Welcome to India

Ammonia tingles my nose, then my eyes. I look up, and the ceiling panels above me are browned from water damage. The windows are painted over or boarded up. Air conditioners buzz and whir, almost chirping. It’s cooler than outside, but it’s not comfortable. It feels like I’m in a building stuck in the 70s, but reality dawns on me: I’m in Kolkata.

Welcome to India.

There’s a rush to the door and it’s not orderly or polite. People push and jostle, indiscriminate of age or gender. At the end of the line we’re being scanned for H1N1. It’s a quick temperature check, but such lines always make me feel that much closer to quarantine. After the scan, the line continues to customs and immigration. It’s no longer a clustered crowd but an orderly queue. I have personal space, but with it come the stares.

I’m wearing a blue windbreaker, plaid blue shorts, rubber slippers and a small camo backpack. I look around and remember something: men do not wear shorts in India. Whether it is that or my blatant foreign appearance, I don’t know, but I feel eyes upon me.

In an instant, the foreigner line is empty and somehow I bypass a line of Indians returning home. Some are not amused. One man points at me while speaking in Hindi and staring me down. After a short rant, the crowd gasps in shock, and a woman in line reprimands him. A police officer puts his hand over his mouth to conceal a laugh but fails. He approaches me and says, “No, no, do not worry. You are our guest.”

Welcome to India.

After customs, I grab my bag from baggage claim and waited in line for money exchange. The line did not move, and I didn’t feel like waiting (It was well past 1 a.m. local time, and more than 24 hours since I had left home). I saw Rick and Sushil waiting at the gates anyways, and with them were Brandon and Paige. Everyone looked happy to be leaving the airport.

Outside, the humidity slapped me like a warm, wet towel. “It’s just like Orlando,” Paige says. But very much unlike Hawaii, I thought. Nor is the air. Nor are the sights.

“Well guys,” Rick says, “Welcome to India.”

Walking to the car, we notice a few boys loitering in the parking lot, the youngest around four, the oldest about 14. They ask if we need help with our bags. We don’t, but they want donations. When we refuse, they stand between us and the car doors. If feels awkward and somewhat threatening, but maybe I just haven’t experienced it before.

No matter. Everyone is in and Sushil tries to back the car out, but Rick tells him to stop. The little boy jumps up and down, banging on the window, asking for money.

Unrelenting begging and we haven’t even left the airport. Welcome to India.