I still have to write about my roadtrip up the east coast of Australia, culminating in scuba diving in the Great Barrier Reef. I also have to write about my time in Perth, where I worked six days a week for the fundraising company, lived with Kiki’s ex-boyfriend and simultaneously experienced the worst and best of Australia: on one hand, more abuse on the streets and lack of life in the city (isolated, materialistic, streets empty after 6pm, isolated, a tiny CBD surrounded by monotonous chain stores and tract housing); on the other hand, a great work environment, fabulous co-workers, a quiet house full of books, and Kiki’s ex-boyfriend who showed such love and hospitality that I spent three weeks so full of gratitude that words failed to do it justice. The darkness of Sydney and of a failed car share faded in the Western Australian winter, and I left Australia content, empowered, ready for the unknown…
Here is an account of my last impressions of Australia, and my first impressions of India:
*
Fremantle, Perth, at six forty-five in the evening: a stiff breeze, a few stars visible between darkened cumulus clouds, headlights from the airport shuttle glaring down a street that is already asleep for the night. Kiki’s ex-boyfriend takes my suitcase firmly in hand and delivers it to the driver. He asks me if I have my passport, my rupees, my dinner, my bag of fruit for the flight, and I nod yes, yes, yes, yes. His eyes glint in the streetlight, thick brows drawn into a steeple of concern, and suddenly I’m filled with overwhelming gratitude—for him, for the last seven and a half months, for Australia, for a journey come to an end. I don’t want to leave, but I step into the shuttle and close the door.
*
Perth airport at eight-twenty in the evening: white men in suits, sun-wrinkled women with blonde highlights, cellphones, clean tiles, clearly marked signs, and a smooth Aussie accent over the loudspeaker. I eat my dinner and throw away the fork. I can’t bring pointed metal objects through the security gates.
*
Singapore airport at four in the morning: touchdown. Taxi headlights outline a lawn and monocot leaves the size of a man. Outside, the air feels like a jacuzzi; inside, the air-conditioner is so cold that kids wear sweaters as they slide through a plastic play-set. Their parents sip McDonald’s coffee.
*
Five in the morning: an Indian master’s student strikes up a conversation with me: “Very nice to meet you,” he lisps. “I am your good friend. If you need anything in India, do not hesitate to call.”
*
Six in the morning: I get my boarding pass and head to the main terminal where there is another play-set, stronger air conditioning, jewelry stands and fine liquor shops, spotless floor tiles, flat screen TVs, and a free internet kiosk that I can’t resist using.
*
Seven in the morning: a white hall, like a doctor’s office. I am sleeping in an armchair across from the ticket counter, a potted palm on one side and a window on the other side. Mist on the runway.
*
Singapore airport at eight in the morning: an Indian in uniform calls for boarding passes; women in saris surge in front of me, and the Indian student appears to my right, his knapsack over one shoulder, his lips pursed while he waits for me to wake up and unfold my boarding pass. We stand at the head of the queue. Outside, the mist has thinned to reveal lush, evenly spaced trees bordering the runway. The corridor behind me fills with dark skin and cotton pants, sandals, silks, flowers, sunglasses, and western backpacks. I am the tallest girl and the whitest girl; I can see over the top of every single head. Two pilots push through the crowd—buzz cuts, blue eyes, lanky mid-western frames. I miss home.
*
Chennai from the airplane: squat buildings, avenues obscured by tree tops, white plaster and the occasional splash of color, faded to Mediterranean pastels—lavender, periwinkle, mint. I look desperately for the hint of another world, a towering temple perhaps, or better yet, an elephant; instead I see a freeway and a rim of pollution.
*
Chennai airport at ten in the morning: humid despite the air conditioning; a white corridor that seems yellow after the pomp and polish of Singapore; slow-moving traffic on the tarmac outside. I duck into a bathroom and don’t think twice about using the toilet paper, unaware that it will be the last square I enjoy for two and a half weeks. At the end of the corridor, mustachioed guards lounge next to a shrine with candlesticks on either side of a five-foot, brass-sculpted god. They give me the evil eye when I throw my fruit in the dustbin and pause to fill out my customs form (I don’t declare the cheese that I’m bringing to Kiki and her mom).
The customs hall is large, dimly lit by overhead fluorescence, and entirely empty except for officials and the other passengers from my flight. The Indian student tries to catch my eye, but I decide to stand in a line on the opposite end of the hall. I hand my passport and customs form to a dry, bespectacled woman with a long braid and faded sari. “Reason for your visit?” she asks in a heavy Tamil accent. I don’t understand her immediately.
“I’m traveling,” I say. “I’m a tourist.”
“Rrrreason for your VISIT?” she repeats.
I point to the box I’ve already checked on my customs form. “Leisure/Holiday,” I tell her. “I’m. A. Tourist.”
She snorts and tosses her head, as if trying to shoo away a fly. After a long pause, she asks: “What is your education?”
“What?
“Your degree? Education? School?”
“BACHELORS DEGREE.” I want to pound my fist on the counter top and demand why the question has any bearing on my leisure/holiday. I could have the education level of a kindergartener and still enter the country—so long as my passport has an Indian visa.
We lock eyes and the corner of the woman’s mouth twists into a snarl. Her hand hovers over my passport. At last, she stamps it and hands it back to me.
“Welcome to India,” she says. I nod curtly.
*
Chennai airport at ten forty-five in the morning: a small crowd gathers by the baggage turnstile People wheel their luggage past white-clad security guards who occasionally make an effort to check a passport or question a suspicious bag. They seem like they could care less about avalanche of items rolling into their country.
Westerners say the smell of India is the first thing that shocks them when they leave the airport. For me, it is the noise and the crowds. A small aisle way extends along the outer wall of the airport, separated from a crowd of families, drivers, and business reps by a thin rope. Torsos twist across the rope, heads crane, hands wave, fingers jab, bodies in the back push to the front, and everyone shouts. The language sounds angry: rolling “r’s”, consonant stops, clicking tongues. Everyone in a hurry, everyone up for a fight. Tense greetings and hurried departures. A scene out of Rodin’s “Gates of Hell.”
Because of my height, I can see past the crowd to a line of vendors against a cement wall, which blocks the airport from what I assume is the parking lot (car honks emanate from behind it).
A man from a pre-paid taxi stand approaches: “Would you like a ride, Madam? Very good price.” Kiki, her mom, and her ex-boyfriend (the one who hosted me in Perth) all recommend pre-paid taxis as the best transport option because drivers can’t overcharge or take unnecessary detours. I tell the man I’d like to go to Valmiki Nagar, except I mispronounce both words (“Val” as in “valley” and “Nagar” as in “nagger,” not realizing that the flat “ahhh” sound doesn’t exist in Tamil). When I show the man a written version of the address, he rips it from my fingers and scribbles the neighborhood name on a slip of paper, which he thrusts back at me in a single motion. “Taxi pick-up is down the corridor on your right hand side,” he says. “Go now, Madam. Immediately.” Before I have time to respond, he’s pitching the next potential customer: “Pre-paid taxi! Best price! Very fast!” Co-workers on either side of him lounge against a table, swatting flies and fanning themselves with their shirt collars.
*
Kiki instructed me to call from the airport, but I don’t know how the telephone booths work. Some have coin slots but no sign saying how much a call costs; some have a phone connected to a timer and receipt machine. Women in dusty saris sit next to the machines holding coin pouches and swatting flies. I decide to try a person-operated booth because I don’t have any change, but after I finish my call, I can’t understand the girl who tells me the price. Twenty rupee? Two rupee? Twelve rupee? I hand her a 100 rupee note and she laughs at me. “No change.” I explain that I don’t have a smaller bill, but she keeps repeating, “twenty/two/twelve rupee, Madam.” Even though she can’t understand me, I feel compelled to tell her that I’m leaving to break my bill at a coffee stand and I’ll be back in a minute. She shakes her head as I walk away, still repeating her refrain.
At the coffee counter, a fan blows hot air while an old woman cleans the display case. She frowns when she sees me, annoyed that I’m interrupting her routine, and shrieks into the kitchen. After a minute, a swarthy man appears, and I ask for the cheapest things on the menu—a cappuccino (he only has king size) and chocolate ice cream (he only has vanilla). I pay him for the vanilla ice cream, pay the girl at the phone booth for my phone call (twelve rupee), and walk to the end of the aisle way, where I see the taxi stand to my right as promised. The sun is invisible behind a thick layer of clouds, but heat presses my skin and my windpipe. As I finish my ice cream, I smell India for the first time: dog fur, piss, masala, dirt, and my own body odor.
*
I stop looking at the road. The taxi driver has no respect for the lane markers (when there are lane markers, that is); he tailgates trucks, plows between motorcycles and blasts his horn at pedestrians and bicycle-drawn carts that fill the shoulder. I wonder how many people he’s run over. Hundreds, probably. Out the window, I see a cow with one horn painted blue and one horn painted red; it’s dragging a cart full of sapling trunks while an old man in a white cotton shirt guides it. His eyes are dull, deep-set, the bones in his face and arms protruding unnaturally. Ahead of him, a group of woman in jewel tone saris walk with flowers in their hair and a swing in their hips. The taxi driver turns up the radio—fast tabla drums and Bollywood style singing.
Half an hour later, Kiki meets me at the gate of her apartment complex. She’s wearing a long skirt and a faded t-shirt, and she’s grown her hair down to her shoulders. A feminine curl escapes her ponytail and drifts across her forehead and cheek. I’ve never seen her so modest, so tense with the taxi driver—and yet so peaceful, a part of the landscape. Inside, her mother greets me with an expansive embrace: “Welcome home.”
