Thursday, July 7, 2011

India: Thoughts On Being Back Here Again

I hate India. Hate hate hate hate hate. Can't remember what it was I loved about the country.

It started on the plane, where I realise that almost every single passenger got up to use the loo at least once. It's only a bloody 4 hour plane ride, does everyone have a bladdar the size of a 5c coin? It's especially annoying when the passenger with the window seat does it. Fuck you asshole, next time get an aisle seat can?

After landing, everyone crowds at the baggage carousel, and seriously, why does everyone have to shove their stinking bodies right smack in front of me? Fuck you assholes, obviously they have never heard of personal space (I guess it's hard in a land full of a million billion people.)

Everyone does the little dance of the baggage carousel, bobbing your body sideways to see if the luggage has arrived. And when it does? No one gives way. Fuck you assholes, I think to myself as I swing my 23kg luggage in a large arc.

I get out, and pay for a pre-paid taxi. They don't take credit cards in Kolkata. Got my receipt and hunt for a taxi. Someone grabs my receipt and says "taxi taxi" and walks towards the car park. A boy "helps" me with my luggage, and at this point I'm too exhausted to care. Hop into the cab, boy asks for a tip, which I refused to give. Fuck you asshole, I didn't ask you to carry my luggage.

Cabby then passes me a laminated piece of paper with the names of various hotels and a list of really exorbitant (for India) prices. "You go to hotel? Pay booking charge." At this point, I snap. WHY SHOULD I PAY SOME MORE WHEN I HAVE ALREADY PRE-PAID? And he tries to tell me that the pre-paid chit that I have was for the first booking, and now this is the fee to get to the hotel. Fuck you asshole, I think to myself for the umpteenth time that night, storming out of the cab.

I finally get to the right cab, yelling at anyone who tries to even touch my luggage. LEAVE IT ALONE! (And, fuck you assholes.)

After confirming with cabby2 that I would not need to pay anything extra, I settle in the cab, and ignore everyone who stands by window asking for tips / money / Singapore coins. I'm too tired to even think. The cab drives off and I break down in sobs.

Everything about India makes me feel like a knife is piercing through the heart. The crowd. The dusty roads. The posters on the walls. The incessant honking and weaving through traffic. The overgrown plants on the side of the road.

I'm exhausted, and emotionally drained. Too tired to even muster up an ounce of sympathy for the many homeless people sleeping on the streets.

I reach the hotel, and a new battle ensues. My travel agent made a wrong booking and breakfast is not included in my booking. I check in to my room and wait for 30 min for them to deliver one of my boxes. Another 30 min to get a pair of scissors to open the box. After a billion calls, I take a shower, shoot off a couple of emails to my travel agent, and settle to bed. And the only English channel on the telly? Sellavision.

Seriously. FML and fuck you assholes.

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