Chennai's Charms

Jeff has it pretty good in India.

He's living in the lap of luxury, a temporary resident in Chennai's finest hotel. Within the confines of his not-not-so-humble, marble encrusted abode there is a swimming pool, happening bar, an even more happening dance club, tailors, an exercise room, and a staff at his beckon call. And of course, there's a nice restaurant. And that is where we found ourselves eating our first breakfast in Chennai---a mix of fresh fruit (I've said it before and I'll say it again, we got rooked in this department, the rest of the world has much better fruit than us...), English favorites, and Indian staples. I particularly enjoyed the masala dosa (thin buttery crepe filled with spicy potato stuff) and a vada (kind of a hearty fried, not-so-sweet donut that is, like everything else, accompanied by an assortment of chutneys). I was pretty sure right away that I'd be enjoying the food on this trip. We ate our fill and prepared to greet the city in its full morning glory.

The streets in Chennai, and all of India, are terrifying. A riot of noise, smells, and movement. With lots and lots and lots and lots of people. It is every bit as crowded, congested, dirty, loud and crazy as you probably imagine. On the sidewalks, everyday is Taste of Chicago. There are crowds walking, vendors squawking, and beggars balking. So much so, that it all spills into the street which is a whole separate mess of wheeled humanity. Like Bangkok, Chennai's roadways are ruled by little enclosed three-wheeled taxis. In India they are "autos" rather than "tuk tuks," but they are just as noisy, fearless, and nimble. They do seem to belch out even more smoke and fumes than their Thai counterparts but that is easily overlooked because they offer very efficient transit for only a few rupees (45 to a dollar). But the autos are not alone. They share the streets with a massive swirl of pedestrians, bicycles, mopeds, motorcycles, automobiles, bicycle rickshaws, and trucks. And, as you can imagine, the roads are choked with traffic. What is harder to imagine is the absolute lack of traffic control. I will use the word chaos again and again in these missives---but know that there are few things on Earth that the word better describes than traffic in India's big metropolitan areas. In the entire 10-days that we toured south India I only saw 3 traffic lights... Yet, through intricate hand signals, subtle nudging of bumpers, and lots of honking, traffic does move.

With this background absorbing our full attention, we hopped into the back of an autorickshaw for the T. Negar marketplace in a crowded commercial part of town nearby. We hopped out of the auto and dove into an open vegetable market. The sensory overload continued as we walked the narrow, crowded lane with open air stalls displaying richly colored fresh (and rotten) produce. Lots of smells, but the nasal din was punctuated by the calming odor of cilantro that filtered out even the stinkiest of durian and trash heap. We emerged on a busy commercial road where the space between the street and sidewalk was unrecognizably blurred---people meandered between cars and barriers and anything with wheels flowed past into any unoccupied space.

A few blocks away, our attention was drawn to a doorway festooned with golden decorations that seemed to drip towards the roadway. Below the metallic archway a stream of people fought to get into the building. It turned out that this was Pothy's, a very well-respected textile store that was having a sale. We decided to check out the hubbub. Once our bags were checked by security and we had made our way in, we were greeted by a madhouse---one that no Fire Marshall in the United States could ever turn their pack on. Everyone was buying---including us. Silks and cottons for gifts (and for the later creation of some tailored shirts for me). In many of the stores we bought in, a runner would take your stuff to a processing area with two lines: cash and delivery. First you stand in line to pay. Then you stand in line again to get your stuff. In a lot of cases, including Pothy's, Indian shopping bags were as good as the stuff we were buying---big, strong, canvas bags with wood or bamboo handles. They came in handy throughout the trip.

From there, we re-emerged into the madness of day-to-day Chennai streetlife. As we walked, we were assailed by beggars and touts as we wound our way past block after block of open market stalls selling all manner of products. Interestingly, the shopkeepers and stall operators took great offense to the child beggars. On at least two occasions, merchants grabbed the kids, popped them upside the head, and berated them in Tamil.

We had a very late lunch in one of Jeff's favorite restaurants, Dhabba Express. As is typical in Tamil Nadu, the main course consisted of a big bowl of rice with smaller bowls of gravy and sauce. No utensils. Instead, the sauce is mixed with rice using your fingers. You roll a ball and pop it into your mouth---using ONLY your right hand (your left hand is used for toilet duty). I got mutton Josh (I think roganjosh) as it seemed appropriate. Despite the fact that it was called mutton, this was goat rather than lamb/sheep and it was delicious; rich, spicy, and earthy. Those words cover most of the food we ate during the trip. They do not describe desserts, though. Those are overwhelmingly sweet, like the thing we had after lunch. It had a name that sounded like "jelly beans" and consisted of little orange funnel cakes drowned in a sweet syrup. Completely unhealthy and completely great.

Since we had bought cloth, I had to go to the tailor. I bought two meters of three different cloths---each enough for a stylish long sleeve shirt created especially for me and my unique dimensions. Each would cost far less than $10 for the cloth and the expert tailoring. Despite that bargain price, most Indians prefer "ready mades" which are status symbols. Too bad considering it was so cheap to look sooooo good.

After a siesta, we jumped another auto for a trio of important Chennai sites. First stop the Kappaleeswalar Temple. The city's biggest Hindu house of worship has an enormous tank (pool) and gopuram (tower made of row upon row of statues depicting mythic figures). The area was swamped with a large procession being led by orange robed monks with umbrellas. As they moved towards the temple we headed out to find another religious hotspot in town---the Church of San Tome. It is said to be the resting place of St. Thomas---"Doubting Thomas" of new testament fame. The apostle was buried beneath the big white church topped with a glowing red neon cross. Oddly, I was the only one of our trio who was awed, or even interested, in this site. Given the fact that was the only non-Christian, and the fact that Jeff is named for Saint Thomas, that struck me as a bit weird. For me, the impact that the apostles had on the history of this planet---not to mention the weird juxtaposition of this hugely important Christian figure finding his final resting place in this uniquely Hindu country was too much to pass up. In the end, there wasn't much to see there, but the stop led to some interesting conversations amongst the Jew, black Lutheran, and lapsed Catholic...

From the church to the beach. Chennai is on India's east coast and has three main city beaches. We hit the biggest, Marina Beach, which was the second widest beach in the world. I don't know how it ranks now as the 2004 tsunami pulled literally tons of sand out to see---along with hundreds of beach goers. The tragedy does not keep people away. The beach is a respite from the heat and is crowded every night. Most people enjoy the carnival atmosphere rather than getting into the water. Food booths, small rides, and game stalls keep beach goers entertained.

We ended the evening with a night cap (or two or three) at Dublin. Though it is advertised as an Irish pub, Dublin is one of the city's hottest dance clubs, and just happens to be in Jeff's hotel. Fashion restrictions were clearly looser with a lot more skin showing on the ladies and western styles for the guys. Some of the "American" clothes cracked us up. In Narita, I had joked that Japan was where bad American Tshirts go to die. Clearly bad Japanese Tshirts go to India... Guys had shirts that said things like "Detroit , USA Car Wash." What? (We later saw a better one that read "New England Basketball" with a football embroidered on it...Where do I start?)

But if fashion was skewed, music was not. Amidst the Hindi and Tamil club jams came Daddy Yankee's "Gasolina" and Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie." Global hits indeed. Despite the Shakira song, Indians don't use their hips and butts much when dancing; it's more about the shoulders, hands, and heads---which couldn't be more different from the singer!

NEXT: New Orleans in India; marauding monkeys; man-made caves; on the trail of tigers.