Cutting of a Camel

Each morning pigeons outside our window wake me up. They are properly stupid birds and don’t know how to shut up. Cooled by the fan, I roll over for thirty more minutes until my watch alarm goes off. Slowly, I get up, but before I do I debate with myself for 13 seconds if I really want to go running or if I want to go back to sleep. Surprisingly, because I don’t just love running for the sake of running or getting fit, running has been winning out. Standard morning things: brush my teeth, take a vitamin, eat a banana, and drink lots of water. Smelly from yesterday, I grab my shorts and t-shirt, throw on my shoes and socks and head out.

Everyday I say hello to the guard. He always waves back but looks confused. Still, he smiles. Out of the gate I make a right, give a jocular What’s Up Fellas to the three rickshaw drivers parker there, themselves waking up from the comforts of their back seat. With the rains extended this late into the year, the ground is always moist in the morning, and the biggest puddles are always on our block. By this time of the day the sun is warm and busy drinking any moisture left in the air but it is my favorite part of the day because the streets are not yet crowded, the shops just opening, it is the most opportune time to think myself inconspicuous. Compared to the U.S., the days here are shifted later with all the same meals and meetings, but everything just pushed later in the day. I like the morning.

At the top of our street I take another right, cross the street, pass the internet café, walk another 1000 feet and get to the lake. While walking I steal a page a book from Mom’s book and get many of the same responses. Usually I am dressed as ridiculously as she is when she goes running, she always wears tights, a massive hoodie, bunched socks, running shoes, maybe a hat, and I am wearing pink and purple Umbros, a blue shirt and bright yellow hat, and do some exercises to limber up while waving and smiling at everyone I pass. A couple toe touches, elbows to opposite knee, heel to butt. No matter what, people are going to stare so I step to center stage.

I’ve become a regular at the lake in the mornings and recognize a few others and each day our greetings become a little warmer. It’s nice. Stretching for a couple of minutes, I jog, huff and puff, and fart a lot. Those farts always feel good because dairy and I ge along so well on the front end and then our relationship is a little more noisy and clamorous on the backend. We’ve reached an impasse and this just seems to be our working relationship.

With my shirt soaked through, brow dripping, my mind clear and body feeling good, I start walking back to the flat, stopping off at the fruit seller. Of course, without fail, when I get back the rest of the guys are sleepily draped on the chairs in the living room with the T.V. blasting. With my fruit and the newspaper I sit on the balcony, cool off, pump some potassium and catch up on the latest Bollywood gossip.

Around 8:45 the maid comes. She is a great woman and we have a great relationship that consists of me getting in her way despite my every and best intention not too. She gets pissed when I leave banana peals on the counter, shoos me with her broom and cleans like a goddess. I run away and jump in the shower. These bucket showers are growing on me, a lot more playful and interactive than normal showers, not to mention that they save a lot of water. A little air dry under the fan, iron action (everyone here irons their clothing, it is unacceptable not to), lotion, hat and sunglasses and I am out the door.

Riding my bike is an experience in and of itself. People gawk – what the hell is that white guy doing riding a bike. Every single bike and car that passes jabs at me with its horn and I carefully counterattack with the poison of my bell. I fight bullets with flowers at every opportunity, sometimes just sprinkling serenades to lucky passerbys. Intersections are the worst. Riding towards them I feel like a NOAA pilot approaching the eye of the storm, survivors strewn about and speeding on their way, happy for their good fortune of survival. Like a good running back, I patiently wait for an opening and good lead blocker, then burst forward, hoping to get through but prepared for a collision.

Driving and riding a bike here is what conducting a vehicle will be like in 1,000 years on Mars. Will Smith stole the idea of his bad futuristic movies from the drivers here – there are no rules, no planes, no directions, cars going everywhere in every direction, cows, elephants, goats. Literally, people just do whatever they want, the wrong way down highways, u-turns, no signal… these are mild, not-even infractions. Drivers in the US and Europe just don’t understand it and will have to wait for commercial space travel prices to come down.

This madness is grating. People don’t honk as an insult, more as a warning but there are only so many blasts one can hear each morning without going crazy. I cant take all the honking and bad driving. It is instinctual. The New Yorker in me erupts all the time and it’s all I can do to cage it, like when people honk at me, as if I am at fault for driving on the correct side of the street and they and 2 passengers are speeding at me on their motorbike in the wrong direction right at me. What the fuck asshole, I think. You are wrong and I am right – move. But, instead I merge back into traffic and almost get nailed by an oncoming camel.

Finally I get to work, pouring sweat, happy to be safe, ready to start the day.