I miss seatbelts even more than tap water

Albert and I are in considerably better condition this week than last on a number of fronts: legally registered, financially un-pariahed, and reconnected by cell phone. With “settling in” having stretched almost to three weeks, it’s time for me to get to work. As theory begins to confront practice, however, I am feeling a wee bit daunted. Especially since, in my case, the theory was pretty much “I’ll figure it out when I get there” which means that my whole to-do list consists of the single, distressingly vague bullet point “figure it out.” Instead of talking at length about that, though, I’ll offer a little local color.

I definitely am warming to Delhi. I can have naan everyday if I want to, but there are also stores to buy peanut butter, wheat bread, and cheddar cheese. I can read extensive coverage of the Bollywood-organized crime nexus in each day’s paper and The Hindu (admittedly a Bombay publication) has a really excellent crossword. There are coffee shop chains that have infiltrated pretty much every major commercial zone in the city, so there is always someplace to go sit where it is cool and I can people watch and drink one of the creamsicle-like concoctions that I prefer to actual coffee.

The downside to Delhi is that not only are large parts of it outdoors (ridiculously shortsighted, obviously) it exists in a three dimensional space such that I have to move between different points in the city to go about my day. If someone invents a teleporter, Delhi will be awesome.

Because the traffic is outrageous even by third world standards. The informal bad habits – like the use of horns in place of turn signals or treating every traffic lane as if it were 2 or 3 or 4.5 or whatever else vehicle width permits – are combined with these mind-bogglingly dangerous planned features of the roads. For example, there are ramps on the highway that run in the exact opposite direction of the traffic, so that the driver is just supposed to get up to speed and then merge while veering across the oncoming traffic onto the proper side of the road. Less expensive than building a fly-over, yes. But bad for the blood pressure.

Then there is the condition of the roads. I traveled to the Taj Mahal two weeks ago in a rented car and, no sooner do we pull into Agra, than the driver runs into a large concrete block, which becomes wedged underneath the car and drags about two meters while on the undercarriage, making a white mark on the road like a huge piece of sidewalk chalk. Now, I don’t really understand how the driver managed to not see the hunk of cement. But I think it is also noteworthy that (a) this chunk of cement was a piece of the median that had made a bid for freedom and (b) despite the fact that several traffic officers converged on the scene to argue about something, I am fairly certain no one ever moved the cement out of the road.

Anthropology types would probably make some comment about how India’s roads are a chaotic yet organic ballet of noise and motion and, unnerving as it may be to Western sensibilities, the roads work according to their own subaltern logic of coordination matrices, or whatever. This is hogwash. India has terrible traffic statistics. When I first arrived, the government had just begun a re-inspection program on the city’s Blue Line bus system. (Some sort of sub-contractor, perhaps, since there is also a White Line bus system and seeing as how politicians have a generally antagonistic attitude toward the buses). As this was the issue of the day, the newspapers highlighting every accident involving the Blue Liners—and using such journalistically temperate phrases as “There would seem to be no end to the reign of terror” to do it. Purple-prosey as that is, I eventually started to agree since the papers were able to gleefully report on 1 to 2 new pedestrian deaths caused by Blue Liners every day.

But I reserve my real outrage for the motorcycles/scooters here. There seems to be some sort of law about drivers wearing helmets, so most do. But passengers never have them. So you’ll see this man driving along, with his wife and kids piled on a motorcycle, and he’s got the only helmet. The wife, due to notions of propriety, is riding side-saddle on the back of the motorcycle, possibly holding a baby in one arm. Another child sits between dad’s legs on the foot rest area of the scooter. And, if needs be, one kid can sit between mom and dad. And, again, only dad has a helmet. Such chivalry! Sure, your spouse and progeny are one unexpected bump away from being human jelly, but at least your wife isn’t destroying the family honor by straddling a cycle in public.

I often feel like I want to give the drivers of Delhi a firm scolding. But the fact that one does have to move around in the city means that standards start to drop quickly. I had to ride on the back of a cycle for about 5 blocks during the housing search. I almost cried I was so scared. And I think I’ve taken an auto-rickshaw ride with a driver who, in retrospect, I’m pretty sure was stoned. On the upside, Delhi has one of the nicest metro’s I’ve ever seen, although the coverage is limited. The exact same computerized voice which tells you to “Mind the Gap” in London pleasantly warns you, here in Delhi, not to touch unattended objects as “they may contain explosives. Thank you.” But I think it’s still safer than the streets.