were – as if my stomach were punching me in the ribs begging me for something simple and easy to digest – something mild – something like toast, I guess. But since it was lunchtime, and toast was not available, I had to make do. I immediately took one of my pills. This particular one was called cipromaximus stomachus deathus. Or something. This gave whatever virulent, evil, son-of-a-bitch strain of viral death something to laugh at. Upon returning home, I drank water. Upon arriving in my bathroom, I un-drank water. To put it as mildly as possible, I decided to carefully review the lunch menu.

I must have thrown up for a solid six hours. After this point, there couldn’t possibly have been food in my stomach, but I threw up anyway. If I had to guess, my bowels somehow moved into the future during the time-zone change and I was actually vomiting food I hadn’t even eaten yet. I may have been delirious, but I’m pretty sure at one point my feet were coming out of my mouth.

After collecting my shoes from the toilet, I proceeded to get two painful, short hours of rest, give or take. Despite this unfortunate near death experience, I STILL woke up at five AM and I STILL went to work. It was the hardest day of work I’ve ever put in during my lifetime. Imagine throwing up so much your entire body structure aches. Now imagine your stomach is at it’s weakest point in ten years. Now imagine taking that broken body and weak stomach inside of an SUV death box barreling down the freeway with literally no suspension over destroyed freeway medians. There was a bright side though – the frequent collisions between my head and the top of the SUV made it so I didn’t even have to turn my head – if I needed to puke, I could just roll down the window and easily unleash a rainbow yawn all over the samurai warrior motorcycle rider next to us.

That didn’t happen. And thankfully, my life was saved by the most unlikely of characters. Not a man, not a doctor, not an angel, but something far more amazing – a true miracle of our world. A McNugget. Bless McDonalds – they do have some crap food out here – I don’t think I have to mention the Maharaja Mac or the Veg McPuff (oh yes – both very real) but damned if they didn’t have Chicken McNuggets and French fries. And they were delicious. I will admit that in America, nuggets and fries both have a mild taste of beef, which these McNuggets lacked, but they were still so good, the non-beefiness was easily forgiven. Though eating McNuggets can sometimes be like swallowing a handful of full sized razorblades (the McNugget is a harsh Mistress) these were like eating the first Snickers bar of Easter – only good things could happen from here. Religious connotations aside, the McNugget was my intestinal messiah.

I was proven correct. So far, the food quality has maintained a reasonable amount of safety and were palatable, as well. Breakfast was also a fine meal. However, the worst vomiting I have ever had was replaced with the worst COLD I ever had. I can only guess that no-toast guy is gathering up some of the sick guys from the street, checking their symptoms, and having each of them lick my banana bread before it has been served to me. There really is no other explanation. I swear to you, he hates me because I have red hair. It’s because I am a wealthy, red haired American giant. I have a fairly large class in India – in fact, I had the opportunity to present to a class of around one hundred people, and I’m pretty sure I was a head above all of them.