Americans strive for efficiency. We invented the cotton gin, the telegraph, the assembly line, and rolled toilet paper. Americans favor precision. We like post cards, Cliff's Notes, headlines scrolling at the bottom of our TV screens, and, gulp, Twitter. We like our goods to be cheap and our information to come quickly.
India does not seem to share our love affair with streamline. In a country whose population figures run ten digits, tasks are completed differently than in places with fewer people to employ. There is someone to do the shopping, someone to do the cooking, someone to do the sweeping inside, and someone to do the sweeping outside. There is one person to wash the laundry while his neighbor will iron it. My short time on the sub-continent has elicited from me three distinct responses to this colossal change: confusion, irritation, and amusement.
Confusion: How many does it take to load luggage into a car?
I confess that Matt and I have much to learn when it comes to packing. While we have both traveled extensively, packing for a trip can hardly prepare one for packing to move. Yes, four suitcases should do it. That is more than enough room, too much, maybe. Incorrect. Baggage handlers marked three of our four checked suitcases as "heavy"; "heavy" doesn't quite do the weight justice.
The staff of The Claridges Hotel in Delhi made a team sport out of loading the car with our bags. Four of them stood around surveying the scene. There was the man who opens the car door, the man who opens the hotel door, the guard, and the driver. They discuss which bag should go in first. Where should it go? Ok, we'll put two in the trunk. Now we'll put one in the front seat. Wait, turn it on its side. No, not like that, like this. Hmph. Well, let's try this. They all have ideas about how it should go. When all was finally crammed into the small car, I was dumbfounded at how it took so many people to accomplish that one end. Couldn't have one person done all of that in less time? Perhaps, but that is not how things are done in India.
Irritation: How many counters does one have to visit to check in to a flight?
Matt and I were eager to catch our flight from Delhi to -at long last- settle in to our first home together. We each took a luggage cart, piling them with our bags. A younger man with Down's Syndrome hijacked Matt's looking for a tip. He lead us to what looked to be the correct place. In the U.S., and Western Europe for that matter, one checks in inside the main terminal. Not in Delhi. The guards stopped us, requesting to see our tickets. We confusedly explained that we booked e-tickets and still needed to pick them up. He pointed to a separate building.
So we lethargically pushed our bags to the appointed hall to collect our "tickets". After standing in line and presenting our passports, the ticketing agent handed us print-outs of our itinerary. This is what we had to get? Are these our boarding passes?
No. There was another counter inside the terminal where we would leave our bags and get our boarding passes. Seriously? My irritation was minor but I certainly felt it. Why would we have to get two different pieces of paper that said the same thing? Ugh. What a waste of time! This seems ridiculous to me. C'mon India, let's cut time and cost by doing all of that at the same counter! But...that's not the way things are done. At that moment I could not see any reason behind it.
Amusement: How many people does it take to open the front door?
After waking up at 6am, the useful side of jet lag, I decided to join Matt for his first morning at the consulate. I was so excited to meet all of our new colleagues that I paid no attention while locking the front door to our apartment. Mistake.
I spent the next six hours introducing myself to new people and saying hello to those we knew from DC. I toured the consulate and got a better feel for the American community. A group of us braved the streets to go out to lunch where we had decent approximations of Mexican and Chinese cuisine. At this point I was quite content to head back home to start unpacking. Matt's sponsor called for his driver to take me home; it is strange to be chauffeured everywhere, but it is also necessary.
When the driver dropped me off in front of our apartment I smiled, said hello to the guard, and headed upstairs. Unaware of my imminent difficulty, I shoved the key into the top lock of our door.
One turn to the left. Click. I then focused my attention on the bottom lock. One turn to the right. Click. The door is still closed. Another turn to the right. Click. Still closed. Pushing on the door was not going to work so I tried my hand at another turn of the key. Nothing! So it went for about fifteen minutes.
When the heat and tired frustration finally sunk in, I ventured outside and down the driveway to enlist the help of our guard, Brashant. He sat draped over his plastic chair with two friends chatting at his feet. With the most pitiful face I could muster I held up my key and explained that I was having trouble opening my front door. Brashant hopped to his feet and followed me up to our apartment. Another fifteen minutes passed and we were no closer to getting me inside. Accepting his own failure, Brashant asked me to wait a few minutes. He soon reappeared with his two friends from the street: one with his flared jeans and Jheri curl and the other with his Caterpillar-like mustache and pot belly.
The three of them formed a semi-circle around the door, grasping for a turn at the locks. Together, then individually, then together again they tried any number of combinations to open my door. Not one of them was correct. I could do nothing but smile and laugh with them, men smaller than I. They were so kind and quite determined to help "madam" inside. In the end they called the building manager who took some time but eventually performed magic on that puzzle of a door.
How many does it take to open the front door? Sometimes just one, but sometimes more than that. India is already teaching such lessons. Living in a big city in the U.S., people don't concern themselves with the problems of others. Not here. Life is still lived on the community level. There are many people and they make them selves indispensable to one another. And for them, it works.
How many does it really take? I used to think I knew, but now I am not so sure.
-Abbie
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Burning Garbage
“That’s them burning garbage next door,” so a fellow FSO winked at me. The acrid smell had seeped into our oddly appointed consulate and was now permeating the conference room’s chilled air. It was OK, really. That was my fourth day in India and, by then, I’d been used to the omnipresence of garbage.
So many writers, bloggers, and friends had warned us of this: India knocks you on your back, kindly helps you get back up, and then offers you a chair. If trash was the only thing I saw this tour—and it is everywhere—I would be in for quite a trip. And fall. But not even a week in, I’ve learned to look past that. What makes India unique, or any foreign place for that matter, is not what shocks and appalls our delicate sensibilities, but rather what challenges them.
As I was driven home yesterday—another thing that’ll take some getting used to—I began to think if India liked me. Like, like liked me. I asked Abbie what she thought and we tried to hash out what India thought. It kind of felt like we were seventh-graders, glancing at the beautiful but intimidating student across the hall and wondering if a dropped pen, turned head, or batted eye-lid spelled out our future together. Last night, though, I said to her, “You know, I think it’ll be OK. I think India’s alright with us being here.” The gecko running across our apartment floor and monkey/bird calling outside seemed to echo some sort of sentiment.
That’s the thing. When travelling abroad, one has to crack the code of foreign-ness. What does this country mean when it does this? When people nod their heads every way but Sunday and all the water not in bottles can make you sick? When you walk down the road and almost think your name is Otto by the frequent calls of auto rickshaws tailing you with hopeful eyes? It’s the semiotics of this new society Abbie and I are attempting to pry open, at least just a little bit.
But then again, we’re the new ones—two twenty-three year-olds standing on millennia-old dirt and listening to a language first spoken some 7,000 years ago. We’re the ones India is trying to make up its mind about. India has centuries of experience with foreign bodies entering its circulation. It will take more than a few days for it to decide to accept and enfold us, or to expel us and send us the way of so many conquering/ed armies.
For now, we’re overjoyed to breathe India’s trash and to walk, or try to walk, down its streets in search of an elusive grocery store. In these streets lit with the lights of the new century is a maze older than our ancestors. We’re honored to step where billions have stepped and hope to be remade like so many others.
In the end, no one can resist for too long.
So many writers, bloggers, and friends had warned us of this: India knocks you on your back, kindly helps you get back up, and then offers you a chair. If trash was the only thing I saw this tour—and it is everywhere—I would be in for quite a trip. And fall. But not even a week in, I’ve learned to look past that. What makes India unique, or any foreign place for that matter, is not what shocks and appalls our delicate sensibilities, but rather what challenges them.
As I was driven home yesterday—another thing that’ll take some getting used to—I began to think if India liked me. Like, like liked me. I asked Abbie what she thought and we tried to hash out what India thought. It kind of felt like we were seventh-graders, glancing at the beautiful but intimidating student across the hall and wondering if a dropped pen, turned head, or batted eye-lid spelled out our future together. Last night, though, I said to her, “You know, I think it’ll be OK. I think India’s alright with us being here.” The gecko running across our apartment floor and monkey/bird calling outside seemed to echo some sort of sentiment.
That’s the thing. When travelling abroad, one has to crack the code of foreign-ness. What does this country mean when it does this? When people nod their heads every way but Sunday and all the water not in bottles can make you sick? When you walk down the road and almost think your name is Otto by the frequent calls of auto rickshaws tailing you with hopeful eyes? It’s the semiotics of this new society Abbie and I are attempting to pry open, at least just a little bit.
But then again, we’re the new ones—two twenty-three year-olds standing on millennia-old dirt and listening to a language first spoken some 7,000 years ago. We’re the ones India is trying to make up its mind about. India has centuries of experience with foreign bodies entering its circulation. It will take more than a few days for it to decide to accept and enfold us, or to expel us and send us the way of so many conquering/ed armies.
For now, we’re overjoyed to breathe India’s trash and to walk, or try to walk, down its streets in search of an elusive grocery store. In these streets lit with the lights of the new century is a maze older than our ancestors. We’re honored to step where billions have stepped and hope to be remade like so many others.
In the end, no one can resist for too long.
-Matt
The ever-important first impression
Matt: “I found another balcony!”
Abbie: “I found another bathroom!”
Such was the exuberant/exhausted conversation of our first night in our new apartment.
Five days, four flights, two elegant hotels, and a mountain of tip money after leaving Washington, Matt and I have finally arrived in Chennai. Writing to you from the Community Liaison Office of the U.S. Consulate General, I am surrounded by the sounds of my new city: Tamil language, heavily accented English, and the ever-encouraged honking of anything on two, three, or four wheels.
I would like to apologize up front for any misspellings or unusual phrases in this post, as the jet lag I thought conquered is beginning to show itself once more. It might be time for more of the candy-like beverage India claims to be coffee.
Where to begin? I think I will relate some first impressions and leave a more detailed account for later entries.
Ok, here goes:
1. It is true that people here are incredibly kind and hospitable.
2. I am somewhat of a curiosity with my western styles.
a. Staring is acceptable in India, therefore people stare at me quite a bit. But in a good way…
3. People don’t seem to take driving/honking personally, so road rage is not what it would be if the traffic were the same in the U.S.
4. Drinking bottled water all the time will take getting used to.
5. “Fresh lime juice” does not necessarily indicate that the vendor recently juiced a lime, but could instead mean that he just mixed lime-flavored Gatorade with sprite. Still refreshing, though.
6. The heat is like an entity in and of itself. I think I shall consider it a lap dog, one who follows you everywhere, but cannot be blamed for its persistence.
7. Without knowing what they actually stand for, EWC means that there is no toilet paper while IWC means there is some available. That is a lesson I only need learn the one time.
8. Mosquitos are so wily that they take no heed of neither mosquito nets, nor plug-ins that are meant to drive them away.
a. I am getting used to the lucid dreams caused by my malaria medicine.
With excitement from India,
Abbie
Abbie: “I found another bathroom!”
Such was the exuberant/exhausted conversation of our first night in our new apartment.
Five days, four flights, two elegant hotels, and a mountain of tip money after leaving Washington, Matt and I have finally arrived in Chennai. Writing to you from the Community Liaison Office of the U.S. Consulate General, I am surrounded by the sounds of my new city: Tamil language, heavily accented English, and the ever-encouraged honking of anything on two, three, or four wheels.
I would like to apologize up front for any misspellings or unusual phrases in this post, as the jet lag I thought conquered is beginning to show itself once more. It might be time for more of the candy-like beverage India claims to be coffee.
Where to begin? I think I will relate some first impressions and leave a more detailed account for later entries.
Ok, here goes:
1. It is true that people here are incredibly kind and hospitable.
2. I am somewhat of a curiosity with my western styles.
a. Staring is acceptable in India, therefore people stare at me quite a bit. But in a good way…
3. People don’t seem to take driving/honking personally, so road rage is not what it would be if the traffic were the same in the U.S.
4. Drinking bottled water all the time will take getting used to.
5. “Fresh lime juice” does not necessarily indicate that the vendor recently juiced a lime, but could instead mean that he just mixed lime-flavored Gatorade with sprite. Still refreshing, though.
6. The heat is like an entity in and of itself. I think I shall consider it a lap dog, one who follows you everywhere, but cannot be blamed for its persistence.
7. Without knowing what they actually stand for, EWC means that there is no toilet paper while IWC means there is some available. That is a lesson I only need learn the one time.
8. Mosquitos are so wily that they take no heed of neither mosquito nets, nor plug-ins that are meant to drive them away.
a. I am getting used to the lucid dreams caused by my malaria medicine.
With excitement from India,
Abbie
Friday, August 7, 2009
Welcome to India!
Delhi
~I cannot give a very full impression of Delhi as we arrived at 11pm, went directly to our hotel, and left about twenty hours later. My observations of the city came from our rides to and from the airport and the embassy, as well as the sur-reality of our posh hotel that was located in Delhi’s answer to Embassy Row. ~
As soon as our delightful Jet Airways flight landed, the crew passed through the cabin with disinfectant to kill any remaining swine flu we might be carrying on board. Next, we proceeded to the health screening where we handed-over a document stating that although we had recently been in an H1N1 infected country, we were not exhibiting any symptoms. Apparently, India does not mess around with epidemics. At the health screening we also passed by a thermal camera that checked for persons with higher than average temperatures. Cool, however imperfect the system as we had just come in from weather in the upper 90s. After sufficiently convincing the official that we were not harboring the new plague, Matt and I strode over to the immigration line marked “Diplomatic/Official Passports”. This line happened to be the slowest, thanks to a family of six standing in front of us. Luckily, the officer in the next line over waved for us to join his line. Without much trouble, he granted us entry into India!
We waited for our bags for what seemed to be quite a long time, sure all the while that they had been lost. Jet Airways proved us wrong, which was a very welcome surprise in our bleary state. Now came the real test. Would there be anyone to take us to the hotel? We hoped so but were not confident. As we passed what seemed to be hundreds of young Indian men holding signs, we found the one bearing our name! Phew. Another challenge: fitting four people, five suitcases, two computer bags, and a trombone in a mid size sedan. Amazingly we made it work and were crowded but not uncomfortable.
Our driver fought his way through the airport traffic to the highway where we finally saw a bit of our new country of residence. At breakneck speed we flew past brightly colored trucks painted with the curious request "honk please", tiny green and gold auto-rickshaws, SUVs overloaded with passengers, and entire families precariously seated atop scooters that were designed for the driver alone. Even in the darkness of that first night, the famed colorful nature of India revealed itself. We passed hotels with neon lights as bright as their counterparts in Las Vegas and Times Square. We passed people sleeping on the sidewalks in the warm air. We passed apartment buildings and other dwellings that would be better called settlements. The drive provided such a wealth of things to see.
As we pulled up to The Claridges, guards checked under the car with a mirror and, seeing that we would not pose a threat, welcomed us with a nod and a namaste. At the door, a man dressed in white and red and donning a turban, helped us out of the car and started the unenviable task of dislodging our luggage. In the lobby we were invited to sit at a beautiful wooden desk to check in with a sari-clad woman with a huge smile.
Would we be staying long in India? Yes, about two years.
~I cannot give a very full impression of Delhi as we arrived at 11pm, went directly to our hotel, and left about twenty hours later. My observations of the city came from our rides to and from the airport and the embassy, as well as the sur-reality of our posh hotel that was located in Delhi’s answer to Embassy Row. ~
As soon as our delightful Jet Airways flight landed, the crew passed through the cabin with disinfectant to kill any remaining swine flu we might be carrying on board. Next, we proceeded to the health screening where we handed-over a document stating that although we had recently been in an H1N1 infected country, we were not exhibiting any symptoms. Apparently, India does not mess around with epidemics. At the health screening we also passed by a thermal camera that checked for persons with higher than average temperatures. Cool, however imperfect the system as we had just come in from weather in the upper 90s. After sufficiently convincing the official that we were not harboring the new plague, Matt and I strode over to the immigration line marked “Diplomatic/Official Passports”. This line happened to be the slowest, thanks to a family of six standing in front of us. Luckily, the officer in the next line over waved for us to join his line. Without much trouble, he granted us entry into India!
We waited for our bags for what seemed to be quite a long time, sure all the while that they had been lost. Jet Airways proved us wrong, which was a very welcome surprise in our bleary state. Now came the real test. Would there be anyone to take us to the hotel? We hoped so but were not confident. As we passed what seemed to be hundreds of young Indian men holding signs, we found the one bearing our name! Phew. Another challenge: fitting four people, five suitcases, two computer bags, and a trombone in a mid size sedan. Amazingly we made it work and were crowded but not uncomfortable.
Our driver fought his way through the airport traffic to the highway where we finally saw a bit of our new country of residence. At breakneck speed we flew past brightly colored trucks painted with the curious request "honk please", tiny green and gold auto-rickshaws, SUVs overloaded with passengers, and entire families precariously seated atop scooters that were designed for the driver alone. Even in the darkness of that first night, the famed colorful nature of India revealed itself. We passed hotels with neon lights as bright as their counterparts in Las Vegas and Times Square. We passed people sleeping on the sidewalks in the warm air. We passed apartment buildings and other dwellings that would be better called settlements. The drive provided such a wealth of things to see.
As we pulled up to The Claridges, guards checked under the car with a mirror and, seeing that we would not pose a threat, welcomed us with a nod and a namaste. At the door, a man dressed in white and red and donning a turban, helped us out of the car and started the unenviable task of dislodging our luggage. In the lobby we were invited to sit at a beautiful wooden desk to check in with a sari-clad woman with a huge smile.
Would we be staying long in India? Yes, about two years.
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