Bombay (for multiple reasons)
The people in the slums immediately adjacent to Bombay airport dry their wash on the razor wire of the perimeter. As the shuttle from the flight to the domestic terminal goes past, an older man checking out the world, exchanges glances with me. This is the first and only, time we will ever meet in our lives.
I got there after making a run to my favorite chippie in London and finding it closed. I settled for a second best and then went to a showing of an African quasi-documentary at a art film house off Russell Square. I was one of only two people (and this is only the second time I've ever gone to a movie by myself). One of the things I like best about Britain, maybe the thing I like THE best, is the association with Africa. I mean, come on, when was the last time you heard about someone complaining about the conditions in Mali?
I hit the chemist at the airport, two things I was seriously missing: disinfectant wipes and something for pain if my teeth explode. Turns out Tylenol 3 (that's the good stuff, with codeine) isn't controlled in the UK. I lived there for two fricken' years and didn't know that ... NOW I have something to bring back from my England trips, by God.
I had a US$50 meal at the oyster bar in departures. One oyster, four types of salmon, a passable pickled herring and two types of shrimp. It's possible, if not likely, that this will be the last decent meal I have in a fortnight.
The flight over was wide open -- I bailed from my super-swank emergency exit seat and took a row. Finished Harrington Volume I and slept, probably, four hours.
Customs and baggage were a breeze, but after getting to the domestic terminal, I can't find Air In. I look, look, look. Nothing. They have offices, but no one is there. I go to their outside booth, no one is there.
I try to come back in and the guard singles me out, asking for my ticket. I show it and he says, "Air In. don't fly from here."
Swell, where do they fly from?
After maybe 10 minutes of conversation (he doesn't speak much English and we can't understand each other's accents -- I end up communicating by doing, and I swear this is true, an impersonation of Sriram), I find out the flight is from the International Airport.
"How far is it?"
He waggles his head, "Take a cab over there."
This is archetypal response to question in In. I'll have these kinds of conversations, every day, for three weeks.
If I can cab, I can rickshaw. It's my preferred way to move through In. I go to the trishaw stand and after two people cut in front of me, get my ride. I notice some of the drivers are using meters, which is very unusual. I notice more that my guy isn't.
"How much to the International Airport?"
No answer.
I already know what this means, he's going to charge over-market but doesn't want to say it in front of the authorities.
We go a way, he says "(RS)250."
The exchange rate is 40 to 1, so I figure four bucks is a bit high but reasonable. I accept. We take the classic hair-raising ride that I like so much and he drops me.
But it's only now that I realize my fatigue has me -- that's six bucks, not four. He stuck it to me.
No matter. I made my airport. I'm gonna make my flight. I'm paying RS80 for this terminal, and check this out, they have Mountain Dew here in black cans.
Things can be worse. Much worse.
In fact, things are good.
Hope you're well,
b1
I got there after making a run to my favorite chippie in London and finding it closed. I settled for a second best and then went to a showing of an African quasi-documentary at a art film house off Russell Square. I was one of only two people (and this is only the second time I've ever gone to a movie by myself). One of the things I like best about Britain, maybe the thing I like THE best, is the association with Africa. I mean, come on, when was the last time you heard about someone complaining about the conditions in Mali?
I hit the chemist at the airport, two things I was seriously missing: disinfectant wipes and something for pain if my teeth explode. Turns out Tylenol 3 (that's the good stuff, with codeine) isn't controlled in the UK. I lived there for two fricken' years and didn't know that ... NOW I have something to bring back from my England trips, by God.
I had a US$50 meal at the oyster bar in departures. One oyster, four types of salmon, a passable pickled herring and two types of shrimp. It's possible, if not likely, that this will be the last decent meal I have in a fortnight.
The flight over was wide open -- I bailed from my super-swank emergency exit seat and took a row. Finished Harrington Volume I and slept, probably, four hours.
Customs and baggage were a breeze, but after getting to the domestic terminal, I can't find Air In. I look, look, look. Nothing. They have offices, but no one is there. I go to their outside booth, no one is there.
I try to come back in and the guard singles me out, asking for my ticket. I show it and he says, "Air In. don't fly from here."
Swell, where do they fly from?
After maybe 10 minutes of conversation (he doesn't speak much English and we can't understand each other's accents -- I end up communicating by doing, and I swear this is true, an impersonation of Sriram), I find out the flight is from the International Airport.
"How far is it?"
He waggles his head, "Take a cab over there."
This is archetypal response to question in In. I'll have these kinds of conversations, every day, for three weeks.
If I can cab, I can rickshaw. It's my preferred way to move through In. I go to the trishaw stand and after two people cut in front of me, get my ride. I notice some of the drivers are using meters, which is very unusual. I notice more that my guy isn't.
"How much to the International Airport?"
No answer.
I already know what this means, he's going to charge over-market but doesn't want to say it in front of the authorities.
We go a way, he says "(RS)250."
The exchange rate is 40 to 1, so I figure four bucks is a bit high but reasonable. I accept. We take the classic hair-raising ride that I like so much and he drops me.
But it's only now that I realize my fatigue has me -- that's six bucks, not four. He stuck it to me.
No matter. I made my airport. I'm gonna make my flight. I'm paying RS80 for this terminal, and check this out, they have Mountain Dew here in black cans.
Things can be worse. Much worse.
In fact, things are good.
Hope you're well,
b1
posted by b1-66er at 00:39
1 Comments:
Mountain Dew in black cans, I think, raises the whole country up a few levels. But if you try to save the can, be careful.
I once passed through Narita and drank a can of Pocari "Sweat". I thought the can was cool and decided to save it, so I stuck it in my coat pocket and forgot about it. Until the metal detectors went off, when a security guard started speaking to me sternly in Japanese, I responded by reaching for the can in my coat pocket, he began yelling loudly, and I froze.
But it ended well.
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