I love chai tea. Three times a day. At least.
I love buying food on the street and having it served on a leaf.
I love that I know more Indians who love Iron Maiden than Americans.
I love being greeted when I walk down familiar streets.
and
I love being in a country that has more book stores than bars.
Actually… my phone number hasn’t changed. I just figured out what you need to dial from the United States to make my phone ring. Try: +91.9880.2394.90 or, from a landline, dial 011.91.9880.2394.90.
The phone system here in India– like a lot of other “systems” is kinda mess. I was trying to call a number in Delhi today, so I asked Vivek– “say, what’s the area code for Delhi.” “011,” he replied. Well, 011 didn’t work. So I asked him “I’m having some trouble with this.” “Oh, you need another number,” he replied. “Try … 2” “Oh. Two. Of course.” But then… adding a 2 between the area code and the phone number worked. Heh. So anyhow. I’m pretty sure that I have the right number, now.
—
In other news… I’m just going to keep rubbing it in:
Bangalore: 84° / 59°
Bozeman: 23° / 31°
Mmm.
I’ve uploaded some photos from my first week in India.
The photos from Hyderabad are here:
http://www.eateggs.com/gallery/main.php?g2_view=core.ShowItem&g2_itemId=1298
Photos from Hampi are here:
http://www.eateggs.com/gallery/main.php?g2_view=core.ShowItem&g2_itemId=1330
The Hampi photos came out especially well. The color saturation of several photos has been increased, in addition to several photos being cropped. That aside, the photos are unaltered.
Every once in a while, a little piece of information (or a new trailer) emerges for The Fountain, and fans everywhere get their hopes up. And then months pass, and there’s no news. No news whatsoever.
It’s been going like this for years.
But, apparently, Rachel Weisz is five months pregnant with Darren Aronofsky’s child, and there are wedding preparations and such on the way. And I’m happy for her– really, I am– but I’m afraid this might help explain why, after being in production for … 4 years(?) Warner Brothers STILL has yet to announce a release date for Aronofsky’s upcoming sci-fi film, The Fountain, starring (you guessed it!) Rachel Weisz.
Anyhow. The point of this is not to gossip about ‘the stars,’ as it were. The point of this is to express a sincere desire, on behalf of myself, and film-lovers everywhere, that: Aronofsky needs to stop making babies and start makin’ some movies!
There ya go. Written like a true Montana-an.
Heh. The strange thing is that I read that Weisz was pregnant… in Bangalore’s local newspaper.
Having spent the last month of my life eating unbelieveably tasty but primarily vegetarian food, I realize that we in the West miss out on a lot of culinary wonders by generally insisting our food have meat in it. And having spend the last month in a primarily vegetarian country, I also realize why, exactly, I’m not a vegetarian.
Ya’ know the stereotype of India where cows roam the streets with impunity? Where crossing a street means taking your life in your hands, but cows nap peacefully in the middle of traffic, unmolested?
Unlike most stereotypes, this one is true. All true.
So I walk past cows wandering the streets on my way to school. And on my way home. And pretty much every other “on my way,” too. Some of them are tied or restrained; most are not. They roam the streets freely, foraging for food in trash piles and generally making a mess of everywhere. There should be something incongruous about cows wandering around lazily in busy streets, but somehow… it fits. It seems natural. It’s India: everything seems a little incongruous, from a western perspective. But nothing seems at all out of place from an Indian perspective. Or such has been my experience, thus far. So the cows wander the streets, unfettered. What does that have to do with my vegetarianism? Well, it goes like this…
I was walking down the street today, or the sidewalk, rather, on my way to the post office. I hardly gave a second thought to the cow on the sidewalk– not until it head-butted me, that is. Ya. As I walked past the cow, it took a step or to, and gave me an unfriendly shove on my way. Maybe it was bothered by my bright-orange sidebag. Or maybe it sensed that I’m from a country where beef is what’s for dinner. Or maybe it was just an honery cow. Regardless, being half-charged and head-butted this afgernoon brought me to an important realization: I like my steak on my plate, not on my sidewalks. The worst a well-cooked steak has ever done to me is leave me a little fuller ’round the waist, and not without providing a hearty and pleasing meal along the way. Never in my life has a steak attacked me. Or made me feel endangered. Or angry. Never has a steak made me want to take off my sandal, swear profously, and beat it soundly. Never.
And, as much of a social blunder removing one’s shoe in a busy restaurant and proceeding to beat (or “tenderize,” as it were) a steak would be, I suspect it would be still less than beating off an overly aggressive cow here.
Of course, Indians have a thing about shoes. Not about feet, like the Thais, but about shoes. Right.
So why am I not a vegetarian? Go figure. =P
More seriously, though, I’ve seen nothing in India that would induce me to become a vegetarian. The only discernable difference between a vegetarian and a non-vegitarian here is that… the former doesn’t eat meat. No, that’s not completely true: vegetarians often have a more prominent role of fat, partially hidden by a sari: so it goes with vegetarians. But that’s it. Are vegetarians happier? More at peace with nature, or more at peace with the earth? Maybe. But not that I’ve observed. Conversely, are the rest of us any better off? Of course not. But I’d argue that our lives has an additional pleasure. Of course, most of the vegetarians here have been vegetarians since birth, so they don’t know what they’re missing.
And then there’s the fact that beef isn’t consumed here. Non-vegetarians have a choice between pork, chicken and mutton. Not beef. Never beef. I’m rather ashamed to admit that I don’t even know the reason why cows are revered, consecrated. It seems like a rather illogical choice to me. I mean, why not forbid the killing of platypuses? From five feet away, is there an uglier animal than a cow? An animal more contemptably stupid and slovenly? Worship lions, monkeys or bears. Fine. I understand. But cows? Notoriously dim-witted, unkempt, more often covered in its own feces than not… yes, a cow is a fine animal. Heh. When cooked medium rare and served with A1 sauce, that statement wouldn’t even be sarcastic.
Right. In summation (for all you TLDR people…): cow attack precipitates realization that I love steak.
Note to self: buy a screwdriver before going home.
Right.
Life continues to be absolutely grand, in every sense of the word. In fact, I’m not ever planning on returning home.
…
Heh. Just kidding. But the thought has crossed my mind. I suspect, however, that part of my happiness here would be lost if I didn’t have the expectation of returning home in six weeks. Happiness lost, as I could no longer content myself to say “yes, I miss them now, but I’ll see them soon,” and happiness lost because the impetus to seize the day would be lost, as would the absolution from responsibilities or cares. So I’m looking forward to returning home in six weeks. And I’m glad it won’t be a day sooner.
Maharaja Chicken Mac. Heh. Such was my dinner last night (or should I say my “first dinner,” since I’ve adopted the habit of eating once in the late afternoon, and once around 9:00). Wandering through The Forum– one of Bangalore’s larger malls (like an American mall with 20 times more people. Same brands: Bose, Apple, Levi, Subway… even a Nissan SUV in the middle on display. And modestly sized. No larger than Cheyenne’s Frontier Mall, although admittedly a good deal nicer)– I managed to walk past the McDonalds at least twice before curiosity got the better of me and I found myself standing in line at the world’s most overstaffed McDonalds. I don’t exaggerate to say that there must have been 50 on the clock. There were something like 16 people between the counter and the kitchen … and then I lost count. Just for you, William, I’ll try to stop back by with my camera and sneak a photo. The menu is worth a photo, too– sure enough, there’s no beef anywhere to be found. The Maharaja Chicken Mac is the equivalent of a Big Mac… and I gotta say, it was pretty awful. To the best of my knowledge, chicken remains one of the few things not made synthetically from rubber trees or crude oil… but you could have fooled me. Since it’s been ages since the last time I went to a McDonalds (heh, Miles City trips aside), I don’t know how many of the menu items (like Chicken wraps and cappuccinos) are unique to India, and how many are just new since the last time I willingly paid money to be fed grease-drenched sawdust.
The mall proved to be a great source of amusement. Most amusing were the escalators– obviously a relatively new introduction to India. Admittedly, I’ve seen people hesitate before getting on an escalator before, but never like this. In fact, there was almost a queue of people in front of the escalator, waiting to hesitate.. wait, line up, almost .. go! wait! ah… there we go their way onto the escalator. They looked like I must when I try crossing Bangalore’s bustling, congested streets– uncertain and afraid of a death-inducing accident. And it wasn’t just one or two people, either. No. More like every third person, running down the mental checklist: square shoulders to escalator. Check. Check for loose clothing. Check. Watch for appropriate opportunity to board moving stairway. Check.
In fact, this country is just full of little amusements. Like the rickshaws.
This is Ashka. He’s driven this rickshaw for 18 years. The rickshaw is a rather ridiculous vehicle, really. They’re a hazard just for their high center of gravity: Sagar tells me his parents were in a rickshaw that flipped going around a corner too fast– on the way to their wedding. So there’s that. And there’s the constant near collisions with city buses– everyone looking like it’s crushed countless rickshaws over the years. And the constant near-collisions with every other car, motorcycle, cyclist and pedestrian on the road. If India’s driving wasn’t significantly slower than Thailand’s, India would, with its roads, have a rather effective, if bloody and unpleasant, solution to its population problem. Sheer in-sanity. But they do drive slower. Probably because the rickshaws, which must make up 40% of the vehicles on the roads, top out around 25 or 30 miles an hour. On a good downhill, a rickshaw MIGHT be able to pick up 40mph, but such speeds are rare because, well, rickshaws don’t really have shocks, to speak of, and India’s roads are often rough, requiring frequent brake-slamming and sudden swerving.
But what amuses me about rickshaws is that they’re endlessly breaking down. In few weeks of India, I’ve ridden in a good number of rickshaws. But never have I ridden in a well-running rickshaw. Break-downs in India are like stop-lights in India: you don’t see (or have, as it were) one every day, but you’re not surprised when you come to one (or when one happens) and you don’t mind the associated 60 second wait. The frequency of breakdowns is attested to by the incredible speed with which rickshaw drivers can repair their rickshaw. A breakdown usually results in a nice, controlled coast to the side of the road, 45 seconds of the strange noises of repair from the engine compartment in the back, and then it’s back on the road again like nothing happened. For example:
Halfway to our destination in Hyderabad, the clutch cable snapped. The driver, unphased, pulled over, pulled out what remained of the cable, tied it to something below the handlebars, and then stepped on the cable to control the clutch. And with that, we were off again, the driver working his foot-clutch with complete ease, as if the foot arrangement, rather than a left-hand clutch handle, were the normal means of operating the rickshaw. Broken clutch cable. Sixty seconds of down time. Simply amazing. The rest of the ride was as smooth as any ride in a rickshaw ever is. Which is to say the rest of the ride was a bouncy, jarring and death-defying adventure, but if it were otherwise, it wouldn’t be a rickshaw, and it wouldn’t be India.
I love it.
—
As a side note, I fixed a few bugs in Pliny last night. Those of you in Thailand and India can now update your account so that your posts reflect your local time. To do so, click “Update Account” at the top. I’ve also added the framework for a search function, which is ugly, but semi-functional. It’s interesting, just for novelty’s sake. For example, never in the three years since this began (until this very sentence) have I used the word ‘volcano.’ Go figure. =)
The angst factor is greatly reduced. In fact, I now feel quite at home in Bangalore. I’ve met my roommate. I’m starting to settle in at Parikrma. I’ve even found a great coffee shop, completely with comfy seats, clean tables, soft lighting, an adjoining bookstore (books create such wonderful ambiance), and … good coffee. For $0.50 a cup.
My living situation is … interesting. An experience, to be sure. I’m living in a room just large enough to for the two beds in it. My roommate is a 29-year-old marketing director for a broadband provider. I don’t think we’re destined to become life-long friends, but he’s a nice, agreeable guy. I feel a little guilty about the mess that invariably surrounds me (heh– Sagar will attest that I can completely trash a room, regardless of its size, in about 10 minutes)– his area is impeccable. He even folds his blanket every morning before he leaves for work. Our room is separated from the room next to it by a plywood partition that reaches about 2/3 of the way to the ceiling. Four of us share a bathroom. The showers (bucket style) are mercifully warm– not hot, but at least not frigid, as I had originally feared. The toilet is Eastern squat style. I’m provided two wonderful Indian meals a day– breakfast and dinner. My landlady, who lives in a house just up the street a little ways, is thoroughly kind– bordering on motherly. In fact, I regret having told her my age– as I set out last night in search of an internet cafe, she stopped me: “are you going OUT? At THIS time of night?” “Of course,” I replied. She cautioned me to return soon, since I was new to the area. I had to promise to be back within an hour before she desisted. It’s all good, though. I’m paying an unreal 3,000 rupees ($67USD) a month for room and board.
I’m exceptionally pleased with the school where I’m working. The Parikrma Humanity Foundation has three schools in Bangalore, servicing some 625 students from slums and orphanages. I’ve been placed at the Jayanagar campus, which has some 194 students at present. The idea is simple: Parikrma provides high quality education to children from abjectly impoverished homes as the means of developing communities and breaking the cycle of poverty by giving the children an equal opportunity to compete in a modern world.
The students are just amazing. They have just a voracious appetite for knowledge and an astonishing eagerness to learn. My time will be split between tutoring students needing extra help on a one-to-one basis, and helping develop a computer skills curriculum that will be implemented across Parikrma’s three (soon to be four) campuses.
More information about Parikrma can be found at their informative and exceptionally well-designed website: http://www.parikrmafoundation.org
Of course, one is always careful not to drop one’s laptop. Even if one has a clever Apple laptop that thinks “what is this sudden unpleasant sensation? Oh! I must be falling! And my hard-drive has important documents! They might be destroyed if the hard-drive heads hit the platters on impact! I know! I’ll put the heads some place where they can’t hurt anything! It’s like a seat belt, for documents!” the results of a drop could be disasterous. Not that I haven’t dropped my laptop a couple times. That’s not the point.
The point is that it can be equally disasterous drop things on one’s laptop. Of course, that’s generally not an issue, as one usually has a desk, and keeps one’s laptop on said desk. Heh. Unforunately, my laptop happened to be on the ground while I was unpacking things in my new apartment last night. It’s fortunate that my laptop was there to break the fall of my digital camera, when it came spilling out of the cuppard unexpectedly, in the wake of a bag I was pulling out. It’s just unfortunate that it was my laptop. Putting the key back on was relatively easy, but going back and trying to replace the data that was corrupted when the hard-drive heads smashed into the platters has been painful. Altogether, I only lost 40 or 50 files, but somehow they managed to pretty much all be important. About half were system files (most of which I was able to find spare copies of), another third were pictures (which I have backups of, in Bangkok and with Sagar), but what really hurts is that it hit some of my favorite apps. So I’ll live the next six weeks without Photoshop, OneNote, Word, Excel, or Counter-Strike, since I don’t have any disks with me (and unlike Thailand, India (go figure) cares about software licensing, and doesn’t smile on the pirated-software shops that were ubiquitous in Thailand). Fortunately, I can download most of the other things that were wiped out.
So the moral of the story is that NOT ONLY should one try to avoid dropping one’s computer, but one should also avoid dropping heavy things on a laptop. Anyhow, I’m back up and running.
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
I wish I could say this has been a great year. Or a challenging year. Or a year that’s changed the way I look at life, the world around me, or myself. I’ve passed from 18 to 19– nineteen proving to be fully the bleak and desolate age it promised: caught between the romance of 18 and the maturity of twenty. Oh, you’re 19. I see. they say. I wish I could say that this has been a hard year, or I guess, in any way an exceptional year.
I can truthfully say it’s been a memorable year. Though perhaps not the best or most fond of my memories, studying in Bangkok, and now traveling in India has assured that this year won’t be one easily forgotten. But as I look back, and ask “what have I learned? What have I gained?” the answers are not as forthcoming as I’d like them to be– if they’re forthcoming at all.
If I haven’t learned anything– a few historical dates and figures aside, and maybe that Singapore is just a displaced American city– then the crowning feature of the year is that I’ve lost faith– or further lost faith. I’ve long since given up any notion of a god or deity or afterlife. I’ve long since realized that there’s no meaning or “purpose” to our time here– that there’s no to that age old narcissistic question: why are we here? No, that’s a lie: there’s no shortage of answers to that question: long-winded answers, optimistic answers, pessimistic answers, philosophical answers, religious answers… but in the end, none of them amount to more than a greater or lesser mastered sophistry. That’s not the point. The point is that I’ve not spent 2005 in search of a “transcendent meaning.” I’ve not spent the year reading crusty old philosophers, or analyzing their claims. No, my quest has been more modest. Simply: what makes me happy? Or, more accurately, what makes me feel contented, regardless of happiness?
I had thought, for a while, that I could gain my own contentment by helping others reach theirs, or simply helping others. Of course, the irony of this is that, while holding such a conviction, I did very little toward that end. A few Saturdays volunteering, or an impromptu park clean-up or two doesn’t stack up to a hill of beans on the Everest of human suffering. But what staying in Asia has provided me with has been an opportunity to observe is just how much international aid– whether motivated by greed or idealism– is a failure. Of just how petty and trifling it is. Of how, for its altruistic intentions, it can be more damaging and undermining than beneficial. And of how superfluous and unnecessary it often is.
I could (and probably should, but won’t) spend paragraphs elaborating the evidences that have led me to this conclusion, but that’s outside the scope of the question: 2006. What now? The long and short of it is that I don’t think people can be helped. In many cases, I don’t think they should be helped. I don’t believe in panaceas.
Talking with Sagar, I managed to list quite a tirade of things I no longer believe in. I don’t believe in God. Or “a god.” Or an afterlife. I don’t believe in good, and I don’t believe in evil. Or “bad,” unless an adjective to describe taste or the quality of an object. I don’t believe war to be good or bad, or killing, either. No more than I believe charity to be good. I don’t believe in progress: human progress, or progress in general. At best I believe in evolution, which is a neutral and unavoidable process. I don’t believe that people can be helped, nor should they. I don’t believe in language, and I can’t bring myself to love science. I don’t believe in so many of the vaunted human sentiments or emotions that Hollywood says we’re all supposed to experience on a daily basis. I do believe life absurd, but I don’t find laughing at its absurdities a sufficient raison d’etre. I believe in mountains, and I believe in the ocean, though the latter will soon be destroyed by human industry and “progress.” I’m deprived of idealism, and barren of hope. Hope for myself, for my future happiness, and hope for the happiness of humanity. Whatever “humanity” means. Whatever “trust” and “love” and “anger” and “sorrow” and “hope” means. Oh, I hear all these terms, thrown about here and there, but just as food has become tasteless in my mouth, these terms have become meaningless in my mind. I’d say “meaningless in my soul,” because that sounds more profound, but for “soul:” another thing I don’t believe in.
So. 2006. What now? The beauty of it all is that life doesn’t require a reason. Regardless of happiness or purposefulness, I’m going to spend the next six weeks of my life at the Parikrma Humanity Foundation, teaching orphans and street-children math. Then I’ll spend the next six months of my life working, and return to Montana State in the fall. I’ll pass a delightful fall semester trying to chew as much as I plan on biting off, and then it’ll winter break, and such will be 2006. Wow.
2005 has been a year without charm. But also largely without event. And I should be grateful for that, I suppose. Regardless, it’s come and gone, and another year is upon us.
From Kochi, India, I wish you all a:
Happy New Year.
