"No, we did not get sick!"

...an American couple's honeymoon encounter in wonderful India

Dear family and friends,
Slobhan and I have returned safely from our journey (honeymoon?) to India! I apologize in advance for the use of a form letter, but we have so many stories we wish to share with so many people that it seems excusable.

Many people have questioned us: Why did we choose to go to this destination during the only time in one's married life intended solely for marital bliss? We have my brother, James, who has been living in Bombay for nearly three years to blame for that.

We also have James to thank for researching, organizing and guiding an unforgettable experience that took us from the vast Thar Desert on the border of Pakistan, through India's spiritual heart on the banks of the river Ganges, to the foothills of Mount Kanchendzonga within the untouched antiquity of Sikkim. Here are some of our observations and experiences:

The answer to everyone's first question is: "No, we did not get sick." India's reputation for making food that works like "liquid plumber" obscures just how tasty the food is. All the hip, expensive, organically grown vegetables that are so coveted here in Bezerk-eley are the standard fare in Indian markets and restaurants. Even though a raw salad might be a dangerous selection, the veggies are excellent, once cooked. India also has an abundance of intensely hot spices grown, I believe, somewhere below the earth's core. We worried more about the cells native to our mouths than any intruding parasites.

Granted, I did not take many extreme culinary chances with local food -- like eating at the equivalent of a roadside hot-dog stand -- sticking mostly with the fare offered at the western-style hotels and more reputable looking restaurants.

That, of course included a mandatory pilgrimage to the newly opened McDonald's in Delhi. As the preponderance of cows (held sacred by the mostly Hindu population of India) in the streets and alleys of any city will attest to, there are no holy bovines on the menu. Instead, we had to suffice with the Big Mac's distant cousin, the Maharajah Mac -- two all-mutton patties on a sesame seed bun.

As this was Slobhan's first trip overseas, I think she is now prepared to travel anywhere in the world without blinking. India = culture shock.

From our first experience of stepping out of the protected enclave of the international airport into a churning mass of people hawking services and handicrafts, to the bustling city streets, whose rich cultural and architectural history stands battered by yearly monsoons and a perennial, choking haze of exhaust and dust, there is not a single sense, in five, that escapes taxation by such an extreme environment.

To see India in a microcosm, you need only to drive down the crowded streets of any town or city. There is a form of "vehicular Darwinism" that reflects how survival is an individual, not collective, pursuit. The rules of the road are really quite simple compared to the vehicular codes so heavily enforced in the States: Do whatever necessary to get from point A to point B without, if possible, hitting anything.

This is complicated only by the variety of unregulated activities that proliferate on every street. Besides the usual trucks, taxis and cars, there are three-wheeled scooters with covered carriages, called autorickshaws, that wind erratically between the bicycles, people-drawn bullock carts, vegetable stands, beggars, motorcycles, pedestrians and, yes, even cows that share the crowded byways. The direction of traffic is often determined by which side of the street has more space and it is not unusual for it to commandeer a populous dirt sidewalk, if traffic has slowed or stalled. In India, pedestrians reserve the right to get out of the way!

Communication also presents some curious difficulties. Even though the predominant language is Hindi, English is spoken to some extent by almost everyone. The humorous Indian accent made famous by the snack shop clerk in The Simpsons apparently comes from the south. The Northerners had a much milder accent.

What was far more difficult to comprehend than what was said, was how it would be understood and then, invariably, translated, to incorporate some hidden agenda. Many times, you order one dish and get another -- only to find they didn't have it in the first place. Whether it was considered rude or just too much trouble to tell you, is hard to figure.

A taxi driver in Agra drove well over five kilometers before confessing he did not know where he was taking us -- despite the fact that we had agreed to pay him a fixed fee for the trip. Another taxi driver in Varanasi, when asked to take us to the famous Old Market, recommended another shopping district that was less "touristy" (at which he would probably given a commission for bringing us) After insisting that we wanted to go to the Gora Market (means white in Hindi), he took us to the other area anyway, protesting upon our refusal to pay: "Ooh, you meant the tourist market".

Such encounters were commonplace in a culture where haggling is the norm and tourists stand out as particularly fatty prey. Without the weathered guidance of James, Slobhan and I would have collapsed under the struggle that even the smallest purchase would require.

Communication was often undermined by a general lack of accountability as well. You might as well be talking to a wall if nobody feels that they are responsible for your predicament. Under these circumstances, customer service was always the first victim. Planes honour no schedule. Trains are invariably late. Taxis charge indiscriminate rates. And hotels often deny your confirmed lodgings in hopes of changing your fixed rate to a more expensive one. Even some "officials" are unreliable at best -- subject to laziness or bribes -- as we discovered one eventual evening at the Mughalsarai Station, just outside the sacred city of Varanasi.

We arrived at the station several hours before our estimated departure at 11:45 pm for the overnight train to Calcutta. As is the case with most stations, it was dirty, poorly lit and inadequately marked with signs.

To our relief, only ticketed passengers could make it out to the platform. So instead of fending off peddlers, we could focus on the far more interesting pastime of counting and sizing the rats on the tracks below. Being the only goras in the station and, of course, Slobhan being a blond, we attracted the usual intense though harmless Indian stares. It was not uncommon for someone to stand ten feet away and just watch us for five or ten minutes without interruption or intent.

When our train finally arrived one hour late, we were anxiously anticipating the confirmed sleeping compartments of our second class coach. As we threw our bags upon the train, the conductor surprisingly informed us that the coach was full and we could not board.

Sketches by Dominic Xavier