Making Friends and Influencing People in India

This is a guest post from Wes at JohnnyVagabond.com one of my favorite travel blogs and probably the best storyteller in the online travel niche.

I love Indian train rides. Some travelers prefer the comfort of the air-conditioned first-class cars but I’ve found that the real fun is in the second-class berths, where you’re guaranteed a seat and you get to spend time with everyday Indian families. I’ve met some amazing people this way, shared meals, held babies, played video games with kids, and have even been invited to get off at the next stop and stay in a stranger’s home.

You’ll learn more about India in a single overnight train ride than you would in a month-long packaged tour. So I was disappointed to find that my bunkmates on this particular trip just didn’t seem to like me.

I was traveling from the holy town of Pushkar to Haridwar, where I would make my way to Rishikesh on the sacred Ganges. I was sharing a cabin with two brothers in their fifties and their wives. The eldest wife seemed to dislike me immediately, giving me a friendly glare as I said hello. The men said polite hellos, then looked away and continued their conversation. This is going to be a tough crowd.

We were all bundled up for the cold, wearing jackets and knit caps and I learned that they, too, were headed to Haridwar. I’m usually able to charm my way into a conversation pretty easily and had no doubts that we’d all be best buddies soon. I might have to slip on a banana peel to break the ice, but I’d win them over sooner or later.

While in Pushkar, I had decided to have my head shaved — I’d never tried it before and half of it was gone already, so I thought it’d be a fun experience. And it became a nice ritual, heading down to the barber shop every few days to gossip with the barbers while they worked me over with a straight razor. Pushkar is an important Hindu pilgrimage site and they did a brisk business, removing men’s locks before they made their way down to the lake to perform pujas and pray.

It was there that I learned that the local term for a shaven head is a “Full Moon” (my soul patch was an “Ali Baba”) and teasing shouts of “Hey, Full Moon!” would often follow me down the winding streets. So when one of the men in my cabin removed his hat, revealing a newly-bald head, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to forge some kind of connection. His brother appeared to be bald as well. Perfect!

“You’re a Full Moon, too!” I said with a grin, pulling my cap off to present my pale, shining dome. “I have to say it looks better on you than me,” I joked. He just stared at me for a long moment and I could swear that the temperature in the cabin dropped ten degrees.

“Ummm.. in Pushkar, they call this a Full Moon haircut,” I continued, lamely. “Maybe they call it something else in your town?” Without replying, he turned to his wife and continued speaking in Hindi. I sat there for another twenty minutes or so, but no one looked my way. I didn’t exist.

Puzzled and feeling uncomfortable, I decided to retreat to the walkway between cars to practice my hobby of taking blurry photos from moving trains. I’ve never taken a single usable shot, but I just can’t stand the idea that I might miss something so I continue to slaughter pixels by the millions.

There I was befriended by two young Indian men who were excited to talk to an American and seemed determined to convince me that they were “wild and crazy”. This was accomplished by reminding me over and over that they were both “wild” and –on occasion– “crazy”. They were nice guys and had a million questions that were more intended to demonstrate their knowledge of American culture than actually elicit an answer.

“Your Michael Phelps, the swimmer, he has been getting in trouble with the ladies and marriage-a-wanna, yes?” When I admitted that if I were in my twenties, world-famous and had the physique of an Olympic champion I would probably do the same thing, he paused a moment and nodded as if to say “Okay, you may have a point.”

“Obama is your forty-third president. Who was the thirty-third?” I resisted the urge to say “Hell, man, I don’t know. I’m an American” and guessed Truman, knowing he couldn’t access Google to fact-check me. After awhile, they ran out of questions and began merely throwing out names of celebrities in a rapid-fire fashion, saying “Oprah Winfrey! Fifty Cents!” and watching me for a reaction.

Normally I would find this entertaining, but my failure to connect with the others had left me in a bad mood so I said my goodbyes and made my way back to the cabin, where I was met with more glacial stares. Admitting defeat, I climbed into the top bunk and spent the rest of the trip reading.

Thankfully, the train rolled into Haridwar early the next morning and I scurried off the train quickly, anxious to avoid anymore awkwardness. The scene outside was like most Indian train stations, with dozens of touts shouting for attention and hundreds of people cramming piles of luggage and packages into rickshaws, tuk tuks and carts. I spent five minutes negotiating with a tuk tuk driver to drive me the final twenty kilometers to Rishikesh, then climbed aboard for what would prove to be the craziest ride of my life.

Leaving the station yard, I passed the two couples as they were organizing their luggage and –to my surprise– all four gave me wide smiles and waved as we rattled by, shouting Namaste and touching their hearts in that wonderful Indian way. I waved back and grinned, thoroughly confused. I thought they hated me.

A week later, I figured out what had happened. I was waiting my turn at a small barber shop and noticed that the man in the chair was particularly grim-faced as his full head of hair was shaved off. Noticing my interest, the barber explained the situation once I was in the chair: “That man is very sad. His father has died, so he shaves his head to mourn.”

The lightbulb in my head flickered, blinked and finally went on, illuminating my growing horror and shame. Oh, my God. I am such an asshole. Of all the social blunders that I can imagine, making light of a death in someone’s family has to be pretty damned high on the list. They had been on their way to a funeral and I was bouncing around, making fart sounds with my armpit. No wonder they reacted like that. And there was nothing I could do about it — I’d never see them again and have the chance to apologize or explain. I literally felt sick.

But then I remembered their genuine smiles as I left and realized that they understood that I was just trying to be friendly. They were put off by my joke but knew there was no malice in my comments, only ignorance. I like to think that they recognized the respect and openness that I displayed in my other actions, and refused to judge me on the basis of one unfortunate wisecrack. They forgave me.

As we travel around the world, we’re always warned of what not to do in a given culture: never shake with your left hand, don’t point your feet at someone, never touch a monk and such. And, while it is important to learn these things and do our best to conform to local customs, it’s equally important to not let the fear of screwing up prevent us from truly letting go, diving into a culture and really interacting with people in a meaningful way. If you treat people with respect, I’ve found that they’ll let a lot of things slide.

This won’t be my last faux pas, I’m sure, but I don’t worry about it because for every embarrassing, awkward encounter I endure, I know I’ll be rewarded with dozens of amazingly rich experiences. And that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?

About the author:

Wes Nations is one year into an open-ended around-the-world adventure, traveling low and slow, taking pics and telling lies. He’s explored much of SE Asia, India and Nepal and is currently resting up in Chiang Mai, Thailand.

Pic: mikereys