Scene:

We need a portable CD player. An Indian one, that we can plug into Indian sockets and carry around with us. We are still without our HHE and so have none of our stereo components. We've been listening to music on our computer, which has (HAD) very good speakers. However, the crests and troughs of a different electrical system, despite the many precautions of stabilizers, step-down converters , and surge protectors, blew something out (to know precisely what that thing is, you'll have to ask Chris). So we find ourselves without music, which is a tragedy. So I have to go get a CD player.

Enter Beth, stage left:

Ganesh (my driver buddy) took me to the Indian electronics bazaar, which is very far from my house, and I shopped around for a player that I liked and that was cheap. However, I had forgotten to bring cash with me and didn't have enough to buy the one I wanted. I then went all the way back across town to the consulate, because it was closer than the house, to get cash from Chris. Which he didn't have. And I was sad and went home without a CD player.

Next day, I had a number of appointments that took up a huge part of my day. And I was surprised early by the person who was to pick me up for lunch, and I ran out of the house without cash. Again. I am so used to being able to use my bank card as cash that I still feel strange carrying a lot of money on my person. So I hook up with Ganesh again after my duties have been fulfilled and go BACK to the bazaar, still with no cash, but desperate to buy a CD player so that Chris can listen to his music and not be sad. I buy one with a credit card, which is a sort of sketchy thing to do in an Indian bazaar. But whatever. We have a CD player.

Back at home:

I am confronted immediately by the cable guys (Manny and Moe, of Manny, Moe and Jack fame). FINALLY. We've been trying to get cable for six weeks now. I am very relieved and happy. Not only do I have a CD player, but I have also procured cable! What a day! But the cable guys tell me that my TV is too old to have cable and that I just, essentially, spent rs 5,500 for a cable box, which I now own outright, for nothing. I am devastated. But at least I have my CD player.

Enter Greek Chorus:

You saw this coming, right? I mean, it's as obvious as the fact that our bags didn't make it to India when we did, right? Right? The damn CD player does not work. At all. It is a piece of garbage. It worked in the store. I made them show me. I really did. It's too late at this point to call Ganesh and have him take me back. And it's so far away, in a part of town that I don't know, that I can't take a rickshaw. I send Chris and e-mail informing him that India and I are not getting along today.

Next day:

I am going to kick some ass. Seriously. I have to a) make my way back to the electronics bazaar on my own and b) confront the jokers that sold me this piece of crap CD player and get either my money back (on a credit card from a fairly shady place) or a new CD player. I am not happy. I get a rickshaw.

Enter Old Rickshaw-Wallah:

Generally, in a situation where I need to have a sort of involved conversation about where I need to go, I look for a very young rickshaw driver. They speak better English and have a better knowledge of places that I may want to go. In Chennai, addresses mean absolutely nothing. First of all, all of the street names have changed since 1997 and the name that any single person chooses to recognize is based on very spurious criteria. All things here are navigated by familiar landmarks (for instance, I live near the Park Sheraton Hotel, not at my address. My address, in fact, is not even on the street that it claims to be on). However, a very old man pulled up next to me and smiled as big a smile as I have ever seen. He was seventy if he was a day. I told him the basic gist of where I needed to go. He smiled, grabbed my crappy CD player to put it in the seat, and said “YES! RITCHIE ROAD BY MOUNT ROAD! OK!”. So I got in.

Chennai is notorious for its horrifying driving experience. I have never mentioned it on this site because I have never actually been frightened. I feel that the drivers here understand what they're doing and have a certain amount of control over the situation. This man, however, really made me sit up and take notice. Take notice of the proximity of the pedestrians to my skirt hem. The proximity of the bus into whose lane we intruded. The distance, which ultimately became nil, of the police car that we actually ran into. All this, mind you, in the midst of one of those serious monsoon moments. Some streets were so flooded that we couldn't pass through them. All the while, he is yelling obscenities in Tamil at every person that he nearly ran over.

Taking the route that he took, I was not even remotely convinced that we were going where I wanted to go. Nothing looked familiar, and I was also busy hanging onto my things as they skidded out the sides of the rickshaw. Then he says “HERE! WE ARE HERE!”. He proceeds to pull up near two motorcycles parked by the sidewalk, in a place that I do not recognize at all. He jumps out of the rickshaw, picks up each motorcycle, one at a time, and physically moves them over. He is an old man, if you will remember. A very strong old man. In the small space that is created by this machination, he parks the rickshaw.

Wow.

It is not permitted here for a man to hold a woman's hand in public. However, if we had been anywhere else, he certainly would have taken my hand, pulled me out of the rickshaw, and dragged me down the streets of the bazaar like a man possessed. He, carrying my defunct CD player and a business card of the shady establishment that sold it to me, trundled me through the narrow crowded alleys, through the mud and puddles, me running behind him like a little lost child. Miraculously, we arrived at the very doorway of the shop in question. Smiling all the while, he was. And I had not paid him yet.

Delighted, I went in and began my “Very Seriously Upset and Dismayed” routine. My rickshaw driver followed me in. Mind you, we had never had a conversation about whether or not he would wait for me and drive me anywhere else after this stop. He was just sort of there.

Enter Beth The Actress:

I did a real number on these guys. I tallied up for them the expense of traveling back and forth from my home to their shop. I discussed with them the heartache it had caused me to have my husband come home and find a CD player that did not work (claiming fierceness on the part of one's husband is a crucial bargaining tool in India). I compared the price and quality of their wares to the very same wares in America. I drank some tea with them. All the while, the old rickshaw driver is standing there, watching these proceedings, and giggling his ass off. He's laughing, guffawing, making fun of the shop attendants (of which, typically, there were seven or eight), and sometimes actually clapping when I made a really good bargaining point.

In the end, I walked out with a far superior CD player (it plays video games and is also a karaoke machine) without paying any additional money. Now, I am not a bargainer by nature and I never haggle, even though one is expected to here. In fact, good haggling skills are looked upon with respect. But after being in Tiajuana and watching disgustingly wealthy Americans barter for precious pesos with starving Mexicans, I never took to the art. One of those early experiences that affects one for life. I'm trying to adjust to the local norm.

We walked out, me and my rickshaw driver, happy people. He insisted on carrying my new CD player and still, in the mud and muck, managed to do a jig. He laughed and clapped and danced in celebration of my victory in the electronic shop.

Winding our way back to the rickshaw (he still would have been leading me by the hand if it were possible), we laughed and congratulated each other. Upon arriving at our vehicle, we discovered, much to his dismay, that we were blocked in by a truck. I got into the rickshaw while he went to look for the offending parker. He yelled. He honked the horn of the truck (windows are always open and doors always unlocked here). He fumed. He stomped. Finally, as I watched through the back window of the rickshaw, he climbed into the truck, HOTWIRED the damn thing, and backed it up. We extricated ourselves. He then moved the truck back to where it had been, turned it off, and we drove away. On the way home, flush with the victory of my obtaining my CD player and full of love for this old man who was shepherding me through the streets of Chennai, I was no longer afraid of his driving. If ever a man knew these streets, it was he.

Finis.