Bad Whiskey…Bad!

Happy New Years! After a record of 8 days not eating (save the “Christmas Feast” experience and the Soup Victory), fever, delirium and other not so savory elements of Delhi Belly, I mustered up the gusto to hit the town for new years eve and ring in 2008 in as much style as I could muster basically meaning I threw on a dirty hoodie and Arunji and I shuffled down to the bar down the street (one of two in the entire district) called “Gem Bar”…..and boy, was it a gem.

The crowd was a robust mixture of rowdy Australians, morose and flighty French and Americans, and the rest…..really, really, really drunk Indian Men and only men. In fact, I could count the number of fellow girlies in the place on one and a half hands.

You see, at your typical bar in India, unless it is a hip nightclub or hotel bar frequented by travelers, you won’t find many women. Perhaps it’s because social and religious norms frown on such fraternization but I actually think it’s because there is an undercurrent of knowledge amongst the women of India that their lesser halves, when intoxicated, conceive of and then execute some of the worst dancing moves one could imagine.

Now, I’ve been here a bit, and since over ¾ of that time has been spent deathly ill, I have managed to take in a healthy dose of Bollywood films (old and new) and Indian Music videos. I have studied them and have gained infinite wisdom. I thought I had seen some silly dancing but those norms were shattered and a new standard set within moments of walking into Gem Bar.

The place was packed shoulder to shoulder (Actually, I’m more like Shoulder-to-Head with your average Indian male) and the booze was a-flowin. Arunji and I thought it would be a good idea to jump right in and sample a shots of all the worst whiskeys India has to offer, as quickly possible, and chase it down with some King Fisher (the popular beer in these parts). King Fisher is an interesting creation, to say the least. Lemme put it this way: take a real high-class 40 oz-er say, Side-Pocket or Evil-Eye (some of my Denver lovelies know these well), toss in a shot of cod liver oil so that you get an oily after-taste and then leave it open for a while and then serve chilled and, voila! You have now experienced King Fisher. And yet, after a harrowing day on the motorcycle in Delhi traffic, it can seem like nectar of the gods.

I Digress….

Gem Bar. New Years. Indian Men Dancing. Yes, the dance of the Indian Male is more like a full body, epileptic seizure but without the rhythm and a lot of strangely timed pelvic thrusting, shouting and kicking. And yet they danced and danced and danced…during songs, during silence, in the line for the bathroom, on the stairs, on the tables, on the bar….they danced.

The countdown…..Actually, there were like 3 or 4 countdowns to the new year and so I was never really quite sure when we rang it but each time it was accompanied with a tidal wave of hugs and cheek kisses and poorly disguised attempts to grab my boobs.

Now, In Delhi, the bars close at 12:00 SHARP. Gem Bar made a concession and stayed open until about 12:15ish. So, we rang in the new year (a few times), and by that time the alcohol had taken a firm hold in my sickness-starved husk of a body that I didn’t care how bad the whiskey is but as soon a things got going it seems, we were being pushed out the door which, literally, hit me in the ass on my way out.

Most of the Indian men proceeded to hop on their Hero Honda CD110’s (in other words, a really small bike) and pile 2-3 of their friends on and tear down the narrow alley whooping and flailing in a manner that would make Ganesh proud. At one point, I think I saw 5 full grown Indian men stacked onto one brave little Honda.

Being 12:30 or so, and not ready to go back, Aaron and I decided to go see an old friend of his Balu, some cat from New Mexico who set up shop and has been here for a number of years. Balu, was an interesting and paranoid man who has it planted in his head that the world of vintage motorcycles is akin to some level of international espionage but he had whiskey and was generous with it.

After we grew weary of playing spy v. spy, we headed back to the ol’ homestead where we greeted the lobby guys with a hail a new year greetings and were handed more whiskey from Erik, our Nigerian neighbor, and shared a couple drinks with him.

…It was at that point I called it and with a stagger in my step and an uncomfortable burning in my stomach…I stumbled up the stairs…

“Happy 2008”, I told myself as I looked at my haggard, sunken cheeks in the mirror,
Then I threw up.