In the middle of the night last night, I momentarily entertained the smug thought that my digestive system had survived pretty well so far on the trip, and that, actually, I had probably been more regular here than in Canada. Big mistake. Not five minutes later Fate decided to bitch-slap my hubris with an intestinal tornado that had me out of commission for the better part of eighteen hours. I won’t go into all the gruesome details, but suffice to say, it had both Irene (who had a milder bout) and I re-tracing our gastronomical steps from the day before. Two potential culprits emerged: a single boiled peanut we had sampled at the hill station the day before, and some fresh cabbage salad on a veggie platter we had shared in the evening.

The irony of the situation is that on that particular day we had eaten at quite “posh” westernized restaurants for lunch and supper, and our only breakfast had been some granola bars we had brought from Canada.

On the upside, we didn’t have a lot of touring planned for the day, which was good, because I wasn’t going anywhere in my condition. On the downside, we had two flights in the afternoon and evening to take us from Pune to Chennai, and from Chennai to Cochin, where we were to begin our Kerala tour.

This may be a good time to review safe eating and drinking practices for anyone considering a trip to India:

• Don’t drink the water – ever. Order bottled water or some other drink that comes from a sealed container. We recommend fresh lime soda, sweetened.
• Remember to use bottled water when brushing your teeth.
• Don’t order drinks with ice.
• Don’t eat fruit that cannot be peeled.
• Don’t eat salads or other foods that have not been cooked. In good restaurants, fruit such as mangoes are usually safe.
• Lassi is a great drink made of curd/yogourt, but remember that most milk in India is unpasteurized, so order it in better restaurants only.
• Wash your hands a lot.
• When choosing restaurants, you don’t need to stick to up-scale, westernized restaurants. Doing so limits your chances of experiencing the true local cuisine. However, try to determine the popularity of the venue among locals to gauge the quality of the establishment.

Finally, expect to get sick. When you do fall prey to intestinal gremlins:

• Let it run its course as much as possible to allow your body to purge the offending little critters before indulging in show-stoppers like Gravol or Imodium.
• Keep drinking water to fend off dehydration, despite the fact that you won’t feel like drinking (or living).
• The next one I found almost impossible – try to avoid all the incredibly inviting spicy Indian dishes in favour of the bland, something like plain rice or curd rice.
• Lastly, avoid the urge to fart.

The previous day had been spent largely in preparing for the flights that would carry us to Cochin (Steven and Irene) and in frequent trips to the toilet (me).

That brings up an interesting sidebar. In India, a toilet is a toilet; it’s not a washroom, rest room, powder room, or any other euphemism; it’s just a toilet. Sometimes they may be labelled “Gents” and “Ladies,” but they are still referred to as the toilet. Ask for a washroom, and you may find yourself directed to a washroom, which will contain only sinks for washing. You have to love the clarity and honesty of the use of the language. I will need to discuss more about Indian toilets later, because it’s a necessary discussion, but for the time being, back to the topic at hand.

The afternoon and evening of the previous day had been entirely consumed in airports and airplanes. Unfortunately, we had to fly from Pune to Chennai and then on from Chennai to Cochin. The trip was uncomfortable (for me) but uneventful. We arrived at our hotel around 9:00 p.m. just in time to check in and catch the restaurant before it closed.

While we were in London, Steven had received a call from his friend and colleague, Sachin inviting us to his brother’s wedding, and we had agreed to go. As it turns out, the wedding was at 7:15 in the morning. We wondered about the timing of the event, but thought perhaps the it was a judicious choice to avoid the heat of mid-day. In fact, we found out later from some of Steven’s other friends, the timing of a Hindu wedding is governed by the horoscopes of the bride and groom, and is set at a time that is deemed to be auspicious for the marriage.

Having set our alarms for 5:00 a.m. we got up and made our way to Steven’s office, where Sachin had arranged for a driver to pick us up at 6:45. The driver was a bit early, which was a good thing, since the wedding took place at a community hall far across the city. After many nervous calls from Sachin, we fortunately arrived in time for the ceremony.

Steven had attended a Jain wedding some time earlier, so he had warned us to expect having tea and coffee offered to us many times and to pace ourselves. No sooner had we arrived at the wedding than Sachin offered us tea and coffee. While we were laughing and explaining to Sachin about Steven’s warning, Sachin’s uncle came up to us and, assuming that Sachin had not yet fulfilled his duties as host, coached him, “Tea or coffee,” with attendant Hindu head-bob.

Those of you who have “endured” lengthy Roman Catholic or Greek Orthodox weddings can rest easy. You ain’t seen nothing until you’ve been to a Hindu wedding. The ceremonies had begun the night before with various rituals which Sachin explained to us.

In the morning, the rituals continued. The first part of the ceremony we witnessed involved the “revealing” of the bride to the groom. Each stood on a small platform covered in a bed of rice, while relatives held a silk screen between them.

The groom drapes flowers over the bride	The bride and groom are blessed	Sand “painting” outside the hall

The entire ceremony is conducted in Sanskrit, which would be the direct equivalent of a western, Christian wedding being conducted in Latin. In other words, none of the participants in the ceremony understand the various incantations, although the Pandit did stop to explain the meaning of each portion to the bride and groom, but since that explanation was in Maharathi, we were pretty much left to our own interpretations of events and to Sachin’s occasional explanations. But even Sachin admitted, with some exaggeration, “I don’t know what goes on here; I only know that if I do this, I get a wife.”

The initial morning ceremony only took about half an hour, which surprised us. After that, we were immediately ushered downstairs for breakfast, a simple rice flake dish, and more tea and coffee. That was when we learned that the ceremony was continuing upstairs. We wandered up to watch more of the rituals. In all, there were more than seven hours of ceremony over the two days. Yet this was an abbreviated ceremony, since the community hall in which it was held is nestled tightly in a suburban neighbourhood that doesn’t appreciate some of the rowdier activities in a full ceremony. These “banned” activities include having the groom ride into the ceremony on a white horse and the “Baraat,” a parade involving music and dancing.

However, the atmosphere of the ceremonies bears little resemblance to its Christian equivalent. While a certain solemnity accompanies parts of the rituals themselves, the atmosphere surrounding them is anything but solemn. People mill about and come and go as they please, chatting amongst themselves enthusiastically. Even during the initial morning ceremony, the bride’s sister fussed with the bride’s hair during the ceremony.

I had been unsure of whether to bring my camera, but I decided to bring it and follow the lead of other guest in deciding whether or not to pull it out. I needn’t have worried. Cameras were everywhere and all parts of the ceremonies were photographed. In fact, the entire function was photographed and videotaped by two gentlemen who were being anything but unobtrusive. The videographer had a huge light on top of his camera that seared the eyeballs of anyone in its path. One had to feel sympathy for the bride and groom who spent much of the day in its blinding light and withering heat. Just to give you an idea of the heat output of this monster, at one point in the ceremony the Pandit needed to pour some ghee (clarified butter) on a small bonfire as part of the ceremony. Unfortunately, the ghee had hardened. No problem. The videographer came to the rescue by focusing the blistering heat of his lamp on the ghee, which melted in seconds, and the ceremonies continued.

The photographer was even more intruding. Often, no sooner had the Pandit managed to herd participants into place when the photographer would intervene and re-position them for a better shot.

While the star of a western wedding is undoubtedly the bride, in a Hindu wedding, that honour goes to the groom. The bride may be beautiful (in this case, she could have easily served as a stand-in for actress Thandie Newton) and she may wear an equally beautiful sari, but the groom’s clothes are every bit as elegant, and far more plentiful. As we bade farewell to the couple as we were about to leave, Irene asked Amit, the groom, how many outfits he had worn that day. He confessed that the western suit he was currently wearing was his fifth set of clothes.

As elaborate and prolonged as the ceremonies were, there probably isn’t time and space here to document everything, even if I had understood it all and could remember it.  There are however, some features that may be worth noting.

Part of the initial ceremony had the entire audience (congregation?) throwing rice at the couple at various intervals.  We just followed everyone else’s lead on this.  Sachin’s uncle brought us more rice at one point and cautioned us not to throw it all at once, but to “throw it in installments.”

There is an extended portion of the ceremony which has the bride, groom, and pandit seated around a small bonfire and performing various rituals.  This caused each of them some discomfort from smoke drifting in their eyes, until someone figured out just which fans to turn off to allow the smoke to travel upward.  Near the end of this session, the groom leads the bride around the bonfire several times with their shawls entwined.

In western terms, the bride is “given away” quite late in the ceremony.   In this case, because the bride’s father had passed away, that function was performed by her uncle, who had travelled from Massachusetts.   Both he and his American wife were unaware that they were to be part of the ceremony or that, as the eldest uncle (and aunt), the wedding invitations had actually been sent out in their names.

One interesting tradition has the bride’s brother twist the groom’s ear and admonish him to treat his sister well.  In this case, the scenario took on a certain comic element because the bride’s only brother was barely in his teens.  The picture at the right shows Amit, the groom offering the brother a bribe to stop the “torture.”

Flowers feature almost as large as rice in a Hindu wedding.  For example all the women attending the wedding are offered garlands of jasmine flowers for their hair, giving the entire hall an intense but pleasant fragrance.  One of the prettier rituals involved the groom leading the bride along a platform strewn with flowers.

Later in the day, someone steals the grooms shoes, and he must go searching for them.  In the end, he pays a ransom to recover them.  We thought this was an interesting “tradition” but later one of Steven’s friends informed us that this wasn’t, in fact, any long-standing Hindu tradition, but something Hindu weddings had “acquired” from a very famous and popular Bollywood movie.  As if they needed more rituals!

We didn’t stay until the very end, but apparently, in the final ritual of the day the bride leaves her family and crosses over to her husband’s family.  In Indian culture, this is much more than a symbolic move. Hence, it is accompanied by much wailing and caterwauling on the part of the bride’s family.  We had been warned by Sachin and others that this might be part of the ceremony we would like to miss out on, so we did.

Saturday was a day to take it easy and combat jet lag. We started the morning off by visiting the “German Bakery” for some breakfast omelets. Although its name suggests otherwise, the German Bakery is actually run by Nepalese or Sri Lankans; their nationality is a bit of a mystery. Steven’s various friends, who among them speak various Indian dialects, have been unable to identify the language spoken by the workers.

However, the food at the German Bakery has some resemblance to what you might find in a bakery in North America, although, as always, with some local quirks.

After breakfast, we made our way to Steven’s office to make use of the Internet and get a few odds and ends done there. Irene wanted to visit Sangam, an International Girl Guide Centre, which happens to be just a short distance away from Steven’s office. Irene’s sister-in-law, Penny, has been to all of the other World Centres (Switzerland, the UK, and Mexico) with her three daughters, but has never made it to one in Pune, so we wanted to make a vicarious visit for her.

Pool & Palms at Sangam	Garden & Dorm Units	Courtyard

We began by walking but ended up getting a rickshaw for the last little distance. After walking around the grounds for a while and asking if the gift shop would be open, we found out that the gift shop only opened at tea time. We were just about to give up and leave, when someone noticed us and asked if we wanted a tour. We happily agreed, and ended up staying for lunch as well, which turned out to be a traditional Maharashtran meal, albeit toned down a bit for the participants, who had only just arrived the day before.

The day was fairly hot and drippy, so after lunch, we made it back to Steven’s apartment to cool down a bit with a mid-day shower.

Toward evening, when it was cooler, we made our way into an older section of Pune to visit an 18^th century fort/palace. The palace and surrounding walls and battlements had been built by a rich and powerful family at the beginning of the 18^th century. Unfortunately, the palace itself, a seven story complex, had burned down late in the 18^th century, leaving only the stone foundations, but the walls and gates are still very much intact.

The Fort gates	Garden from atop the gate	On the fort wall

While we were at the palace, we drew a certain amount of attention as the only westerners in the entire complex (and the only “tourists” sporting a camera). A pair of young teenage boys followed us around for a while, giggling to themselves, until they finally mustered up the courage to ask where we were from. Then they scooted off. Later, a young boy of five or so came up to me with a big grin and said “Hello,” obviously having been coached by his father, who was standing in the background. I extended my hand, and said, “Hello, there. How are you?” at which point his father prompted him to say, “Fine,” and he scuttled off with a grin on his face a mile wide. It was a curiously charming moment.

We rounded out the day with some more Indian food at a very nice little restaurant near Steven’s apartment and came home to get some much-needed sleep.

Somehow, I had expected Indian security to be a potential snag, but, quite to the contrary, we were ushered along and put through lineups with embarrassing expediency. I say embarrassing, because these courtesies were not extended to everyone, just to the token white folks on the flight.

Steven had warned us about the humidity we could expect at Mumbai, so while it was no surprise, it was certainly noticeable, even before we got off the plane. On the plus side, I had expected it to be much warmer, but the temperature wasn’t particularly uncomfortable.

Mumbai is a city surrounded by water on all sides – in three dimensions. It shoehorns millions of people onto a small peninsula in the ocean, situated at the mouth of a river delta. And, in monsoon season at least, it is pummelled by rain from above. Mumbai just drips. The buildings, which tend to be concrete and/or brick covered in stucco, are all festooned with vertical streaks of black mould. This has the tendency to make them look abandoned, even when they are teeming with life. In fact, new construction, not yet completed, has the look of abandoned ruins from this effect.

Everything is under construction – or reconstruction – here: roads, sidewalks, stone walls (of which there are many) and buildings. Or, perhaps, I should say apparent construction.

The roadsides are lined with building materials of all sorts, paving stones and bricks being the two most common, but there is little evidence of current human activity, only unattended, partially-finished projects by the thousands.

While Mumbai and Pune are both undergoing relative economic prosperity and building booms, there are no construction cranes here. Buildings are erected in the old-fashioned way, from the ground up. In fact, as new layers of a building are added, they are temporarily supported from the previous floor until the concrete has set. So it is quite common to see the forms of the newest floor of a building being held in place by hundreds of vertical wooden or bamboo rails until the concrete has set enough to proceed to the next floor. No continuous pours here.

We were picked up at the airport by a taxi driver that Steven had booked from North America. I admit to having been a little leery of what type of vehicle we would be traveling in for the five-hour trip to Pune, where Steven lives, but I needn’t have been concerned. The driver led us to his cab, a relatively new Toyota van with leather seats and air conditioning.

Just in case you did a double-take on the five-hour cab ride, you read correctly. In India, this is the most practical way to make the 150 km trip from Mumbai to Pune. If you ever make it to India, and you are tempted to do something like rent a car, please don’t. A western driver would turn to a gibbering mass of nerves within five minutes of trying to navigate the streets and traffic of an Indian city.

I am going to try to describe traffic in Mumbai and Pune, but I will fail – miserably. There is no way to do adequate justice with two-dimensional text to such a four-dimensional marvel. But here goes. Mumbai traffic is chaos that works, sort of. First let me lay out the underpinnings. There a no traffic signs of any kind, no street signs, almost no traffic lights, and no traffic lanes, at least none that anyone abides by. There are rare stretches of street with lines painted on them, but these are ignored with total gusto and abandon. The number of lanes is determined by the width of the vehicles occupying the road and the willingness of the drivers to jam them in as tightly as possible. There are no traffic rules, or at least none that anyone would appear to adhere to. There are, however, governing principles, which I believe can be boiled down to this: get where you’re going, as fast as you can, and try not to die in the process.

Indian drivers distill driving down to its essential components: the accelerator, the horn, the brake, and the gear shift, in that order. The horn is the essential means of communication, replacing other niceties, such as signal lights. To a casual observer with imagination, the swell of traffic might resemble an immense pod of nasal whales, in constant sonic contact with one another. Unlike other cultures in which the horn carries a certain tone of aggression, in Indian traffic, it is far more nuanced. Depending on the context, the horn can be used to intone:

• I’m here right beside you.
• Nudge over a bit, would you? There’s room for me here.
• I’m passing you, just to let you know.
• Hey, slowpoke, shuffle over and let me past.

In fact, rarely does it carry the kind of angry, North American tone which would accompany a flipping of the bird to the other driver. Its established role in inter-vehicle communication, is enshrined on the back of almost all trucks and other less agile vehicles with the painted sign, “Horn OK Please.” In other words, “Honk if you want to get by me.” However, that is not to say that the horn is never used to communicate, “Get the F____ out of my way!

I need to describe one manoeuvre in a common rickshaw ride to give you a taste for the experience. When leaving the neighbourhood in which Steven lives, rickshaw drivers are forced to make a right turn and proceed head-on into oncoming traffic for several blocks before they reach a break in the median which allows them to make it to the left side of the road (the proper side for driving in India). At that point, they simply cut across three to four lanes of oncoming traffic to make it to the other side, beeping their horn the entire way across.

U-turns in the middle of busy streets without medians are another favourite stunt. Streets with no medians also increase the flexibility of traffic flow, allowing drivers to “borrow” the oncoming lanes if there is no significant traffic coming their way.

Allow me to introduce the characters in the drama that is Indian traffic.

The most common is the rickshaw, the ubiquitous means of public transportation in India. Later, I will embed some pictures in this blog, but in the mean time, let me describe one for you. Take a motorcycle power train. Slap it on a tricycle frame. Adorn it with a front seat for the driver and a back seat for two or three passengers. Cover it with a canvas top, and you have it. There is also a cargo variation of the same which replaces the passenger area with a small covered box, essentially creating a little cube van. Rickshaws, and their larger cousins, the tempo car are powered by small two-stroke engines which burn a gasoline/oil mixture capable of spewing out particularly noxious fumes which, when mixed with the diesel smoke of buses, trucks and many of the cars, provides riders with more than their daily dose of harmful hydrocarbons.

In Mumbai, rickshaws are followed closely by taxis, which line the streets. All taxis in Mumbai are identical, black and yellow, a model known as the Premiere. They also all appear to be all of the same vintage, not recent.

Public transportation is rounded out by the occasional bus, packed to bursting with passengers. Trucks make up a small component of the traffic, less in the core of the city and increasingly more toward the edge.

Private transportation is limited primarily to motorcycles and the occasional car. Motorcycles and scooters are far more common in Pune than in Mumbai. While the most prevalent car is probably the home-grown Tata, there are many Japanese and Korean vehicles as well, (in decreasing order of prevalence) Suzukis, Hyundais, Toyotas, and Hondas). Completing the mix are a small number of Fords (Escorts), and a few GMs, but these are far less common. Most cars here are the size of a Honda Fit or smaller. Among the traffic of Pune or Mumbai, a Honda Accord (relatively rare) stands out as an absurdly large vehicle, so most North American cars and trucks would simply be too expensive and too awkward on Indian roads.

I say awkward because, in Indian traffic, size matters, and not in the way you might think. Motorcycles are most nimble, as they can bob and weave among lanes or create their own by ducking out into shoulder areas of the road as needed. Rickshaws are second in terms of traffic agility, mostly because of their size but also due to a sharp turning radius that allows them to pull a U-turn on a dime (in the midst of traffic) or even weave perpendicular to traffic at times.

Steven said that a colleague of his used the analogy of downhill skiing to describe Indian traffic, and that works to a degree. In skiing, you bear no responsibility for what goes on in your wake; your only concern is with avoiding downhill traffic. Indian driving shares this. And certainly the bobbing and weaving nature of a crowded ski hill holds many parallels to a crowded Indian street.

But skiing, even at breakneck speeds, doesn’t bear the inherent peril and urgency of an Indian street. A near miss that could rattle your nerves in North America and leave you shaken for hours afterwards would go completely unnoticed here. That’s because, within the next minute, you will experience ten more such near misses. When I began this paragraph, I intended to finish it by saying that even though we have experienced countless near misses, we have yet to even see an accident, but alas, on our way home in a taxi today we were part of a minor fender-bender. It was so minor that we didn’t even realize we’d been rear-ended until the driver got out of the car to accost the culprit who had hit us. Certainly, though, many vehicles bear battle scars that attest to a history of encounters that got too close, and buses in particular, probably because they spend so many years on the road, or perhaps because they are the least nimble inhabitants of the streets, look like cardboard boxes which have been waylaid by the postal service and have spent many months finding their destination; they arrive battered, softened, and crumpled in on all sides.

I also have to define near miss. Vehicles often drive within inches of each other. When I say inches, I don’t mean “less than a foot;” I mean within two or three inches. In fact, it isn’t uncommon for one driver to reach out and tap another vehicle as a way of communicating that he/she is getting rather close, and passengers on the backs of motorcycles will often reach out with an extended hand, as the motorcycle cuts past another vehicle, as if to physically nudge past while maintaining a modicum of space.

Motorcycles are particularly prevalent in Pune, and seem, to the visitor, to be a bold choice of transportation. Helmets are a rarity, as are mirrors. Again, what’s the point of a mirror when you are not concerned with what’s behind you? A fairly common sight is a man driving a motorcycle with a woman riding “sidesaddle” behind him. Children are often in the mix as well. Steven jokes of seeing a family of seven on a motorcycle, but our record sighting is a family of five. Scooters are popular among women, since they can drive them even in traditional dress.

I haven’t quite completed the picture of Indian streets just yet. There are still other, ambulatory players involved. Since sidewalks are the most frequent victims of re-construction, they are notoriously intermittent and unreliable. And the very moment a stretch of sidewalk is completed, it becomes prime real estate for parking motorcycles or setting up some sort of vendor stand (fruit, flowers, you name it). So, as a result, just as in small town Saskatchewan, people walk on the streets. Depending on the street, the shoulders of the road can be bustling with pedestrian and bicycle traffic.

Being a pedestrian presents its own challenges, particularly when it comes to crossing a street. If you were to try crossing the street the western way, by walking or running across in one, single pass, you would get picked off by a vehicle just as surely as a cat would catch a fat mouse. And it would be your own fault because you failed to give the drivers time to judge where you were going so they might avoid hitting you. Indeed, crossing the road as a pedestrian is probably one of the best ways to truly understand the nature and principles of Indian traffic.

The procedure goes something like this. Find a gap just large enough in the traffic to step out into it. Step far enough out so that the next motorcycle or rickshaw can zip past behind you. If you are crossing with others, walk abreast so that you present the slimmest profile to oncoming traffic and be sure to move in unison, following the lead of the person who is farthest upstream. Rickshaws and motor bikes present the best opportunity for making progress, as one or two bold steps in front of them provides enough space for them to slip behind you. If you remain still, traffic will continue to flow around you like water around a stone. You simply repeat this process enough times to reach the other side. It’s a bit like George Castanza playing Frogger across a busy New York street, but without the frantic side-to-side action. It requires some patience and steady nerves as traffic zips past you inches on either side, but many times, it is the only option to get where you are going.

The final players on the Indian streets are non-human. Throw in a smattering of dogs, donkeys, cattle, water buffalo, and goats, and the picture is complete. Dogs, donkeys, and cattle are usually random players, but water buffalo and goats are most often herded. I was amazed to watch three or four water buffalo walk placidly, single-file amid the bustling traffic of Pune, their only human guidance the re-assuring hand of the herdsman on the flank of the last buffalo in the queue.

Driving in India strikes a curious equilibrium between aggression and civility, between chaos and control. Here are a few short videos which might help to give you some idea of the nature of Indian traffic. These were taken on moderately busy streets in Pune.

I apologize for the sound. If you turn down the volume, you should be able to pick out the incessant beeping of horns just barely over the drone of traffic. Clicking on the titles will take you to Youtube, but the embedded videos are included as well.

A Small Pune Intersection

A Small Pune Street, from Above

View from Inside a cab

These aren’t my videos, but they are worth watching.