Run for the Hills

On Friday afternoon, I thought either I was getting a little tired at my desk or someone spiked the afternoon tea... turns out it was my first big earthquake. A little creepy in light of the fact you can see the Bay of Bengal two blocks away from my window, the epicenter's location, and it's relation to that of the relatively recent tsunami. In similar "Day After Tomorrow" fashion, an hour later giant dark clouds covered the entire city from the west, covering Chennai in a thick sheet of darkness, providing an impressive thunderstorm and a torrential downpour that changed roadways into rivers (no storm drains... awesome city planning) and back alleys into ponds, making my trip home in my work attire interesting.

But the real reason I'm posting is that I finally scanned that incredibly helpful "police report." Note the multitude of spelling, puncuation, grammar, and factual inaccuracies. Kids Zone: for fun, you can turn the error identification into a "Where's Waldo" game! Only in the books, Waldo usually only appears once on a page... mark your total of a possible score of 21.

Misadventures in Malarialand, Pt. II

(from mid-June)

Flies are everywhere. Multicolored artificial and organic waste piles are lumped haphazardly in nooks and fields and street corners, strewn about to decompose and rot in the hot afternoon sun. They blend into an amalgam of stench on every empty lot, sidewalk gutter, and minor roadside. The mornings are bearable, temperature- and odor-wise, as the humid air hands at a “cool” 85 degrees. But the journeys home after my worksite visits to the company factory in Thiruvottiyur, along the coastal Suryanarayana road, are horrendous. The city has baked in 98 degree heat all day, and the rubbish heaps act similar to dad’s composting towers by the garage at home. The dwellings along the roadside, in the thin strip of land between the road and the ocean, are make-shift and consist of sod of palm tree leaves. These were the 5,000 that died in India during the 2004 tsunami- the poorest live on the coastlines, the fishmongers and dockworkers, in stark contrast to America, where the richest have the shoreline mansions.
The putrid smell of a country, confused between its’ status as a developed/developing nation, smacks the face after an air-conditioned day at the office chair and in meeting rooms with union leaders and HR managers. The exhaust fumes of giant company-commissioned buses, badly outdated, sagging and overburdened (one of the most prime and popular spots is outside the bus, where at least you get some air circulation) city buses, daredevil mercenary auto-rickshaws, construction and agricultural pick-up trucks, and personal cars all hang in the air, fusing with the stench of the refuse of the second most populous country in the world’s fourth most populous city. Rickshaws and buses lack A/C, so all windows are slung open to let the sweltering combustion byproduct-laden air slug you in the face. Just as I followed the example of stiletto-burdened office women in NYC, shedding their heels on the subway in favor of their concealed flip-flops, I have adopted a similarly popular health-conscious rush-hour practice seen employed here by many- a moistened kerchief, tied around the mouth. Does it work? Is their fuel even unleaded yet? Do I have super-carcinogenic radioactive X-Men lungs by now? (and if I do, what are my awesome superpowers? When does Marvel release MY movie?) I don’t know, but it seems to work, and that’s all that matters, right?
What is all this, you ask? The same guy that unpacks months after returning from travels, cleans his room monthly at best, considered showering optional in wintertime, and has beard-growing competitions with his college friends, is now concerned with cleanliness and hygiene? When the ride from your work in your business clothes leaves you smelling like you just pole vaulted into the city dumpster, that’s when.
When observing the filth these city-dwellers put up with (trash cans, perhaps? city-run trash collection run more than once a day? a system of fines, enforced by police?!? ANYTHING?) I have to constantly remind myself of my introductory anthropology class at UCSC- different cultures simply place different values on different things and should be viewed as "equal" unless violative of "universal human rights." The crime rate here is quite low (less than 15% of that of NYC’s, from what I just researched) and the students I have seen and spoken with in various random situations seem to not only be extraordinarily passionate about learning but a hell of a lot smarter than I. I suppose filthy cities can be considered a by-product of this sort of excellence.

I also continue to be astonished at people keeping up appearances. All socio-economic classes of citizens seem to be dressed to the nines, despite the heat and the poverty of those on the lower rungs of the ladder. I have glimpsed less than ten people wearing “western clothes” (jeans, shorts, t shirts, tank tops, muscle tees, etc) during my three weeks here in Chennai. The men, always with collared shirts (tucked in of course!), dress pants, and dress shoes. Women in spotless, explosively colored sarees, matching accoutrements, nose, arm, finger, belly, and foot jewelry, and garlands of jasmine flowers, tied together in a string, streaming from their ponytails. My mind wanders to those black and white photographs of early 20th century American working class citizens, when every man seemed to have a vest, coat, slacks, and newsboy (or bowler) hat, hair slicked back with pomade, pipe in mouth, rockin’ the walrus mustache. I guess the idea then, as now, is buy one or two great outfits… and keep wearing them, daily (the smell, of course, is another story)!

I have gained a little perspective, I believe, of what it feels like to be a distinct minority or outsider, for perhaps the first time in my life. Maybe just scratching the surface… but more so than any time in America . Not even my various travels to foreign countries, especially to Tunisia, compare. Tunisia, another bargaining-oriented (end-product) economy, where I was taken advantage of right and left… was just due to the fact I was a tourist. I mean racial minority. My height and color (due to either genetics or malnutrition, which I can definitely see occurring here, the Tamils are very short, as are their neighboring Keralans, and their skin is darker than most African-Americans I know. My pasty whiteness and sequoia-ic stature does not aid in blending in) are the reasons for the reactions I observe… any place I venture outside of my home or office, I find I am stared at, unblinkingly, with wide eyes; photographed by loitering teens; or giggled at/danced around/climbed upon by preschool children. The latter being the only one I’m cool with. The former two really start to grate on me after a while. To quote dear foolhardy "SPF 6" Mike, after his self-inflicted billionth-degree sunburns in Hawaii and the ensuing stares from passersby, “I'm starting to feel like a freak!"
I saw a white woman at the beach today, a large white man (bedecked in shorts, sneakers, Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses, the whole ensemble), and my housemate, the other American, a few times… other than those and a few others in a city of 8 million, it’s almost accurate to say I am the only white guy in Chennai. It is similarly interesting to note that, while I read and hear of India ’s immense racial diversity, such diversity certainly does not exist so in my city, or at least the routes and locations I have been frequenting. I have not seen a single person with any eastern/southeastern Asian features, not a single sub-saharan African (black), and hardly any northern African/southwestern Asian (arabic) – like faces. It is certainly almost exclusively a Dravidian city.

But on a positive note! The friendliness of people here takes one aback, and, coming from a few years in NYC, it is easy to view other’s actions through the skeptical lens before relaxing and framing other’s actions in a different light. It seems at first as if everyone is trying to scam you. However, I have experienced ulterior-motiveless conversations time and time again, on the bus, on the beach, at grocery stores, at work. Conversations that would normally end with “can I have your number,” “buy this for $____,” or “let me show you this tourist site” actually just end as strangely abruptly as they began, usually consisting of their inquiries as to my origination, my reasons for being here, and how I like Indian food (ironically, actually, it usually does involve me being asked for my number, seemingly in contrast to my previous example- but here, its like asking someone’s name. It’s a matter of course, and not at all as scheisty as a first-time-meeting’s “can I get your digits” in the USA ). For example, a group of five teenage boys were being rowdy and seemed to be heckling me on the bus, laughing uproariously, poking my shoulder, exclaiming one-word English keywords they seemed to have picked up from commercials. In NYC, that was my key to A: change subway cars, or B: punch their lights out. However, it turned out they were simply excited to meet an American, were going swimming at the pool, and wanted me to accompany them, after I smoked a cigarette with them (because cigarettes and Americans smoking them are the epitome of awesomeness). I think they may have doubted my nationality claims when I declined the latter, but the point was they just wanted to hang out after school. I have constantly reminded myself of this when in other situations- peoples’ approach to meeting you, and wanting to meet you in general (there have been many other randoms on buses and beaches) is quite different. I am constantly asked about my salary in America, where my wife/fiancee is (by 24, most every is married by arranged marriage- 25 at the latest), how old I am, etc. as introductory questions, questions usually reserved for a few conversations in to a relationship in America, or perhaps never asked at all. It reminds me of my other living experience abroad, when we lived in New Zealand and I was asked routinely and without fail one or more of the following upon meeting new classmates: “do you bring a gun to school/have a metal detector at school?” “do you know any Hollywood stars?” or “are you from California / New York?”

Back to the boys on the bus, going swimming at a pool. We had just stopped off at the last stop, Chennai beach. That puzzled me. You go to the beach to swim in a pool? Isn't that like driving to the mall and taking the escalator to hit the 24-Hour Fitness gym’s cardio machines? One thing that came to my mind as I neared the shoreline and observed a human barrier, five- or six-thick for almost an unbroken mile, with only enough waders (no swimmers at all) to count on one hand, was perhaps the collective memory of the 2004 tsunami was still raw in their minds, and the damage it caused to all’s lives. But upon closer observation, I determined another deterrent - which certainly worked for me, and was likely also the pool-going boys’ reason - the water is as filthy as the city’s streams (or, more aptly named, sludge conduits) and streetsides. And as with the male hand-holding paradox I observed weeks ago, I wondered as to the origination of another societal norm: men were on the beach, wading in the water completely clothed, but those in the pool were shirtless and even had barely-there Euro-Speedoes. Am I missing something!? And on that “public decency" note, why does a culture that is so concerned with covering skin (in addition to the shorts-less-ness of the city, I am observing more and more burqas, only inches of a facial rectangle of skin visible, from the Muslim population here) seem to have no qualms with men of all societal statures, poor AND rich, urinating on roadsides within plain view of both sexes and all ages, without even bothering to seek the privacy of a fence corner or shrubbery? I see this everywhere, daily. It may have something to do with a shared understand of nature’s rule, “when you gotta go, you gotta go.” Or perhaps the general cleanliness of the city: dumpster-like. Or, perhaps, the public restroom and highway rest stop situations are similar to the city’s garbage disposal machinations- ranging from sporadic to non-existent. Whatever it is, these roadside stoppings may be spurred on by the fact that so far I have counted three obligatory tea-times at work: breakfast, 10:00 a.m., and 3:00 p.m, without fail.

The somewhat negative subjects of most of these writings are surely due to my mood after a week where I managed to lose my guide to India, my digital camera (with irreplaceable images of various Hawaiian isles, Portland, NYC, Bombay, Delhi and Chennai), and my wallet, all in a small time-frame. But there are surely delights and pleasures to enjoy as well, as with any unfamiliar distant place. I took the day off mid-week to try to contact last-seen-ats and post rewards for these lost items (stated reason to the boss) and to explore the fun side of Chennai (negated to mention to the boss). I watched a delightful and predictably hokey movie at a super-duper-mega-plex for the equivalent of $2, and observed many interesting things. They still use 15-minute intermissions; talking on the cell phone during a movie is semi-permissible (and NO one puts their phones on silent); they have “deluxe seating” (large fold down seats for couples), and online ticket buying almost mandatorily implemented- movies sell out one day in advance, ALL movies, and weekend showings are all bought up by the preceding TUESDAY. I got a ticket to the only thing left, obviously.
Then, as many engineering and mechanics find the best way to understand the machination of a device is to deconstruct and then rebuild it, I like to get lost and then find my way around new places. So as I exited the cinema, leisurely walked around for a while, took the first bus I found, heading to what I calculated to be "east", which is the best I can do in a place like this, and got off at the beach of the Bay of Bengal. I walked around the shops and stalls for a while ($1.75 Chinese rip-off Lacoste polos, heyoooo… Vinny, how many do you and Austen need… they are just your guys’ size- “extra-metro”) and went to the end of a jetty to watch a tropical storm sunset. I then decided to have some automotive fun: instead of taking the usual rickshaw ($2-3 for a 45 minute ride across town… but the certain loser of a traffic deathmatch between it and any other possible vehicle… especially the following-) I took a bus. 10 cents is the fare. Packed like a sardine can, and with routes, stops and frequencies known only to locals (online information is never updated, I am told), they are quite the experience. I learned the following: a 25 minute ride home can take 100 minutes, if you try hard enough (or listen to every individuals’ opinions on how to get somewhere fastest); lanes are meaningless in India (buses opt for two lanes at once, more comfortable, I suppose- and don’t signal their entry/exit to/from them); you don’t have to pay for bus fare at rush hour (the bus is so packed with bodies, the fare collector cannot penetrate the sweaty, stinking jungle of human flesh); everyone has a different way to get to one fixed location (but is that any different than any NYC subway strap-hanger you’ve ever asked? “Take the W to the 5, then the M60.” “No no no, the N is express. Then take the 4.”); and lastly, Keanu Reeves’ “Speed” has made a lasting impression on bus drivers here: in “Speed,” you may recall the devious Dennis Hopper fixes a bus to explode if its speed drops below 50 mph... similarly, bus stops are not stopped at here, but merely “gestured towards” by pulling in halfway, and given a “rolling hesitation” as the deceleration portion is reserved for those departing the bus, and the acceleration for those boarding. During the “slow down” portion, chivalrous norms are forgotten as boy is pitted against grandma, businessman against businesswoman, mother against little girl (hardly different than NYC, on second thought- the memory of attempting to leave a subway car at rush hour whilst others take the meaning of rush hour literally and bum-rush you- reminds me of playing “red rover” at recess). Boarding is similar, but with a few twists- boarding blurs distinctions between “handrail” and “torso” as you can (and must, if you don’t want to wait another half hour!) grab on to either/or in your mad dash, but as the bus gets faster and faster, suddenly you see humanity prevail and hands reach out to grab the runners and hold them fast as they get a firm stance on the stairs.

Sadly, I have witnessed death here as well in addition to all the stink, heat, poverty and chaos. (strangely, only human death- the stray Brahmin cows that amble about wherever they please, chewing on piles of trash on highway shoulders, the ambling goats, and the dingo-like dogs that scratch their flea-bitten ears on every street corner seem perky and healthy as can be- no animal deaths observed yet). My first day here, I walked along the arterial Poonamallee High Road during rush hour (a slower-moving, dirtier I-5 at 7:00 p.m…. with foot traffic) shouldering my way through the masses and toeing my way around trash piles and accidental (or purposeful? I still don’t get this city) cesspools. I came upon an old man, ragged and thin, laying on the sidewalk, as the feet of the city rushed around, over, past him. I had witnessed a few dozen similar sights already; they generally look either near-death or nirvana attaining, as their eyes do not meet your gaze even if they are physically pointed at you, they are oblivious to objects brushing their faces, and they sit cross legged on the ground or asleep with a slab of concrete as a pillow. This particular man was precariously close to the edge of the sidewalk, but as always, everyone made adjustments as such, as streams of swarming ants around a newly fallen stone. I passed, found a restaurant, and returned hours later, passing that same spot. The man was being pulled out of the filthy gutter by an old woman; he had slipped down into the roadway (the traffic here also acts as ants do, using every permeable path, autos and motorcyclists slip between other cars and buses, 2 to a lane- so even the road’s shoulder is unsafe) and was being pulled up to the sidewalk. His head, having been run over, was bleeding from the temple and crown, his eyes now closed and chest still. The flow of foot traffic stopped, but only for seconds, in order to get a glance at the scene; then everyone continued their journeys home at the same frenzied pace, after the woman dragged him away to a fence, away from the sidewalk.
My second experience was in Mahabalipuram last weekend, just after losing my wallet (which made the situation quite darkly ironic: the subject of this story, a beggar who approached me, actually had more money on her at the time than I did). But first, some background. I was advised by many people that if one wishes to donate any amount of money to aid the poor in India , one does NOT give to beggars. Aid foundations are where you must donate. The reasons are twofold: one, similar to America , they likely will use it simply fuel the engine of their own destruction, drugs or alcohol. Funding aid organizations gives them places to stay or means of empowerment. Two, if you give anything, they will then dog you for MILES for more, having located a source of money. We found this to be true, as my traveling companion (the American living next to me) gave this particular poor woman with a baby swaddled against her modest saree some small amount of rupees. But she kept following, speaking in the same raspy, quiet voice likely the only word she’d ever heard in English: “Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.” She followed us wherever we went. My companion started getting extremely frustrated, venting at her (in English; a lot of good that’ll do) and explaining heatedly to her that he has no more money, stop, please leave us alone… etc. I tell him my previously stated two reasons to not give money to them directly (which probably annoyed him more as it was already too late- I’m good at that sort of advice) and do certainly not give again, as that would be akin to adoption. The entire time she stubbornly trailed us, the baby in her arms had a strange expression on its face, and a strange squint in its closed eyes. It was a very loud and hot area with many flies, not a place conducive for babies to rest, and I felt bad that she didn’t have him off in some crib somewhere. We finally succeeded in convincing her to leave us be, and as we reached our destination and climbed into the storefront, I gave a hesitant glance back at her to see where she was going- just long enough to see her baby’s head gruesomely slump forward, almost out of her grasp, as she quickly identified the next tourist to ply for alms. Propping the baby back up, so as to look alive again, she plodded after them, palms outstretched, muttering “Hello. Hello. Hello.”

Misadventures in Malarialand, Pt. I

(notes from mid-June)

I want to start this one off with an awesome passage that probably only dear Vinny will appreciate fully, what with his colonialist Raj dreams of yesteryear, with visions of sugarplums, pith helmets and Darjeeling tea plantations dancing in his head…..

I was waiting in a reception area in my office and was trying my best to be proper and genteel (as the following passage would surely demand no less of) when I came across what would perhaps be Vinny’s favorite “how to be a colonialist” book: a historical recount of the glory days of the local country club, sitting there on the coffee table. I had no choice but to pick it up and copy passages as fast as I could by hand on my notepad for immediate dissemination…..

[pretentious embossed Coat of Arms on brown leather cover, labeled “The Madras Club 1832”]
“The Ace of Clubs: The Story of the Madras Club”
By S. Muthiah

Chapter 1: Clubbing Together

“At home, in Britain , the club was very much an upper class institution. It was where people of the same social standing- and with, presumably, the same interests, could gather, talk about matters of common interest, unbend a bit and relax with equals, and drink and dine together with like-minded people who would neither cause offence nor upset the digestion. It was at the same time an institution founded for male companionship, to get away from the company of the ladies at home who, by no stretch of the imagination, the members felt, could be considered intellectually equal or capable of sharing common interest. In fact, it was also an institution where M’Lord could often be left in undisturbed peace and quiet to read a paper, cogitate over the state of the world and what it was coming to with the great unwashed increasing in number, or snooze genteelly, totally free from the natter of the women he had left at home.”

(on the next page….)

“…they frolicked, feuded, and fought with each other in an all-male society that shared a common dining room or “fort” or in rude taverns and coffee houses that provided the only access to recreation in a settlement, if you don’t count the liaisons with Indian women that was the accepted practice of the day and contributed to many a latter day “Nabob” who became a Lord bequeathing to his heirs a touch of colour.”

I swear I didn’t edit a single word. The “great unwashed” and “women’s natter” are, of course, my everyday concerns as well. Vinny, find this on Amazon and order immediately. Set up shop in NYC, Jon is the natural-born pretentious and exclusivist club president, but we can all be undersecretaries of some capacity or another, serving in the shadow of his greatness.

But on to the stories. Many of you have heard of my recent (albeit self-inflicted) losses; first, my guidebook (well, YOUR guidebook, Aunt Linda… woops) in New Delhi, my digital camera in Chennai, and last but not least, my wallet in Mahabalipuram (just to top it off, of course, as the number three is so auspicious and all). The searches for all have ended in great stories:

1) The lost guidebook was promptly found by my friend in Delhi and sent to me by courier. The courier proceeded to deliver the package (two days late) to “#8, New Mandapam Road” instead of the nearby “Old #42/1, New #8, Mandapam Road”… where I actually reside. Not to mention that my name is “Greg Meyer,” not “Bhavana Jayaraman” of the “Orient Nursery and Preschool.” The two are easily confused, I know. I received a call, not from the courier service – who is responsible for nothing but delivering the package to the correct addressee- but from the school by a teacher - who is responsible for her children’s education. She, out of the goodness of her heart, called the phone number referred to on the package. I would otherwise never have seen it again.

I highly recommend this capable, responsible and expedient courier service to everyone. *?!(#%* idiots.

2) The digital camera was left in the back seat of a hired car, sent by my company, to bring me from the factory site in a rural area west of Chennai to my home. I realized this two days later, after replaying the scene in my head. I gave as much detail to- and contacted as many- concerned parties as possible, but to no avail. I decided to go with “if you want something done right, do it yourself” and took the next day of work off to investigate this and other losses (the ones preceding and succeeding this particular account). My trip to the livery company that sent these cars out resulted in my rickshaw driver telling me “this address does not exist” and afterwards “we are here” (when we weren’t; he wanted to get rid of me and get on with collecting his fare, a common scene played out daily with these scamful schmucks). Suggestion to transportation board, government of India: street signs, a side-alternating (even/odd) numerical system, and/or descending/ascending numbers (instead of numbers that fluctuate wildly as you progress, depending on when the structure was built) MAY help in finding city locations!!! Anyway… turned out the livery cab manager had suspended my driver for two days on account of this “stain on his company’s reputation” and had his driver profess his innocence in front of me. He then told me his driver can’t drive for a few more days, while he "thinks about what he has done" (which was… to not check the floor to see if I left my own belongings for me as I left?). I attempted, using as many synonyms and British accented terms as I could, to convey that I didn’t wish for anyone to be suspended, or punished, or made an example of- I just wanted my friggin’ camera back. I posted an enormous (comparatively) reward for its return in the office, and attempted to get one posted at the client (who used the cab after me)’s place of business. After significant hesitance on the manager’s part, he revealed that, on second thought, my search was in vain, as: “if an Indian is honest, he will return it immediately” and “if he is dark-hearted, he will keep it for himself or sell it off, and a reward will not draw out either.” Translation: “You’re f$#ked.” Additionally, he said any of his workers that returned the camera would be fired on the spot out of assumption that they themselves stole it, which completely overrides my “no questions asked” addendum to my reward poster and third-party neutral escrow plan to ensure confidentiality. Thanks, that’ll certainly ensure the return of my camera- excellent tactic! The “carrot” approach, I see what you’re doing there!

3) I lost my wallet/got it stolen (OK, I was reading a book, I was at the really good part) on a packed-like-a-sardine-can bus to Mahabalipuram over the weekend immediately after the lost camera. While this isn’t a “search” story, as a “search” never really occurred, the ensuing bureaucracy I encountered while trying to report it made me wish I could have paid the value of the contents of the wallet just to have gotten my 6 hours back! …. In the most elaborate possible inefficiency scheme you could ever POSSIBLY dream of, the object of even Rube Goldberg’s circuitous envy, I present to you the following example of organizational ineffectiveness:

(first, imagine being in a beach town in an arguably third world country, in a police station. There are seven large geckos creeping along the walls and ceilings, open-air entryways, people walking in and out barefoot, a solitary rusty ceiling fan slowly whirring, and officers in excessively decorated uniforms engaged in heated discussions in Tamil with complainants. The two closed doors in the building have signs over them; not “detective” but “sub-inspector” and “inspector.” The temperature is over 90 degrees and the humidity is around that number, percentage-wise)

I was first told to file a report ("submit a complaint"). I asked to be given the paperwork, and was handed a blank piece of paper. Upon five minutes of misunderstanding, frantic gesticulation, and mistranslation, I discovered that this blank piece of paper was to be the report- there are no forms to fill out, no templates, nothing. In stark contrast with the infamous bureaucracy I had heard so much about in Indian government, or perhaps in perfect harmony and actually the crown jewel of bureacracy (for what is bureacracy really if not the ultimate time-waster), thirty minutes later my efforts resulted in what looked like a 3rd grade art project. I handed over a piece of paper full of writing, diagrams, a timetable, and two abstract pictures, whereupon an officer told me to come back four hours later, where it would be typed up and ready to go. After those four hours, I returned, only to wait another hour in the waiting room. I then told the officer that, while this game was fun, I did in the end have to be somewhere at night and could not continue playing. In different words, of course (well, different gestures and facial expressions, as her English was as developed as my Tamil). So, discreetly, only THEN did she start to copy it in her own handwriting (all the while here I am handing a phone back and forth with my coworker on the line to translate for the two of us), misspelling things and omitting crucial information along the way. At this point she handed her garbled recitation of my 3rd grade project off to an office boy, who beckoned me to sit on the back of his motorcycle to travel two blocks away. Why travel elsewhere to type up a routine police document? All precinct electronics were down, so another person (at an internet cafe) had to type it up and print it. This additional process, of course, resulted in even more lost and garbled information. We rode back to the station and waited once more for the same officer to simply stamp the printed form and sign it, which is, if you read it in its entirety, even funnier than the process, as it reads essentially: "Greg Meyer is in search of his wallet and its contents, which included ____, the search for which ended in vain". The part about a search is an interesting addition, as they never endeavored to search anything or anywhere, despite my specific details and tip-offs, because that would require walkie-talkies, action, and effort. Anyway... good thing I have proof of a search that “ended in vain”... what would I do without this newly obtained proof!!! The next cab driver that wants 100 rupees will be immediately presented with my new “complaint form” as government-tendered paper payment. I’ll see how that goes. Don't really understand the Indian police.... I guess I’m perpetually “that American tourist.”

….And just imagine how much better that lost wallet story would have been if I could have taken digital photos.

G

notes on arrival

(from early June)


As we flew over Batman, Turkey (no, seriously, Google-map it... it's there), we suddenly changed course to avoid the northern tip of Iraq by just miles, and entered western Iran. Batman saves the day again! We then headed east for what seemed like hours (Iran is REALLY long) and suddenly swerved to avoid Afghanistan, entering southern Pakistan instead. My favorite parts of the flight were (they bumped me to first class, no charge, at the last minute, so there were a lot): naming dessert "dinner epilogue," three course dinner served, mimosas and cava brut served before you've even put your bag away, your seat reclines into your own pod space to sleep, your personalized computer/TV/cinema screen has almost everything you can think of, you can get more food/snacks/wine whenever you want, the attendant is actually dressed in a waiter outfit, there's even a USB/internet port in the wall.... glasses and silverware, of course, are what your comestibles are served in.... essentially all I was missing was my own sleeping cabin. I also loved watching the other passengers' viewing selections, many of which were Bollywood movies. The subtitles to the movie being watched next to me read, at one point (in the middle of an excuberant dance number): "all cool boys c'mon, make some noise, om shomni shom." This was a good precursor to my experience in Chennai so far- weird phrases using English words but hardly making sense when put together, interrupted by another language (Malayalam, Telugu, Tamil, Hindi, etc etc.). Strewn together with Seh (Sir) and Mum (Ma'am) and a slew of Indianized (read: hard to distinguish) British terms, making communication very interesting with anyone but the highest executives at my workplace. Anyway... unfortunately I have just lost my digital camera in a taxi which may or may not report back to me as to its existence, but as of now I still do remember some of the funny pictures I took. One of them was of a sign at the airport, which read: "Did you know you are most welcome in Mumbai right now?" No... I did not. Thank you! Did you know that I am most thankful? Also, the recent tourist campaign put on by the Indian government, with the slogan "Incredible India" was continued on a tour bus parked in my neighborhood... "Incredible India: the slogan with which we use to woo tourists!" OK, now you just ruined it, I've found you out and am now sore at you. You were only trying to woo me. Now I'm leaving.

As for my accomodations, for 12,000 Rupees ($280/mo) I have a bed-and-breakfast room with my own entry and bathroom, a maid who serves breakfast/dinner, cleans the room, washes/irons laundry (the owner of the house has a gardener as well, and a driver to drive him to work), and a driver of a car called an Ambassador (looks extremely 1948 Britain) to drive me to/from my work sites, chartered by my employer. http://www.hmambassador.com/history.asp

Despite all this, life's not all berries and cream... I worry daily I will contract the Dengue or Bubonic Plague (the Black Death actually originated in either the central Asian steppes or India before trade ships accidentally brought it to Europe) or something similar. The ceiling fan, anti-mosquito plug-in doohicky, bug spray, and malarial pills are used daily.

I have been going to sleep at 10 pm every night and waking up at 6 am. The last time I remember doing this consistently was before age 12. You get so exhausted from doing nothing all day that you have no choice but to doze off- the heat is ridiculous. If I actually had hard work to do, I don't know how I wouldn't just sleep at 6 pm, Uncle Robert style. Just sweating is a full time job.


Some totally disjointed notes:

Men wear dhotis all over the neighborhoods, and in the business area wear business casual, and nowhere is a tie seen, thank god. They are ahead of the USA in at least one sense, I am glad to see. The idea of a tie is ridiculous to them. Let's import their fashion trendsetters to America. Women wear sarees almost exclusively. I have seen less than ten women in Chennai wearing western clothes. Those that are wearing sarees range from dirt-poor beggars to business women; regardless of economic status, they are almost always spotless, magnificent, and match the hair tie, shoes, nail polish, pants, and tops underneath. Most women also have white jasmine flower garlands in their hair, sold by streetside vendors. Tamil equivolent of a lei?

I am at a severe disadvantage, mustache-wise. Man. I've never seen so many mustaches in my life. I will suggest, at the next board meeting, the commencement of a robust Mustache Exportation Programme to mitigate the rising raw material and transport costs for their subsidiaries. Even the big Kollywood (but not Bollywood) moviestars have these enormous mustachios. The big-wig politico candidates, painted on road dividers, all sport monster walrus 'staches. It is subcontinental machismo at its best. I am thinking of buying a fake one and pasting it on. Speaking of business plans, I loved pg. 65 of the Carborundum Universal Ltd.'s (the company I am visiting currently, owned by Murugappa Group) shareholder report: "Intangible assets: goodwill- 5.1 million rupees." And later, on page 68--- "Donations: communist Party of India (marxist): 100,000 rupees." I inquired as to the thinking behind donating to a group of people who in no way support you, and found out it is actually hush money (commonly done in corporate India). Without donations, the party will send investigators and find problems in your plant and publicize them and use it in their party campaign. Yearly donations keep them away.

Tamils enjoy honking. A lot. In America, it translates to "f$#@$k you!", "look out, you/I/we am/are about to die", "get the hell out of my way", or other such extremes. In Chennai, and New Delhi, I learned it to mean all those things, in addition to the more common "hello!", "I'm passing", "excuse me sir", etc. etc. It is used for even turning corners, when there is no one else around, just to alert others of your existence, which is whizzing by at breakneck speeds. As Tamils are unfortunately very hospitable and kind people, the use of honking for saying "hello" and "excuse me" makes the streets a hellish auditory experience, and the honking begins outside my window at 6 am anyway so I have no choice but to wake up, amidst the peacock hoots and shrieks.

My favorite names of stores and products so far: "Mummy Daddy" (general store), "Hunky Dory" (children's clothing), "Jamz: to your Hearts [sic] Delight" (shortbread jam cookies), "Sparky's: Never Trust a Skinny Chef" (restaurant).

(regarding government inefficiency and long waits:) My landlord angrily exclaimed while weaving in and out of traffic on my first day, "I don't know what all these people are rushing to do! Once they get to work, they will just sit around and waste everyone's time! Change this rush and passion into work effort!"

Sometimes my rickshaw driver uses hand signals to turn, just as a BICYCLE would.... then, a few times, I have had them stop at a corner store for a big bag of betel nuts (their version of chewing tobacco), excusing themselves with an unintelligible "ng one" (hang on?). Thankfully, you figure out your fare before hand, so no meter is running- they are so untrustable with meters that you always strike a deal before. If not, they will tell you the meter isnt working, and there is a new rate... so you have to pay ____ more than what it says. Recent improvisations have included stopping at a petrol station immediately after picking me up and then asking for me to pay for the refill, and stopping at the destination street instead of at the destination number AND street, and, claiming confusion and mistranslation, directed to pay extra for delivery to actual destination.

Power outages hit about once per hour at the work sites (factory sites) and a few times a day at home. Power returns very shortly but all work sites have giant generator buildings, out of (qualified) distrust of the power grid. Interestingly, much power is privately owned- not all governmentally. The power outages are times in between one grid- it is rerouted once one fails. Nobody bats an eye when this happens- it's someone sneezing or something. Very strange.

Most interesting for me as been public displays of affection. While kissing a woman in public would draw more than stares, likely ire, I have seen scores of men holding hands daintily for extended periods of time (strolling) and even at the workplace, in the middle of conversation, or the "dangling handshake" as I call it... even arm over arm, walking down the street, and once I saw a face to face embrace.... this complete flip of American norms is bizarre to me, as it is explained to me that none of these men are gay- it is just their expression of affection.

Cricket is so popular here that there are 48 Murugappa teams that play each other, yet none other sports (I inquired). I was asked on the first day to join, even though I don't play or even know the rules of cricket. Basketball and baseball are virtually unknown, and soccer is a distant second to cricket. No one even cares about rugby. I thought that was a Commonwealth thing? Apparently not. Games last twice as long as American sports; we'll see how long I last on our weekend-ly matches. I am to be "batsman" as they tell me baseball is the closest I can get to cricket; basketall experience is not relevant.

I attended a heated collective bargaining session conducted entirely in Tamil at Carborundum Universal Ltd.'s Maraimalainagar plant today. Every once in a while, math entered into the equation, to which I was thankful to the Arabs for a brief moment, for their invention so long ago. Otherwise, all was lost on me. Afterwards, it was translated for me the Employer wanted their 10 points pushed, mostly increased performance (and pay associated with an increase in the latter), and the union wanted: less work.

On a finishing note, I would like to send you an email an MILR colleague of mine sent to me explaining why my scheduled last day of work was quite an interesting choice of dates:

"You obviously wouldn't have seen the irony in the white man leaving from India on August 15th: its our independence day - when the English gave up and left :) "

-G