Chennai

According to Wikipedia, Chennai is the Detroit of India. Now I can’t say I’ve been to Detroit, but I feel pretty confident in saying that Chennai has no equivalent in the United States.

Chennai is one of (if not the) largest city in the state of Tamil Nadu. That locates it in eastern India, right on the coast of the Bay of Bengal. My gender studies teacher has often extolled Tamil Nadu for being one of the better Indian states in the way of interrelations between the sexes. She did not, however, warn us that Chennai was also a primordial bog of humidity, dirt, pollution, and mammalian outputs of the fecal variety. In an environment like that, you’ve got to stick together.

There are a lot of cultural excursions built into the study abroad program in India. Chennai was not one of them. It was an experience that we decided to bring upon ourselves with a naïve willingness. Although all of us students decided to go, it became gender-segregated as the boys set off with plans to be cost-effective and “rough it” by sleeping in the streets, on the beach, in a forest, or wherever else they could spread a yoga mat (read: in a five-star hotel). Us girls, more practical but equally as cheap, had made reservations in hostel that cost 70 rupees a night (about $1.50). So while the guys took one look at Chennai and hopped the first train out to go be rugged and manly in the luxury of a neighboring French colony, the girls set up temporary homes in the midst of a mosquito colony. The Salvation Army Hostel boasted metals beds with what I swear were holographic projections of mattresses and bug-infested bathrooms with squat toilets the doors half rotten away. Not exactly a romantic get-away kind of deal, I’m afraid.

Oh, and as previously mentioned, Chennai is on the coast. If white sand beaches and fresh saltwater aromas tickle your fancy, well… the Bay of Bengal might not be for you. Replace “hunting for seashells” with “dodging dead fish” and imagine laying out your beach blanket next to the emptied skin of a poor canine and you’ve basically got the makings for a Chennai beach. ‘Thong Song’ enthusiasts will also be disappointed—even if you were brave enough to strip down to your skivvies and expose your skin to the questionable Bengali waters, you’re not going to find much support here. India has yet to accept the knee-length skirt and Capris into its wardrobe repertoire; the swimsuit is asking far too much. (I’ve yet to conclusively decide whether this is good or bad, seeing as the idea of swimsuit shopping is infamous for causing undue panic and stress in the lives of women everywhere. Maybe the Indian ladies are onto something that we are not?)

The city scene was not much more impressive to me than the beach. It’s difficult to paint a picture of India that I feel an American would be able to comprehend. Chennai smells like a port-a-potty on a busy highway in the middle of August, and it looks like a frontier civilization from the Wild West—the ones with the colorful names like Toe Jam or Hang Man or similar. Scarecrow dogs so thin their entire internal anatomy is visible roam without any discernable purpose or control, and cows—yes, those holy cows—chew on garbage, emit all sorts of unsettling fluids, and mix their own barnyard fragrance into the already noxious, sun-baked city smell. Sidewalks crumble into dirt, cars honk wildly, and a population upwards of a billion is going about their business in the tropical heat without a second thought to their conditions. I’m not sure that I’ve gotten to see much of the Americanized, wealthy India I’ve heard connected with technology and urbanization; most everything has been carnal and back-to-the-basics. I come from a world of computers, video games, and private lawns; the open humanity and resourceful practicality of Indian life is something simultaneously shocking and intriguing.

I can’t say Chennai was all bad. It did have some fabulous American eats that cost more than a night with the Salvation Army, and I definitely left with an ardent appreciation for Mysore living. In the end, I suppose I can chalk it up as a learning experience. I’m a spoiled American, and I’ve been finding that I’m only comfortable in India’s extremes about half the time. At least I will never be able to complain about hotel rooms, beaches, or city streets in the same way ever again. And, after India, all the clogged toilets in the world won’t even make me blink. Bring on your worst, American Bathrooms. At this point, I’d say I’m a thug of porcelain thrones (or porcelain-surrounded holes in the ground, depending on your country of origin).