On the way back from a breakfast trip today, we found ourselves stopped at a stop light patrolled by some beggar children. A pathetic-looking child came down our aisle and Sanju’s roommate, whose car we were in, flagged him down and started searching through her car. She always keeps a pack of biscuits (cookies, stateside) handy for the kids. If you give them change, it’ll wind up in the hands of their handlers, but they can eat the biscuits themselves.
Once, walking out of Morry’s Deli in Hyde Park, I had some fries left over. The middle aged, portly gentleman in front asked for change, and I offered the fries. He muttered something about how he couldn’t eat them, and I walked off. We have beggars in the states, and I thought that would prepare me to just steel myself when they came by, but I must say, the begging here is another ballgame entirely.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Imperialist Food: Dominos
There’re quite a few American fast food chains in Bangalore. I’ve seen a KFC, a McDonald’s, a Domino’s, a Pizza Hut, a Taco Bell, a Baskin Robbin’s, and even a Papa John’s. Today at a food court in an IT park in rural Bangalore, I saw a “Jambo Juice.” Sanju thought it was just a rip-off of Jamba Juice, but given that most of these chains are actually officially licensed here, I figure that whatever focus group decided that “Jamba Juice” was a great name also decided that “Jambo Juice” would play better in the subcontinent. I’m sure there are many more options than these, too, so I’ve got options for seeing how Indians bastardize American bastardizations of European food.
Last week, Sanju was out and her roommate showed up late and hungry and decided to order out. We decided I’d give Domino’s my first try at American fast food. So here’s my review:
We ordered a “cheese burst” pizza, which has a layer of liquid cheese in the crust. The pizza itself was “spicy chicken,” which I gravitated to because of the two chilis next to it, indicating very spicy. Sanju’s roommate didn’t want to do one of the bizarre fusion pizzas, but I figure that’s for the best for now anyway.
It was better than American Domino’s, certainly. There was actually sauce on the pizza, albeit not exactly tomato sauce. It had the color and texture of barbecue sauce, and tasted like, well, Indian food. Sorry my pallette isn’t more sophisticated than that. The cheese burst was fine, even if you could tell it was fatty. The chicken, crust, and cheese topping were acceptable, too. Nothing fancy, but unlike American Dominos, this didn’t make me want to wretch, so that’s a plus.
Pizza Hut and Papa John’s are more expensive, but I’ll give them a shot at some point. I’ve also heard good things about the veg burger at KFC (I know, right?) and some of the stuff at McDonald’s. We’ll see if Taco Bell substitutes something edible instead of the surplus circus meat it uses in the States.
Last week, Sanju was out and her roommate showed up late and hungry and decided to order out. We decided I’d give Domino’s my first try at American fast food. So here’s my review:
We ordered a “cheese burst” pizza, which has a layer of liquid cheese in the crust. The pizza itself was “spicy chicken,” which I gravitated to because of the two chilis next to it, indicating very spicy. Sanju’s roommate didn’t want to do one of the bizarre fusion pizzas, but I figure that’s for the best for now anyway.
It was better than American Domino’s, certainly. There was actually sauce on the pizza, albeit not exactly tomato sauce. It had the color and texture of barbecue sauce, and tasted like, well, Indian food. Sorry my pallette isn’t more sophisticated than that. The cheese burst was fine, even if you could tell it was fatty. The chicken, crust, and cheese topping were acceptable, too. Nothing fancy, but unlike American Dominos, this didn’t make me want to wretch, so that’s a plus.
Pizza Hut and Papa John’s are more expensive, but I’ll give them a shot at some point. I’ve also heard good things about the veg burger at KFC (I know, right?) and some of the stuff at McDonald’s. We’ll see if Taco Bell substitutes something edible instead of the surplus circus meat it uses in the States.
Lost in Suburban Bangalore, Part 2: Channapatna
I spent the day in a Karnataka slum, Channapatna, the toy capital of India. This trip involved disembarking a bus at a stop somewhat akin to the Prairie Stop, running across four lanes of highway traffic, riding around a slum on the back of a two-wheeler, and eating food I probably shouldn’t have.
Sanju had the bright idea to send me to Channapatna alone while she got other work done. So she dropped me off at a bus station, made sure I got on board, and I was off on an hour-and-a-half bus ride to rural Karnataka. The scenery was beautiful, even through the smudgy bus windows. Huge bluffs, palm trees everywhere, occasional Coke signs at roadside dives. Great stuff.
The problems began, though, when Sanju’s directions fell apart. She told me it was about 15-20 minutes after a really busy bus station. Unfortunately, the only really busy bus station we pulled into was Channapatna itself. Making things worse, she had told the bus driver to announce Channapatna, which he didn’t. So I missed the stop, only realizing it when I saw signs saying “Thanks for visiting Chanapatna, come back soon.” (“Rod R. Blagojevich, Governor.”) Which raised serious red flags. I asked the conductor, and he motioned backwards, then walked to the front. I was prepared to just hike the kilometer or so back to town, but the conductor instead motioned for me to cross the street to catch a bus that was heading the other way and waiting for me. People are constantly running across traffic here, so I figured “when in Karnataka.” After a 3 Rupee fare, I was on my way back to Channapatna, only moderately late.
I called “Mr. Kumar” and he arrived on his 2-wheeler. I hopped on the back. Two people on a motorcycle is nothing here, though. I’ve already seen a 5-person family on one bike. If you’re a guy, you sit on the back perpendicular to the road, like the driver. If you’re a woman, though, you sit with both legs hanging off one side, parallel to the road. This is done, I think, because this country is much more uptight about opposite-sex contact in public than with same-sex. I’ve honestly seen guys on the back seats hugging the drivers to stay on, something which is actually common in the US when it’s a woman on the back. I elected not to hug Mr. Kumar, though, and instead just held onto the back handle.
We stopped off at Ujjivan’s office, then went out on the first call of the day, a meeting with about 20 Muslim women, all in black, but in various degrees of cover-up. Some looked about my age, all the way up to quite old. They laid out a tarp in front of one of their shacks, and we sat down facing them. Ujjivan lends to individuals, but in groups. Everyone’s loan in separate, but with co-signers, and the meetings are conducted to groups. I found out later that if you miss a meeting, the group is assessed an Rs.5 fine, which I guess they collect from you later. Money seemed to be handed over in one large wad for everyone, though, suggesting they were really functioning as a group.
The next meeting was in a different slum, and this time was inside a clay house. The entry room had been cleared out for the meeting, with some rugs laid out. It was painted pink, and there was molded into the clay walls, but if there was any furniture, it had been moved. This was the same deal–about 20 Muslim women of varying ages and in varying cover-up. Again, a big wad of money being paid, and again, it was all in Kanada, so I understood only as much as I did during Endhiran.
As for the slums themselves, they were pretty ugly. No paving, drinking from plastic jugs and suspicious taps, and all shanties were slanty. There did not appear to be plumbing, aside from the large public taps, so I don’t know what they did about sewage. But this wasn’t some Sally Struthers infomercial either. Nobody was starving, nobody was looking around with big doe-eyes on the verge of crying. The meetings were upbeat, with people joking. Nobody stared at me, suggesting that white people aren’t unheard of there (I thought I saw one white guy on a bike, but it turned out he just had a raging case of vitiligo). There was a real community in Channapatna, even if it’s one that would appal by American standards. The one thing that did jar me was that none of the children were in school, and that’s a real problem. That isn’t a matter of local standards or moral relevance–that’s a severe handicap for those kids, and results in them going nowhere near their potential. Of all of India’s issues, schooling is the most pressing, in my opinion. You can’t have children spending their days running around a slum.
When we were done with the second meeting, Mr. Kumar drove me to the shack of a “third year customer,” which was still kinda iffy, but was a real, private shack with one family and a small yard. They’d clearly done well for themselves through the loans. Before I left for the bus station, the Ujjivan office forced food on me, and chapati roulette worked out in my favor, as I didn’t throw up. Everybody uses bottled water here, and I sure hope they used it in that chutney.
Sanju had the bright idea to send me to Channapatna alone while she got other work done. So she dropped me off at a bus station, made sure I got on board, and I was off on an hour-and-a-half bus ride to rural Karnataka. The scenery was beautiful, even through the smudgy bus windows. Huge bluffs, palm trees everywhere, occasional Coke signs at roadside dives. Great stuff.
The problems began, though, when Sanju’s directions fell apart. She told me it was about 15-20 minutes after a really busy bus station. Unfortunately, the only really busy bus station we pulled into was Channapatna itself. Making things worse, she had told the bus driver to announce Channapatna, which he didn’t. So I missed the stop, only realizing it when I saw signs saying “Thanks for visiting Chanapatna, come back soon.” (“Rod R. Blagojevich, Governor.”) Which raised serious red flags. I asked the conductor, and he motioned backwards, then walked to the front. I was prepared to just hike the kilometer or so back to town, but the conductor instead motioned for me to cross the street to catch a bus that was heading the other way and waiting for me. People are constantly running across traffic here, so I figured “when in Karnataka.” After a 3 Rupee fare, I was on my way back to Channapatna, only moderately late.
I called “Mr. Kumar” and he arrived on his 2-wheeler. I hopped on the back. Two people on a motorcycle is nothing here, though. I’ve already seen a 5-person family on one bike. If you’re a guy, you sit on the back perpendicular to the road, like the driver. If you’re a woman, though, you sit with both legs hanging off one side, parallel to the road. This is done, I think, because this country is much more uptight about opposite-sex contact in public than with same-sex. I’ve honestly seen guys on the back seats hugging the drivers to stay on, something which is actually common in the US when it’s a woman on the back. I elected not to hug Mr. Kumar, though, and instead just held onto the back handle.
We stopped off at Ujjivan’s office, then went out on the first call of the day, a meeting with about 20 Muslim women, all in black, but in various degrees of cover-up. Some looked about my age, all the way up to quite old. They laid out a tarp in front of one of their shacks, and we sat down facing them. Ujjivan lends to individuals, but in groups. Everyone’s loan in separate, but with co-signers, and the meetings are conducted to groups. I found out later that if you miss a meeting, the group is assessed an Rs.5 fine, which I guess they collect from you later. Money seemed to be handed over in one large wad for everyone, though, suggesting they were really functioning as a group.
The next meeting was in a different slum, and this time was inside a clay house. The entry room had been cleared out for the meeting, with some rugs laid out. It was painted pink, and there was molded into the clay walls, but if there was any furniture, it had been moved. This was the same deal–about 20 Muslim women of varying ages and in varying cover-up. Again, a big wad of money being paid, and again, it was all in Kanada, so I understood only as much as I did during Endhiran.
As for the slums themselves, they were pretty ugly. No paving, drinking from plastic jugs and suspicious taps, and all shanties were slanty. There did not appear to be plumbing, aside from the large public taps, so I don’t know what they did about sewage. But this wasn’t some Sally Struthers infomercial either. Nobody was starving, nobody was looking around with big doe-eyes on the verge of crying. The meetings were upbeat, with people joking. Nobody stared at me, suggesting that white people aren’t unheard of there (I thought I saw one white guy on a bike, but it turned out he just had a raging case of vitiligo). There was a real community in Channapatna, even if it’s one that would appal by American standards. The one thing that did jar me was that none of the children were in school, and that’s a real problem. That isn’t a matter of local standards or moral relevance–that’s a severe handicap for those kids, and results in them going nowhere near their potential. Of all of India’s issues, schooling is the most pressing, in my opinion. You can’t have children spending their days running around a slum.
When we were done with the second meeting, Mr. Kumar drove me to the shack of a “third year customer,” which was still kinda iffy, but was a real, private shack with one family and a small yard. They’d clearly done well for themselves through the loans. Before I left for the bus station, the Ujjivan office forced food on me, and chapati roulette worked out in my favor, as I didn’t throw up. Everybody uses bottled water here, and I sure hope they used it in that chutney.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The FRRO
I had a rough time getting a visa. They throw up a ton of meaningless roadblocks, I think largely just to make sure you really care. I eventually pulled it off with some help, but you can imagine how I felt when I found out I’d have to do basically the same process all over again once I got here.
India requires foreigners to register with the local Foreigners [Regional] Registration Office, the FRO or FRRO, depending on how big the office is you’re dealing with. This applies to anyone here on a visa that’s valid for more than 6 months, so tourists are generally exempt. Registration isn’t just as simple as showing up, though. You must compile a long list of documents, largely repetitive with the stuff they make you compile to get the visa in the first place, but with a few new difficult roadblocks.
The hardest thing to get is the “proof of address.” This is easy if you’re staying in a hotel, which is what they expect. For me, though, it wasn’t that simple. I couldn’t just say I was staying with a friend–there had to be a signed lease agreement. And a sublease wouldn’t work without the landlord’s approval, something which would be just as tough. So I was going to have to actually find a place to stay within the first two weeks of showing up.
Not that hard, right? Think again. Before you can do ANYTHING in this country, you have to get that FRRO registration document. You can’t get a post-paid cell phone or an ID without one, but most importantly, you can’t open a bank account without one. How they expect people to sign leases without bank accounts is beyond me, but thanks to some connections, I’ve made it happen.
I’d sorta suspected this for a while, but since coming here I think I’m sure of it: you cannot possibly do anything in this country without connections. It’s what separates the legitimate people from those just faking it. This is one of India’s largest problems, just as big as its infrastructure issues or how the whole place smells like a fireworks display: The system is set up such that there are enormous transaction costs in everything you do. My lease had to be on “stamp paper,” for example, which is just a sheet of paper that costs about $1 and is sold at banks. It’s only special because it has a stamp on it–think Stamp Act. And that stuff isn’t sold at nearly every bank, nor is there any reliable resource on where to get it. You just have to know, or know someone who knows.
When I finally got everything together, my FRRO process actually went smoothly. Unlike for the Mongolians ahead of me in line. As for the busload of Malaysians who were there on my first day, or the busload of Maldivians who were there the next, I can only hope they did well, too. But we all had help. Everyone going through that process needs help, because the information just isn’t available any other way.
Shiva help me if I need to extend my visa.
India requires foreigners to register with the local Foreigners [Regional] Registration Office, the FRO or FRRO, depending on how big the office is you’re dealing with. This applies to anyone here on a visa that’s valid for more than 6 months, so tourists are generally exempt. Registration isn’t just as simple as showing up, though. You must compile a long list of documents, largely repetitive with the stuff they make you compile to get the visa in the first place, but with a few new difficult roadblocks.
The hardest thing to get is the “proof of address.” This is easy if you’re staying in a hotel, which is what they expect. For me, though, it wasn’t that simple. I couldn’t just say I was staying with a friend–there had to be a signed lease agreement. And a sublease wouldn’t work without the landlord’s approval, something which would be just as tough. So I was going to have to actually find a place to stay within the first two weeks of showing up.
Not that hard, right? Think again. Before you can do ANYTHING in this country, you have to get that FRRO registration document. You can’t get a post-paid cell phone or an ID without one, but most importantly, you can’t open a bank account without one. How they expect people to sign leases without bank accounts is beyond me, but thanks to some connections, I’ve made it happen.
I’d sorta suspected this for a while, but since coming here I think I’m sure of it: you cannot possibly do anything in this country without connections. It’s what separates the legitimate people from those just faking it. This is one of India’s largest problems, just as big as its infrastructure issues or how the whole place smells like a fireworks display: The system is set up such that there are enormous transaction costs in everything you do. My lease had to be on “stamp paper,” for example, which is just a sheet of paper that costs about $1 and is sold at banks. It’s only special because it has a stamp on it–think Stamp Act. And that stuff isn’t sold at nearly every bank, nor is there any reliable resource on where to get it. You just have to know, or know someone who knows.
When I finally got everything together, my FRRO process actually went smoothly. Unlike for the Mongolians ahead of me in line. As for the busload of Malaysians who were there on my first day, or the busload of Maldivians who were there the next, I can only hope they did well, too. But we all had help. Everyone going through that process needs help, because the information just isn’t available any other way.
Shiva help me if I need to extend my visa.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Church on Sunday... Or Something
I had my first trip to a Hindu temple on Sunday night. Sanju, a good Hindu, needed some luck, and I decided to join.
It was a Sunday night at about 7:30, but that didn’t mean things were dying down. If anything, Bangalore gets more crowded on Sunday nights for some reason. All of the stores were still open and busy–chains, expensive jewelry stores, restaurants, kebab stands, everything. So, needless to say, the small temple was also somewhat busy.
We left our sandals at the gate (duh!) and headed in. There were three stalls, for lack of a better word, with large statues in each. The first one we went to I recognized as Hanuman, the monkey god (I’m getting good at this). Some priest or something was doing some ritual (or something), and by following Sanju’s lead, I placed my hands over some candle then rubbed the heat on my head, put my hands in the right prayer position, accepted a small flower, then got this dot put on my brow. I declined the mysterious drop of drink that he was passing out, but Sanju said it was just coconut milk. We repeated this at the Ganesh (elephant head, human body god), stall then she walked into a stall with some other statute in it. She later explained that this was “nine gods,” and she walked around it nine times.
I noticed a sort of menu at this place, where for various amounts of money you could have certain blessings performed. The cheapest stuff was about 50-60 cents (Rs.25), while some sort of butter sacrifice was going for about 11-12 bucks (Rs.500). When I need to call in some serious favors, I’ll remember that gods like butter.
As we left, we found some dude (bum, transient, whatever... I don’t know how to classify all Indian weirdos) hunched over on the barrier between the temple and the sidewalk, over a bunch of sandals. He was spitting, and he’d hocked some huge ones on Sanju’s sandals. She walked back to the car barefoot. Good times.
It was a Sunday night at about 7:30, but that didn’t mean things were dying down. If anything, Bangalore gets more crowded on Sunday nights for some reason. All of the stores were still open and busy–chains, expensive jewelry stores, restaurants, kebab stands, everything. So, needless to say, the small temple was also somewhat busy.
We left our sandals at the gate (duh!) and headed in. There were three stalls, for lack of a better word, with large statues in each. The first one we went to I recognized as Hanuman, the monkey god (I’m getting good at this). Some priest or something was doing some ritual (or something), and by following Sanju’s lead, I placed my hands over some candle then rubbed the heat on my head, put my hands in the right prayer position, accepted a small flower, then got this dot put on my brow. I declined the mysterious drop of drink that he was passing out, but Sanju said it was just coconut milk. We repeated this at the Ganesh (elephant head, human body god), stall then she walked into a stall with some other statute in it. She later explained that this was “nine gods,” and she walked around it nine times.
I noticed a sort of menu at this place, where for various amounts of money you could have certain blessings performed. The cheapest stuff was about 50-60 cents (Rs.25), while some sort of butter sacrifice was going for about 11-12 bucks (Rs.500). When I need to call in some serious favors, I’ll remember that gods like butter.
As we left, we found some dude (bum, transient, whatever... I don’t know how to classify all Indian weirdos) hunched over on the barrier between the temple and the sidewalk, over a bunch of sandals. He was spitting, and he’d hocked some huge ones on Sanju’s sandals. She walked back to the car barefoot. Good times.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Lost in Suburban Bangalore, Part 1: Yelehanka
A few nights ago Sanju and I went to a University of Chicago recruiting session in Bangalore. Or at least we tried to. In their infinite wisdom, the U of C scheduled the event at a prestigious high school that happened to be in the middle of freaking nowhere in suburban Bangalore/rural Karnataka.
As I talked about earlier, navigating the labyrinth that is India is an arduous process. Sanju has been known to match speeds of rickshaw drivers and ask for directions in moving traffic. This time she pulled that stunt on a highway. In any event, the lack of signage and the winding, un-gridded streets make navigation very difficult to plan in advance. As such, finding out way to a small suburban town, and making sure we didn’t drive past it, was tough. When we finally got to the town, though, which of course had few powered street lights, finding the “Aditi Malia International School” was nearly impossible. There were no signs for anything, the school was small and on an off road, and few people had ever heard of it. One guy outside a busy “diner” actually went inside to try to find directions for us, and even inside, nobody had heard of this school. We finally found some young people who’d heard of it, after a string of about 10 minutes and 5-6 people who hadn’t (at this point on semi-country roads). We arrived an hour late, as the hour long session was emptying.
It seemed to be standard college recruitment fare, with gunners staying late to ask meaningless questions of the school rep. And free banana bread. When we finally got in touch with the woman from the U of C, one of the heads of College admissions who was on a tour of India, we had a good chat about the school and its direction. Their efforts to find the right kids for the right school are far from dead, but rather are ramping up. Hence the recruitment trips near and far. And their efforts to find enthusiastic admissions staff who believe in the product seems to be going great, too. But in true U of C fashion, they mucked it all up by making the session unreachable. What’s C-H for?
At least we got to follow her driver back. He got lost 3 times on the way there, but fortunately not on the return.
As I talked about earlier, navigating the labyrinth that is India is an arduous process. Sanju has been known to match speeds of rickshaw drivers and ask for directions in moving traffic. This time she pulled that stunt on a highway. In any event, the lack of signage and the winding, un-gridded streets make navigation very difficult to plan in advance. As such, finding out way to a small suburban town, and making sure we didn’t drive past it, was tough. When we finally got to the town, though, which of course had few powered street lights, finding the “Aditi Malia International School” was nearly impossible. There were no signs for anything, the school was small and on an off road, and few people had ever heard of it. One guy outside a busy “diner” actually went inside to try to find directions for us, and even inside, nobody had heard of this school. We finally found some young people who’d heard of it, after a string of about 10 minutes and 5-6 people who hadn’t (at this point on semi-country roads). We arrived an hour late, as the hour long session was emptying.
It seemed to be standard college recruitment fare, with gunners staying late to ask meaningless questions of the school rep. And free banana bread. When we finally got in touch with the woman from the U of C, one of the heads of College admissions who was on a tour of India, we had a good chat about the school and its direction. Their efforts to find the right kids for the right school are far from dead, but rather are ramping up. Hence the recruitment trips near and far. And their efforts to find enthusiastic admissions staff who believe in the product seems to be going great, too. But in true U of C fashion, they mucked it all up by making the session unreachable. What’s C-H for?
At least we got to follow her driver back. He got lost 3 times on the way there, but fortunately not on the return.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Ajit, the Bra King of Bangalore
We had a birthday party for Sanju’s roommate, T, the other night. In most respects, it was about the same thing as an American birthday. There was beer and wine, music and people dancing, people pulling up funny stuff on YouTube, delivered Thai food, and a cake. Pretty much the same thing we’d do in the US. But we dodged two traditions, though, that I can’t tell if they’re Indian or too American. The first was “birthday bumps,” which apparently involve tossing somebody into the air, usually resulting in them hitting them the ground hard, repeated for the number of years you are. T refused, and I was told only girls are allowed to refuse birthday bumps. T also was very very hesitant to even approach the cake, as apparently in India the cake always winds up in the face of whoever’s birthday it is. Kanika, my outside counsel for all things Indian, was sorely disappointed that there were no birthday bumps or cake-in-the-face.
But I also got to meet Sanju’s cousin, whom I’ll call Ajit (most names here will be replaced), who until recently ran a successful underwear business, specializing in bras, which he distributed to stores in South India. He decided, one day, to expand into the plus-size market, and began distributing bras described as large to enormous. These bras started to sell. Like hot cakes. And he couldn’t figure out why. He’d call the stores and get dodgy answers. But when he found that one store in Kerala was selling 1,000s of these per week, he decided to take a trip to the store to figure out what was going on. When he got there, he found that they were selling because Ramadan was coming up. The owner was taking the bras, cutting out the cups, and selling them as prayer caps. Which sold extremely well, because unlike most cheap scratchy prayer caps, these were soft and comfortable, but still affordable. This continued, but after Ramadan, was not quite as big of a deal. Ajit’s business started to slip when he expanded into the very competitive undershirt market, and he sold it at a substantial profit.
Sorry if you’re looking for a moral in this post. I say if a story involves enormous bras being converted to prayer caps, it pretty much speaks for itself.
But I also got to meet Sanju’s cousin, whom I’ll call Ajit (most names here will be replaced), who until recently ran a successful underwear business, specializing in bras, which he distributed to stores in South India. He decided, one day, to expand into the plus-size market, and began distributing bras described as large to enormous. These bras started to sell. Like hot cakes. And he couldn’t figure out why. He’d call the stores and get dodgy answers. But when he found that one store in Kerala was selling 1,000s of these per week, he decided to take a trip to the store to figure out what was going on. When he got there, he found that they were selling because Ramadan was coming up. The owner was taking the bras, cutting out the cups, and selling them as prayer caps. Which sold extremely well, because unlike most cheap scratchy prayer caps, these were soft and comfortable, but still affordable. This continued, but after Ramadan, was not quite as big of a deal. Ajit’s business started to slip when he expanded into the very competitive undershirt market, and he sold it at a substantial profit.
Sorry if you’re looking for a moral in this post. I say if a story involves enormous bras being converted to prayer caps, it pretty much speaks for itself.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare
Got up at 5:30 this morning to go with Sanju and the wardens of the orphanage to Akshaya Patra’s headquarters to tour their kitchen. They cook for about 15,000 kids a day in Bangalore, and across the country their kitchens cook school lunches for over a million.
First we had to go through a security checkpoint, which we also had to do when parking at the mall, and when entering the theater to see Endhiran. They always have you pop the trunk. We may be annoyed at the US becoming a security state, but it pales in comparison to India. We arrived and met a very well dressed, barefoot, Hare Krishna, who explained their whole process to us. We took off our shoes and put on their temporary sandals and hair nets. Then we walked in.
This place was huge, and really efficient. Huge, huge vats of rice, beans, and vegetables, all arranged well. There was rice goop everywhere, as the vats lightly boiled over, but the place was very clean, clearly a priority. They don’t chop anything by hand–all of the produce is sliced by machine, even the coconuts, it appeared. They had automatic pestles to grind the spices, too. All a far cry from the backwards kitchen at the orphanage.
We have huge industrial kitchens in the States, also cooking lunches for thousands of kids. And those kitchens have the same goals–cook as much food as cheaply as possible. But we cut corners in all the wrong ways. We cheapen the food by cooking it at some factory in another state, freezing it, and shipping it in. We also cheapen it by using chemicals and additives to increase the shelf-life, and by leaving it devoid of spice and flavor. One of Sanju’s friends said that it would be just unheard of to leave out the spices from these dishes. I bet at one point Italians would’ve thought it unheard of to make pizza without oregano, or lasagna without ricotta. Didn’t stop us from doing it.
First we had to go through a security checkpoint, which we also had to do when parking at the mall, and when entering the theater to see Endhiran. They always have you pop the trunk. We may be annoyed at the US becoming a security state, but it pales in comparison to India. We arrived and met a very well dressed, barefoot, Hare Krishna, who explained their whole process to us. We took off our shoes and put on their temporary sandals and hair nets. Then we walked in.
This place was huge, and really efficient. Huge, huge vats of rice, beans, and vegetables, all arranged well. There was rice goop everywhere, as the vats lightly boiled over, but the place was very clean, clearly a priority. They don’t chop anything by hand–all of the produce is sliced by machine, even the coconuts, it appeared. They had automatic pestles to grind the spices, too. All a far cry from the backwards kitchen at the orphanage.
We have huge industrial kitchens in the States, also cooking lunches for thousands of kids. And those kitchens have the same goals–cook as much food as cheaply as possible. But we cut corners in all the wrong ways. We cheapen the food by cooking it at some factory in another state, freezing it, and shipping it in. We also cheapen it by using chemicals and additives to increase the shelf-life, and by leaving it devoid of spice and flavor. One of Sanju’s friends said that it would be just unheard of to leave out the spices from these dishes. I bet at one point Italians would’ve thought it unheard of to make pizza without oregano, or lasagna without ricotta. Didn’t stop us from doing it.
Noobing it up with Gloria Jean
Sanju had a personal engagement a few days ago, so the compromise to avoid just holing me up in her apartment all day was that I’d hang out at Gloria Jean’s, which is basically a Starbucks. This is my first experience on my own at any establishment here. Which makes me sound like an abject noob, but hey, I’d only been here 3 days.
When I got my money to bring here, I got Rs.25,000 from a currency exchange in Chicago (it was in the Thompson Center, paid good rates, and was friendly–recommended). This was just to hold me over until I could get a bank account up and running. The guy there very thoughtfully gave me some small bills, but I’ve quickly realized here that the Rs.1,000 notes that comprise the bulk of my Rupee stash are totally useless in 99% of transactions. A half hour on a rickshaw will cost you Rs.125 or so. This nice coffee was Rs.95, and parking at a mall is Rs.20 for up to 4 hours. When I placed a call to Sanju from the airport, they just had phones at a kiosk next to a guy who collected the money. That call was 2 freaking rupees. Thank God they’d given me a couple 50 notes, but even that garnered a glare from the phonewala. Stores here are not nearly as kind about giving change--even a Walgreens equivalent told me they couldn't break my 500. So an Rs.1,000 note is a chore to break, and I only got so many 100s.
I did get some 500s, though, and I figured Gloria Jean’s would be as good a place as any to break it and replenish the smaller bills. But when I handed it to him, the guy said “10 Rupees change.” I didn’t quite get that, since I thought he was telling me how much change I was about to get. Which would’ve been bogus–I was looking for 405. But after I got him to repeat himself, I figured he wanted 10 more. So I handed him one of the 10s I got from the phonewala and got my coffee (only after having him repeat himself twice when he directed me to take a seat outside). I initially just thought this was a white guy surcharge, or possibly just a noob surcharge. Maybe a legitimate change charge. But then it occurred to me that it was a VAT tax, and he just wanted the extra 10 to avoid paying me like 90 rupees in change. Which confirms that it was a noob surcharge.
When I got my money to bring here, I got Rs.25,000 from a currency exchange in Chicago (it was in the Thompson Center, paid good rates, and was friendly–recommended). This was just to hold me over until I could get a bank account up and running. The guy there very thoughtfully gave me some small bills, but I’ve quickly realized here that the Rs.1,000 notes that comprise the bulk of my Rupee stash are totally useless in 99% of transactions. A half hour on a rickshaw will cost you Rs.125 or so. This nice coffee was Rs.95, and parking at a mall is Rs.20 for up to 4 hours. When I placed a call to Sanju from the airport, they just had phones at a kiosk next to a guy who collected the money. That call was 2 freaking rupees. Thank God they’d given me a couple 50 notes, but even that garnered a glare from the phonewala. Stores here are not nearly as kind about giving change--even a Walgreens equivalent told me they couldn't break my 500. So an Rs.1,000 note is a chore to break, and I only got so many 100s.
I did get some 500s, though, and I figured Gloria Jean’s would be as good a place as any to break it and replenish the smaller bills. But when I handed it to him, the guy said “10 Rupees change.” I didn’t quite get that, since I thought he was telling me how much change I was about to get. Which would’ve been bogus–I was looking for 405. But after I got him to repeat himself, I figured he wanted 10 more. So I handed him one of the 10s I got from the phonewala and got my coffee (only after having him repeat himself twice when he directed me to take a seat outside). I initially just thought this was a white guy surcharge, or possibly just a noob surcharge. Maybe a legitimate change charge. But then it occurred to me that it was a VAT tax, and he just wanted the extra 10 to avoid paying me like 90 rupees in change. Which confirms that it was a noob surcharge.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Somebody Totally Poojaed the ATM
It’s some sort of holiday right now in India. Not Diwali, but probably related somehow to that giant dance I was at on Saturday night. During this holiday, people perform “Poojas,” or basically blessings, on their stuff to make everything work right. This involves decorating whatever object you think needs a blessing thing with flowers and whatnot, putting some paint on it in various designs, and doing the blessing. Gas stations are all tricked out, with the owners performing Poojas on their pumps. Everybody’s doing this to their cars, too, so a lot of the cars and rickshaws have flowers all over the grill and stripes of paint (I assume temporary) on the sides. And giant leaves and stuff sticking out of them. Sanju suggested we Pooja her car, just to make sure it stays healthy. To me, this seems like the thing you do while totally drunk. “Let’s get blitzed and Pooja the hell out of your car.” A good alternative could be Poojaing her “geezer,” the hot water heater in the bathroom, only one of which is working right now. Or my iPod. But the best was when Sanju returned from an ATM to report that someone had done a Pooja on it. I guess somebody really wanted to make sure the money kept flowing. Either that or somebody’s just had some bad experiences with ATMs.
A few notes: I had some issues with the navigation here, so all of the previous posts, except the first, are showing up as being posted today. I deleted and reposted them. I think there may have been some time zone issues or something. Also, I'm sorta backlogged on posts, so there'll be some posts in the near future that are from my first few days, even if they're just now being posted.
A few notes: I had some issues with the navigation here, so all of the previous posts, except the first, are showing up as being posted today. I deleted and reposted them. I think there may have been some time zone issues or something. Also, I'm sorta backlogged on posts, so there'll be some posts in the near future that are from my first few days, even if they're just now being posted.
“Where AM I? What IS this?”
The surreal life continues, and in spades. I spent my third night here at some sort of giant dance. At first it seemed like we’d crashed a wedding, but that wasn’t it. All I know is everyone was dancing with sticks in giant circles, there were 3-4,000 people there, and it was behind the Jumbo Discount Fair.
The night started out with a Shivkumar Sharma concert. He played the Santoor, which is sort of a harp, and was joined by Hariprasad Chaurasia on the flute. This was part of what I can only describe as like a county fair, at the Palace Grounds, in a giant rudimentary building. We didn’t explore much of it except the concert hall, but it really had the feel of a county fair. People selling food, stands advertising Chevrolet, people dressed up as Shiva. Standard fare. We got the cheap seats at the concert, which just meant the furthest away, but as soon as Shivkumar started playing, everybody rushed the expensive seats. I should’ve learned from the Lufthansa experience, but I was still lost in the rush. No big deal, though. Still a cool concert.
But after the concert, we got wind that there was dancing nearby. We left the Palace Grounds and started walking around the neighborhood. We eventually found what we were pretty sure was the dance, but we couldn’t find the entrance, just the Jumbo Discount Fair, which seemed extremely popular for a Saturday night. This is where everything gets really difficult to describe, but we walked probably 200-300 yards behind these signs for the “Jumbo Discount Fair,” and finally found what everybody was going to. We paid Rs.300 to get in, and then it just got crazy. Yeah, 3-4,000 people dancing with sticks in circles. This is the point where I asked my friends “Where AM I? What IS this?” “Join the club” was the reply. None of us really knew what this was, although Sanju vaguely knew the dance, so we were able to join in. Which required taking off our shoes. Since I kept my socks on, I know have the clay/mud stains to prove something serious went down. I’m really at a loss as to how to describe this. We only got the one photo off before somebody ran up to tell us no photography was allowed. So that’s the only proof of this. I’ll consult more Indian friends to figure out where the hell I was on Saturday night. Or what the hell it was.
The night started out with a Shivkumar Sharma concert. He played the Santoor, which is sort of a harp, and was joined by Hariprasad Chaurasia on the flute. This was part of what I can only describe as like a county fair, at the Palace Grounds, in a giant rudimentary building. We didn’t explore much of it except the concert hall, but it really had the feel of a county fair. People selling food, stands advertising Chevrolet, people dressed up as Shiva. Standard fare. We got the cheap seats at the concert, which just meant the furthest away, but as soon as Shivkumar started playing, everybody rushed the expensive seats. I should’ve learned from the Lufthansa experience, but I was still lost in the rush. No big deal, though. Still a cool concert.
But after the concert, we got wind that there was dancing nearby. We left the Palace Grounds and started walking around the neighborhood. We eventually found what we were pretty sure was the dance, but we couldn’t find the entrance, just the Jumbo Discount Fair, which seemed extremely popular for a Saturday night. This is where everything gets really difficult to describe, but we walked probably 200-300 yards behind these signs for the “Jumbo Discount Fair,” and finally found what everybody was going to. We paid Rs.300 to get in, and then it just got crazy. Yeah, 3-4,000 people dancing with sticks in circles. This is the point where I asked my friends “Where AM I? What IS this?” “Join the club” was the reply. None of us really knew what this was, although Sanju vaguely knew the dance, so we were able to join in. Which required taking off our shoes. Since I kept my socks on, I know have the clay/mud stains to prove something serious went down. I’m really at a loss as to how to describe this. We only got the one photo off before somebody ran up to tell us no photography was allowed. So that’s the only proof of this. I’ll consult more Indian friends to figure out where the hell I was on Saturday night. Or what the hell it was.
“We talk of growth.”
All of my posts about the orphanage, specifically, will have to remain private. We just want to make sure we don't wind up burning bridges if someone sees this stuff. So I'll have several posts that are just titles, and if you want to read them, just shoot me an email. I may come up with some sort of distribution list or something. We'll see.
Indian GPS
Sanju will no doubt read this at some point, so I’ll preface this by saying she’s a great driver, and any problems navigating are the result of an absurd city layout, not any fault of hers. But boy, getting around is a chore.
First, all of the streets wind around on each other. There’s no grid. So navigating in Bangalore isn’t just a matter of heading in one direction until you hit your road, then taking that to your destination. No. You get to the main street, hopefully take that to your desired neighborhood, then take several side streets until you get where you’re going.
There are also tons of one-way streets and others where you can’t turn both ways onto them. In Hyde Park, they did that to keep Blacks out of the neighborhood (no joke). In Bangalore, it seems to be done for no particular reason. You counteract this by being able to U-turn anywhere you want, though.
With this crazy layout, though, you’ve really got no chance of knowing how to get around unless you’re a professional, so Sanju has to ask for directions. A lot. At best, this consists of pulling up next to a parked rickshaw and asking in Hindi for directions. These guys tend to know what they’re doing, but explaining things isn’t simple, and usually consists of a “go straight, then right.” Which means bupkes on these roads. So when that fails, Sanju goes to plan B, which is driving another 50m and asking whatever dude she can find on the side of the road. Again, this is either in Hindi or way too simple, so I can’t be of much help. When that fails in another 50m, the plan devolves into matching the speed of a rickshaw and asking for directions in moving traffic. Or waiving out the window and honking until the car next to us stops, thus totally blocking traffic to all but 2-wheelers.
Tonight, Sanju seemed to stumble on a way to get better directions, though. When we pulled up to some guys on the street, asking how to get to a particular road, one said “what landmarks are there?” Sanju knew of a cricket player’s house that was right near where we were heading, and upon that tip, the guy gave us dead-on directions. Maybe the way to go is to just navigate by proximity to cricket landmarks.
First, all of the streets wind around on each other. There’s no grid. So navigating in Bangalore isn’t just a matter of heading in one direction until you hit your road, then taking that to your destination. No. You get to the main street, hopefully take that to your desired neighborhood, then take several side streets until you get where you’re going.
There are also tons of one-way streets and others where you can’t turn both ways onto them. In Hyde Park, they did that to keep Blacks out of the neighborhood (no joke). In Bangalore, it seems to be done for no particular reason. You counteract this by being able to U-turn anywhere you want, though.
With this crazy layout, though, you’ve really got no chance of knowing how to get around unless you’re a professional, so Sanju has to ask for directions. A lot. At best, this consists of pulling up next to a parked rickshaw and asking in Hindi for directions. These guys tend to know what they’re doing, but explaining things isn’t simple, and usually consists of a “go straight, then right.” Which means bupkes on these roads. So when that fails, Sanju goes to plan B, which is driving another 50m and asking whatever dude she can find on the side of the road. Again, this is either in Hindi or way too simple, so I can’t be of much help. When that fails in another 50m, the plan devolves into matching the speed of a rickshaw and asking for directions in moving traffic. Or waiving out the window and honking until the car next to us stops, thus totally blocking traffic to all but 2-wheelers.
Tonight, Sanju seemed to stumble on a way to get better directions, though. When we pulled up to some guys on the street, asking how to get to a particular road, one said “what landmarks are there?” Sanju knew of a cricket player’s house that was right near where we were heading, and upon that tip, the guy gave us dead-on directions. Maybe the way to go is to just navigate by proximity to cricket landmarks.
“You don’t need language to appreciate this wonderful robot musical”
My first night here, Sanju, her friend, and I went to see Endhiran, a new movie that they said was huge in South India. All I knew going into it was it dealt with robots, was the first sci fi movie from Kollywood, and was sweeping South India. Oh, and it was going to be in Tamil with no subtitles, which means not only would I not understand it, but Sanju and her friend wouldn’t either. Good times.
The whole thing was spectacular. I mean, awful awful movie, but I got the full experience, and today I successfully relayed the plot to Sanju’s roommate. It was so visual and over the top that it was understandable either way, and frankly, my guess is the dialogue sucked. Rajni Kanth plays a robotics professor who, despite being goofy, aged, and career-obsessed, is dating Aishwarya Rai. He builds a robot in his own image, thus doubling his screen time. When some evil Chinese rival professor thwarts Rajni’s success by noting the robot’s lack of morality, Rajni is able to teach the robot feelings. But that allows him to fall in love with Aishwarya Rai, whom he prevented from being gang-raped in the first act (pre-morality) by fending off a crowd of savages on a train. After Aishwarya spurns him, evil Chinese professor is able to get a hold of him and implants him with some sort of evil destruction chip, so he can be sold to German arms dealers (that German dialogue was the only stuff I understood, aside from the brief spurts of English). At this point, queue the musical number “2.0,” heavily influenced by Boom Boom Pow. Next, robot revolts, kills evil Chinese guy, abducts Aishwarya Rai, and makes tons of copies of himself. Queue extremely long musical number wherein Aishwarya tries to drain the robots’ batteries by seducing them, and also does a lot of rapping in English. “Watch me robo shake it, you know you want to break it.” This is the second point when Aishwarya Rai is almost gang-raped. Real Rajnit Kanth comes back, implants a virus in the robots, and reduces the robots to one, from which he removes the destruction chip. Queue the melodramatic ending where the robot dismantles himself upon orders, somewhat akin to the dismantling of Hal.
The next day, everyone we met reacted to this with “Oh! You saw Endhiran! How was it?!” Apparently this movie’s huge, largely because of Rajnit Kanth. He’s a famous actor who’s also gotten into politics, and is somewhat deified here because he’s so famous. When he first got on screen, and when he’d get solos in the musical numbers, the crowd of Tamils would hoot and whistle. Sorta like my experience seeing Wanted in Milwaukee, except with Rajnit Kanth instead of absurd bullet movements and with the Wisconsiners replaced by a bunch of Tamils. But the best way to describe Rajnit Kanth would have to be as the Indian Chuck Norris. When we saw the trust’s lawyers the next day, one told us “You know, Rajnit Kanth doesn’t breathe–air just hides in his lungs. When he does push-ups, he isn’t pushing himself up–he’s pushing the earth down.” My jaw kinda dropped. Now if we could only get Chuck Norris to do some huge musical epics. And get involved in politics beyond endorsing Mike Huckabee.
The whole thing was spectacular. I mean, awful awful movie, but I got the full experience, and today I successfully relayed the plot to Sanju’s roommate. It was so visual and over the top that it was understandable either way, and frankly, my guess is the dialogue sucked. Rajni Kanth plays a robotics professor who, despite being goofy, aged, and career-obsessed, is dating Aishwarya Rai. He builds a robot in his own image, thus doubling his screen time. When some evil Chinese rival professor thwarts Rajni’s success by noting the robot’s lack of morality, Rajni is able to teach the robot feelings. But that allows him to fall in love with Aishwarya Rai, whom he prevented from being gang-raped in the first act (pre-morality) by fending off a crowd of savages on a train. After Aishwarya spurns him, evil Chinese professor is able to get a hold of him and implants him with some sort of evil destruction chip, so he can be sold to German arms dealers (that German dialogue was the only stuff I understood, aside from the brief spurts of English). At this point, queue the musical number “2.0,” heavily influenced by Boom Boom Pow. Next, robot revolts, kills evil Chinese guy, abducts Aishwarya Rai, and makes tons of copies of himself. Queue extremely long musical number wherein Aishwarya tries to drain the robots’ batteries by seducing them, and also does a lot of rapping in English. “Watch me robo shake it, you know you want to break it.” This is the second point when Aishwarya Rai is almost gang-raped. Real Rajnit Kanth comes back, implants a virus in the robots, and reduces the robots to one, from which he removes the destruction chip. Queue the melodramatic ending where the robot dismantles himself upon orders, somewhat akin to the dismantling of Hal.
The next day, everyone we met reacted to this with “Oh! You saw Endhiran! How was it?!” Apparently this movie’s huge, largely because of Rajnit Kanth. He’s a famous actor who’s also gotten into politics, and is somewhat deified here because he’s so famous. When he first got on screen, and when he’d get solos in the musical numbers, the crowd of Tamils would hoot and whistle. Sorta like my experience seeing Wanted in Milwaukee, except with Rajnit Kanth instead of absurd bullet movements and with the Wisconsiners replaced by a bunch of Tamils. But the best way to describe Rajnit Kanth would have to be as the Indian Chuck Norris. When we saw the trust’s lawyers the next day, one told us “You know, Rajnit Kanth doesn’t breathe–air just hides in his lungs. When he does push-ups, he isn’t pushing himself up–he’s pushing the earth down.” My jaw kinda dropped. Now if we could only get Chuck Norris to do some huge musical epics. And get involved in politics beyond endorsing Mike Huckabee.
The Biggest Thing on the Subcontinent
Sanju’s been keeping 91.9 Indigo Radio on in the car, and it’s a dead copy of American top 40 radio. It’s fantastic. The music is the same mix of upbeat pop and 80s music that you get on any top 40 radio station, but it goes well beyond that. They have the same DJs who don’t play a lot of music, but instead just do a lot of annoying talking. Their morning guy is an American named “Kenny Jones.” There’s no way that’s his real name. No more so than “The Goose” who lasted about 4 months in 96.3 in Champaign. They have the same recorded voiceover as in American stations, saying things like “The biggest thing on the subcontinent... RADIO INDIGO” and “Commercials off, music ON” while a bunch of bleeps and bloops play in the background. They have people from local businesses calling in to talk about their promotions. Today that was someone from Sanju’s dad’s company talking about how they had people around the city giving out prizes to good drivers. Literally everything they did and said was straight out of American radio, to the point I suspect it’s owned by Clear Channel. But whatever. It’s one thing to give me a fix of Katy Perry, Nelly, and Ke$ha, but it’s quite another to put it in a totally American package.
“Do You Hate Your Own Ass?”
Still no Delhi Belly, but I’ve had my first take-out Indian food, and it was pretty spicy. We spent all day Friday bouncing between various offices, having tons of meetings and signing things, and wound up ordering lunch while at the office of the lawyers. Sanju spent some time figuring out what would be both clean and acceptable to a foreigner, and decided on this dish of steamed rice patties, a bunch of green chili goo, and what was basically a doughnut that, instead of being sweet, was just flavored Indian style. There was also soup. This was an idli plate.
After Sanju explained to me that you take a bit of rice patty, spread some chili goo on it, and dip it all in the soup, literally everyone in the break room stopped and fell silent to watch me take the first bite. Which was spicy, but well within tolerance, so I disappointed anyone hoping for steam to come out of my ears (my ears if we’re lucky...). My experience downing blazin’ wings at Buffalo Wild Wings seems to have paid off, as I eventually eat the whole thing, including all of the chili goo. I fared a lot better than the guy in Outsourced who ate “the pepper stuff.” By the end, Sanju said my face was getting pretty red. But cmon. When your skin starts out so white, of course you’ll notice any redness. All of the brown people around me have a natural camouflage. No fair.
After Sanju explained to me that you take a bit of rice patty, spread some chili goo on it, and dip it all in the soup, literally everyone in the break room stopped and fell silent to watch me take the first bite. Which was spicy, but well within tolerance, so I disappointed anyone hoping for steam to come out of my ears (my ears if we’re lucky...). My experience downing blazin’ wings at Buffalo Wild Wings seems to have paid off, as I eventually eat the whole thing, including all of the chili goo. I fared a lot better than the guy in Outsourced who ate “the pepper stuff.” By the end, Sanju said my face was getting pretty red. But cmon. When your skin starts out so white, of course you’ll notice any redness. All of the brown people around me have a natural camouflage. No fair.
“OK, So You Saw Your First Eunuch”
Sanju and I drove to the orphanage today, and the ride itself was an experience. First, obviously, traffic is insane. How Sanju does it is beyond me, because I could never drive in this without freezing. Indian concepts of personal space extend to the automotive world–a two foot barrier is all you need between you and any other vehicle. Sanju drives a Hyundai, but the roads are dominated by rickshaws, motorcycles (with 2, 3, 4 people on them), and huge trucks. None of those would be phased by a little bump with another car, especially at the low speeds here, so the stakes are much lower. In the US, with everyone traveling quickly in expensive cars, any contact between cars will leave a significant mark on both. Crumple zones may be safe, but they wreck your car upon any contact. Anyway, there are no set lanes, you gun it whenever there’s space in front of you, and honking is necessary, not just something you do for show. When traffic is so fluid, it’s totally normal to honk to get a rickshaw to shift by 2 feet, allowing you to get alongside him.
I also saw my first cows on the street, but I didn’t have my camera on me, since we were heading to the orphanage, which doesn’t like photography on the inside. Best not to even bring one. The first cow was shivering from the rain. The afternoon of my arrival, there was a huge, torrential downpour, which Sanju’s roommate described as some sort of residual monsoon or something. Sanju said she was shocked–she didn’t see it coming at all. Upshot: on my first day, the power was in and out, internet was spotty at best, and the cows were surprised and cold.
I also saw my first eunuch. Picture a cross-dressing, aggressive bum, and you’ve got an Indian eunuch. These are the equivalents of the dudes who knock on your window at the Garfield exit off the Dan Ryan, except wearing dresses. I actually saw him first–I saw someone in a dress up ahead poking into a stopped rickshaw and just said “That’s a dude.” Sanju’s Hyundai had windows and locks, so he didn’t bother with us, but the guys in the rickshaws and the motorcycles were out of luck. They all got harassed until traffic started to move again. Sanju was excited that I’d seen my first eunuch, but of course said “That was nothing.”
I also saw my first cows on the street, but I didn’t have my camera on me, since we were heading to the orphanage, which doesn’t like photography on the inside. Best not to even bring one. The first cow was shivering from the rain. The afternoon of my arrival, there was a huge, torrential downpour, which Sanju’s roommate described as some sort of residual monsoon or something. Sanju said she was shocked–she didn’t see it coming at all. Upshot: on my first day, the power was in and out, internet was spotty at best, and the cows were surprised and cold.
I also saw my first eunuch. Picture a cross-dressing, aggressive bum, and you’ve got an Indian eunuch. These are the equivalents of the dudes who knock on your window at the Garfield exit off the Dan Ryan, except wearing dresses. I actually saw him first–I saw someone in a dress up ahead poking into a stopped rickshaw and just said “That’s a dude.” Sanju’s Hyundai had windows and locks, so he didn’t bother with us, but the guys in the rickshaws and the motorcycles were out of luck. They all got harassed until traffic started to move again. Sanju was excited that I’d seen my first eunuch, but of course said “That was nothing.”
That Indian Head Bobble Thing
Sanju and I arrived back at her place at about 2:30am. Her roommate was out for the night, and Sanju had to get up at 5:00 to drive a Nepalese orphan to a train station. Lord knows how a Nepalese kid found his way to Bangalore, but the point is that when the maid came at 6:00, I was tasked with letting her in. You can imagine the look on the face of this maid when, instead of Sanju opening the door, it’s some White guy who speaks no Kanada. She at one point asked me some question, I think relating to the fan, but when I responded in English, all I got was the head bobble.
This maid lives in a shack next to the apartment complex, and by appearances, does pretty much everyone’s cooking and cleaning daily. Here, she sweeps and hand-mops, does laundry, and cooks basic Indian food. In the states, the idea of a cleaning lady has become a little more acceptable as of late, I guess, although I still think it’s pretty ridiculous. Personal chefs are more or less unheard of. But here all of this stuff is ubiquitous.
The result, though, is that there’s healthy, home-cooked food around here. I pulled that off, but it was never complicated food. Very rarely would I have anything baked lying around, and my pasta never had interesting pesto sauce in it. If I threw in some garlic powder, that was getting fancy. I do wonder how much we might benefit if cooking became a specialty like any other job. Right now we’re all culinary Marxists, refusing to eat alienated food except occasionally at restaurants. Maybe the Indians have this figured out–food is too important to do poorly, and few people have the time and talent to do it well. Let those few be the only ones doing it. Of course, India is helped on this front by the throngs of the impoverished, without whom this wouldn’t work. Maybe America just needs more dirt poor chefs.
This maid lives in a shack next to the apartment complex, and by appearances, does pretty much everyone’s cooking and cleaning daily. Here, she sweeps and hand-mops, does laundry, and cooks basic Indian food. In the states, the idea of a cleaning lady has become a little more acceptable as of late, I guess, although I still think it’s pretty ridiculous. Personal chefs are more or less unheard of. But here all of this stuff is ubiquitous.
The result, though, is that there’s healthy, home-cooked food around here. I pulled that off, but it was never complicated food. Very rarely would I have anything baked lying around, and my pasta never had interesting pesto sauce in it. If I threw in some garlic powder, that was getting fancy. I do wonder how much we might benefit if cooking became a specialty like any other job. Right now we’re all culinary Marxists, refusing to eat alienated food except occasionally at restaurants. Maybe the Indians have this figured out–food is too important to do poorly, and few people have the time and talent to do it well. Let those few be the only ones doing it. Of course, India is helped on this front by the throngs of the impoverished, without whom this wouldn’t work. Maybe America just needs more dirt poor chefs.
Whoa. What a Trip.
Boy. If you want to do something really disorienting, fly almost exactly halfway around the world, arriving in an odd country. Seriously, this place is about as far away, in terms of time zones, as you can get from Chicago. Any further east and I would’ve traveled west.
The flights were fine. The first was pretty standard fare to Europe–a whole bunch of American tourists looking for their connections in Frankfurt. I saw the customs line, and it looked like it handles a dozen people per flight, maybe. Nobody’s actually traveling to Frankfurt. One of the stewardesses on my Chicago leg gave me a “Tchuss!” on my way out, so my ordering of chicken in German may have been convincing. Or maybe she just knows how to flatter an American who speaks weak German.
My first taste of India came in the line for the Bangalore flight. This flight was 90% Indian, and the queueing process reflected a struggle between efficient Germans and Indians who magnet towards chaos. There was a line, but it was gone the moment they actually started to board. When they opened the business class line to everybody, this process just became a heap of people next to the gate. I got on quickly enough to get overhead bin storage, though, so Charlie: 1, Indian pandemonium: 0.
To be a little cliche, everything still feels a little surreal, and the arrival in Bangalore certainly fit that bill. But if I’m being honest, the welcome at the airport was as comforting as possible. All of the signs were in English first, followed by Kanada and Hindi, and all of the advertising was in English exclusively. I knew English was somewhat universal here, but seeing that it’s the language of advertising was comforting. Customs was a breeze, nothing at all like the hour-long snake line at a place like Heathrow. And Sanju had a guy with a name placard waiting for me, which was pretty sweet. While I was waiting for the car to be pulled around, one car pulled up with large Chicago Bulls stickers on the front of its side mirrors. Yeah. Not so far from home after all.
The flights were fine. The first was pretty standard fare to Europe–a whole bunch of American tourists looking for their connections in Frankfurt. I saw the customs line, and it looked like it handles a dozen people per flight, maybe. Nobody’s actually traveling to Frankfurt. One of the stewardesses on my Chicago leg gave me a “Tchuss!” on my way out, so my ordering of chicken in German may have been convincing. Or maybe she just knows how to flatter an American who speaks weak German.
My first taste of India came in the line for the Bangalore flight. This flight was 90% Indian, and the queueing process reflected a struggle between efficient Germans and Indians who magnet towards chaos. There was a line, but it was gone the moment they actually started to board. When they opened the business class line to everybody, this process just became a heap of people next to the gate. I got on quickly enough to get overhead bin storage, though, so Charlie: 1, Indian pandemonium: 0.
To be a little cliche, everything still feels a little surreal, and the arrival in Bangalore certainly fit that bill. But if I’m being honest, the welcome at the airport was as comforting as possible. All of the signs were in English first, followed by Kanada and Hindi, and all of the advertising was in English exclusively. I knew English was somewhat universal here, but seeing that it’s the language of advertising was comforting. Customs was a breeze, nothing at all like the hour-long snake line at a place like Heathrow. And Sanju had a guy with a name placard waiting for me, which was pretty sweet. While I was waiting for the car to be pulled around, one car pulled up with large Chicago Bulls stickers on the front of its side mirrors. Yeah. Not so far from home after all.
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