Bengaluru airport in Bangalore seemed nice, as airports go. At least at 2am in the morning local time there was not a lot of people other than the ones coming off my plane, and aside from the fact that it is carpeted (at least the sections I was in) which made it a little hard to drag your wheeled suitcase, the ambiance granted by the Indian version of Kenny G was quite nice. Customs and immigration was a breeze, but then I had just been sitting in a flying petri dish for 16 hours so my sense of proportion may have been a little skewed.
After getting my checked bag I went to currency exchange. I had $480 USD in my wallet just itching to be spent somewhere. That worked out after exchange fees and some suspicious mathematics to 28,000 rupees. This quickly resulted in a lesson I should have anticipated. As Yoda would have put it: “When 28,000 rupees your wallet gets, fold so good it will not.”
So with a bulge in my back pocket and an even larger wad of dough sitting in the most accessible pocket of my backpack, I grabbed my suit case and started off to the airport exit.
Then I came to my senses and switched my wallet to my front pocket, thinking that I would just tell people that yes, I AM happy to see them.
Heading toward the exit, there are the inevitable (but in this case also innumerable) folks standing there with signs for special people who have had drivers hired for them. At first I was thinking that maybe SAP decided to do this for me but after the first 20 folks with signs written in various scrawls that I could not decipher I figured that the gamble that SAP did NOT arrange a car for me was the most likely option, and trekked on toward where I anticipated the exit doors might be.
My plan was simple: find a taxi. This is an airport – a major one in a major city – and so I was not expecting that to be a problem. What I WAS expecting to be a problem was whether and how much to tip the cab driver. I know what you’re thinking: a smart boy would have looked this up prior to coming. Well, mister or missus smarty pants (if that is your real name), I DID look it up. I read several sites that all amount to the same thing: there are ranges of expectation depending on variables so numerous that at 2:30am in the morning after 16 hours of mostly sleepless flying and while trying to do the math to convert rupees to dollars to figure out how much American money such things were amounting to, well, it just wasn’t an easy problem to solve in my head, that’s what I’m trying to say.
And so distracted by all this computational load, I made my first mistake: I made eye contact with someone trying to pull weary travelers to their doom.
Or at least pull some money away from weary travelers. “You need a taxi?” I was asked. Um… yeah. Quickly flying through my head intertwined with all of the foreign exchange rate calculations was a memory of arriving in Paris and being asked the same question, only to be led AWAY from the taxis to a suspiciously dark looking sedan with no markings and having to argue getting back my luggage from the beefy man putting them in his trunk (which still had room for dead bodies after our luggage). But that was Paris. This is Bangalore. Surely this is different?
Banking on the fact that this guy was still inside the airport AND leading me to a kiosk within the airport with an official looking sign, I caved and followed the guy. We established destination and he quoted me a price. I thought to myself that this is India, the land of haggling and price-wrangling, and so I said “sounds good, let’s go.” He pointed to a kid outside the airport and said “pay me and then go see him.” The kid smiled through multiple windows. I think there was a brief animal shine to his eyes but that could have just been some passing headlights. Or the powers of hell.
I found my way outside the airport and the kid found me. “Eyesh” is what he seemed to be telling me his name was, but it was either that or he was referring to his animal eye shine and I wasn’t hearing it right. It was noisy and he talked quiet. A lot.
He led me AWAY from the taxis. I started to get nervous, but I figured that since I’m like 3x his weight and have advanced training in martial arts from watching Karate Kid several times (many years ago, admittedly) I would see where he was taking me.
Fortunately it was not far, nor was it to a place around a corner out of the line of site from various law enforcement officers. He walked me to a parking lot with a plethora of same-looking vehicles, which made me think this was indeed legit.
“You wait here,” he says and walks off toward one of the cars, seemingly chosen at random, since they all look alike except for the one NEXT to the one he chooses. That one has someone in it and the windows are open. The one Eyesh chooses has closed windows and I can’t see anything inside it. Eyesh starts banging on the window. Again. And again. And again.
And again.
After about 30 seconds of this, someone rises into view like Dracula sitting up out of his coffin. He rolls the window down and is clearly rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
Well, ok, it is like 3am local time now. That’s not too much in the realm of unexpectedness. Probably he’s a union guy.
The dude pulls the car out and over to me, at which point Eyesh grabs my suitcase and says “you come.” And unlike all of the feral dogs running around in the airport parking lot, I obey.
He puts my suitcase in the back of the car, and I hop into the back seat and close the door. The driver already has a paper saying where to take me. Eyesh is standing outside the door and staring at me.
And staring.
I notice this but am busy getting other stuff situated like seatbelt, pulling out my battery-starved phone, pulling my bulging wallet out of my pocket so that I can sit like a normal human being, etc.
He’s still staring.
Ok, so I’m in India and clearly an outsider. But I think I know what he wants. But I don’t like the staring. And the smallest bill I have is 100 rupees. That seems like a lot. Oh wait… that’s like $1.40.
I open my window and look him in the eyes. Those staring, haunted eyes. And I realize two things. This dude doesn’t blink. Ever. Nor does he avert his gaze like a polite human being would. The second thing I realize is how much he reminds me of someone...
Well, except that Eyesh had legs. And didn’t squeak when he moved. Because he didn’t have wheels. But that stare was pretty scary.
I figured I had to be bold. Weakness is death.
“Are you waiting for something?” I ask.
Stare.
“Are you expecting something?” I figured with this I’d get him to feel shame at staring at me like my dog does when I’m juggling hot dogs.
Mistake #2: don’t ask a question if you’re not prepared for answers you’re not looking for.
“It is your decision,” Eyesh informs me.
Oh, well, then. I better pay the lad. 200 rupees ought to give him a smile and STOP THAT INFERNAL STARE.
It does not.
And what the hell is taking this driver so long to get started?!?!? Go driver, go! Awake and let ‘er rip!!!
And finally with a sputter, a few toodles of the horn and some flashing of the high beams, we’re off.
But to where???
After getting my checked bag I went to currency exchange. I had $480 USD in my wallet just itching to be spent somewhere. That worked out after exchange fees and some suspicious mathematics to 28,000 rupees. This quickly resulted in a lesson I should have anticipated. As Yoda would have put it: “When 28,000 rupees your wallet gets, fold so good it will not.”
So with a bulge in my back pocket and an even larger wad of dough sitting in the most accessible pocket of my backpack, I grabbed my suit case and started off to the airport exit.
Then I came to my senses and switched my wallet to my front pocket, thinking that I would just tell people that yes, I AM happy to see them.
Heading toward the exit, there are the inevitable (but in this case also innumerable) folks standing there with signs for special people who have had drivers hired for them. At first I was thinking that maybe SAP decided to do this for me but after the first 20 folks with signs written in various scrawls that I could not decipher I figured that the gamble that SAP did NOT arrange a car for me was the most likely option, and trekked on toward where I anticipated the exit doors might be.
My plan was simple: find a taxi. This is an airport – a major one in a major city – and so I was not expecting that to be a problem. What I WAS expecting to be a problem was whether and how much to tip the cab driver. I know what you’re thinking: a smart boy would have looked this up prior to coming. Well, mister or missus smarty pants (if that is your real name), I DID look it up. I read several sites that all amount to the same thing: there are ranges of expectation depending on variables so numerous that at 2:30am in the morning after 16 hours of mostly sleepless flying and while trying to do the math to convert rupees to dollars to figure out how much American money such things were amounting to, well, it just wasn’t an easy problem to solve in my head, that’s what I’m trying to say.
And so distracted by all this computational load, I made my first mistake: I made eye contact with someone trying to pull weary travelers to their doom.
Or at least pull some money away from weary travelers. “You need a taxi?” I was asked. Um… yeah. Quickly flying through my head intertwined with all of the foreign exchange rate calculations was a memory of arriving in Paris and being asked the same question, only to be led AWAY from the taxis to a suspiciously dark looking sedan with no markings and having to argue getting back my luggage from the beefy man putting them in his trunk (which still had room for dead bodies after our luggage). But that was Paris. This is Bangalore. Surely this is different?
Banking on the fact that this guy was still inside the airport AND leading me to a kiosk within the airport with an official looking sign, I caved and followed the guy. We established destination and he quoted me a price. I thought to myself that this is India, the land of haggling and price-wrangling, and so I said “sounds good, let’s go.” He pointed to a kid outside the airport and said “pay me and then go see him.” The kid smiled through multiple windows. I think there was a brief animal shine to his eyes but that could have just been some passing headlights. Or the powers of hell.
I found my way outside the airport and the kid found me. “Eyesh” is what he seemed to be telling me his name was, but it was either that or he was referring to his animal eye shine and I wasn’t hearing it right. It was noisy and he talked quiet. A lot.
He led me AWAY from the taxis. I started to get nervous, but I figured that since I’m like 3x his weight and have advanced training in martial arts from watching Karate Kid several times (many years ago, admittedly) I would see where he was taking me.
Fortunately it was not far, nor was it to a place around a corner out of the line of site from various law enforcement officers. He walked me to a parking lot with a plethora of same-looking vehicles, which made me think this was indeed legit.
“You wait here,” he says and walks off toward one of the cars, seemingly chosen at random, since they all look alike except for the one NEXT to the one he chooses. That one has someone in it and the windows are open. The one Eyesh chooses has closed windows and I can’t see anything inside it. Eyesh starts banging on the window. Again. And again. And again.
And again.
After about 30 seconds of this, someone rises into view like Dracula sitting up out of his coffin. He rolls the window down and is clearly rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
Well, ok, it is like 3am local time now. That’s not too much in the realm of unexpectedness. Probably he’s a union guy.
The dude pulls the car out and over to me, at which point Eyesh grabs my suitcase and says “you come.” And unlike all of the feral dogs running around in the airport parking lot, I obey.
He puts my suitcase in the back of the car, and I hop into the back seat and close the door. The driver already has a paper saying where to take me. Eyesh is standing outside the door and staring at me.
And staring.
I notice this but am busy getting other stuff situated like seatbelt, pulling out my battery-starved phone, pulling my bulging wallet out of my pocket so that I can sit like a normal human being, etc.
He’s still staring.
Ok, so I’m in India and clearly an outsider. But I think I know what he wants. But I don’t like the staring. And the smallest bill I have is 100 rupees. That seems like a lot. Oh wait… that’s like $1.40.
I open my window and look him in the eyes. Those staring, haunted eyes. And I realize two things. This dude doesn’t blink. Ever. Nor does he avert his gaze like a polite human being would. The second thing I realize is how much he reminds me of someone...
 |
| Then I remember: this guy from the X-Files. |
I figured I had to be bold. Weakness is death.
“Are you waiting for something?” I ask.
Stare.
“Are you expecting something?” I figured with this I’d get him to feel shame at staring at me like my dog does when I’m juggling hot dogs.
Mistake #2: don’t ask a question if you’re not prepared for answers you’re not looking for.
“It is your decision,” Eyesh informs me.
Oh, well, then. I better pay the lad. 200 rupees ought to give him a smile and STOP THAT INFERNAL STARE.
It does not.
And what the hell is taking this driver so long to get started?!?!? Go driver, go! Awake and let ‘er rip!!!
And finally with a sputter, a few toodles of the horn and some flashing of the high beams, we’re off.
But to where???
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