Flying High in India – India

Flying High in India
India

Unfortunately, for most people, air travel has become a necessary part of the travel experience these days. I say “unfortunately” because flying fills me with dread; or, to be more precise, the fear of crashing. Flying in itself is a fabulous experience. What a feeling to be in the air at thirty-five thousand feet, looking down on the earth below. But the fear of crashing usually takes over during take-off, landing and bouts of turbulence. I can never quite believe that the plane is able to go from standing still on the ground to some outrageous speed and height in a matter of minutes. And landing: I am always amazed that we glide onto the runway instead of crashing head first into it.

On my last flight it was the turbulence that did it for me. It always occurred at the point when the cabin-crew came around with the coffee. I could already feel the plane shaking around in no-man’s land, but as soon as the coffee hit the cup, it sloshed from side to side, reinforcing the feeling that we were all about to die in some hideous crash. Coffee and turbulence do not mix.

The reassuring voice of the first officer or pilot comes over the tannoy system, offering some comfort. The voice tells us about the flight path. Apparently we will be flying over Bulgaria, Turkey, Iran and Pakistan. We are even told which cities we will be flying over. Then we are told that if there are any changes to the flight path (like an imminent crash?), we will be informed accordingly. That was very good of the first officer because at least I could then change my on-board travelling itinerary – from gazing out of the window to…well, er…just gazing out of the window.

Entering the airport before the flight just made things worse. The butterflies were already having a field day in my stomach due to my fear of flying (or should I say, crashing?). Yet as soon as I entered, it became a case of butterfly overload. Suddenly from normal citizen I am transformed into potential terrorist, smuggler or any other form of criminal that the authorities can dream up. I feel the gaze of officials and CCTV cameras burning into me – and, of course, the swarm of swirling butterflies still flapping away deep inside.

Just as I become potentially the world’s worst criminal hell bent on sabotage in the air, I suddenly realise that I will be soon on the plane possibly sitting next to the world’s worst criminal hell bent on sabotage in the air. Fear of flying, fear of crashing, fear of butterflies, fear of everything; no wonder I must have the look of a crazed maniac to the authorities. It’s all their fault in the first place for inducing such paranoia. I suppose they already know this, but have neatly carved out a well-paid world of security mania for themselves.

After having completed another coffee-sloshing flight, I get through the passport and immigration stuff and head to the money-changing desk in the airport. I change three hundred pounds. The moneychanger counts each note, checking each one. He counts them and recounts them. Then he pulls open a draw containing bundles of rupee notes. He counts and recounts. Counting, recounting, checking and rechecking. He is meticulous and slow. He seems to have made slowness into an art form. The whole painstaking procedure takes an age. Then to top things off, he puts industrial strength staples into each wad. Not one per wad – but three.

Each wad is the size of a brick. I carry the wads over to a seat in order to sit and count them. Then I try to pull out the staples. But they are heavy-duty staples – the type that defy pulling-out by hand. I return to the moneychanger and request that he removes them. He looks puzzled but obliges by using his pulling-out-staples contraption: the futility of it all. Now I am left with piles of tatty, filthy notes full of new staple holes to go with the old staple holes. Indian money! People will accept notes full of holes, but if there is the slightest tear on the edge, then they can be near impossible to get rid of. So off I go, heading into town weighted down with wads of threadbare rupee notes.

Eventually, I check into a lodge. After encountering some unfriendly type on reception, I fill in this form, that form, and another form, then put my stuff in my newly acquired flea-pit and head to a bar for a Kingfisher beer.

It is the middle of the day, but the room is dark and dreary. This place is no theme-bar, unless you can count dark and dreary as constituting a theme. The place is empty, except for two miserable looking members of staff. I ask for a beer. Now they both look even more miserable. I am a total inconvenience. The ethos of the place must be “the customer is a damned nuisance”. One of them opens a wooden drawer and pulls out a key. The key is used to open a cupboard from which he acquires another key. This second key is then handed to the other man and is taken over to the fridge. He unlocks it and takes out a bottle.

At this point, I begin to wonder whether or not there is another key to open the wooden drawer; and another to unlock the cupboard to get the key that opens the wooden drawer; and yet another to gain access to the key that unlocks the cupboard for the key that opens the drawer…and so on. An infinite number of keys and cupboards to gain access to other keys and cupboards. Key makers, cupboard makers and drawer makers must act in collusion to make the key, cupboard and drawer industries among the biggest in India.

You would think that these men are dealing in diamonds or gold bars. It is a major operation, requiring the tactical precision of two people. When I eventually get my hands on the bottle, there is only the slightest hint of coldness. The beer inside is at room temperature. I always get the impression that in Indian bars the fridge must only get switched on when a customer enters, or else is only there for a decorative purpose. Maybe bartenders think that beer will somehow turn cold within seconds of turning on a fridge. I don’t know.

I have given up thinking about fridges, staples, cupboards and keys. I have also given up trying to apply any form of my own kind of logic to much of what I see. The whole country gets by so who am I to question things. I flew in on a 747, and will keep flying high. Unlike a plane, India never lets me down. It’s a complete mystery – absolute magic!

---

The writer is the author of Chasing Rainbows in Chennai