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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

me too me too

I'm a dork. Tell me something I don't know.

Mr's got a blog

Go say hi to him if you want at http://whosaprettyboythen.blogger.com

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.

 

online photo albums

Click here: http://picasaweb.google.com/elizaryg

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.

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!

New Contest: What does this mean???? Best answer wins.

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

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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.

Being the Mrs.

Today's our first day at the office. I'm tagging along and have been set up in the boss's office again. I'm getting my own little corner set up for me. Huzzah. The Mr.'s working, while I mess around online. I'm already plotting how to cozify the guest house; it's quite posh at the same time that it sort of looks like a bachelor crash pad. I'm going to buy a couple of potted plants (from the vendor on the walk back to the flat) for the balcony, and maybe our room. Such a cliche', I know. The wife shows up and decorates. Whatever. I'm OK with that. This afternoon I might go shopping for provisions--tea, biscuits--the sort of things that make hanging out looking at the rain come slashing down comfy. Of course, there's a guy here who will show us where to go--I'm sure it will be a little field trip for us.

I love going into grocery stores and buying stuff by guessing at what it is (sweet? savory? fishy? spicy?). LA has plenty of great ones: Jon's Market (mostly Arab) Mitsuwa (Japanese) Bangluck Market (Thai) and then there are all the ones in San Gabriel whose names I can't remember: Chinese and Vientamese grocery stores. In Panorama City there's a huge Philipino market called ABC Seafood. And then there's all the little Latino grocery/produce markets (yes, I know the Mexican stuff, but the Carribbean and Central American stuff is still adventerous). The first time I went to the UK, I had to go to the grocery store. To this day, whenever we go visit the Mr.'s fam, I love wandering around the Tesco or Sainsbury.and buying random small stuff to eat or drink. I lament the fact I didn't get to go to the market during the short times I've been in Spain and France. I can't wait, actually, to go here. I know it's not the same as back home, that grocery stores are in the minority here. I also am fairly certain that whereever we get taken will be the posh option. I'm still going to have fun poking and guessing.

On the ground.

We made it to Hyderabad about 4 hours ago. I’m sitting in the company office—the boss’s office actually; The Mr.’s desk is still being set-up. He’s making the rounds, I’m hiding out. Tired doesn’t begin to cover it. We left for the airport Monday afternoon. It’s now Wednesday afternoon. Even if we account for the 12 ½ hour time difference, it’s still a fucking long time later. Layovers, delays, the usual. I was a Viking and didn’t complain (much).

The Air India flight from LA to Delhi was an adventure in vintage French aircraft. I have to hand it to the pilot(s) and the flightcrew who got us there in one piece. Yay for pills that make you sleepy, if not actually asleep. The domestic flight from Delhi to Hyderabad was the molecular opposite of the long haul. Kingfisher Airlines reminds me of Virgin Atlantic; pretty, red, lots of niceties. They had mist inside the airplane while we sat on the runway—you know, like they have at theme parks and schmanzy restaurant patios in the desert.

Fancy or not, everyone jumps up the minute the plane hits the tarmac. At first I chalked it up to the super long flight and the fact that the Air India folks didn’t seem very strict about anything. Nope, same deal on Kingfisher. We’re still driving around on the runway for about 5 minutes; people are jerking around but they don’t care, and neither does the flightcrew. Good little hall-monitor that I am, at first I disapproved, and then realized I never do it because the fear of a.) falling over and b.) getting reprimanded is too deeply ingrained. Plus on a U.S. flight I’d be the only one.

A company driver picked us up (in a shiny car with major A/C) and took us to the guesthouse where we’ll be staying. It’s actually a flat in a new building (parts are still being built). It’s fairly posh: marble floors and A/C units and major fans in every room. Our room has an ensuite bathroom and cools down pretty quickly. It’s hot. But inside it’s very nice. The company building has a tiled and covered roof where a local restaurant caters lunch every day. A breezy balmy setting.

I haven’t seen much. The drive from the airport into town goes through the middle of the city. Motorcycles, bikes, pedestrians, trucks, cars, autorickshaws—everyone just goes, and honks. Constantly. Apparently, as a driver, you’re not responsible for anything not directly in front of you. So, honking lets you know that there’s another vehicle behind/next to you. Traffic cops stand on little pedestal/gogo dancer platforms and blow their whistles and are generally ignored. Saw a family of three on a motorcycle, but that’s not remarkable or so I’m told. My favorite thing so far are the women in what look to me like fancy saris riding motorcycles.

I might teach English while I’m here. We’ll see. As far as I understand it, I would potentially be designing a basic composition course, focused on this particular business environment. I could build a curriculum to leave behind. It would be about 2-3 hours a week face to face. I figure if I run it like a regular comp course that’s about 12 hours of work a week. Kind of a major commitment when I have so much else to handle while I’m here plus of course just *exploring*. Still, it’s tempting because it would ground me and let me build some relationships with folks here—beyond being the Mrs. At any rate, I may well get a corner to work in: A/C, an office chair, and an internet connection and I’m set.

I just need to get through today; stay awake until a reasonable hour, unpack, and sleep at least 9 hours straight. No telling what I’ll get up to if I can do that.

Last minute

Not only is my being all middle class with my personal effects becoming really obvious and sort of embarrassing to me, but being relatively new to this homeowner/living-in-a-house-in-the-suburbs business adds to my surprise at the level of bizarre stuff I have to handle before I leave: like plant the little trees my family gave me and stake them and make sure they don't die just before we go. And go to the home improvement store of doom to get a timer for the sprinkler so we don't have a brush-fire while we're gone. And then go get the batteries for it.

We leave tomorrow. I haven't even started packing. I'm doomed. The good news is that in 24 hours I'll be somewhere over the Atlantic, wending my way east. At that point, it's all out of my hands. That'll be nice.

Until then, I'm responsible for my own faff.

Expect a longish post when I hit the ground. I'll probably write something on the plane.

New contest: Guess what I'll forget to pack/handle and remember en route. Even I don't know the answer to this one yet.

High Maintenance

I had a feeling, but yesterday's trip to Target confirmed it. I use a *lot* of stuff, and spend way too much on it. I haven't even left yet, and I'm keenly feeling my middle class privilege, and I'm a little embarrassed by it. Not enough to make me divest myself of it, but still, enough so that when my sister asked me how much it was I couldn't bring myself to say the number out loud. Not counting the new suitcase, shorts and yoga pants, the total was still fairly astronomical. And, by the way, I do realize that "yoga pants" reveals plenty, thank you very much; that's what they are--I'd be lying if I called them sweats. There's no elastic gathering at the ankles (*shudder*).

Here's the first contest: how much did I spend? Closest guess gets the first of many prizes.

Things to read on a 26 hour journey

We're leaving in just a few days now. I need to start amassing things to read on the plane. I have an I-pod, a laptop that plays DVDs, pills for sleeping. But still, I have to read something that won't feel like work. Either a big fat novel to lose myself in, or something I can dip in and out of.
I foung a new (to me) poet, Terry Wolverton, but I need some narrative.