Poverty: A Lucrative Venture

Almost every time I've been on the road in India, day or night, in a car or rickshaw, a beggar has approached the window and asked for money or food.  Sometimes they are visibly handicapped, or they are carrying a small child, or, worst of all, they are small children themselves.

Anyone here will tell you to give them nothing.  They tell you that if you do, they will write down the license plate number of your car so they can harass you later, or that other beggars will see and mob you.  Most of us have seen Slumdog Millionaire, and I've learned that there is a reality to the film's representation of begging rings and scams.  Poverty is real and painfully visible in India, but many beggars are controlled by gang leaders who will take a large portion of whatever they earn.  It's almost impossible to help them by giving them a snack bar or Rs. 10.  They probably won't get to keep it.

Like most people, this is almost incomprehensible to me.  Coming from America, where poverty is a crime these days, India's problems seem impossible to solve.  There are several complex causes of the situation here, but above all, there the problem that, for some, poverty is lucrative.  People make thousands of dollars from it everyday.   Millions of people in India are poor because there is a very powerful group of people that profit from their misfortune.  It's human trafficking, perhaps not at it's worst, but trafficking nonetheless.  To make matters worse, like sex, gendercide, and the caste system, poverty is a taboo topic in India.

So what to do?  I don't know.  Here, poverty is a business, and I am no businesswoman (or economic expert for that matter, or anything of the sort). 

The woman below came up to my rickshaw today.  In the open air of a rickshaws there is no window to shield me from her pleas, spoken in another language, no tinted glass to spare me from the piercing look in her eyes.  I've seen her more times than I can count.  She always works at the same intersection, and is always carrying the same little boy.  Before today, I never noticed she was pregnant.  I asked her if I could take her picture, and when she said yes, I gave her ten rupees.  Maybe she won't get to keep it, but maybe, just maybe, she will.

My Unintended Walking Tour

After my trip to the fabric store yesterday, I took a rickshaw to the tailor.  It turns out her shop was in a pretty residential area, which was fine.  When the driver dropped me off, I asked him to wait for me, but when I came back outside he was gone!  Since the tailor's house was about 4km from the main road, which was the closest place I could find another rickshaw, I had a long walk (in the sweltering heat) ahead of me.  But my loss is your gain!

I've been admiring the architecture of the city lately, so I decided to make the best of my misfortune by taking pictures of the homes in the neighborhood where I was abandoned.  The architecture features modern, colonial, and even Victorian influences, and I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

Fabulous Fabrics.

India is the home to many fabulous textiles, including handwoven rugs, the ubiquitous pashmina, and a bevy of unique fabrics.  One of my many goals here is to get some custom made clothing, especially a few dresses made out of amazing fabrics.

Locating my favorite fabric store was a little work, but I finally found one.  Below, you will see a few pictures of the store's selection, which includes over a thousand unique fabrics!  If you see something you want, let me know (as best you can), and I'll be happy to bring it back for you.

I chose a blue paisley cotton, and took it to a tailor that the store owner recommended.  I also took a dress I liked, and I asked her to copy it.  I get to pick it up tomorrow, so we'll see how it goes!

 

Bringing the leg meat.

There are five main reasons you cannot run outside in India.

1.  It's hot like whoa.
2.  The presence of sidewalks on most roads is inconsistent at best.
3.  The presence of a slew of farm/zoo animals, including, but not limited to, cows, goats, donkeys, boar, and monkeys on most roads is guaranteed.
4.  Indian mosquitoes transmit about as many diseases as Vegas hookers. 
5.  Indians stare like they are getting paid not to blink.

I have to run, because if I don't, I get chubby and I can't sleep, but I have been relegated to the treadmill in the gym in our apartment complex, where the manager plays Indian hip hop music on a volume that can be equated with tornado warning systems in Kansas. 

 The monsoon season here is finally in full swing, which means the weather is much more temperate than when we arrived.  In India, temperate means a heat index of 100 and 70% humidity, but I'll take what I can get.

So today I did it.  I ran outside.  I was confined to the one mile loop around our apartment complex, to avoid Reasons #2 and #3, and I sprayed enough Deep Woods Off on my clothes to kill a baby from about 2 yards away, but I was outside.  And running.  I loved it.

It was impossible to avoid Reason #5.  The cooler weather drew lots of people outside, and they all stared as I jogged past.  My green running shorts didn't help, but I can't run in pants.  It's too much.

And here's the thing about Indian culture: Women can show their mid sections whether they have the abs of a lesbian gym owner or the stomach of a 40 year old mother of four, but show those thighs and calves and you're a whore.  Oh, and Indians don't run unless they are being chased.

So there I was, in all my glory, flaunting my leg meat, blasting Rihanna's "Only Girl (In the World)."  And I felt like the only girl in the world.  Jaws dropped.  Heads turned.  Mothers shielded the faces of their children.

I didn't care.  Well, I did a little, but I pretended not to.

But the worst part happened after I ran.

The lobby, hallways, and elevators in our apartment building aren't air-conditioned, so after a 30 minute run in Hades, I was pretty hot.  My shirt was soaked through and my face was dripping wet.

Let me preface my forthcoming confession with a note: I have never seen my neighbors inside my apartment building, except for in the lobby.  In the entire time I've lived here, the elevator goes straight from the lobby to the 7th floor without stopping, and I've never seen anyone in the hallway outside my apartment.

So the confession: Once I got inside the elevator, I took my shirt off.  Standing around in a sports bra is an India is a huge no-no, but it was sooooo hot.  Now, my cared-for-by-carbs midsection is nothing to look at, and it was bad enough that I was bringing the leg meat, but now my shoulders were on display. In India, shoulders are the epitome of sexiness.

On the fourth floor, the elevator stopped.

I froze.  In slow motion, the doors opened to reveal four Indian men.  As the doors slowly slid back, they looked at me in ever growing horror/delight.  It was like the elevator was a magical peep show portal they didn't even have to pay to open. I don't think they even looked at my legs.  For a moment, my shoulders were the center of the universe.

I've never felt so trashy.

I had to make this end, so, ever so coolly, I stepped forward, said "Hey guys," like an idiotic American, and pressed the "door close" button.

Real cool, Katrina.  Real cool.


* I must credit Tina Fey with the phrases "leg meat" and "abs of a lesbian gym owner." She's too funny.  Read Bossypants!

Some days in India aren't so bad.

I've been really wanting to go home.  I've been sick.  I miss my friends.  And I want to go swimming and eat a salad.  As I've been saying numerous times a day, these are dark times.

But some days in India aren't so bad.  This morning old Bobby and I got up early to join some random foreigners for coffee, which was really fun (and free!).  Afterwards, Bob had to leave for work, but I decided to go to the spa for some pampering.

It started with a massage from a tiny Asian woman who used her entire body weight to do her work.  I didn't mind.  I kept almost falling asleep.  This tops my only other massage experience, which involved a creepy man-masseuse with a goatee that was too long and a pot belly that kept touching my bare body.  Yikes.  But anyway, Jennifer (which is definitely not her real name) was awesome.  She even did a little handstand thing on my back at the end.  It was like a break dance move... you know, the one they do right before they start spinning around on the floor?

After the massage I got a pedicure, which was long and luxurious.  The little Indian guy smelled pretty ripe, and he enjoyed the leg rub part a little more than I would have liked, but whatevs.  At least he did a good job on the polish, right?

Before I headed home, I stopped at a French bakery to get some chocolate truffles for Bob, who said he's having a bad day.  And I got him some Doritos and Skittles too.  And only India can you purchase Doritos and Skittles in a French bakery.

After days like today, I realize that these aren't dark times.  They're just kind of hazy.  But maybe that's just the smog.

Random Photos

 In light of the unexciting nature of the last few weeks, I thought I'd just post a few photos that have yet to find a home in other posts.  Enjoy!

 

 

The trip to the Post Office was surprisingly uneventful.  NOTHING went wrong, which is rare in India!

Some rickshaw drivers waiting for a gig.

View from a rickshaw.

Another, more interesting view from a rickshaw.  Any and everything can be bought and delivered in India.  Including mattresses.

The rickshaw driver enjoying some cold water (that I gave him) after bringing me home.  He then tried to scam me out of money.  Whatevs.

The best part about Dilli Haat, a local craft market we visited, was the food.  I am enjoying some kachoori, which are pockets of bread stuffed with vegetables and then deep fried.

"Cold coffee" is a BIG deal in India.  Bob can't get enough :)

On the left: one of our favorite Indian foods, chole baturri, which is a bit like chili.  On the right... I can't really remember.  I think it might be dahi bhalla, a yogurt treat that Bob likes and which I find a bit repulsive.

Monsoon view from our apartment.

Cute boy riding in auto rickshaw.

Wedding!

Sorry we haven't posted in so long!  Between pretty serious bouts with homesickness and real sickness, I haven't been up to writing.  And although neither of us are feeling that much better, I figured if I didn't write soon, I might never write again.

Due to my low grade fever (and Bob's belief that pictures are way better than words), I decided to post some of our favorite photos from the wedding with captions.  Enjoy friends!

check out my salwar kameez!  i didn't have time to get a sari.  i also doubt i'll ever learn to tie one.

ajay, the groom (and bob's friend from work). per tradition, he arrived on a white horse surrounded by about 10 drummers and a bunch of crazy dancing people.  when we arrived, we got pulled into their crazy dance circle, where bob got trapped.  i escaped.

the reception hall.  it was HUGE.  there must have been close to 500 people present.  interesting indian wedding fact:  the ceremony and reception take place at the same time.  up in the front, near the dance floor, there was a stage where the ceremony was taking place.  and NO ONE was paying attention.  the music was blasting, people were dancing and singing, and everyone else was eating.

there was food EVERYWHERE.  it was all vegetarian, and there was a buffet of nearly 50 options that covered almost the entire wall space of the room.  there were also cocktail waiters who circulated the room, and forced tiny appetizers and toothpicks upon unsuspecting guests.  the fried pineapple, on the left, was UNBELIEVABLE.  i think it was pretty much all i ate.  note:  whenever a guest accepted food from one waiter, the rest of the waiters swarmed.  i guess they got rewards for serving the most food or something. i didn't mind :)

the bride, who was absolutely BEAUTIFUL.  our perception was that indian weddings focus on the groom, as opposed to the bride.  surbhi, who also works with bob, didn't arrive until about two hours after the ceremony started.

the saunf spread.  these are something like after dinner mints (because we all know indian food puts your breath on kill) that come in a myriad of flavors.  my favorite is the fennel.  the first time i asked an indian what they were, he said, "it is a mouth freshener and good for digestion."  indians think everything is good for digestion.  and i guess they would know. 

Our Trip to Mussoorie, in the Mountains

It was great.  It was amazing.  It was beautiful.  I mean really.  It was the Himalayan Mountains.  I still can't believe we went.  Despite the car sickness on the way there (yikes!, and thanks to Phenergan for the save on the way home), the rabid monkeys that Bob kept trying to befriend, and the cold fog, which reminded me of scary movies, it was the best vacation I've ever been on.  My favorite pics are below:

the view

the garden outside our room

 

 

bob and the fog

me and the mountains

the rabid monkey bob wanted to be friends with

little bracelet man

a great anniversary!

I am tempted to go on and on about the beauty of the earth, the glory of God, the wonders of nature, etc, but Bob said, "Sometimes people just like to look at pictures.  I know I do."  So enjoy friends!

The Quasi-Vegans

Bob and I are quasi-vegans.

We are being held against our will.

Before we came to India, I was already a strict vegetarian.  Bob's favorite food was beef.  Then he got almost fatal food poisoning from chicken here, and he decided that he would become a vegetarian until we leave.

When I first became a vegetarian, at the end of college, I was a vegan for exactly three days.  During which I mostly cried because I was so hungry.  So I started eating all my favorite things again: eggs, yogurt, butter, and most importantly, ice cream.  Based on my reasons for becoming a vegetarian (which I won't get into), it makes more sense to be a vegan, but I'm just not one of those kids.  I can't pull it off.

Now we don't have a choice.  The problems with my favorite animal products are listed below.

Milk
It is straight nasty here.  It comes out of a box that sits on a shelf in a store until you buy it.  It tastes, um, sick.  That is the best adjective I can think of.  There is soy milk here, which we have with our cereal, but it is a lot sweeter than the soy milk at home. Cloyingly sweet.  I've been skipping breakfast all together lately.

Cheese 
The slices taste worst than government cheese.  The only other option is paneer, which is like cubed cottage cheese.  There is something about it that just isn't right.  I think I could get used to it if I tried harder (and felt desperate enough).

Eggs 
Taste very good.  Make my stomach hurt very bad.

Ice cream 
They have ice cream at the store.  We got it once.  It does not taste like ice cream.  It tastes like frozen milk.  See note on milk, above.

Yogurt
We do eat yogurt here, but this is no Yoplait.  It's called curd, it tastes like really sour sour cream, and you eat it with spicy food.  It's good, but it's not a breakfast food.

Butter 
We eat butter as well.  It is the only thing keeping me sane.  Mainly, we eat it on toast or chapatis (these little homemade tortillas we make).  We don't have an oven in our apartment though, so we don't make cookies or cake or anything.

Bob is surprisingly holding it together pretty well.  I am on the brink of self-destruction.  Will someone mail me some Orange Leaf?  Or any kind of ice cream?  Please?

Thank you, American Airlines.

I am the most anxious flier ever.  Except Bob Lanham. When we went on our honeymoon to Mexico, his eyes kept filling with tears.  He was all sweaty.  When we hit some pretty rough turbulence, he grabbed me, gave me a "hug" (which was more like a cross between a bear hug and a death grip) and screamed (literally) that everything was going to be okay.

When I flew to Delhi, I got upgraded to Business Class.  It saved me from my flight anxiety.  During my eight hour layover in Chicago, I literally asked five employees of the airline five different times how to get upgraded.  They all said the same thing: "Pay for an upgrade."  Sure jerks.  If I could, I would have already done that.  Then, when we were boarding, I was called to the service counter.  I was sure I was getting kicked off the plane for being annoying, but instead a Jason Bateman look-alike told me that I had been upgraded to Business Class and that I could go ahead and board.  I started jumping up and down.  I did a high kick (for real).  I wanted him to be excited with me.  He just stared at me.  I told him that I wanted to kiss him, and he smirked a little.  He reminded me of my friend Bobby Helton.  Mean as hell with a good heart.  Sassy til the end of time.

Anyway, I think everyone should fly business class always.  It was full of mostly middle aged men who thought I was pretty. The flight attendant was a little old man who loved me from the get-go. He showed me how my chair turned into a recliner, and he gave me some Bose noise-cancelling headphones.  He did that for everyone, really, but I could tell he loved me.

During the flight, I drank a lot of free Bailey's (to go along with my Xanax).  I didn't touch my book, and I only watched one movie.  And then I slept.  And it was glorious.  When I woke up 11 hours later to the pilot's announcement that we would be landing in Delhi in 30 minutes, all of the men smiled at me like I was the most endearing creature ever.  The old man flight attendant patted me on the head and said, with his British accent, "My last sleeper.  You missed breakfast. Would you like some juice?"  I almost asked him for a hug, because I was so happy.

I am sure the return flight in Economy will be traumatizing, but for now, I will just revel in the joy that was my Business Class experience.  Thank you, American Airlines.

The Art of the Bobble

Don't do it up and down.

Do it side to side.

This is the Indian head bobble.  Also known as a "wobble," "head shake," or "head wiggle," in general "it is often performed by the listener in agreement with what is being said by the speaker, such that the speaker perceives there is 'no problem' with the message being conveyed."  (Thank you Wikipedia.)

It can be used to express a variety of sentiments, as another blogger explains: "Though the gesture is most often translated to mean “yes,”...the wobble is layered with nuance.... The motion ranges in meaning from “Right away, sir!” to “I feel your pain, but honestly can’t be bothered to help you.” The shades of meaning generally depend on the number of wobbles. For instance, five or six wobbles in either direction indicates servile humility... while a detached half-wobble to the left, eyes partly closed...suggests near total indifference."

It is harder than it looks.  Before I got here, I thought it was a lot more like doing what a bobble head doll does.  Do that here and people will look at you like you are a psychopath.  They will also look at you like you are crazy if you nod your head up and down to mean "yes."

I mastered it on accident.  I was leaving the gym, and my earbuds were falling out of my ears, but both my hands were full.  In an effort to keep them from falling all the way out, and slowly moved my right ear up, pulling at the cord of my earbuds.  At the same moment, I realized that the security guard at the door was asking me a question.  I have no idea what he asked, but I had inadvertently responded with the head bobble.  And he loved it.

Using this gesture in India will get you very far.  People seem to understand that you aren't as green as you look, and they respect you a little bit more.  Also, it is rare to see Indians smile at people, but they do almost invariably when a foreigner uses the wobble.

It is also addictive.  It is just so much more sophisticated than the eager nod of America.  It's cool, you know?

The Rickshaw Mafia and the Lizard

The easiest way to travel in Delhi is by auto-rickshaw.  Of course, riding in one means you have to haggle with the driver over the price, and then hope that he understands, despite the language barrier, where you want to go.

But all is not as simple as it seems.

The rickshaw mafia is a federation of rickshaw drivers.  Their cooperation is impressive.  This is how it goes down.

They line up outside popular places, like the metro exit or a mall, like so:

When you approach them, the leader, who usually speaks the best English, says, "Where you going?"  You tell him, using a lot of gestures and body language, and he choose the rickshaw he thinks is most likely to get you there.  And then there is the price.

I  got in a big fight with the rickshaw mafia this week.  After a trip to "Food Bazaar," my favorite grocery destination, I approached the rickshaw mafia.  I told them where I lived. The mafia leader took one look at me and said "300 rupees."

Me: "No way!  100." 

Vito Corleone: "No, 250."  I laughed, said ok, and started to walk away.  I have no idea where I was going, but this wasn't an act.  I was pissed.  Vito started smacking the side of a rickshaw and yelled, "Lady! 250!" 

Me (screaming):  "No! I live here! I'm not a tourist.  100!" 

We finally agreed on 150.  The whole time Vito and I were screaming at each other, the mafia drivers, who take naps in the back of their rickshaws in between jobs, were peering out from their little yellow roofs and laughing really hard.  I think they enjoyed the show.



That night, I chased a lizard out of our apartment.

This is the distressed email I sent to Bob:


There is a typo in the message; I meant to say "It wasn't that big."  Honestly, it looked like a toy lizard, but it freaked me out.  Sick.  Also, we live on the seventh floor of our building.  How did it get up here?

Guess I'll never know.  Hope it was a one time thing.

Last story about the events of the week so far, and I'll keep it short:

At a restaurant, a woman tried to cut in front of me.  In India, this is completely acceptable.  If you let someone cut in front of you, you deserve it.  So I booty bumped her out of the way, and ordered my food.  Take that.

I'm registered!

I finally completed the foreign national registration process in India!  I know it might not seem like a big deal to you, but it is.  A lot of people, including Bob, say that registering ranks first among their worst experiences in India.   My registration was remarkably uneventful.

at the fro office

Last Tuesday, we went to the FRO office to begin the process.  When we showed up, the place was eerily calm, and we later found out the Mr. FRO himself (who people describe as a monster, the master of nightmares, or at best, jerk) was out for the day.  Jai, a man from Bob's work who was helping us, told us that meant the employees were doing whatever they wanted, including registering people very quickly.  We pushed to the front of the group, since there aren't any lines here or concept of "turns" and turned in all of my paperwork (about 100 pages of documents including a letter from Bob's work, a copy of our apartment lease, etc).  In thirty minutes my passport was stamped, and they told me to come back in a week to pick up my official "papers" or proof of registration.  When I left, I had a sinking feeling they would lose everything in the mess of their office.  It was the least organized place I had ever seen.

casual day since the master of nightmares is off

very sophisticated filing system

he has my passport in his hand!  it's all over!

Today Bob and I went back, with Jai, and happily retrieved my papers in all of 10 minutes.  My forty minute FRO experience is completely unheard of, and I'm sure that if other foreigners heard about it, they would be paying me to find out how it went so smoothly.  If you live in America and never plan on coming to India, skip to the next paragraph.  For the rest of you:
1.  Go on a day that the evil Mr. FRO is not at work.
2.  Shove your way to the front of the group.  You will have to be kind of rude, but it will be worth it.  Plus, it's not rude in Indian culture.
3. Smile.  A lot.
4.  Ask a helpful Hindi-speaking friend to go with you.  Or even better, say a few things in Hindi yourself, and be sure to use the Indian head bobble when people ask you questions.

When we left, we also went to get something notarized at the courthouse down the road.  To our surprise, it was an outdoor district court that looked a lot this photo I borrowed from another website:

this looks a lot like the outdoor district court we visited today

It was infinitely cool.  Jai was very proud that we only got charged Rs. 150 ($3) until we told him it was free at home.  Also, the notary guy didn't even read the paper or ask for our passports, which is kind of the whole point of a notary.  Oh well.  No complaints here.

All in all, it was a pretty successful day.  Registering was something I was super anxious about, and now it's over!