A few of you have asked me how things
are here, and some of these blog posts have tried to address those questions through independent observations of India's many quirks. But these happenings are so quirky because they deviate from what we expect--from how things would be in the United States. Well, now that Abbie and I have been here about a month, I think we can give you a better picture of the difference and unexpected sameness India offers. I'll warn you now, it'll be gross before it gets better.
First of all, I'll start off by saying there is toilet paper and bug spray here. Both are necessary because the causes for both abound. And I mean really abound. Let's start with toilet paper. At just about every public restroom I've been to, there's been a toilet, in some state of disrepair and dis-
hygeine. But alongside this toilet (no holes-in-the-ground yet) will sit one of three objects: the ever-welcome roll of one-ply tissues, a hose, or a bucket of water. There's been talk in our house about carrying around a spare mini-roll, in case the first of these three were to disappear. And I've heard that happens on trains.
The most common answer to nature's call, though, is nature herself. There are some days, when the wind is just right (read "wrong") that you can't go near the
Adyar River. All those plumbed afterthoughts of toilets past flow smoothly, but quite unpleasantly into this river. It doesn't take long for most of south Chennai to feel the discomfort of thousands of curry-wracked stomachs floating along a summer's breeze. But this is, perhaps, painting too foul a
picutre. Really, the city doesn't smell that much (only certain parts) and the biggest airborne problem isn't odor, it's insects.
Mosquitoes here aren't that big and, really, they're of less hardy stock than those I've seen up in Minnesota, Canada, or even Florida. They'll stay indoors for the 8 steamiest hours of the day, and you won't hear hide nor wing from them till around 5 p.m. When it's their time, though, you know--come nightfall, these microscopic Red Barons descend on you with the vengeance of a jilted vampire.
This
wednesday, Abbie and I ate a nice meal with some of my A-100 colleagues atop a 10-story hotel, just a block from our flat. We thought, "Surely 100 feet above sea level would be too high for a skeeter to fly". Wrong. I don't know what it is, but when Abbie got back, she stretched her leg to find some four dozen bites riddling her calf. She went to the consulate nurse, Olivia, and Dr. John and present them with what looked like two mosquito drill-fields. They gasped. Even from
Chennaikers, this was a lot of bites. Olivia told her to try mouthwash, garlic, and finally the nuclear bomb of mosquito repellents,
Odomos, to ward off future attacks. In the end, though, it took three days, and copious
Cortizone and calamine to calm the unstoppable itching. "Wear pants when you go out," Olivia said with a concerned look.
Moving along.
In Chennai, everything rhymes with ketchup. They don't care if its a
kofta,
kadai paneer, or cheese pizza, ketchup is your constant condiment companion when eating out. At first, I looked at the Pizza Hut delivery man with suspicion when he handed over the pizza, then napkins, then our "complimentary side". Ketchup? I mean, I would understand fries, even potato chips, but with pizza? Finally, as with many other oddities, we accepted India's offering and discovered, hey...
kethup really does go well with pizza, with rolls, with cauliflower.
Another thing I've noticed--you can tell a good deal about a person's social status by the amount of time they stare at you. Most days, when Abbie and I go out for groceries or just for a walk, we're followed, not by feet, but by eyes. Dozens of sets of curious, dark brown peepers. It's not that Indians don't like Westerners, just that they're still not used to seeing them--especially not out in the roads, shopping like them. In cars, on tours, with cameras, fine. But how could we be out and not lost? The average, lower-middle class person we'll see on the street will gaze at us in our sparkly whiteness for about 30 seconds, straight. Most of what I'll see are looks, then some giggles, then a resumption of whatever our observers' conversations once were, and that's all. I haven't quite figured out the "trick" to this yet. Do I respond by just walking and further exploding their concept of what "we" should be doing, or do I stare back, wide-eyed and make the watcher regret his watching. I've tried both, and they seem to work pretty well, but on different types of people. For the young men, ogling the goddess that is Abbie, I'll stare back intently, so that when they look at me they realize, "Oh no, that's her husband. And he's a foot taller than I am." Only one kid has tried to get fresh, and he was met with a water-bottle, positioned inches from his nose. He fell over, a little bit. To most people, we're
curioes--clowns walking nonchalantly down their streets, or, in my case, a space-alien who's magically learned to speak their language.
For the wealthier folks, we'd be lucky to get a glance. These people work with Americans, Germans, Britons, Russians, Koreans, and are used to foreigners. They might look while chatting on their blackberries at the chic bakery across the street, but then will be back ordering pastries in second. I see this on the visa line too--these folks know their place in India as international citizens. They travel, wear tight clothes, and speak perfect English. Sometimes, so perfect that they don't deign to speak Tamil to someone of lower class.
India is a place where language defines you. The words you use paint you into a specific section of the infinite mural, here. When I speak Tamil to most people here, I meet with stunned expressions, then joy, then a torrent of rapid-fire questions about how I learned it, and how hard it was. Most people will say, embarrassed, "நீங்க சுத்தமான தமிழ் பேசுறிங்க! You speak the pure Tamil, sir!" I've learned this is both a compliment and an admission of a grade-school language long forgotten. It's like I'm that kid they couldn't stand in grammar class, but white.
Really, though, most people will say they're honored, then will puzzle over what the "real" Tamil words for certain things are--in Chennai, most Tamil is actually English. Still some will take it in stride, then start correcting me. I like them. Fewer still will start speaking of how Chennai has changed, Tamil
Nadu has changed, and how the pure Tamil is different, higher, than that which is spoken here. Those people are usually well-educated, or from the southern part of the state, where Tamil lies fossilized in the tongues of the
Chola kings and their super-great-grandchildren and cousin-brothers.
In America, you are what you wear, eat, who you associate with, what you worship, where you work. All that applies here, too, more so today, but in India, it's really how you speak and what you speak that nails down where you're from and where you're going.
-Matt
-"I'll take her!"
