West in the Sky

18 August 2010

1:55

Anger is a secondary emotion resulting from the primary emotions of fear, frustration and pain. I was terrified of the monkeys in Mumbai and applied the fight or flight mechanism (my choice was hasty flight). My ego was impaired while doing the biometric survey at the Rajendra Nagar Slum due to collective disappointment, so I became detached) which is my usual first, second, third, forth mechanism response to stress). In neither of these cases did I reach a level equal or approximate to ‘anger’; however, this evening, take the frustration number, escalate it with exhaustion, poor weather, delayed flights, a broken ATM, unknowledgeable/mistaken airline personnel, pesky taxi drivers, panic of missing an international flight. . . and well, my pulse might get racy, my cheeks might burn scarlet, my jaw might be clamped tight, fiery smoke might come out of my ears, and I might even raise my voice.

In the evening of the seventeenth of August in the year twenty-ten, I was scheduled to fly out of Bangalore to Mumbai. In the wee hours of the eighteenth, I was to fly from Mumbai to London and then onwards to San Francisco. As I was checking my one bag, if occurred to me that my flight from Bangalore to Mumbai was not considered a connecting flight within the whole scheme of getting back to SFO. I had booked it separately, so this brought about the issue of determining where this particular checked bag would end up. The answer was in Mumbai, not SF. I would have to pick up the bag in the domestic airport in Mumbai, somehow find transpiration to Mumbai’s International Airport, re-check in, go through customs, got through security, etc.

I embarrassingly admit that this situation didn’t cross my mind until I was there at the check-in counter in Bangalore’s airport. Although I flight often enough, my trips are usually much shorter and multiple connections are rare. I just didn’t have the experience or required foresight until it was too late.

I talked to the lady behind the baggage counter and explained the situation of claiming my baggage, getting to the other airport in Mumbai, and jumping through all of the hoops to get to my plane’s gate in time for the departure. She assured me that I would have more than enough time and not to worry about getting to the International Airport because JetAirways had a shuttle, etc.

For several hours I was relieved and at ease.

My flight out of Bangalore was delayed due to bad weather in Mumbai. I still had time to make it. No problem. I waited for my bag to come through the claim belt. Nothing. More nothing. I spoke to some officials. They found the bag. Thank goodness, but the clock was ticking. I inquired about a shuttle to the International terminal. Due to some logistics that I didn’t quite understand nor believe, I was not qualified to take the shuttle. Okay, fine. I could take a pre-paid taxi, but I was trying to be really careful not to be stuck with a bunch of Indian currency when I came back to the US, so I didn’t have enough cash. I was becoming a little nervous at this point because it was pouring rain and everything seemed to be taking too much time, but in reality, there was still no problem. I found the only ATM in the area. Another man and I shared a few curses (binding mutual frustration isn’t healthy, but we had planes to catch!) because the ATM machine was not functioning properly and would not deliver cash. With my baggage, I dove out of the airport and into the pouring monsoon rains (take Bangalore showers and add a mighty exponential factor and this will model approximate Mumbai weather).

Being white, female and obviously desperate, as I knew would happen, I immediately caught the attention of the private taxi scammers. I wasn’t too worried because I didn’t even have cash, and quite frankly, whatever price they demanded would be less than rebooking a plane ticket to America. My most worthy trump card was that fact that I had been staying in India for 11 weeks and had learned that because I was female and because Indian males are raised to treat all women as mothers and sisters, after accepting me into his vehicle, this taxi driver was obliged to drop me off at the International Airport in a timely fashion and without harm, no matter if I paid or not.

I explained my zero-cash except a US $20 bill (approx 1000 rupees) to the guy trying to yank me to his cab. We agreed on the price of 10 (still completely over priced, but desperate was my situation). The battle began when I was fully loaded into the taxi and we were charging into the crowded, water-logged streets. The driver then changed his mind and wanted 2100 rupees, which was completely over priced (pre-paid taxi is 180 rupees). I have been in India long enough to understand the rules of this game; more so, I was cantankerous and trapped enough to play with a competitive spirit.

We argued. We shouted at one another. We swapped bills back and forth, back and forth. He shoved a printed document under my nose with displayed fairs to various locations throughout the city including my destination. He cried that I was not paying fairly and that I was a cheat. I cried that he wasn’t charging fairly and that I was no fool. I claimed quite honestly that I had no other cash because the ATM at the airport was not in service. He stopped at an ATM. I refused to budge out of my seat to collect his 2100 rupees. He continued to drive. At some point I demanded that he stop the vehicle to let me walk the 12 kilometers to the airport in the pouring rain with two bags because clearly I could not pay. He slowed. I collected my things and tried to open the door. Just in time, he managed to lock me in and reach a speed that would be suicide for me to exit the vehicle.

This is when we reached a stalemate, which is the state of bargaining that is most favorable. The merchant feels that the buyer will pay no more, and the purchaser feels that the seller would sell for no less. 500 rupees was the price. Despite the heat and displays of resentment that had existed just moments prior, the energy in the vehicle mellowed and casual conversation pursued. I was dropped off at the terminal that I requested. He was paid. I received my change. I was feeling pretty good.

There was a guard at the doorway to the airport. He was checking boarding tickets and identification. Due to a power outage, I was unable to print my e-ticket so only had my passport. Usually such a situation is of little concern because the information is saved in the airport database when one checks his or her luggage; however, this guard wasn’t sure what to do with me. Instead of letting me pass through, he put me in a corner in the pouring rain to wait. This was nearly more than I could handle. I was one a wild rollercoaster that oscillated between peaks of relief and hope and gullies of heightened stress and anxiety. Time was passing and I was going to miss my flight.

Just when my nerves were beginning to get the best of me and tears were on the verge of falling, one of the flight staff came over to ask me if I needed help. Trembling with tension, I explained my situation. She told me that she could help and immediately led me to the beginning of the check-baggage line. I was rushed through customs. I was dashed through security. After sprinting passed 14 gates, I arrived just in time for the last boarding call.

As I write, I am seated safely on an airplane headed from Mumbai to London. I am liberated. The best fortune for which one can optimize while traveling via massive houses with silver wings and ports that connect the heavens to the earth is uneventful and travels plagued with ennui. . . but if all works out well, then I’ll laugh about the whole thing and have a good story to tell. I pray that all else goes smoothly.