I wanted to tell about that cute goat at the top of the page, and some other nice things, but this is not the day.
This is the first day I'm sick of being in India. I was at the police commissioners office, and it wasn't just the queue of foreigners like myself registering, or my serious doubts that registering with the police would in any way prevent people from doing bad things... what it really came down to was the Autos.
On my way to the Police, I told the Auto Ricksha driver, Infantry Road, Police Commission. Forty Rupees. Please use the meter. No thirty. Meter. Twenty five. Ok, fine.
But he took me to a completely different part of Infantry (a one way) Road way past the Police. Another Auto drove up and he asked for directions, since I wasn't getting out, ad because I didn't know where I was, and he didn't know where the police station was. They were speaking in Kannada, which I don't understand, and seemed confused or something, so I called a friend, who spoke to the other Auto drive. They spoke in Hindi, things seemed to be looking up, so he handed me my phone. The first driver told me to get out of the Auto and pay, I do, and he says get in with the other driver. Once I'm seated, he says forty Rupees -he'll take me there for twice what I paid to get this far. I stepped out, done withI walked back down Infantry Road less than 2km and made it to the Police Station myself.
I'll spare you the details of the Police Station visit, but it included trips to five different counters, and I almost lost it at one point with what I perceived as misinformation and lashed out with what was probably perceived as very American bitchiness. Some of the other expats had local friends, coworkers guiding them through, smoothing out the process, and acting on their behalf. One Iranian pharmacy student was also alone, and shuffled from counter to counter, and being sent back to her university for new paperwork - can I just tell you? she had about half a ream of stamped and signed and lettered and sealed papers with her - because two descriptions of the course she was undertaking with different by one letter, on documents stating permission from her university. One letter of one course description different on two papers; many lines, many hours.
I was out of there in a few hours - but please note, this is the first trip, I have to go to a bank in a different neighborhood, make a payment, and then come back later. Not fun, but no problem, heading home for lunch and then off to school. I hailed another Auto and gave him directions to my neighborhood, got in, and we drove off.
Maybe three hundred meters down the road, he pulled into a petrol bunker. Autos were lined up all the way around the station building and out the other side, waiting to fill up. I counted fifteen. Two minutes only madam. Two minutes ok? No two minutes, this will take at least twenty if it goes smoothly. Madam if you want to get out, pay twenty Rupees, that's minimum fare. The minimum fare is fourteen Rupees for 2km, and 8/km after that. No minimum fare. I wished I could've taken anything but an Auto, and I wished I knew my way where I was going.
I got out and walked to the road, frustrated with people, with the whole of the city, and that I didn't know how to get where I needed to go, or how to make myself understood in useful ways besides storming off with angry face. I've thought of implementing a Liz growl, but I haven't tried it yet.
It was easy enough to catch another Auto, but after we'd started off, it was clear he didn't know how to get to my neighborhood, or any of the landmarks that I knew near there. It's not an obscure place - i can't believe he doesn't know it. He pulled over into the middle of the road, and I named landmarks, roads, places nearby. Frazertown (my neighborhood). Coles Road. Mosque Road (my road). Cafe Coffee Day (India's Starbucks, some of the most well known landmarks around... it's funny). Coles Park. he Coles Road Bata Shoes.
He was responding in Kannada only. This driver knew no English, but finally we made ourselves known. He knew only Shivajinagar, a neighborhood not at all close by. I think I understood that he drives over that way, not usually in my part of town. He knew a railway station sort of nearby, he'd take me there. I was feeling out of control, with no way to communicate to this man, and I know that the Cantonment station is close to my place, but I wouldn't be able to tell him which roads to take. Something about this driver made it ok because even though we couldn't understand each other, he had a kind face, and he seemed sympathetic. Kind faces are one thing that I depend on to find my way around in unfamiliar places. At Cantonment station he sought out directions, and took me home a direct way from there. He let me off, and smiled kindly, not creepily, and drove off.
My frustration is not just in some Autos being rude or deceitful, or trying to get me to pay more or something because I'm an expat. The last of the four Autos I took was at times as stressful as the first three today (especially having experienced the other three already). There are some very good people here, and some shady people, and some people just trying to work things a little to their advantage (I suppose I'm one of those), but it's hard to tell the difference, and to know what to expect and how to gauge even the most superficial commercial relationships with significant language barriers in place.
On the way to the Police station, when I put the driver on the phone with my friend, I was hoping that somehow he would say something to make them understand what I needed to do, and be reasonable and fair in their expectations. I was hoping to make myself understood through my friend.
It takes a certain amount of faith to navigate a new place. Watch and see how other people do things, remember how it's done, and try for yourself. I have to believe when someone gives me directions that they know what they're talking about and they have your best in mind, same with the everyday of what's normal and how things are done. Some things are hard to take, like the watchman telling me that I should throw my household trash out on the street. Grown men urinating on sidewalks in broad daylight. Kitchens that produce amazingly good food but don't look inside. Cows, sometimes with big horns, everywhere. Two days ago one snotted my hand from behind as it pushed through a crowd of people at the market. I have to act like it's normal because I want to believe that it is enough to get through the day without breaking into surprise or disgust, or running away from the cows.
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