Me: Hello! I'm calling to see if you can pick me up from the house, or if I should walk to the gate?
Rickshaw Driver: Yes, Madam!
Me: 'Yes' you're coming to the house? Or 'yes' I should walk to the gate?
RD: It's okay, Madam!
Me: No, no, I'm asking a QUESTION. Do you want me to walk to the GATE, or will you drive to the HOUSE?
RD: Alright, Madam, no problem!
Me: Umm, GATE, or HOUSE?????
RD: Okay, Madam!
I remember taking a class at uni called Cross Cultural Communication, and not once do I remember any lectures on what to do in this situation.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Some Shots of Time in Pune.
Colgate Toothpowder: Super Rakshak!
The girls making chapati on the kitchen floor.
Me and Shradha, who is deaf and HIV+. This girl is my Linda of India. You can visibly see how the disease has sucked life out of her personality, energy, appetite, everything. But she is still so sweet with the other kids. My favourite thing was watching her share her food with them, and seeing how they all looked out for her and used their own made-up sign language to communicate with her.
Payal & Ankita, on the trampoline at sunset.
Kalpesh, my birthday buddy. June 22nd, baby!
Shradha & Ankita finishing their rice and curry.
HIGHLY INFLAMMABLE.
(a sign I saw today, posted on the back of a petrol truck.)
Still alive and finally healthy India!
Last Thursday, we all parted ways in Goa -- Matilda to Mumbai to head back to Oz, Nat to the hippy town of Hampi, and yours truly to Pune. This involved a rickshaw to point A, a 12-hour bus ride to point B, and a taxi trip out to Santvana Children's Home, in the slums of Pune. Thanks to the rickshaw and taxi never showing up, I enjoyed lots of quality bonding time with my 30 lb backpack.. walking 3 kms to get a rickshaw, and roaming the streets of downtown Pune at 5am trying to find a cab. Good times!
Long story short, I got to Santvana to discover something much different than expected; 27 very precious kids that I got to spend lots of great cuddle time with, but an extremely aloof 'doctor' who made it very clear I wasn't needed or welcome. Two nights sleeping in a storage closet and being blatantly ignored by all the adults and I decided it was time to leave.
Which brings us to a fun little thing called, 'Being Waitlisted on a Train in India'. By booking your ticket only 3 days in advance, particularly on sleeper trains, they will give you a ticket and allow you on the train, but you have no coach, bunk, or seat assignment. You could end up sleeping on your bags next to the bathroom, in the hallway, between a family of 20, or hanging halfway out the door of the train. Ultimately, you're at the mercy of your fellow passengers who have actual seat numbers on their tickets.
Enter Biju. I get on the train and find a well-dressed guy to ask about my waiting list status. It sounds incredibly prejudiced but I've found that usually the better dressed someone is, the more educated/helpful/fluent in English they are. This guy tells me just to look for open seats (the train is already overflowing) or wait for the conductor (who usually does a ticket check sometime in the first 5 hours of the trip). As I walk away eyeing a tempting spot on the floor outside the latrine, he calls me back and tells me to take his bunk for now. WHAT? Is it possible I just found the one nice, friendly, polite, non-sleazy male in India?! And on a 20-hour train ride to Bangalore?! Such luck! God absolutely organized that one. Biju was a total gentleman and 3 hours into the trip we were sharing his bunk, eating spicy bajas with curry, and talking about life goals and his girlfriend whom he is still madly in love with after 3 years together. She works at a bank in Mumbai while he has a software job in Bangalore, and this weekend he spent 42 hours on a train just to spend 4 HOURS with his girl. Awesome.
If someone were only in India for one day and wanted a true taste of the country, I would tell them to spend it on a train. It's like one huge family reunion with grandmas cuddled up snoring in their saris, babies bouncing on the seats, kids running up to shake your hands, men belching and horking loogies out the window, and all the mamas laughing loudly into the wee hours. Add bizarre smells coming through the windows and bathroom vents, and the sounds of at least 5 different languages being spoken, while men bump down the aisles with huge trays of food and pots of liquid yelling "chai chai chai! soup soup soup! bajas bajas bajas!'"
Sleeping was easier than expected such crunched quarters, until an old woman started running through the train wailing loudly at 4am. Biju didn't speak her language but found out from someone who did that her husband had gotten off at one of the stops while she was sleeping. What?!
I got into Bangalore at 11am this morning and am back in the lovely home of Shanthi and family. We visited ACCEPT today (www.acceptindia.org) where I'm hoping to volunteer the rest of this week. Amazing place.
Pictures of Pune on the way!
Love to you all.
Still alive and finally healthy India!
Last Thursday, we all parted ways in Goa -- Matilda to Mumbai to head back to Oz, Nat to the hippy town of Hampi, and yours truly to Pune. This involved a rickshaw to point A, a 12-hour bus ride to point B, and a taxi trip out to Santvana Children's Home, in the slums of Pune. Thanks to the rickshaw and taxi never showing up, I enjoyed lots of quality bonding time with my 30 lb backpack.. walking 3 kms to get a rickshaw, and roaming the streets of downtown Pune at 5am trying to find a cab. Good times!
Long story short, I got to Santvana to discover something much different than expected; 27 very precious kids that I got to spend lots of great cuddle time with, but an extremely aloof 'doctor' who made it very clear I wasn't needed or welcome. Two nights sleeping in a storage closet and being blatantly ignored by all the adults and I decided it was time to leave.
Which brings us to a fun little thing called, 'Being Waitlisted on a Train in India'. By booking your ticket only 3 days in advance, particularly on sleeper trains, they will give you a ticket and allow you on the train, but you have no coach, bunk, or seat assignment. You could end up sleeping on your bags next to the bathroom, in the hallway, between a family of 20, or hanging halfway out the door of the train. Ultimately, you're at the mercy of your fellow passengers who have actual seat numbers on their tickets.
Enter Biju. I get on the train and find a well-dressed guy to ask about my waiting list status. It sounds incredibly prejudiced but I've found that usually the better dressed someone is, the more educated/helpful/fluent in English they are. This guy tells me just to look for open seats (the train is already overflowing) or wait for the conductor (who usually does a ticket check sometime in the first 5 hours of the trip). As I walk away eyeing a tempting spot on the floor outside the latrine, he calls me back and tells me to take his bunk for now. WHAT? Is it possible I just found the one nice, friendly, polite, non-sleazy male in India?! And on a 20-hour train ride to Bangalore?! Such luck! God absolutely organized that one. Biju was a total gentleman and 3 hours into the trip we were sharing his bunk, eating spicy bajas with curry, and talking about life goals and his girlfriend whom he is still madly in love with after 3 years together. She works at a bank in Mumbai while he has a software job in Bangalore, and this weekend he spent 42 hours on a train just to spend 4 HOURS with his girl. Awesome.
If someone were only in India for one day and wanted a true taste of the country, I would tell them to spend it on a train. It's like one huge family reunion with grandmas cuddled up snoring in their saris, babies bouncing on the seats, kids running up to shake your hands, men belching and horking loogies out the window, and all the mamas laughing loudly into the wee hours. Add bizarre smells coming through the windows and bathroom vents, and the sounds of at least 5 different languages being spoken, while men bump down the aisles with huge trays of food and pots of liquid yelling "chai chai chai! soup soup soup! bajas bajas bajas!'"
Sleeping was easier than expected such crunched quarters, until an old woman started running through the train wailing loudly at 4am. Biju didn't speak her language but found out from someone who did that her husband had gotten off at one of the stops while she was sleeping. What?!
I got into Bangalore at 11am this morning and am back in the lovely home of Shanthi and family. We visited ACCEPT today (www.acceptindia.org) where I'm hoping to volunteer the rest of this week. Amazing place.
Pictures of Pune on the way!
Love to you all.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
2 Heartwarming Tales about India.
Tale 1.
Matilda woke up at 5am yesterday morning with an excruciating earache. We waited until it got light out to look for help, but discovered the hospital didn't open until 9am, and the doc doesn't usually grace patients with his presence until 10am. Somehow, someone got us an early appointment at a local doctor's house, and M and I hopped in a rickshaw to his place. The rickshaw driver knocked on his door for 5 minutes before his wife yelled down that he was coming. 5 more minutes later, a large old Indian man came out, with a stained white shirt on and a towel around his waist. He sat Matilda down in his stuffy waiting room, asked her what the problem was, and took a large red industrial flashlight and shone it into her ear, making grunting noises. He put it back on the table, it fell off, he watched it roll under the table, sighed, and wrote Matilda a perscription for 3 medications. When I asked him if she could possibly take the same antibiotics I'm on, he glanced at the bottle and said "No no, dat stuff is not fo head infection, it fo intestine worms." I thought about saying "Well then, apparently my Dad's 8 years in vet school make him a big idiot compared to you.." or "Funny that they seem to be working for me.." but decided he was in a bad enough mood already. Perhaps because his left thumb appeared to be simultaneously scabbing, peeling, and trying to fall off all at the same time, which I noticed as he awkwardly scribbled out the perscription. He charged Matilda 100 rupees ($2 us) for the 2-minute visit and told us to pick up the meds at the chemist's down the road.
Moral of this story: Never take for granted a doctor with an actual otoscope.
Tale 2.
While M took her drugs and tried to sleep off the infection, Nat and I went to read on the beach. 5 minutes later, I watch as 2 Indian men -- one in his swimsuit (we'll call him Sleazebag 1), the other in regular clothes, holding a camera phone (aka SB 2) -- walk casually down the beach. A European girl in a bikini strolls towards the water and SB 1 stands just in front of her, posing for SB 2. At the last minute, SB 1 moves to one side and SB 2 cops a very obvious shot of European girl in bikini. They continue their nonchalant walk down the beach, where they meet up with a few other camera-phone-armed men and compare pictures. Over the next 2 hours, we watched as countless men -- big groups of young ones, two or three old ones together, in business suits and boxers and casual clothes -- all armed with camera phones, roamed the beaches looking for the next cheap shot. Some walked right next to chairs of sunbathers, pretending to chat on the phone while taking multiple pictures. I was wearing a high cut tank top and a long skirt and STILL got circled by the vultures. Nat and I glared at them till our eyes got tired, to no avail. We quickly discovered that the sand may be white and the sea may be warm, but as long as their are shoulder and knees bared, Indian men make the beach a sleaze-fest. And we were not so sad that Nat forgot her swimsuit at home.
Moral of this story: Suddenly burkas seem a lot more appealing. Apparently the only known way to get an Indian male to stop gaping at you is to dress like a colourless, shapeless blob.
Matilda woke up at 5am yesterday morning with an excruciating earache. We waited until it got light out to look for help, but discovered the hospital didn't open until 9am, and the doc doesn't usually grace patients with his presence until 10am. Somehow, someone got us an early appointment at a local doctor's house, and M and I hopped in a rickshaw to his place. The rickshaw driver knocked on his door for 5 minutes before his wife yelled down that he was coming. 5 more minutes later, a large old Indian man came out, with a stained white shirt on and a towel around his waist. He sat Matilda down in his stuffy waiting room, asked her what the problem was, and took a large red industrial flashlight and shone it into her ear, making grunting noises. He put it back on the table, it fell off, he watched it roll under the table, sighed, and wrote Matilda a perscription for 3 medications. When I asked him if she could possibly take the same antibiotics I'm on, he glanced at the bottle and said "No no, dat stuff is not fo head infection, it fo intestine worms." I thought about saying "Well then, apparently my Dad's 8 years in vet school make him a big idiot compared to you.." or "Funny that they seem to be working for me.." but decided he was in a bad enough mood already. Perhaps because his left thumb appeared to be simultaneously scabbing, peeling, and trying to fall off all at the same time, which I noticed as he awkwardly scribbled out the perscription. He charged Matilda 100 rupees ($2 us) for the 2-minute visit and told us to pick up the meds at the chemist's down the road.
Moral of this story: Never take for granted a doctor with an actual otoscope.
Tale 2.
While M took her drugs and tried to sleep off the infection, Nat and I went to read on the beach. 5 minutes later, I watch as 2 Indian men -- one in his swimsuit (we'll call him Sleazebag 1), the other in regular clothes, holding a camera phone (aka SB 2) -- walk casually down the beach. A European girl in a bikini strolls towards the water and SB 1 stands just in front of her, posing for SB 2. At the last minute, SB 1 moves to one side and SB 2 cops a very obvious shot of European girl in bikini. They continue their nonchalant walk down the beach, where they meet up with a few other camera-phone-armed men and compare pictures. Over the next 2 hours, we watched as countless men -- big groups of young ones, two or three old ones together, in business suits and boxers and casual clothes -- all armed with camera phones, roamed the beaches looking for the next cheap shot. Some walked right next to chairs of sunbathers, pretending to chat on the phone while taking multiple pictures. I was wearing a high cut tank top and a long skirt and STILL got circled by the vultures. Nat and I glared at them till our eyes got tired, to no avail. We quickly discovered that the sand may be white and the sea may be warm, but as long as their are shoulder and knees bared, Indian men make the beach a sleaze-fest. And we were not so sad that Nat forgot her swimsuit at home.
Moral of this story: Suddenly burkas seem a lot more appealing. Apparently the only known way to get an Indian male to stop gaping at you is to dress like a colourless, shapeless blob.
Here and There.
Beautiful Beach Children.
Pink Nail Polish!
Sidewalk drawings for India Republic Day.
Comparing mozzie bites in the Bangalore Airport.
Hello, Arabian Sea.
Getting cuddles & lice from PL kids.
Hindu Temple.. one of hundreds in Salem.
My favourite.
Sun.
Boys.
My favourite.
Sun.
Boys.
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