Today I thought I’d make my 100th public holiday worthwhile so I’d run some errands – print pictures, make some photocopies, do some print out – at the mall. I got into a rickshaw and realized I had forgotten my USB drive so I asked him to turn around. I was walking distance away from my guest house; we weren’t even driving for 3 minutes yet. He took me back but wanted the entire fare we had initially agreed upon to take me to the mall. Well I thought he must have lost his mind. I shouted “NO WAY!” I was geared to give him 20 rupees for his gas and time. He said 25rs. to take me down the block and 25 to bring me back up. I said “No sir! No fair”. Two men on the sidewalk who spoke better English intervened, but I always know that no Indian ever takes the foreigner’s side. They went jabbering off in their language and the man told me to pay the driver 30rs. I said NO WAY! I thought if its 50 rupees to take me all the way to the mall then why should he get more the half the price to take me down the block – “20 rupees sir”, I said repeated. The driver said something and the man translated “25rs is his final” and I repeated “20rs sir”. Just my luck he had no change for 100 rupee bill and neither did I. One of the translators who came over had change and as he handed it to me I gave the man 20 rupees and they all just watched me walk off. I was annoyed for no reason – then I was just annoyed at myself. Then I was sad. I thought his poor children must be eating less tonight because I wanted to be pigheaded.
I started off my journey to the mall again. This time the rickshaw driver, upon getting to my destination, wanted more money. I handed him 50rs and he said “70 madam”. Well if he didn’t know what a “bad eye” was, now he knows. I handed him 10rs and walked away. At the mall I got my usual stares – people on the escalator who can’t face forward because I’m either standing behind them or walking beneath, children who tap their parents as I walk by and of course the stares of my fellow foreigners. Today was exceptionally different though! I was standing in the very busy mall, possibly blocking traffic, digging in my bag for something and these tall black men came out and no where and startled me. One was bent over, almost in my face and blurted in his deep voice and thick accent “where are you from??” He had on his “museum” face, staring at me as if I was a sight to see. I said “USA?” with an uncertain, “if you touch me I’ll scream” expression on my face. He said “Where??”, shouting as if we were in a circus. I shouted back “US, US!” (This was CERTAINLY NOT a time to say ‘I am from Trinidad and Tobago, the best island in the Caribbean!’) His friend repeated “Where?!” and be barked “amerdika, amerdika!” They seemed very disappointed by this for some reason hahaha.
Then I had to hear about all the friends they know in Boston in New York. They were Nigerian. Then as I expected, one asked “so can I have your number?” Now I had my blackberry in my hand because I had my shopping list on it but thankfully I was digging in my bag when they approached me and I had dropped it in there. I quickly said “sorry, I don’t have a phone here” (blatant lie!) Naturally, like they all say, he said “so how am I going to see you again then?” in a very concerned manner. I started making steps backwards to go my way and he started to make steps as if to follow me but his friend placed his hand across his chest to stop him – quite a dramatic scene I must say. I responded “Chennai’s a small place!” (another blatant lie!). At that point I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry because I could not believe I was being tracked (hitted on) by a strapped, tall black man in an undersized T-shirt with texturized hair (that was heavily gelled and stood upright) in India!
Just when I thought I was clear of them, as I was standing in the beauty supplies store’s cashier I heard “still shopping?” but before I could answer he was yelling at the cashier. He had wanted some kind of facial soap but clearly didn’t understand how things work. I was thinking he has clearly never been to a store before where you walk through every aisle, pick up what you want, asks the sales-people if you need help, then join the cashier’s line. I looked around at the long cashier’s line and everyone was just staring at him, including me! Then I thought, “OMG, I hope he’s not showing off for me!” and he started snapping his fingers in the man’s face shouting the name of some product he wanted in his thick Nigerian accent. He started snapping and pointing to the back of the store as if telling the cashier to go get his product. The cashier was fumbling to get me my change so I could run out of there. I was shoulder to shoulder with the girl next to me because I wanted to make it clear that I did not know this man. My cashier managed to give me my change (one rupee short, but I didn’t care). I ran up out of there so fast, and sure enough, he ran out after me. He was clearly putting on a show for me, which was so retarded! As I was trying to make my way out of the crowd outside the store he said something to me and touched my camera. Well he had the nerve to ask me to take his pic. Well he is probably the first person in all of Chennai I said no to. I said “sorry no” and walked off. In retrospect, his texturized head would be a hilarious picture to blog, but his behaviour was too deplorable for a pic.
On my way home, sure enough, some rickshaw driver saw me and saw a jackpot. I said “I’m going to Poonamalee High Road” he said “200 rupees!” His audacity and his assertive facial expression caused my head to rock back and a crazy laugh to escape. I repeated without composing myself “200 rupees??!” He looked at me like I was the crazy one for laughing at his bold attempt at robbing me. He quadrupled the regular rate! But poor guy, I had had a long day, and I needed that laugh!
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Nobody likes the teacher’s pet
Finally my English Dalit Studies class decides to follow the schedule…well only because I forced them. I went to class and the students told me “no one has come, today no class” because of some freshman welcoming party. Well I went berserk. I went to the secretary of the English department and told her how ridiculous this is and how I spend 100 rupees (a bit of an exaggeration) to get there everyday and they never have class. On Wednesday the chairman of the department told me he himself will conduct class, but he was no where to be found at that moment. I called his cell phone but my call went unanswered. So I left. Not long after, my phone was ringing, it was the secretary sounding a little hysterical asking me who told me there was no class because there was in fact class. She herself had told me to ask the students, they will know whether there was class. Only when my phone rang seconds (literally) after she hung up and the chairman (lord of the English department) was on the other end, I realized what must have happened. The chairperson, when he finally got to the office that morning, was told that the girl from the US was told there was no class today and sent away (for the 100th time) he was not pleased. I had went to the international office and complained about the inconsistency of classes and the head of that office said she would deal with the matter so I have a feeling she gave him a buffing and he in turn gave his secretary a buffing for telling there was no class once again. When I got back upstairs to the office, a swarm of them – secretary, typist, professor etc – was standing in the corridor waiting on me. At once, they all asked “who told you there was no class?” I told them the students did. They told me to go sit in the class but I proceeded to go see Lord ED (English Department) and I explained that he called me. The secretary said “no, no, I called you!” I explained as I walked that he called me right after she did. They all were following me to his office. As I got there, they rushed to explain to him that I was misinformed and that I did not understand what the students told me. I said to him the students explicitly said there was no class today. I was annoyed because they were acting like I’m some kind of a retard, talking as if I weren’t there and insisting that I misunderstood what my classmates said. I quickly realized that my silence would save their butts from the wrath of His Highness, so I said nothing. He barked “don’t listen to students, call me from now on!”
My classmates, I felt were a little upset with me because they wanted to plan for their party that was starting in a couple hours (which is obviously why they told me there was no class initially) and I forced the hand of the department to stick to the schedule. Lord ED decided today he would conduct class (as several professors teach this ONE class). He is a crazy boring rambler! However, I have to say he is ten times more entertaining than my Public Administration professor. The PA professor, wow… I have never come across anything as boring in my lifelong academic journey. And to makes things worse, he likes teaching so there is no stopping him!
Anyway, Lord ED walks into the class and though my back was facing the door I knew immediately because all talking stopped, food bowls were quickly covered and shoved into bags and there was a crazy scampering to seats like cockroaches at the flick of a light-switch. I was eating a sandwich and was on my last bite and as he got to his table at the front of the class everybody stood up (to pay reverence to him of course) besides me. I took my final piece of bread out the foil and crumpled the foil. His Highness looked at me, and did what looked like a ‘come’ gesture and everyone in the class looked around at me. So I asked “what?” and he said “please, you don’t have to stop eating, you can eat…” I held my final piece of bread up and smiled. Well he had some nerve thinking that I was going to throw away my last piece of bread because he walked into the class. Then he continued “…but the rest of you can’t [eat]”.
He then said to me I will need to get a copy of a book he was circulating to the students. He asked if anyone had an extra copy and no one did so he asked (though it seemed to be a question that no one would dare say no to) “will someone give Tonisha their copy?” And then there was a copy passing down to me almost immediately. I paid for an extra copy to be made though.
He announced that before we begin the class we should organize the examination week schedule. To my surprise, he said “Tonisha, you get to choose what day you want the Dalit Studies exam on”. I felt at this point that the favoritism was so obvious that it annoyed everyone in the class – they all hated me.
He began to teach – so slow- the broken English, the thick accent, the boring content would send me in a deep day dream but it was the taunting of his bad spelling that kept my attention sharp. He spelt triple like “traple”, not once but twice on the blackboard. Now for those of you who know me very well, you know that obvious misspellings and bad grammar are my biggest pet peeves. There would be no harm in lifting my hand and saying “its t-r-i-p-l-e” I thought, but then his royal feelings might be hurt in front of the class. Though when he does comparisons about American writings he would look at me as if he is waiting for me to disagree or at several points he would ask “Am I right, Tonisha?” and though most times I have no clue who or what he is talking about, I just nod and smile. I could feel the class hating me more. He asked me at one point if he had spelt a word correct and I said yes but I really wanted to say “yes, but triple is t-r-i-p-l-e” but again, I refrained.
The class had 2 more minutes before ending and he asked “anyone has questions?” and I did. Little did I know that he would start a whole new lecture and steal out of the students’ breaks! They were all looking around at the clock and then looking at me, perhaps thinking evil thoughts.
My classmates, I felt were a little upset with me because they wanted to plan for their party that was starting in a couple hours (which is obviously why they told me there was no class initially) and I forced the hand of the department to stick to the schedule. Lord ED decided today he would conduct class (as several professors teach this ONE class). He is a crazy boring rambler! However, I have to say he is ten times more entertaining than my Public Administration professor. The PA professor, wow… I have never come across anything as boring in my lifelong academic journey. And to makes things worse, he likes teaching so there is no stopping him!
Anyway, Lord ED walks into the class and though my back was facing the door I knew immediately because all talking stopped, food bowls were quickly covered and shoved into bags and there was a crazy scampering to seats like cockroaches at the flick of a light-switch. I was eating a sandwich and was on my last bite and as he got to his table at the front of the class everybody stood up (to pay reverence to him of course) besides me. I took my final piece of bread out the foil and crumpled the foil. His Highness looked at me, and did what looked like a ‘come’ gesture and everyone in the class looked around at me. So I asked “what?” and he said “please, you don’t have to stop eating, you can eat…” I held my final piece of bread up and smiled. Well he had some nerve thinking that I was going to throw away my last piece of bread because he walked into the class. Then he continued “…but the rest of you can’t [eat]”.
He then said to me I will need to get a copy of a book he was circulating to the students. He asked if anyone had an extra copy and no one did so he asked (though it seemed to be a question that no one would dare say no to) “will someone give Tonisha their copy?” And then there was a copy passing down to me almost immediately. I paid for an extra copy to be made though.
He announced that before we begin the class we should organize the examination week schedule. To my surprise, he said “Tonisha, you get to choose what day you want the Dalit Studies exam on”. I felt at this point that the favoritism was so obvious that it annoyed everyone in the class – they all hated me.
He began to teach – so slow- the broken English, the thick accent, the boring content would send me in a deep day dream but it was the taunting of his bad spelling that kept my attention sharp. He spelt triple like “traple”, not once but twice on the blackboard. Now for those of you who know me very well, you know that obvious misspellings and bad grammar are my biggest pet peeves. There would be no harm in lifting my hand and saying “its t-r-i-p-l-e” I thought, but then his royal feelings might be hurt in front of the class. Though when he does comparisons about American writings he would look at me as if he is waiting for me to disagree or at several points he would ask “Am I right, Tonisha?” and though most times I have no clue who or what he is talking about, I just nod and smile. I could feel the class hating me more. He asked me at one point if he had spelt a word correct and I said yes but I really wanted to say “yes, but triple is t-r-i-p-l-e” but again, I refrained.
The class had 2 more minutes before ending and he asked “anyone has questions?” and I did. Little did I know that he would start a whole new lecture and steal out of the students’ breaks! They were all looking around at the clock and then looking at me, perhaps thinking evil thoughts.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
My Food Fantasies - One fulfilled!
I'm not even halfway through my trip here and I'm having dreams about food!
French Toast with maple syrup and cream cheese - that was the highlight of my weekend.
I have been eating all Indian, all spicy food for the past month and a half. Jane took Sara and I to her sweet escape – the restaurant of a 5 star hotel called the Taj something. The place was simply beautiful! So quiet and clean, with a fragrance of heaven. I was sure I had entered another world. We all just floated down the hallway in silence, taking it all in. The doorman opened the door with such elegance and grace. I couldn’t help but notice that the Indians sitting in there were all 10 tones lighter than the ones you’d see on the street. I sat down and cracked open the menu and heard heaven’s harps. To my surprise they had an all day breakfast menu and I almost screamed when I saw they had French toast. I have been eating all forms of curry for all 3 meals of my day. Then I asked for cream cheese and they had PHILIDELPHIA cream cheese! That was the BEST breakfast at dinner-time ever!
French Toast with maple syrup and cream cheese - that was the highlight of my weekend.
I have been eating all Indian, all spicy food for the past month and a half. Jane took Sara and I to her sweet escape – the restaurant of a 5 star hotel called the Taj something. The place was simply beautiful! So quiet and clean, with a fragrance of heaven. I was sure I had entered another world. We all just floated down the hallway in silence, taking it all in. The doorman opened the door with such elegance and grace. I couldn’t help but notice that the Indians sitting in there were all 10 tones lighter than the ones you’d see on the street. I sat down and cracked open the menu and heard heaven’s harps. To my surprise they had an all day breakfast menu and I almost screamed when I saw they had French toast. I have been eating all forms of curry for all 3 meals of my day. Then I asked for cream cheese and they had PHILIDELPHIA cream cheese! That was the BEST breakfast at dinner-time ever!
MY HAIR - a topic for discussion?
My father’s brother is a die-hard Rastafarian and to him Tori is the “empress” and I’m just the niece with the identity crisis (haha) because I want/like straight hair. I am somewhat used to the heckling side of it but in India I’m just weird. My international coordinator said I would fit in because of my skin color and my Indian features (I don’t know where on me she sees Indian features, but she claims she sees it) but it is my hair that makes me standout.
Before Pierre left he and I had lunch together at our hotel before he packed. We had talked about our families a whole lot and I was telling him about my darling sister Tori and I showed him a picture – she would die if she knew I was showing everyone I met that particular picture of her with an uncombed fro. He was like “wow, her hair”, which is all everyone says when they see that picture. He looked at me curiously “how your hair is diff…” he stops then pulls the front of his own hair and continues “is it real?” I sort of laughed shyly and tugged my hair and said “it IS real, but I’ve straightened it” almost defensively. I felt like Sanaa Lathan in “Something New” when the guy asked her if her weave was real and she went berserk. He realized I felt a little weird I guess and he said “no no, I like your hair and I like your sister’s hair too” (haha poor guy).
I was asked “do you have the really tight springy curls?” by the same international student coordinator. Catharine, one of the girls from my program from upstate New York, asked me how I got it straight and why I have to cut it off if I want my natural hair back. The Northeastern Indian girls from class said “we love your sister’s hair” and wanted to know how she got it like that. When I told them it was natural they look shocked. They thought afros where fibers stitched in (or something random like that one of the girls said) but they had only seen it on tv. Then one girl got up in my face and asked how I got my eyelashes to curl upward, which I thought was hilarious. I said it was natural because my hair is “curly”.
When questions of that nature are posed I feel so uncomfortable for some reason. I don’t know why I even care. It really makes me feel a little like a circus clown. Everyone looks at me wide-eyed and intrigued, it’s too weird.
Recently, Irwin sent me the link to the screener of Chris Rock’s new flick about “good hair”….now we’re going to be exposed to the world as the posers that we are – thanks to Chris Rock! (hahaha)
Before Pierre left he and I had lunch together at our hotel before he packed. We had talked about our families a whole lot and I was telling him about my darling sister Tori and I showed him a picture – she would die if she knew I was showing everyone I met that particular picture of her with an uncombed fro. He was like “wow, her hair”, which is all everyone says when they see that picture. He looked at me curiously “how your hair is diff…” he stops then pulls the front of his own hair and continues “is it real?” I sort of laughed shyly and tugged my hair and said “it IS real, but I’ve straightened it” almost defensively. I felt like Sanaa Lathan in “Something New” when the guy asked her if her weave was real and she went berserk. He realized I felt a little weird I guess and he said “no no, I like your hair and I like your sister’s hair too” (haha poor guy).
I was asked “do you have the really tight springy curls?” by the same international student coordinator. Catharine, one of the girls from my program from upstate New York, asked me how I got it straight and why I have to cut it off if I want my natural hair back. The Northeastern Indian girls from class said “we love your sister’s hair” and wanted to know how she got it like that. When I told them it was natural they look shocked. They thought afros where fibers stitched in (or something random like that one of the girls said) but they had only seen it on tv. Then one girl got up in my face and asked how I got my eyelashes to curl upward, which I thought was hilarious. I said it was natural because my hair is “curly”.
When questions of that nature are posed I feel so uncomfortable for some reason. I don’t know why I even care. It really makes me feel a little like a circus clown. Everyone looks at me wide-eyed and intrigued, it’s too weird.
Recently, Irwin sent me the link to the screener of Chris Rock’s new flick about “good hair”….now we’re going to be exposed to the world as the posers that we are – thanks to Chris Rock! (hahaha)
“I’m not a baby, but I’ll complain, ‘cause I’m not happy about this…”
That’s what Evan said whenever he didn’t get AC. Now, we all say it when we’re not happy about one thing or another.
So, yet another class canceled!I am about to protest, placards and all, about this inconsistency of classes. I know I blogged about this already, but it needs to be reiterated! I just realized how much I love structure. Why bother to make a time table, stress that I must get it ASAP, if we aren’t going to stick to it? Today the excuse is: we are presenting our internships in seminar so no ISP class all WEEK. Well my literature class didn’t meet all of last week too. Yesterday was a government holiday, I’m sure next Monday will be another government holiday as well. That’s another thing, every week there is some kind of holiday – Lord Kristina’s birth, baptism, barmitzvah – all reasons to cancel class. I could really be doing things with my time if they give me advance notice – like go to Sri Lanka, see the Taj Mahal, spend some days in Bombay – but no, I have to wait until they’re good and ready to actually have class. Oh! I better get five A’s at the end of all this or else y’all will have to read about me on BBC.com. Let me stop being a baby about this for a second and say that I am learning more outside the classroom. Experiential learning is incomparable to that of a book or a classroom. Okay, that thought made me much happier about not having class. *Smiles*
So, yet another class canceled!I am about to protest, placards and all, about this inconsistency of classes. I know I blogged about this already, but it needs to be reiterated! I just realized how much I love structure. Why bother to make a time table, stress that I must get it ASAP, if we aren’t going to stick to it? Today the excuse is: we are presenting our internships in seminar so no ISP class all WEEK. Well my literature class didn’t meet all of last week too. Yesterday was a government holiday, I’m sure next Monday will be another government holiday as well. That’s another thing, every week there is some kind of holiday – Lord Kristina’s birth, baptism, barmitzvah – all reasons to cancel class. I could really be doing things with my time if they give me advance notice – like go to Sri Lanka, see the Taj Mahal, spend some days in Bombay – but no, I have to wait until they’re good and ready to actually have class. Oh! I better get five A’s at the end of all this or else y’all will have to read about me on BBC.com. Let me stop being a baby about this for a second and say that I am learning more outside the classroom. Experiential learning is incomparable to that of a book or a classroom. Okay, that thought made me much happier about not having class. *Smiles*
NEELA
This is one of the ladies who clean my room – Neela. She is hilarious! To take this picture, she stripped off her sari and re-wrapped it and struck her pose. I’m almost never home when she comes in to clean so she probably always sees these black box-looking things and wonder what they are. After I took her picture, she felt comfortable enough to ask. Her English is pretty much non-existent so she just pointed and them and I said “Oh, they are speakers” and she smiled and repeated “speakers”. I know she had no clue what that meant, so I was listening to “Just like a Star” by Corrine Bailey Rae and I plugged them in and her face looked like she saw fireworks. She was grinning hard. I was a little taken aback by that because I surprised at her innocence/ignorance. How someone could not know what speakers are? But anyways, now she knows.
Friday, September 18, 2009
My week - School driving me nuts, Evan leaving, Meeting Pierre...
School has been really driving me crazy with its inconsistencies. There is always a meeting, a conference, a sickness, a holiday, an absence – any reason not to have class. I feel like this should just be independent study – just give me the syllabus, the books, the exams and I’ll take it from here. I hit the height of my frustration when I get to class and it is canceled and I could have been in bed, under my fan, listening to Adele (thanks to Sean and Sasha I’m now hooked on her) and just chilling. For example, Rob asked me to come to Sri Lanka with them for a couple days and I said no because I have school and it’s my reason for being here, I don’t want to lose focus. He left on that Wednesday night. Thursdays I have no classes, that Friday my classes were canceled, Saturday and Sunday I was free and the following Monday I had one class. I had 5 whole days to be in Sri Lanka…I could have gone!
On Monday night we had planned to meet up with Evan because he was leaving the following day. Last minute he canceled because he had to pack and do “last minute errands” he said so Sara came over to watch the movies I had bought for crazy cheap – bootleg movies are like 75 cents US here! So at dinner this young, cool-looking guy comes in and I thought “he must be new”. I introduce myself to almost everyone because I live here and I feel like they are my visitors and also, it’s just fun to meet new people. So the guy went and sat to the other side of the room so I didn’t care busy talking to Sara and Bec, an Irish girl who was just staying for 3 days. The following day I was really late for lunch because my evening class got canceled and I rushed back home to make it in time for lunch, to save myself the pain of eating the same sandwich they prepare for me everyday. When I got there there was no one in the dining area so I popped in my headphones and was listening to some music to avoid having a convo with the new kitchen manage who thinks we’re friends and loves to just stand there and watch me eat. Now men and women here are never friends. They might be coworkers, classmates etc. but not friends – women are only for marrying (and so on…), not befriending. He stood there, I watch him, he watches back, I look away, he doesn’t budge, I watch him again, and he fidgets and looks away. He then blatantly ignores my “do-not-disturb-headphones-on” conversation deterrence tactic and steps to my table – I could see his mouth moving and his usual grin plastered across his face. I reluctantly removed my headphones to hear him ask the same questions he asks whenever he sees me – no university today? You like Chennai? Or any question he could find about New York – random small-talk. I was very abrupt with him.
Minor segue:
Apart from the fact that I think he has intentions, I don’t like him because I don’t like how he treats the kitchen staff. He has power issues so when he’s around they will not speak to me freely or act as they do when he is not there. Most Indians here seem to have that issue though. The manager of the hotel (who by the way no longer speaks to me since I told him I think he was out of place to tell me how I look in my tops) was yelling at the front desk lady sometime last week. He was loud enough for the entire lobby to hear - “Do you want to be manager?? Uh?? Do you want to be manager?” He was letting her know “I run this!” I felt so embarrassed for her. This kitchen manager has the same attitude.
I popped my headphones back in after my punishing small talk session and then the cool kid comes in. Oh joy! Then I found him a little rude. He got his food and he went and sat across the room, as if we weren’t the only two in there. So I went over with my dessert and asked if he would mind if I sat down… and he didn’t. We started off with the two standard questions – where are you from and what are you doing in India? His English wasn’t the best, but thanks to my experience as an ESL (English as a Second Language) tutor, I have lots of patience in that area. He was from the south of France at the border of Spain and spoke both French and Spanish. He was traveling all of India alone, just for the experience. He said “it’s very spiritual to travel alone”. Surprisingly he asked about the consistency of classes at my university and I had a whole lot to say about that. He had done a semester in Peru and had the same frustration. At the end of his lunch he said he was going to the museum now and in his think French accent asked “zu you wanz zu join me?” The sun was really hot and I had just got back from class so I said “umm, can I let you know in a bit?” Then I thought about how unadventurous I would to stay in my room like I always do and not go with this gorgeous potential axe murderer to some random museum. I said “you know what? Sure, give me 10 minutes and I’ll meet you in the lobby”. He said sure “I’ll just be outside having a cigarette”. I was bummed – why did he have to be a smoker?! There went all hope of us being of like-mind. That was his first of many cigarettes. He smoked four of them in the three hours we spent together that afternoon. He was great though, very funny guy. I think we were both equally as glad for the company. The museum was sooo boring but he seemed interested so I played along. “Woww, coins”, I said with amazed expressions. After the museum he wanted to check out the beach, but I am not in the least impressed with beaches here, plus I had on good shoes that I would dread getting sandy, so we opted for the mall. He was as shocked at the mall as I was when I first saw it. It is extremely fancy by Indian standards. It’s hard to walk past the homeless and walk into this mall; you literally feel the massive gap between the rich and the poor. This one family of perhaps three generations crowded in front the escalator as we tried to make our way to the second floor. Most of them had obviously never been on an escalator. They were holding on to each other’s arms, afraid to step onto those moving stairs. Our presence made them a bit self conscious as they encourage it other – “just step on it, you’ll be fine”. The girl hopped on like a crazy-person, it was hilarious but I didn’t laugh. We just stepped on behind her. To the top of the stairs were another contingent of relatives waiting for her arrival and directing her how to step off. As we stepped off I look at Pierre and he’s having a good old laugh. He asked “zu think iz was ze first zime on ze escalator?” (haha I love doing his accent…so funny!) I said it was obviously so. He gets very dramatic when he can’t think of how to say something in English so at some point he had an entire conversation in French and had a good laugh because he knew I didn’t understand a word and he didn’t know how to translate. We took turns chooses stores to go into – it clear, he chose all the book and music stores and I chose all the clothes stores. Back at the hotel, we had dinner and watched a movie – Twilight! I love Twilight. He said when it was done “zis waz not for ze guy, zis for ze young girls”. I thought that was hilarious.
The next day we planned to go to the snake park after my classes ended at 3 pm. Naturally, my classes were canceled. Thankfully I got smart and started calling and texting professors before I leave the hotel. But Pierre had no idea I was home so he went out and came knocking at my door at 3. The rickshaw driver who drove us there hated me. He had been driving Pierre all day but for this trip he wanted 500 rupees. I said “oh hell no!” Pierre didn’t care. In fact, he enjoys watching me argue with rickshaw drivers. He said to me later that evening “you are a very good negotiator”. I had said to him before we got out of the hotel that the trip will be about 200 rs. but this man saw tourist and saw dollar signs. And he had a short temper and I’m a natural drama-queen - bad combination. I said “500???” He said “ma’am please, it is very far, and I wait for you…500”. When I said 200 rs he went crazy, saying I do not understand and how he was born in Chennai and he knows. So Pierre suggested we find another rickshaw, so we got out. The driver gets out too and follows us as we walk away saying “450 rupees, final!” So I turned around telling him that it is still doubled what it should be. He looks at Pierre and said “please sir…” and pointing at me with an open palm as if saying “ please control this woman…shut her up!” All Pierre said was “man, 200 rupees”. Every step we made he went down by 50 rs. Pierre whispered that he didn’t care and 300 rs. was fine. When the driver said “300 final!” we said okay and I whispered to Pierre I was only backing down because of him. On the drive there the man was scoffing and looking at me in the mirror, I didn’t care. Then he said “Where you from? Nigeria? Kenya?” Pierre, cigarette in hand, was grinning beside me because I had told him everyone thinks I’m African, and he said I could be French (most people did think I was French in Pondichery). I said to the driver “no, the US” he blurted “US??” as if I had a horn growing from my forehead and people with horns don’t come from the US. Well at least Pierre was entertained. When we got there and we got out the rickshaw the man said to Pierre “this woman…” and shook his head and made a face of disgust. Pierre said “no, I don’t think so…” I asked Pierre what he said about me but Pierre said he didn’t finish his sentence.
The park wasn’t as interesting as I thought but I love zoos so it was nice in that regard. Pierre was being a nuisance, tapping the glass and irritating the snakes, pebbling the crocs to get a reaction and any other mischievous thing he could find to do. There was this tree caged around with 5 chameleons in it and a sign that said “Can you find them?” I found all 5 and Pierre was still on 2. I just ended up showing them to him. It pays to grow up in the bushes of Santa Cruz!
There are so many poisonous snakes in India; there are poisonous sea snakes, not that I had any plans to go into that sewage filled sea. There are a lot of vipers and cobras – all different kinds of species of them. I just read in the paper that this woman got bitten by a viper in her bedroom and was discharged from the hospital but later died because the venom was still in her. So her niece and her niece’s little 4 yr old daughter came down from her funeral and stayed in her dead aunt’s house. In the middle of the night, they heard the little girl scream out and saw that a snake had bitten her – a viper, perhaps the same one – and killed it. The poor little girl also died from the venomous bite.
We decided that dinner outside of the hotel would be more fun. So we went back to the hotel to get off all the grime from a long evening at the snake park and then headed off to dinner. Before that, we had to argue with the driver again, who claimed that though he agreed to 300rs. the traffic was heavy so he should be paid 400rs. Well I dealt with him – he called me “dangerous” and I just said thank you for the service and we walked off with him wailing the money in the air screaming “this is no thank you!”
The restaurant was totally my choice. I had been there twice before and I really like it. It’s a vegetarian place called “Cream Centre” – great food, nice ambiance, perfect!
Today (Thursday) was Pierre’s last day here in Chennai and my day off so he asked if I would join him shopping. We “shopped”…all he bought was two random cds. We didn’t stay out too long because he had a bus to catch and I had some sleep to catch up on. It was sad, because he knocked on my room door with a bit of paper in his hand and said “I’m leaving now”. He wanted to get my contact information so we could stay in touch. He gave me a little speech that seemed rehearsed about if I want to go anywhere in India and I want company, give him a call. Awww…
But prefer the “icebox” reaction in times like these so I said “yeh, sure thing...bye now” (waved) as he took backward footsteps out my door. I did like Evan did when he said goodbye on Tuesday. He said “later, gotta run, enjoy the rest of your trip” and walked off as if we hadn’t spent the last month together. I shouted “ok talk to u on facebook!” he responded without even looking at me for more than a second “yea, bye”.
Pierre said something in French as I was closing my door, something that meant goodbye (I guess) and he smiled…
(Pics coming soon...they are not uploading for some reason!!)
On Monday night we had planned to meet up with Evan because he was leaving the following day. Last minute he canceled because he had to pack and do “last minute errands” he said so Sara came over to watch the movies I had bought for crazy cheap – bootleg movies are like 75 cents US here! So at dinner this young, cool-looking guy comes in and I thought “he must be new”. I introduce myself to almost everyone because I live here and I feel like they are my visitors and also, it’s just fun to meet new people. So the guy went and sat to the other side of the room so I didn’t care busy talking to Sara and Bec, an Irish girl who was just staying for 3 days. The following day I was really late for lunch because my evening class got canceled and I rushed back home to make it in time for lunch, to save myself the pain of eating the same sandwich they prepare for me everyday. When I got there there was no one in the dining area so I popped in my headphones and was listening to some music to avoid having a convo with the new kitchen manage who thinks we’re friends and loves to just stand there and watch me eat. Now men and women here are never friends. They might be coworkers, classmates etc. but not friends – women are only for marrying (and so on…), not befriending. He stood there, I watch him, he watches back, I look away, he doesn’t budge, I watch him again, and he fidgets and looks away. He then blatantly ignores my “do-not-disturb-headphones-on” conversation deterrence tactic and steps to my table – I could see his mouth moving and his usual grin plastered across his face. I reluctantly removed my headphones to hear him ask the same questions he asks whenever he sees me – no university today? You like Chennai? Or any question he could find about New York – random small-talk. I was very abrupt with him.
Minor segue:
Apart from the fact that I think he has intentions, I don’t like him because I don’t like how he treats the kitchen staff. He has power issues so when he’s around they will not speak to me freely or act as they do when he is not there. Most Indians here seem to have that issue though. The manager of the hotel (who by the way no longer speaks to me since I told him I think he was out of place to tell me how I look in my tops) was yelling at the front desk lady sometime last week. He was loud enough for the entire lobby to hear - “Do you want to be manager?? Uh?? Do you want to be manager?” He was letting her know “I run this!” I felt so embarrassed for her. This kitchen manager has the same attitude.
I popped my headphones back in after my punishing small talk session and then the cool kid comes in. Oh joy! Then I found him a little rude. He got his food and he went and sat across the room, as if we weren’t the only two in there. So I went over with my dessert and asked if he would mind if I sat down… and he didn’t. We started off with the two standard questions – where are you from and what are you doing in India? His English wasn’t the best, but thanks to my experience as an ESL (English as a Second Language) tutor, I have lots of patience in that area. He was from the south of France at the border of Spain and spoke both French and Spanish. He was traveling all of India alone, just for the experience. He said “it’s very spiritual to travel alone”. Surprisingly he asked about the consistency of classes at my university and I had a whole lot to say about that. He had done a semester in Peru and had the same frustration. At the end of his lunch he said he was going to the museum now and in his think French accent asked “zu you wanz zu join me?” The sun was really hot and I had just got back from class so I said “umm, can I let you know in a bit?” Then I thought about how unadventurous I would to stay in my room like I always do and not go with this gorgeous potential axe murderer to some random museum. I said “you know what? Sure, give me 10 minutes and I’ll meet you in the lobby”. He said sure “I’ll just be outside having a cigarette”. I was bummed – why did he have to be a smoker?! There went all hope of us being of like-mind. That was his first of many cigarettes. He smoked four of them in the three hours we spent together that afternoon. He was great though, very funny guy. I think we were both equally as glad for the company. The museum was sooo boring but he seemed interested so I played along. “Woww, coins”, I said with amazed expressions. After the museum he wanted to check out the beach, but I am not in the least impressed with beaches here, plus I had on good shoes that I would dread getting sandy, so we opted for the mall. He was as shocked at the mall as I was when I first saw it. It is extremely fancy by Indian standards. It’s hard to walk past the homeless and walk into this mall; you literally feel the massive gap between the rich and the poor. This one family of perhaps three generations crowded in front the escalator as we tried to make our way to the second floor. Most of them had obviously never been on an escalator. They were holding on to each other’s arms, afraid to step onto those moving stairs. Our presence made them a bit self conscious as they encourage it other – “just step on it, you’ll be fine”. The girl hopped on like a crazy-person, it was hilarious but I didn’t laugh. We just stepped on behind her. To the top of the stairs were another contingent of relatives waiting for her arrival and directing her how to step off. As we stepped off I look at Pierre and he’s having a good old laugh. He asked “zu think iz was ze first zime on ze escalator?” (haha I love doing his accent…so funny!) I said it was obviously so. He gets very dramatic when he can’t think of how to say something in English so at some point he had an entire conversation in French and had a good laugh because he knew I didn’t understand a word and he didn’t know how to translate. We took turns chooses stores to go into – it clear, he chose all the book and music stores and I chose all the clothes stores. Back at the hotel, we had dinner and watched a movie – Twilight! I love Twilight. He said when it was done “zis waz not for ze guy, zis for ze young girls”. I thought that was hilarious.
The next day we planned to go to the snake park after my classes ended at 3 pm. Naturally, my classes were canceled. Thankfully I got smart and started calling and texting professors before I leave the hotel. But Pierre had no idea I was home so he went out and came knocking at my door at 3. The rickshaw driver who drove us there hated me. He had been driving Pierre all day but for this trip he wanted 500 rupees. I said “oh hell no!” Pierre didn’t care. In fact, he enjoys watching me argue with rickshaw drivers. He said to me later that evening “you are a very good negotiator”. I had said to him before we got out of the hotel that the trip will be about 200 rs. but this man saw tourist and saw dollar signs. And he had a short temper and I’m a natural drama-queen - bad combination. I said “500???” He said “ma’am please, it is very far, and I wait for you…500”. When I said 200 rs he went crazy, saying I do not understand and how he was born in Chennai and he knows. So Pierre suggested we find another rickshaw, so we got out. The driver gets out too and follows us as we walk away saying “450 rupees, final!” So I turned around telling him that it is still doubled what it should be. He looks at Pierre and said “please sir…” and pointing at me with an open palm as if saying “ please control this woman…shut her up!” All Pierre said was “man, 200 rupees”. Every step we made he went down by 50 rs. Pierre whispered that he didn’t care and 300 rs. was fine. When the driver said “300 final!” we said okay and I whispered to Pierre I was only backing down because of him. On the drive there the man was scoffing and looking at me in the mirror, I didn’t care. Then he said “Where you from? Nigeria? Kenya?” Pierre, cigarette in hand, was grinning beside me because I had told him everyone thinks I’m African, and he said I could be French (most people did think I was French in Pondichery). I said to the driver “no, the US” he blurted “US??” as if I had a horn growing from my forehead and people with horns don’t come from the US. Well at least Pierre was entertained. When we got there and we got out the rickshaw the man said to Pierre “this woman…” and shook his head and made a face of disgust. Pierre said “no, I don’t think so…” I asked Pierre what he said about me but Pierre said he didn’t finish his sentence.
The park wasn’t as interesting as I thought but I love zoos so it was nice in that regard. Pierre was being a nuisance, tapping the glass and irritating the snakes, pebbling the crocs to get a reaction and any other mischievous thing he could find to do. There was this tree caged around with 5 chameleons in it and a sign that said “Can you find them?” I found all 5 and Pierre was still on 2. I just ended up showing them to him. It pays to grow up in the bushes of Santa Cruz!
There are so many poisonous snakes in India; there are poisonous sea snakes, not that I had any plans to go into that sewage filled sea. There are a lot of vipers and cobras – all different kinds of species of them. I just read in the paper that this woman got bitten by a viper in her bedroom and was discharged from the hospital but later died because the venom was still in her. So her niece and her niece’s little 4 yr old daughter came down from her funeral and stayed in her dead aunt’s house. In the middle of the night, they heard the little girl scream out and saw that a snake had bitten her – a viper, perhaps the same one – and killed it. The poor little girl also died from the venomous bite.
We decided that dinner outside of the hotel would be more fun. So we went back to the hotel to get off all the grime from a long evening at the snake park and then headed off to dinner. Before that, we had to argue with the driver again, who claimed that though he agreed to 300rs. the traffic was heavy so he should be paid 400rs. Well I dealt with him – he called me “dangerous” and I just said thank you for the service and we walked off with him wailing the money in the air screaming “this is no thank you!”
The restaurant was totally my choice. I had been there twice before and I really like it. It’s a vegetarian place called “Cream Centre” – great food, nice ambiance, perfect!
Today (Thursday) was Pierre’s last day here in Chennai and my day off so he asked if I would join him shopping. We “shopped”…all he bought was two random cds. We didn’t stay out too long because he had a bus to catch and I had some sleep to catch up on. It was sad, because he knocked on my room door with a bit of paper in his hand and said “I’m leaving now”. He wanted to get my contact information so we could stay in touch. He gave me a little speech that seemed rehearsed about if I want to go anywhere in India and I want company, give him a call. Awww…
But prefer the “icebox” reaction in times like these so I said “yeh, sure thing...bye now” (waved) as he took backward footsteps out my door. I did like Evan did when he said goodbye on Tuesday. He said “later, gotta run, enjoy the rest of your trip” and walked off as if we hadn’t spent the last month together. I shouted “ok talk to u on facebook!” he responded without even looking at me for more than a second “yea, bye”.
Pierre said something in French as I was closing my door, something that meant goodbye (I guess) and he smiled…
(Pics coming soon...they are not uploading for some reason!!)
MY WEEKEND IN PONIDCHERRY
Pondichery is a French influenced state within India, that’s about 4 hours drive south of Chennai. It’s on the south-eastern coast of India so Evan wanted to go there for his last weekend in India because he thought it would be perfect – beach, alcohol, French women... HMM. let’s just say, at the end of it all, he wasn’t happy.
The bus ride to get to Pondi was interesting. It was the oldest bus ever, filled to the maximum with men, women, children and 3 tourists – Evan, Sara and I. Like most buses, I thought the seats were for two people, but they were for three. I got the best of it though. I was caked against the window (with no glass) with my bags on my lap and I got all the sea breeze! The bus shot down the road at an incredible speed, along the coast of the Bay of Bengal, blasting the loudest, most annoying high-pitched Indian music ever and honking crazily on occasions for cars, cows, goats etc. to move out of its way.
When we got there we took a rickshaw from the bus station. The driver took us to the main tourist area, where all the French live. The streets were nice and paved. It was so CLEAN, I swore I was in another country. I said “this feels like SOHO”. This cleanliness only existed in those few blocks though. Outside of that neighborhood was the regular rubbish-filled, gross, chaotic India I’m used to. Our rickshaw driver was a real trip. I am used to being tricked and cheated now; I almost expect it every time. But this guy took it to new heights. We agreed to $40 rupees (which is really cheap compared to Chennai’s prices) but when we finally got there, the cheat wanted doubled that. He did do a little extra driving so I said to Evan and Sara that we should give him 60 rs. He wasn’t happy with that, and I’m like “how much do you want?” and he said to me “you love money uh?” with his bad English. So I thought that was so rude, though I wasn’t sure what that meant. So I responded “you clearly love money more than I do!” At this point, Evan walked off cussing out loud – he doesn’t think it makes sense to argue with them because 1) they never back down and 2) their English is limited. We didn’t pay him what he wanted but did give him 60 rupees, he wasn’t happy but that was still a very generous of us. He was only the start of our rickshaw worries.
At this point it was night, around 7:30 and we were looking for a place to sleep for the weekend. This woman saw us on the street and asked “rooms?” and we found our place. It was perfect for what we wanted! Three beds, a functioning toilet and right in the heart of the French. In fact, the owners were a French man and his Indian wife and they cute half-half children. Evan was ecstatic because the room had a refrigerator. Then he went into the toilet and he shouted out “AND they have toilet paper! This is legit!!” I laugh every time I feel myself getting excited about toilet paper but the joy of not having to rinse-and-go is overwhelming!
We went to a really nice restaurant that night and had really bad food. The menu was in French so I ordered some fancy-sounding main course that I could not pronounce. I just pointed to it on the menu – I know the waiter couldn’t pronounce it either, he was Indian. My meal pretty much translated to watery, salt-less mashed potatoes served with boiled, unseasoned chicken in a white sauce.
That night we went for a stroll along the beach to walk off our unsatisfying dinner then back to our room. We stayed up until the wee hours of the morning talking/arguing (I was talking, Evan was arguing) about religion. Evan recently turned agnostic after growing up in Church of Christ. He literally questions everything about God which led us no where because he wanted logic – facts and figures that there was in fact a God – faith was too much of a stretch for him.
Anyways, we barely got up the following morning. We had brunch at another beautiful restaurant with horrible food.
Top on our agenda for that day was to find a beach. Now this coast was hit by the tsunami and from the looks of the footage I have seen – resorts, palm trees etc - I thought the beaches would have been great! Our hotel was right by a beach called Rocky Beach but it was exactly that, a rocky beach, not for bathing.
We caught a rickshaw who over charged us but promised to take us to “the best beach, best for bathe”. So we took a good 20 minute drive along the coast, I was looking at the water and thinking “I need some Tobago waters, that’s the only way I’m going in!” It was sooooo hot though, it felt about 39 degrees (celsius), a painful kind of heat. This man took us to the back of two hotels, both were walled and there was an alley way between two walls that led to the beach. I thought this was very suspect but we were too geared up to get wet. It was a long path and along the way there was a huge frog-looking creature rotting with swarms of flies everywhere. As we walked through this gross alley we began to get a minor smell of fish and we began to hear the sound of the water but a there was a more dominating sound – vultures overhead, big, noisy ones. I thought nothing of it. Evan was leading the way; he was psyched to see the water. The alley then made a turn, we got beyond the walls and there was a huge opening to the beach. We made about 10 steps and the blast of what must have been loads and loads of rotting fish and other miscellaneous animals – actually, I have no idea what that smell was. I just couldn’t breathe and I started coughing. Sara just looked at me with her hands over her face. Evan just started cussing and ranting – hands in the air and all. I started ruffling through my bag to get my towel, I couldn’t stomach the air I was breathing in and I bent over and everything inside my stomach wanted to jump out and I started gagging. I quickly wrapped my head in my towel and ran back to the start of the alley-way. Evan passed me, still cussing to himself, and marching like a buffalo soldier back to meet the man who brought us there. Poor Sara, all she said was “that's GROSS!” My nose and eyes were running – that was by far the worse smell I have ever come across in my 20+ years. Evan argued with this man and like 5 other rickshaw drivers who suggested every beach in all of southern India that was better than this one. I didn’t care too much at that point, the heat didn’t ease up and I felt like there was still a rotten fish sitting to the top of my nose. After a bit I said to Evan that the man initially said this was the best beach, so his judgment on beaches in general needs to be questioned. We opted to be taken back and he had the nerve to charge us more money to take us back than he did to bring us there. I have learnt that if you want to see Evan act like a madman, just turn up the heat. He acts very annoyed and very annoying. He blurted that he doesn’t care and he just wants to be back! He then proceeded to take of his clothes, “I hope y’all don’t mind…” he said. He went barebacked all the way, so unacceptable in India. We checked out a few hotels in our desperate search for any kind of body of water, but all pools were under construction that weekend it seemed.
Our trot to find a hotel
One hotel had a really nice lounge/bar so we just chilled on their sofas and made friends with two American guys from California. We had given up on beaches or pools at that point. We just went back home, sweaty like pigs and fell asleep until dinner. For dinner we had the ever-notorious curry! We realized that even in Pondichery, the Indians really only know how to perfect curry dishes. After dinner Sara and I opted to stay home while Evan went clubbing with his new friends from Cali. Pondichery was very laid back, so us girls wanted to enjoy that a bit, plus the sun was so hot we were always tired.
The next morning we did a little shopping, had lunch and started to head back to Chennai in the afternoon. The ride back was sooo gross and dirty for no reason. Sara and I sit in the very back corner of the bus where someone had brought up food perhaps months prior and it had dried up. I was upset for a little then just grossed out for a large part of the 4 hours. And it was so hot at the back of the bus and I sat between Sara and this lady and another man sat next to the lady. That man and I almost had it out because he stared me non-stop for about an hour. I started to try to dose off a little to make the time pass quicker. So I’m getting in the zone – head back, eyes closed, etc. I can feel the burn from the heat rising in the overcrowded bus, but I’m thinking happy thoughts. Then I felt the burning rays of a stare and when I open my eyes I see this man leaned forward watching me dead in my face with an intense “examinating” expression. So now I was totally uncomfortable, and he wouldn’t look away for more than a couple seconds. At some points I would look over and look at him for two seconds, dead on, then look away with my “beast face” on. He didn’t seem intimidated. Like Evan would say “he was staring like it’s his full-time job!
A lot of people can’t take the suspense and if they can speak English they’d come up to me and ask where I’m from. I never say Trinidad unless I want a conversation because most don’t know where it is. I simply say New York or US and they look wide-eyed. I had at least 3 people say to me “OBAMA?!”
So after the long, excruciating bus ride, we had to take a local bus to get to our hostels. Sara took a separate bus and Evan and I took the same bus. He is such a wuss. He didn’t want to sit with me because “I don’t wanna get thrown off”. So I played nice and sat on the women’s side. Our bus was over crowded at this point, there was a woman sitting next to me and several other standing over us, holding on. So as I was looking through the window (it was night at this point) and I saw the weirdest thing. Our bus stopped in traffic and there was this loud drumming and a crowd. Then there was this girl/woman (definitely in her 20’s) who was being pushed forcefully to the center of what seemed to be a circle around the drummers. Her hands were clasped (as if praying) at her chin and she stood upright but stumbled as she was being pushed. I was confused at this point and looked at the women surrounding me and the ones standing were all bent over looking through the window as well. The woman next to me was leaned forward and peering as intensely as I was. I looked back and a man was aggressively started unloosing her hair and she jus stood there with her hands clasped as the drums rang out and our bus pulled off. I immediately turned to the woman next to me and asked with a face of horror “what are they doing to her?” But she looked and me and said something that sounded like “I didn’t see” and she made a random hand gesture. I had no clue what her story was but I felt like she didn’t want to tell me, because I knew she saw. So, when I got no response from her I looked at the ladies that were standing and they just smiled. Now, it’s still a mystery.
The bus ride to get to Pondi was interesting. It was the oldest bus ever, filled to the maximum with men, women, children and 3 tourists – Evan, Sara and I. Like most buses, I thought the seats were for two people, but they were for three. I got the best of it though. I was caked against the window (with no glass) with my bags on my lap and I got all the sea breeze! The bus shot down the road at an incredible speed, along the coast of the Bay of Bengal, blasting the loudest, most annoying high-pitched Indian music ever and honking crazily on occasions for cars, cows, goats etc. to move out of its way.
When we got there we took a rickshaw from the bus station. The driver took us to the main tourist area, where all the French live. The streets were nice and paved. It was so CLEAN, I swore I was in another country. I said “this feels like SOHO”. This cleanliness only existed in those few blocks though. Outside of that neighborhood was the regular rubbish-filled, gross, chaotic India I’m used to. Our rickshaw driver was a real trip. I am used to being tricked and cheated now; I almost expect it every time. But this guy took it to new heights. We agreed to $40 rupees (which is really cheap compared to Chennai’s prices) but when we finally got there, the cheat wanted doubled that. He did do a little extra driving so I said to Evan and Sara that we should give him 60 rs. He wasn’t happy with that, and I’m like “how much do you want?” and he said to me “you love money uh?” with his bad English. So I thought that was so rude, though I wasn’t sure what that meant. So I responded “you clearly love money more than I do!” At this point, Evan walked off cussing out loud – he doesn’t think it makes sense to argue with them because 1) they never back down and 2) their English is limited. We didn’t pay him what he wanted but did give him 60 rupees, he wasn’t happy but that was still a very generous of us. He was only the start of our rickshaw worries.
At this point it was night, around 7:30 and we were looking for a place to sleep for the weekend. This woman saw us on the street and asked “rooms?” and we found our place. It was perfect for what we wanted! Three beds, a functioning toilet and right in the heart of the French. In fact, the owners were a French man and his Indian wife and they cute half-half children. Evan was ecstatic because the room had a refrigerator. Then he went into the toilet and he shouted out “AND they have toilet paper! This is legit!!” I laugh every time I feel myself getting excited about toilet paper but the joy of not having to rinse-and-go is overwhelming!
We went to a really nice restaurant that night and had really bad food. The menu was in French so I ordered some fancy-sounding main course that I could not pronounce. I just pointed to it on the menu – I know the waiter couldn’t pronounce it either, he was Indian. My meal pretty much translated to watery, salt-less mashed potatoes served with boiled, unseasoned chicken in a white sauce.
That night we went for a stroll along the beach to walk off our unsatisfying dinner then back to our room. We stayed up until the wee hours of the morning talking/arguing (I was talking, Evan was arguing) about religion. Evan recently turned agnostic after growing up in Church of Christ. He literally questions everything about God which led us no where because he wanted logic – facts and figures that there was in fact a God – faith was too much of a stretch for him.
Anyways, we barely got up the following morning. We had brunch at another beautiful restaurant with horrible food.
Top on our agenda for that day was to find a beach. Now this coast was hit by the tsunami and from the looks of the footage I have seen – resorts, palm trees etc - I thought the beaches would have been great! Our hotel was right by a beach called Rocky Beach but it was exactly that, a rocky beach, not for bathing.
We caught a rickshaw who over charged us but promised to take us to “the best beach, best for bathe”. So we took a good 20 minute drive along the coast, I was looking at the water and thinking “I need some Tobago waters, that’s the only way I’m going in!” It was sooooo hot though, it felt about 39 degrees (celsius), a painful kind of heat. This man took us to the back of two hotels, both were walled and there was an alley way between two walls that led to the beach. I thought this was very suspect but we were too geared up to get wet. It was a long path and along the way there was a huge frog-looking creature rotting with swarms of flies everywhere. As we walked through this gross alley we began to get a minor smell of fish and we began to hear the sound of the water but a there was a more dominating sound – vultures overhead, big, noisy ones. I thought nothing of it. Evan was leading the way; he was psyched to see the water. The alley then made a turn, we got beyond the walls and there was a huge opening to the beach. We made about 10 steps and the blast of what must have been loads and loads of rotting fish and other miscellaneous animals – actually, I have no idea what that smell was. I just couldn’t breathe and I started coughing. Sara just looked at me with her hands over her face. Evan just started cussing and ranting – hands in the air and all. I started ruffling through my bag to get my towel, I couldn’t stomach the air I was breathing in and I bent over and everything inside my stomach wanted to jump out and I started gagging. I quickly wrapped my head in my towel and ran back to the start of the alley-way. Evan passed me, still cussing to himself, and marching like a buffalo soldier back to meet the man who brought us there. Poor Sara, all she said was “that's GROSS!” My nose and eyes were running – that was by far the worse smell I have ever come across in my 20+ years. Evan argued with this man and like 5 other rickshaw drivers who suggested every beach in all of southern India that was better than this one. I didn’t care too much at that point, the heat didn’t ease up and I felt like there was still a rotten fish sitting to the top of my nose. After a bit I said to Evan that the man initially said this was the best beach, so his judgment on beaches in general needs to be questioned. We opted to be taken back and he had the nerve to charge us more money to take us back than he did to bring us there. I have learnt that if you want to see Evan act like a madman, just turn up the heat. He acts very annoyed and very annoying. He blurted that he doesn’t care and he just wants to be back! He then proceeded to take of his clothes, “I hope y’all don’t mind…” he said. He went barebacked all the way, so unacceptable in India. We checked out a few hotels in our desperate search for any kind of body of water, but all pools were under construction that weekend it seemed.
Our trot to find a hotel
One hotel had a really nice lounge/bar so we just chilled on their sofas and made friends with two American guys from California. We had given up on beaches or pools at that point. We just went back home, sweaty like pigs and fell asleep until dinner. For dinner we had the ever-notorious curry! We realized that even in Pondichery, the Indians really only know how to perfect curry dishes. After dinner Sara and I opted to stay home while Evan went clubbing with his new friends from Cali. Pondichery was very laid back, so us girls wanted to enjoy that a bit, plus the sun was so hot we were always tired.
The next morning we did a little shopping, had lunch and started to head back to Chennai in the afternoon. The ride back was sooo gross and dirty for no reason. Sara and I sit in the very back corner of the bus where someone had brought up food perhaps months prior and it had dried up. I was upset for a little then just grossed out for a large part of the 4 hours. And it was so hot at the back of the bus and I sat between Sara and this lady and another man sat next to the lady. That man and I almost had it out because he stared me non-stop for about an hour. I started to try to dose off a little to make the time pass quicker. So I’m getting in the zone – head back, eyes closed, etc. I can feel the burn from the heat rising in the overcrowded bus, but I’m thinking happy thoughts. Then I felt the burning rays of a stare and when I open my eyes I see this man leaned forward watching me dead in my face with an intense “examinating” expression. So now I was totally uncomfortable, and he wouldn’t look away for more than a couple seconds. At some points I would look over and look at him for two seconds, dead on, then look away with my “beast face” on. He didn’t seem intimidated. Like Evan would say “he was staring like it’s his full-time job!
A lot of people can’t take the suspense and if they can speak English they’d come up to me and ask where I’m from. I never say Trinidad unless I want a conversation because most don’t know where it is. I simply say New York or US and they look wide-eyed. I had at least 3 people say to me “OBAMA?!”
So after the long, excruciating bus ride, we had to take a local bus to get to our hostels. Sara took a separate bus and Evan and I took the same bus. He is such a wuss. He didn’t want to sit with me because “I don’t wanna get thrown off”. So I played nice and sat on the women’s side. Our bus was over crowded at this point, there was a woman sitting next to me and several other standing over us, holding on. So as I was looking through the window (it was night at this point) and I saw the weirdest thing. Our bus stopped in traffic and there was this loud drumming and a crowd. Then there was this girl/woman (definitely in her 20’s) who was being pushed forcefully to the center of what seemed to be a circle around the drummers. Her hands were clasped (as if praying) at her chin and she stood upright but stumbled as she was being pushed. I was confused at this point and looked at the women surrounding me and the ones standing were all bent over looking through the window as well. The woman next to me was leaned forward and peering as intensely as I was. I looked back and a man was aggressively started unloosing her hair and she jus stood there with her hands clasped as the drums rang out and our bus pulled off. I immediately turned to the woman next to me and asked with a face of horror “what are they doing to her?” But she looked and me and said something that sounded like “I didn’t see” and she made a random hand gesture. I had no clue what her story was but I felt like she didn’t want to tell me, because I knew she saw. So, when I got no response from her I looked at the ladies that were standing and they just smiled. Now, it’s still a mystery.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Are we in kindergarten?? 'Cause I thought this was a Master's class....
Today I just wanted to be back in New York, at my well organized, policy-governed university; a place where students are treated with much more respect than I’ve experienced here. Yesterday (Monday) I skipped school because I wasn’t feeling myself, my stomach was acting a little ‘mysterious’. I called one professor and told him I wasn’t going to make it. My other class, I had no contact for the professor, but I didn’t think she’ll miss me anyway. I did agree to present a paper on child abuse in India that morning but there were tons of other students presenting as well so I really didn’t think it would matter, especially seeing that I had a valid excuse for not making it. When I got to class today our professor came in to say that the head of the sociology department wanted to meet with each of us individually to discuss the extensive amount of absences from class. I didn’t care because I was always there (when I’m well -which is most times), everybody was shaking, saying they were scared. I was confused! These were all master’s students – grown men and women – acting this way? This department chair was bawling up each student and demanding answers for their or other classmates’ one or two absences. I thought the whole this was pointless, a waste of a potentially productive class period. Everybody who went to see him came back with a look of horror on their faces and our professor would ask “how was it?” It then came to my turn to see this Indian on a power trip. I was annoyed because I was thinking that this reminds me of an article I was reading in the Sunday’s paper that discussed how India is big on rank and status. This can determine how you are treated and how you are allowed to treat others. All this comes from the whole caste system too – “some are born serve, some are born to be served” the article said. I have found that most people here over-use their authority. So I entered his office and he is sitting on his throne with another professor there who just stood and looked on as he told off one student after another. I think I went in his office fired up, because I thought it was ridiculous from the start. He started with random small talk “So how are you enjoying this place?” I answered saying that it was very different from what I’m used to and that I was adjusting. He, without warning, flipped the script on me. He went into his power trip mode. He leaned back in his chair and just went from 0 to 10. “Yes, but you just can’t be given an assignment and not do it…your professor told me” he blurted. I was a little confused for a second then I asked, “ are you talking about yesterday? I did the assignment but I missed class because I was sick” He snapped, “everybody who came in here said I’m sick, I’m sick”. I wanted to say “duhh, because this place is so stink! Everybody has one thing or another”.
Segue: One professor has patches of lifted skin that looks like dried fish scales all over his hands and face. Today he accidentally picked up my bottled water thinking it was his – my heart was pounding! With no decency, right then and there, I bathe the bottle with hand sanitizer then wiped it with a kleenex. I know that’s horrible, but I’m really not trying to catch anything here, my mosquito bites look bad enough.
I tried to say to Mr. Power-Trip (and the bubble-head professor who just stood there nodding with his armed folded, egging him on) that I really was sick and I had already apologized to my professor and she gave me her number to call her if a case like this may arise again…but he wouldn’t even let me finish. He blurted “ have some sincerity!” I wasn’t sure whether that meant he thought I was lying or he used the word out of context. I asked ridiculously “sincerity??” I realized that I had to be explicit with this man because he has a thick skull so I continued, “I was sick! You wanted me to come to class? I was in the toilet all day long!” A bit of an exaggeration but I wanted it to hit home. He looked at the other professor and they both start laughing like the idiots they were being. He then caught himself when he saw that I was dead serious and shouted “this is ovad! And have some sincerity” I said “what?” he said “ovad (over)! You’re explanation is accepted” and pointed me to the door. I was so annoyed. I think that he didn’t care that I was sick or that I wasn’t sick, he was just annoyed I didn’t do like the other students and said “yes sir…yes sir” sheepishly. My thing is, if I’m shown respect, I will give all my respect- but I found him rude as hell. When I got back to the classroom, Suriya, who looked like she wanted to cry when she had returned, asked “you got scolded?” I just looked at her and said nothing. Our professor, who I was annoyed at for squealing even when she knew I was sick, asked “how was it?” I said “ridiculous!” She (and the whole class) just looked at my angry face wide-eyed and said nothing.
Segue: One professor has patches of lifted skin that looks like dried fish scales all over his hands and face. Today he accidentally picked up my bottled water thinking it was his – my heart was pounding! With no decency, right then and there, I bathe the bottle with hand sanitizer then wiped it with a kleenex. I know that’s horrible, but I’m really not trying to catch anything here, my mosquito bites look bad enough.
I tried to say to Mr. Power-Trip (and the bubble-head professor who just stood there nodding with his armed folded, egging him on) that I really was sick and I had already apologized to my professor and she gave me her number to call her if a case like this may arise again…but he wouldn’t even let me finish. He blurted “ have some sincerity!” I wasn’t sure whether that meant he thought I was lying or he used the word out of context. I asked ridiculously “sincerity??” I realized that I had to be explicit with this man because he has a thick skull so I continued, “I was sick! You wanted me to come to class? I was in the toilet all day long!” A bit of an exaggeration but I wanted it to hit home. He looked at the other professor and they both start laughing like the idiots they were being. He then caught himself when he saw that I was dead serious and shouted “this is ovad! And have some sincerity” I said “what?” he said “ovad (over)! You’re explanation is accepted” and pointed me to the door. I was so annoyed. I think that he didn’t care that I was sick or that I wasn’t sick, he was just annoyed I didn’t do like the other students and said “yes sir…yes sir” sheepishly. My thing is, if I’m shown respect, I will give all my respect- but I found him rude as hell. When I got back to the classroom, Suriya, who looked like she wanted to cry when she had returned, asked “you got scolded?” I just looked at her and said nothing. Our professor, who I was annoyed at for squealing even when she knew I was sick, asked “how was it?” I said “ridiculous!” She (and the whole class) just looked at my angry face wide-eyed and said nothing.
India made me smile...
On my way to campus today I saw a man on a motorbike carrying a small crate stuffed with at least 30 white fowls – big ones. Some were half-dead - perhaps it was the heat that did it- and some were dead-dead, with their necks hanging off the sides of the crate and flapping up and down in the wind as he sped up the road. It was gross but it made me smile.
It made me think of Daddy’s chicken selling stories. This past summer he had me cracking up with his stories of selling chickens as a teenager. He would walk from house to house trying to sell his chickens but heat of Trinidad’s sun would kill them before he got a sale. Of course, nobody would buy a dead chicken especially not from a potentially lying young boy. The concerns of his potential customers were -- How did the chickens die? How long had they been dead? You’re sure they just died as you were walking up here? No one bought dead chickens. I had heard him tell this story many times growing up, but this summer it was the funniest! The poor rickshaw driver must have thought I was mad, cracking up all by myself at the back of his auto. It was a good way to start my morning though.
It made me think of Daddy’s chicken selling stories. This past summer he had me cracking up with his stories of selling chickens as a teenager. He would walk from house to house trying to sell his chickens but heat of Trinidad’s sun would kill them before he got a sale. Of course, nobody would buy a dead chicken especially not from a potentially lying young boy. The concerns of his potential customers were -- How did the chickens die? How long had they been dead? You’re sure they just died as you were walking up here? No one bought dead chickens. I had heard him tell this story many times growing up, but this summer it was the funniest! The poor rickshaw driver must have thought I was mad, cracking up all by myself at the back of his auto. It was a good way to start my morning though.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
My first Indian Wedding!
Today I went to my first ever Indian (Hindu) wedding. It was the wedding of an English professor at my university. I am still confused as to what happened at that wedding – a rope was tied around the legs of the couple, a bunch of random acts involving rice and milk and candles and flowers were performed, the guests were smoked out, rice was thrown on the couples head and they were married. It was weirdly serious though. There were no gasps of excitement when the bride walked out, the bride didn’t even smile when she walked out, everyone just looked on like they were being forced to witness the most atrocious thing. I was the only excited one saying “awww… look at her!” I thought she looked nice in her wedding sari…no one else thought so it seemed. Everything was so colorful and festive looking, but not the bride, and the groom was worse. He looked upset! I saw the bride’s sister gesturing for him to smile, but he just didn’t want to, he gave her an “It’s my wedding and I’ll smile if I want to” kind of look. On the drive there, I was telling Evan that when she invited me I was too embarassed to ask if it was an arranged marriage or a love marriage. We both agreed that we would look at the body language and draw a conclusion.
Well I knew from the start there was no real love because when he came out, he didn’t look at her twice, in fact, he didn't even look at her once. His face looked like he was ticked! It was so weird. Absolutely no eye contact or conversation between the bride and groom – it was strictly business. I was busy nudging Evan who had no time with me because he was annoyed at this bawling child sitting at the back of us – “that kid is crying like it’s his full-time job” he grumbled. He didn’t like the music either. It really did sound like finger nails were being dragged across a chalk board. He made it his duty to point out that there was no consistent rhythm, and that the men were just playing whatever they felt on that flute thingy. He was right. I was thinking about Trinidad Indian weddings and how it’s all about the music, the rhythm of the tassa drums – these men really needed a lesson.
Now Indian weddings are all about the fashion. I thought I was dressed up, but I really was under dressed – I wore a long kurta and a churida. All the blinging saris, in all their vibrant colors come out for these events. At the wedding I sat between Evan and Aruna, a classmate of mine who is doing her master’s in English. We talked throughout the wedding. In very hushed tones she told me she doesn’t like arranged marriages – she could very well be burnt at the stake for saying that AT an arranged marriage. She was curious about me and my take on it. She asked “Will your parents oppose love marriage?” I laughed and whispered “love marriage is the only kind of marriage I know”. She said that she was in love but she wouldn’t tell her parents anything about him because they will opposed. She said “my sister is 26 years old and not married yet…it is very sad; so until she is married, I will tell my parents sometime after”. I asked her how she knows its love and she said because they talk on the phone for hours. I was thinking “Word? The amount of boys I have had lengthy conversations with on the phone in my lifetime…I’d be all out of love”. But I wouldn’t dare burst her bubble, I was just happy that she was taking a step in the right direction and expressing her right to marry/love who she pleases.
As the wedding proceeded I was thinking about how different it was to all the Bollywood movies I have seen – not just the wedding but the romance/relationship norms of India in general. I realize that the movies are quite the opposite of reality. There were no parents sobbing with tears of joy, there was no emotion felt, I certainly would quicker cry for an Indian movie’s wedding than I would for the one I was witnessing at that moment. Then I thought about our Hollywood romances and they are exactly the opposite of what really happens too – but that’s what makes it entertaining. We all want it, but it will most likely never happen the “movie perfect” way. That’s exactly what the Bollywood movies are – pure fiction that portrays an ideal for girls (and boys) to dream over – it’s a temporary escape from their reality…just entertainment.
The ceremony was over and they had to change for the gift giving. This was longer than the ceremony itself. In fact, we left them receiving gifts, ate at the reception, took a series of photos, came back to the ceremony hall and they were still there, hungry I’m sure, and receiving gifts – one by one. Then they finally smiled, when people either of them knew greeted them. Finally, some happiness, I thought.
At the reception hall and had breakfast (the wedding started at 7:45 am and ended around 8:45). They have rice and dhal for breakfast too so it was just like lunch to me. I dread eating out because no one ever has cutlery! One of the Mongolian girls was nice enough to bring me an ice cream spoon from the dessert table. It was super weird eating and standing in a circle at a wedding…but there were really no tables or chairs other than those that were used to serve food on. All of a sudden, while standing in a circle of about 6 classmates, my classmate Shobana, who has been super nice to me, shoves her hand in my face with fingers clasping some rice, noodles and dhal. She was pretty much sticking her fingers in my mouth and I was thinking and it showed on my face, “what the hell is going on here??” because I clearly had a big plate of food in my hand. She repeated, “Eat! Take! Take!” I said no like two times and I know how offended Indians get with things concerning food and her face started to look a little shocked by my resistance. I simply bit off a little off the top to avoid touching her fingers – I really wasn’t trying to have no girl hand up in my mouth. But they all do it! I had seen them feed each other in class before and thought it was the weirdest thing. Poor girl probably still felt bad because I barely ate anything off her fingers.
Shobana and Nisha
So Nisha, another classmate, clearly took note of my resistance to the whole feeding thing and made it her business to torture me some more. I had some ice cream and a galub jamon on a plate and she comes with her face a little close asking for some. I made a face that said “There are giant pots of ice-cream right there! Go get your own!” but I smiled and said “Sureee” and handed her the plate. She didn’t take it. Instead she said “Feed me” and I looked at her wide-eyed and she said “I can tell you’re not used to feeding” with a smile on her face. I quickly said “No, I’m not”. She explained, with the others chiming in, that it is a way to show affection among friends and it is their expression of sharing and caring etc. So I was like “Oh ok. That’s very nice.” I really did think that was nice, though my evil side thought “yeah, sharing finger germs isn’t my idea of friendship;” and the corrupt western side of me thought it was a little lesbian.
Anyways - would you believe that she still wouldn’t get her own…she wanted to be fed! I was like “Oh crap!” in my head and I stuck the spoon in her mouth that had been open and waiting. Then they all went to get their own desserts and I felt it coming – I knew they wanted to feed me, I saw it on their faces as they were coming towards me - so I ran to the garbage bin, stood there extra long hoping that when I got back they would have forgotten the thought of feeding me. As soon as I walked back to the circle, Nisha, with a big grin on her face, stuck a spoon in my mouth and the others lined up like kids playing “pin the tail on the donkey”, only this game was called “stick the spoon in the donkey’s mouth”. As fast as I swallowed another one came – this meant we were friends now and they were showing affection. I saw Evan look over at me with his “what the hell?!” look, but I was just relieved they had spoons this time (haha). On our way home I said to him “I saw you looking at me being fed” and he was like “YEAH, what was THAT about??”
Friday, September 4, 2009
Visit to Prema Vasam
This past Sunday we (Evan, Rob, Sara and I)went to an orphanage called Prema Vasam (a place of love) about an hour and a half from where I am staying. It is situated in somewhat of a rural area – dirt roads etc. Frankly, I was getting a little worried when we were driving on humpy dirt and surrounding by all variations of animals.
Then we came up to a huge gate that a really old man slowly opened and the place certainly didn’t look like an orphanage, there wasn’t a child in sight. The building was big and had two stories with a balcony wrapping around the entire top floor. We were greeted by a lady in the reception room and children started pouring in one by one. There were about 70 children living there altogether – it seemed like more. Children were everywhere after a while. Then they all started clapping and singing some song and at that point I had no clue what was happening. Then I felt the ring of flowers being place around my neck and a girl came and placed the “dots” in the middle of our foreheads.
Such a dramatic but warm welcome was a pleasant surprise. We greeted all the children around us then, with the children in toe, we went to meet the handicapped ones. I am not sure why, but in the West we don’t see this extreme physical disabilities. Honestly, I wanted to run up out of there. It was very awkward for me because I’m standing in a room full of children with physical disabilities and looking at then laying in cradle-like beds with a smile on my face. We all were smiling I guess, but I really was faking it. If I didn’t smile my face would have shown my horror. I could hardly even take photos.
I have never seen physical disabilities like this. I saw one boy who looked like maybe 17 years old with the head of a 4 year old – a very small head for his body. There was also this little girl about 7 years old maybe, who seemed to be the ‘normal’ kids’ favorite, who was mentally okay but had feet that grew inside out and had no ankles. I think with a few correctional surgeries she will be good.
Some kids I just had no clue what was wrong with them – limbs grow all wrong. I just couldn’t take it. I tried to follow Rob’s lead after a while – he was so good with them. Rob would stoop at every bed and with his beautiful English accent ask them how they were doing; no matter how coherent they were he would at least acknowledge them.
Rob has a gift from God. I just waved and smile as I passed the beds – I really wish I could have been a little better at coping with them. There was this one child though who was interesting to me and I asked what was up with him. I was corrected – she was a girl. She had a shaven head and was very frail looking, very tiny and thin, perhaps 8 or 9 yrs old I thought. She didn’t have functioning legs it seemed, they seemed very short. She was sitting on them and was coiled into a ball with her head in her lap. They say she is not very responsive. She would sometimes smile or if you say her name she would look at you but she is very shy. I called her name (I don’t remember what it is now) a couple times and she looked up very slowly and went back down. She did this a couple times until she was tired of me harassing her. When I saw her eyes I could tell she was definitely a girl and that she wasn’t a child. I asked her age and they said she was 21 years old – a little younger than I am. I was very saddened. I was so overwhelmed the entire time.
The cause of all these disabilities comes from the unhealthy practices of mothers and the inter-marrying. A kid in my class said, in an almost disappointed tone that he will not be marrying family but a girl from the rural area. So I, being as innocent to Indian norms as I am, said “family??” and he replied “Yes yes, uncle’s daughters”. I was like “1st cousins you mean??” But he was too busy telling why a rural wife was better (in a nutshell: she will be easily controlled-he’ll dominate) that he just nodded and ignored my question. I met an old woman the other night who said she married her grandfather’s son, I paused to think then with my head pulled back and with a face of horror I said “your uncle??!” she smiled and looked at me and I rephrased (in a more held-together tone) “like your mother’s brother?” She said “yes my mother’s youngest brother…but child, it is only in India we can do these things” with a grin. I left it alone because her poor husband died and she was telling me how hard it was to cope. Her children were born healthy though, surprisingly.
Then we had to visit the mentally disabled section which was a little easier to cope with – they were great! Very innocent and very happy! Evan was a hot number for all the girls. There was this one girl, who would not let go of his hand, about 17 yrs old that had a beautiful smile and a gut-wrenching story. The details I don’t know but one of the attendants told us that they got her after her father had stabbed her repeatedly in the stomach, almost cutting her open (scars she still has) but her screams were heard by a neighbor – that saved her life. I am not sure why he was trying to kill her – perhaps he thought he was ending her misery or some think that the mentally challenged have demons. Who knows what he was thinking. She is such a great girl I thought!
There was this little down syndrome boy there who was full of personality, he came up to all of us and shook our hands and was just the happiest thing ever. Jane told me before I left that after this experience I would want 7 children – well at that point I wanted none. I know, I’m just horrible but that’s really how I felt until I met the baby of the orphanage. If you’re paying close attention you’d notice that no one has names. Most people have 8 syllable names, sometimes I can barely repeat it when they say it, let alone remember it. I do remember this one kid’s name from my class – Vasantaraja – I only remember it because I especially like him (hehe). Anyway, so the baby of the orphanage is about 9 months old and the cutest little thing in the world. I wish I could bring him home! He has one attendant who is his “mother”. I thought that was a really good idea so that he does get the brunt of the orphan life. His biological mother had come to the home pregnant and threatening to take her life. The administrator of the orphanage told her that she can do as she pleases with herself but there is a baby involved and he offered to have her live in the home. She was in quite a dilemma. Her husband had died 10 years ago so she certainly wasn’t pregnant for him. Suicide was better that facing the repercussions of her actions it seems. I am not sure what would happen to a woman who fornicates or is adulterous in India today but I wouldn’t rule stoning out. Perhaps the mildest consequence would be being outcaste. She stayed at the orphanage but as soon as she had the baby she left the orphanage, leaving him behind. I guess there was no way for her to take him with her and conceal the fact that she was a pregnant fornicator.
Then we came up to a huge gate that a really old man slowly opened and the place certainly didn’t look like an orphanage, there wasn’t a child in sight. The building was big and had two stories with a balcony wrapping around the entire top floor. We were greeted by a lady in the reception room and children started pouring in one by one. There were about 70 children living there altogether – it seemed like more. Children were everywhere after a while. Then they all started clapping and singing some song and at that point I had no clue what was happening. Then I felt the ring of flowers being place around my neck and a girl came and placed the “dots” in the middle of our foreheads.
Such a dramatic but warm welcome was a pleasant surprise. We greeted all the children around us then, with the children in toe, we went to meet the handicapped ones. I am not sure why, but in the West we don’t see this extreme physical disabilities. Honestly, I wanted to run up out of there. It was very awkward for me because I’m standing in a room full of children with physical disabilities and looking at then laying in cradle-like beds with a smile on my face. We all were smiling I guess, but I really was faking it. If I didn’t smile my face would have shown my horror. I could hardly even take photos.
I have never seen physical disabilities like this. I saw one boy who looked like maybe 17 years old with the head of a 4 year old – a very small head for his body. There was also this little girl about 7 years old maybe, who seemed to be the ‘normal’ kids’ favorite, who was mentally okay but had feet that grew inside out and had no ankles. I think with a few correctional surgeries she will be good.
Some kids I just had no clue what was wrong with them – limbs grow all wrong. I just couldn’t take it. I tried to follow Rob’s lead after a while – he was so good with them. Rob would stoop at every bed and with his beautiful English accent ask them how they were doing; no matter how coherent they were he would at least acknowledge them.
Rob has a gift from God. I just waved and smile as I passed the beds – I really wish I could have been a little better at coping with them. There was this one child though who was interesting to me and I asked what was up with him. I was corrected – she was a girl. She had a shaven head and was very frail looking, very tiny and thin, perhaps 8 or 9 yrs old I thought. She didn’t have functioning legs it seemed, they seemed very short. She was sitting on them and was coiled into a ball with her head in her lap. They say she is not very responsive. She would sometimes smile or if you say her name she would look at you but she is very shy. I called her name (I don’t remember what it is now) a couple times and she looked up very slowly and went back down. She did this a couple times until she was tired of me harassing her. When I saw her eyes I could tell she was definitely a girl and that she wasn’t a child. I asked her age and they said she was 21 years old – a little younger than I am. I was very saddened. I was so overwhelmed the entire time.
The cause of all these disabilities comes from the unhealthy practices of mothers and the inter-marrying. A kid in my class said, in an almost disappointed tone that he will not be marrying family but a girl from the rural area. So I, being as innocent to Indian norms as I am, said “family??” and he replied “Yes yes, uncle’s daughters”. I was like “1st cousins you mean??” But he was too busy telling why a rural wife was better (in a nutshell: she will be easily controlled-he’ll dominate) that he just nodded and ignored my question. I met an old woman the other night who said she married her grandfather’s son, I paused to think then with my head pulled back and with a face of horror I said “your uncle??!” she smiled and looked at me and I rephrased (in a more held-together tone) “like your mother’s brother?” She said “yes my mother’s youngest brother…but child, it is only in India we can do these things” with a grin. I left it alone because her poor husband died and she was telling me how hard it was to cope. Her children were born healthy though, surprisingly.
Then we had to visit the mentally disabled section which was a little easier to cope with – they were great! Very innocent and very happy! Evan was a hot number for all the girls. There was this one girl, who would not let go of his hand, about 17 yrs old that had a beautiful smile and a gut-wrenching story. The details I don’t know but one of the attendants told us that they got her after her father had stabbed her repeatedly in the stomach, almost cutting her open (scars she still has) but her screams were heard by a neighbor – that saved her life. I am not sure why he was trying to kill her – perhaps he thought he was ending her misery or some think that the mentally challenged have demons. Who knows what he was thinking. She is such a great girl I thought!
There was this little down syndrome boy there who was full of personality, he came up to all of us and shook our hands and was just the happiest thing ever. Jane told me before I left that after this experience I would want 7 children – well at that point I wanted none. I know, I’m just horrible but that’s really how I felt until I met the baby of the orphanage. If you’re paying close attention you’d notice that no one has names. Most people have 8 syllable names, sometimes I can barely repeat it when they say it, let alone remember it. I do remember this one kid’s name from my class – Vasantaraja – I only remember it because I especially like him (hehe). Anyway, so the baby of the orphanage is about 9 months old and the cutest little thing in the world. I wish I could bring him home! He has one attendant who is his “mother”. I thought that was a really good idea so that he does get the brunt of the orphan life. His biological mother had come to the home pregnant and threatening to take her life. The administrator of the orphanage told her that she can do as she pleases with herself but there is a baby involved and he offered to have her live in the home. She was in quite a dilemma. Her husband had died 10 years ago so she certainly wasn’t pregnant for him. Suicide was better that facing the repercussions of her actions it seems. I am not sure what would happen to a woman who fornicates or is adulterous in India today but I wouldn’t rule stoning out. Perhaps the mildest consequence would be being outcaste. She stayed at the orphanage but as soon as she had the baby she left the orphanage, leaving him behind. I guess there was no way for her to take him with her and conceal the fact that she was a pregnant fornicator.
“13 people die every hour from vehicular accidents in India”
Those statistics were all I could think of as I held on to the back of his motor cycle, as we sped through the lanes of traffic, swerved around round-abouts and dodged oncoming buses.
I had been on campus all day and wanted to do some shopping at the mall before I went back to the guest house. I just really wanted to find a pharmacy to get ANYTHING that would make these Indian mosquitoes leave me alone. The Off Bug Spray seems to be doing quite the opposite.
I ran into a group of guys from my Indian Social Problems class chilling out in the car park. I told then that I was heading over to Spencer Plaza, a somewhat shabby kind of mall that most tourists seem to know about. The boys made weird faces and suggested that I got to Citi Center instead because it was nicer and nearby so I can get a ride. I jokingly said “Oh, you have a car? I don’t do two-wheelers”. They all laughed and looked at me as if I were crazy. Most young people here start riding at a very young age, even though the legal age is 17 years old. They all assured me that I would be fine. I thought about it for a second and asked “Helmet?” There was a second of silence followed by bursts of laughs. “It is illegal to wear helmets here”, Artic said and they all laughed harder. Artic, the rider, then said “you want the ride or not?” in his very think Indian accent which still cracks me up. I reluctantly said “sureeee” with obvious uncertainty. He said “it is better if you sit like me” (with my leg on either side of the bike –jockey style). Now most women here never sit that way, most do the side-saddle thing – I was very cool with breaking some norms in this instance. The sideways sitting with your legs together on a speeding bike is hardly a pleasant situation – that is a tragedy waiting to happen and these women do it in slippery silk saris. I got on the back of the bike and all the boys were jokingly saying “bye Nisha, it was nice meeting you, this is the last time we see you”.
Having second thoughts
Artic then said very nicely as we pulled off “you don’t have to hold on”. Well I was thinking...he must have lost his dam mind. He wanted me to free hand…like play “no hands!” on the back of a speeding bike?! I just laughed. I held on to the back brake light but it was slippery because of my sweaty palms.
It would have been ideal support if I could hold on to his shoulders but I wouldn’t dare and holding on to his waist would have been murderous! Either one would have been more reassuring than that rickety back light though. If I had laid a finger on him we would have stopped traffic – it would have been some “Mississippi Masala” madness. Anyway, I was terrified all the way but I did manage to snap some really quick shots when I deemed it safe to do so. The buses are relentless here! They drive like they have the same size and speed of motorcyclists.
Poor kid had to endure my shrieks of terror in his ears all the way. I know he wanted to laugh. After a while I asked “how far again?” (aka “are we there yet??”) He shouted “ten minutes at this speed, at my normal speed I make it in five”
I had been on campus all day and wanted to do some shopping at the mall before I went back to the guest house. I just really wanted to find a pharmacy to get ANYTHING that would make these Indian mosquitoes leave me alone. The Off Bug Spray seems to be doing quite the opposite.
I ran into a group of guys from my Indian Social Problems class chilling out in the car park. I told then that I was heading over to Spencer Plaza, a somewhat shabby kind of mall that most tourists seem to know about. The boys made weird faces and suggested that I got to Citi Center instead because it was nicer and nearby so I can get a ride. I jokingly said “Oh, you have a car? I don’t do two-wheelers”. They all laughed and looked at me as if I were crazy. Most young people here start riding at a very young age, even though the legal age is 17 years old. They all assured me that I would be fine. I thought about it for a second and asked “Helmet?” There was a second of silence followed by bursts of laughs. “It is illegal to wear helmets here”, Artic said and they all laughed harder. Artic, the rider, then said “you want the ride or not?” in his very think Indian accent which still cracks me up. I reluctantly said “sureeee” with obvious uncertainty. He said “it is better if you sit like me” (with my leg on either side of the bike –jockey style). Now most women here never sit that way, most do the side-saddle thing – I was very cool with breaking some norms in this instance. The sideways sitting with your legs together on a speeding bike is hardly a pleasant situation – that is a tragedy waiting to happen and these women do it in slippery silk saris. I got on the back of the bike and all the boys were jokingly saying “bye Nisha, it was nice meeting you, this is the last time we see you”.
Having second thoughts
Artic then said very nicely as we pulled off “you don’t have to hold on”. Well I was thinking...he must have lost his dam mind. He wanted me to free hand…like play “no hands!” on the back of a speeding bike?! I just laughed. I held on to the back brake light but it was slippery because of my sweaty palms.
It would have been ideal support if I could hold on to his shoulders but I wouldn’t dare and holding on to his waist would have been murderous! Either one would have been more reassuring than that rickety back light though. If I had laid a finger on him we would have stopped traffic – it would have been some “Mississippi Masala” madness. Anyway, I was terrified all the way but I did manage to snap some really quick shots when I deemed it safe to do so. The buses are relentless here! They drive like they have the same size and speed of motorcyclists.
Poor kid had to endure my shrieks of terror in his ears all the way. I know he wanted to laugh. After a while I asked “how far again?” (aka “are we there yet??”) He shouted “ten minutes at this speed, at my normal speed I make it in five”
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