But Prithvi is a masculine name!

For the past few years Matt and I have been dog deprived. Having only recently graduated from college, we haven't had the opportunity to keep pets since we moved out of our parents' houses. We longed for those elated welcomes home, wagging tails, and even that guilty look they give when they know they have done something wrong. For all of these reasons we planned to adopt a puppy when we moved to India.

Matt started asking me when we could get a puppy almost as soon as we touched down in Chennai. Ok, so maybe not that quickly, but just about. After several months of many changes I kept saying that I wanted some time to settle in. That didn't last very long. Two weeks after our arrival I set about finding the perfect dog. Back in DC we had mulled over several breeds that might be able to handle the heat. What about some sort of shepard? What about a Scottie? A Westie? Can we even find those dogs there? I quickly realized that we could not. I found that the breeds available in Tamil Nadu were German Shepard, Golden Retriever, Great Dane, Doberman Pincher, Labrador and "mongrel". All but the last of those dogs were larger than we were looking for. Also, I could not imagine how some of those hairier breeds could survive the weather!

I asked around and found out about an animal rescue here in Chennai. One of my friends volunteers with Blue Cross of India, which is similar to the ASPCA (http://www.bluecross.org.in/). He told me that Blue Cross had many cute puppies just aching to be adopted. As my eyes lit up he texted the director of the center to schedule a visit for me. That very afternoon Prakash and I headed to the southern part of the city to visit the animals.

A very small and somewhat frail man welcomed us, very excited that I was interested in his life's work. He gently waved away a cloud of flies as he told me that the rescue was founded in 1959 and subsisted on donations. We continued to walk around the sprawling compound while he told me depressing story after depressing story. The city used to deal with the stray dog population in a very gruesome manner. This only changed in the past ten years, he told me with a grave expression. We passed a shaded section of the grounds where pure bred dogs limped about in terrible shape. As insects landed in their wounds, our guide told Prakash and me that when the pure breeds get sick, many people don't want to bother with their care. When this happens they abandon them; tying them to the fence of Blue Cross. They do this because they are too embarrassed to bring them inside. They can't face the shame of leaving their dog.

Next we visited the menagerie. We saw cows, goats, pigs, turkeys, rabbits, guinea pigs, kittens, even crows. Blue Cross does not discriminate when it comes to animals in need. If an animal is in distress, they do their best to help.

At this point I was anxious to see the puppies. I needed a lift after seeing all of those miserable creatures. Then our guide told me something that broke my heart. In a quiet voice he said that most of the puppies come in from the slums in shopping bags. People drop off dozens of puppies...in bags. Ugh.

With a lump in my throat, I was more ready than ever to play with some baby animals. Stepping over a trench filled with workers building a new shelter, I could hear their little yips of joy. People! People! Food? People!

They were in a pen housed in a building that was open on two sides. Forty to fifty pairs of the little ears perked up and forty to fifty tails began to wag. Some wagged slowly, others furiously. How was I to pick just one? Luckily, as often happens, she picked me. Our guide kept handing me different pups. Some dark, some brindle, all male. Then I noticed a little caramel-colored thing circling my ankles. Her cold nose sniffed my feet and cried to get my attention. I picked her up and knew she was the one. This was our puppy. Prakash smiled and nodded approval.

-"I'll take her!"
-"What about this one, too?"


Oh how I wanted to take two. I wanted to save all of them but restrained myself.


After some paperwork and a flea dip she was ours! Our little slum dog.

I thought I was being clever by giving our adorable little puppy an Indian name. Matt and I talked about naming her after a Hindu goddess, so I set about finding the perfect name. One of our favorites was Rama's wife, Sita. I kept looking. I pulled up trusty Wikipedia to find a list of goddesses where I found the perfect name. The article describes Prithvi as the personification of the Earth and the Mother as well as the lesser-known wife of Vishnu. Great! When I excitedly tell Indians our puppy's name they often look confused and reply "but Prithvi is a masculine name". Oops!

-Abbie

A Breakthrough

About an hour ago our driver Prakash said to me "It's really hot today. More than 100 degrees!" My mouth fell open at this news. I was shocked, not because the number sounded so outrageous, but because I hadn't noticed. He thought it was hot and it hadn't even occurred to me! Today I am wearing linen pants and a long-sleeved shirt and I hadn't noticed that it was hot outside! I almost didn't believe Prakash so when I got home I checked the weather. Sure enough, the heat index for this afternoon is 109 degrees.

Before we came the heat was my biggest concern. I am an adventurous sort who doesn't let too much bother her, but I remember summer days in Texas and thought I wouldn't be able to handle that kind of heat year-round. I don't know how best to explain the sensation, only to say that it is different from anything I have ever experienced. Chennai is not like Ohio, where on hot days you can feel the sun searing into your skin. It's also not like swampy DC where the air feels heavy. It is more like being inside an oven or a sauna. The heat envelopes you in an almost unobtrusive way. The high temperatures sneak up on you only after spending extended periods of time outside. In this way it is manageable.

I am pleased to say that I seem to have acclimated to the weather here. Now, it will be fifteen to twenty degrees warmer in April and May, so we'll see what I have to say then. In the mean time, armed with air-conditioning, I think I'll be just fine!

-Abbie

Hunting and Gathering: Mostly Gathering

It must be fun to work in advertising in India. According to commercials, radio spots, and print ads, Indian products are not only amazing, but they never disappoint.

Nestle milk: "Purity is a guarantee for health!"
Amul Pasteurized Butter: "Utterly Butterly Delicious!"
Tropicana Juice: "A 250ml glass of Tropicana Pineapple gives you enough energy to walk a mile."

Grocery stores bombard shoppers with such glowing reviews. Most of the time I can judge which of these claims holds some truth and which is unabashed marketing. I am not always so lucky. Sure, Amul makes some pretty fantastic butter, but his "Cheeza" pizza cheese does not quite measure up. How was I to resist a name as enchanting as "Cheeza"?

As if the advertising didn't make my food shopping difficult enough, maneuvering around the stores is as challenging as running the gauntlet! No matter the day of the week or the time of day, my favorite grocery is always in the midst of restocking. Saree clad women on their step ladders clog the aisles of Spencer's Daily, adding more bags of rice and tea biscuits to the already bulging shelves. Shopping carts are out of the question.

Even after several visits I am still a bit overwhelmed by the grain aisle. There are ten different types of rice and fifteen different types of other starches that look exactly the same to my inexpert eyes. Channa or Dahl? They look pretty similar to me. It's a good thing that I only cook for Americans at this point. I am sure that Chennaikers have much more discerning palates than we do when it comes to such things.

The next aisle over is much more fun for me: cookies! Ok, so most of them are technically digestive biscuits, but hey, they're necessary when you are subsisting on a South Indian diet! That is not to mention that they are quite yummy. I can spend ten minutes staring at all of the various biscuits. Our favorite brand is called "Marie" or what we call "Maries". I like the orange flavor while Matt enjoys the coffee flavor with his morning cuppa.

The produce section is another favorite part of Spencer's. Even though the lettuce and cauliflower rarely look edible, the tomatoes, cucumbers, string beans, potatoes, eggplant, and baby corn are always perfect specimens. This corner of the store taught me new names for some vegetables. Bell peppers become capsicum and small pumpkins are given the intriguing appellation of "pumpkin disco". The best part of the produce section is, hands down, the prices. I can overload my basket with veggies and pay a maximum of rupees 150 or about $3. $3 to feed us for a week. Gotta love that exchange rate!

I usually make it out of the store feeling pleased with my purchases but still at a loss as to what I am going to cook. I can't wait until my cookbooks arrive...

One last gem I would like to leave you with.
Aashirvaad Iodized Salt: "There is nothing more important to our daily life than salt. It is the essence of all life, enabling health and fitness."

-Abbie

An Anglophile's Lament

I am a self-proclaimed Anglophile. I prefer tea over coffee, love to watch the BBC, and like to think that I can distinguish between most Britannic accents. I am also fascinated by stories like Robin Hood and King Arthur; stories of justice and gallantry. Yes, these are part of the British tradition, but I am learning first-hand of another legacy.

As it turns out, colonialism makes me quite uncomfortable. One might think this natural, growing up in a former colony myself. Who knows? Perhaps my independent American streak is showing itself, but I don't think that is all of it. My love for History ensured that I had studied the period of European colonization. I am fascinated by Henry the Navigator's ambition and that Pope Alexander VI actually divided the world in half for the Spanish and the Portuguese in the Treaty of Tordesillas. When I think back on the accounts of men like Columbus, Drake, Cartier, and Magellan (legends might be more accurate at this point), I have dueling reactions. The first thought is, what bravery, to sail out into the unknown, with a great chance of never returning. This is quickly followed by, what nerve they had, imagining that they could just plant a flag and start the slow process of subjugating entire continents of people!

This is the reaction I have been overwhelmed by off and on since we arrived in India. Most of the time I can find only the faintest traces of imperialism. Here I am always "madam" and Matt is sometimes, but much less frequently "master". Ok, I can get used to this overly polite custom. I was horrified, however, by my first visit to St. George's Cathedral, where the ghosts of the Raj still occupy the pews.

I entered the cathedral with an eye on the architecture, just as I have in countless churches in Europe. I supposed it was fitting that a church built by a military presence would be dedicated to St. George, a man who was himself a Roman soldier. I noted the elaborately decorated Doric capitals that crowned the eggshell colored columns. There was very little pictorial stained glass, indicating a highly literate congregation. Literacy is high in Chennai, but I still found it odd that the windows were so devoid of Bible stories. I read with interest the dedications to former members of the congregation etched into white marble. I read dozens of them before it struck me. They were all English names. Not one of them was dated after the 1947 Indian independence.

At this realization I spun around and took in the rest of the sanctuary: wicker pews, a crimson runner going up the aisle, countless fans whirring to cool the cavernous space. Open French doors lined the building, each with a twenty-foot long white shear swaying in the breeze. Beyond the delicate fabric, the sounds of India were barely discernible. Every so often I could hear a car horn or a chirp from that curious creature that has the body of a chipmunk and the tail of a squirrel. Then I noticed the Indian care-takers. A woman with jasmine in her hair and a work shirt obscuring her beautiful Saree swept in front of the altar. A mustachioed man wearing a graphic-tee polished a crucifix. They provided a startling contrast to the church. Without the thick heat, without the sounds seeping in from outside, and without these devoted Indian people, I could have convinced myself I was in a cathedral in the south of France. My stomach turned.

This was their country. How could they relate to this cold, European version of Christianity? It just didn't make sense to me, with it's lack of color and apparent lack of spirit. It all seemed very un-Indian to me. I expected a slight tweaking of iconography, like the image Matt and I saw in San Thome Cathedral (a glorious picture of Jesus with peacocks at his feet). Any such personalization of the religion was absent.

Then I had an even more disturbing thought. This wasn't built for the people here, but for their over-lords. I ventured farther to examine statues of former bishops of the Cathedral. My least favorite was the depiction of the Rt. Reverend Daniel Corrie, First Bishop of Madras. His was a life-sized sculpture dressed in ecclesiastical robes, with his hand on the head of a little boy. The boy, who was meant to be Indian, looked like one of Thoreau's noble savages with his animal-skin loin cloth and long pony-tail. While I am sure this was created to show the magnanimous nature of the bishop, it revealed the warped and condescending image the sculptor held for the native inhabitants of the colony. No wonder there were only English names on the walls.

I do not want to give the impression that I feel the British acted alone in this. Throughout time powerful nations have sought to control weaker ones. However regrettable, this is a fact of human history. My visit to the church prompted these thoughts, but they have been tempered by other experiences. In most other aspects of life, and of Chennai certainly, the most obvious relic of British rule is the language. As a native English speaker, I am often grateful for that. It is too late and futile to wish away what happened under the Raj. I will, however, remember how I felt in the overly European church . . . especially when I am frustrated with bathroom facilities!

-Abbie

Compare and Contrast

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