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.”
Friday, October 22, 2010
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.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Shots, Shots, Shots
Finally got the last of my shots for India a few days ago, and I figured I've got just enough material for a dry run at this blog thing. I really didn't want to start with a bunch of garbage like "omg twoooo weeks! packing sux!" Nobody wants to read a blog about some unemployed yutz from Urbana, right? You want to see a bunch of photos of India and read really cool tales of temples, rickshaws, and diarrhea. Instead you get to hear about all of the vaccinations I had to get. Hopefully things eventually get more exotic than that.
The first shot I got was for Hepatitis A (Not Hepatitis G, one of many signs of the collapse of Civilization), which I actually got back in Watseka. After having trouble getting that appointment in Champaign, I just decided to try the Iroquois County clinic. "Can you come in today?" I do love small towns. You never have to wait for appointments. You also never have to pay for parking. When I went to Carle for the last of my shots, I had to pay $1.50 for the 2 hours of parking, and I felt pretty ripped off. The lot in downtown Urbana is 25¢/hr for your first 2 hours, and 50¢/hour thereafter. I think parking in the Loop maxes at $12/hour. You have no idea the lengths to which I've gone to avoid paying to park in Chicago.
In small towns, you also don't have to worry about things like Typhoid and Malaria, or about getting a booster just to make sure you're still immune to Polio. Nor to you get prescribed Cipro for the diarrhea (or "Delhi Belly"). Nor do you get warnings not to walk barefoot on beaches, since "animals and people defecate on them," as my kind, possibly Indian doctor put it (his name was Mohammed, but he knew all about Bangalore and Karnataka, so I'm betting Indian Muslim). So, note to self: stock DEET and sandals.
But that's pretty much exactly why I'm going. This is about as much of a clean break from the JD as I can get, bizarre inoculations included. If I wanted to keep shopping at Meijer, parking on the cheap, and writing a blog about a yutz from Urbana, I could do that. If I wanted to throw in the towel after this law thing went to Hell, I could've done that. But staying in downstate Illinois, getting a crappy law job, and riding out my 20s in the doldrums is the last thing I want to do. Neither downstate Illinois nor the law will bring me fulfillment. So screw it. I'm moving to India! I have no idea where this leads me (other than to the actual doldrums), but worst case, I spend a year or so in India. Not a bad deal, even if I do get Dengue.
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