Cabbed it to the airport at 7:30. Hopped on a plane. Hopped off a plane. Chennai has a very nice airport, by Indian standards. Walking outside, I felt like I was somewhere in the Caribbean. First, because my eyes were almost scalded from their sockets by the intense sunlight, as a wall of heat overtook me, and second because there are low rolling hills around the airport, covered with short, dense vegetation. I hear there is a beach somewhere, but it might still be a little messed up. I plan to see for myself.
Another cab, to the Trident Hilton. I check in and try to get wireless access. It sucks. I have to walk the halls with my laptop, like some hick in Kansas prospecting for underground water, until I find a steady stream and a nearby seat. When I do get access and pull up the New York Times, I see there has been a large, fatal-type explosion of the deliberate sort in Beirut. I see I also have e-mails from the tour organizer in charge of the Beirut event to take place later this month. I read. The fair is still on, which makes sense. That bomb was meant for a specific person, and it was successful. It was not random. As long as I stay away from people who piss off Syria, I should be fine. I L-O-V-E Syria. So, no worries unless things escalate, in which case I'll just spend a couple more nights in Delhi.
At 3pm I am supposed to be visiting the local chapter of USEFI (the US Fulbright people). In the lobby they want me to pay 550 Rs (about $13) just to have a cab take me there, nevermind wait and come back. I decide to just walk out to the street and catch a rickshaw. This is what I got:
The Zen-Master of Rickshaw
A rickshaw is like a motorized big-wheel with a windshield and a back seat. I was initiated into using these last night. I must now digress for a moment:
Last night I went to dinner with an Indian I met on my last trip that has many connections in the art and education world. He suggested we take the rickshaw to the restaurant. For the next 40 minutes he proceeded to subject me to psychological torture. He blinked too much, he gestured too much, he definitely talked too much, and way too fast. I wanted to put a bullet between his eyes. I wish I could say the food made up for it, but this was the first time I got some Indian food that disagreed with me. I don’t mean that I got Delhi Belly later, I mean that I wanted to vomit right there. Imagine a root beer float, but instead of root beer, the fluid medium is some sort of way-too-sweet fruit juice. This juice is fresh squeezed, with pulp and seed floating in it that have the consistency I’d imagine 3-day-dead tadpoles to have. Add to this chunks of gelatin floating about for no reason. Yeah. Digression over.
So my rickshaw driver is a zen-master. Even though we are bobbing and weaving all through traffic at speeds defying all common sense (we were outrunning motorcycles), I never felt the chill hand of certain death. Not once. I could have gone to sleep back there, if not for the fumes. He was so good, I had him wait for me outside the American compound during my appointment. He then took me on a short tour of Chennai.
Where do I find these billboard girls?
The main thing worth mentioning is Marina Beach. This is the biggest beach I have ever seen. I drank a whole bottle of water just hiking across its Saharan expanse to get to where I could get some shots with water in them. See pics below.
See? Looks like desert. Except for the boats.
This is Ground Zero of where the tsunami hit India. Honestly, you can't tell. And we bitch about hurricanes.
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After a couple more stops my buddy took me back to the Hilton. For dinner I had pizza at Pizza Corner, which is around the corner. Imagine that.
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