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.