Oh. My. Goodness.
I’m rather terrified, actually. What have I gotten myself in to? Going to Bangkok– to go and study at a University with British and American profs with other American exchanges students and an American roommate– was one thing, but being here in India– entirely alone among Indians, volunteering at an elementary school, with an Indian roommate (who I haven’t met yet)– is quite another.
I must reflect that Bangkok was quite comfortable. Although certainly different from America, Bangkok aspires to be America, which means American brands, stores, music, etc. Thailand’s primary industry is tourism, which means that, though a minority, foreigners are quite common, and life is rather geared toward accommodating even the most demanding of tourists.
Not so with India. The whole country, 1.012 billion people and a land mass approximately equal to half of the continental United States, sees some 3 million tourists per year. Thailand, a country of 72 million people, and a land mass equal to Wyoming and Montana combined, is the destination of 12 million tourists each year. And just as Thailand’s tourists largely stick to Bangkok, Chaing Mai, and the southern beaches, most of India’s tourists stick to Goa, and a few smaller destinations like Hampi and Varkala. Bangalore is not a tourist destination. In fact, since I arrived yesterday morning, I’m not sure if I’ve seen another tourist.
Unlike Thailand, however, I don’t have the constant and pervasive feeling of being an outsider. At every moment, in Thailand, I was keenly aware of the fact that I was a foreigner– a farang, as they call us– and therefore very different. Even among those who didn’t view me as a walking ATM, I was still always perceived as seperate and apart– or at least that’s how I felt. I can’t quite explain it. As one of my profs, who has now been living in Thailand for some 21 years, put it: “foreigners are tolerated, accepted for what they are, but never accepted— into social circles, or society as a whole.” And I don’t sense that here. It’s wonderful to not feel like an outside invader, not to feel castigated, resented, or otherwise. It’s wonderful that the people I’m living with just wander into my room, sit down, and introduce themselves. I’ve received more kindness and friendliness during my two weeks in India than I would be likely to encounter in two years in Thailand.
That being said… India is SO different. It’s as different from Thailand as Thailand from America– making India worlds apart from America. I don’t even know where to begin to describe just how overwhelming I find Bangalore, and India as a whole. It’s different, now, knowing that I’m going to be settling down and living here for six weeks. Traveling is easy– makes it easy to be in unfamiliar and uncomfortable places. But living here… means that I’ll meet people. Make friendships. Try to remember names. I won’t be able to disregard the discomfort of the squat toilet with the hope that I’ll have a western toilet tomorrow night. No, now I learn how to get my clothes washed, and how to get from place to place. I learn what foods I like, and what foods I don’t (in two weeks, I’ve seldom had the same food twice, as it varies so much from region to region). I’ll develop habits and routines. Try to adjust to the pace of life here. I’ll have to learn how to fill my evenings and weekends.
Heh. I suspect I’m going to be reading a good many books over the next month and a half.
The population here is immense. The streets and roads are filled. Absoltely filled with people, autorickshaws, trucks, cars, bikes and motorbikes. It’s like the dirtiest, most crowded and noisiest part of Bangkok, spread across 5.7 million people. It’s more polluted. There’s more trash in the streets. And more people, people, people. I didn’t know what “crowded” was until India. I didn’t know so many people could fit into such tight quarters. It’s amazing.
And Indian culture… it’s a culture unto itself, unpolluted by Western influence. All the women still dress in the traditional style– wearing saris, or brightly colored things that we would call dresses, with pants and scarfs and shawls. The music is uniquely Indian, and Western music is as scarce as Western peoples. 95% of the cars, trucks and busses on the road are Tata vehicles– India’s national brand. The remaining 5% are Toyota or Hundai models, but are few and far between. There is one Starbucks in India, serving 1.012 billion people, perhaps 4 or 5 MacDonalds, and an equal handful of a few other Western chains. Which is to say that you don’t see Western brands. You don’t see Western stores. Or any other facets of Western culture, for that matter. It’s quite amazing. India’s roads are designed by Indians, and built by Indians. It make take six years to build a road that America would build in one, but unlike Thailand, and however many other developing nations, India prefers to build its own roads. And it has the educational standards to enable it to do so. But that’s off the subject.
So. Although I feel accepted, I’m also uniquely alone. No one that shares my cultural heritage. Or traditions. Though nearly all speak English, it’s, as Yann Martel puts it, “a funny English” that they speak here. It’s not English like you and I speak English.
And then there’s the fact that I’ll be working at a school for Indian orphans, with other Indians. I’m a little confused by this– what? do I even like kids? I gotta admit, it was some quick thinking on my feet to answer in the affirmative when asked if I liked children while being given a tour of the school yesterday. “Er.. yes,” I replied. “That’s good,” said Kanchana, “because that’s essential for this.” Oh, boy. So I like kids.
I start at the school tomorrow. It’s called the Parikrma Center for Learning. It’s a non-profit school for orphans and street children. It has three campuses. The campus I’ll be staying at has 194 students, ages 7 to 13. Children begin applying for college at age 16.
The school helped me to find a place to stay, about ten minutes away by foot. My apartment consists of a 10×16 room. I have a roommate. A plywood divider, going 2/3 of the way to the ceiling, separates my room Anil’s room, who lives nextdoor. We share a bathroom. Having not met my roommate yet, I feel strange spreading over my half of the room. Breakfast and dinner will be provided every day at ?? and 8:30. I’m to bring my own plate, and call if I’m going to miss dinner. My landlady’s name is Usharani.
I don’t believe I have an address here. If I do, I doubt any letters dispatched to me would arrive before I leave. (I could try to figure out how the poste restante system at the local post office works, but I don’t think it’ll be worth my time.)
My mobile number is: 011 91.80.80.9880.2394.90
+91 – country code
080 – code for Bangalore
9880 2394 90 – my mobile number
