India Journal: Outings in Chennai

I went to Spencer mall by an auto rickshaw the other day. The auto-rickshaws that I see here are in much better condition than those of Jaipur – even the yellow paint seems brighter and less tarnished. The ride of about 2 km from the hotel to the mall cost me about Rs.50.

The mall is a beehive of small shops. Only a couple of businesses deserve to be called stores. One store is a two-level book and supply called Lansing’s in which the books are at least organized by topic, although not alphabetically by author or title. Among the shops, I think there were an equal number of hawkers working the halls as there were shoppers walking those halls. Hawkers seem to be especially common for the small clothing and craft shops. I suspect they’re told to target those of us with whiter complexions; i.e., tourists. I’ve learned the quick and easy head shake for “no” to back them off quickly without having to break my stride. Part of my purpose of going to the mall was to do some mall walking, not engage in hawker talking.

I did find a store that had electrical plug converters that I had long sought. Sometimes finding the simplest items in India can mimic the challenges of a scavenger hunt. However, before I could buy the converters that I wanted, I had to endure the salesman attempting to sell me a type that would not have worked with my American plugs. He tried to convince me that I was wrong, but to my good fortune, I saw exactly what I needed next to the ones that he’d tried to foist upon me.Those, I bought.

I walked for a short ways outside, but as in virtually every Indian city I’ve been in, the walk was not very pleasant. Noisy traffic, fumes, and poorly kept (if existent) sidewalks do not invite casual strolls. With enough exercise under my belt to satisfy myself, I grabbed a return ride for Rs.100 (the return trip is longer because of detours). The initial ask was Rs.150. Bargaining is a way of life here.

In the evening, I joined the Iowa Guru on her quest for some colored card-stock paper, note cards, and foam pieces. She had been directed by her students to a bazaar of paper wallas. The areas proved a long trip from the hotel, even in the car she’s provided. When we arrived around 6 p.m., we found the area crowded, with paper store after paper store after paper store in several directions. An initial inquiry at one store pointed the shop across the street, where the next inquiry pointed us upstairs, where the next inquiry pointed us to a different shop again. In the second store, I saw one hallway so crowded with paper boxes and other paraphernalia that we could hardly squeeze through. At that point, I had more fear of fire than the Scarecrow of Oz. We had to take an elevator to the fifth floor (complete with elevator operator). Fortunately, it was a quick trip, as the small elevator and cramped conditions in the building quickly instilled a sense of claustrophobia in me. But for all our hunting and adventuring in that shop, we turned away empty-handed. In the fourth or fifth shop (one loses count quickly), the Guru found what she needed amongst the stacks of 2014 diaries located inside and just outside of the shop. While I waited just outside (to avoid the stifling heat in the store that remained despite the overhead fans twirling at top speed), the Guru sat patiently beside the shopkeeper waiting for the goods that she’d requested to inspect. The shopkeeper remained glued to the chair next to his till. (He had no cash register, just a cash drawer.) From this perch, he would bark orders to his many minions like a John Barrymore movie character. The Guru suspects the stock boys hid in the storage area across the way just to avoid the old man’s constant barking of directions. Finally, the stock boys returned with the requested goods that met with the Guru's approval. The Guru, by the way, remained serene and composed throughout all of the delay,while I'd feared she might have simply wilted in her seat or to have gone postal in response to the chaos.

We celebrated her small victory with the dinner at the second most highly rated restaurant in Chennai (according to some travel guide). We were glad that it was well known because it seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, located on a narrow, darkly lit street. In fact, although the street was dimly lit, it did seem to be home to a number of high-end shops and maybe some high-end hotels. Because streets are almost uniformly poor here, they don’t readily suggest their occupants.

We tried the Italian cuisine, pizzas to be precise, which proved indifferent. On most occasions, it is a mistake to try to order foreign cuisine in India. Only on rare occasions has the venture proved anything more than passable.

My next venture will be to find a working ATM and a pair of AA batteries. Good luck to me.