Passage Through Fear

A Journey Through India & Nepal

Copyright 1992-1993 by Richard Bollar -- All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

Hong Kong

The approach to Hong Kong's Kai Tak airport is one of the most spectacular landings available to commercial aircraft, involving a low level approach, and steep turns only a couple of hundred feet above heavily populated buildings. It's very exciting, though we couldn't get the real feel for the night landing from our center location. Our touchdown was early, at 8:00 PM on Friday, March 13, fifteen hours after our takeoff. Being up front, we were the first off the plane and I was overjoyed, not only because I was back in Hong Kong, but also because it was nice to know that I wouldn't have to do any flying right immediately, and with any luck at all, we'd be at the hotel within the hour.

As usual, we picked a terribly slow immigration queue, but still that had taken only fifteen minutes and then we were in the baggage claim area, besieged by hostesses handing out baggies containing tourist literature. As we waited for the bags, Dad mentioned that we might be met by Du Pont's distributor for China. Further, he thought they might want to take us out to dinner. Oh, eating just wasn't what I had in mind, but it seemed like an appropriate business-type dinner. Just then, I heard my name being paged to appear at the customer service desk.

Guessing it was a message from the Chinese connection, I ambled over to the desk to pick up the message, and heard, "Oh, so sorry, Mr. Bollar, but your bags did not make the connection in Los Angeles." I muttered to myself and was reminded why I don't check the thing. I was about to start filling out the paperwork that my South African trip had made me learn to loathe when Dad appeared with the baggage trolley and all of the bags. Great news!

We were waved through customs, and made a brief stop at the money changer, where I bought some Hong Kong dollars before we entered into the crush of the main arrivals hall....

I took a deep breath as the doors slid open, and we walked down into Hong Kong. We were swept immediately into a crush of Chinese, all of whom were miraculously staying behind a line painted on the floor. Fortunately, most everyone Chinese is shorter than me, so I had a clear view of the entire arrivals hall.

Dad looked for his friends but it was immediately obvious that we'd have a hell of a time finding anyone - they would have to find us. We finally decided to head for the hotel. I had planned on taking the bus, which was quick, and only HKD10 (about $1.25), but Dad pushed the cart into the Taxi queue and we waited for about fifteen minutes as the people in front of us were skillfully loaded into the red Nissan cabs. Our turn came soon enough and we were on our way to the hotel.

Traveling through Hong Kong at night is always exciting, what with people filling the streets in the night markets and the neon signs flashing Chinese and roman characters. At the high speeds common to taxis, it's even more carnival-like, but shortly we left Kowloon behind and entered the brightly lit Cross-Harbour Tunnel on our way to Hong Kong island.

Once out of the tunnel, the neon signs resumed, but a bit more subdued as we passed through Wanchai, with its many hostess clubs. Only a short time later, we were in the business district, Central, and at the J.W. Marriott hotel. What can I say? In the nine months since Chris Watt and I were there, the place hadn't changed at all.

We checked in, and were shown to our room, which was unfortunately not on the harbor side, but faced the mountain (and overlooked the pool). I immediately got a shower and while I was soaking in the hot water, Dad got CNN International on the TV, hoping to find some information about the attack in Punjab. No new information, I learned, mulling over the hot tea and fresh fruit which had also arrived during my constitutional, along with the icy cold beer that Dad had pulled out of the cooler.

It was almost midnight, and we suffered through the first phases of jet-lag, experiencing a nervous energy common only to people whose bodies think it's noon. We left the hotel to take a walk around the banks bordering the hotel, especially the striking Hong Kong & Shanghai Bank, with the structural supports on the outside, and the stark Bank of China building with its formal fountain and rock garden. After the walk, we retired to the Marriott's Lobby Bar for a few beers while the Filipino bank played (and sang) Western pop favorites flawlessly. It was the same band who was there last time (and should I have been surprised?). Quite a run!

We returned to the room to find a message from Yvonne and Peter Lee, Du Pont's representatives in China. They had gone to the airport to meet us, but had missed us. Would we be free to spend the day with them tomorrow? Too late to return the message now, Dad made a note to return their call in the morning.

The beer helped me sleep well until the sun rose the next morning....

Sunrise wouldn't be a fair term, that Saturday, March 14, as the mountain that we over-looked was covered in fog, as were all of the skyscrapers. An eagle circled over some nearby construction. It was then that I realized that I was in the room alone. Not much of a cause for concern, as he was always the early riser - I was just surprised that he didn't wake me.

I made coffee and read the South China Post when Dad returned with some shopping. He'd bought insect repellent wipes, along with tissues, talc, and some other stuff that he'd left behind. He had also already spoken with Yvonne, and arranged for us to have lunch together. They would meet us at eleven. Ah, no problem for us, we'd have a leisurely time getting ready.

We watched CNN International, again hoping for some news, but there was none. We did get a call, though from Vinesh Sadekar, our host in India. He assured us that everything was fine, and looked forward to seeing us on Sunday evening. I also received a fax from work, confirming that my ongoing employment with Marriott might be in jeopardy.

Yvonne & Peter called us at eleven to let us know that they were running late - the traffic on the Kowloon side was just horrible. It was only a short while later that we got a call from the lobby; they were here. We hurried downstairs to see Yvonne waiting for us. Let's have lunch first, then we'd have some fun. Would we like to have lunch at one of the 'Jumbo' floating restaurants? Sure, though we had both been to the Jumbo before.

Yvonne led us to her car, a fairly new Mercedes 400E. Nice! The drive in the back was just like in a limousine, with plenty of room to stretch out. As we drove to the Aberdeen tunnel, which would take us to Shum Wan Harbour, I noticed that Dad had remembered the gifts - Atlanta 1996 Olympic Games T-shirts. He remembers everything!

Through the tunnel, we got bogged down again in traffic, traveling though very narrow streets in the big car. I knew where we were, but still felt a little bit twisted, being more familiar with seeing the city from the top deck of a bus. We found a parking garage only a bit away from the Jumbo, and tried to fit the car into one of the spaces. It was not easy, and as Yvonne shoe-horned the car into a spot the size of a VW beetle, between a Lexus, and an abandoned 1968 Mercedes 220, the dirt on which was at least a quarter inch thick. In a homey touch, the car was appropriately covered in Chinese graffiti, which was probably as profound as 'wash me.'

While I was staring at the old Mercedes, Yvonne was chaining up the new Mercedes, placing a giant sized chain around the steering wheel, along with a bar to prevent turning the wheel. It was certainly menacing.

From the garage, the floating restaurants were easily seen, Jumbo in the middle, small launches ferrying luncheon guests between the docks and restaurants. Beyond the restaurants were the fishing boats of the Tanka, and the floating population of the Hakka, their boats moored together. But is was the floating restaurants we were here to see; I only wished that we could have been there at night, so that we could see the gaudy lights....

Amazingly, we went to the restaurant on the left, which was the same one that Chris and I had chosen for us by the san-pan driver on the last trip. I wondered how those decisions were made for us.

Yvonne and Peter took care of ordering, and they selected several Cantonese delicacies for us. I sipped beer and worked my chopsticks around crispy fish, kung pao chicken, caramel beef, fried rice, and prawns while they spoke business. As I worked my way around the chick en bones, I swore I'd never again eat chicken in China; the whole concept of sucking on the bones then spitting them into one of the bowls still grossed me out a bit.

In the next room, I could see a wedding party going on. I watched the champagne pour as all I heard was the discussion of polyethylene- terephthalate film from my table. Wonder if I could swing an invite to the wedding?

Finally lunch was over and we decided to go to Ocean Park, an amusement park nearby. We didn't go into the rides on top of the hill, but we did see a nice exhibit on Chinese history, with appropriate buildings in the style of the period. Craftsmen demonstrated making paper, glazed pottery, fans and balsa carvings. We were presented with ceremonial chopsticks, appropriately engraved with our names and the animal representing the year of our birth (mine is the dragon, Dad's, the rat), and then went to see the Chinese acrobats.

An excellent show! We saw all of the appropriate jugglers and contortionists. The pottery juggler, spinning three foot high pots on his feet was particularly good, as were the table jugglers (!) who tossed spinning tables to each other. The show lasted a good hour, and was a great value for only HKD20.

The sun was setting as we left the park, and my body started to tell me that I was up way past my bed time, though it wasn't even seven yet. I figured that we were going to be dropped off at the hotel, but no, it was dinner time and we drove off to Causeway Bay for a spectacular Peking Duck at a Pekinese restaurant on Cleveland Street & Glouster Road.

But that meal was eclipsed by parking the Mercedes in the basement of the Daimaru department store on Patterson Street. We wedged the car into a spot which required an 'L' turn to squeeze in; I didn't believe that we would be able to get it out. The roof of the car was only inches below a set of water pipes; they were dripping onto the roof. Peter pulled a tarp out of the trunk and covered the car -- just a part of driving in Hong Kong, I guess.

After dinner, we were returned to the Marriott and found a message from Cathay Pacific, asking if we needed any special arrangements for our flight on Sunday. Also, there was another message from Vinesh. Dad tended to that while I found some fresh beers in the refrigerator. We drank those, freshened up a bit then went back down to the Lobby Bar to listen to the Filipino band again. This time I noticed the cashew nuts & smoked almonds and polished them off.

We went to bed at midnight, watching CNN once again to see if there was any news. Lynne Vaughan had no new information and we went to sleep....

I slept fitfully, feeling completely drained when I awoke on Sunday, March 15 -- I was obviously very excited that we were finally going to be on our way to India! As I packed, Dad called Vinesh to give him the particulars of our flight. Vinesh had news -- because Du Pont was concerned about the safety of their executives, they had moved the meeting to London. However, Vinesh quickly added, we were still welcome, and perhaps we could still do some preliminary work while in India. To ensure that we had the proper stay, he had instructed his secretary, Zarin, to book us for a vacation in the resort town of Goa. Thereafter, should we have the time, we could fly up to Delhi, possibly stopping in Bombay to conduct some business. Wow!

As Dad hung up the phone, I realized that out plans had completely changed. I suspected that most everything that I had planned up to this point was in jeopardy. Dad seemed a little grim as we walked across the street to the Cathay Pacific City Check-In. I'm sure he was thinking of work. We checked our bags and allowed Cathay to get them to the airport. Dropping the bags off was so much more convenient than getting them to the airport; so long as they made it to Bombay. I still felt squeamish about entrusting my bag to an airline, but it just wouldn't do to have the bag in First Class -- people might take me for a peasant.

At the Cathay Pacific office I learned that Dad would need to leave Bombay on Saturday. I'd have the remaining week to myself, and I resolved to pursue an abbreviated version of my itinerary. We worked to get him onto a flight from Bombay to London, but we were running into a wall; Cathay didn't fly onward from Bombay, and their nearest flight to London was from Dubai, and would require a flight on Gulf Air, and a layover in Bahrain. He wasn't pleased, and we decided to leave changing his reservations until we knew his plans for certain.

We had about three hours before our flight left, so we decided to take the MTR over to Kowloon to do some shopping. He was looking for some batteries and tapes for his Video 8 camera and a pair of binoculars. I was half-heartedly looking for a 100-300 lens for my camera, but after evaluating my finances, I decided to opt for some fresh batteries instead. My father found what he was looking for, and did a fair job of negotiating with the clerk (through an awesome display of indecision, changing the items he wanted to purchase and switching to a credit card in mid-transaction) and walked away with a fairly good price. I paid ten dollars each for my batteries.

After making our purchases, we stopped at the infamous Kangaroo Pub on Chatham Road to have lunch. We had the spaghetti with meat sauce, washing it down with a cold Foster's each. "It might be the last meat that we see for a while," Dad commented. I looked at the ground beef swimming in the tomato sauce and wished that I'd ordered something looking a bit more like a steak. After the meal, we had another Foster's for desert, which seemed only appropriate and continued our walk

On our journey, we walked past Taylor Young's shop (see Hong Kong 1991) but didn't stop. I made a note to stop on my way back. Shopping and eating took up lots of time, so we hailed a taxi and went to the airport. As we learned from Peter and Yvonne, Hong Kong traffic is very unpredictable, but generally always heavy, so I expected the drive to take time. We arrived at the airport ten minutes later.

There was less than an hour before the flight was to leave, so we went to the Marco Polo lounge, Cathay's club for First Class passengers. The club was huge, and overlooked Kai Tak airport -- obviously the perfect place for me to hang out. Dad went to find a phone and call the States, and I sat down to watch the planes. As I sat down a hostess brought a plate of tea sandwiches and asked if I'd like a drink. Nice service! I asked for two Carlsbergs and surveyed the lounge. The magazine racks were full of magazines, and looked to be current; interactive televisions showed stock quotes and business news; showers were available off to a corner, and there was a television room where broadcast TV was showing a cricket match.

There were some Cathay postcards, so I jotted off a couple of notes, which the hostess offered to mail for me. I sat back and watched the planes land against the skyline of Hong Kong island, sipping on my beer. Dad returned to join me, with no news from the States. Shortly it was time to leave and we went back down to the main terminal.

Probably the thing that Cathay Pacific hasn't figured out is how to keep the passengers separated when getting them to the planes. We were herded onto the bus with everyone else and waited until the thing was so backed that we couldn't move or breathe. Fortunately the drive was short, only five minutes or so. Then, we were again separated, Marco Polo and First Class to the front stairway, and the remainder to the back. A flight attendant dressed in a navy blue suit offered to take Dad's carry-on up the stairs and we were whisked back into Cathay's gracious hands aboard flight CX 751.

We entered the forward cabin of a Boeing 747 model 200, which was much smaller than the model 400. It had only eighteen seats, compared to the 400's thirty. Our seats were together in 2 A & C, and we had Champagne Laurent Perrier with a splash of raspberry liqueur as we waited for the flight to begin....

By the time we were settled and to the end of the runway, it was already four in the afternoon. We would be traveling with the sun, so it would be light in Bangkok as we stopped there, but it would be night time in Bombay. That was the best and the worst of situations; on one hand, by arriving at night, you can just check into a hotel and sleep, not having to worry about being asleep at the wrong time. On the other hand, we'd be arriving in the third world at night, which seemed like a problem to me. I don't know why, but problems just seem to be easier to deal with during the day.

We took off to the east and had a fine view of the Hong Kong skyline and surrounding islands on our departure route. As soon as we leveled off at 25,000 feet, the purser pulled down the video screen and turned on the Airshow. I guess I'd never really thought about flying to Thailand before, but our flight path was going to take us over Vietnam and Laos. What an interesting situation for an American to get himself into. I mused the concept of flying over Vietnam in a passenger aircraft as I reached for the book I had been reading, Flight of the Intruder. Well, well, how propitious. I returned to my reading as the meal service began.

For openers (along with a glass of Montadam Chardonnay 1990, a nice Australian white wine) we were offered a selection of smoked seafood, consisting of tanguini, halibut and Balik style salmon. I just wasn't in the mood for anything salty, and the pasta from lunch was sitting hard in my stomach, so I just picked at them.

For the main, we had vol au vent with lobster, a pan fried lamb cutlet with herb mousseline and crepes sorentina with mushrooms and tomato sauce. I took the lamb along with a selection of Elizabeth potatoes, saffron rice with red and green peppers, baby carrots with salsify and buttered courgette and cauliflower. The vegetables were great, and everything looked just so, served from the silver trays.

As I waited for desert, I moved to recline my chair and noticed that it wasn't electric like on the flight from Los Angeles. I pushed the seat back into a more comfortable angle as I was presented with a cheese board of camenbert, gorgonzola, edam and cheddar, fresh fruit and coffee. Tiny fruit tartlets finished the meal.

I sipped my coffee and read from my book as Jake Grafton went "feet dry" on his final mission over Vietnam. I felt the 747 bank, and noticed from the Airshow that I, too, was going to be right over Hue, in Vietnam, in less than a minute. We crossed Vietnam in what seemed to be just seconds and then entered Laos; I wouldn't be needing any assistance from the "jolly green giants" to get me out. A few minutes later, we crossed the Mekong river and entered Thailand. I remembered how much fun Dad and I had had there two years ago and I wished that we could stop for a day to check it out. It would have been fun!

The sun was low as we approached Bangkok airport, but you could see the rice paddies, factories and people on the streets as we approached. We were following the highway into town, and we were so low that the script on the billboards was legible. Now if I could only read Thai.

As we landed, I noticed that there was a golf course along the runway. Really! It was in between the left and right runways and extended for the length of the runway. What an interesting use of the space! It would be fun to play there sometime. I saw painted off cart paths that crossed the taxi way as we crossed over to the terminal. I wonder what a bad slice would do on this course?

At the terminal, most of the passengers got off and we had a quick walk around as the aircraft was re-catered. I noticed that we kept the same flight crew. Admittedly the flight was only two hours thus far, but you'd never see that in the States. Obviously different regulations. Shortly several passengers boarded; they were all Indian, and carried more than their allotment of stuff, most of it looking like television sets and other consumer goods. Even the passengers in First were burdened with boxes carefully wrapped in Kraft paper....

Our departure was on time, and as I watched the sun set to the west, I realized that I was in for an adventure. Perhaps my stomach noticed too, because I was feeling decidedly unwell. I sat back as the meal service began, thinking that a bit of food might help. The meal service began with the standard savories -- I ate them, not even appreciating the royal oscietre caviar on blinis or the goose liver from perigord with port wine gelée. I was obviously getting ill.

The salad of radicchio, endive and lettuce hearts which followed helped somewhat. I enjoyed the lime dressing and reflected that this light meal was a good idea. It was as I was finishing the salad, being rather bourgeois and sopping up the remaining dressing with my dinner roll that my nose was stirred by a familiar smell. What was it? As my salad plate was cleared away and the dinner cart was presented, it was obvious -- an authentic Thai food smell. Now, I concede that I like Thai food immensely, but after my last trip there it still makes me nauseous and today it only compounded the queasy feeling that I was having.

Knowing that actually eating the Thai food would only make matters worse I decided to pass on having the lobster medallions Chu Chee and the baked chicken in pandan leaves, both of which presented Thai style, and took the roast fillet of beef in a parsley crust with asparagus polonaise and turnip and turned carrots. I also decided to give the coconut potatoes and coconut rice a miss. The beef was good, and I enjoyed it especially since it was likely to be my last for awhile. I still didn't feel well, but at least now I was full.

I decided to pass on the cheese board, fresh fruit, mango sherbet and passion fruit Sacher gateau, taking only a cup of coffee before trying to sleep. Sleep wasn't coming easily as my stomach rumbled and my intestines cramped. The noises from the other passengers also distracted me, and even putting in earplugs and blasting the CXFM rock channel couldn't drown out the distractions.

Resigned to staying awake, I stared out the window at the lights that scattered across the ground to the edge of the horizon. We had already flown southwest to the Malayan peninsula so that we wouldn't cross Burma. That seemed prudent to me as I had heard that Thailand and Burma were having border skirmishes. Taking the longer route sure made sense to me. I reckoned, then, that we were flying over India.

India! The realization that I was finally flying over this place made me realize that I was afraid. Waves of doubt assailed me, and for a moment, I almost talked myself into a panic. I was overwhelmed with every piece of negative advice I had ever received about the place, "Don't leave you bags, even for a moment!" "They're savages -- they leave their dead on the streets!" "The beggars will drive you crazy!" Even the old dinnertime phrase, "Eat your food, there are children starving in India!" ate at me as the lights passed under us only to be replaced with even more lights.

I'm not particularly comfortable around crowds, and the realization that each of those lights meant millions of people waiting below added agoraphobia to a tension which was approaching hysteria. I went to the bathroom to throw up, which didn't help. It did help to be in the little room, though. I sat on the lavatory and stared at the little patterns in the walls -- a Zen like activity which did much to calm me. Finally, I washed my face and brushed my teeth, which made me feel almost normal again. Returning to my seat, I saw that the lights were still there, which caused a bit of a pang of anxiety, but I settled into my seat as the plane began its descent into Bombay. As we began a circuitous approach into Bombay's Sahar International airport, I flipped the stereo to audio program 9, Back Tracking, the "oldies program." Swing Out Sister was on the track, and I listened to "Breakout" as we got close enough to the ground for me to see the slums on the periphery of the city, thousands of open fires dotting the clearings....

Street lights didn't seem to be working, but lights from vehicles, houses, fires and the moon gave me a clear view of the ground rushing past. I had confronted my fear, but I had not yet overcome it and that knotting in my stomach started to return as we got so close to the ground that I could see the people in the night markets as we rushed past on final approach. We flew over mile after mile of slums and I got a good look at them. There were tiny shacks that were pushed together, with small aisles which seemed only two people wide. Many of the huts seemed to have fires burning inside, and the flames were visible through open ceilings. India (and A-Ha on Back Tracking) called "Take on Me" as we passed over the final slum before landing.

Finally we hit the ground in what was one of the roughest landings I had ever experienced, the aircraft shaking violently as the wheels touched the runway. The vibration abated, but did not stop as we slowed down, indicating that the runway surface might be very rough. The taxi to the gate was short, and we were ready to disembark almost immediately. As usual, the flight attendants held the other passengers to that we could get off first, and we walked down the jetway into the airport.

We emerged into an extraordinarily brightly lit corridor which led towards immigration and customs. Lining the hall were armed troops, each holding a Russian made rifle. This did nothing to improve my mood. Shortly we entered the immigration hall and found the most typical of sights: One line for foreigners which had at least a hundred people in it, and ten lines for Indians, each of which was empty. I was not in the mood for this and I walked to the shortest line I could find, ignoring the "Indian Nationals Only" sign.

At my turn, I took a breath, smiled and handed my passport to the immigrations officer. He protested that I shouldn't be in this line, "But you are not to be doing this!" I smiled again and handed him Dad's passport. He looked at me and then at our passports and landing cards, stamped them and let us through. Yes! I was sure we had saved an hour -- looking back at the line, I changed my estimate to two hours. Accomplishing this minor feat, I started to feel better.

Bags were just starting to come out of the conveyor belt as we arrived in the baggage claim hall as we arrived. Dad went to get a cart, and I watched our carry-on bags, mindful of the signs overhead which told us to be on the lookout for pickpockets. I subconsciously touched the pouch hanging from my neck; this was the first time I was wearing it, and I felt like I had a "kick me," or more relevantly, a "I'm a stupid tourist, rob me" sign on my back. My eyes wandered around the hall, searching for the person who was going to steal everything for me. In this stark room, it was easy to see that there were few people who didn't belong, and I turned my attention to retrieving our bags, which were among the first off the belt.

We plopped our bags onto the cart, and wheeled our way to the exit. I felt my stress increase as I got closer to the door and I could see the people pressed up against the glass looking in. To compound my tension, a boy wearing a ratty, blue uniform took the cart from me and ran towards the door with it. I was in shock, and couldn't stop him; all I could do was emit a weak, "Stop!" which he ignored. We were swept into the crowd, with no real idea of where we were going, or what we should do. All I did know was that the boy was getting further ahead of us and that there were more and more people in between us.

It was then that I saw a man holding a sign with our name on it. This man was dark, probably a Tamil, about forty years old, and was wearing torn pants, a shirt with the word "Kent" his right breast, torn pants and sandals. He was stooped over and in general looked pretty downtrodden. The boy with our cart had stopped, and was returning, so I felt more at ease. So! There was someone here who knew us. But what now? I didn't have to wait for an answer, for we heard someone say, "Curt?" from behind the man. "Curt, it's good to see you! I'm Vinesh Sadekar. Welcome to Bombay...."

Talk about clutching at straws; I was relieved to see this man, and I didn't even know him. I felt my stress subside significantly as we were all introduced and ushered over to the car. Vinesh was a lighter colored Indian, who looked well fed. He was dressed in a button-down white shirt, pressed trousers and sandals and he coordinated getting us and our bags into the car. The car was a piece of work! It was a Hindustan Motors vehicle, which seemed to be based on 1950's British Leyland technology. It started immediately, which did surprise me, but had a problem idling, which made it stall every time we stopped for a light.

In the darkness, it was difficult to see anything, but there were people walking along the divided highway upon which we drove, and on occasion we passed a bonfire or a small general store. I was completely turned around, and it seemed to me that our drive was without direction; we were turning in all directions and it seemed tome that we were driving in circles. In fact, we may have been -- I saw the same house at least twice. We were on our way to the Sheraton Searock hotel, which was away from the center of town on the beach. We'd have a night there before our trip to Goa.

Dad and Vinesh were making small talk and discussing work things and the problems in the Punjab (which Vinesh dismissed as "nothing") while I looked out the window. If only I could have seen more! I could identify some of the slums as we drove past, but there were large houses and apartment buildings, too. It would be fascinating to see them in the light.

Shortly, we arrived at the hotel's compound located west of the airport on Juhu beach. It was so brightly lighted we could see it from several blocks away and there were a number of people standing just outside the gates that we passed through. The motor court was marble and attended to doormen dressed in turbans and robes. They all sported incredibly full beards with luxurious mustaches and that was the only glimpse I had of them because they had gone inside with our baggage just so fast. We followed Vinesh into the hotel to check-in at the reception we found that we were at the wrong reception, and that we would have to go to another reception across the hotel. I had to chuckle about that, imagining every bit of centuries of Indian bureaucracy coming to a head right in this luxury hotel.

We worked our way over to the proper reception, which was for the "Executive Club Level" courtesy of Ceat, Vinesh's employer and received a nice welcome -- two women dressed in beautiful saris presented us with leis and placed a dot of cardamom paste on our foreheads. Vinesh explained that this was a traditional Indian welcome. Frankly, I felt kind of goofy, and more than a bit self conscious. The ceremony completed, we checked into the hotel, filling out forms in triplicate. We gave them everything but our credit card number, and that was the one thing that I was expecting to give them.

Vinesh invited us to dinner, and offered to wait in the lounge while we cleaned up. Having lost my dinner on the plane, I was hungry and ready to try some local food. Vinesh said that the Sheraton had the best Chinese restaurant in Bombay and it had a beautiful view of the city to boot. Would we like to eat there? Surprisingly, Dad, who is usually pretty easy going asked if we couldn't' eat at the Indian restaurant downstairs instead. Vinesh showed only a trace of disappointment before turning to the receptionist and ordering her to make reservations for us. I was surprised at his directness, and I thought I might be seeing some remnant of the caste system at work.

Reservations made, we went upstairs to see the room. Our bags were already there, which surprised and relieved me. I was surprised because they arrived so quickly, of course, but relieved because I didn't have any rupees to give as a tip, and didn't feel like parting with any dollars. The room looked typical, with a bed, desk and television and it had a little refrigerator, too. The bathroom looked like it had seen better days, and both taps had slow leaks. They had been this way for a long time, judging from the stains on the porcelain. A plate over the sink said that the water was potable. Yeah, right.

Having given the room a quick check, I set about getting rid of the lei and dot but ran into Dad playing Coppola with the Sony Handycam. "So, Rick, wasn't that a nice welcome downstairs?"

The camera was rolling, and this was obviously an event. "I feel really stupid wearing this stuff."

Dad was not amused. He turned off the camera and said, "You're being an asshole."

That was the truest thing I had heard in days and I immediately felt bad; just not bad enough to apologize....

That little altercation out of the way, we debated if it would be proper to go back down without the lei and dot. That debate didn't take long, we both ditched the flowers and went back to meet Vinesh in the lobby. The Indian restaurant overlooked the bay and was very elegant; I felt way under-dressed in my khaki pants and blue button down shirt, but I wasn't going to let that get in the way of my enjoying the meal. We were seated at a large table with a heavily starched white tablecloth, and were surrounded by attendants dressed in high collared white tunics with brass buttons. Walls were cream colored, and were dressed with ornately carved crown moldings and chair railings. It looked more like a French restaurant than an Indian one.

We allowed Vinesh to do the ordering, and we started out with some beer, Kingfisher served in 650ml bottles. I had forgotten how much I dislike Indian beers, but then again, it was still better than a Miller Lite. He asked us if we had any preferences and I said that I liked spinach, poultry and vegetarian dishes. Vinesh ordered in English, and we sat back and enjoyed the nan that had been left behind by the waiters.

Conversation drifted to the Du Pont plant in Punjab. Details were still sketchy, but it did appear that all of the Hindu engineers at the plant were executed and the others freed. There were no Americans at the facility, which conflicted with the article we had read, but there was a Yugoslav engineer, who was a Du Pont employee, on site. He was set free. Vinesh didn't have much more information than that and he changed the subject to what I planned to do while I was in India.

So, I told him about taking the trains around India, and in particular seeing Delhi, Shimla & Varanasi. He didn't think that seemed like a great idea and thought I should fly because the trains are slow and dirty. On the contrary, I thought that taking the trains would be a really fantastic experience, and being so slow should give one a great view of the goings on, while still isolating you a bit from reality. It was obvious that he wanted to put India in the best possible light, and I didn't push him on this. Instead, I mentioned that I wanted to go to Nepal, and asked what he thought about the place. To my surprise, he had never been!

It was, though, a place that he had wanted to visit, so perhaps that would be a good place for me to go. I thought about how little time I had and considered how much I could really attempt to accomplish in the week. I began to realize that my plans were way too grandiose. What could I reasonably get done? My thought was interrupted by the first course, kebabs of ground lamb served with a cool mint sauce. Shortly after that we were served the main dishes, a spicy chicken curry, spinach and lamb, and dal, basically spiced ground chick peas. The dishes were all very tasty, but I got a little depressed that the best food in Bombay would be at a hotel. Well, no worry, it was enjoyable.

Vinesh ordered some coconut candies for desert, but they were way too sweet for me, and I didn't enjoy them. After the meal, we lingered a bit over coffee and finally said good night. It was late, almost midnight, and I guess I was feeling a little sleepy.

While Dad was puttering around in the bathroom, I flipped on the television and surveyed the channels. Wow, there were several, including CNN International, the BBC World Service news, MTV Asia, and the two local Indian channels, one in English and the other in Hindi. I watched the BBC news for a bit, hoping to get some word on the Punjab incident, but they didn't mention it, so I turned to MTV and watched that. I was very interested to see what they were playing, and I had the fortune to catch their request program, most of which were from Africa and India. It was fascinating to see the Vee Jay read a letter from a rabid Metallica fan in Botswana, and it reminded me of the QSL programs on short-wave radio. I could see this guy in a mud hut, with his satellite dish tuned into Sky-Channel, the source for MTV Asia, jamming out to heavy metal rock.

As I watched the TV, I noticed that there were two portfolios on the desk -- They had writing paper embossed with the Sheraton Searock logo and our names in them. A cute idea! I set to writing a short note home on it when Dad got out of the bathroom and got into the bed. Yeah, we had to share, but it worked out okay. We couldn't sleep, so we watched more TV, before finally getting to sleep around two in the morning....

The sunlight filled the room when I woke on Monday, March 16. I felt strangely hung over, and I suppose that it was possible. The Indian beers and the crappy mattress surely contributed to the way I was feeling. I rose to look out of the window and saw India in daylight for the first time. From our corner room I could see out, into the Arabian Sea and north, along the coastline. The sea appeared polluted, heavily laden with oil with the waves slogging onto the rocky shore. The hotel compound was surrounded by a high wall covered with broken glass. A crowd of people milled outside the lone gate; some were vendors, others, beggars. They were kept out by security guards who opened the gate only for the limousines that periodically entered and left the hotel motor lobby. Yesterday, that would have scared me, but in the morning hazy light, it seemed only strange.

We were rather thoughtfully placed on an early afternoon flight to Goa, so there was no real hurry for us. I ordered room service and sat back to watch the BBS World Service Television News, followed by the morning Bombay television shows. I was slightly pleased to see that they were as inane as their American counterparts, albeit at an extraordinarily lower budget. The host and hostess of the program were as charming as ours, but the female wore a sari. I was coming to realize that most women in India wore saris.

Breakfast arrived and rescued me from further contemplation of morning television. The waiter brought toast, marmalade and coffee. The marmalade looked authentic and tasted very good. The coffee was instant, and didn't taste good at all. There seemed to be more chicory than coffee in the packets; shades of South Africa! Dad emerged from the bathroom all cleaned up and ready for another day of travel. I took his lead and took a luke-warm shower under low water pressure -- Sheraton shouldn't be proud of this place. While I showered, Dad went to investigate the executive business center just down the hall from our room. It had a similar view of the sea, along with a buffet breakfast and Teletext news courtesy of INRI, the Indian National news service.

We had no clue how long it would take to make it to the airport, so we decided to head over there at ten, hoping that would be enough time to check out, find a ride over to the domestic terminal, check in at Indian Airlines and get on the plane. As it turned out, that was way early; check out was quick, having been taken care of by Vinesh. Our driver from the previous night had been retained, and the doormen rounded him up quickly; he was wearing the same clothing as last night, and I assumed that he had slept in the car. No doubt he was responsible to make sure that it didn't disappear.

I took a breath as the driver threw our bags into the trunk. It was already very hot and sticky out, and the slight stench of sewage seemed appropriate. The car, thankfully, was air conditioned, but the cool air and tinted glass only worked further to push me into a surreal state; neither in India, nor in the West. Just a tourist, looking through the glass into an aquarium.

Our drive started north, along the coast. To the left, we saw people tending to their personal business, either doing washing or bathing in the drainage ditch. Further off, towards the sea, an occasional person squatted with his back to us enjoying a morning crap into a hole in the sand. On the right were Victorian era buildings, appropriately run-down, with peeling paint and crumbling stone fronts. These were surely beautiful houses not so long ago; homes of British industrialists or members of government, perhaps. Now, they stand in a decaying testament to the former span of the British Empire. I thought of the film Heat & Dust and imagined tax collectors having formal dinners on the lawns; Indian servants standing in the background as the bureaucrats talked shop. A woman waved from the upper floor of a particularly attractive yellow building as she hung her washing out on a rod. So, they're still lived in!

Shortly we turned east and drove on a winding road toward the airport. The road we were on was sealed, but it was very rough and seemed to be only a lane and a half wide. The tarmac looked like it had simply been poured onto an animal trace and spread out towards the edges. Indeed, the road did have a rippled effect that looked like a black stream flowing towards the sea, lapping against the dust and grass on the edges.

We flew up this road, narrowly missing pedestrians with whom we shared it. I caught glimpses of women in saris, carrying pots on their heads, men dressed only in shorts and thong sandals pulling carts, all surrounded by children, playing around their elders. We didn't even slow at crossroads, but one thing did bring our driver to a crawl; a cow! Bossy was standing underneath a tree growing from the center of the road and gave us a cursory look as we passed by.

Eventually, after a boggling series of turns through "twisty little passages all alike," we emerged into the middle of a slum! We were surrounded on both sides by tightly packed rows of huts, punctuated only by very narrow passageways into which I couldn't see. The huts were made from almost anything it seemed. Sheets of aluminum, hammered tin cans, paper, dung, cloth, plastic curtains; it seemed the huts were made of most anything. I was surprised to see a sign designating this area as a "hutment," a very appropriate name, don't you think? We crested a rise and could see the hutment extend both ways for several hundreds of feet. Smoke plumes drifted from holes in the roofs of some huts and I thought about women making bread with her daughters, just like her mother made bread with her....

Eventually we emerged from the hutment onto a four lane highway near the airport. On both sides we were surrounded by cars like ours, punctuated by busses loaded with people. Beyond the road, many small businesses were buzzing with activity. Lumberyards, pipefitters, scrap metal & plastic dealers; they were all crammed together with their employees working under brightly painted signs carefully scripted in English and Hindu.

{to be continued}