Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Indian Colonial Williamsburg
Have you ever been the only group of people at an amusement park?
I'm not trying to post this much, but this...this was Chokhi Dani.
It's a Rajastani-themed low-budget amusement park, with a ferris wheel that relies on gravity like bicycle pedals and a swinging ship powered by a lawn mower engine. Free henna stains hands first like candle wax, then once it dries, it's similar to brown Sharpie. An acrobat climbs a pole to a twenty foot high hemp rope, where he swings and walks backwards. The grand finale is him using a flip-flop and a frying pan as sandals to walk across the tight rope with about seven wooden hats of the Russian doll variety stacked upon his head. Quite impressive.
Other performances included a band with two young women whose smiles were stretched so thin you could see them going postal any minute just by looking at their eyebrows.
We had five tickets to spare and I spent two shooting a BB gun at some balloons. I assume that balloons are Rajastani.
A fortune teller and a masseuse shared a hut, and the room of mirrors had about six slightly warped mirrors in a room the size of the Topsy's on the Plaza. Whoah! I was freakin' out, man!
More than anything, I felt bad for the employees, who were forced to say "Ram Ram Sam" (a Rajastani greeting) to every single guest all the time. All day, every day, it made my job as a host at Applebee's almost look fun. And considering our group of 27 Americans was one of two groups at Chokhi Dani (the other being a family of five), we received extra "Ram Ram Sam" greetings from everybody.
I could imagine that being the last thing somebody said before giving their boss the finger, throwing their Rajastani headdress in the air, and storming out of there in self-righteous liberation.
I'm not trying to post this much, but this...this was Chokhi Dani.
It's a Rajastani-themed low-budget amusement park, with a ferris wheel that relies on gravity like bicycle pedals and a swinging ship powered by a lawn mower engine. Free henna stains hands first like candle wax, then once it dries, it's similar to brown Sharpie. An acrobat climbs a pole to a twenty foot high hemp rope, where he swings and walks backwards. The grand finale is him using a flip-flop and a frying pan as sandals to walk across the tight rope with about seven wooden hats of the Russian doll variety stacked upon his head. Quite impressive.
Other performances included a band with two young women whose smiles were stretched so thin you could see them going postal any minute just by looking at their eyebrows.
We had five tickets to spare and I spent two shooting a BB gun at some balloons. I assume that balloons are Rajastani.
A fortune teller and a masseuse shared a hut, and the room of mirrors had about six slightly warped mirrors in a room the size of the Topsy's on the Plaza. Whoah! I was freakin' out, man!
More than anything, I felt bad for the employees, who were forced to say "Ram Ram Sam" (a Rajastani greeting) to every single guest all the time. All day, every day, it made my job as a host at Applebee's almost look fun. And considering our group of 27 Americans was one of two groups at Chokhi Dani (the other being a family of five), we received extra "Ram Ram Sam" greetings from everybody.
I could imagine that being the last thing somebody said before giving their boss the finger, throwing their Rajastani headdress in the air, and storming out of there in self-righteous liberation.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Feeling Young Again
On Friday I went to yoga at seven in the morning and fell asleep in the third position. Not just shutting my eyes and fading off, but a little bit of drool was on the mat when the instructor called us to move again.
Tuesday was Rakhi, a holiday where sisters give blessings to their brothers, give them bracelets, place Bindi on their foreheads (with some rice pasted on the dot to accompany the rice in the hair), and perform some other rituals. They do this all in exchange for lifelong protection.
Kate, I have protected you until now with no recognition. I believe you owe me.
Our program, Associated Colleges of the Midwest (ACM), showed us this ritual between classes. With four boys and twenty-three girls, the ceremony ran short of “brothers.”
That night, we were invited by one of the girls in the program to her family’s home, where it was the first anniversary of her host sister’s marriage. This is significant for Indians (all I believe, though if only for Maharastrans, my bad) because in the days when girls were married as girls and not as young women, they wanted to play and dance with their friends as they did before their marriage. So it became tradition that one year after her marriage, a daughter returns to the home of her parents to play, dance, eat, and be merry with her family and friends.
We three boys (Gluten, Sam, and I) went searching the streets of Pune for some Indian formal wear. But first, an afternoon excursion to Chatushringi, a local temple. Since it was Rakhi, it was quite crowded. We hiked to the top where the shrine was, and then climbed more up the hill. At the top, we could see most of Pune, the sprawled out city that it is. More people waving at us. I wonder why….
We passed by a young couple hiding between a large boulder and a shady tree. I tried to give them their privacy, but alas, they were right next to the path. They did not stare at us because we were foreigners.
Searching for Indian formal wear was harder than expected. Walking on F.C. Road (for Fergusson College, one of the many nearby. Guess which street it’s on.), we found a plethora of high-end Western-style men’s stores, but none that sold men’s traditional Indian attire. It was becoming frustrating. We ate Pizza Hut and considered our options. We were getting near dinner time, and we did not want to be too late. The fresh-baked personal pizza, spiced Indian (and much better than American Pizza Hut), provided a spiritual re-awakening. Two men stopped us on the street, took our pictures and asked us if we were their brothers. Sure, whatever. Let’s just go to another market.
Back in Tulsi Baug, we three walked not far to find a store selling them. In fact, many were. After choices became actions, we went straight to the dinner party, still in our street attire.
We arrived timely and underdressed, with our formal wear in white plastic bags. It was only after everybody arrived looking all fly and fancy did we get a chance to change. Oh, don’t worry. This was not the only time we felt uncomfortable.
With twenty-seven white people and about forty or fifty friends and family of the wife watching Indian dancers, we could not help but be segregated to one side of the room. Yes we could not understand the storyteller and yes we did not know the significance of the dances and yes we still got some curious looks from the audience and yes I felt like a weirdo being in this huge group of foreigners watching this festive occasion with as much curiosity as an anthropologist, but no, it was great. The dancers were all women aging from their late twenties to late sixties, performing dances that resembled scenes such as a rowers on a boat and the waves surrounding it or a wife washing clothes faster when the husband is watching. They also grabbed each others’ wrists and spun in circles, and spun quite fast. We also danced.
The food was khoop chhan as always and I drank two glasses of tap water and didn’t get the sick like everybody warned me I would.
In fact, my habits have adopted quite nicely. I eat with my hands (Indian manners say you dirty your right hand only and do everything else with your left, such as drink water or dish out food). I don’t want dinner until nine thirty or ten, which means food coma and sleep coincide quite nicely. Tea is splendid and so are my baths. The warm water is turned on and so is the gas water heater so that hot water pours into a plastic bucket from the bath spigot. Add some cold and wait until the bucket is half full. I take an oversized plastic measuring cup, dip, pour, and there you have it, my daily “bath”. And it’s lovely.
Whenever I am in a group of other Americans, many people keep referring to us as “you people.” Even in the yoga studio. What do you people mean, “you people,” huh? Huh??
After yoga, Gluten and I found a cafeteria to eat breakfast. We chose to be late to class because we know what’s most important in the day. What’s that, you want to know the combined cost of breakfast for two? Forty five rupees. The Indian Dollar Menu. Did I tell you I love this country?
I got a middle school flashback on Friday. There was a traditional Indian singer who performed for our class. Her voice was hypnotizing and every note felt like there was no other in the world.
Her son came to the performance and invited Sam to a concert of his friend’s band that night. I did not know where it was, but Sam did. I had to use the landline (more like the lameline! Sorry.) to coordinate the time and place. Baba was chiefly concerned about time and transportation, and “helped” me figure it out. He ended up calling Anjou, one of the program coordinators, to figure out what the story was with the concert. Finally, after about two hours of degrading and frustrating phone tag between my baba and Gluten’s, my baba and Anjou, my baba and Sam’s baba, we figured out something.
Gluten and I took a rickshaw to the venue, which was a restaurant/lounge in the basement of a swanky hotel called E Square. The venue was called “Jazz on the Bay,” and it had pictures of prominent traditional Hindi singers and people like Louis Armstrong on the paper coasters. The band was an American rock cover band.
After going through metal detectors, we entered through the bubbled glass door into the blue dim lit room. The place had a large bar with its bottles nearly empty, a seating section with tables facing the stage, and plenty of booths filled with young couples and double dates. The band had already started and was finishing up a Red Hot Chili Peppers cover.
Then it began. The nineties alt. rock/cliche rock nightmare. Nickelback, really? Three Doors Down, are you serious? Smoke on the Water, the guitar song that every novice learns right after “Smells like Teen Spirit”, honestly? Is this how they view American music?
I spoke with some of the Indian guys we came with:
“So what kind of American music do you like?”
“Mostly metal.” (Dear God) “But also some softer stuff too.” Bradley, my music snob alter-ego, tempted me with self-aggrandizing premeditated judgment.
“Oh, yea? So who do you listen to?”
“Uh, you know, uh Gun’n’Roses?”
(God, that’s terrible, says Bradley) “Oh yea. I know them. They’re good,” I lied, pausing before saying that last word.
“And, uh, Led Zeppelin.”
(Ok, the most well-known rock band of all time, for good reason, but anything else? wonders Bradley) “Oh yea they’re great.” I said.
The band busted out another Nickelback cover, and Gluten and I look at each other and laugh. I danced sarcastically as the band was received incredibly well by the audience. Then, Hotel California. The crowd went crazy and sang along.
“I think that Hotel California may be the most cliché rock song of all time,” Gluten said to my ear over the chorus. (Word, said Bradley)
Sometime between Tears of Heaven and Comfortably Numb I had an epiphany, and Bradley was silenced.
I think of Fela Kuti, the Nigerian afrobeat legend, then of Bob Marley. Do I know any reggae that does not have the name Marley to it? What about Afrobeat without the name Kuti? While I’m thinking about it, what about Indian music? Can I think of any non-Ravi Shankar Indian musicians? What’s that Bradley? Not one?
How trite and ignorant am I?
I began to view this concert totally different. Whether I like it or not, this is their exposure to Western rock, and whether I like it or not, they know more about my music than I do theirs. How snobby is that to not appreciate this truly cultural experience? Bradley, silence yourself, this is the Eastern cover of Western music. This is pretty cool, actually, and the band isn’t bad either.
I stand and listen to their Nirvana cover, and think to myself, “If I hadn’t heard Hotel California a million and a half times, would it really be that bad?” And when it comes down to it, it’s a catchy song.
The next morning we went on our first field trip outside Pune. It was an old Hindu fort named Singhad, where the Maharastran hero Shivaji was known to have climbed atop a giant lizard to get to because he could not climb it. It was in the clouds. The fort was quite ruined, destroyed by the Mughals. Now it sits atop a mountain as a local tourist destination. A shanty small town developed selling snacks, water, and other tourist knick-knacks. After a snack of deep fried onion blooms and chili-onion-garlic chutney, friend Alayna and I went exploring. We found an old stone overlook. We saw the valley below, the verdant mountainous ridge layered with light and dark greens. The fog cleared and you could see the entire landscape.
It reminded me of the singer's voice we heard on Friday, lost in every sight as if it were the only view in the world.
Alayna and I hiked along a ridge on a cow path down from the fort. We saw all sorts of little Indian critters and many Indian cow patties, and after we climbed a particularly high precipice, we saw cows below. We got pretty close to them and I touched a white one with horns painted orange. "Seems like a pretty appealing lifestyle," Alayna said. "Eat bountiful grasses all day, have a complete three-sixty postcard-worthy view to soak up, poop wherever you want."
Amen.
After the trek, we ate lunch provided by the locals. We had some fresh yogurt (very sour and curded), a lentil (I think) slop, chili eggplant deliciousness, and a local twist on roti (Indian bread that is softer than naan). One of the local women made lassi by hand . She combined sugar, some yogurt cups and water, churned it by hand, and there you have it, something roughly similar to a plain milkshake. I liked it but would not order it at a restaurant. Then she made one with cumin, and I never imagined spicy, smoky cumin could mix with sweet and sour lassi, but in the weirdest way possible, it did. I think I was in the minority of people who liked it.
Coming back to my home I met my host parents' grandson or some may say, my nephew. WHAT! Adu is five with fair complexion and blue glasses and was quiet at first, but then I showed him how to shape his hands to look like a dog. That won him over. We drew, looked at a flower book with great excitement, and even listened to some Beach Boys. A little neighbor girl came over and joined us. I tried to teach them Go Fish, and it did not work. Adu's interest in me grew as my weariness wore in. Aai and Baba (to him, Aji and Ajoba) kept apologizing to me for him bothering me. But the truth was that I was having a pretty good time with him, aside from the normal child tendencies to change games quickly and return to others repeatedly. It was a bit awkward when they would apologize and I felt obligated to appreciate their looking out for my interests. To respect them almost more so than for myself, I showed disinterest in Adu. Persistently he tried to play and persistently my aai and baba assumed he was bothering me and chastised him to stop it. I couldn't really tell them to stop stopping him because it was not my place, so I just went with it.
I spent all of Sunday doing nothing and then trying to find an internet cafe in the consistent monsoon-season rain. I found a computer lab.
It has not stopped raining in days and I should probably start wearing my raincoat. But I hate raincoats.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Some photos
Clockwise from left: My tidy room. The best dhosa and batata bhaji I have ever had. From a restaurant in Pune. A beautiful shrine in the middle of Tulsi baug (the old market) in Pune, you know, no big deal. Jousting and some local dudes calling for world peace (except the guy in front). Rickshaw wala (driver)! Tulsi baug.
The Nightclub
After dinner Saturday night, I was picked up by Justine and his sister Preeti. I was invited to go to a club with them, to the only club in Pune open until one am. Preeti is about five five, with a wide frame and medium brown hair. One of her front teeth is black from a former cleft upper lip. She is quite honest, caring and helpful. She is single and the breadwinner for her family, though Justine tells me their family is quite well off.
The three of us pick up her friend, whose name I cannot remember. He is a Realtor by profession, a painter by hobby, and a dancer by spirit. A dark-skinned man with sharp features and a clubbing attire to match it.
The club we went to was in the basement of a five star hotel called Le Meridien. Before entering the iron gates adorned with gold fleur-de-lis, five private security guards abruptly opened our trunk, the passenger door (the left since Indian cars are British), and the glove compartment. They shined their club-like flashlights in the compartments and upon our feet. "Check for bombs," explains Preeti. Since the attack on the Indian hotel in Mumbai called 26/11, (like 9/11 also named by its date) security has been omnipresent (for example, when shopping on Sunday, we entered the grocery store through a metal detector). After Le Meridien's metal detector at the front gate, Preeti's purse was put through a machine and us three men were caressed by a metal detector wand. The painted hotel ceiling was held up by massive marble columns which complemented the marble floors and marble staircase and marble chairs (just kidding).
We arrived at the stairs to the club where three bouncers told us we cannot enter. Since Justine was wearing shorts and Preeti's friend (for the sake of ease, I will call him Chet in this story) was wearing open toed shoes. Chet lived close to the hotel, but Justine and Preeti were much further. Justine suggested he borrow a pair of Chet's pants to save time, but Chet and Preeti did not seem familiar or comfortable with that practice. Before leaving the hotel, Justine asked Preeti whether we had to go back to their place to get pants. "Of course, we have no choice." Apparently not.
After a disappointing drive back to Chet's and then to Justine's, we finally re-arrived at Le Meridien. We were once again subjected to the security provisions, and this time at the bouncer's staircase, we passed.
The club's name is Scream and a thick stainless steel door changes the tone from Versailles expensive to New York chic expensive. One thousand rupees per couple and we entered the dark hallway filled with techno music and relief that we finally got in.
The club did not seem too out of the ordinary, people dressed up to various degrees (no saris), high heels and short skirts, button down shirts and nice slacks. But a few things caught my attention. The first weird thing that I noticed was the dance floor. Bouncers lined the perimeter of the wooden dance floor to monitor the men. If a man did not have a friend who was a girl or a girlfriend dancing with him, he could be escorted off. Since Preeti would not dance but preferred the bar table with chips instead, it was up to Chet, Justine, and I to dance near her.
Three men, two of them white, dancing in a nightclub in an odd triangle formation.
We are so cool.
The second weird thing I noticed was the only other group of whities in the crowd. A group of five or so middle aged men danced and drank near us. One of the men was tall and lanky with a button-down shirt too wide for him and comb-over. His little eyes and hooked nose were all on a young attractive Indian girl with silver sneakers and a bubbly demeanor. She looked half his age and obviously intoxicated. When I first saw them together she was seated on a barstool and he was hunched over her with his hand upon her inner thigh. They danced together all night and every once in a while he would ever-so-slyly graze his hands over her butt only to land them on her back. She would rest her forehead on his chest every once in a while, either to rest or to show affection or to control the spins she had. Her bright white smile made the relationship seem consensual. I assumed she was his mistress. I couldn't help but think that wshat I was witnessing was all sorts of fucked up.
The other guys seemed to be giving them their space. The other men danced and held their drinks as if holding onto railing on a shaky subway.
After some liquid courage I loosened up and danced a bit myself. Chet was fired up, a man who flailed his limbs and gave intense stares to the music and called it good dancing. Though I was not one to judge, for my dancing was quite mediocre. I was in more of the walk around and pose to the beat camp. I did not care about our quality of dancing, all that mattered was that we were having fun.
Chet suggested I try to get one of the girls near us to dance with me. I was reluctant but in the end decided to give it a shot. I did not know really what to say since nobody could talk without screaming right next to an ear, and even then accents and the chance that they did not speak English made me more reluctant. After small talk gone terribly wrong, I asked to dance with one of them and they all walked away.
Ouch.
"You must impress them with your dance moves," Chet explained to me later in the car. "Girls want to be the most wanted by guys and envied by girls. You must prove that you can make them feel that way through dance. There is no other way. You must demonstrate confidence on the dance floor so they will want to be with you because they will think that they are with the best." Whether I was convinced or not, Chet made a good point: the majority of doing something is confidence, and if you have that, you can do anything.
When on the dance floor, a guy approached Chet and I in what became a quasi-dance off, except the music did not stop and nobody formed a circle. He just got all up "in our grill" if you will and flaunting his moves. Chet responded to his waving arms by catching the wave with his left arm and spitting it back upon him with his left. Like Zoolander and Hansel on the runway, Chet and him duked it out on the dance floor. When it seemed like he could not break the Chet, he turned to me. I was not prepared to be emasculated twice on the dance floor, so I replied to his moves and spat that shit right back IN HIS FACE.
I would like to say he cowered in the face of my mighty masculine moves, that he put his tail between his legs and whimpered off, that a crowd cheered and three beautiful women came to my side to congratulate me with a celebratory make-out session, that I was the object of every woman's affection and the envy of every man at the club, and that I walked out more proud than I had been in my life, but in the end nothing really did happen. Eventually I just turned away after realizing how stupid I was acting.
Before Chet left the car when we dropped him off at 1:15, he gave me some advice: "Remember to always look a girl in the eye and impress them with your dance moves. If you want to get girls you must be confident with dance."
Thanks, Chet. I know his advice will stick with me for years to come.
The three of us pick up her friend, whose name I cannot remember. He is a Realtor by profession, a painter by hobby, and a dancer by spirit. A dark-skinned man with sharp features and a clubbing attire to match it.
The club we went to was in the basement of a five star hotel called Le Meridien. Before entering the iron gates adorned with gold fleur-de-lis, five private security guards abruptly opened our trunk, the passenger door (the left since Indian cars are British), and the glove compartment. They shined their club-like flashlights in the compartments and upon our feet. "Check for bombs," explains Preeti. Since the attack on the Indian hotel in Mumbai called 26/11, (like 9/11 also named by its date) security has been omnipresent (for example, when shopping on Sunday, we entered the grocery store through a metal detector). After Le Meridien's metal detector at the front gate, Preeti's purse was put through a machine and us three men were caressed by a metal detector wand. The painted hotel ceiling was held up by massive marble columns which complemented the marble floors and marble staircase and marble chairs (just kidding).
We arrived at the stairs to the club where three bouncers told us we cannot enter. Since Justine was wearing shorts and Preeti's friend (for the sake of ease, I will call him Chet in this story) was wearing open toed shoes. Chet lived close to the hotel, but Justine and Preeti were much further. Justine suggested he borrow a pair of Chet's pants to save time, but Chet and Preeti did not seem familiar or comfortable with that practice. Before leaving the hotel, Justine asked Preeti whether we had to go back to their place to get pants. "Of course, we have no choice." Apparently not.
After a disappointing drive back to Chet's and then to Justine's, we finally re-arrived at Le Meridien. We were once again subjected to the security provisions, and this time at the bouncer's staircase, we passed.
The club's name is Scream and a thick stainless steel door changes the tone from Versailles expensive to New York chic expensive. One thousand rupees per couple and we entered the dark hallway filled with techno music and relief that we finally got in.
The club did not seem too out of the ordinary, people dressed up to various degrees (no saris), high heels and short skirts, button down shirts and nice slacks. But a few things caught my attention. The first weird thing that I noticed was the dance floor. Bouncers lined the perimeter of the wooden dance floor to monitor the men. If a man did not have a friend who was a girl or a girlfriend dancing with him, he could be escorted off. Since Preeti would not dance but preferred the bar table with chips instead, it was up to Chet, Justine, and I to dance near her.
Three men, two of them white, dancing in a nightclub in an odd triangle formation.
We are so cool.
The second weird thing I noticed was the only other group of whities in the crowd. A group of five or so middle aged men danced and drank near us. One of the men was tall and lanky with a button-down shirt too wide for him and comb-over. His little eyes and hooked nose were all on a young attractive Indian girl with silver sneakers and a bubbly demeanor. She looked half his age and obviously intoxicated. When I first saw them together she was seated on a barstool and he was hunched over her with his hand upon her inner thigh. They danced together all night and every once in a while he would ever-so-slyly graze his hands over her butt only to land them on her back. She would rest her forehead on his chest every once in a while, either to rest or to show affection or to control the spins she had. Her bright white smile made the relationship seem consensual. I assumed she was his mistress. I couldn't help but think that wshat I was witnessing was all sorts of fucked up.
The other guys seemed to be giving them their space. The other men danced and held their drinks as if holding onto railing on a shaky subway.
After some liquid courage I loosened up and danced a bit myself. Chet was fired up, a man who flailed his limbs and gave intense stares to the music and called it good dancing. Though I was not one to judge, for my dancing was quite mediocre. I was in more of the walk around and pose to the beat camp. I did not care about our quality of dancing, all that mattered was that we were having fun.
Chet suggested I try to get one of the girls near us to dance with me. I was reluctant but in the end decided to give it a shot. I did not know really what to say since nobody could talk without screaming right next to an ear, and even then accents and the chance that they did not speak English made me more reluctant. After small talk gone terribly wrong, I asked to dance with one of them and they all walked away.
Ouch.
"You must impress them with your dance moves," Chet explained to me later in the car. "Girls want to be the most wanted by guys and envied by girls. You must prove that you can make them feel that way through dance. There is no other way. You must demonstrate confidence on the dance floor so they will want to be with you because they will think that they are with the best." Whether I was convinced or not, Chet made a good point: the majority of doing something is confidence, and if you have that, you can do anything.
When on the dance floor, a guy approached Chet and I in what became a quasi-dance off, except the music did not stop and nobody formed a circle. He just got all up "in our grill" if you will and flaunting his moves. Chet responded to his waving arms by catching the wave with his left arm and spitting it back upon him with his left. Like Zoolander and Hansel on the runway, Chet and him duked it out on the dance floor. When it seemed like he could not break the Chet, he turned to me. I was not prepared to be emasculated twice on the dance floor, so I replied to his moves and spat that shit right back IN HIS FACE.
I would like to say he cowered in the face of my mighty masculine moves, that he put his tail between his legs and whimpered off, that a crowd cheered and three beautiful women came to my side to congratulate me with a celebratory make-out session, that I was the object of every woman's affection and the envy of every man at the club, and that I walked out more proud than I had been in my life, but in the end nothing really did happen. Eventually I just turned away after realizing how stupid I was acting.
Before Chet left the car when we dropped him off at 1:15, he gave me some advice: "Remember to always look a girl in the eye and impress them with your dance moves. If you want to get girls you must be confident with dance."
Thanks, Chet. I know his advice will stick with me for years to come.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Aai ani Baba
Saturday morning, sitting in the restaurant of the Hotel Raviraj, waiting for my parents to arrive, I did not want to think of every possible bad thing that could happen because everybody else seemed to be doing so. So I read the newspaper instead.
The day before when I met with Anjou, the program coordinator for host families, I waited patiently. With my luck, I was the last person to hear about my family. The Dikshit family (pronounced in the most inappropriate way possible for English speakers) is an older couple who live in a flat in a new apartment complex outside the city. Anjou fills me in on them and at this point, after waiting over three hours to hear about the family, I am quite numb to the news. Since it already is, I can do nothing but accept some disappointing news: no host siblings. Beyond that, I know only the basics, they are a friendly, retired couple. Anjou is friends with them and says they are very happy people. Baba teaches yoga as a hobby and has a bicycle for me to use!
Yes.
My newspaper remains an interesting diversion as the girls around Justine and me increase their adrenaline and express it in different ways. Some are excited, some are nervous, and a few shed cathartic tears. Before they arrive, a question pops into my mind: how much English do they know? Anjou is talking with an unknown man, and I feel bad when she stops the conversation to ask what I want.
"Anjou, how much English do my parents speak?"
"Who are your parents again?"
I try to pronounce their names con acento, hoping I will not have to say profanity all semester. "Deeksheet."
"Ah, yes the Dikshits (phonetically dickshits). They speak beautiful English."
For this occasion, this is good news. While I won't be pushed to learn Marathi as quickly, lunch today will be infinitely less awkward.
Justine is called first to meet his aai and baba. I take his half-dranken Chuha (Marathi for Chai, which is English for tea) and sip it while I focus my attention upon the newspaper. The news: One in five Americans think Obama is a Muslim, Hilary Duff is engaged, Fareed Zakaria is moving to Time Magazine, Indian Al-Qaida members were killed in Somalia trying to assemble a car bomb, the not-very-funny comics. Soon more families arrive. But for now, the news and Chuha.
In a stroke of good luck, the Dikshits arrive fourth. Baba is a tall and thin man with a prominant nose and white teeth and light complexion. You can tell his hair used to be thick and black, but now it is white and thinner, but not yet wispy. He looks like an Indian Mr. Royer, my high school calculus teacher. And his English is strong. Aai is average height and thin and her sari gives her a rather nondistinct frame. She is quieter around me because her English is not as strong. She looks a bit like an Indian Sra. Chamberlain, my Spanish 4 teacher from high school.
Why do my host parents look like former high school teachers? Maybe Freud knows, but I do not.
My first impressions were quite different than what I have come to know of the Dikshits now. Baba floated like a butterfly around the restaurant socializing, he knew many of the host parents. Aai and I sat and chatted, I got to know what she did. She is and almost always has been a housewife, while Baba has had many jobs. My host brother is married and lives with his wife and young son across the street, while my older sister is also married and lives in Sydney, Australia with her husband and her twelve-year-old son. Baba sat down and we talked for a while. We spoke of Justine's host family, and how they are such good friends with them. He offered that I go meet his family across the room and I obliged.
Justine's baba, named Ramesh, is much more jolly in physique, with a round belly, dark complexion, thin glasses, sleek black hair with whitened edges, and a permanent smile. His baba and my baba used to play basketball together, but as he said to Justine, "Now we do not play because I am fat."
Justine has two siblings, a brother who is twenty-something but due to an accident on a balcony a few years back, has mental disabilities. He learned to walk just months ago, but still retains his ability to speak three languages. His sister is named Preeti, whom I will discuss in the night club story.
The apartment building they live in reminded me more of Meemee's condo in Palm Beach than Slumdog Millionaire. Built less than three years ago in the western suburbs of Pune, their flat is mostly occupied by young couples. They had a large bungalow a few blocks away they lived in when their son lived with them, but now that it is just the two of them, they moved and rent out their former bungalow. The flat is cozy and brightly colored with a square balcony that comfortably seats three. Statuettes from all over the world, from the Orient to Maharastra to Holland, sit atop cabinets and shelves. Aai said that her friends used to call her house a museum because of her collection. I do not get that impression.
I love retired life. The first thing we do when we get home is nap. It pretty much set the pace for my time at home so far. After the nap, tea, and after tea, reading and TV, then dinner. Dinner, then the night club, which must be a post on its own.
Baba tells me that the food tastes better when eaten with your hands (just like Oma's raspberries, right Dad?). I eat dhosa, a crispy, buttery crepe, with several chutneys. Overall, the food has been khoop chhan! (very good!). Aai asked me yesterday after I described the recent culinary splendor as khoop chhan what I actually think since I describe everything as such. I do not euphemize my descriptions, trust me it's good.
Aai also asks me frequently whether the food is too spicy, and I think that Indians "misunderestimate" Western tolerance to spice. She probably is not aware of my adoration of Sriracha. So far the spiciest food has been similar to the chicken on Chipotle burrito.
She also is curious about my coffee preference:
"How do you like your coffee?" she asks with care in a thick Maharastran accent. Not all Indian accents are the same, I have learned.
"Do you want creme?"
"Nai nai."
"Sugar?"
"Nai nai"
"So no creme and no sugar?"
"Yes?"
"Not even just a little cube of sugar?"
"No, Aai." I have learned to not use thank you as much, that formality is not necessary in most Indian languages, much less "No thank you".
"Ok so black?"
"Yes."
After Aai makes the coffee, she asks "How do you like your black coffee?" and emphasizes black.
"Khoop chhan," I say as I shake my head in approval. She looks quizzically.
A thing about the head shake: it is synonymous with "yes" or some form of approval in India, and oftentimes is used without the verbal yes (ho in Marathi, which is usually said twice). Imagine how many times people say yes or approve, and you understand why some Westerners think it is a muscle twitch.
Baba shows me basic yoga. He practices traditional yoga, and right now we are focusing on exhaling while sitting in first position. Baby steps.
Baba and Aai were quite nervous when I requested to ride their bike to Laura's every day. Laura is an American staying at a friend of theirs, and we have shared a rickshaw to school this week. They wanted baby steps, to first ride the bike in the parking lot, and maybe in a few days I can ride the fifteen minutes to Laura's.
I insisted I was confident and the ride to Laura's that day felt great. His red mountain bike had rusty breaks but well lubricated shock absorbers. The brakes made the downhill next to their apartment tricky, but the shock absorbers were beautiful over the rocks and ditches on Baner road. Riding on the Indian roads, I got to ring my bell more in those thirty minutes than I ever had on quiet American roads. It really was fine, as long as I remembered left is law.
For now, I sit in my classroom, and I need to go to a temple in my free time.
Next, the story of the night club.
The day before when I met with Anjou, the program coordinator for host families, I waited patiently. With my luck, I was the last person to hear about my family. The Dikshit family (pronounced in the most inappropriate way possible for English speakers) is an older couple who live in a flat in a new apartment complex outside the city. Anjou fills me in on them and at this point, after waiting over three hours to hear about the family, I am quite numb to the news. Since it already is, I can do nothing but accept some disappointing news: no host siblings. Beyond that, I know only the basics, they are a friendly, retired couple. Anjou is friends with them and says they are very happy people. Baba teaches yoga as a hobby and has a bicycle for me to use!
Yes.
My newspaper remains an interesting diversion as the girls around Justine and me increase their adrenaline and express it in different ways. Some are excited, some are nervous, and a few shed cathartic tears. Before they arrive, a question pops into my mind: how much English do they know? Anjou is talking with an unknown man, and I feel bad when she stops the conversation to ask what I want.
"Anjou, how much English do my parents speak?"
"Who are your parents again?"
I try to pronounce their names con acento, hoping I will not have to say profanity all semester. "Deeksheet."
"Ah, yes the Dikshits (phonetically dickshits). They speak beautiful English."
For this occasion, this is good news. While I won't be pushed to learn Marathi as quickly, lunch today will be infinitely less awkward.
Justine is called first to meet his aai and baba. I take his half-dranken Chuha (Marathi for Chai, which is English for tea) and sip it while I focus my attention upon the newspaper. The news: One in five Americans think Obama is a Muslim, Hilary Duff is engaged, Fareed Zakaria is moving to Time Magazine, Indian Al-Qaida members were killed in Somalia trying to assemble a car bomb, the not-very-funny comics. Soon more families arrive. But for now, the news and Chuha.
In a stroke of good luck, the Dikshits arrive fourth. Baba is a tall and thin man with a prominant nose and white teeth and light complexion. You can tell his hair used to be thick and black, but now it is white and thinner, but not yet wispy. He looks like an Indian Mr. Royer, my high school calculus teacher. And his English is strong. Aai is average height and thin and her sari gives her a rather nondistinct frame. She is quieter around me because her English is not as strong. She looks a bit like an Indian Sra. Chamberlain, my Spanish 4 teacher from high school.
Why do my host parents look like former high school teachers? Maybe Freud knows, but I do not.
My first impressions were quite different than what I have come to know of the Dikshits now. Baba floated like a butterfly around the restaurant socializing, he knew many of the host parents. Aai and I sat and chatted, I got to know what she did. She is and almost always has been a housewife, while Baba has had many jobs. My host brother is married and lives with his wife and young son across the street, while my older sister is also married and lives in Sydney, Australia with her husband and her twelve-year-old son. Baba sat down and we talked for a while. We spoke of Justine's host family, and how they are such good friends with them. He offered that I go meet his family across the room and I obliged.
Justine's baba, named Ramesh, is much more jolly in physique, with a round belly, dark complexion, thin glasses, sleek black hair with whitened edges, and a permanent smile. His baba and my baba used to play basketball together, but as he said to Justine, "Now we do not play because I am fat."
Justine has two siblings, a brother who is twenty-something but due to an accident on a balcony a few years back, has mental disabilities. He learned to walk just months ago, but still retains his ability to speak three languages. His sister is named Preeti, whom I will discuss in the night club story.
The apartment building they live in reminded me more of Meemee's condo in Palm Beach than Slumdog Millionaire. Built less than three years ago in the western suburbs of Pune, their flat is mostly occupied by young couples. They had a large bungalow a few blocks away they lived in when their son lived with them, but now that it is just the two of them, they moved and rent out their former bungalow. The flat is cozy and brightly colored with a square balcony that comfortably seats three. Statuettes from all over the world, from the Orient to Maharastra to Holland, sit atop cabinets and shelves. Aai said that her friends used to call her house a museum because of her collection. I do not get that impression.
I love retired life. The first thing we do when we get home is nap. It pretty much set the pace for my time at home so far. After the nap, tea, and after tea, reading and TV, then dinner. Dinner, then the night club, which must be a post on its own.
Baba tells me that the food tastes better when eaten with your hands (just like Oma's raspberries, right Dad?). I eat dhosa, a crispy, buttery crepe, with several chutneys. Overall, the food has been khoop chhan! (very good!). Aai asked me yesterday after I described the recent culinary splendor as khoop chhan what I actually think since I describe everything as such. I do not euphemize my descriptions, trust me it's good.
Aai also asks me frequently whether the food is too spicy, and I think that Indians "misunderestimate" Western tolerance to spice. She probably is not aware of my adoration of Sriracha. So far the spiciest food has been similar to the chicken on Chipotle burrito.
She also is curious about my coffee preference:
"How do you like your coffee?" she asks with care in a thick Maharastran accent. Not all Indian accents are the same, I have learned.
"Do you want creme?"
"Nai nai."
"Sugar?"
"Nai nai"
"So no creme and no sugar?"
"Yes?"
"Not even just a little cube of sugar?"
"No, Aai." I have learned to not use thank you as much, that formality is not necessary in most Indian languages, much less "No thank you".
"Ok so black?"
"Yes."
After Aai makes the coffee, she asks "How do you like your black coffee?" and emphasizes black.
"Khoop chhan," I say as I shake my head in approval. She looks quizzically.
A thing about the head shake: it is synonymous with "yes" or some form of approval in India, and oftentimes is used without the verbal yes (ho in Marathi, which is usually said twice). Imagine how many times people say yes or approve, and you understand why some Westerners think it is a muscle twitch.
Baba shows me basic yoga. He practices traditional yoga, and right now we are focusing on exhaling while sitting in first position. Baby steps.
Baba and Aai were quite nervous when I requested to ride their bike to Laura's every day. Laura is an American staying at a friend of theirs, and we have shared a rickshaw to school this week. They wanted baby steps, to first ride the bike in the parking lot, and maybe in a few days I can ride the fifteen minutes to Laura's.
I insisted I was confident and the ride to Laura's that day felt great. His red mountain bike had rusty breaks but well lubricated shock absorbers. The brakes made the downhill next to their apartment tricky, but the shock absorbers were beautiful over the rocks and ditches on Baner road. Riding on the Indian roads, I got to ring my bell more in those thirty minutes than I ever had on quiet American roads. It really was fine, as long as I remembered left is law.
For now, I sit in my classroom, and I need to go to a temple in my free time.
Next, the story of the night club.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Week Won
I walked back home today from the ACM building alone and it felt good because I prefer smelling at my own pace. I almost blended in.
Things are getting more comfortable, especially since learning some very important phrases in Marathi. For example: How much do I owe? (Kiti paise zhale?), I don't know (Mela nahit nai), and perhaps most important, I do not want (abijat nako).
Marathi is actually pretty easy. There are so many cognates to Spanish, which is nothing short of crazy. For example, to give in Spanish is Dar, while to give in Marathi is pronounced De (con acento) yet given the script is totally different.
Cars, trucks, rickshaws, motorcycles, and bikes communicate with horns. Few have mirrors and fewer use them. Smells vary from dhosa (fried bread deliciousness) to garbage and dog to gulabjam (dessert sweet fried breaded) to pollution to burning leaves, to fresh fruit.
We are still in the hotel, and tomorrow we learn about our host family--Saturday we move in.
Holy Guacafreakingmole I'm nervous.
Life in the hotel is pretty fun, much like the first week of college. Hanging out in the room, traveling in packs, eating meals with everybody, and most important, retaining a collective consciousness based in part confusion, part excitement, and part dread.
But whatever we do, there is no way but forward.
We went to an open air market two days ago to shop and look around. I applied the phrase abijat nako frequently. A friend from America named Sam made the mistake of asking a vendor selling drums how much they cost when we did not want to buy them. When we walked away, he took that as us playing hard-to-get in preparation for negotiating a price. That, however, was not the case. Sam was pestered by this man for a while, and once he realized we were not interested, we had to avoid his corner for the rest of the excursion.
There were many people and many stores, almost all of them selling saris and jewelry. We found the one place selling men's clothes. We bought two shirts each. One of mine has English gibberish on it, and I love it. It reads in vertical English script radiating from the collar: H f d y t g.
Brilliant.
We went to a gazeebo type place that had several food and clothing vendors inside it. Several men accosted us upon entering.
"Hello! Where you from?"
"America"
"Oh America!!! Welcome Welcome. What is your name?"
"I am Sam. This is David. Tumhe? (and you?)"
"I am Shon. How old are you?"
"I am twenty-two."
"Twenty-two! This is my friend. He is also twenty-two! He is a boxer."
"Wow."
"Are you married?"
"No, are you?"
"No"
"What about your friend the boxer?"
"No, he is not. He is a boxer. Come. Sit."
Shon breaks up the pack of four or five quizzical men and guides us to his corner. He asks us to sit on a big wooden box. He shows us a white and red jersey as an item for sale. We decline and say that we are not interested in buying anything, but thank him for the offer. We say our goodbyes to Shon and the rest of the group, and continue venturing in the gazeebo. I see piles and piles of fresh food. Garlic and peas, peeled cucumbers and green peppers, bananas and pomegranates. And all so cheap. I got two pomegranates for ten rupees (about twenty five cents). I know I'll miss these prices.
That night we went to a bar. It was called the Apache, which made me feel like Christopher Columbus who discovered Native America in search of India. The Apache bar had the flavor of the Kansas City Jazz Museum, for those that have been (interior design of the mid-nineties). The layered, curved ceiling pieces like plywood neon-colored fish scales cover the ceiling while a sculpture/painting of distinctly African-American jazz musicians display their talents on the wall. Death metal and Lincoln Park blast through the speakers at a non-conversational level. Masks and hands and various ambiguous objects emerge from the ceilings like chicken from soup. Or green beans. Mirrors make the room seem bigger. Small groups of Indian college students sit and conversate over the loud music while seven Americans sit at a table near them and split two pitchers of Kingfisher, the local beer. I felt abnormally comfortable, not because this bar was familiar, but because this bar seemed as dumb and out of place as I felt.
Right now, I am scared of meeting my host family, of them not liking me or me acting out some faux pas that makes them think I am insensitive and fulfilling of all their negative stereotypes of Americans. But hopefully, that won't happen, and all I can do for now is keep moving onward and do my best.
Now I am ready to be finished for today, no more anecdotes for now.
David
Things are getting more comfortable, especially since learning some very important phrases in Marathi. For example: How much do I owe? (Kiti paise zhale?), I don't know (Mela nahit nai), and perhaps most important, I do not want (abijat nako).
Marathi is actually pretty easy. There are so many cognates to Spanish, which is nothing short of crazy. For example, to give in Spanish is Dar, while to give in Marathi is pronounced De (con acento) yet given the script is totally different.
Cars, trucks, rickshaws, motorcycles, and bikes communicate with horns. Few have mirrors and fewer use them. Smells vary from dhosa (fried bread deliciousness) to garbage and dog to gulabjam (dessert sweet fried breaded) to pollution to burning leaves, to fresh fruit.
We are still in the hotel, and tomorrow we learn about our host family--Saturday we move in.
Holy Guacafreakingmole I'm nervous.
Life in the hotel is pretty fun, much like the first week of college. Hanging out in the room, traveling in packs, eating meals with everybody, and most important, retaining a collective consciousness based in part confusion, part excitement, and part dread.
But whatever we do, there is no way but forward.
We went to an open air market two days ago to shop and look around. I applied the phrase abijat nako frequently. A friend from America named Sam made the mistake of asking a vendor selling drums how much they cost when we did not want to buy them. When we walked away, he took that as us playing hard-to-get in preparation for negotiating a price. That, however, was not the case. Sam was pestered by this man for a while, and once he realized we were not interested, we had to avoid his corner for the rest of the excursion.
There were many people and many stores, almost all of them selling saris and jewelry. We found the one place selling men's clothes. We bought two shirts each. One of mine has English gibberish on it, and I love it. It reads in vertical English script radiating from the collar: H f d y t g.
Brilliant.
We went to a gazeebo type place that had several food and clothing vendors inside it. Several men accosted us upon entering.
"Hello! Where you from?"
"America"
"Oh America!!! Welcome Welcome. What is your name?"
"I am Sam. This is David. Tumhe? (and you?)"
"I am Shon. How old are you?"
"I am twenty-two."
"Twenty-two! This is my friend. He is also twenty-two! He is a boxer."
"Wow."
"Are you married?"
"No, are you?"
"No"
"What about your friend the boxer?"
"No, he is not. He is a boxer. Come. Sit."
Shon breaks up the pack of four or five quizzical men and guides us to his corner. He asks us to sit on a big wooden box. He shows us a white and red jersey as an item for sale. We decline and say that we are not interested in buying anything, but thank him for the offer. We say our goodbyes to Shon and the rest of the group, and continue venturing in the gazeebo. I see piles and piles of fresh food. Garlic and peas, peeled cucumbers and green peppers, bananas and pomegranates. And all so cheap. I got two pomegranates for ten rupees (about twenty five cents). I know I'll miss these prices.
That night we went to a bar. It was called the Apache, which made me feel like Christopher Columbus who discovered Native America in search of India. The Apache bar had the flavor of the Kansas City Jazz Museum, for those that have been (interior design of the mid-nineties). The layered, curved ceiling pieces like plywood neon-colored fish scales cover the ceiling while a sculpture/painting of distinctly African-American jazz musicians display their talents on the wall. Death metal and Lincoln Park blast through the speakers at a non-conversational level. Masks and hands and various ambiguous objects emerge from the ceilings like chicken from soup. Or green beans. Mirrors make the room seem bigger. Small groups of Indian college students sit and conversate over the loud music while seven Americans sit at a table near them and split two pitchers of Kingfisher, the local beer. I felt abnormally comfortable, not because this bar was familiar, but because this bar seemed as dumb and out of place as I felt.
Right now, I am scared of meeting my host family, of them not liking me or me acting out some faux pas that makes them think I am insensitive and fulfilling of all their negative stereotypes of Americans. But hopefully, that won't happen, and all I can do for now is keep moving onward and do my best.
Now I am ready to be finished for today, no more anecdotes for now.
David
Sunday, August 15, 2010
I left the States and now I'm here, in India.
After 22 hours of travel, including a four hour stop in Frankfurt, two six to eight hour plane rides, and a four hour car ride to Pune from Mumbai, we are finally here. From Philadelphia, where Jousting and I visited old and beloved friends for a few days, we drove with Juliet Jacobs to Newark Airport. Our final breath of American air smelled like a parking lot.
The flight from Newark to Frankfurt was Continental and I watched the Godfather Part II. I could not sleep, even though I should have.
And what about airline food, for cryin out loud?
In Frankfurt, Jousting and I realized that no longer will our drinking be hindered by force of law. After a pint each and a bottle of wine between two at the airport bar to celebrate this reality, we were ready for the second eight hour flight. On the flight, I fell asleep readily.
I awoke to Shrek 4 and more airline food, this time in the Indian tradition. Then, more sleep. Food, sleep, food sleep, foodsleep. The two activities became my sole traveling activities. As I awoke, a Bollywood movie was finishing.
The movie was about a guest who called himself the uncle of the hosting family (even though they did not recognize him as such), and far overextended his welcome. Ironically, they began to enjoy his charm and wit, and when they became separated from him during the Ganesh festival, they spent the entire night looking for him. Worry heightened. They found him the next day only to realize he was not hurt or dead, but merely spent the night waiting for a way back (and did not call). They argued outside the apartment building when all of the sudden, a man drove up and recognized the guest as his uncle! Apparently the whole time he had the wrong room and thus, the wrong family.
How hilarious! I enjoyed the plot, a movie about nothing. They kvetched and kvetched about how cumbersome hosting this "uncle" truly was, which he seemed to be, but would not ask him to leave. It seemed like a plot for a Seinfeld episode.
I spoke for a two hours with my neighbor on the flight, an IT specialist from Hyderabad coming from Slovakia. The American-based IT company for which he works has business all over the world, and he had spent a month in Eastern Europe working and traveling. He said he enjoyed how much less crowded Slovakia was, but complained how bland European food was. He was unable to eat plain boiled potatoes. After the flight, he helped Jousting and I fill out our Immigration forms and find our luggage. I will always appreciate his help and friendship.
The journey from Mumbai to Pune was decidedly tiresome. We arrived in India at 1:30 a.m. this morning. The air was sticky and the airport exit had a white tent with bright colorful lights as decoration. Beyond that, Mumbai was dark, littered, and canine.
The first thing I noticed coming out of the city of Mumbai was the dogs. I must have seen eight or ten every mile in between naps on the car ride. Sleep was needed. We stopped at a roadside store, what may have been the equivalent of a trucker stop. Gene, one of the program coordinators, asked if we wanted food. Foodsleep, food sleep, food, sleep. Jesus Christ, no thank you. It was 4 a.m. and while I hadn't eaten in four hours (and could have), more food was not appetizing. Nevertheless, they had snacks I could not help but try. One seemed like Indian Chex Mix. Finally, we arrived at our hotel at around 6 a.m., just before sunrise. Jousting and I are sharing a room, sounds good to me.
We ignored the first wake-up call, and I jumped like a cat on the second one. As we dressed, we received the third. Crap, late. After a cautious welcome conversation on health, where the program doctor advised us to wear masks in public places (I will not), we ate a very very mild lunch. They say we should wait to eat really spicy food for otherwise we will get sick. If you know me at all, erring on the side of caution is not my style, and so this meal was a bit disappointing, but the caution will probably be healthy in the end.
We broke into groups and spent the afternoon exploring the city. In a group of five to seven whities, we received many strange stares. Fair enough, for we saw two other whities on our long walk. The streets teem with rickshaws, scooters, motorcycles, cars, and the occasional bicycle. Sidewalks are split by massive tree trunks and gaping potholes--one must keep open eyes and swerving footsteps. I attempted discretion by wearing sunglasses, but that may have only heightened my presence. Our group stopped at a coffee shop near the university which was full with university students and a Western atmosphere. "The Reason" by Hoobastank played through the coffeeshop speakers, twice.
Caffeine and Hoobastank can cure jetlag, right?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fV4DiAyExN0
We ambled and ambled, always to be noticed by locals. Surprisingly, I was only accosted by two beggar children in the four hours we were walking. One boy kept walking with us, holding out his hand to my belly button, saying "something" and "please." After his third time approaching me in the group, I finally gave in and placed a two ruppee piece in his metal bowl. We saw the river where water buffalo grazed the lush grasslands on the riverbanks and where a group was making drums near what was either a temple (judging from its large white cone structure) or a motorcycle store (judging by the large amount of priced motorcycles sitting in the courtyard of the building).
On the other side of the river, we found an actual temple where we cautiously entered, afraid of insulting or overstepping our boundaries. Everything seemed ok, and we felt dumb when we took off our shoes unnecessarily. That was ok, even if the courtyard stone was scalding. In the ornate but blackened temple, the courtyard had a large statue of what we guessed was Krishna's bull, or perhaps not. We did not go completely inside, it did not feel right.
We saw cows sitting in the street, the occasional cat, dogs everywhere, and a goat standing on a bed in a house (?). Jousting petted one dog, and he followed us for about an hour. We creatively named him Buddy.
The trees here seem great for climbing, but I am afraid to climb them. Not because of the treachery, but rather, from my fear of standing out more than I already do.
Now I am sitting in my hotel room anticipating dinner.
David
The flight from Newark to Frankfurt was Continental and I watched the Godfather Part II. I could not sleep, even though I should have.
And what about airline food, for cryin out loud?
In Frankfurt, Jousting and I realized that no longer will our drinking be hindered by force of law. After a pint each and a bottle of wine between two at the airport bar to celebrate this reality, we were ready for the second eight hour flight. On the flight, I fell asleep readily.
I awoke to Shrek 4 and more airline food, this time in the Indian tradition. Then, more sleep. Food, sleep, food sleep, foodsleep. The two activities became my sole traveling activities. As I awoke, a Bollywood movie was finishing.
The movie was about a guest who called himself the uncle of the hosting family (even though they did not recognize him as such), and far overextended his welcome. Ironically, they began to enjoy his charm and wit, and when they became separated from him during the Ganesh festival, they spent the entire night looking for him. Worry heightened. They found him the next day only to realize he was not hurt or dead, but merely spent the night waiting for a way back (and did not call). They argued outside the apartment building when all of the sudden, a man drove up and recognized the guest as his uncle! Apparently the whole time he had the wrong room and thus, the wrong family.
How hilarious! I enjoyed the plot, a movie about nothing. They kvetched and kvetched about how cumbersome hosting this "uncle" truly was, which he seemed to be, but would not ask him to leave. It seemed like a plot for a Seinfeld episode.
I spoke for a two hours with my neighbor on the flight, an IT specialist from Hyderabad coming from Slovakia. The American-based IT company for which he works has business all over the world, and he had spent a month in Eastern Europe working and traveling. He said he enjoyed how much less crowded Slovakia was, but complained how bland European food was. He was unable to eat plain boiled potatoes. After the flight, he helped Jousting and I fill out our Immigration forms and find our luggage. I will always appreciate his help and friendship.
The journey from Mumbai to Pune was decidedly tiresome. We arrived in India at 1:30 a.m. this morning. The air was sticky and the airport exit had a white tent with bright colorful lights as decoration. Beyond that, Mumbai was dark, littered, and canine.
The first thing I noticed coming out of the city of Mumbai was the dogs. I must have seen eight or ten every mile in between naps on the car ride. Sleep was needed. We stopped at a roadside store, what may have been the equivalent of a trucker stop. Gene, one of the program coordinators, asked if we wanted food. Foodsleep, food sleep, food, sleep. Jesus Christ, no thank you. It was 4 a.m. and while I hadn't eaten in four hours (and could have), more food was not appetizing. Nevertheless, they had snacks I could not help but try. One seemed like Indian Chex Mix. Finally, we arrived at our hotel at around 6 a.m., just before sunrise. Jousting and I are sharing a room, sounds good to me.
We ignored the first wake-up call, and I jumped like a cat on the second one. As we dressed, we received the third. Crap, late. After a cautious welcome conversation on health, where the program doctor advised us to wear masks in public places (I will not), we ate a very very mild lunch. They say we should wait to eat really spicy food for otherwise we will get sick. If you know me at all, erring on the side of caution is not my style, and so this meal was a bit disappointing, but the caution will probably be healthy in the end.
We broke into groups and spent the afternoon exploring the city. In a group of five to seven whities, we received many strange stares. Fair enough, for we saw two other whities on our long walk. The streets teem with rickshaws, scooters, motorcycles, cars, and the occasional bicycle. Sidewalks are split by massive tree trunks and gaping potholes--one must keep open eyes and swerving footsteps. I attempted discretion by wearing sunglasses, but that may have only heightened my presence. Our group stopped at a coffee shop near the university which was full with university students and a Western atmosphere. "The Reason" by Hoobastank played through the coffeeshop speakers, twice.
Caffeine and Hoobastank can cure jetlag, right?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fV4DiAyExN0
We ambled and ambled, always to be noticed by locals. Surprisingly, I was only accosted by two beggar children in the four hours we were walking. One boy kept walking with us, holding out his hand to my belly button, saying "something" and "please." After his third time approaching me in the group, I finally gave in and placed a two ruppee piece in his metal bowl. We saw the river where water buffalo grazed the lush grasslands on the riverbanks and where a group was making drums near what was either a temple (judging from its large white cone structure) or a motorcycle store (judging by the large amount of priced motorcycles sitting in the courtyard of the building).
On the other side of the river, we found an actual temple where we cautiously entered, afraid of insulting or overstepping our boundaries. Everything seemed ok, and we felt dumb when we took off our shoes unnecessarily. That was ok, even if the courtyard stone was scalding. In the ornate but blackened temple, the courtyard had a large statue of what we guessed was Krishna's bull, or perhaps not. We did not go completely inside, it did not feel right.
We saw cows sitting in the street, the occasional cat, dogs everywhere, and a goat standing on a bed in a house (?). Jousting petted one dog, and he followed us for about an hour. We creatively named him Buddy.
The trees here seem great for climbing, but I am afraid to climb them. Not because of the treachery, but rather, from my fear of standing out more than I already do.
Now I am sitting in my hotel room anticipating dinner.
David
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
What do I pack?
A full suitcase sits in my room like an elephant who overstayed its welcome long after somebody brought everyone to its attention. It still won't leave the room. I need to unpack from Minnesota.
Damn.
I have to unpack it and repack some of it into two different, smaller ones. A hiking backpack and a rolling suitcase should do.
I leave for India in three days, and I leave Kansas City tomorrow.
My mind is hesitant, so many things to do and consider, and all I have to do now is get up and do it. My ticket is bought, my visa is secure, yet my backpack is empty.
I want to pack as little as possible, too much clutter can be cumbersome and draw unnecessary attention. Being white in India will already do that, no point in being white and a pack rat.
Will I need a tie? What about hiking boots? What about charcoal for drawing? Wart remover?
I look at these things and wonder how their absence or presence will affect my time abroad.
Whatever I bring, I'm going. My reading is not finished, my Marathi is nonexistent.
Why can't I get myself to pack? What am I waiting for?
Now, there is a new elephant in the room that I must address. I will miss Minnesota, and leaving the suitcase unpacked keeps it closer to my memory.
Or maybe I'm just bullshitting myself and I need to get my lazy ass off the computer so I can pack.
I think that should be my last sentence for this post.
David
Damn.
I have to unpack it and repack some of it into two different, smaller ones. A hiking backpack and a rolling suitcase should do.
I leave for India in three days, and I leave Kansas City tomorrow.
My mind is hesitant, so many things to do and consider, and all I have to do now is get up and do it. My ticket is bought, my visa is secure, yet my backpack is empty.
I want to pack as little as possible, too much clutter can be cumbersome and draw unnecessary attention. Being white in India will already do that, no point in being white and a pack rat.
Will I need a tie? What about hiking boots? What about charcoal for drawing? Wart remover?
I look at these things and wonder how their absence or presence will affect my time abroad.
Whatever I bring, I'm going. My reading is not finished, my Marathi is nonexistent.
Why can't I get myself to pack? What am I waiting for?
Now, there is a new elephant in the room that I must address. I will miss Minnesota, and leaving the suitcase unpacked keeps it closer to my memory.
Or maybe I'm just bullshitting myself and I need to get my lazy ass off the computer so I can pack.
I think that should be my last sentence for this post.
David
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