When he entered through the door of the plane I immediately thought that I did not want this man sitting next to me for the next 8 hours of flying. His rhinestone-studded jeans, his overly trendy black Italian pointed boots, his red and black pin-stripped shirt, and his black rhinestone-encrusted and tassel-happy leather jacket made him look like a dancer straight out of European techno-music video from the early nineties. The two huge diamond earrings combined with a fake Rolex watch, many gold bracelets, and a ring for every finger made him look like a pawnshop dealer. His hair was done up a la Elvis Presley and his facial features made him look like Little Richard. I don’t think anyone on the plane wanted this Indian Little Richard-Elvis Presley monstrosity sitting beside them. The unfortunate thing about traveling alone is that you have no choice in who sits next to you on the plane.
Some stories begin before you think they are supposed to. When I left Canada for an Asian adventure of nearly a year I did not expect the action to start before I landed in Kathmandu. However, through travel, even just basic transitory travel, stories can formulate when you least expect them.
It was late summer of 2005 and I had just finished a season of rafting on the Ottawa River in Canada. All summer my sights were set on the east and the adventures that waited for me. Through two different connections in the whitewater world I had arranged to work a rafting season in Nepal followed by a season in India. These eight months would be the longest stint away from home I was to experience up to this point in a land farther away than any I’d ever been before. Excitement, anxiety, curiosity, and sadness dominated my emotions as I said good-bye to my family at Toronto’s Pearson International Airport.
Getting to Nepal is no easy task. My planned route took me from Toronto to London to Delhi and finally on to Katmandu. The total time in transit would be close to 30 hours. When the pilot came on the intercom and announced a “minor problem that was going to cause a slight delay,” I started to get nervous about making all my connections. We took off two hours late.
Terminal 4 at London’s Heathrow is an incredibly long building. Upon landing I had a matter of 30 minutes or so to make my connection at another gate in the same terminal. As luck would have it my arrival gate sported a single digit while my departure date was similar to what most NFL defensive linemen wear on the back of their jerseys, ninety-something. I sprinted past the hundreds of people, past the Gucci and Duty Free Shop, past the Starbucks and WH Smith. I made it to the appropriate gate number. I was 5 minutes too late.
British Airways was nice enough to send me to Frankfurt in order to catch an Air India flight to Delhi. This added about 8 more hours to my expected travel time. Jet lagged, frustrated, and nervous about making my next connection in Delhi for Kathmandu, the Indian Little Richard sat next to me. I stared at him like a kid would stare at the bearded lady or the wolf man at the circus: jaw agape and eyes fearful yet curious.
“Hello,” He said with an Indian accent and slight wobble of his head from side to side.
“Hi there,” I replied with a slight smile on my face. The whole get-up amused me even more so now that his Indian accent was thrown into the mix. He had a very thick Indian accent very similarly sounding to Apu from The Simpsons, even though Apu is Pakistani. I thought of Apu dressed as Elvis from one particular episode. If you would multiply the ridiculousness of Apu in that episode by a factor of 10 you finally come to appreciate what was going to be sitting next to me for the next 8 hours to Delhi.
We both ignored each other for a bit while we both messed around with our carry on luggage, iPods, books, and magazines for the flight. Well it was actually just me messing around preparing for the flight. My neighbour was set for the flight with no entertainment devices. We took off and reached cruising altitude.
Air India has a wonderful food and beverage service. When the flight attendants started stirring from their takeoff seats and preparing the beverage carts Indian Elvis started to get excited. He looked like he wanted to talk to someone. I was the closest person.
“You going home?” He asked me.
After the summer working on the river my tan was particularly dark and when combined with my dark hair I can possibly pass for Latino but I’ve never been mistaken as an Indian before. “Uhm, no. I’m going to Nepal. And what about yourself?”
“I’m going to visit my family in Delhi.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Yes but I live in Frankfurt. I’ve been here for a number of years now.”
“And what do you do in Frankfurt?” I asked just in order to keep the small talk going and be friendly.
“Well I run an Italian restaurant of course.” This just added even more to this character. I was sitting beside an Indian who could possibly be the spawn of some genetic experiment involving Elvis, Little Richard, and Indira Gandhi who happened to run an Italian restaurant in Germany. Why not an Indian restaurant, I wanted to ask, but I just couldn’t build the nerve. I let it rest.
He broke the silence as the beverage cart came closer. “Do you like the Walking Johnny?”
I let out a little laugh more because I still couldn’t get Elvis Apu out of my mind than my amusement at the bizarre question. “Come again?
“The Walking Johnny. Do you like the Walking Johnny? Do you want to join me for a Walking Johnny?”
“Oh, Johnnie Walker. You mean the whiskey.”
“Yes, yes (head bob), the Johnny. Would you like one? They’re free you know?”
How could I resist. “Of course I’ll have a drink. It may even help me sleep for most of this red-eye flight.”
As the flight attendant poured the whiskey on the rocks I leaned a little closer to my new friend and offered my hand. “By the way, my name is Bob.”
“Nice to meet you Bob, my name is Bishnu Raju Wijesinghe. But you can call me Tony.” We shook hands. Of course, I thought, more people would probably eat at an Italian restaurant run by a guy named Tony than they would if it were run by a Bishnu. I wondered how people would react to an Indian restaurant run by an Italian named Bishnu.
I typically limit my alcohol consumption on airline flights for two reasons. First I don’t like arriving at my destination hung-over. The flights that I tend to drink the most on are overnight flights, which tend to land early the next morning in a far away time zone. One of the worst ways to start your travels in a foreign land, especially when having to deal with immigration and customs officials, is tired, hung-over, and/or partially drunk. The second reason I don’t like to drink that much on flights is because I have a high respect for flight attendants. I do not view them as airborne servers and I try to make their lives as easy as possible. I respect the responsibility they have and I don’t envy them for having to deal with all the assholes that find their way onto airplanes. Unfortunately, I failed myself on this particular flight: I over-consumed and became that asshole.
But it was not entirely my fault. Tony had no intention of staying sober on this flight and he was determined not to drink alone. Before our plastic cups were empty he was ringing the call button to summon the flight attendants and order more whisky. Most Indians have no qualms about asking someone to do their job way beyond the call of duty. Every hour of the 8-hour flight to Delhi Tony pushed the call button at least three times. Within the first hour after the meal service he called upon the flight attendants 6 times.
“Don’t you think you should give the flight attendants a break? I mean just order two or three at a time instead of one every fifteen minutes.” I slurred these words a couple hours into the flight as I started to become both drunk and uncomfortable about pestering the crew.
“I should not feel bad about them doing their job. They are here to serve and serve they will.” I caught the sniff of this Indian thinking he was better than the Indian crew. The caste system intrigued me from when I first heard about it but by this time I really didn’t know that much about it. I let the conversation drop and reached for my Johnnie Walker.
The touch down of the wheels onto the tarmac at Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi woke me from my slumber. I had passed out. I don’t remember putting my chair in the upright position or returning my tray table to the original position. I was more concerned with cleaning up the drool that pooled on my shoulder and chest during my snooze. When I stood up to retrieve my carry-on bag I realized I was still drunk.
I looked over at Tony and he looked just the same as when he first boarded the plane. His hair was perfectly combed; his clothes here without wrinkles; his eyes were clear; his breath was fresh; and his face was clean. I was amazed. I felt like ass and probably looked much worse.
He said farewell and wished me luck. He also thanked me for keeping him company on the long flight.
I made it into the terminal and followed the signs to the baggage carousels. I must have passed through immigration along the way but I don’t remember anything in regards to that. I stood watching the revolving baggage carousel for several minutes without any bags on it. I felt like I was going to be sick.
I rushed to the nearest restroom. I tried following the signs but I found it mostly by following the stench. I had heard that India was going to be a very sensual experience but I had no idea it was going to start in the airport restroom. I figured that do the current renovations the restrooms were in disarray. But later, after I explored India a little more, I realized that all bathrooms are disaster zones.
I splashed water on my face and tried cleaning myself up. The nausea was not abating, only getting worse with the smell of human effluence in the air. I opened the first stall door and nearly gagged. Apparently that one hadn’t been cleaned in four years, or so I thought. The next one wasn’t much better. And unlike Goldilocks, the third one wasn’t quite right either. I was running out of time, and doors. I settled into the fourth stall. Returning to the baggage carousel I felt like a new person. I was still somewhat broken but well on the way to recovery.
I found the correct carousel for my flight and waited. This time the revolutions were not affecting me. The only thing that was affecting my stomach were the butterflies that naturally occur every time you wait for your luggage to arrive. There’s always a doubt that it won’t show. When you miss your connections and get shuttled across Europe to make it to Asia the doubts increase by several factors. My day in Delhi was not starting that well and when the carousel had stopped revolving and my bags were nowhere in sight things were only to become even more interesting.
Sanjeep was the Air India representative at the baggage claims booth. I tried to walk over toward him in a straight line but failed. Nothing drastic, just not straight. With a thick tongue and numb lips I told him I lost my bags.
“No problem sir, tikka, tikka, tikka. You must apply the relative information into the correct spaces of this form as well as, to the best of your ability, place a shape that resembles a circle around the drawings on the lower half of the page which best represent the items that are missing.” Sanjeep was perhaps the most verbose person I had every met but upon eavesdropping on other formal conversations happening around me I realized that verbose and eloquent English is a very Indian thing. I followed his instructions and filled out the form as he watched and head-bobbed along with each piece of information I wrote.
Every airline has a somewhat different lost luggage claims form but they all ask the same information. This particular form had half of the sheet devoted to tiny little drawings of dozens of different pieces of luggage used by international travelers. I found my rucksack easily enough but was then stumped about what to do about my kayak and paddle, which were also traveling with me. The kayak was in a bag while the paddle was my third piece of luggage and was loose, with the fiberglass blades covered in cardboard and duct tape.
“Sir, there seems to be a minor discrepancy with your form.” Sanjeep said after a quick review. “In the location where you have indicated the number of pieces missing you have written three. However, sir, you have only circled one item on the bottom list.”
I knew this was going to be difficult. “Well, I circled the rucksack picture that resembles mine but my other two pieces of luggage are not pictured on the sheet.”
“That cannot be so, this list is very comprehensive and depicts every form of luggage people travel with on Air India.”
“OK. I agree the list is very comprehensive. But my other two pieces are not marked. One is a kayak and the other is a paddle.”
Sanjeep looked a little confused. “Kind sir, can you please tell me what this kayak is that you speak of.”
“A kayak is a boat.”
“How in the name of Shiva did you manage to check a boat onto the airplane, sir?”
“It is a very small boat that fits into a bag.”
“Then why did you not identify the bag on the list of drawings?”
“Because the bag is the shape of the boat and there is nothing on the list that looks like a boat.
“How big is this boat, sir?”
“It is about six feet, or two meters long, and the bag it is in is red.”
Sanjeep looked even more confused at the dimensions. “This is a very small boat, sir. What purpose does this boat serve? It does not seem very ideal for taking your family fishing. No, not at all, sir. Why do you travel with such a boat?”
“My kayak is a one-person boat that is designed for river travel, especially in rapids.”
“A one-person boat, sir, that is the most ridiculous thing I have heard in a very long time, sir.” He turned around and poked his head through the glass door behind the counter and spoke in Hindi to his colleague. The other Air India representative got up from his chair with a big smile on his face and came out of the office.
“How do you go fishing in this one-man boat, sir?” Asked the colleague. “It does not seem like the most practical of boats.”
“Listen fellas,” I started. “I have a connection to Kathmandu in 30 minutes that I need to make and I really need your help sorting out this mess. How about I draw a picture of the kayak and the paddle so you know what to look for when it arrives? Will that help?”
“Yes, sir, that will be fine.”
I furnished them with a quick sketch of the boat and the paddle, signed the forms, and left a forwarding address in Kathmandu. I looked over the form one last time and shriveled at the thought of having to explain this again to another link in the bureaucracy. I thanked Sanjeep for his help and he wished me best of luck with the rest of my travels.
In order to travel to India you must obtain a visa, even for transit purposes. As the Indian Airlines flight took off for Kathmandu I scanned my passport and looked over the full-page visa sticker that occupied page 10 of my passport. Officially I had not set foot on Indian soil. I was in the airport for about two hours. My introduction to India came from Bishnu/Tony and Sanjeep. I flew into Delhi without any preconceptions or expectations. Two hours later I left exhausted and wondering how the hell I was going to survive four months of India after I finished work in Nepal.
I arrived in Kathmandu without incident. My rucksack, kayak and paddle, arrived three days later.
