Ants in my Pants

Dead puppies are a grim start to anything, and not wholly indicative of my experience here thankfully, but it’s a good place to start.  Really any long term stay in a foreign country is going to have its highs and lows, but India seems to have its own extra grim set of lows.  This is probably why, when four cute little puppies showed up at my school a few days ago, I immediately (and unsuccessfully) tried to distance myself from them.  India is a cruel place for animals, dogs especially if the half starved mongrels that limp through the streets are any indication, so I kind of assumed at least one of those puppies would die a gruesome death.  While this ended up being true (I won’t depress you with the details) India is, if anything, a place of contrast.  The same day I found one of the puppies dead by my school was also probably one of the best days I’d had before hand.  I had a great yoga class (I know I know, yoga in India), cooked my own Indian food, and had a great conversation with my Ai, and went to a festival.  Highs and lows, life goes on.  In just four short (but very long) weeks, I’ve seen some of the most breath-taking natural and man-made beauty I’ve every seen, and some of the most devastating natural and man-made poverty and illness. 

On my way to lunch I pass a homeless woman wrapped in rags sleeping on a tarp in the street.  It’s a strange feeling, walking to my delicious hot spicy lunch (for which I pay about a dollar for) and passing this woman who probably doesn’t have even that.  She eats the same rice everyday, but I suppose she’s lucky in that.  Most of the children don’t seem to have that.  I few days ago I was followed for almost two blocks by a little girl (probably seven or eight), tugging and pulling on my clothes, begging for food.  She took one look at my pearly white face and knew that money was nearby.  I relented and bought her some food (I was sick of ignoring them like we’ve been told to), but I had to use a 500 rupee note to buy it, which could probably feed her for a month.  Naturally all of this was happening during Ganpati, one of the most fun and foreign festivals I’ve been to so far. Contrast remember?

It really is everywhere: In the architecture, in the people, in the atmosphere.  Women who live in corrugated tin huts (with satellite t.v.) wear some of the most beautiful saris I’ve seen here.  And they may not have clothes for their children, but I guarantee you they have gold around their necks.  The roads make absolutely no sense, and charity is scarce, but three times already I’ve asked for directions from a complete stranger and been physically led out of their way to where I need to go.  This is the most independent I’ve ever been, but the first few weeks I was utterly dependent on my school staff and host family to teach me how to eat, speak, walk, and travel.  Most notably, during the weeks I spent wading through Indian bureaucracy, at one point I was just sitting in a police station while my host mom spoke in Marathi the entire time trying to fix everything.  All I did was sit and smile while my Ai made sure I could remain in the country.  It’s been the most frustrating time of my life, but also the most elating, fun, challenging, and interesting part of my life. 

Still, dead puppies don’t really attest to the fun side of my experience, so I’ll leave you with a story that won’t surprise anyone who knows me (probably) but should be entertaining at least.    

I may have to change the description of this blog to “Sarah Zaubi: an exercise in cultural sensitivity.”  I say this because I seem to be making a lot of blunders in my efforts to integrate into the culture yet still enjoy touristy things. That is the only introduction I need to give.

Let me qualify my first story with a few clarifications.  My Ai is a lovely woman, and she has been very sensitive to my slow painful transition to Indian food and weather, especially the first few days when I was eating plain white rice like an African refugee and chewing Pepto tablets like they were their own food group.  None of this, I’m sure, made for pleasant company, but she cheerfully took me around town and put me on a food plan where she will steadily increase the spiciness of my food so I don’t die. 

What a wonderful lady.

On that note, there are some cultural aspects that don’t really translate.  For one, despite the fact that Indians throw their garbage EVERYWHERE, regardless of whether that place is a priceless historical landmark or the garden next to their house, they don’t waste a drop of food (read: Contrast).  They always clean their plates (including using their hands to wipe up and lick their plates), and save every drop of tea or coffee that they don’t drink.  Which is why, when I saw that about 300 small ants had found their way into my Ai’s chapatti tin, I thought, “oh no! I know how much they don’t like to waste food, what a shame they have to throw it all out.” I wasn’t prepared then, when my Ai picked the chapatti out of the dish and began to dust the ants off onto the kitchen floor. When there were only about five or six ants on the chipatti, she tossed about three onto my plate.

To eat.

Not wanting to seem ungrateful or offend my hostess, I gamely picked up a piece, dusted the ants off, and took a bite.  No problem, I thought, I’m not gonna let a little extra protein get to me.  But it did.  It really really did.  I sat there, a lump of chapatti sitting in my mouth, ants crawling over the kitchen table frantically searching for their mother lode of food, and I just couldn’t do it.  But I’d taken a piece already, and I couldn’t just put it back. DILEMMA. 

Just then, the phone rang, forcing my Ai to leave the kitchen to answer it, and leaving me with an unknown amount of time to try and solve the dilemma. I couldn’t throw it in our trashcan, she’d find it.  I couldn’t put it in my pocket, my jeans were too tight. So I did the only thing I could think of: I shoved it into the waistband of my jeans. “I’m done with dinner anyway, I can just get up when my Ai comes back in, then throw it into my trashcan, which I empty.” What I didn’t count on was my Ai making more food, wanting to chat, or the ants in my pants being biters.  Which led to me spending almost twenty minutes trying not appear in pain or fidgety.  Needless to say, I was able to sprint back to my room and rid myself of ants, but that should give you a pretty good idea of how much I didn’t want to offend my lovely hostess.       

On tongues, trunks, and other muscles.

I'm pretty sure if I'm ever in a fight, I want an Indian tongue to back me up.  I mean, if the tongue really is the strongest muscle of the body, than the Indian tongue has to be the tongue equivalent to Superman.  Not only is the Indian tongue assaulted on a daily basis by some of the deadliest of spices (I still can't get through my daily lunch at Baba's without crying), but Marathi is like tongue gymnastics.  Between all the retro flexing, teeth flicking, and r rolling my mouth is starting to get pretty sore.  We've had a couple Marathi classes already, and while I can introduce myself and give some very angry directions to a rickshaw driver, I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I am utterly hopeless at this language.  There are just some sounds that simply don't exist in English.  Which is why, even after literally hours of repeating gargling sounds at our very patient professor, I still can't hear the difference between "ta" and "tHA" in the Marathi alphabet.

It was after one of these particularly frustrating classes (in which I failed miserably at trying to sing a children's nursery rhyme about cheating the rain...duh) I accompanied my host mother (my "Ai," one of the few words I actually can say) to the downtown Laxmi road.  It's a beautiful road, actually. (SEE WHAT I JUST DID?! ACTUALLY). It's really just a long road that is lined with tall beautiful buildings lit up like Christmas trees.  We were on our way to the Sari tailor my Ai knows, and I was staring absolutely dumbfounded at all the lights, when my Ai (pronounced "eye-eee" by the way) grabbed my arm excitedly and pointed across the street.  What else would be walking down this busy, crowded metropolitan street but a beautifully painted elephant?  A real ELEPHANT!  It was surrounded by small children and...well...myself...eagerly trying to get a better.look.  At my Ai's urging, I reached up and touched it on it's gorgeous, hair, leathery trunk...and nearly peed my pants when it wrapped it's trunk around my waist.  A little girl pushed a chicory (honey tasting fruit we don't have in the States) into my hands and I pressed the fruit into the nostril of the trunk.  It seemed rather rude to me, but the elephant let go and shoved the fruit into it's mouth.  A few people even put some rupee coins it, and the elephant would obediently curl it's trunk up and give it to the tiny little man riding him.  It was absolutely magical.  Where else would an elephant be walking down a busy street at night but India?   What's more, this was just moments after seeing two little boys riding CAMELs down the street.  What a world!

Yesterday night was nearly just as interesting.  For those of you who haven't been keeping up with the news in India, a pretty big anti-corruption movement has begun, with a man named Anna as it's figurehead.  The rather huge irony in this is that, because of all the (peaceful) protests happening in Pune, my police registration has been delayed, along with others.  Some have had to (irony alert) bribe the police to even get a registration meeting at all.  Until I finish registering, I don't have a phone, so there's that. 

Last night though, a few of us were going in search of dinner, when we ran straight into a protest march.  It was maybe 200 strong, consisting mostly of students (the bulk of Pune's population) carrying candles, signs, and chanting "We want nation without corruption!" in unison.  It was quite an amazing sight to see.  While some of the students were clearly just along for the ride, you could tell a lot of them were very passionate about their issue.  We walked with them for a bit, just watching, and it was quite an incredible thing to see.  When we reached the front of the massive parade, I saw that one wizened old man was leading the march, flexing his political muscle.  How "mustah" as they might say. Gorgeous. 

India, Actually

India, actually.

It’s incredible the smallest details you notice when you’re assaulted by the nonsensical barrage that is India.  Besides the obvious (this food is so spicy, this isn’t the “sweet” I’m used to, no one is obeying traffic laws, you flick the light switch off to turn it on) I’ve noticed several quirky mannerisms that people have here.  For whatever reason, when speaking in English, people here use the word “actually” in almost every sentence.  I imagine it’s like “like” in the U.S.  Someone will say “Actually, it’s not a very far walk from here, actually” (which is a total lie of course, at least by American standards)

People here also do this weird head bobble thing when you talk to them, and I still don’t know what it means.  When Anju (the woman charged with the Herculean task of caring for us) did this head bobble after I asked her if she thought my rain jacket would keep me dry today, I assumed it was a maybe.  A yes maybe.  Fun fact, even though it only rains sporadically in Pune, it rains in a near constant downpour in the mountains. We were there for several hours.  This was really the first day of the week spent playing catch up that made sense to me, so I guess it’s a good place to start.

We were in the mountains seeing some of the most beautifully hand carved caves I have ever seen, petting water buffalo (well, I was anyway), and getting thoroughly soaked.  My jacket (thanks Dad!) managed to hold off the worst of it, but nothing kept my pants from going nearly translucent.

Should I ever manage to get enough internet to put pictures up, you will notice pictures of me consist mostly of “Sarah standing on thousand year old statue” or “Sarah crawling up thousand year old steps to get a better look at thousand year old Buddhist art” followed by “Sarah eagerly pawing at thousand year old priceless artifact where someone has carved Undyan + Anju 4eva”

Yup.  If this had been the states, these suckers would have been chained off and flash photography not permitted. As it was, a bored, shirtless, barefoot “guard” asked if we had purchased tickets and gave a non-committal shrug when we said no.  My American need to preserve the awe inspiring caves was pushed down and over run by my inner child that wanted to crawl on the big rocks.  

In order to get to these caves, I should add, one has to climb up nearly two miles of slick, wet, STEEP stone stairs, careful not to disturb the cows that wander freely.  At the second much larger and more well known cave, however, there were several shanties set up along the way hawking garlands of flowers and coconuts (to offer to the goddess whose temple also resided at the top), and some of the most amazing corn I have ever tasted.  I didn’t even have to purchase the corn.  When I asked how much it cost (kiti paise??) an overeager Indian man loudly boasted that his English was very good and he would “take care it.”  He was incredibly kind, bought the corn, and in the end proclaimed us (myself and the two other girls I was with) friends.  For all I know about rural India, he probably meant I was now his bride and my price had been a 10 rupee piece of corn, but hey, it was DELICIOUS CORN.  Roasted over open coals and coated with spices (duh) and lemon(?). 

This was all very very (khoop khoop) fun, but after 8 hours of rain and still a little sick from the diet I was ready for a hot shower and dry clothes.  

When our tour bus (not bad actually) reached the hotel after this excursion I eagerly sprinted the four flights of stairs to my hotel room and peeled off my soaking clothes.  Not even sparing a glance at the cold water handle, I turned the hot water handle until it wouldn’t turn any further, and waited.  It was a pathetic sight I’m sure.  A thin naked girl, crouched in front of a water spout like a feral dog, hand permanently fixed under the thin stream of cold water, desperately trying to will the water hot.  So I waited.  Then I waited some more. 

The water became colder.

I checked the handle. Yup, big ole “H” there, clearly indicating hot.

Then, to my horror, the water stopped.  And it never came again.

 So soaked to the bone, with no hot water likely, and sick from heaven only knows what, I did what any other American would do in my situation: I ate half a jar of nutella with my hands (as per Indian custom of course) in the cool confines of my hotel room, huddled under my blanket, with rap music playing. I don’t even like rap music.  Clearly round one had gone to India. 

Sufficiently recouped, I hiked up my big girl salwar (ali baba pants if you’re me), and readied myself for round two.  India had chewed me up and spat me out, but I knew all her dirty tricks now, and was more than willing to fight dirty, too.  Heck, I was certainly physically dirty enough.  No shower in the world will ever make my feet clean, and you know what? I was perfectly fine with that. 

I was astonished to discover though that round two wasn’t so bad.  I was feeling much better, I was determined to be in much better spirits, and I couldn’t smell Pune anymore.  Even now I’m not really sure if that’s a good thing, but it’s a blessing all the same.  Instead the city smelled like rain, spices, and maybe just a little bit of pollution.  The dead smell was gone though, and so was the rotting garbage smell, if not the rotting garbage itself.

I strolled down whatever unnamed avenue I happened to be on (because there are all of like three streets that have actual names here, and even those are debateable), safe in a crowd of friends, and went to a place called Mocha.  I am not ashamed to say that the reason I love Mocha so much is because it reeks of Western influence.  It’s a cozy indoor/outdoor Hookah (“sheesha” here) bar that would make Starbucks proud.  It is still very Indian, but more like an American’s idea of what India should be: low couches surrounding exotic short tables, palm trees, ornate lights, vibrant walls, and low lighting.  Over all this, for whatever reason, thumped “You spin my head right round” by Flo Rida so loud it made your ears ache.  After the week long barrage of all that is India, you could see every student in our group visibly relax.   

I read the menu like a bedtime story. Wraps. Hot chocolate. Milk shakes, BURGERS (well, okay, they were called burgers but apparently are some type of chicken dish?).  We order two types of Sheesha (Casablanca and Mint), and a few of the more daring in our group get cold drinks (I say daring because the drinks are probably made with tap water, scary scary).  We are placed in a private room (whether because of our American-ness or our group size I’m not sure), and ease into the low cushions and pillows. 

I’m comfortably settled into my room at my Ai’s house now, listening to the rain and a Mosque’s call to prayer, and reflecting on how much my perspective has changed in just a week.  My house here seems like a veritable palace (though I’m going to have to ask my Ai how to bathe…all I see is a bucket and I’m assuming the worst), the food is more bearable in terms of spice, and I know when a rickshawala is cheating me.  I am a crosser of hazardous streets, a trekker of hills, and a buyer of fruit from fruit carts.  I am also very, very American still, but I’m fine with that.      

***Update***

I took my first bucket shower yesterday.  Directions: Fill bucket with heated water.  Splash over self (in general bathroom area, no designated shower spot). Repeat several times until as close to clean as possible.  I have also been SO SICK all week.  Luckily my Ai is a wonderful lady and is taking excellent care of me.

Jet

Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaag.

The day I didn't get any sleep...

I've been really blessed with a lot of advice.  Really, it's astonishing how many people have actually been to India that I know, so already India has helped me.  It's opened up conversations with people that in turn tell a lot about themselves.  Keeping that  in mind, I've compiled a list of things that have been heavily advised, and this is what I actually remembered to get and what I'm working with:

100+ promised readers
3 or 4 actual readers (hi mom!)
A vague idea of where I'm going
A spice tolerance on par with applesauce
A suitcase that is 90% bug spray (with an ingredient list that CANNOT be safe, not that FDA approval is an issue in Pune) and toilet paper (apparently they use something other than paper...)
Clothing that would make a nun feel like a slattern next to me
brownie mix (duh)
a growing sense of disbelief that I'm going
Malaria pills that may be more dangerous than the disease itself
and
the knowledge that I'm really going to miss my friends and family (despite my current wanderlust)

So tomorrow it's off to MUMBAI (with a quick layover in Newark, NJ, which is kind of appropriate, like a warm up for lack of sanitation) and then on to Pune for 3.5ish months.  Well I certainly hope I like it!