Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Should I stay or should I go?
The summer of being a corporate wife is over. Straw poll: should I keep this except not write about work? But then what's the fun in that? Or do I start over somewhere else? Or, do I just give in to the urge to let it go? The trip's documented, my travelogue more or less done.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Home again home again, jiggedy jig
We're home. Monster jet-lagged. Happy.
I figured out after the last post that the Hindu majority stuff is the rhetoric of Partition. The last thing the Brits did/first thing the new govt did was create the states of Pakistan (Muslim) and India (Hindu). It's like if the trail of tears just happened: mass displacement, mass killings. Government sanctioned mutual mass murder. It was a parting shot for the British, and while Ghandi was against it, the new governments were all for it: the nation-state needs an ideological other. The upshot is a lot of evil BS.
I'm home for about 4 days then I'm off to Puerto Rico with my family. I'll be gone for a week, then home for a day, and then school starts.
No, not crazy at all.
I figured out after the last post that the Hindu majority stuff is the rhetoric of Partition. The last thing the Brits did/first thing the new govt did was create the states of Pakistan (Muslim) and India (Hindu). It's like if the trail of tears just happened: mass displacement, mass killings. Government sanctioned mutual mass murder. It was a parting shot for the British, and while Ghandi was against it, the new governments were all for it: the nation-state needs an ideological other. The upshot is a lot of evil BS.
I'm home for about 4 days then I'm off to Puerto Rico with my family. I'll be gone for a week, then home for a day, and then school starts.
No, not crazy at all.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Not buying it
We're in Delhi.
I keep being told (by media and tour guides) that India's got an 85(ish)% Hindu majority. And yet, everywhere I look I see evidence to the contrary. I get the feeling it's a bit like claiming the US is a Christian country.
On the same note, I had no idea of the incredibly pervasive Islamic influence here. I know that Hyderabad and Delhi were Muslim kingdoms at different points (I think one King built stuff in both places) but still--even in Kolkata/Calcutta and Mumbai--lots of mestizaje. The north more so than the south.
One amusing thing about it: our guide today kept referring to the Muslim invaders like it was a recent thing: first ones were about a thousand years ago. We went to Qutb Minar, the first mosque in India. They tore down Hindu temples to build most of it, and while they destroyed a lot of the faces and bodies, a lot is still visible. So, you see these Hindu pillars inside a mosque, complete with Islamic script. It's a gov't monument now, noone uses it for worship--and apparently they had to cover (with a green metal cage) a bit showing Ganesha; people were praying there. And if you have Hindus praying at the site of a mosque, well. All hell could well break loose.
And I kept wondering about my skepticism about holding that particular grudge, especially given the comparisons I keep making to colonial Mexico, where I think calling the Spanish invaders makes total sense. It comes down to cultural politics: in Mexico the Spanish won hands down. To this day anything European is privileged: materially and culturally. In India, that's really not the case. Muslims are a minority, especially in terms of cultural capital. While the biggest monuments in Indian cities are Muslim and English (the historic Hindu stuff was trashedby the invading armies), cultural and religious hegemony belongs to the Hindus. Indigenous tribal people here are as dispossessed and marginalized here as they are in the Americas; only here, nobody ever talks about them.
I keep being told (by media and tour guides) that India's got an 85(ish)% Hindu majority. And yet, everywhere I look I see evidence to the contrary. I get the feeling it's a bit like claiming the US is a Christian country.
On the same note, I had no idea of the incredibly pervasive Islamic influence here. I know that Hyderabad and Delhi were Muslim kingdoms at different points (I think one King built stuff in both places) but still--even in Kolkata/Calcutta and Mumbai--lots of mestizaje. The north more so than the south.
One amusing thing about it: our guide today kept referring to the Muslim invaders like it was a recent thing: first ones were about a thousand years ago. We went to Qutb Minar, the first mosque in India. They tore down Hindu temples to build most of it, and while they destroyed a lot of the faces and bodies, a lot is still visible. So, you see these Hindu pillars inside a mosque, complete with Islamic script. It's a gov't monument now, noone uses it for worship--and apparently they had to cover (with a green metal cage) a bit showing Ganesha; people were praying there. And if you have Hindus praying at the site of a mosque, well. All hell could well break loose.
And I kept wondering about my skepticism about holding that particular grudge, especially given the comparisons I keep making to colonial Mexico, where I think calling the Spanish invaders makes total sense. It comes down to cultural politics: in Mexico the Spanish won hands down. To this day anything European is privileged: materially and culturally. In India, that's really not the case. Muslims are a minority, especially in terms of cultural capital. While the biggest monuments in Indian cities are Muslim and English (the historic Hindu stuff was trashedby the invading armies), cultural and religious hegemony belongs to the Hindus. Indigenous tribal people here are as dispossessed and marginalized here as they are in the Americas; only here, nobody ever talks about them.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Negotiations
I keep thinking about ideas and social justice--in particular about microcredit and the ways it makes me reassess the ways I've almost always thought about capitalism. My class identification's conflicted, but I've been largely at an intellectual impasse about it. At best I said: yup, I'm a contradiction. Doing: ok--give. But thinking through it--that was the hard part. Thinking through it. This whole visit's made me do that, indeed the entire reason we're here makes me think about globalization and capitalism in a way far more complex than: globalization=bad/local=good. But then, that's true of almost everything, when you get down to it. Binary oppositions foreclose any sort of complex analysis. And to be honest, I've never seriously pushed a critique of the easy critiques of globalization. Yes, many horrendous things have come out of it. That part seems easy. Further than that, though, I hadn't gone far.
I think one of the reasons that Yunnis's book (and by extension, the notion of microcredit and its larger implications) has stayed with me is the absolute practicality of the question it approaches: How do you help the people at the very bottom--the poorest people in any given capitalist society? In the academy, where Marxist/post-marxist thinking is most effective, the focus is on an analysis of capitalism, not the way to a socialist utopia. It's useful for analyzing how capitalism shapes how we think and understand the world, the means of cultural and material production and reproduction. The post in post-marxism comes in here: you can use these analytic tools to negotiate the system you are subjecting to critique. Marxism itself is often invoked to describe a economic/political system, and yet The Communist Manifesto is all about industrial capitalism. While I understand that the radical critique of any system that oppresses people often involves a divestment from that system, its a position that doesn't seem tenable to me. Capitalism, especially in its information based, globalized form, isn't going anywhere anytime soon-- in spite of the hopefulness of calling it "late capitalism." Complicating this are my observations being in a developing, third world country. There are some very very good things about modernization, that capitalism can, and has, brought about here: basic quality of life stuff. And yet, not for the poorest of the poor. The benefits are uneven--cruelly and fantastically so.
Ding's comment below has gotten me thinking again about negotiating class, or any other system of privilege (race, gender, sexuality) from below--how do you negotiate terms you didn't agree to and that don't benefit you from the get-go?
Obviously, I'm on the side of negotiations. The metaphors of war don't get you far. Chicanas are always already traitors--we come from a long line of vendidas, as Moraga would put it. The alternative is to negotiate:to do that, you have to learn the other side's language, the other side's rules. You become part of both sides, something new--classic new mestiza stuff.
I don't think, however, that anyone's used mestizaje, or a Chicana feminist methodology to think about how poor women might negotiate capitalism. As a model of transnational feminist consciousness yes, as a challenge to the canon, of course. But the jump from thinking to doing, that's where we need help. Poetry, art, culture, all of these offer a vision of change: but the doing--that still matters.
The thing is, you need to be in a position to negotiate in the first place.
I think one of the reasons that Yunnis's book (and by extension, the notion of microcredit and its larger implications) has stayed with me is the absolute practicality of the question it approaches: How do you help the people at the very bottom--the poorest people in any given capitalist society? In the academy, where Marxist/post-marxist thinking is most effective, the focus is on an analysis of capitalism, not the way to a socialist utopia. It's useful for analyzing how capitalism shapes how we think and understand the world, the means of cultural and material production and reproduction. The post in post-marxism comes in here: you can use these analytic tools to negotiate the system you are subjecting to critique. Marxism itself is often invoked to describe a economic/political system, and yet The Communist Manifesto is all about industrial capitalism. While I understand that the radical critique of any system that oppresses people often involves a divestment from that system, its a position that doesn't seem tenable to me. Capitalism, especially in its information based, globalized form, isn't going anywhere anytime soon-- in spite of the hopefulness of calling it "late capitalism." Complicating this are my observations being in a developing, third world country. There are some very very good things about modernization, that capitalism can, and has, brought about here: basic quality of life stuff. And yet, not for the poorest of the poor. The benefits are uneven--cruelly and fantastically so.
Ding's comment below has gotten me thinking again about negotiating class, or any other system of privilege (race, gender, sexuality) from below--how do you negotiate terms you didn't agree to and that don't benefit you from the get-go?
Obviously, I'm on the side of negotiations. The metaphors of war don't get you far. Chicanas are always already traitors--we come from a long line of vendidas, as Moraga would put it. The alternative is to negotiate:to do that, you have to learn the other side's language, the other side's rules. You become part of both sides, something new--classic new mestiza stuff.
I don't think, however, that anyone's used mestizaje, or a Chicana feminist methodology to think about how poor women might negotiate capitalism. As a model of transnational feminist consciousness yes, as a challenge to the canon, of course. But the jump from thinking to doing, that's where we need help. Poetry, art, culture, all of these offer a vision of change: but the doing--that still matters.
The thing is, you need to be in a position to negotiate in the first place.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Felicidades to Dr. Stinky
I'm almost a week late. Still, Happy happy wedding wishes! Many felicitations. May your married life be full of all the best parts of hanging out with your sweetie.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Money! Money!
We're back from Kolkata. Indulged ourselves in a decadent and hideously expensive manner. Seriously. Sion had his first facial, and I spent hours at the spa and in the swimming pool. We drank lots, and bought lots of things in the market. Presents! And now, all I can think about is going home. We leave Hyderabad Saturday, then it's a day in Delhi, a day in Agra, back to Delhi, then home. Home. Home.
It's time. The housemates are all back, including my favorites, the Swede and his wife.
I'm reading Mohammed Yunnis's book, Banker to the Poor, and learning about microcredit. I had heard about it before from a student I used to talk to all the time (though she was never in any of my classes). Now of course, confronted with the materiality of serious poverty all the time, and my own relative wealth, I'm really thinking that I have to think about poverty, wealth, and capitalism from another angle, just to wrap my brain around it. Yunnis argues that capitalism doesn't have to be greedy, that it can be just as easily be driven by social justice; the entire logic of the Grameen bank is that there could be such a thing as a social-consciousness driven free market. It's a fascinating idea. That, and his emphasis on and insistence on working with communities of women.
I know. Those two paragraphs are at war with each other. What else is new?
It's time. The housemates are all back, including my favorites, the Swede and his wife.
I'm reading Mohammed Yunnis's book, Banker to the Poor, and learning about microcredit. I had heard about it before from a student I used to talk to all the time (though she was never in any of my classes). Now of course, confronted with the materiality of serious poverty all the time, and my own relative wealth, I'm really thinking that I have to think about poverty, wealth, and capitalism from another angle, just to wrap my brain around it. Yunnis argues that capitalism doesn't have to be greedy, that it can be just as easily be driven by social justice; the entire logic of the Grameen bank is that there could be such a thing as a social-consciousness driven free market. It's a fascinating idea. That, and his emphasis on and insistence on working with communities of women.
I know. Those two paragraphs are at war with each other. What else is new?
Friday, August 3, 2007
Kolkata for the weekend!
Huzzah! We're off for an exotic weekend in Kolkata. Yeah; fancy hotels and restaurants, real exotic. It's our anniversary so we're being more self-indulgent than usual. Everyone here says Calcutta--I wonder what people there say. I have to pack now! Being picked up in a little over an hour. I'll come back with stories and lots of pictures.
I've been quiet because I don't want to turn this blog into a bitch-fest. I was, in many ways, totally unprepared for just how much I detest being "the wife." I think everyone must. No wonder so many middle class women go quietly nuts. And me without some key files I need to work on major projects, so I'm reduced to small and new pieces of writing--really not my plan for the summer.
I'm happy when adventurizing, but surly midweek, what with all the waiting. But now, we're off!
I've been quiet because I don't want to turn this blog into a bitch-fest. I was, in many ways, totally unprepared for just how much I detest being "the wife." I think everyone must. No wonder so many middle class women go quietly nuts. And me without some key files I need to work on major projects, so I'm reduced to small and new pieces of writing--really not my plan for the summer.
I'm happy when adventurizing, but surly midweek, what with all the waiting. But now, we're off!
Monday, July 30, 2007
Talk to Strangers
Abids, a commercial district in Hyderabad, where there's lots and lots of shopping (clothes, shoes, electronics, department stores) is also home to a street book market on Sundays, when most of the shops are closed. I'd read about it somewhere online and we went to check it out. Sure enough, for about 4 blocks down the main street, and on at least two side streets (for another four blocks) there were piles and piles of books for sale. People just set up on the sidewalks, streets, and most impressively, across a pile of gravel. No blankets, no tables, just scads of books from the 70s and 80s. Mostly ancient computer programming books, textbooks, and paperbacks from the early 80s. There were old copies of fashion magazines cheek by jowl with microwave cookbooks (including one that came with a GE electric range/microwave my folks had in 1980). I saw copies of books I read in 7th grade: The Outsiders and some random Sweet Valley High books.
As we browsed, several poeple asked if I read Telegu (usually when I'd pick up something with an interesting cover that suggested lots of pictures). No, I'd tell them. I don't. End of conversation. At one bookstall, a man in his late 50s asked me what language I spoke. I responded English, and Spanish. Ah, he says, habla espanol? You could have knocked me over with a feather. We chatted for a bit in Spanish and then he tells me he's lived in Houston for 20 years; he's in town visiting his brother--who meanwhile has struck up a conversation with Sion. After a bit, we go over to his brother and Sion, and he introduces me: she is from US. To which his (elder) brother counters, apparently in a show of "ha ha I win," gestures to Sion and says "he is from UK!"
Sadly, Sion declined an invitation for coffee--he thought I wouldn't have wanted to go. So now he's got the directive: if we're just mooching around and they're not creepy: hell yeah, lets go talk to strangers. (I think it's because the last time we accepted such an offer we had a hard time extracting ourselves from his wierdo company: but that was Vegas and involved a lot of drinks).
As we browsed, several poeple asked if I read Telegu (usually when I'd pick up something with an interesting cover that suggested lots of pictures). No, I'd tell them. I don't. End of conversation. At one bookstall, a man in his late 50s asked me what language I spoke. I responded English, and Spanish. Ah, he says, habla espanol? You could have knocked me over with a feather. We chatted for a bit in Spanish and then he tells me he's lived in Houston for 20 years; he's in town visiting his brother--who meanwhile has struck up a conversation with Sion. After a bit, we go over to his brother and Sion, and he introduces me: she is from US. To which his (elder) brother counters, apparently in a show of "ha ha I win," gestures to Sion and says "he is from UK!"
Sadly, Sion declined an invitation for coffee--he thought I wouldn't have wanted to go. So now he's got the directive: if we're just mooching around and they're not creepy: hell yeah, lets go talk to strangers. (I think it's because the last time we accepted such an offer we had a hard time extracting ourselves from his wierdo company: but that was Vegas and involved a lot of drinks).
Friday, July 27, 2007
Lost in Translation
The joys of an overpriced dirty Grey Goose Martini. (Add you own accents as appropriate):
me: I'll have a Bombay tonic please
waiter: Sorry Madam; we have no Bombay gin.
me: Ok, then a dirty grey goose martini.
him: ???
me: a martini with grey goose vodka, and add olive juice and olives. You add the olive juice, and that's what makes it dirty.
He comes back with a plain vodka marini.
me: can you ask the bartender for some olive juice please?
him: olives, yes
me: olive juice
him: orange juice?
me: no, no orange juice. Olive, ah, olive liquor, um, the brine?
him: ah, wine.
me. No, no. the liquid from the olives.
him: (looking like I've asked for the blood of a newborn or worse) yes, madam.
He returns with a shot glass of olive brine.
me: (inwardly) Victory!!!
Huzzah! So worth it.
me: I'll have a Bombay tonic please
waiter: Sorry Madam; we have no Bombay gin.
me: Ok, then a dirty grey goose martini.
him: ???
me: a martini with grey goose vodka, and add olive juice and olives. You add the olive juice, and that's what makes it dirty.
He comes back with a plain vodka marini.
me: can you ask the bartender for some olive juice please?
him: olives, yes
me: olive juice
him: orange juice?
me: no, no orange juice. Olive, ah, olive liquor, um, the brine?
him: ah, wine.
me. No, no. the liquid from the olives.
him: (looking like I've asked for the blood of a newborn or worse) yes, madam.
He returns with a shot glass of olive brine.
me: (inwardly) Victory!!!
Huzzah! So worth it.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Music Music Music
You really haven't lived until you've heard "Hotel California" belted out by a five piece band of strolling Malaysian musicians. I so regret not buying their CD. They followed it up with Tom Jones's "The Green Green Grass of Home" and Lionel Richie's "Hello" and some Cliff Richards (who's from Lucknow, who knew?) And then they did one Malaysian song. So great.
One of my favorite things here has been the music, or rather, the apparently universal appetite for it. It seems like pretty much every movie has big song and dance numbers in it (even apparently serious dramas). Musicals are on pretty much every channel, and there are several shows at night that just show the musical numbers from movies. Telegu pop music is fairly infectious--perfect pop that gets stuck in your head--and everyone seems to love it. I've heard very little classical music, and pop music seems to be enjoyed by grownups, not just kids. It's played in every store--from the upscale to the local grocery store. Hirin goes around singing constantly, and he puts music on whenever he's got a chance--pretty loud: yes, he's a teenager. Equally, Narasima (who's our age, at least) keeps his pop CDs pretty much blasting in the car whenever he's alone, and often has the music going quite loud even when we're in the car with him. I rode in an auto yesterday that had been kitted out with some major speakers. Yes, that's right, a covered scooter rickshaw, with a really loud sound system.
One of my favorite things here has been the music, or rather, the apparently universal appetite for it. It seems like pretty much every movie has big song and dance numbers in it (even apparently serious dramas). Musicals are on pretty much every channel, and there are several shows at night that just show the musical numbers from movies. Telegu pop music is fairly infectious--perfect pop that gets stuck in your head--and everyone seems to love it. I've heard very little classical music, and pop music seems to be enjoyed by grownups, not just kids. It's played in every store--from the upscale to the local grocery store. Hirin goes around singing constantly, and he puts music on whenever he's got a chance--pretty loud: yes, he's a teenager. Equally, Narasima (who's our age, at least) keeps his pop CDs pretty much blasting in the car whenever he's alone, and often has the music going quite loud even when we're in the car with him. I rode in an auto yesterday that had been kitted out with some major speakers. Yes, that's right, a covered scooter rickshaw, with a really loud sound system.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
All better
See? Bitching works. We got our clothes back, and I had a shower and got some clean clothes. All better. I talked with my mom, and with a good friend from home today, so all is well.
I know you were worried.
I know you were worried.
Rant.
Warning: some serious bitching and moaning to follow.
We have NO CLEAN CLOTHES and haven't for THREE WEEKS. The washing machine in the apartment broke two weeks ago. We hadn't had our clothes washed for the week prior. We tried doing it once before but the water pressure is such that the housekeeper has to do some crazy thing with the hoses; it's a mystery to us, so we are dependent on him. The office is in charge of all these things; they waited a week before they agreed with us that we needed to send our clothes to a laundry; and its been more than a week since our clothes have gone. Not only do we not have any clean clothes, we have no dirty ones to hand wash (which is what we'd done before that). This I'm told, by other Indians, is typical. It's nice to be a little relaxed about time and deadlines, but really not when it concerns my personal hygiene, thanks. So, that's the part of me that wants to come home already.
The part that doesn't want to come home yet is that in two weeks we go to Kolkata (Calcutta) and then the weekend after that, we go to Delhi, and then on to Agra to see the Taj Mahal, and then home. We went to Mumbai two weeks ago, and I loved that. I'm perfectly happy to have the Indian experience of flying by the seat of my pants when we are traveling and feeling like tourists. It's the every day part, where I'm stuck in a suburb, and Sion is working 10 hours a day, that I'd rather have my regular life back.
It's beastly hot and humid. Lightweight cotton or death. Oh there are many things I miss. Clean non-diesely air. Good booze. Meat. My own damn kitchen. Not having a 17 year old boy housekeeper underfoot all the damn time. My own space. I really wish they'd believe us when we say we don't need a housekeeper. He does things like put away oniony knives and stores onions in the fridge, next to the yogurt which isn't sealed properly. My pet peeve is onion food contamination. Especially on fruit and dairy. I know I made fun of Allison for bitching about the kitchen, but she was only here for a week. When we came back from Mumbai, he'd apparently amused himself by smoking cigarettes in our room, and left pee in and on the toilet. That pissed me off and creeped me out. I'm sure he was just pretending to be the boss, but really there are two other empty bedrooms in the apartment that he can hang out in.
I really do miss my own space. This is the thing: there is very much a servant class here, and everyone has "help" and because it's so normalized, they don't mind it. They depend on it. The "servants" arent' really people, so they can't invade your privacy. Plus, well, privacy? What's that? That's loneliness.
All the violent misogyny's really fucking with my head too. So many stories of women brutalized without any consequences in the papers every fucking day. Dowry's are real, even among the middle class. Just yesterday someone in the office was telling me about her family: four sisters, and two had been married. Her dad had to pay 8 lakh for the latest one; that's 2 grand US. That might as well be 20 or 200 grand for working people here. So many elderly widows disowned by their families, forced to beg. There was a story in the paper today of a ten year old girl "dragged by eve teasers": apparently a jeep full of young men were verbally harassing a group of girls, this one got caught somehow (her sari?) in the wheels of the jeep and was dragged some distance, breaking two vertabrae. You know what they're charged with? Disorderly driving.
Thus endeth the rant for today.
We have NO CLEAN CLOTHES and haven't for THREE WEEKS. The washing machine in the apartment broke two weeks ago. We hadn't had our clothes washed for the week prior. We tried doing it once before but the water pressure is such that the housekeeper has to do some crazy thing with the hoses; it's a mystery to us, so we are dependent on him. The office is in charge of all these things; they waited a week before they agreed with us that we needed to send our clothes to a laundry; and its been more than a week since our clothes have gone. Not only do we not have any clean clothes, we have no dirty ones to hand wash (which is what we'd done before that). This I'm told, by other Indians, is typical. It's nice to be a little relaxed about time and deadlines, but really not when it concerns my personal hygiene, thanks. So, that's the part of me that wants to come home already.
The part that doesn't want to come home yet is that in two weeks we go to Kolkata (Calcutta) and then the weekend after that, we go to Delhi, and then on to Agra to see the Taj Mahal, and then home. We went to Mumbai two weeks ago, and I loved that. I'm perfectly happy to have the Indian experience of flying by the seat of my pants when we are traveling and feeling like tourists. It's the every day part, where I'm stuck in a suburb, and Sion is working 10 hours a day, that I'd rather have my regular life back.
It's beastly hot and humid. Lightweight cotton or death. Oh there are many things I miss. Clean non-diesely air. Good booze. Meat. My own damn kitchen. Not having a 17 year old boy housekeeper underfoot all the damn time. My own space. I really wish they'd believe us when we say we don't need a housekeeper. He does things like put away oniony knives and stores onions in the fridge, next to the yogurt which isn't sealed properly. My pet peeve is onion food contamination. Especially on fruit and dairy. I know I made fun of Allison for bitching about the kitchen, but she was only here for a week. When we came back from Mumbai, he'd apparently amused himself by smoking cigarettes in our room, and left pee in and on the toilet. That pissed me off and creeped me out. I'm sure he was just pretending to be the boss, but really there are two other empty bedrooms in the apartment that he can hang out in.
I really do miss my own space. This is the thing: there is very much a servant class here, and everyone has "help" and because it's so normalized, they don't mind it. They depend on it. The "servants" arent' really people, so they can't invade your privacy. Plus, well, privacy? What's that? That's loneliness.
All the violent misogyny's really fucking with my head too. So many stories of women brutalized without any consequences in the papers every fucking day. Dowry's are real, even among the middle class. Just yesterday someone in the office was telling me about her family: four sisters, and two had been married. Her dad had to pay 8 lakh for the latest one; that's 2 grand US. That might as well be 20 or 200 grand for working people here. So many elderly widows disowned by their families, forced to beg. There was a story in the paper today of a ten year old girl "dragged by eve teasers": apparently a jeep full of young men were verbally harassing a group of girls, this one got caught somehow (her sari?) in the wheels of the jeep and was dragged some distance, breaking two vertabrae. You know what they're charged with? Disorderly driving.
Thus endeth the rant for today.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Being Recognized
On our way back to the apartment yesterday afternoon, we asked the auto driver to make a couple short stops (to pick up some groceries, then at the wine shop for a bottle of vodka) while Sion was fetching the latter, I waited with our bags of loot in the auto. As we waited, an elderly woman came by asking for money, which of course I gave. She blessed me, I blessed her, it went back and forth a couple times. When she left I had this conversation with the driver:
him: you are nice people, you give money. [I had just given another elderly woman money at the previous stop]
me: oh, um, thanks. Was she a widow?
him: yes. You are nice girl. Are you Hindu?
me: no. Mexican.
him: Ah, Chicana.
me (eyes popping out of my head): YES! Chicana. You know Chicana!
He says nothing, just seems pleased with himself.
Immediately after I said Mexican, I think: Duh: the appropriate answer is Catholic, NOT Mexican (much as they might slide into each other for me). But the hilarious thing is that I heard Hindu in the way Mexicans and Chicanos refer to EVERYONE in India. Growing up, that's what I thought Indians were called, as distinct from American Indians.
And yeah: he knew the right name for me was Chicana. I still can't get over that. People at home don't know Chicano. Much less Chicana.
him: you are nice people, you give money. [I had just given another elderly woman money at the previous stop]
me: oh, um, thanks. Was she a widow?
him: yes. You are nice girl. Are you Hindu?
me: no. Mexican.
him: Ah, Chicana.
me (eyes popping out of my head): YES! Chicana. You know Chicana!
He says nothing, just seems pleased with himself.
Immediately after I said Mexican, I think: Duh: the appropriate answer is Catholic, NOT Mexican (much as they might slide into each other for me). But the hilarious thing is that I heard Hindu in the way Mexicans and Chicanos refer to EVERYONE in India. Growing up, that's what I thought Indians were called, as distinct from American Indians.
And yeah: he knew the right name for me was Chicana. I still can't get over that. People at home don't know Chicano. Much less Chicana.
Comparative Patriarchies
Sounds like a women's studies class, no? But that's on my mind this morning. I woke up feeling sick, shoulder and arm cramping--the physical aftereffects of a hideous nightmare involving my sexual assault by a large group of young men and boys. As I lay there doing a dream post-mortem, it occured to me that everytime I'm in another country: Mexico, the UK, Spain, France, in this case, India--the local articulations of patriarchy strike me as brutal, baldfaced, and somehow harder for me to deal with. I know full well that patriarchy is doing just fine in the US, and that misogyny is chugging along quite nicely. My skin, however, is used to deflecting that particular set of arrows. I suppose it has to do with the with my particular social milieu; as an academic, the circles I generally travel at home are populated with people who are my allies, are indifferent, or know better than to voice their hatred of me outloud. I have made a safe little niche for myself. I suppose that's to some extent how this blog has functioned for me.
The housemates are now gone (for now) but in their company I had the impression that if these (smart, affable) guys are any indication: educated American men (still?) don't regard women as their equals. Not really. Affluence and education aren't guarantees against hatred. I say hatred because that's how it feels to be regarded as less than fully human.
I'm trying to think comparatively here because that's how I like to read: put two or more things together and they'll shed some light on each other.
At home, there's a popular sense that women are equal, and that feminism is redundant: obnoxiously so. People get pissed when this myth is undercut, and that's when the hatred really comes out--often in the form of accusations of hatred. This, I think, is a particularly American cultural habit. It happens with pretty much any other form of oppression: race, class, sexuality, disability. Americans need to think of themselves as fairminded and egalitarian, so any evidence against that is a threat to that sense of self.
Here, cultural politics are harder for me to read. The country's just elected their first woman president, Pratibha Patel. The cultural significance of this is hard to read: on the one hand she's a woman, but then so was Thatcher and Indhira Ghandi. Not much feminist or progressive analysis that I can find online, but one blogger puts it this way (http://feministblogs.org/author/aishwarya/):
My anecdotal observations are are small, limited to hanging around one IT company of around 200 people, conversations with a handful of individuals, going out in the city, and reading the local English language media (newspapers, billboards, and TV mostly). Complicating this is the fact of the enormous diversity in this country: ethnicity, religion, language, state. So there is no such thing as the Indian attitude towards this or that. I've heard that Hyderabad is a relatively progressive place for women. I've seen women (not many, but some) driving their own scooters, and there actually are a handful of women working in the testing department at the company--more than in a similar place in the States. I've also seen the dispossessed widows who are forced to beg--disowned by their children at the death of their father. I've seen ads proclaiming: "She is goddess, and we've created a world just for her" pushing some new clothing store for women. I've been harrassed on the street. I've also been told that police are "sympathetic" toward women, so having one with you when you go make a report (on a stolen cell-phone for example) is handy as it will get your case handled sooner.
Some things are familiar, some not. Different articulations of the same assumption. Men are more fully human. The norm.
You know what brought this on? Two things, I bet. 1. My very brief encounters with two elderly widows yesterday, and 2. An old Cary Grant flick: The Awful Truth. 1937 screwball comedy in which both Grant and his wife are apparently cheating on each other: he divorces her--and the focus is on her whether or not she's innocent. In the end, he believes she is, and they reconcile. His apparent infidelity is forgotten. The eponymous truth is, I'm sure, suppossed to be that they love each other. Against the grain, there's some hope here that its a satire of marriage, but I don't think that's why it won academy awards.
The housemates are now gone (for now) but in their company I had the impression that if these (smart, affable) guys are any indication: educated American men (still?) don't regard women as their equals. Not really. Affluence and education aren't guarantees against hatred. I say hatred because that's how it feels to be regarded as less than fully human.
I'm trying to think comparatively here because that's how I like to read: put two or more things together and they'll shed some light on each other.
At home, there's a popular sense that women are equal, and that feminism is redundant: obnoxiously so. People get pissed when this myth is undercut, and that's when the hatred really comes out--often in the form of accusations of hatred. This, I think, is a particularly American cultural habit. It happens with pretty much any other form of oppression: race, class, sexuality, disability. Americans need to think of themselves as fairminded and egalitarian, so any evidence against that is a threat to that sense of self.
Here, cultural politics are harder for me to read. The country's just elected their first woman president, Pratibha Patel. The cultural significance of this is hard to read: on the one hand she's a woman, but then so was Thatcher and Indhira Ghandi. Not much feminist or progressive analysis that I can find online, but one blogger puts it this way (http://feministblogs.org/author/aishwarya/):
India’s presidential elections are a couple of weeks away (on the 18th of this month), and a woman, Pratibha Patel, is contesting. This is, of course far less interesting than the U.S presidential elections and Hilary Clinton, since the Indian president a) isn’t elected by the public and b) has very little power to do anything anyway. Our
current president has spent much of his time writing execrable poetry and motivational texts.
Since they don’t actually have much of a role to play, the choice of president is often an exercise in tokenism. We have had presidents from minority/disempowered castes, religions, etc before, and though they have been quite good ones, one suspects that their real function was to prove what an equal society we are. I have heard people say smugly of India that the fact that we have a Muslim president, a Sikh Prime Minister and Christian power-behind-the-prime minister proves that we are a diverse and egalitarian country (it also gives the Hindu right wing something to feel oppressed about) regardless of what normal Sikhs, Muslims and women may experience in day-to-day, nonpolitical life.*
My anecdotal observations are are small, limited to hanging around one IT company of around 200 people, conversations with a handful of individuals, going out in the city, and reading the local English language media (newspapers, billboards, and TV mostly). Complicating this is the fact of the enormous diversity in this country: ethnicity, religion, language, state. So there is no such thing as the Indian attitude towards this or that. I've heard that Hyderabad is a relatively progressive place for women. I've seen women (not many, but some) driving their own scooters, and there actually are a handful of women working in the testing department at the company--more than in a similar place in the States. I've also seen the dispossessed widows who are forced to beg--disowned by their children at the death of their father. I've seen ads proclaiming: "She is goddess, and we've created a world just for her" pushing some new clothing store for women. I've been harrassed on the street. I've also been told that police are "sympathetic" toward women, so having one with you when you go make a report (on a stolen cell-phone for example) is handy as it will get your case handled sooner.
Some things are familiar, some not. Different articulations of the same assumption. Men are more fully human. The norm.
You know what brought this on? Two things, I bet. 1. My very brief encounters with two elderly widows yesterday, and 2. An old Cary Grant flick: The Awful Truth. 1937 screwball comedy in which both Grant and his wife are apparently cheating on each other: he divorces her--and the focus is on her whether or not she's innocent. In the end, he believes she is, and they reconcile. His apparent infidelity is forgotten. The eponymous truth is, I'm sure, suppossed to be that they love each other. Against the grain, there's some hope here that its a satire of marriage, but I don't think that's why it won academy awards.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Food
The food we can buy for ourselves to prepare in the apartment is pretty much kid food. I had a bowl of corn flakes with (soy)milk and banana for breakfast, an eggsalad sandwich on wheat bread for lunch, and some crackers and peanut butter just now as I wait for Sion to come home. (Our dinner reservation's not until 8:30). I made a salad of grated carrots and cucumbers with lemon juice, (god I miss greens: no lettuce or spinach here, just some very unfamiliar herbs)and we are eating a lot of toast and cheese and cookies and potato chips when we hang around here. Junky kids's food.
We can make pretty good dirty rice (but really that's kid food too) We've tried making grown up food with what we can get, but the successful dishes are ones that I associate with childhood--ie: simple one-note dishes. There's jarred pasta sauce, so we can doctor that up with garlic and onion, but honestly it's still kid food. We made beans: that's fairly standalone, so's the rice. So we can eat rice and beans, plain. I've yet to make a successful salsa. I can make a pretty good vegetable soup that's based on cabbage: but again it's the sort of thing you eat when you're a sick kid. You can buy frozen but not fresh chicken, and those are some stringy fighting birds. If you want fresh you have to go to a separate place where they are walking around and you pick one out. I'll pass on that particular bit of authenticity. It's all about ingredients, and they're lacking for complex Western dishes. Restaurants clearly have avenues not available to me.
So we can have grownup food if we go out, but if we stay in then it's kid food. Except for plain yogurt with honey or mango; most kids I hate yogurt, right?
It's comfort food because not only is it familiar and therefore comforting and comfortable, but in this case: we don't have to rely on someone else to either call for delivery or more importantly, go out when we're tired and/or hungover. Ah well, at least we can buy the stuff to make kid food.
I'm a little bit homesick: can you tell? I miss my life, even as we're having adventures. That they're not contradictory states (having adventures and planning them on the one hand, and being homesick on the other) suprises me.
We can make pretty good dirty rice (but really that's kid food too) We've tried making grown up food with what we can get, but the successful dishes are ones that I associate with childhood--ie: simple one-note dishes. There's jarred pasta sauce, so we can doctor that up with garlic and onion, but honestly it's still kid food. We made beans: that's fairly standalone, so's the rice. So we can eat rice and beans, plain. I've yet to make a successful salsa. I can make a pretty good vegetable soup that's based on cabbage: but again it's the sort of thing you eat when you're a sick kid. You can buy frozen but not fresh chicken, and those are some stringy fighting birds. If you want fresh you have to go to a separate place where they are walking around and you pick one out. I'll pass on that particular bit of authenticity. It's all about ingredients, and they're lacking for complex Western dishes. Restaurants clearly have avenues not available to me.
So we can have grownup food if we go out, but if we stay in then it's kid food. Except for plain yogurt with honey or mango; most kids I hate yogurt, right?
It's comfort food because not only is it familiar and therefore comforting and comfortable, but in this case: we don't have to rely on someone else to either call for delivery or more importantly, go out when we're tired and/or hungover. Ah well, at least we can buy the stuff to make kid food.
I'm a little bit homesick: can you tell? I miss my life, even as we're having adventures. That they're not contradictory states (having adventures and planning them on the one hand, and being homesick on the other) suprises me.
Worth it.
If you want to see an example of the local hip-hop scene, download divx (its a webplayer)--its better quality than youtube, and has more international participants. Then, watch this:
http://stage6.divx.com/user/itsraji/video/1415813/chal-chal
I'm telling you; it's so worth it. Guess who found it?
http://stage6.divx.com/user/itsraji/video/1415813/chal-chal
I'm telling you; it's so worth it. Guess who found it?
I never see this stuff
Sure, some people see transvestites and guys with fire on their heads on the street. I see goats.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Stumbling Into A Story
You know how I have said that there is no cultural programming in this town? I have to take that back. This week, I saw an ad in the paper for Shilparamam, Hyderabad's local crafts village, where folks can sell their work directly to tourists in a central location without getting ripped off (or at least that's the idea). They were hosting a weeklong workshop called "Unity in Diversity" where scholarship students from all over India learned traditional arts (visual, plastic, and performative). The ad also mentioned that each evening there would be "cultural programmes" from 6:30-8 pm. Of course Sion had to work late Monday, so we went on Tuesday, the last scheduled day.
The students of course were kids ages 10-15 or so. For some reason I assumed the students would be adults, apprenticing or something. Nope; schoolkids! We crashed their graduation ceremony.
As we were arriving (around 7ish) an Aussie couple was leaving; the woman was very happy to see us, and was further thrilled to learn that she could have a salwar kameez tailor made (too much bust and booty for Indian sizes) but the dude was clearly annoyed at the whole thing and wanted to go. She wanted to stay and see if there *was* going to be any dancing. There were at least 20 kids dressed up in costumes that suggested there would indeed be dancing. We were warned that we'd be filmed.
At first we stayed on the sidelines (during the handing out of certificates). Apparently, I have a soft spot for graduations. Who knew? Blame my job and my five younger sibs. We were urged by one of the guys that worked there to sit in the front row, so we eventually did. And yes indeed, we got our pictures taken several times, and we got filmed too. I guess we'll be the "international visitors" in the documentation they put together. It was cute and dorky and the kids sang awkwardly, and then there was a comedy skit where two ten year old boys pretended to be drunk. It ended with a girl with a broom beating one of them. The truly funny part was the microphone malfunction; the main drunk kid had a body mic that he had grab by the corner of his shirt for it to work. And yes: drunks do talk to their shirts. So it worked. After this, there was a dance performance with styles representing all the states the kids were from; I think they said 12 or 16 styles were represented. And there were outfits! And the music was quite good because it was performed by the teachers. Cap it all off with a crazy short Keralese shadow puppet show.
Who says there's no culture in Hyderabad?
The students of course were kids ages 10-15 or so. For some reason I assumed the students would be adults, apprenticing or something. Nope; schoolkids! We crashed their graduation ceremony.
As we were arriving (around 7ish) an Aussie couple was leaving; the woman was very happy to see us, and was further thrilled to learn that she could have a salwar kameez tailor made (too much bust and booty for Indian sizes) but the dude was clearly annoyed at the whole thing and wanted to go. She wanted to stay and see if there *was* going to be any dancing. There were at least 20 kids dressed up in costumes that suggested there would indeed be dancing. We were warned that we'd be filmed.
At first we stayed on the sidelines (during the handing out of certificates). Apparently, I have a soft spot for graduations. Who knew? Blame my job and my five younger sibs. We were urged by one of the guys that worked there to sit in the front row, so we eventually did. And yes indeed, we got our pictures taken several times, and we got filmed too. I guess we'll be the "international visitors" in the documentation they put together. It was cute and dorky and the kids sang awkwardly, and then there was a comedy skit where two ten year old boys pretended to be drunk. It ended with a girl with a broom beating one of them. The truly funny part was the microphone malfunction; the main drunk kid had a body mic that he had grab by the corner of his shirt for it to work. And yes: drunks do talk to their shirts. So it worked. After this, there was a dance performance with styles representing all the states the kids were from; I think they said 12 or 16 styles were represented. And there were outfits! And the music was quite good because it was performed by the teachers. Cap it all off with a crazy short Keralese shadow puppet show.
Who says there's no culture in Hyderabad?
Monday, July 16, 2007
I heart Mumbai
With only a regular weekend to go, we really didn't get enough time there. We left Friday evening (after a three hour delay!) and arrived at our hotel around midnight. We stayed in the south, which is the old city. The hotel was smack in the middle of Fort, an old colonial area, about a block from what was until a few years ago known as Victoria Terminus, or VT as everyone there calls it. The official name is Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus. It's a huge crazy Victorian Gothic frothy crazy fabulous thing, with local critter-gargoyles: monkeys, alligators, peacocks, bats, rats and a bunch of other things carved into the stone. Inside it looks like an English train station. Lots of Mumbai, especially the old parts, looks like England. I know it's a colonial city, but still I was suprised by the degree to which it did. If you ignored the signs and the humidity, you could easily think you were in Liverpool--especially on the drive from the airport on the flyovers (like freeways)in the middle of the night.
It's a very different city from Hyderabad. It's not under construction for one. We saw zero goats, and less scooters. More cars, and the taxis in the city are not autorickshaws, but black and yellow Soviet era little cars. Clearly Mumbai has tons more money and an infrastructure built by colonial and neocolonial capital. Broad tree-lined avenues, wide sidewalks, the outsides of buildings are finished, not covered in bamboo scaffolding. The streets are not full of pot-holes and construction workers from the country in bare feet, carrying boulders and piles of rubble from one side of the road to another. The foreign capital in Hyderabad really needs to invest in infrastructure; but they won't; they don't need to. Information tech doesn't require it.
Mumbai is a city that is relatively clean, modern, and bustling in a way that feels energizing, rather than chaotic. People are friendly but they don't stare.Foreigners are as common as dirt. Something about the city seems more laid back, less desperate (that might be money, it might be something else too).
It rained on the first morning, and contrary to all advice and reports it was not flooded. We got sunburned, actually. We went on the ferry to Elephanta Island, climbed up 1/4 mile of stairs, and saw 7th C. temples dedicated mostly to Shiva. We were obsessed with the monkeys and the jungle and the dogs there. For us it will be forever known as Monkey Island. There were no elephants there. The ferry ride was rough both ways. About an hour on choppy seas; it's only 12 km away, but it was a very slow boat. Sideways there, and up and down back. We barely talked because we were concentrating on not getting seasick and puking our guts out by keeping our eyes fixed on something not moving (an island, a boat, whatever). By the time we got back to Mumbai, we were hot hot hot, sweaty, and slightly sunsick. We stumbled over to the Hotel Taj Mahal, where I've never been happier to be a rich American. It's from 1903 and gorgeous. We cleaned up and went to the Sea lounge. We just happened to be there at tea time, and were rewarded with a yummy buffet of savory and sweet snacks, both English and Indian. Samosas, all manner of pastry stuffed with spinach and mushrooms and cheese, and little bits of roasted corn on the cob. There were also cakes, and muffins, and scones with cream and raspberry jam, and little chocolate mousse parfaits. A full luxurious and decadent spread. With very very nice tea. And apparently, fancy hotels will bring you paracetemol (like Tylenol) if you ask them for some aspirin. I had a mean sun-headache, so after we popped into the bookstore (for a guidebook) in the shopping arcade in the hotel, we went back to our regular hotel so I could shower, ice my head, and drink gallons of water. Two hours later I was all better, and Sion had a plan.
We dressed and went out to dinner at Khyber, "the best restaurant in Mumbai" according to our travel guide. It didn't disappoint. It's so well-known there's not much of a sign. It does look like a palace inside, and we were seated in a room dominated by two paintings by M.F. Husain, an Indian artist surrounded by controversy for his work; he's in exile now. I found out later who he was; the waiter told us as he noticed my commenting on the portrait of the well-endowed woman with no face, just boobs and lips. Guess what I was saying... The food was very good; rich and buttery and well spiced. Mughlai cuisine is apparently full of meat and butter. What could be better? We feasted again on lamb, paneer kofta, and dal, and of course there was lots of buttery naan and rice. We barely put a dent in the food, which I think frustrated the waiters. They kept wanting to serve us more and we kept stopping them.
We attempted the nightlife; next door to Kyber there is a super hip nightclub with no sign, called The Red Light. Yes, there is a red light outside. Lonely Planet told us about it. The crowd was very young, and even though my receding headache meant I didn't feel like drinking, I was still curious. When we get to pay the cover we expected about $25 for both of us. Covers charges are for couples; singles (known as stags here) have a hard time getting into clubs. They wanted double that, and were going to close within about an hour and half. The music was all techno, and the crowd was really young (under 25). 50 bucks for a techno club: not so much.
The next day we went walking all around: saw VT properly, then Chowpatty beach where I had to touch the Arabian sea. From there we went up to see the dhobi ghat which is next to a suburban train station. A dhobi is a traditional laundryman; and I think ghats are stairs or mountains. The dhobi ghat near Mahalaxmi station is pretty famous; about 200 dhobis and their families work there (its an occupation passed down within families). From there we caught the train (I bought a garland of jasmine from an old lady and her apprentice at the station) and we went up to Batra, a shopping district in the north. After tromping around the streets we had lunch: we stumbled into some kid's birthday party, but they let us sit at the edge. Some delicious chole bhatura, a fried puffy bread served with curried buttery chick peas garnished with slivers of beets and paneer and green onions and a couple of chilies. We mostly ignored the thali (combo plate) I ordered. We also got to have a safe version of classic Indian street food, Pani puri. Little fried puffs of dough that are hollow: you crack the top, fill it with some curried potatoes, and then dip in into two different sauces that are water based: one's tamarind and the other's green and spicy. You pop the whole thing into your mouth and it explodes as you bite down. insanely messy and delicious. We can't eat it on the street because of the high water content of the sauces; but this restaurant makes their with mineral water; the menu said so. From there we went to run around the shoe market, an area where there are tons of shoes. But nothing said take me home. We saw our first elephant! Sion stood in traffic to get pictures for me. So gallant and crazy. Then it was time to head to the airport.
I saw monkeys and an elephant and ancient temples, and markets, and colonial stuff, and ate really well. Why can't the company be in Mumbai? Why? Why?
It's a very different city from Hyderabad. It's not under construction for one. We saw zero goats, and less scooters. More cars, and the taxis in the city are not autorickshaws, but black and yellow Soviet era little cars. Clearly Mumbai has tons more money and an infrastructure built by colonial and neocolonial capital. Broad tree-lined avenues, wide sidewalks, the outsides of buildings are finished, not covered in bamboo scaffolding. The streets are not full of pot-holes and construction workers from the country in bare feet, carrying boulders and piles of rubble from one side of the road to another. The foreign capital in Hyderabad really needs to invest in infrastructure; but they won't; they don't need to. Information tech doesn't require it.
Mumbai is a city that is relatively clean, modern, and bustling in a way that feels energizing, rather than chaotic. People are friendly but they don't stare.Foreigners are as common as dirt. Something about the city seems more laid back, less desperate (that might be money, it might be something else too).
It rained on the first morning, and contrary to all advice and reports it was not flooded. We got sunburned, actually. We went on the ferry to Elephanta Island, climbed up 1/4 mile of stairs, and saw 7th C. temples dedicated mostly to Shiva. We were obsessed with the monkeys and the jungle and the dogs there. For us it will be forever known as Monkey Island. There were no elephants there. The ferry ride was rough both ways. About an hour on choppy seas; it's only 12 km away, but it was a very slow boat. Sideways there, and up and down back. We barely talked because we were concentrating on not getting seasick and puking our guts out by keeping our eyes fixed on something not moving (an island, a boat, whatever). By the time we got back to Mumbai, we were hot hot hot, sweaty, and slightly sunsick. We stumbled over to the Hotel Taj Mahal, where I've never been happier to be a rich American. It's from 1903 and gorgeous. We cleaned up and went to the Sea lounge. We just happened to be there at tea time, and were rewarded with a yummy buffet of savory and sweet snacks, both English and Indian. Samosas, all manner of pastry stuffed with spinach and mushrooms and cheese, and little bits of roasted corn on the cob. There were also cakes, and muffins, and scones with cream and raspberry jam, and little chocolate mousse parfaits. A full luxurious and decadent spread. With very very nice tea. And apparently, fancy hotels will bring you paracetemol (like Tylenol) if you ask them for some aspirin. I had a mean sun-headache, so after we popped into the bookstore (for a guidebook) in the shopping arcade in the hotel, we went back to our regular hotel so I could shower, ice my head, and drink gallons of water. Two hours later I was all better, and Sion had a plan.
We dressed and went out to dinner at Khyber, "the best restaurant in Mumbai" according to our travel guide. It didn't disappoint. It's so well-known there's not much of a sign. It does look like a palace inside, and we were seated in a room dominated by two paintings by M.F. Husain, an Indian artist surrounded by controversy for his work; he's in exile now. I found out later who he was; the waiter told us as he noticed my commenting on the portrait of the well-endowed woman with no face, just boobs and lips. Guess what I was saying... The food was very good; rich and buttery and well spiced. Mughlai cuisine is apparently full of meat and butter. What could be better? We feasted again on lamb, paneer kofta, and dal, and of course there was lots of buttery naan and rice. We barely put a dent in the food, which I think frustrated the waiters. They kept wanting to serve us more and we kept stopping them.
We attempted the nightlife; next door to Kyber there is a super hip nightclub with no sign, called The Red Light. Yes, there is a red light outside. Lonely Planet told us about it. The crowd was very young, and even though my receding headache meant I didn't feel like drinking, I was still curious. When we get to pay the cover we expected about $25 for both of us. Covers charges are for couples; singles (known as stags here) have a hard time getting into clubs. They wanted double that, and were going to close within about an hour and half. The music was all techno, and the crowd was really young (under 25). 50 bucks for a techno club: not so much.
The next day we went walking all around: saw VT properly, then Chowpatty beach where I had to touch the Arabian sea. From there we went up to see the dhobi ghat which is next to a suburban train station. A dhobi is a traditional laundryman; and I think ghats are stairs or mountains. The dhobi ghat near Mahalaxmi station is pretty famous; about 200 dhobis and their families work there (its an occupation passed down within families). From there we caught the train (I bought a garland of jasmine from an old lady and her apprentice at the station) and we went up to Batra, a shopping district in the north. After tromping around the streets we had lunch: we stumbled into some kid's birthday party, but they let us sit at the edge. Some delicious chole bhatura, a fried puffy bread served with curried buttery chick peas garnished with slivers of beets and paneer and green onions and a couple of chilies. We mostly ignored the thali (combo plate) I ordered. We also got to have a safe version of classic Indian street food, Pani puri. Little fried puffs of dough that are hollow: you crack the top, fill it with some curried potatoes, and then dip in into two different sauces that are water based: one's tamarind and the other's green and spicy. You pop the whole thing into your mouth and it explodes as you bite down. insanely messy and delicious. We can't eat it on the street because of the high water content of the sauces; but this restaurant makes their with mineral water; the menu said so. From there we went to run around the shoe market, an area where there are tons of shoes. But nothing said take me home. We saw our first elephant! Sion stood in traffic to get pictures for me. So gallant and crazy. Then it was time to head to the airport.
I saw monkeys and an elephant and ancient temples, and markets, and colonial stuff, and ate really well. Why can't the company be in Mumbai? Why? Why?
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Monkey Island! and Mumbai and the Arabian Sea and an elephant and dogs, and ancient temples, and markets, and trains, and the dhobi ghat and and and
I'ts called Elephanta Island, but we saw not elephants. Instead: many many monkeys and a few dogs. Dogs and monkeys get along; who knew?
Just when you thought I was going to keep blogging about TV we go have an adventure! many stories, but for now, some pictures.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Mimicry and Mass Media Madness
We've been watching downloaded BBC shows at night--tired of going out to the same places, and just plain tired I think (poor Sion's been sick). Up until last week it was Doctor Who, and then Life on Mars (about a guy who wakes up after an accident and its 1973--and he's a cop) and Spaced, a comedy about two loser chums (boy/girl) who share a flat. There are about 5 channels in English, including HBO that has commercials. There are at least 6 versions of Indian Idol, which Hirin, the housekeeper, watches every chance he gets. He actually takes careful notes, and then he transcribes them. And since I hang out at the house alone often enough during the day, I've been the only one to see him receive phone calls and then apparently report on the results of the shows, reading his notes and chatting. I think since I leave him to it, he's happy enough. He doens't do it when Allison's around. Probably because she does things like spend entire afternoons dismantling the kitchen and speaking loudly and slowly to him about how she likes things cleaned and organized just so. Me? I'm grateful to him for cleaning up after us and doing our laundry.
There are 4 or 5 music video channels, and every other commercial's got a song and dance number. Most movies on TV have musical numbers in them, even the dramas (I'm guessing based on the music and melodramatic chewing of scenery). We bought a copy of Lagaan, (based on Ding's recommendation--that and it had subtitles) and I expected big, ponderous drama. The premise is this: the monsoon's failed for three years, a starving village is forced to pay a double tax, or lagaan. They are offered a chance to play cricket as a bet against the tax. Ok; now that I've written that out, how could it be all serious? I know. It's full of singing and dancing--even in the super-dramatic parts. I started to love the singing and dancing. Duh: there were outfits and choreography. Lucky for me, Sion was there to explain the cricket in the last half hour of the movie; the reactions shots from the crowd, yay or boo, weren't quite enough: what do you mean, the game lasts three days???
I wish the musicals (on at the cinema and on TV and in the stores) had subtitles. I'll still watch bits and pieces of the TV ones, but after a while I lose interest. Too many commercials and it's not that fun when I have no idea what's going on. I suppose we could Mystery Science Theater it (we did a bit while we were watching Dracula the other night).
I've a theory that in terms of mass hybridized culture its the 90s here. Ally McBeal is on TV during prime time: as is Seinfeld and Friends. The bars here love love love nothing more than techno, and the 70's nostalgia that prompted the return of hip-hugging pants and retro nightclubs is all over the trendy fashions you see in the shops, especially in menswear. Sion argues its because they didn't get the 70s the first time around. I blame post-colonial mimicry.
There are 4 or 5 music video channels, and every other commercial's got a song and dance number. Most movies on TV have musical numbers in them, even the dramas (I'm guessing based on the music and melodramatic chewing of scenery). We bought a copy of Lagaan, (based on Ding's recommendation--that and it had subtitles) and I expected big, ponderous drama. The premise is this: the monsoon's failed for three years, a starving village is forced to pay a double tax, or lagaan. They are offered a chance to play cricket as a bet against the tax. Ok; now that I've written that out, how could it be all serious? I know. It's full of singing and dancing--even in the super-dramatic parts. I started to love the singing and dancing. Duh: there were outfits and choreography. Lucky for me, Sion was there to explain the cricket in the last half hour of the movie; the reactions shots from the crowd, yay or boo, weren't quite enough: what do you mean, the game lasts three days???
I wish the musicals (on at the cinema and on TV and in the stores) had subtitles. I'll still watch bits and pieces of the TV ones, but after a while I lose interest. Too many commercials and it's not that fun when I have no idea what's going on. I suppose we could Mystery Science Theater it (we did a bit while we were watching Dracula the other night).
I've a theory that in terms of mass hybridized culture its the 90s here. Ally McBeal is on TV during prime time: as is Seinfeld and Friends. The bars here love love love nothing more than techno, and the 70's nostalgia that prompted the return of hip-hugging pants and retro nightclubs is all over the trendy fashions you see in the shops, especially in menswear. Sion argues its because they didn't get the 70s the first time around. I blame post-colonial mimicry.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Mumbai Mambo!
Everybody dance! We're going to Mumbai next weekend. Against all other candidates because it's not suppossed to be raining too much next week, it's easy to get a nonstop flight, and its relatively close (around an hour's flight) Plus: Elephanta caves which house temples cut from the rocks there, dating from around 5th century C.E. Now: whether we can actually get there depends on the weather; if its raining or stormy, no. But even still there's lots to do. Markets and bazaars, and temples, and colonial crap, and lots of food, and a fishing village, and the insane lunch delivery system at the train station (people have home-cooked meals delivered to their offices) and beaches, and actual nightlife.
I've come to realize that being in Hyderabad and saying I'm going to see India on the weekends is a bit like being somewhere in Kansas, say Topeka and announcing that I'm going to see the USA on the weekends. Yes, you could do it: by flying around and spending most of your time in the air or otherwise in transit. You could take the train and see the countryside, but then you'd have to turn around and come back the minute you got there because you can only be gone on the weekend. And countryside for it's own sake doesn't really excite me. I want to see cities and places where people are.
We'll go to Delhi and arrange a trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal at the end of our time here. Trying to figure out how to get to Khajuraho for our anniversary.
Yesterday we went to Ramoji Film City. I took many photos of authentically fake places. This place is living breathing simulacrum. Click here if you want to see the photos of the road there and back, and lots of authentically fake stuff.
It was so much fun. My favorite might have been the Wild West section of the park. And the trash cans.
I've come to realize that being in Hyderabad and saying I'm going to see India on the weekends is a bit like being somewhere in Kansas, say Topeka and announcing that I'm going to see the USA on the weekends. Yes, you could do it: by flying around and spending most of your time in the air or otherwise in transit. You could take the train and see the countryside, but then you'd have to turn around and come back the minute you got there because you can only be gone on the weekend. And countryside for it's own sake doesn't really excite me. I want to see cities and places where people are.
We'll go to Delhi and arrange a trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal at the end of our time here. Trying to figure out how to get to Khajuraho for our anniversary.
Yesterday we went to Ramoji Film City. I took many photos of authentically fake places. This place is living breathing simulacrum. Click here if you want to see the photos of the road there and back, and lots of authentically fake stuff.
It was so much fun. My favorite might have been the Wild West section of the park. And the trash cans.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Noblesse Oblige and other lies
We see more goats than cows. Goats and goats and goats. I like them.
The housemate situation's gotten more interesting/annoying. But it's temporary. It's a three bedroom apartment, with a sitting room (with doors) a tv room that's connected to the dining room, and a kitchen. The housekeeper, Hirin sleeps in the sitting room. There have been three housemates, more or less. Satya, an Indian guy who's originally from Hyderabad but left at 17 (lived all over the West and Singapore since then: he's back some 12 or 13 year later now)--he's easygoing and mellow, and willing to translate and act as a native informant, to a limited degree. Then there's Lance (who sleeps at a hotel, but hangs out at the house) the Chinese American ex-fratboy I wrote about recently, and then there's the intensely bossy blowhard Swede, Bjorn. We've come to an understanding; He tries to organize us and we act like cats. His American wife, Allison has recently joined us. She and Bjorn will leave next week. I'm very glad of that.
It's a shame too, since I was so intensely missing the company of women. I was looking forward to hanging out and going on shopping adventures together. Even if we had nothing in common (which we don't) I can still shop with pretty much anyone (how high maintenance can she be?) or so I thought. This is a woman who makes my shoulders hurt. She really really wants to be the lady of the house. I think she imagines herself as a delicate flower. Has nothing but disdain for India, and complains about pretty much everything. Here's the thing: yes, it's the third world. Deal. We have it really good here. Duh it's hot; it's SUMMER. No kidding there are strong smells from food and people. And noise, and music, and talking you don't understand. And yes, there are poor people. Dude: you live in LOS ANGELES. (But then, I come to find out, not really)
She actually said, when I suggested we go out in an autorickshaw if the driver wasn't available: I'm afraid of smells. She really needs to go home to Redondo Beach where she's going to have airconditioning installed. In their house near the beach. With the travertine floors, installed by a guy they want to recommend to us (dude: do you have any idea how much more money than us you have??)
Confronting one's privilege is hard. I really get that now. I understood that when the last time I went to Ensenada with my family I was freaked out by my relative wealth and resentment at having to give everyone money when I myself was broke in my own eyes. That was about 6 years ago, and I didn't really deal; I just felt guilty at buying hair products that cost 25 bucks). But I really get it now. Noblesse oblige is a big lie. Bjorn (who's been in the states for about 15 years) thinks he's got it, but really its condescension. I think I may well have some more empathy for my students and their freakouts when confronted by their relative privilege. Race and class privilege in particular (though straight privilege is really no joke).
Thursday, July 5, 2007
4th of July in India
We'd been told that we should find the nearest consulate and go for a 4th of July party: the admission ticket is your US passport, and inside it's all hotdogs and fireworks. US inside, India outside. Headtripariffic. Sadly, the nearest one is in Delhi, a 2 hour plane trip. So, instead we made due with hanging out with one of the housemates, who's all super-patriotic (he spent an hour drawing a flag and the message "Happy Birthday America" with dryerase markers on a window in the office), and drinking shitty vodka mixed with Minute Maid pulpy orange drink. It's not orange juice, but it's better than Sunny Delite. It's like Orangina without the carbonation. Not too bad, really. And we set off two leftover streamer/confetti poppers leftover from my birthday. Yay. We could've gone to buy what would be really illegal fireworks in the old city, but noone thought about it. This is the youngest housemate, Lance, an easygoing, Chinese-American former frat dude programmer who went to school at UC Davis. He grew up in Chinatown, and during the course of several drunken conversations has revealed his relative comfort levels with Mexicans and Chinese people (high) and Whites and Blacks (ok for middle class folks, really not with poor poeple). Talking about race and class and gender here and at home (ie: who gets stared at, why, how women dress, immigrant parents, school, neighborhoods, food) over many vodkas was an amusing and I think appropriate way to spend Fourth of July abroad. He's close to 10 years younger than we are, and he reminds me of my brothers in some ways I can't quite pin down.
I've been reading the NYT online as well as the BBC. I'm floored (and yet somehow not suprised) at Bush's latest "I AM THE LAW" shenanigans. I found this commentary cheering somehow, and it reminded me of why I wanted to be a good citizen when I was a kid. (Hat tip to Bitch PhD) I loved the idea of patriotism, even if it makes me a little bit squirmy now. Still, I wonder if anyone actually saw this on TV? Or did they air it at 2am?
I've been reading the NYT online as well as the BBC. I'm floored (and yet somehow not suprised) at Bush's latest "I AM THE LAW" shenanigans. I found this commentary cheering somehow, and it reminded me of why I wanted to be a good citizen when I was a kid. (Hat tip to Bitch PhD) I loved the idea of patriotism, even if it makes me a little bit squirmy now. Still, I wonder if anyone actually saw this on TV? Or did they air it at 2am?
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Roasted Cheese
There are some aspects of the food here I'm not going to miss: the screamingly hot chilies in pretty much everything, the sour suprise veggies, the often sour-hot dahl. But then there's the food from the tandoor restaurant in the Sheraton. Tandoori roasted paneer. Dayam. That's competing with the lamb for the most delicious thing we've had since we got here. And that I'll miss the most when we go home. There's no such thing as tandoori cheese in Redlands, or within 100 miles, or perhaps most tragically, in any Indian and/or Pakistani restaurant in the states.
Please let me be wrong.
Please let me be wrong.
Birthday bliss.
This Saturday we we went shopping at a place called Big Bazaar. If Ikea and Kmart had a lovechild crack baby this would be it. 5 stories of mayhem and "interesting offers" filled with families pretty late. I bought more cotton for outfits and some stuff for the kitchen. A pot, some cute silver bowls that may or may not make it home with me. There were at least two guys on every floor with megaphones shouting: Buy One! Get One! Buy One! Get One! and holding something like a plastic bucket, or a pair of rubber sandals.
On my birthday, I was showered with loot. Pearls. YAY pearls. Hyderabad is known for its pearls. Lucky me.
We went out to the Sheraton, drank for many hours and feasted at Peshawari, a sort of psuedorustic fancy tandoor restaurant with copper chargers and cups, regional outfits on the waiters, and for no apparent reason statues of Athena in little alcoves along the walls. We ate and ate and ate delicious roasted yumminess: Tandoori Lobster (insanely delicious); A leg of lamb (the best I've ever ever had); a North Indian version of twice baked potatoes--roasted potato surrounding mashed potatoes with nuts and cheese; roasted paneer--it gets this insanely delicious crust, and of course yogurt and bread and rice. We have leftovers for days. We're eating them tonight.
I've been taking pictures of signage and everyday things. Here are some.
And I got my first two outfits back, finally. These are "plain" according to the salespeople. Plain. Check out the embroidery. And the mirrors on the brown pants.
Monday, July 2, 2007
It's my birthday. Where should we go?
I'm turning 36 on the opposite side of the globe from where I was born. We're planning weekend trips as part of the fun-for-us-while-we're-here-and-it'-my birthday-and-then-next-month-it's-our-12th-anniversary-planning
Here are the options, if we can figure out how to get there.
We'll probably go to Agra to see the Taj Mahal: I know I'll never live it down if we don't. And we'll probably spend at least a day in Delhi. But then there are other weekends. For the same amount we'd spend going to Singapore, we could do two other weekends domestically.
Vote for your favorite:
a. Mumbai: Big city, tons to do, but flooded at the moment (and likely to remain that way for the rest of the monsoon season). Temples nearby. And Elephanta caves.
b. Amritsar: Golden temple, can go see the Indian/Pakistan Border, where they line up their armies and march away from each other at sunset.
c. Khajuraho: Ancient erotic temples. Lots of them.
There are probably monkeys in all three. Don't know about elephants though.
or, of course:
d. your suggestion. Ed's comment reminded me that I should ask. So, tell me.
Here are the options, if we can figure out how to get there.
We'll probably go to Agra to see the Taj Mahal: I know I'll never live it down if we don't. And we'll probably spend at least a day in Delhi. But then there are other weekends. For the same amount we'd spend going to Singapore, we could do two other weekends domestically.
Vote for your favorite:
a. Mumbai: Big city, tons to do, but flooded at the moment (and likely to remain that way for the rest of the monsoon season). Temples nearby. And Elephanta caves.
b. Amritsar: Golden temple, can go see the Indian/Pakistan Border, where they line up their armies and march away from each other at sunset.
c. Khajuraho: Ancient erotic temples. Lots of them.
There are probably monkeys in all three. Don't know about elephants though.
or, of course:
d. your suggestion. Ed's comment reminded me that I should ask. So, tell me.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Online Photo Album
It is ever growing: http://picasaweb.google.com/elizaryg
I'll have to start taking pictures of food and drink and signage. Every time I buy batteries here, they seem to last all of 1 hour then they die. I should just buy the rechargable ones.
I'll have to start taking pictures of food and drink and signage. Every time I buy batteries here, they seem to last all of 1 hour then they die. I should just buy the rechargable ones.
photos
The company hosted a reception and dinner for a visiting potential American client, complete with skits, an open bar, and then followed by dinner. We've been to two so far. I was under the impression that skits was a part of the corporate culture here. No, no. That's just the CEO's own personal crazy. But man, oh man. The kids that work here seem to LOVE it.
And here are some photos of wet livestock that live in a patch of nature in the middle of the city. It belongs to the village of Anand Prabhat.
And here are some photos of wet livestock that live in a patch of nature in the middle of the city. It belongs to the village of Anand Prabhat.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Hyderabad is a small town
Or a suburb trapped in a big city's body. There is no central theater where we could find dance, drama, or music performances. The listing of events in the paper or online is non-existant. The university is 20 clicks away, and from the silence that answered my inquiries, I guess is closed for summer. When the paper does mention readings or other cultural events, its usually after they're over.
There's a stadium where you can watch cricket.
And there's one idiosyncratic dusty museum.
There's a lot of money and bored rich kids. And a lot of shopping. Several 5 star hotels with restaruants. Very little in the way of a public local culture: the local cultural center is closed every time I've been by it; I suspect it's a place to rent to put on performances that aren't open to the public.
And that's why we went to the mall for amusement. Not that different from the burbs at home. Crazy, right?
There's a stadium where you can watch cricket.
And there's one idiosyncratic dusty museum.
There's a lot of money and bored rich kids. And a lot of shopping. Several 5 star hotels with restaruants. Very little in the way of a public local culture: the local cultural center is closed every time I've been by it; I suspect it's a place to rent to put on performances that aren't open to the public.
And that's why we went to the mall for amusement. Not that different from the burbs at home. Crazy, right?
Dinner and a movie, and other middle class amusements
The oddest is being rich and white here, but brown (light-skinned, but still brown) and from a working-class background (though historically living beyond my means) at home. I'm in a complete bubble of privilege and outsiderness, that try as I may I'm never going to pop. The women at the office who talk to me the most are busy with their own lives and families, of course they are. And there's an impenetrable wall between the guys who work taking care of us (the housekeeper and the driver) and us. Yesterday we had an extra ticket to go to the movies and we offered it to Narasima, the driver. He accepted it, and while he was sitting with us (we had assigned seats) he was just sitting next to us, not really part of the group (which, as the one Indian housemate explained to us, isn't going to change, even if we drag him along with us).
Yesterday we went to the movies for the first time. We sort of cheated and went to see the new Pirates movie. The Hindi and Telegu films don't have subtitles, so I'll have to make sure to pick a musical (shouldn't be hard, right?) We bought our tickets online and got the plush 2 feet of legroom seats smack in the middle of the theater. There was an intermission (yay: because that movie is LONG) and we went down to the food court that's part of the theater and had some corn in a cup. The flavors were: Plain (margerine and salt) Masala (curry powder, lime juice, salt, chili) Mexican (chili, lime, salt, jalapenos, and something else) Chinese (no idea) and Cheese. Sion and I got Masala. Yummy, and HOT. We ate our corn and immediately downed two big bottles of water trying to wash away the burning. I thought Mexicans ate hot food. Oh, no. We got nothing on these folks.
The movie theater is in a huge mall. Rather than go back to the apartment we hung out for a bit: had a coffee, went window shopping, walked around. Then we had dinner. We went to a restarant in the mall called Bombay Blue. A totally middle class place; like eating at an Olive Garden attached to any big mall. We realized that the prices we'd been paying for drinks in the hotel restaurants were beyond insane. A large bottle of Kingfisher beer was 150 at Bombay Blue and 650 at the Taj Krishna. A shot of Smirnoff (domestically produced) was 75 at BB: we just paid 550 for the same shitty vodka in some hipster eatery. Totally American prices. And pricey American prices at that. 550 is about 14 bucks. I had figured that alcohol was prohibitively expensive everywhere. Nope.
Bombay Blue is one of these multicuisine places, which usually means Indian and Chinese food. This had that plus pasta and some Arab dishes (pretty much in name only: the palest pita bread I've ever seen). The Indian food was of course, the yummiest. The Roti was exactly like a Sonora style flour tortilla: thin and huge. I wanted butter with it.
We have had pizza (from Pizza Hut) and it's exactly like the kind at home. Only with local toppings and no pork or beef. Curried chicken, or chicken and pineapple. There are Baskin Robbins everywhere. Last night we had some mango icecream in a waffle cone that tasted like butter cookies. YUM.
Right next to the Baskin Robbins (just outside the mall restaurants) there is a stand that sells dried fruit and bits of cake on sticks, that you then thrust into a fountain of chocolate. The kind you see at weddings. Yes. Fast food chocolate fondue. The fountain is in a plexiglass box, and there's a hole through which you thrust your hand with your bit of fruit/cake on a stick.
Corporate America's here: McDonalds, Subway, Coke, Baskin Robbins, Pizza Hut, Dominos, and while they appear the be the same, they aren't. The flavors are local as are the prices for the most part. It's a wierd familiarity/dislocation combination.
Yesterday we went to the movies for the first time. We sort of cheated and went to see the new Pirates movie. The Hindi and Telegu films don't have subtitles, so I'll have to make sure to pick a musical (shouldn't be hard, right?) We bought our tickets online and got the plush 2 feet of legroom seats smack in the middle of the theater. There was an intermission (yay: because that movie is LONG) and we went down to the food court that's part of the theater and had some corn in a cup. The flavors were: Plain (margerine and salt) Masala (curry powder, lime juice, salt, chili) Mexican (chili, lime, salt, jalapenos, and something else) Chinese (no idea) and Cheese. Sion and I got Masala. Yummy, and HOT. We ate our corn and immediately downed two big bottles of water trying to wash away the burning. I thought Mexicans ate hot food. Oh, no. We got nothing on these folks.
The movie theater is in a huge mall. Rather than go back to the apartment we hung out for a bit: had a coffee, went window shopping, walked around. Then we had dinner. We went to a restarant in the mall called Bombay Blue. A totally middle class place; like eating at an Olive Garden attached to any big mall. We realized that the prices we'd been paying for drinks in the hotel restaurants were beyond insane. A large bottle of Kingfisher beer was 150 at Bombay Blue and 650 at the Taj Krishna. A shot of Smirnoff (domestically produced) was 75 at BB: we just paid 550 for the same shitty vodka in some hipster eatery. Totally American prices. And pricey American prices at that. 550 is about 14 bucks. I had figured that alcohol was prohibitively expensive everywhere. Nope.
Bombay Blue is one of these multicuisine places, which usually means Indian and Chinese food. This had that plus pasta and some Arab dishes (pretty much in name only: the palest pita bread I've ever seen). The Indian food was of course, the yummiest. The Roti was exactly like a Sonora style flour tortilla: thin and huge. I wanted butter with it.
We have had pizza (from Pizza Hut) and it's exactly like the kind at home. Only with local toppings and no pork or beef. Curried chicken, or chicken and pineapple. There are Baskin Robbins everywhere. Last night we had some mango icecream in a waffle cone that tasted like butter cookies. YUM.
Right next to the Baskin Robbins (just outside the mall restaurants) there is a stand that sells dried fruit and bits of cake on sticks, that you then thrust into a fountain of chocolate. The kind you see at weddings. Yes. Fast food chocolate fondue. The fountain is in a plexiglass box, and there's a hole through which you thrust your hand with your bit of fruit/cake on a stick.
Corporate America's here: McDonalds, Subway, Coke, Baskin Robbins, Pizza Hut, Dominos, and while they appear the be the same, they aren't. The flavors are local as are the prices for the most part. It's a wierd familiarity/dislocation combination.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Every time I get in the car, this song is on
And I had to go find it. It's catchy. And the dancing is pure Bel Biv Devoe.
Vanity extracts its price
Mauled! This is what I get for pretending to be a lady who lunches. Except I haven't had lunch out (yet). I walked the three blocks over to the nearest beauty salon, a fancy looking joint called Mane'a, which is a shiny glass building, above a Hyundai dealership with a huge L'Oreal sign. www.manea.in Looks reputable, right? It's got the required thumping dance music, looks super clean and shiny, and there's enough folks around who speak English. I want to get my eyebrows done. They don't wax here, they do threading. It's the big trendy thing in West LA, and its cleaner and more precise. Great I think. I also get a manicure and pedicure. The nailpolish I think was old; the texture's bad. But whatever. I can redo them at "home". No--the tragedy lies in the eyebrows. Or eyebrow, my left one. The inner corner has been pulled way too far in; it's about 1/4 inch shorter than it should be. That's the width of my pinkie! The space between them is absurdly far apart. It's the sort of thing that eludes you at first. You just think, Hmm. what's wrong? I couldn't figure out what was wrong, and not wanting to be rude I didn't inspect my reflection too closely. I just thought, maybe the arches are too high. Ah well. I can fill it in with eyebrow powder.
Only after I got back and I looked at myself again did it dawn on me. Oh my gawd, I look like a freak.
Yeah, it'll grow back--in August.
Share your salon disasters with me; misery loves company you know.
Only after I got back and I looked at myself again did it dawn on me. Oh my gawd, I look like a freak.
Yeah, it'll grow back--in August.
Share your salon disasters with me; misery loves company you know.
Aww, this makes me miss my family
That's my mom talking, and my brother and sister in the foreground. I suspect the two pairs of legs in the background belong to my other two sisters.
And this one's the funniest
but probably only because they're my siblings.
And this one's the funniest
but probably only because they're my siblings.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
What's different about this bathroom?
See if you can spot things that are really not American here. I count at least 5, maybe 6 or 7.
Other crazy things I've gotten used to seeing
Besides livestock in the streets (goats mostly), the most dramatic is the entirely pervasive use of the scooter as a major mode of transportation. Scooter, not motorcycle. Little things that aren't allowed on the freeway back home. Here's a small sampling of how they're used:
1. You know it already: the autoricksaw, or auto for short. A covered, yellow scooter with a bench in the front and back. Says it carries four. They routinely pack 5 adults in there, and like 8 schoolkids. There was a story in this morning's paper about it. Hyderabad has no schoolbuses, so folks send their kids to school in autos. That link has a great picture. Also, since there's no public transportation to speak of (there are a handful of crazily crowded buses) and taxis are rare (you have to hire them in advance and they look like cars from the 50s) they're pretty much the only game in town.
2. Transporting construction materials. One guy driving, another guy sitting behind him hanging on to 1) lumber or 2) pipes, or even 3) sheets of plywood
3. Transporting entire families. The typical arrangement: Dad driving, tiny kid in front of him, sitting between his legs, hanging on to him. Mom in a sari, sitting sidesaddle, with medium kid on her lap. One arm around Dad, one arm around the kid.
4. Most scooters carry at least two people most of the time. Often two men, sometimes a man and woman. Not often: two women. Sometimes though, the woman's driving and the guy's riding behind her. Helmets? don't be silly.
5. Speaking of helmets, most of the folks wearing them are on motorcycles, which are rare.
1. You know it already: the autoricksaw, or auto for short. A covered, yellow scooter with a bench in the front and back. Says it carries four. They routinely pack 5 adults in there, and like 8 schoolkids. There was a story in this morning's paper about it. Hyderabad has no schoolbuses, so folks send their kids to school in autos. That link has a great picture. Also, since there's no public transportation to speak of (there are a handful of crazily crowded buses) and taxis are rare (you have to hire them in advance and they look like cars from the 50s) they're pretty much the only game in town.
2. Transporting construction materials. One guy driving, another guy sitting behind him hanging on to 1) lumber or 2) pipes, or even 3) sheets of plywood
3. Transporting entire families. The typical arrangement: Dad driving, tiny kid in front of him, sitting between his legs, hanging on to him. Mom in a sari, sitting sidesaddle, with medium kid on her lap. One arm around Dad, one arm around the kid.
4. Most scooters carry at least two people most of the time. Often two men, sometimes a man and woman. Not often: two women. Sometimes though, the woman's driving and the guy's riding behind her. Helmets? don't be silly.
5. Speaking of helmets, most of the folks wearing them are on motorcycles, which are rare.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Salty Banana Chips
They're my new favorite things. Think Puerto Rican tostones, but crunchier and thinner, and they come in a bag from the store.
I thought they were going to be sweet. I'm so glad I was wrong.
YUM.
I thought they were going to be sweet. I'm so glad I was wrong.
YUM.
Shopping!
I finally finally finally got to a place where I could buy fabric and unstitched clothes! Sizes run very small here.Indian women have small frames: slim hipped with narrow shoulders, and for the most part, they're a lot shorter than me. Salwar suits are the main thing women here wear apart from saris. I'm not going to be a ridiculous western woman in a sari, but I am going to rock the tunic and pants look. You can get "ready made", which is already sewn up to a particular size, or you can get an unstitched suit. The fabric's been cut and the patterns are set for the top, pants and coordinating dupatta, or scarf that pulls the whole thing together. I will probably skip wearing the scarf; extra fabric's not what I'm trying to wear when its this hot. It took some convincing the sales people that I wanted plain (ie: not bejeweled) and lightweight cotton. I still got some embroidery, and the two i settled on are far from plain, to an American eye. I then went over to a linen store across the way, where i bought some lightweight linen for four tunics: red, orange, a very pale peach, and a very pale yellow. And some heavier line for the pants, a color I can only describe as dark linen: oatmeal crossed with sand. The shops both have onsite tailors, and it was a bit wierd standing there in a crowd of men being measured for a top and pants. Especially as my measurements are being shouted to the guy with the pad writing it all down. Whatever, I'm sure my size wasn't the only wierd thing about me.
Four tunics and a pair of pants were a little over 100 bucks. Two Salwar suits for about 60. That includes the lining and the tailoring. I'm going to buy my entire wardrobe for the next six months while I'm here. It's hot weather until November back home, and I can't afford bespoke tailoring there. Heh, but I know what bespoke tailoring is, so what does that say about me?
I'm sure I could've found better prices, (the women in the office told me the mall I ended up going to was too expensive) but I need some lightweight clothes now. I'll keep looking out for fabric stores; once the wife of one of the other housemates gets here next week, I'll ask her where she's found good silks and cottons. Last time she was here, she spent days and days looking for fabric stores. I've only sort of looked, and in the end went to a mall down the street. Once things calm down at the office, and everyone isn't working til 11pm every night, I'm suppossed to go shopping with one of Sion's coworkers at a local market where she knows a place to get good lightweight cottons. And it turns out that Narasima's wife is a tailor! I found out too late. I'm sure I'll be sending a lot of business her way though.
Sion can't wait to get some suits made for himself, and some shirts and pants.
We're going to come back with so many clothes.
Four tunics and a pair of pants were a little over 100 bucks. Two Salwar suits for about 60. That includes the lining and the tailoring. I'm going to buy my entire wardrobe for the next six months while I'm here. It's hot weather until November back home, and I can't afford bespoke tailoring there. Heh, but I know what bespoke tailoring is, so what does that say about me?
I'm sure I could've found better prices, (the women in the office told me the mall I ended up going to was too expensive) but I need some lightweight clothes now. I'll keep looking out for fabric stores; once the wife of one of the other housemates gets here next week, I'll ask her where she's found good silks and cottons. Last time she was here, she spent days and days looking for fabric stores. I've only sort of looked, and in the end went to a mall down the street. Once things calm down at the office, and everyone isn't working til 11pm every night, I'm suppossed to go shopping with one of Sion's coworkers at a local market where she knows a place to get good lightweight cottons. And it turns out that Narasima's wife is a tailor! I found out too late. I'm sure I'll be sending a lot of business her way though.
Sion can't wait to get some suits made for himself, and some shirts and pants.
We're going to come back with so many clothes.
Settling in
We've been here for almost two weeks, and it's funny what you can get used to. I am starting to relax around the housekeeper's insistance on swooping in and making the bed the minute I get up, and cleaning around me constantly. He mops the whole place every day for example. If I don't want to see it I have to go to the office early, and it's too damn hot. (I'll amble in later.) I'm over jetlag finally, and I'm sliding into my stay up til 1 or 2, get up at 9 or 10 regular hours. I can eat without feeling sick. I'm getting used to having housemates. I'm even getting used to the crazy heat and not running around outside in the day if I can help it (not that different from home in the summer).
The housekeeper and the driver are the two biggest freakout things to me. I felt really really guilty for the first week, having someone clean up after us constantly. His name is Hirin, and he's about 18 years old I'd guess. We started figuring out ways of being comfortable with the situation: tipping him, and letting him watch TV (ie: going into the other room so he doesn't immediately turn it off), and my failure to understand how to work the washing machine means that I let him do his thing, and it's OK. I have to say that this past weekend, after we destroyed the kitchen as is usual when making a traditional English breakfast (bacon, beans, toast, a fried tomato, and fried egg)he came in and cleaned it up before we finished eating. Which, I have to say: kind of nice.
Not being able to drive myself around is hard. The traffic here is so insane I would not even try it. There is no public transporation to speak of, and the autorickshaw drivers piss me off in their refusal to listen to my requests to use the meter, or even tell me how much they want before we go; they'll do it when the Mr. tells them to. I got out of four of them yesteray afternoon. I know, I'll probably have to just put up with it if I want to go anywhere on my own, but still. Being confronted with "oh, you're a stupid western woman" is annoying. I know they're not all like that: I have taken an auto on my own when I've gone shopping once.
The driver, previously referred to as Mr. N, is named Narasima Rau. He has a wife and two kids (I think 6 and 8) and is extraordinarily helpful. He knows enough English that we can understand each other. And we're figuring out ways of making our appreciation material, so tips for whole afternoons out, a pack of expensive smokes now and then, and as one housemate suggested, buying a bag of wheat flour, or rice, or some other staple for the kids when he takes you to the grocery store. He is reluctant to accept tips--hence the other forms of material thanks. We'll tip both of them grandly when we leave; we've been told that's customary, but that's still a long way off.
I finally went to investigate the "fitness center" that had been promised before we came out. I'm told I should go check it out and decide if I want to join (the company would pay, as part of the guesthouse thing: they'll also pay for one restaurant to deliver our meals here). Narasima takes me, and we go to the office and I say I'd like to see the facilities please. A dude comes and leads us up some stairs, we come out into a dark room with tables, and wait, is that, yes it is: "this is the bar" he says. Um, Ok. I think. Then we go into the adjoining room full of couches: "this is the family room" Right. It's all neglected marble floors and dusty ceiling fans, dirty whitewashed walls, no A/C. Dark, heavy, wooden furniture. Dusty, faded, red velvet upholstery. Up more stairs: The billiard and snooker tables. Another bar. Right, I think. There's been a serious misunderstanding. Another function room, with stacked chairs--like you see in banquet halls, folding tables. Thank you. Thanks very much, I say. Then we go back down to the ground floor. Fitness, the guy says. Oh right: its a dim, hot room full of sweaty men lifting weights. OK. Then we go round the corner, to a small room, just big enough to fit about 4 treadmills from the 80s and two oldschool stationary bikes side by side. Dim, dusty, two ancient ceiling fans, and so much dust I don't think anyting's ever been used. The next room over is a small dance studio. Right. Thank you very much, I say. Apparently this is a club, with a fitness center. And while it is only a 10 minute walk from the flat, I think I'm going to stick with doing yoga in the A/C comfort there, and climbing many stairs and walking in the little green park/footpath nearby.
Since I finished my book review, I think I will try in earnest to go buy some cotton so I can have some tunics made. My clothes are too heavy, and really I only brought about a week's worth. Whether Narasima's available this afternoon or not will determine just how far I can go. I'll take an auto to somewhere I've been before, that way I can give dirctions (go left, turn here, etc) and I can tell if they're taking me for a ride.
Hyderabad, it's becoming clear to me, is a small town trapped in a big city's body.
The housekeeper and the driver are the two biggest freakout things to me. I felt really really guilty for the first week, having someone clean up after us constantly. His name is Hirin, and he's about 18 years old I'd guess. We started figuring out ways of being comfortable with the situation: tipping him, and letting him watch TV (ie: going into the other room so he doesn't immediately turn it off), and my failure to understand how to work the washing machine means that I let him do his thing, and it's OK. I have to say that this past weekend, after we destroyed the kitchen as is usual when making a traditional English breakfast (bacon, beans, toast, a fried tomato, and fried egg)he came in and cleaned it up before we finished eating. Which, I have to say: kind of nice.
Not being able to drive myself around is hard. The traffic here is so insane I would not even try it. There is no public transporation to speak of, and the autorickshaw drivers piss me off in their refusal to listen to my requests to use the meter, or even tell me how much they want before we go; they'll do it when the Mr. tells them to. I got out of four of them yesteray afternoon. I know, I'll probably have to just put up with it if I want to go anywhere on my own, but still. Being confronted with "oh, you're a stupid western woman" is annoying. I know they're not all like that: I have taken an auto on my own when I've gone shopping once.
The driver, previously referred to as Mr. N, is named Narasima Rau. He has a wife and two kids (I think 6 and 8) and is extraordinarily helpful. He knows enough English that we can understand each other. And we're figuring out ways of making our appreciation material, so tips for whole afternoons out, a pack of expensive smokes now and then, and as one housemate suggested, buying a bag of wheat flour, or rice, or some other staple for the kids when he takes you to the grocery store. He is reluctant to accept tips--hence the other forms of material thanks. We'll tip both of them grandly when we leave; we've been told that's customary, but that's still a long way off.
I finally went to investigate the "fitness center" that had been promised before we came out. I'm told I should go check it out and decide if I want to join (the company would pay, as part of the guesthouse thing: they'll also pay for one restaurant to deliver our meals here). Narasima takes me, and we go to the office and I say I'd like to see the facilities please. A dude comes and leads us up some stairs, we come out into a dark room with tables, and wait, is that, yes it is: "this is the bar" he says. Um, Ok. I think. Then we go into the adjoining room full of couches: "this is the family room" Right. It's all neglected marble floors and dusty ceiling fans, dirty whitewashed walls, no A/C. Dark, heavy, wooden furniture. Dusty, faded, red velvet upholstery. Up more stairs: The billiard and snooker tables. Another bar. Right, I think. There's been a serious misunderstanding. Another function room, with stacked chairs--like you see in banquet halls, folding tables. Thank you. Thanks very much, I say. Then we go back down to the ground floor. Fitness, the guy says. Oh right: its a dim, hot room full of sweaty men lifting weights. OK. Then we go round the corner, to a small room, just big enough to fit about 4 treadmills from the 80s and two oldschool stationary bikes side by side. Dim, dusty, two ancient ceiling fans, and so much dust I don't think anyting's ever been used. The next room over is a small dance studio. Right. Thank you very much, I say. Apparently this is a club, with a fitness center. And while it is only a 10 minute walk from the flat, I think I'm going to stick with doing yoga in the A/C comfort there, and climbing many stairs and walking in the little green park/footpath nearby.
Since I finished my book review, I think I will try in earnest to go buy some cotton so I can have some tunics made. My clothes are too heavy, and really I only brought about a week's worth. Whether Narasima's available this afternoon or not will determine just how far I can go. I'll take an auto to somewhere I've been before, that way I can give dirctions (go left, turn here, etc) and I can tell if they're taking me for a ride.
Hyderabad, it's becoming clear to me, is a small town trapped in a big city's body.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Contests and rules
I'll be posting contest winners about once a week. You can always go back and try to win a prize for a quiz/contest that hasn't been won yet. First one to guess right wins. Unless there's a a general outcry--then I'll change that.
What the prizes are will be a suprise, to be revealed/sent to you once I get back to the states. They'll be things I can only get here.
There's not really a limit to how many prizes you can win.
Now for the winners:
Fire!: Ding wins! Fire breathing dancers are the most prosaic, so of course were NOT part of the scene. I'm afraid there were bouncers on the dance floor, regulating heteronormative dancing. As a corrolary to this: Stinky Pete wins "another quiz" since she was the first one to guess "all of the above". Yes, lighter fluid did get all over the place, and everything on that list caught fire, except for me, luckily.
Nobody guessed the Cigarette Smoking is injurious to your health one right. The answer there was not cricket, nor cinema, nor dancing. Bizzarely, it was jazz. Ding, you should listen to that instinct that says: go with the wierdest and least likely option.
The interpretation of the Eat Street Boat / Necklace Road photo is still open.
What the prizes are will be a suprise, to be revealed/sent to you once I get back to the states. They'll be things I can only get here.
There's not really a limit to how many prizes you can win.
Now for the winners:
Fire!: Ding wins! Fire breathing dancers are the most prosaic, so of course were NOT part of the scene. I'm afraid there were bouncers on the dance floor, regulating heteronormative dancing. As a corrolary to this: Stinky Pete wins "another quiz" since she was the first one to guess "all of the above". Yes, lighter fluid did get all over the place, and everything on that list caught fire, except for me, luckily.
Nobody guessed the Cigarette Smoking is injurious to your health one right. The answer there was not cricket, nor cinema, nor dancing. Bizzarely, it was jazz. Ding, you should listen to that instinct that says: go with the wierdest and least likely option.
The interpretation of the Eat Street Boat / Necklace Road photo is still open.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Photos!
 |
| Streets! |
Finally, some photos! These are mostly the streets of the old part of the city. Hyderabad was originally a Muslim city, built near the end of the 16th C. Charminar is a triumphal arch; like Paris's famous one, and Mecca Masjid is the second largest mosque in India.
Today was the first day we went out sightseeing with the driver, who for now shall be known as Mr. N (because I cannot remember his name). He's a totally sweet man, super helpful and wanting to show us things even though he speaks almost zero English. The Mr. twisted his ankle backing up for a photo, (he's ok, not sprained, just tired) and Mr. N started massaging it, shaking it out for him, asking after him way later in the day.
But first, he took us to Charminar, where we climbed some very steep very tall spiral stairs, took some pictures and Mr. N decided that he'd run down to the street below and take pictures of us from down there. So, he's standing in the middle of insane traffic, happily taking many blurry pics. Most didn't make it into the online album. There's one hilarious one of two puzzled-looking guys he must've caught on camera by accident as he was fiddling with the camera. From there we went down to Mecca Masjid, where we got snagged by a "guide" who of course wanted cash from us. We gave him R200, and the guide wanted more, appealing to me when the Mr. said no. I had to use his patriarchy against him, "I have to listen to my husband" bwahahahaha.
From there, we went down to the market stalls on the street to look around. I haven't yet bought anything; I'll go with some locals next weekend maybe to actually purchase shiny things. We bought new batteries for the camera, which promptly died 30 minutes later. By the time we got to Golkonda fort, they were done for. So, I took pictures with my boiled brain. Consequently, they are a bit squishy. A huge medieval city/palace/fortress. We wandered around in the sun on the mostly flat bit, declining the 2km hike to the top. Another time; we've got plenty of time. There was a crew filming what looked like a a music video--we practically walked right into their catering space.
I think my favorite part was when I was standing alone for a few minutes, and was approached by one dude with his friends who wanted to know my name. I pretended to speak only Spanish saying "No lo entiendo, perdon?" We went back and forth a few times, finally he said to his buddy "Noloenendo Perdon" as if to answer his question. Bahahahaha.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
This is the view from our balcony. If you have superpowers, you too can see the fantastically named high school. If you don't have super-vision you'll just have to go here: http://picasaweb.google.com/elizaryg and look in the album "hyderabad week 1" and look for "the view from the balcony" and zoom in on it. The glory of local naming conventions shall be revealed to you. Yes, I've finally posted pictures I took. Huzzah!
Another quiz
Which of the following was doused in flamable liquid last night at 10 Downing Street:
a) the table
b) the napkins
c) me
d) the drinks
e) all of the above
a) the table
b) the napkins
c) me
d) the drinks
e) all of the above
Cigarette Smoking Is Injurious to Health
There's a little slip of paper inside the cellophane wrapper on the Mr.'s smokes. It has the above warning printed at the bottom, but most of the 4x2" flyer is dedicated to celebrating which of the following:
a) cinema
b) dance
c) jazz
d) cricket
Here's your clue "It is a cultural achievement as it unites people across different races, regions and nations"
Remember, you can't win if you don't play.
a) cinema
b) dance
c) jazz
d) cricket
Here's your clue "It is a cultural achievement as it unites people across different races, regions and nations"
Remember, you can't win if you don't play.
Fire!
New contest. Which of the following was not part of the scene at the bar/disco called 10 Downing Street:
a) a bouncer for the dance floor: boy/girl couples only
b) fire breathing dancers on stages
c) flaming shots
d) fire on the tables/bar itself: lighter fluid squirted on the surface followed by a match
First one to guess the right one gets a prize!
a) a bouncer for the dance floor: boy/girl couples only
b) fire breathing dancers on stages
c) flaming shots
d) fire on the tables/bar itself: lighter fluid squirted on the surface followed by a match
First one to guess the right one gets a prize!
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Adventures in food
I've been to the grocery store a couple times, to pick up a few things: milk, bread, tea, yogurt--basically comfort food, right? Today I actually went for a big haul, and since it was raining, the driver took me. I ditched out on the office midafternoon (I finished proofreading my article and sent it off, and started a draft of the book review, so I was feeling all entitled) and went to what was presented to me by the housemates as the big, fancy grocery store. It was indeed in a fancy neighborhood; Jubilee Hills is the Bel Air of Hyderabad. No goats or cow pastures there. All glass store fronts with a few small stalls mixed in. Yes, some coconut vendors but more consistently visible affluence. Magna, as the store is called, is actually a multistory shopping complex with a food court on the top floor. The grocery part is a little small (the Food Bazaar in Hyderabad Centre was shinier and had more variety) but I found what I needed. The driver, I guess, is meant to look after me while I'm running around. So he came into the store and went around with me. He speaks very very little English, and of course I don't speak any Hindi, much less Telegu (the local mothertongue). It was fun, him trying to help me and me trying not to dawdle too much because he mistook my lingering over the shelves as confusion. Like this: he was offering me the bag of cooking oil, while I was trying to mime "I want one in a bottle" by clicking my nail on the bottle of insanely priced olive oil (about 12 dollars for a 4 oz bottle). I did know "aloo" was potato, and he then went on to tell me the names for mint, onions, green onions, and a bunch of stuff I didn't recognize. I'm a decent mimic, and Telegu and Hindi have some similar sounds to Spanish (roll your r's for example) so I repeated them convincingly. 6 hours later I have no idea what they were.
All fun until I get to the cash register. There were no prices on anything (this isn't common; the previous two grocery stores I'd been to have prices clearly marked on everything). I had taken 1400 rupees out of the envelope of our spending cash and brought it with me. I had a little over 100 on me. All told R1500. This is about 37.50 (divide by 40). TONS of cash. No way I could spend that much. Wrong. So when the total hits 1600, I tell the guy to stop. I need to put some things back. The driver (whose name I don't know, embarrasingly enough) starts to bargain with the manager. I'm gesturing I'll put back that overpriced box of cereal. No, No, he says. I hear a lot of words, the two I understand are "madam" and the name of the company. He's trying to negotiate that they let me take all the stuff, even though I'm about R150 short. That's like three bucks, but I know in terms of the local economy that's a lot. And I am an American, so I'm deeply embarrassed by this. The manager, who does speak English, seems to agree to whatever bargain the driver's struck. I still insist on putting back the Corn Flakes and the potato chips. I've got enough! with R10 to spare, which I give to the kid who helps us with the bags down to the car.
The most insane part comes next. He takes me back to the flat, where he's annoyed that there's a delivery truck blocking the entrance to the parking under the building. The street is flooded, and he's doubly annoyed at the security for making him park on the street and having me walk along the very wet mud. I resist the urge to say don't worry about it, it's OK. This, I gather, is about pride in his job. He sends me up to the flat, and he's going to carry the bags up. I can't offer to help. He doesn't understand, and I'd be breaking the order of things. Ok. So I go up. As I ascend the stairs, there's a woman who calls for my attention. She's cleaning the stairs, and wants money. I'm cleaned out. I try to mime this, but feel like a jerk. I get to the door and it's locked. We don't have keys; there's a housekeeper who lives here--he's got the only set. He's out to lunch. This keeps happening, and we keep asking for a copy of the key. No go. The solution is that the housekeeper, Hirin, leaves the key with the security guards at the office when he goes out. So, after the driver brings my 6 bags of groceries up and goes off to the office to get the key. Hirin comes back, all apologies, and lets me in. He goes in first, and there's someone behind me coming in: it's the woman from the stairs (or I think it is) I'm flustered and I find a R5 coin and give it to her. She comes in (she's with Hirin) and she's carrying laundry to be delivered to one of the housemates. I'm putting food away in the kitchen. Next thing I know, both this woman and Hirin are staring at me, watching me put food away. It's really not that much: some fruit, some biscuits, tea, cereal, potatoes, tomatoes, mint, onions, Diet Coke, milk. I think Hirin is hovering, wanting to help and I'm waving him off: it's OK. I can do this. I figure I can get away with this as the dutiful wife or something. But the woman is flat out staring. She reaches out to touch a can of chilled soda, and flinches at the temperature. She's chattering away to me. All I can do is smile and nod, but I'm embarrassed. Staring. Lots of staring. It happens constantly: women, men, kids. The kids are easy; I can smile and say "hi" and they smile and say "hi" back. I need to start doing that with grownups.
In other food adventures: we went to Senor Pepe's Tex Mex today for dinner. It's right down the street, and I didn't feel like ordering in again (the delivery restaurant dinners are often salty, salty, salty). Amazingly, the chicken burrito was a reasonable facsimile of what you get in the Americas. Tomato, onion, bell pepper as the main flavors. They had pinto beans too. The rice was totally Indian, and they serve yogurt with the meal. But, hey. The Mr. had a lamb chimichanga--that was less familiar. Not bad, but not comfort food either.
I can't wait until I can eat without feeling nauseous afterwards. This is with everything. Toast. Yogurt. Anything. I'm told this will pass eventually; it's part of the physical dislocation of traveling halfway around the world.
Tomorrow: dinner at the Sheraton. A fancy client is in town and there's a party. Dressing up and everything.
I finally have my computer back (my laptop locked me out for the past few days) so I can upload photos. Patience young ones, patience.
All fun until I get to the cash register. There were no prices on anything (this isn't common; the previous two grocery stores I'd been to have prices clearly marked on everything). I had taken 1400 rupees out of the envelope of our spending cash and brought it with me. I had a little over 100 on me. All told R1500. This is about 37.50 (divide by 40). TONS of cash. No way I could spend that much. Wrong. So when the total hits 1600, I tell the guy to stop. I need to put some things back. The driver (whose name I don't know, embarrasingly enough) starts to bargain with the manager. I'm gesturing I'll put back that overpriced box of cereal. No, No, he says. I hear a lot of words, the two I understand are "madam" and the name of the company. He's trying to negotiate that they let me take all the stuff, even though I'm about R150 short. That's like three bucks, but I know in terms of the local economy that's a lot. And I am an American, so I'm deeply embarrassed by this. The manager, who does speak English, seems to agree to whatever bargain the driver's struck. I still insist on putting back the Corn Flakes and the potato chips. I've got enough! with R10 to spare, which I give to the kid who helps us with the bags down to the car.
The most insane part comes next. He takes me back to the flat, where he's annoyed that there's a delivery truck blocking the entrance to the parking under the building. The street is flooded, and he's doubly annoyed at the security for making him park on the street and having me walk along the very wet mud. I resist the urge to say don't worry about it, it's OK. This, I gather, is about pride in his job. He sends me up to the flat, and he's going to carry the bags up. I can't offer to help. He doesn't understand, and I'd be breaking the order of things. Ok. So I go up. As I ascend the stairs, there's a woman who calls for my attention. She's cleaning the stairs, and wants money. I'm cleaned out. I try to mime this, but feel like a jerk. I get to the door and it's locked. We don't have keys; there's a housekeeper who lives here--he's got the only set. He's out to lunch. This keeps happening, and we keep asking for a copy of the key. No go. The solution is that the housekeeper, Hirin, leaves the key with the security guards at the office when he goes out. So, after the driver brings my 6 bags of groceries up and goes off to the office to get the key. Hirin comes back, all apologies, and lets me in. He goes in first, and there's someone behind me coming in: it's the woman from the stairs (or I think it is) I'm flustered and I find a R5 coin and give it to her. She comes in (she's with Hirin) and she's carrying laundry to be delivered to one of the housemates. I'm putting food away in the kitchen. Next thing I know, both this woman and Hirin are staring at me, watching me put food away. It's really not that much: some fruit, some biscuits, tea, cereal, potatoes, tomatoes, mint, onions, Diet Coke, milk. I think Hirin is hovering, wanting to help and I'm waving him off: it's OK. I can do this. I figure I can get away with this as the dutiful wife or something. But the woman is flat out staring. She reaches out to touch a can of chilled soda, and flinches at the temperature. She's chattering away to me. All I can do is smile and nod, but I'm embarrassed. Staring. Lots of staring. It happens constantly: women, men, kids. The kids are easy; I can smile and say "hi" and they smile and say "hi" back. I need to start doing that with grownups.
In other food adventures: we went to Senor Pepe's Tex Mex today for dinner. It's right down the street, and I didn't feel like ordering in again (the delivery restaurant dinners are often salty, salty, salty). Amazingly, the chicken burrito was a reasonable facsimile of what you get in the Americas. Tomato, onion, bell pepper as the main flavors. They had pinto beans too. The rice was totally Indian, and they serve yogurt with the meal. But, hey. The Mr. had a lamb chimichanga--that was less familiar. Not bad, but not comfort food either.
I can't wait until I can eat without feeling nauseous afterwards. This is with everything. Toast. Yogurt. Anything. I'm told this will pass eventually; it's part of the physical dislocation of traveling halfway around the world.
Tomorrow: dinner at the Sheraton. A fancy client is in town and there's a party. Dressing up and everything.
I finally have my computer back (my laptop locked me out for the past few days) so I can upload photos. Patience young ones, patience.
Monday, June 11, 2007
It's hot, but it's not Delhi.
I just met a guy who just got here from Delhi, where he says it's been 120 degrees, and they have 15 powercuts a day. Even if he's only sort of exaggerating, it's way better here. High in the 90s, with rain most afternoons. It's still warm and humid at night, but it's balmy rather than asphixiating. Humidity, in case you were wondering, hovers between 45-60%. You get used to it; I found myself saying, but it's OK, really. It's not that bad. It's actually rather pleasant. This when it's 95 and 45% humidity, like today. Of course, this is while I'm out on the covered roof, just after lunch, there's a slight breeze, and I'm going right back into the A/C. And I sleep with the A/C unit blasting us with cold, dry air all night. My sinuses are a small price to pay.
Prizes! Prizes! Prizes!
And now, for the unveiling of the total on my Target receipt.....
*drumroll*
372.88!
Leela wins with an uncannily close guess of 376.50. Scarily close, actually. It makes me think she has a spy in my wallet.
All you kids who guessed in around 300, either you forgot to figure in the new suitcase, or you underestimate my dependence on drugstore toiletries.
*drumroll*
372.88!
Leela wins with an uncannily close guess of 376.50. Scarily close, actually. It makes me think she has a spy in my wallet.
All you kids who guessed in around 300, either you forgot to figure in the new suitcase, or you underestimate my dependence on drugstore toiletries.
As for what I forgot to pack: I did, miraculously, remember my toothbrush (actually bought new ones at Target) and my hairbrush. I sort of wish I had left my mind behind then I wouldn't have had my cranky-baby freakout the second day we were here. I did remember to bring some good pens.
Here's what we didn't deal with before we left/forgot to bring. And by forgot, I mean things that I intended to bring along, but didn't: the lawn guy, so we'll have a jungle when we get back. Cable to hook up the Ipod to a stereo. Charger for cell phone (so I could get an Indian Sim card for it). Charger for my Ipod.
CG wins with her guesses, even if they were things I didn't even think about bringing, but now seem like a good idea. At the time I packed I didn't want to bring Immodium or Pepto since we'd be in the city and I'd rather get rid of whatever badness sooner rather than later. In other words, I didn't foresee any camel rides/bus trips. I fully intended to stay somewhere in the vicinity of toilets, running water, and A/C. Now, however, at least one road trip has been proposed, and even with A/C in the car, there's still the possibility of needing those medicines. So, CG wins with her gastrointestinal guess!
Congratulations, Leela and CG.
Stay tuned for more chances at winning!
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Your Sole Burns for God
A visit to the Birla Mandir, a temple dedicated to Lord Venkateswara this morning, just before noon. All white marble, glinting in the sun, gorgeous. You have to leave your shoes behind, about a block from the bottom of the stairs. The temple itself is at the top of a hill; to get the temple you progress, barefoot across the pavement, to the bag/camera check where you leave your stuff in the care of an army guy, back across the street to the bottom of the stairs, where they check to see if you have a camera, and then if you can, you run up the hot hot hot hot oh fuck its hot gleaming marble stairs. When you get to the top of the hill, you wait in line, clinging to the edges of things where maybe there's shade, anything that's not as white hot as those stairs as you snake around the various side shrines, to Ganesh and a bunch of other guys you don't recognize. Then you go through a metal detector and find a corner to sit, dripping sweat in your eyes, quite literally cooling your heels. Walking across the courtyards, you try not to speed walk, try to smile at the people staring at you, and climb more white-hot stairs to the very top, where you're rewarded with a little breeze. Curse yourself for wearing a long black jersey skirt that traps a considerable amount of heat and try to vent it by imitating a jelly fish, pulling at the swinging fabric and letting it snap back against your very sweaty legs. (You are so going to the fabric store and a tailor next week.) Try to cool off by looking out over the 500 year old manmade lake, Hussain Sagar, where there's a 350 ton statue of Buddha. Proceed to the main temple, try not to compare what people are doing there to what you see in Catholic churches (but you can't help it: kissing the feet of the statues, taking some subtance that the priests are handing out and eating it, touching their foreheads and chests as they leave the shrine all looks really really familiar). Snake your way back down this time slowly and don't push or shove (even though you are being pushed as shoved because, dude, this is a temple and you're a bloody Westerner). Resist the urge to run down the hill to the shoe check because the pavement is really really rough, and hot, and running makes it hurt even more. Grab your shoes and thank every divinity around that you can put your shoes back on.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Being disoriented is OK, really
I'm still jetlagged, and still out of it, but I've come to feel that I'm OK with it. It was one thing to say it, and like the idea of it, but it's been an entirely different thing to feel it. Perhaps it's the arrival of two other Westerners (one from LA, the other guy's a Swede translpanted to LA) who are even more dislocated than me. And the latter dude's actually sort of phobic about everything, which makes me feel more like I'm getting the hang of things. Like taking the autorickshaws, which are basically scooters fitted with a covered backseat that they say fits three, but really fits two. I have, however, seen as many has six people hanging out of one (including the driver). Riding one is pure vehicular adventure, to be sure. As long as someone else is driving, I'm fine with the centimeters between cars, pedestrians, motorbikes, other autos (as the autorickshaws are called) and us.
I've been out in the world now a few times, beyond the office. The newness and heat and everything is starting to feel like adventure, rather than burden. For now, I'm willing to accept that I'll get tired and want a nap around 5pm, so I'll make sure I'm back at the flat in the afternoons. That way I can read, or nap, or just sit and gaze at the city from the balcony, over the pasture for the cows and goats that the Amand Prabhet village (which this bit of Hyderabad grew up around) keeps for them, next to the Anapurna movie studio, next to the surrounding shiny new apartment buildings. The expanse of white buildings that stretches out to the horizon, past the airport, is starting to be familiar. I'm starting to orient myself very locally (the airport is on this side; the park on that one).
I've been to the grocery store twice, tried going to the movies (but they're perpetually sold out), been to the "wine store" to buy some Vodka, ordered food in a food court, am learning the size and shape of the money, and can almost convert Rupees to dollars (I know its 40 to 1, but what about 1,000? or 1500? oh, yeah.) I can concentrate enough to read fiction again, and I think reading's given me some focus--reminded my brain how it works.
The housemate situation is very "Real World"; I keep looking around for a confessional closet. The flat we're in has three bedrooms, all for the use of company employees. Since the other guys got here there's an insistence on doing things together. Tonight might be the end of that. Swedish dude said to me this morning "You're a mean girl, aren't you" It was early so it caught me off guard. Of course I came up with all sorts of snappy comebacks later. At the moment I just gave him an evil look and said, "maybe." I think I'm going to start mentioning Cornell ever so casually. It's a cheap trick, but it works with blowhards.
The rest of the weekend will be gentle sightseeing--out in the morning, back in the afternoon, out again in the evening. We're here for long enough there's no need to kill ourselves.
I'll take the camera out tomorrow; we found our USB cable. Huzzah!
I've been out in the world now a few times, beyond the office. The newness and heat and everything is starting to feel like adventure, rather than burden. For now, I'm willing to accept that I'll get tired and want a nap around 5pm, so I'll make sure I'm back at the flat in the afternoons. That way I can read, or nap, or just sit and gaze at the city from the balcony, over the pasture for the cows and goats that the Amand Prabhet village (which this bit of Hyderabad grew up around) keeps for them, next to the Anapurna movie studio, next to the surrounding shiny new apartment buildings. The expanse of white buildings that stretches out to the horizon, past the airport, is starting to be familiar. I'm starting to orient myself very locally (the airport is on this side; the park on that one).
I've been to the grocery store twice, tried going to the movies (but they're perpetually sold out), been to the "wine store" to buy some Vodka, ordered food in a food court, am learning the size and shape of the money, and can almost convert Rupees to dollars (I know its 40 to 1, but what about 1,000? or 1500? oh, yeah.) I can concentrate enough to read fiction again, and I think reading's given me some focus--reminded my brain how it works.
The housemate situation is very "Real World"; I keep looking around for a confessional closet. The flat we're in has three bedrooms, all for the use of company employees. Since the other guys got here there's an insistence on doing things together. Tonight might be the end of that. Swedish dude said to me this morning "You're a mean girl, aren't you" It was early so it caught me off guard. Of course I came up with all sorts of snappy comebacks later. At the moment I just gave him an evil look and said, "maybe." I think I'm going to start mentioning Cornell ever so casually. It's a cheap trick, but it works with blowhards.
The rest of the weekend will be gentle sightseeing--out in the morning, back in the afternoon, out again in the evening. We're here for long enough there's no need to kill ourselves.
I'll take the camera out tomorrow; we found our USB cable. Huzzah!
Thursday, June 7, 2007
jet lag and squat toilets
I just want to say that it's lucky jet lag hadn't caught up with me the first time I had to use one. They were in the airport in Delhi, the first sign I was no longer in the West.
I've been averse to admitting just how completely jet lagged I am: I can't concentrate, I'm suddenly cranky-baby-tired, and can't deal with spicy food. I also haven't been ready to admit just how completely out of my element I am. While it's true that the Third Worldness of the streets and traffic might remind me of Mexico, it's also true that I have no idea what's going on and I don't have the slightest clue about how to figure it out. It's somewhat upsetting, but then I can always blame jet lag. I slept last night thanks to my friend Ativan, but being halfway round the world is dislocating in ways that sleep alone doesn't fix immediately.
So: what have I learned? That I am far from the ideal traveler; I don't just roll with uncertainty. I need to know things like where the nearest hospital is, and what doctor should I go to, (even if I have no need)and where's the grocery store, and what do I do without a mobile phone? I need to understand the map when I look at it, and where I am in relationship to other places (assuming I understand where those places are/what that means). I look at the map, and I see where we are, but it doesn't help me. Here's the wierd thing: I've never thought about doctors, hospitals, cell phones, or grocery stores when I've traveled before--this is the first time I've considered all that. It's all tied up with my sense of dislocation and the anxieties that come with it. Of course it is.
The good news is that we're here for long enough that I'll find a groove for myself, fit myself into a context. Meanwhile, I'm frayed, freaked out by staying in a flat with a fulltime guy who sleeps here and clean up after us, and by feeling so completely dependent on others to tell me where things are. I'm going to start taking pictures and posting them, just as soon as I figure out where to buy a new usb cable to connect the camera to the laptop.
I've been averse to admitting just how completely jet lagged I am: I can't concentrate, I'm suddenly cranky-baby-tired, and can't deal with spicy food. I also haven't been ready to admit just how completely out of my element I am. While it's true that the Third Worldness of the streets and traffic might remind me of Mexico, it's also true that I have no idea what's going on and I don't have the slightest clue about how to figure it out. It's somewhat upsetting, but then I can always blame jet lag. I slept last night thanks to my friend Ativan, but being halfway round the world is dislocating in ways that sleep alone doesn't fix immediately.
So: what have I learned? That I am far from the ideal traveler; I don't just roll with uncertainty. I need to know things like where the nearest hospital is, and what doctor should I go to, (even if I have no need)and where's the grocery store, and what do I do without a mobile phone? I need to understand the map when I look at it, and where I am in relationship to other places (assuming I understand where those places are/what that means). I look at the map, and I see where we are, but it doesn't help me. Here's the wierd thing: I've never thought about doctors, hospitals, cell phones, or grocery stores when I've traveled before--this is the first time I've considered all that. It's all tied up with my sense of dislocation and the anxieties that come with it. Of course it is.
The good news is that we're here for long enough that I'll find a groove for myself, fit myself into a context. Meanwhile, I'm frayed, freaked out by staying in a flat with a fulltime guy who sleeps here and clean up after us, and by feeling so completely dependent on others to tell me where things are. I'm going to start taking pictures and posting them, just as soon as I figure out where to buy a new usb cable to connect the camera to the laptop.
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