My Sabbath, Not Yours

At 06:45 I find myself awake again, so even though I'm not in exactly the same mental state as yesterday, I decide to head on out to the pool for a dip. 

 

I'll be leaving the hotel tomorrow, without checking out.  I noticed on a piece of the hotel stationery that they are in the same group as Holiday Inn, which means that I can rack up some amazing amount of frequent-stayer points.  But I don't have the number with me.

 

I went up to the business office to hop online and get it from my gmail account, but as a Romanian guest and myself found out, the 'net was down.  An office assistant came over saying we'd have access in a moment and hints at a fee.

 

"How much is it?"

 

"US$10 an hour."  Compare this to my little Internet cafe in the next town down the road that is $0.75/hour.

 

"All I need to do is get my express number."  He stares at me blankly and waggles his head.  I know what this means, this means, "I'm a cow and am going to do what I'm told."  This is a dangerous mix for me because it's the we're-a-swanky-hotel-we-can-charge-whatever attitude crossed with the stupidity of rules-and-regulations of In.  It's exactly the kind of thing that gives me the potential to snap.

 

I'm speaking in a normal, non-threatening voice.  Very slowly, so I'm sure to be understood.

"Let me make sure I have this absolutely correct.  You are going to charge me $10 an hour to do nothing more than access my email account for an Express number that is something your hotel provides to show value of me as a customer.  You know I'm a member and you are going to charge me for it?"

 

I pause.  Ins. aren't used to people giving them a chance to speak -- this is a country of interruption, especially among males ... in that way, in fact, it's very much like the Silicon Valley.

 

The Romanian is chuckling.  I say, "You are from Bucharest, right?"  He nods.  "They don't treat people this way in Romania, do they?  I mean they used to, when the Russians ran things, but you kicked them out and things are better now aren't they?"  He laughs and says yes.  I keep going, "I mean, if you ignore things like the little civil war, they're a lot better." 

 

I turn the cannon back at my little man.  "Let me make sure I understand.  You are charging me because I am a valued customer.  You are showing that you care by charging me more than you you personally make in a day."

 

I pause.  And it becomes very clear I'm going to say nothing else.

 

The concept of "face" runs heavy through In.  Whitey ("foreigners," actually, but I like using the racial term better) are a problem.  Because they are both no-caste (meaning below untouchable) and somehow beyond the guidance of Vishnu, have managed to be rich.  Very rich.  Too rich.  The whole mashib concept still rides here -- and in a place like this, it rides very long and hard.

 

He shuffles.  He mumbles.  I say nothing.

 

"I will ask my manager."  He's lying. 

 

"You do that.  My name is b1, I'm in room 1027.  One.  Zero.  Two.  Seven.  Do you want me to write it down?"  Or tattoo it on your forehead for that matter?

 

"No sir."

 

I turn to my Romanian comrade, "Destroy something.  And have a good night."

 

Which means that my mini-bar is getting emptied of anything of my choosing.  Which also means that I won't be showing my face in the institution tomorrow morning -- instead leaving by the secret backway.

 

As I make my way to the pool I can feel my throat is pretty sore.  On the firey side, to be sure.  I sit in the pool and is always the case, it's not is as good, nor as perfect, as the day before.

 

For breakfast I have a waffle, kingfish and some yogurt. 

 

It's 10:00 and for some godawful reason beyond my imagination it's still Holi.  The fricken holiday that won't die.  There's a travel agent in the next town over that I need to talk to to figure out my next move.  Because I need to get to B., but it's a long way from here.

 

The answer may well be to take a taxi.  I prefer a trishaw, but a taxi has windows and I can have him wait right there.  It'll mean 30 seconds of exposure to that world that they so correctly refer to as "outside the gate."

 

I head over and a few of the human pop art cataclysms that result from Holi are around, but not many. 

 

I budget four hours for the task and go to the travel agent and after getting the expected lackadaisical service from the woman working the frontmost desk, I get pointed toward the top guy.

 

From this point forward, in my letters to you, Mr. K, just know that every conversation I describe is being highly compacted.  There is no such thing as an easy or simple conversation here, anywhere.

 

I explain that I'm trying to get to B. and am exploring my options.  There's train, plane and car, and after a series of extremely drawn out conversations, it's settled that the best idea is to fly to J.  I'll pick up a car from there.  I try to get reservations at a hotel near B. but for reasons that are not clear, that cannot be done.

 

$200 and an hour and a half later, I have my tickets, as well as a plan.  Get me on the ground in J., I can figure it out from there.

 

I go back to the hotel and my throat is noticeably worse.  I'm starting to ache as well.  Right in the joints.

 

This, I'm not expecting.  I don't hardly ever get sick and (to the amazement of my In. national friends) I didn't get sick in In. last time.  I don't want to be sick here, but I really don't want to be sick as I travel.

 

The Birdhead stayed at my place about a month and a half ago.  He got the flu and it nearly panicked him.  It might be that.  It might be something else.  But flu, sore throat and joints are also symptoms of malaria.

 

I have a piece of nan for lunch and study poker until 15:30, heading over to tournament.  Things are more disorganized than before, but after several long waits, I sit down to play.  The table is very friendly -- there's actually an American there -- and I spend a lot of time educating people on the history of In., the Portuguese and the British.  People outside In. know remarkably little about the environment and climate in which it was created.

 

Worse, though, is my American pal isn't aware of the current political situation on the Pakistan border. 

 

"You shouldn't go there.  In reasonable mind, you can't go there."

 

He looks pleasantly incredulous.  The way you would if a street bum told you he was worth $50 million.  I need to break through.

 

"Okay, listen.  They bombed a train on the border five nights ago.  Are you aware of that?  60 people dead."

 

I see a spark in him.  "I seem to remember hearing about that on the news."

 

"Listen man, when you travel to a place like this, the news isn't just some 'good idea,' or something of passing interest.  It's raw data you need to make decisions to keep you safe.  Right now, right this second, the US Department of State says it's a bad idea to travel alone in In.  Just your being here the way you are, right this second, makes your government uncomfortable."  For reasons I'm still not clear of, I'm getting through, so I keep going, "Of course the government is overly protective, it's both their job and their nature.  If I thought it was unsafe, or untenable, I wouldn't be here.

 

"But you've got to know.  Do not go to G., do not go to Kashmir.  I think even Rajistan is a bad idea.  Camels in the desert sounds fun.  Bandits in the desert does not.  Remember that's all Islam up there, think about the way your government has been treating them.  Even if they don't have a political problem with you, they have a cash problem for weapons, and you can help solve that for them."

 

"You're right."  It works.  He asks for other ideas on things to do and I give him a list 20 lines long.  Somehow, some way, I got through and he's gushingly grateful.  Sort of embarrassing, really.  A Dane sitting next to me is really impressed somehow, although I don't know why and we strike up a long conversation about Denmark -- he has friends coming to visit and asks what I would recommend for them to see.  I hit the obvious stuff he was already thinking about in Copenhagen, the conversation wanders and then I go off about the Stockholm to Helsinki ferry and how truly great that is.  "Two cities for the price of one.  Cheaper than either.  Better than both."  Blah blah blah.  A Swede at the end of the table says, "You should be a travel agent for the world," everyone laughs and agrees and the Dane says, "I think he already is."

 

It wouldn't surprise me if I never get paid a higher compliment in my life.

 

The table gets broken and now that I'm sitting in quiet land I can tell that I'm feeling worse.  A lot worse.  I'm running a mild fever and my throat is starting to swell closed.

 

Worse, though, is I'm seated at a table with the loud-mouth Australian. 

 

I'll leave the poker hands for other posts and the remainder of the evening for other posts.  I go to bed at 23:00, dead to the world.

 

But as Bo3b says, "I'm not dead yet,"

b1