Around the World in a 60s Daze. Chapter III - Delhi and Rajistan

Dear Family and Friends,

It is not possible to come to India from a Western Country and not be shocked. The sights, smells, sounds, chaos, squalor, filth, traffic, animals, people, and beggars are simply overwhelming.

I arrived in Bombay/Mumbai a week ago Thursday night and got a pre-paid taxi to Kara's classmate Ranju's home in Malabar Hill at about 3:00AM. Malabar Hill is apparently the most expensive real estate in the world and it is certainly the best area of Bombay. On the trip from the airport I could see that the sidewalks were filled with people curled up sleeping. It was very gracious of Ranju and his wife Vinita to take me in as it certainly made my entry into India much easier.

I spent the next two days wandering around the highlights of Bombay, Colaba, India Gate, Chowpatty Beach, and Haji Ali Mosque (more later of this). Getting around is quite easy in that there are taxis everywhere, and they are so cheap. A 15 minute ride seldom costs more than 13 Rupees, about 40 cents. There are so many of these that it makes the London Cab seem rare in contrast. All cabs are a black Fiat with yellow roof. All, and I mean all, are dented and scratched, they belch black smoke (unlike here in Delhi where all cabs and auto rickshaws are being converted to natural gas).

The drivers are either maniacs or kamikaze wannabees, or both. I had one driver who will always be burnished in my brain. I got into his cab and as I was trying to give him directions, he slammed the car into gear, crunched into the traffic, shouting, god knows what, at me. We careened through the streets, and when stopped, he would rap on the windows of cars beside us trying to find out where my destination was, shouting at me much of the time. He was a bit vulpine in appearance, with piercing black eyes, a bit of madman look about him. He would loll behind the wheel when stopped, then drive with such total abandon and indifference, you couldn't help but admire him. He also had excellent honking technique. All cabbies honk, and most of them honk most of the time. This guy honked a lot too, mostly at random, but after a particularly hair raising encounter, he would give a kind of double toot that I took to be the equivalent of giving the finger.

Around the World in a 60s Daze. Chapter II - Zermatt

Dear Family and Friends:


When I first came to Zermatt in 1975 it was a rather small city with about 2,000 permanent residents. It was, even then, a prime destination for skiers and hikers but it remained the quintessential alpine village, high in the Alps at the base of the Matterhorn. The streets were then full of horse drawn carriages and only a few small electric cars were in use (no regular vehicles are allowed in the city). All the hotels, houses and chalets had flower boxes out and the whole place had a relaxed feel.

I've been back to Zermatt a number of times since 1975, but this time I am very much aware of how much it has changed. The flower boxes are still here (with nothing in them now, of course), but the horse drawn carriages are mostly gone and the remaining horses wear diapers, horse shit in the streets apparently offending the sensitivities of modern mountaineers. The narrow streets are filled with hordes of the even narrower electric cars. There are even new electric buses that whiz the tourists, who used to walk, to the ski lifts and back.

Still, the clip clop of the remaining horses with their harness bells jingling, the crunch of the snow when you walk, the twinkle of the Christmas lights in the City and across the valley as viewed from Bonny and Hermann's deck, and the sound of Hermann practising his Hacktbrett (Swiss mountain dulcimer) in the basement, all make Zermatt a captivating place and I've had a wonderful stay.