As my mother nicely reminded me, a while back I swore on a stack of Bhagavad Gitas that I would write about two constant characters, Indian bureaucracy and our homemade cinemas. Because this isn't a Lifetime original movie entitled "Broken Promises", I'll first talk about bureaucracy (can't give it all to you at once, Mom!):
Indian Bureaucracy:
First, isn't bureaucracy the trickiest word to spell? Maybe it's just me, but I can never figure out how to correctly organize the letters in this word. It doesn't help that I am a poli sci major, and the majority of my professors throw this word around like Ricky Martin throws his shirts off in concert, leaving me scratching "beureaucracy" or "beauracracy" in my notes. Despite its complicated mix of vowels and silent letters, bureaucracy is very important, kids, because it is the organizational structure, procedure and regulations that are used to enact policies and generally control stuff. Bureaucracies are supposed to be uniform and universal, kind of like McDonald's- you should expect to comply to the same rules and regulations at a DMV in Orlando as you would in Oregon. Uniformness is a Good Thing when it comes to doing things that require your passport.
Residing in the subcontinent for nearly four months requires an intricate dance with the bureaucracy of India, one which, unsurprisingly, does not consist of much across-the-board regulation. About a week and a half after we had arrived in India, CASI e-mailed us to tell us that we were to register with the nearest foreign services office. This way, the Indian government would know we were in India. I figured that this was what my visa, registration with the US Embassy, and utter compliance with airport officials at customs was for, but that was foolish thinking. No, I had to register, and I had 14 days once in the country do it, or else pay a hefty fine. Registering meant having to take the bus to Jhunjhunu, which we did that Sunday (exactly on the 14th day) only to realize that things closed on Sunday. So we went back on Monday.
First of all, there is no such thing as a foreign service office in Jhunjhunu, where maybe two foreigners pass by every year. Instead, we had to go to the police station. This made for a nice conversation starter on the bus ride over, when one interested rider wanted to know where we were going. "The police station," we replied. We let that sink in and remained silent despite his persistent pestering of "But why? Why the police station?" Much more fun to have him think we were Western fugitives in trouble with the law, or smugglers of exotic animal skins. Then we got to the police station, and realized that being a fugitive would probably require less paper work than registering in the country. The police station itself was in nice enough shape, minus the line of people who looked like they had been queuing for the last six years. The offices were stacked floor-to-cathedral ceiling with papers. Literally, stacks upon stacks of jumbled papers reached towards the heavens, aching under the weight of unorganization.
Very little is digital in India- the country is making moves towards putting things on computers, but we are at least 5 to 10 years away from that. Until then, it's handwritten paperwork. So we marched into an office, accompanied by Shrot (director of Source for Change) and talked to two dudes. One of them was a youngish guy, who was very nice and who we will call Friend. The other was a tall, old gentleman with a permanent frown and a singular desire to take our money. We will call him Not Friend. We handed over our passports to Friend, who examined them as though they were rare artifacts. At first, Friend told us that since we were a day late, we were going to have to pay a fine, which would be around"20-50 US dollars." Don't you love exact sums? Shrot talked to Friend for a while, and finally agreed to date the document saying we had come three days earlier, so as to waive the fee. This was good news! The bad news was that we needed six passport photos each, and we had to come back the next day.
Literally though, six passport photos. This meant going to the photo shop in a different part of Jhunjhunu. I'm actually really happy we went, because we met the most amazing man there. He couldn't have been more than 4'11, he only spoke in a thrilling lisp, and he was so excited! to be able to take "snaps" of us. It was like being photographed by Terry Richardson; I was convinced that at any moment he would take his shirt off and join the photo shoot. Meg and Lindsay's photos passed by with little excitement. Then I sat down, and crushed his dreams. He snapped my picture, looked at it, than sighed the saddest little sigh I've ever heard and said "Noooo....No, no. Again." I must have looked terrifying in the first picture, I'm not sure.
Next up was Siler. I actually thought this guy was going to lose his shit. Siler flipped his scarf over his shoulder and posed for his life, emotion seeping from his eyes. Terry was loving it. "YEEESSSSSSSS!!!!" he shrieked, in an orgasmic climax of creativity and beauty and childhood dreams to work in fashion, this was life, glorious, perfect, creamy-complexioned life at its best. And then, just like that, it was over. Siler got up and took off his scarf, leaving behind the trembling butterfly of what was, what could have been. Years from now, when Terry is old and gray he will sit in a mahogany chair wrapped in a striped pashmina, smoking a Gauloise (he always had a love for the French) and remember that moment, where for a fleeting instant, the camera lens was the only thing separating him from an internship at Teen Vogue.
Ahem, scuze me. Got a bit carried away there, but you see, the thing is that paperwork is just so boring that I have to come up with these exciting alternate realities to keep myself from crying. We had to return to Jhunjhunu the following day, armed with our passport photos and patience. It was going to be a long afternoon. We stayed there for around two or three hours, during which time Not Friend tried to get us to pay him some money. We took to ignoring him, and instead dealt only with Friend. And this is what Friend did. He took a big book full of pictures of foreigners that had passed through Jhunjhunu and registered at the office. He pasted a picture of each of us in this book, which we then had to sign. "That's your signature?" he asked, after I scrawled my name in admittedly easy to forge handwriting. "No," I replied, "this is the special autograph I use only when dealing with Indian bureaucracy."
The next step was hysterical. Not Friend ripped out a blank piece of paper from a notebook for each of us to fill out. Amongst other things, the information that was to be included was our father's name and occupation (but not our Mother's), our height and our eye color, because apparently is imperative that the Indian government know I have hazel eyes as oppose to blue eyes. We wrote all this information in slanting chicken-scratch, and handed it over. Next, we watched as Friend and Not Friend pasted each of our five remaining pictures onto five identical pieces of paper. Then we had to sign these all. The finale was Friend just staring at our passports for a good ten minutes. Finally, FINALLY we were allowed to leave.
I naively thought that my time in the paper gallows were done, but I was wrong. Aditi informed us that we would also have to "de-register," a process that must be done within a 14-day span prior to leaving the country, and must be completed at the office where you registered. Yes, the exact office where you registered. This is infuriating. I understand that in a country the size of India, it's important to keep tabs of foreigners who come and leave, but isn't that what the computerized system at the airport is for? Also, since everything is the opposite of digital, someone would have to really want to find out my eye color to go all the way to Jhunjhunu and dig through stacks upon stacks of forms. Apparently it is a 50-50 chance when you go to the airport that they will ask for your registration and de-registration form.
Once, there was a rather unlucky GDL-er who was at the airport hours from catching his flight, when he had to come all the way back to Bagar to get some paperwork done. When we were given our personal registration form, Friend told us that we had to show that to the customs official at the airport, he made no mention of a de-registration form. I am leaving Bagar in two weeks, and will be volunteering and travelling in places that are very much not Bagar. While I enjoyed my time here, I don't want to have to take a six hour bus from Delhi specifically to come back to Jhunjhunu to de-register. So, the new plan is to de-register in Jhunjhunu, re-register in Delhi when I get there, and then de-register in Delhi right before I leave. In all, I anticipate needing 18 more passport photos, and wasting 6-8 hours having someone make fun of my signature. I didn't think that bureaucracy would become a constant character, but it looks like it will be.
I would like to point out that the inefficiency of India's bureaucracy system has proved to be rather detrimental to the country's growth. The system is choking on itself, slowing down all sorts of civil issues that should be resolved much more quickly. In 2008, The Economist published an article on India's bureaucracy, which stated:
"Some economists see India's malfunctioning public sector as its biggest obstacle to growth. Lant Pritchett, of the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard, calls it “one of the world's top ten biggest problems—of the order of AIDS and climate change”....In India's corrupt democracy, the collectors' burden is made much heavier by interfering politicians. The problem is most grievous in north India, where civil servants tend to attach themselves to politicians for enrichment, advancement—or in despair of otherwise getting their jobs done."
Nantina, whatchu think about this? ;)
Monday, June 28, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
We are the Celebrities
Twas our last day in Chirawa, and all through the town, not a creeper was stirring, not a punch to be found. It must be the 120 degree weather that makes me fondly remember my childhood Christmases, or the fact that we are finally done marketing in Chirawa, which is the greatest gift anyone has ever given me. While we successfully collected over 2000 names, there is a nagging child grabbing at my frontal lobe and whining "Was it worth it?" Chirawa was incredibly overwhelming, in a way that Bagar or Jhunjhunu or any of the other towns I have visited haven't been. It was the kind of place where a dark cloud of "uh-oh" feeling cast an ominous shadow that radiated from every moustached man, the same atmosphere one would find at any discotheque in Philadelphia. Our final day on Thursday was significantly less bloody than Wednesday, which is always a positive, but it was still tinged with delightful hand grabbing and sexual comments that make the day complete.
The morning started off tame (this has become quite the pattern), as six of us headed off to the American English Learning Institute. It teaches over 200 students, is indoors and away from the Chirawan crowds, and nicely decorated with posters I recognized from my middle school years. "If you think you will fail you will" a cartoon chided, amongst other uplifting messages. Meg and Siler had come to speak to the director the day before, and in exchange for access to 1600 names and mobile numbers of recent college graduates, the three of us would talk to their morning classes and teach them a bit about American culture. I feel like Mobile Naukri has come to run on a scratch my back, I'll scratch your's policy that feels a liiiitttleeee bit like an escort service, but the gains are more important than the means here, so let's plow on.
After a brief pit stop in the director's office, we were escorted into the main classroom, where we were promptly told to sit on stools on a raised platform at the front of the class. 50 students stood up as we entered and sat down when we sat down- polite, right? We spoke to two classes that morning, but the first group was decidedly more interesting and spoke better English, so funnier things happened with them. We weren't there so much to field questions as we were for them to just spit out rapid-fire questions, which the director would try and answer himself. When we did get the chance to answer questions, there was a lot of confusion and misunderstanding with things that were lost in translation. After we introduced ourselves, a girl raised her hand and asked an easy to answer while being culturally sensitive question. "Do you believe in God?" she said. We paused, maybe she was joking. She wasn't, so we all looked at each other, agnostic desperation seeping from our eyes. What was the best way to answer this one? "Yes," Meg answered with an assertive nod of the head, "We love God." This seemed to please the young student, and left the door wide open for students to ask other impersonal questions. In whole the conversation went a little something like this:
Students: Do you have any siblings?
Me: No, only a cat.
Director (joking?): Yes, she has a cat and she beats her cat!
Students: Do you beat your cat?
Me: Um...no.
Students: Where is your cat right now? Is it getting beaten?
Me (speaking very, very slowly): No. we. Do. Not. Beat. Our. Cat. Beating. Animals. Is. Wrong.
Students: Which one of your parents do you like better?
All of us: Both? How can you choose?
Male Student: I like my mother better.
Director (again, jokes?): That is because his father beats him! Ha! Haha! His papa beats him so he likes his mummy better. He gets beaten by his father everyday.
Student: No, no!
Us: [Silent]. Any more questions?
Students: Do you know Venus and Serena Williams?
Us: Yes, Venus is quite lovely, sometimes we go shopping together. Serena can kind of be a beyotch though, you know? Like the fame has gone to her head.
Students: Why does the US like Pakistan?
[Much bickering between students, then...]
Students: Why is Osama Bin Laden doing the things that he is doing?
Siler deftly answered this question about Osama Bin Laden's psyche, and it was actually awesome to see the conversation turn to such a complicated subject. The students seemed to understand what we were saying, and were very engaged in the conversation. For the most part though, they were interested in what we thought about India. Meg said she like cricket, which made the students leap to their feet in boistorous applause. We were applauded several times actually, for the funniest of reasons. Siler pointed out that he had a moustache, just like Bollywood hearthrob Sharu Khan and palms were viciously slapped together. I recited the one sassy phrase I know in Marwari, the local language, and loud shouts of approval reverberated through the room. They liked us, they really liked us! They wanted us to sing, they wanted us to dance, they wanted to take pictures with us. Really though, the students took nearly 100 pictures with us, including a dozen where we shook hands with them, much like those awkward presidential photographs between Obama and Sarkozy. One side is like "Ohmygod!Ohmygod!" and the other person is like "Whaaaaat are you going to do with this picture later, Nick?" And what were these students going to do with these pictures? Frame them? Glue them to their notebook, or their bedroom wall? Or perhaps print them out wallet size and tote them around in their purse or back pocket? I think I take for granted how diverse the United States is, even in smaller towns. We are used to seeing people of different ethnicities and nationalities; I would never ask to take a picture with, say, someone from Bhutan. It was kind of cool though, sort of like being one of those celebrities famous for doing nothing. In a way, Meg, Siler and I are the Paris and Nicky Hilton of Chirawa!
The afternoon was decidedly less fun. More weird men came to hang around the table, including one guy who grabbed my hand when I handed him a business card. It's odd, because I wouldn't be the least bit upset of offended if someone in the US grabbed my hand, but here, you can smell that it's for different reasons. What reasons, I'm not entirely sure- maybe he thought that a soft finger brushing would result in something...? Anyway, Meg and I basically had to sit behind the table for the entire afternoon, flanked by the batillion unit of Pankaj, Deepak and Siler. The next couple of days are going to be spent in the office, doing (blech) data entry, but sometimes it's important for things to simmer down, you know? Next week we are going to do some marketing in Pilani, which Sahil has assured us is decidedly less creepy than Chirawa.
Oh, and good luck to the US for their match against Ghana tonight! It will be playing at midnight here in India, but we have big plans to find a TV and root for our boys.
The morning started off tame (this has become quite the pattern), as six of us headed off to the American English Learning Institute. It teaches over 200 students, is indoors and away from the Chirawan crowds, and nicely decorated with posters I recognized from my middle school years. "If you think you will fail you will" a cartoon chided, amongst other uplifting messages. Meg and Siler had come to speak to the director the day before, and in exchange for access to 1600 names and mobile numbers of recent college graduates, the three of us would talk to their morning classes and teach them a bit about American culture. I feel like Mobile Naukri has come to run on a scratch my back, I'll scratch your's policy that feels a liiiitttleeee bit like an escort service, but the gains are more important than the means here, so let's plow on.
After a brief pit stop in the director's office, we were escorted into the main classroom, where we were promptly told to sit on stools on a raised platform at the front of the class. 50 students stood up as we entered and sat down when we sat down- polite, right? We spoke to two classes that morning, but the first group was decidedly more interesting and spoke better English, so funnier things happened with them. We weren't there so much to field questions as we were for them to just spit out rapid-fire questions, which the director would try and answer himself. When we did get the chance to answer questions, there was a lot of confusion and misunderstanding with things that were lost in translation. After we introduced ourselves, a girl raised her hand and asked an easy to answer while being culturally sensitive question. "Do you believe in God?" she said. We paused, maybe she was joking. She wasn't, so we all looked at each other, agnostic desperation seeping from our eyes. What was the best way to answer this one? "Yes," Meg answered with an assertive nod of the head, "We love God." This seemed to please the young student, and left the door wide open for students to ask other impersonal questions. In whole the conversation went a little something like this:
Students: Do you have any siblings?
Me: No, only a cat.
Director (joking?): Yes, she has a cat and she beats her cat!
Students: Do you beat your cat?
Me: Um...no.
Students: Where is your cat right now? Is it getting beaten?
Me (speaking very, very slowly): No. we. Do. Not. Beat. Our. Cat. Beating. Animals. Is. Wrong.
Students: Which one of your parents do you like better?
All of us: Both? How can you choose?
Male Student: I like my mother better.
Director (again, jokes?): That is because his father beats him! Ha! Haha! His papa beats him so he likes his mummy better. He gets beaten by his father everyday.
Student: No, no!
Us: [Silent]. Any more questions?
Students: Do you know Venus and Serena Williams?
Us: Yes, Venus is quite lovely, sometimes we go shopping together. Serena can kind of be a beyotch though, you know? Like the fame has gone to her head.
Students: Why does the US like Pakistan?
[Much bickering between students, then...]
Students: Why is Osama Bin Laden doing the things that he is doing?
Siler deftly answered this question about Osama Bin Laden's psyche, and it was actually awesome to see the conversation turn to such a complicated subject. The students seemed to understand what we were saying, and were very engaged in the conversation. For the most part though, they were interested in what we thought about India. Meg said she like cricket, which made the students leap to their feet in boistorous applause. We were applauded several times actually, for the funniest of reasons. Siler pointed out that he had a moustache, just like Bollywood hearthrob Sharu Khan and palms were viciously slapped together. I recited the one sassy phrase I know in Marwari, the local language, and loud shouts of approval reverberated through the room. They liked us, they really liked us! They wanted us to sing, they wanted us to dance, they wanted to take pictures with us. Really though, the students took nearly 100 pictures with us, including a dozen where we shook hands with them, much like those awkward presidential photographs between Obama and Sarkozy. One side is like "Ohmygod!Ohmygod!" and the other person is like "Whaaaaat are you going to do with this picture later, Nick?" And what were these students going to do with these pictures? Frame them? Glue them to their notebook, or their bedroom wall? Or perhaps print them out wallet size and tote them around in their purse or back pocket? I think I take for granted how diverse the United States is, even in smaller towns. We are used to seeing people of different ethnicities and nationalities; I would never ask to take a picture with, say, someone from Bhutan. It was kind of cool though, sort of like being one of those celebrities famous for doing nothing. In a way, Meg, Siler and I are the Paris and Nicky Hilton of Chirawa!
The afternoon was decidedly less fun. More weird men came to hang around the table, including one guy who grabbed my hand when I handed him a business card. It's odd, because I wouldn't be the least bit upset of offended if someone in the US grabbed my hand, but here, you can smell that it's for different reasons. What reasons, I'm not entirely sure- maybe he thought that a soft finger brushing would result in something...? Anyway, Meg and I basically had to sit behind the table for the entire afternoon, flanked by the batillion unit of Pankaj, Deepak and Siler. The next couple of days are going to be spent in the office, doing (blech) data entry, but sometimes it's important for things to simmer down, you know? Next week we are going to do some marketing in Pilani, which Sahil has assured us is decidedly less creepy than Chirawa.
Oh, and good luck to the US for their match against Ghana tonight! It will be playing at midnight here in India, but we have big plans to find a TV and root for our boys.
The Intern Honeymoon
No thank you, puppet man.
View of Jaipur from the fort
Fancy palace, looks just like GDL
Amber Fort- all the interns!
Lindsay, Meg and me standing at one of the many entrances to Amber fort
I almost forget to mention-- we took a trip to Jaipur this weekend! It was incredible. Jaipur is the "Pink City," the capital of Rajasthan and filled to the brim with palaces and forts. We spent two days touring some of the forts and bazaars. We met one of Harsh's college friends who took us out for the best kulfi I have ever had. Actually, the majority of the weekend was spent eating: lots of non-veg, lots of kulfi ice cream, and then this cold coffee drink we got that was literally espresso-spiked whipping cream. I made a couple of key purchases, such as some husband-deterrent Aladin pants and a man's kurta pajama suit. I really like how the men dress here: all billowing white fabric and awesome pointy leather shoes. The man in the shop probably thought I was crazy when I tried on the kurta-pajama in the mirror. Cross-dressing hasn't exactly caught on yet in India. What has caught on in India is charging tourists around 10 times more than the local price. For absolutely everything. Entry into the forts was around 150 for foreigners and 10 rupees for Indians. Don't even get me started on the bartering that took place. It was like reliving the Spice Trade, except for that the Westerners now actually have something the locals want.
The whole local-foreigner rate to enter national heritage sites is a pretty interesting debate. At first, I was annoyed. I have had the good fortune to travel around a bit, and I have never encountered differing rates for cultural sites, unless it is a student or senior discount (neither of which Jaipur's attractions offer). I wondered about what kind of up-roar would happen in the US, or in Europe for that matter, if there were vastly different rates for "locals" and "foreigners." Just because there is the assumption that foreigners have more money does not necessarily mean that they have unlimited purchasing power, nor does it mean that international visitors should be financially responsible for the upkeep of these cultural sites. At the same time, one could argue that the Indian government has a responsibility to allow its citizens to visit their country's historical sites at a price they can afford. Compared to the average tourist, Indians have a much lower per capita income, so it evens itself out proportionately. 10 rupees to the average Indian visitor would feel the same in the pocket to 150 rupees for the camera-toting foreigner. It's a pretty interesting debate! Hopefully as I travel more this summer, I will gain some insight on this topic.
View of Jaipur from the fort
Fancy palace, looks just like GDL
Amber Fort- all the interns!
Lindsay, Meg and me standing at one of the many entrances to Amber fort
I almost forget to mention-- we took a trip to Jaipur this weekend! It was incredible. Jaipur is the "Pink City," the capital of Rajasthan and filled to the brim with palaces and forts. We spent two days touring some of the forts and bazaars. We met one of Harsh's college friends who took us out for the best kulfi I have ever had. Actually, the majority of the weekend was spent eating: lots of non-veg, lots of kulfi ice cream, and then this cold coffee drink we got that was literally espresso-spiked whipping cream. I made a couple of key purchases, such as some husband-deterrent Aladin pants and a man's kurta pajama suit. I really like how the men dress here: all billowing white fabric and awesome pointy leather shoes. The man in the shop probably thought I was crazy when I tried on the kurta-pajama in the mirror. Cross-dressing hasn't exactly caught on yet in India. What has caught on in India is charging tourists around 10 times more than the local price. For absolutely everything. Entry into the forts was around 150 for foreigners and 10 rupees for Indians. Don't even get me started on the bartering that took place. It was like reliving the Spice Trade, except for that the Westerners now actually have something the locals want.
The whole local-foreigner rate to enter national heritage sites is a pretty interesting debate. At first, I was annoyed. I have had the good fortune to travel around a bit, and I have never encountered differing rates for cultural sites, unless it is a student or senior discount (neither of which Jaipur's attractions offer). I wondered about what kind of up-roar would happen in the US, or in Europe for that matter, if there were vastly different rates for "locals" and "foreigners." Just because there is the assumption that foreigners have more money does not necessarily mean that they have unlimited purchasing power, nor does it mean that international visitors should be financially responsible for the upkeep of these cultural sites. At the same time, one could argue that the Indian government has a responsibility to allow its citizens to visit their country's historical sites at a price they can afford. Compared to the average tourist, Indians have a much lower per capita income, so it evens itself out proportionately. 10 rupees to the average Indian visitor would feel the same in the pocket to 150 rupees for the camera-toting foreigner. It's a pretty interesting debate! Hopefully as I travel more this summer, I will gain some insight on this topic.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Kill Bill, Vol. India
This week, our marketing has been focused in the village of Chirawa, a town about 30 minutes away from Bagar. We have been extremely successful here- in the past couple of days, we have collected over 300 names, and the registration hotline has been ringing non-stop with job-seekers. Today was our second day in Chirawa, and we set up camp near the market place and bus station, under a nice shady tree. Throughout the entire morning and afternoon, we had crowds of men swarming around us, registering, or asking questions, or simply wanting to see what exactly was up. The morning was fairly uneventful. Harsh, Pankaj, Deepak and I were marketing, and there was the usual ogling and unnecessary remarks about me and my American/girl-ness. Overall though, it was calm at sea, and there was no reason to think the rest of the day would be otherwise.
OR WOULD IT. Sometime around 4, when the sanity gods were on a rest break, and the rest of the world was happily enjoying a couple of Mai Tai cocktails on the beach, all hell broke loose in Chirawa. And by all hell I mean two incidents that left me with an extremely unpleasant taste in my mouth, one of those "What the....?" moments that question your decision to leave the comfy confines of reality television and hamburgers. The afternoon became rather Quinton Tarantino all of a sudden, so let's use that as our theme here, shall we?
Kill Bill Vol. 1:
I was standing behind the table with Harsh, handing out some business cards, when an older gentleman ambled over. By which I mean stumbled over; this 65 year-old was clearly inebriated. He came and stood near the table, asked some questions that I obviously couldn't understand (language barrier+slurring=unlikely deciphering). Harsh was put off by him, and kept telling me to step away and sit down. The thing was though, this man wasn't acting inappropriately. Sure, public drunkeness was definitely being committed, but he wasn't talking louder or asking more questions than the next one, and he hadn't even stared at me! For this I quite liked him. As I was explaining to Harsh that everything was fine, a stretched-out police officer strode over, all puffed up in his tan uniform and matching medals. With one hand twirling his moustache, the other arm reached out and yanked the older man by his collar, pulling him into the street. By this point, a rather large crowd had formed, anticipating some sort of "necessary action". I couldn't really hear anything that was going on, but the old man was in no way resisting arrest (although nothing close to an arrest was being made), nor was he making any effort to come back to the Mobile Naukri table. Clearly none of this mattered to Colonel Mustard, as he began to hit this old man, first slapping him across the face, which knocked his glasses clear off, and then punching his arms.
I felt like the police officer had just punched me in the stomach. I couldn't believe my eyes. Here, in the largest democracy on Earth, in a country that was born out of a non-violence movement, a people that idolize Gandhi-ji, a police officer was blatently assaulting a man who had committed nothing that merited physical violence. I was more shocked by the fact that people were laughing! No one but me seemed the least bit upset at humanity. The sad part is, police brutality is a huge problem in India. While this doesn't constitue a violation of human rights as we might see (the guy obviously wasn't being tortured), it's still a serious problem in the governance of India. When you have police officers who are so puffed up on their own government-given testosterone, how can you expect a society to run without issues of corruption and violence? What kinds of conditions do these police officers in low-income villages work in, that make them think the best way to solve the problem of a public nuisance is to turn them into a punching bag? Human Rights Watch came out with a 118-page report on police brutality in India in 2009, titled "Broken System: Dysfunction, Abuse and Impunity in the Indian Police", and I urge any of my readers interested in this topic to read it. A synopsis is available here.
Kill Bill Vol 2.:
So after that debauchery, I thought things might, you know, not be so freaking crazy. Ha! What fun would that be? Once again, I am back at my stomping grounds (handing out cards behind the table) while Meg is walking through a small gathering of people, also handing out cards. All of a sudden, she comes back to the table in a huff. Some creepy dude grabbed her arm, asked for her number, and insisted several times that she "come with him." For some reason, she declined his oh so charming offer, and came and stood by me. Meg is not the one to mess with, she is full of sass and spice, and I think that had she more amino acids in her body, laser beams might have shot out of her eyes at this man. And what a man he was! A strapping 5 foot nothing, rather pudgy around the middle, ill-fitting (why is this so common here?!) pants and shirt, and that terrible tendancy to always have one hand grabbing his crotch. Yes sir, it's still there, no need to keep checking. I think he took Meg's cold dismissal as an invitation to hang out with the Mobile Naukri interns, because he took a seat near Siler and initiated the most bizarre conversation I have ever had relayed to me. This guy spoke great English and it went a little something like this:
Creeper: "You are very lonely here."
Siler: "What...No?"
Creeper: "No you came all the way from America, you are very lonely. You have no friends."
Siler: "I have friends! Meg and Sarah and Harsh and Pankaj and Deepak...I am not lonely!"
Creeper: "You have cuts on your hands and arms?"
Siler :"Excuse me?"
Creeper: "You should come to my house, no one will cut you there."
Siler: "I'm just gonna....go...now."
Siler came and stood by me and Meg. I could feel the clammy breath of desperation on my back as the creepy dude came closer to me. He called out for my attention. "Nope, not happening," I thought and did some sort of athletic maneuver to remove myself from the situation. What was wrong with this guy? He still wouldn't go away! Pankaj then came over and Meg told him what had happened. It took Pankaj less than thirty seconds to walk over to the guy, utter some harsh Hindi, and banish him from the table. Sort of. The guy ended up walking a bit down the street, only to talk to the police officer from Vol. 1. Don't you love when weird people find each other, it's like when someone realized that goat cheese and beets were a delicious combination. The creepy man continues to stare at us, and proceeds to take out his mobile phone to snap a couple of sniper-esque shots of us handing out Mobile Naukri business cards.
At this point, it was getting really uncomfortable, so we packed up everything and walked it down a couple of blocks to the institute where we are storing our things for the week. Sahil is friends with the director, so we went to his office (up two flights of stairs) and sat down. We were talking to him about our day, when all of a sudden we looked up and THE CREEPY DUDE WAS STANDING IN THE DOORWAY. Nails on a chalkboard, the Jaws theme song, and creaking bicycle wheels all played in my head at once. The end was near. We were all going to die at in this office in Chirawa at the hands of the creepiest man ever to grace this world. Oh, but I forgot, we have Pankaj on our side. In a heartbeat, Pankaj had one hand on the guy's collarbone, one pressure point away from a snapped bone. He yelled at him for a while and then pushed him out of the office and to the stairs. We thought the guy had left, but Pankaj looked over the balcony and he was still standing outside of the building. Pankaj rallied the troops (Deepak) and the two men went downstairs and "taught this guy a lesson." Then they came back up and we drank chai, no big deal.
I felt equally upset about this incident. I think that this man was mentally disturbed; there was no way any sane person wouldn't pick up on those painfully obvious social cues. I was upset that he had touched Meg though, and made all of us feel extremely uncomfortable. All this violence and aggression in the span of a few short hours was a side of India that I had never experienced before, nor gave any thought to. It doesn't change my opinion on India, nor the people that I have met, but it does make India seem like less of a magical, spiritual place. Human nature is not cultural; people are messed up everywhere in the world. It was a terrible way to be reminded of this, though.
OR WOULD IT. Sometime around 4, when the sanity gods were on a rest break, and the rest of the world was happily enjoying a couple of Mai Tai cocktails on the beach, all hell broke loose in Chirawa. And by all hell I mean two incidents that left me with an extremely unpleasant taste in my mouth, one of those "What the....?" moments that question your decision to leave the comfy confines of reality television and hamburgers. The afternoon became rather Quinton Tarantino all of a sudden, so let's use that as our theme here, shall we?
Kill Bill Vol. 1:
I was standing behind the table with Harsh, handing out some business cards, when an older gentleman ambled over. By which I mean stumbled over; this 65 year-old was clearly inebriated. He came and stood near the table, asked some questions that I obviously couldn't understand (language barrier+slurring=unlikely deciphering). Harsh was put off by him, and kept telling me to step away and sit down. The thing was though, this man wasn't acting inappropriately. Sure, public drunkeness was definitely being committed, but he wasn't talking louder or asking more questions than the next one, and he hadn't even stared at me! For this I quite liked him. As I was explaining to Harsh that everything was fine, a stretched-out police officer strode over, all puffed up in his tan uniform and matching medals. With one hand twirling his moustache, the other arm reached out and yanked the older man by his collar, pulling him into the street. By this point, a rather large crowd had formed, anticipating some sort of "necessary action". I couldn't really hear anything that was going on, but the old man was in no way resisting arrest (although nothing close to an arrest was being made), nor was he making any effort to come back to the Mobile Naukri table. Clearly none of this mattered to Colonel Mustard, as he began to hit this old man, first slapping him across the face, which knocked his glasses clear off, and then punching his arms.
I felt like the police officer had just punched me in the stomach. I couldn't believe my eyes. Here, in the largest democracy on Earth, in a country that was born out of a non-violence movement, a people that idolize Gandhi-ji, a police officer was blatently assaulting a man who had committed nothing that merited physical violence. I was more shocked by the fact that people were laughing! No one but me seemed the least bit upset at humanity. The sad part is, police brutality is a huge problem in India. While this doesn't constitue a violation of human rights as we might see (the guy obviously wasn't being tortured), it's still a serious problem in the governance of India. When you have police officers who are so puffed up on their own government-given testosterone, how can you expect a society to run without issues of corruption and violence? What kinds of conditions do these police officers in low-income villages work in, that make them think the best way to solve the problem of a public nuisance is to turn them into a punching bag? Human Rights Watch came out with a 118-page report on police brutality in India in 2009, titled "Broken System: Dysfunction, Abuse and Impunity in the Indian Police", and I urge any of my readers interested in this topic to read it. A synopsis is available here.
Kill Bill Vol 2.:
So after that debauchery, I thought things might, you know, not be so freaking crazy. Ha! What fun would that be? Once again, I am back at my stomping grounds (handing out cards behind the table) while Meg is walking through a small gathering of people, also handing out cards. All of a sudden, she comes back to the table in a huff. Some creepy dude grabbed her arm, asked for her number, and insisted several times that she "come with him." For some reason, she declined his oh so charming offer, and came and stood by me. Meg is not the one to mess with, she is full of sass and spice, and I think that had she more amino acids in her body, laser beams might have shot out of her eyes at this man. And what a man he was! A strapping 5 foot nothing, rather pudgy around the middle, ill-fitting (why is this so common here?!) pants and shirt, and that terrible tendancy to always have one hand grabbing his crotch. Yes sir, it's still there, no need to keep checking. I think he took Meg's cold dismissal as an invitation to hang out with the Mobile Naukri interns, because he took a seat near Siler and initiated the most bizarre conversation I have ever had relayed to me. This guy spoke great English and it went a little something like this:
Creeper: "You are very lonely here."
Siler: "What...No?"
Creeper: "No you came all the way from America, you are very lonely. You have no friends."
Siler: "I have friends! Meg and Sarah and Harsh and Pankaj and Deepak...I am not lonely!"
Creeper: "You have cuts on your hands and arms?"
Siler :"Excuse me?"
Creeper: "You should come to my house, no one will cut you there."
Siler: "I'm just gonna....go...now."
Siler came and stood by me and Meg. I could feel the clammy breath of desperation on my back as the creepy dude came closer to me. He called out for my attention. "Nope, not happening," I thought and did some sort of athletic maneuver to remove myself from the situation. What was wrong with this guy? He still wouldn't go away! Pankaj then came over and Meg told him what had happened. It took Pankaj less than thirty seconds to walk over to the guy, utter some harsh Hindi, and banish him from the table. Sort of. The guy ended up walking a bit down the street, only to talk to the police officer from Vol. 1. Don't you love when weird people find each other, it's like when someone realized that goat cheese and beets were a delicious combination. The creepy man continues to stare at us, and proceeds to take out his mobile phone to snap a couple of sniper-esque shots of us handing out Mobile Naukri business cards.
At this point, it was getting really uncomfortable, so we packed up everything and walked it down a couple of blocks to the institute where we are storing our things for the week. Sahil is friends with the director, so we went to his office (up two flights of stairs) and sat down. We were talking to him about our day, when all of a sudden we looked up and THE CREEPY DUDE WAS STANDING IN THE DOORWAY. Nails on a chalkboard, the Jaws theme song, and creaking bicycle wheels all played in my head at once. The end was near. We were all going to die at in this office in Chirawa at the hands of the creepiest man ever to grace this world. Oh, but I forgot, we have Pankaj on our side. In a heartbeat, Pankaj had one hand on the guy's collarbone, one pressure point away from a snapped bone. He yelled at him for a while and then pushed him out of the office and to the stairs. We thought the guy had left, but Pankaj looked over the balcony and he was still standing outside of the building. Pankaj rallied the troops (Deepak) and the two men went downstairs and "taught this guy a lesson." Then they came back up and we drank chai, no big deal.
I felt equally upset about this incident. I think that this man was mentally disturbed; there was no way any sane person wouldn't pick up on those painfully obvious social cues. I was upset that he had touched Meg though, and made all of us feel extremely uncomfortable. All this violence and aggression in the span of a few short hours was a side of India that I had never experienced before, nor gave any thought to. It doesn't change my opinion on India, nor the people that I have met, but it does make India seem like less of a magical, spiritual place. Human nature is not cultural; people are messed up everywhere in the world. It was a terrible way to be reminded of this, though.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Characters, More of Them
Cold Drink:
There are a lot of ways to make friends in foreign countries. Cups of tea, buckets of beer, shared hookahs, swapped hook-ups, shots, shots, shots, or a common interest in the elegant art of origami. You just have to stick to the cultural norm when making friends with locals, so in Bagar, most of the aforementioned possibilities are prohibited. What is allowed, is a cold drink. You might recognize a cold drink by its more Western name, soda. Cold drinks are called cold drinks here because, well, duh, they are cold and you drink them. Also, nothing else here is sold cold besides cold drink, meaning that cold drinks have a monopoly on temperature! I think that is positively brilliant advertising. Cold drinks are kind of expensive here (around 20-25 rupees, or about 50 cents)so technically you don't get them that often. This is what someone told me the first time I had a sweet drop of processed American sugar. "You won't get this very often." I glugged with saucer eyes, not wanting any detail to pass me by. Who knew the next time I would get to consume 12g of sugar in one sitting?! I can't remember who told me that, but he was clearly lying, because I have had more cold drink in five weeks in India than I have had all year in the US. It seems that everytime we leave GDL, there is a sun-kissed opportunity to sit back, relax, and chug down some bubbly ambrosia.
There are several kinds of readily available cold drink in Bagar: Fanta, Miranda (knock-off Fanta for you traitors), Thums Up (Coca-cola but without a 'b'), Sprite, Limca (tastier Sprite) and Mountain Dew. Everyone has their favorites. Sahil likes orange soda, just like Kel, Pankaj prefers Thums Up, and Deepak lives and dies by Mountain Dew. I myself have never been that big of a soda drinker, but as long as we're sharing, I quite like Diet Coke. The thing is, there is no 'diet' anything in rural India, so I have worked my way through the shmorgesboard of carbonation, to come to a very, very important realization. I am a Mountain Dew kind of girl. I never thought this could happen! I don't think I've ever had Mountain Dew before coming to India (+2 for globalization), and I was appalled when the sickly, alien-colored liquid was poured out in front of me. This conclusion happened naturally, probably the most organic thing to ever happen to Mountain Dew. After Sahil-bossman pranked me, he must have felt a little bad about it, as he offered to buy me a cold drink.
"What kind do you want?" he offered gently, diplomatically listing all the flavors.
I didn't even have to think. "Mountain Dew," I replied, with an assertive nod of the head.
This has brought my relationship with Deepak to soaring new heights, as we now have something very concrete in common. Deepak really loves Mountain Dew. When he assumes his North American personality "Robert," who lives in Can-AH-duh, is married to Angelina Jolie and fathered Barack Obama, he always makes sure to describe, in detail, the amount of Mountain Dew he drinks on a daily basis. It's a lot. I don't have the heart to tell him that if he drank twelve liters of M.Dew every day, his child Obama would be toothless and his beautiful wife Angie would most likely weigh 400 pounds. I am now worried that I might return to the US sans teeth, several hundred pounds heavier, emitting an eerie green glow from my skin.
Really though, my favorite thing about Mountain Dew is the slogan, emblazoned in a hip font in lime-green across the bottom of the bottle. "Darr ke aage, Jeet hai." This roughly translates to something along the lines of "Only after fear is there victory." I keep drinking Mountain Dew in the hopes of deciphering this Foucault-esque message. Does this mean that I am scared of the Mountain Dew, but once I've drank it I will feel victorious? Or is Mountain Dew supposed to help me overcome my fears? And why do you have to be scared of something to experience victory? That sounds like awfully pigeon-holed logic, no? A quick website search led me to the explanation of Mountain Dew "inspiring consumers to look beyond their fear and take up challenges that the brand threw at them." Well. Maybe I'm just old and boring, but I'm fairly certain the only challange Mountain Dew has thrown at anyone is a complete dental rehaul.
Conquering my fear, in the name of victory.
Deepak enjoying the Dew!
Getting Stared At:
This is the most unfortunate of constant characters, infinitely more uncomfortable than the heat or lack of toilet paper. I hate getting stared at, anywhere in the world. It makes me extremely uncomfortable to realize that someone's eyes are scanning my entire face and body. There is no accurate and reliable source for the number of people out there with X-ray vision, after all. I knew coming to India that people would ogle, particularly in rural areas. I'm white, and I'm rather obviously a girl, which leads many people to the question of "What is that white girl doing here?" Evidently, the most logical way to unpack this loaded question is by staring at me until their eyeballs dry up. "Aha! I have no more tears left. She must be interning at the Piramal Foundation, doing social work. Fantastic. Now, I can look away."
This past week has been particularly difficult. Almost all of our time has been spent out in the field, sitting at a table in the middle of a busy street, where practically everyone who passes by happens to be male. And there I am, being pale, sandwiched between three Indian co-workers and handing out business cards. Some people are polite about it- a quick glance through heavy-lidded eyes, and then they move on with their lives. Other people are a little more abrasive. People stick their heads out of bus windows, rickshaw drivers slow down, motorists completely disregard the road, and everyone does not one, not two, but at least a half dozen double-takes, if they aren't already walking past with their head completely revolved at 180 degrees. People come up to the Mobile Naukri table and just stare at me, as though I was some albino crocodile or an exotic bird. I am neither, and I defiantely raise my gaze to match theirs, to say "I am human, just like you. Now look away please." Sometimes this works. Other times, people misinterpret this as an invitation: "Hey, despite your unibrow and ill-fitting pants, I think you're cute, and since I am a white girl, and correlation equals causation, I am a loose woman. Yes, please, come and stand close by me and ogle some more! Here's my number."
I try not to let it bother me. I am in a foreign country, and I knew coming in people were going to look at me. At least I'm not blonde. Harsh though, gets very upset about it. I think he doesn't want us Penn interns to think that all Indians are weird drooling stare-mongers. And I most certainly don't- the majority of people who I have had conversational interactions with have been extremely polite and friendly. I think though, that it would be a totally different experience if I were a boy. Beyonce understands this; she wrote a nice song, "If I Were a Boy." She should add a lyric that goes, "If I were a boy, I could go to semi-rural Indiaaaaaaaaaa, and people wouldn't stare at me like they were at the zooooo-OOOOO-ooo."
There are a lot of ways to make friends in foreign countries. Cups of tea, buckets of beer, shared hookahs, swapped hook-ups, shots, shots, shots, or a common interest in the elegant art of origami. You just have to stick to the cultural norm when making friends with locals, so in Bagar, most of the aforementioned possibilities are prohibited. What is allowed, is a cold drink. You might recognize a cold drink by its more Western name, soda. Cold drinks are called cold drinks here because, well, duh, they are cold and you drink them. Also, nothing else here is sold cold besides cold drink, meaning that cold drinks have a monopoly on temperature! I think that is positively brilliant advertising. Cold drinks are kind of expensive here (around 20-25 rupees, or about 50 cents)so technically you don't get them that often. This is what someone told me the first time I had a sweet drop of processed American sugar. "You won't get this very often." I glugged with saucer eyes, not wanting any detail to pass me by. Who knew the next time I would get to consume 12g of sugar in one sitting?! I can't remember who told me that, but he was clearly lying, because I have had more cold drink in five weeks in India than I have had all year in the US. It seems that everytime we leave GDL, there is a sun-kissed opportunity to sit back, relax, and chug down some bubbly ambrosia.
There are several kinds of readily available cold drink in Bagar: Fanta, Miranda (knock-off Fanta for you traitors), Thums Up (Coca-cola but without a 'b'), Sprite, Limca (tastier Sprite) and Mountain Dew. Everyone has their favorites. Sahil likes orange soda, just like Kel, Pankaj prefers Thums Up, and Deepak lives and dies by Mountain Dew. I myself have never been that big of a soda drinker, but as long as we're sharing, I quite like Diet Coke. The thing is, there is no 'diet' anything in rural India, so I have worked my way through the shmorgesboard of carbonation, to come to a very, very important realization. I am a Mountain Dew kind of girl. I never thought this could happen! I don't think I've ever had Mountain Dew before coming to India (+2 for globalization), and I was appalled when the sickly, alien-colored liquid was poured out in front of me. This conclusion happened naturally, probably the most organic thing to ever happen to Mountain Dew. After Sahil-bossman pranked me, he must have felt a little bad about it, as he offered to buy me a cold drink.
"What kind do you want?" he offered gently, diplomatically listing all the flavors.
I didn't even have to think. "Mountain Dew," I replied, with an assertive nod of the head.
This has brought my relationship with Deepak to soaring new heights, as we now have something very concrete in common. Deepak really loves Mountain Dew. When he assumes his North American personality "Robert," who lives in Can-AH-duh, is married to Angelina Jolie and fathered Barack Obama, he always makes sure to describe, in detail, the amount of Mountain Dew he drinks on a daily basis. It's a lot. I don't have the heart to tell him that if he drank twelve liters of M.Dew every day, his child Obama would be toothless and his beautiful wife Angie would most likely weigh 400 pounds. I am now worried that I might return to the US sans teeth, several hundred pounds heavier, emitting an eerie green glow from my skin.
Really though, my favorite thing about Mountain Dew is the slogan, emblazoned in a hip font in lime-green across the bottom of the bottle. "Darr ke aage, Jeet hai." This roughly translates to something along the lines of "Only after fear is there victory." I keep drinking Mountain Dew in the hopes of deciphering this Foucault-esque message. Does this mean that I am scared of the Mountain Dew, but once I've drank it I will feel victorious? Or is Mountain Dew supposed to help me overcome my fears? And why do you have to be scared of something to experience victory? That sounds like awfully pigeon-holed logic, no? A quick website search led me to the explanation of Mountain Dew "inspiring consumers to look beyond their fear and take up challenges that the brand threw at them." Well. Maybe I'm just old and boring, but I'm fairly certain the only challange Mountain Dew has thrown at anyone is a complete dental rehaul.
Conquering my fear, in the name of victory.
Deepak enjoying the Dew!
Getting Stared At:
This is the most unfortunate of constant characters, infinitely more uncomfortable than the heat or lack of toilet paper. I hate getting stared at, anywhere in the world. It makes me extremely uncomfortable to realize that someone's eyes are scanning my entire face and body. There is no accurate and reliable source for the number of people out there with X-ray vision, after all. I knew coming to India that people would ogle, particularly in rural areas. I'm white, and I'm rather obviously a girl, which leads many people to the question of "What is that white girl doing here?" Evidently, the most logical way to unpack this loaded question is by staring at me until their eyeballs dry up. "Aha! I have no more tears left. She must be interning at the Piramal Foundation, doing social work. Fantastic. Now, I can look away."
This past week has been particularly difficult. Almost all of our time has been spent out in the field, sitting at a table in the middle of a busy street, where practically everyone who passes by happens to be male. And there I am, being pale, sandwiched between three Indian co-workers and handing out business cards. Some people are polite about it- a quick glance through heavy-lidded eyes, and then they move on with their lives. Other people are a little more abrasive. People stick their heads out of bus windows, rickshaw drivers slow down, motorists completely disregard the road, and everyone does not one, not two, but at least a half dozen double-takes, if they aren't already walking past with their head completely revolved at 180 degrees. People come up to the Mobile Naukri table and just stare at me, as though I was some albino crocodile or an exotic bird. I am neither, and I defiantely raise my gaze to match theirs, to say "I am human, just like you. Now look away please." Sometimes this works. Other times, people misinterpret this as an invitation: "Hey, despite your unibrow and ill-fitting pants, I think you're cute, and since I am a white girl, and correlation equals causation, I am a loose woman. Yes, please, come and stand close by me and ogle some more! Here's my number."
I try not to let it bother me. I am in a foreign country, and I knew coming in people were going to look at me. At least I'm not blonde. Harsh though, gets very upset about it. I think he doesn't want us Penn interns to think that all Indians are weird drooling stare-mongers. And I most certainly don't- the majority of people who I have had conversational interactions with have been extremely polite and friendly. I think though, that it would be a totally different experience if I were a boy. Beyonce understands this; she wrote a nice song, "If I Were a Boy." She should add a lyric that goes, "If I were a boy, I could go to semi-rural Indiaaaaaaaaaa, and people wouldn't stare at me like they were at the zooooo-OOOOO-ooo."
Monday, June 14, 2010
Operation Employ
We have a new plan of attack at Mobile Naukri, where our slogan also happens to be "business is war." We realized that to get people interested in The Revolution, we would have to attack. A new plan was born last week, to set up a make-shift "shop" in the middle of Jhunjhunu's busiest street. What followed was Deepak, Harsh and myself lugging around one rather large table, four plastic chairs, and several banners on a bus, a rickshaw, and under a construction zone this morning. And yes, this is sort of like live blogging, since it's the afternoon here! We were wildly successful- handed out nearly 200 cards and attracted lots of interested people. Of course, it's hard to gage their interest level in pure Mobile Naukri; an ample portion of the folks came to ogle my pale skin and ask me for a visa. My personal opinion is that if you don't know how to obtain a visa, you probably aren't ready to go to America. The important thing though, is that I took pictures:
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Jugar This!
There is a word in Hindi, one that whistles through the sand-filled rooms of GDL, pausing to admire our ghee pudding and our bedsheet television. That word, first uttered to us in the early morning of our first day in Bagar, is "jugar." Now hold up, those of you with a basic understanding of high school Spanish. This is not pronounced "hoo-gar," nor does it mean that funnest of fun verbs, "to play." No, jugar (refreshingly pronounced just as it is spelled)can't even be correctly translated from Hindi! Although, ask any Indian person for a translation of most Hindi words, and he or she will assure you that there just isn't a comprehensive English equivalent. Essentially, jugar means to come up with a creative solution for a problem through whatever means necessary, an inn-o-va-tion of des-per-a-tion, if you will. Jugar happens a lot around here in the desert, where one has to rely on wits and muscles for daily survival. For example, I really wanted to eat some pudding. There's not a lot to work with culinarily in Bagar, at least on the pudding front, which meant I had to jugar up some caramal, stir in some buffalo milk, sprinkle in some cornstarch that could only have been bought in 1952, and hope. Because a large part of jugar relies on hope, and dreams, and cotton candy- don't think you can hand staple documents together with one nail? Well, you better pray upon a unicorn that you can! Fine, but we'll never be able to watch that Bollywood biopic "Guru," without a television screen.... Just tack up that sheet with fingers crossed, it has to work!
These are all infantalizing jugars, however, compared to the jugar that was born in my head, an evil monster made out of pure adrenaline and fear. But first, allow me to lay out the scene. On Friday, Sahil, Pankaj, Deepak and I made our way to a village called Khetri, a quick two hours away. Three buses and several bruises later, we pulled up in front of Khetri's Information Technology University. We had come here on a mission to obtain the names and numbers of recent college graduates, so that we could call them and have them apply for Mobile Naukri. The college was situated on a beautiful campus: amazing views of the entire city, buildings that used to belong to the former King of Khetri (indeed the King's palace was right next to the university). We gave our whole presentation, and luckily for us, the headmaster was a very kind man who took to the idea of Mobile Naukri, presented us with some chai and a promise for a list of names and numbers. It's always nice to see someone so motivated by Mobile Naukri, particularly because we are still in the pilot phase of the project. The headmaster also informed us of a neighboring pharmaceutical college, about a ten minute bus ride over, that could also be interested in Mobile Naukri. After a lunch that quickly dissolved into a manical roti-eating competition between Pankaj and I (representin' the ladies, I won, sort of) we jumped back in a bus and ten minutes later found ourselves in another village.
We stopped and asked for directions from a food vendor, and began the two kilometer walk to the pharmaceutical college. I was trailing behind the three boys, entirely focused on the food baby festering in my stomach from lunch. When I looked up, Sahil was staring at me, a look of eerily calm panic sketched on his face. His back pocket was empty.
"Hey... I think I lost my wallet. Yeah, I definitely left my wallet on the bus," he deadpanned.
"I refuse to believe that," I said. I turned to Deepak and Pankaj. "Do you guys have it?"
No one had the wallet.
"Sahil," I said, turning back to my boss, supposedly in charge of my well-being, "you have got to be kidding me. You have your wallet don't you?"
"No!" he replied, still not hysterical enough, in my opinion. "This is really bad. I had a lot of money in there. I don't know how we're going to get back."
"EXCUSE ME," I shrilled. "We are stranded in the middle of Rajasthan, two hours from home, and no one has a single rupee on them?!" I myself, was a bit delusional from twelve too many rotis. Stay calm, I cautioned myself, do not panic.
"Don't panic," Sahil said. He turned to Deepak and Pankaj and said something in Hindi. "Listen, Sarah, you won't have to do this... if you don't want to.... but I think we might have to beg for money."
Appreciate the absurdity of this possible situation. A gaggle of well-dressed advertisers, half of us American (one of very obviously so), walking around a not so wealthy neighborhood in rural India, with outstreched palms asking villagers for 100 rupees. No, I couldn't let that happen.
"I mean, we could get someone to come here and pick us up," Sahil offered.
"Oh, right," I dismissed. "So we will just wait here in 115 degree weather, with no money to even sit in a restaurant and have a cold drink? No one is going to want to come pick us up, remember that bus ride?" (It was a rather terrifying bus ride).
The situation was obviously dire. Sahil and Pankaj and Deepak all had calmly scared looks on their faces, but no one seemed to be doing any serious thinking. Perhaps they are in shock, I thought. I would be if I just lost a wallet on an untraceable bus in rural India. No, this was the kind of snaggle in which one must channel all energy into jugaring an escape plan. How could we get that money? I looked down at what I was wearing. No jewelry of any kind, plastic flip-flops that aren't even worth one rupee, and a scarf that, despite just being washed, smelled like foot. Obviously nothing else could be taken off and sold; I couldn't display my dancing skills; and under no possible circumstance was I going to start an escorting career in India. There must be some loophole, something that we could do, something that I could do, to get us out of this village. Suddenly, like a winged pegasus, the jugarest of jugar ideas flew into my head, descendent from the gods of invention.
"I have an idea," I said, turning to Pankaj. "Let's charge people ten rupees to take a picture with the foreigner. Tax free."
Pankaj errupted in choking laughter. Doubled over and pointing at me, he managed to sputter out, "Wah! Wah! Ten rupees!"
To clarify, while desperate, I thought that I had logically come to this conclusion. There was only so much I could legally offer, and people were always staring at me anyway, so why not encourage them to take a picture with a ghost? As Pankaj ran off to tell Deepak and Sahil, I couldn't help but feel a bit stupid. Maybe ten rupees wasn't enough. Should I have suggested twenty? As I worked through my feelings, I heard Pankaj ask Sahil for ten rupees. I looked up to see Sahil grinning like an evil cat, brandishing his wallet.
"Just kidding!"
I was silent. I had more or less propositioned myself for fear of being stranded in this village for the rest of my life.
"Did you... Why... I'm just really.......OK, did you just prank me to see what was the jugarest idea I could come up with?" I said, rather crestfallen.
"No-o-ooo..." they all said, rather unconvincingly. They conversed in Hindi for a bit, and then Sahil said, "but we do think you are the master of jugar. Way to really take one for the team, Sarah!"
I contemplated what had just happened. I chuckled, because this is what good-natured people are supposed to do in these situations. Inside my head, though, a new plot was being created, an elaborate prank that would require more jugar than I had ever used before. It would have to be crafty and sly, but not mean-spirited, funny but not dangerous, and Sahil was still technically my boss, so it couldn't be too crazy in general. I still haven't come up with anything yet, so I turn to you, reader. Have you any suggestions for the Greatest Jugar Joke Ever Played on the Mobile Naukri Marketing Team Minus Me? Any tidbit would be much appreciated. My jugar title is at stake!
Namaste,
Sarah
These are all infantalizing jugars, however, compared to the jugar that was born in my head, an evil monster made out of pure adrenaline and fear. But first, allow me to lay out the scene. On Friday, Sahil, Pankaj, Deepak and I made our way to a village called Khetri, a quick two hours away. Three buses and several bruises later, we pulled up in front of Khetri's Information Technology University. We had come here on a mission to obtain the names and numbers of recent college graduates, so that we could call them and have them apply for Mobile Naukri. The college was situated on a beautiful campus: amazing views of the entire city, buildings that used to belong to the former King of Khetri (indeed the King's palace was right next to the university). We gave our whole presentation, and luckily for us, the headmaster was a very kind man who took to the idea of Mobile Naukri, presented us with some chai and a promise for a list of names and numbers. It's always nice to see someone so motivated by Mobile Naukri, particularly because we are still in the pilot phase of the project. The headmaster also informed us of a neighboring pharmaceutical college, about a ten minute bus ride over, that could also be interested in Mobile Naukri. After a lunch that quickly dissolved into a manical roti-eating competition between Pankaj and I (representin' the ladies, I won, sort of) we jumped back in a bus and ten minutes later found ourselves in another village.
We stopped and asked for directions from a food vendor, and began the two kilometer walk to the pharmaceutical college. I was trailing behind the three boys, entirely focused on the food baby festering in my stomach from lunch. When I looked up, Sahil was staring at me, a look of eerily calm panic sketched on his face. His back pocket was empty.
"Hey... I think I lost my wallet. Yeah, I definitely left my wallet on the bus," he deadpanned.
"I refuse to believe that," I said. I turned to Deepak and Pankaj. "Do you guys have it?"
No one had the wallet.
"Sahil," I said, turning back to my boss, supposedly in charge of my well-being, "you have got to be kidding me. You have your wallet don't you?"
"No!" he replied, still not hysterical enough, in my opinion. "This is really bad. I had a lot of money in there. I don't know how we're going to get back."
"EXCUSE ME," I shrilled. "We are stranded in the middle of Rajasthan, two hours from home, and no one has a single rupee on them?!" I myself, was a bit delusional from twelve too many rotis. Stay calm, I cautioned myself, do not panic.
"Don't panic," Sahil said. He turned to Deepak and Pankaj and said something in Hindi. "Listen, Sarah, you won't have to do this... if you don't want to.... but I think we might have to beg for money."
Appreciate the absurdity of this possible situation. A gaggle of well-dressed advertisers, half of us American (one of very obviously so), walking around a not so wealthy neighborhood in rural India, with outstreched palms asking villagers for 100 rupees. No, I couldn't let that happen.
"I mean, we could get someone to come here and pick us up," Sahil offered.
"Oh, right," I dismissed. "So we will just wait here in 115 degree weather, with no money to even sit in a restaurant and have a cold drink? No one is going to want to come pick us up, remember that bus ride?" (It was a rather terrifying bus ride).
The situation was obviously dire. Sahil and Pankaj and Deepak all had calmly scared looks on their faces, but no one seemed to be doing any serious thinking. Perhaps they are in shock, I thought. I would be if I just lost a wallet on an untraceable bus in rural India. No, this was the kind of snaggle in which one must channel all energy into jugaring an escape plan. How could we get that money? I looked down at what I was wearing. No jewelry of any kind, plastic flip-flops that aren't even worth one rupee, and a scarf that, despite just being washed, smelled like foot. Obviously nothing else could be taken off and sold; I couldn't display my dancing skills; and under no possible circumstance was I going to start an escorting career in India. There must be some loophole, something that we could do, something that I could do, to get us out of this village. Suddenly, like a winged pegasus, the jugarest of jugar ideas flew into my head, descendent from the gods of invention.
"I have an idea," I said, turning to Pankaj. "Let's charge people ten rupees to take a picture with the foreigner. Tax free."
Pankaj errupted in choking laughter. Doubled over and pointing at me, he managed to sputter out, "Wah! Wah! Ten rupees!"
To clarify, while desperate, I thought that I had logically come to this conclusion. There was only so much I could legally offer, and people were always staring at me anyway, so why not encourage them to take a picture with a ghost? As Pankaj ran off to tell Deepak and Sahil, I couldn't help but feel a bit stupid. Maybe ten rupees wasn't enough. Should I have suggested twenty? As I worked through my feelings, I heard Pankaj ask Sahil for ten rupees. I looked up to see Sahil grinning like an evil cat, brandishing his wallet.
"Just kidding!"
I was silent. I had more or less propositioned myself for fear of being stranded in this village for the rest of my life.
"Did you... Why... I'm just really.......OK, did you just prank me to see what was the jugarest idea I could come up with?" I said, rather crestfallen.
"No-o-ooo..." they all said, rather unconvincingly. They conversed in Hindi for a bit, and then Sahil said, "but we do think you are the master of jugar. Way to really take one for the team, Sarah!"
I contemplated what had just happened. I chuckled, because this is what good-natured people are supposed to do in these situations. Inside my head, though, a new plot was being created, an elaborate prank that would require more jugar than I had ever used before. It would have to be crafty and sly, but not mean-spirited, funny but not dangerous, and Sahil was still technically my boss, so it couldn't be too crazy in general. I still haven't come up with anything yet, so I turn to you, reader. Have you any suggestions for the Greatest Jugar Joke Ever Played on the Mobile Naukri Marketing Team Minus Me? Any tidbit would be much appreciated. My jugar title is at stake!
Namaste,
Sarah
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Not a Businessman; a Business, Man!
Sorry for the lack of recent posts, internette followers. I suppose I've gotten so acclemated to Bagarese life that things don't really seem out of the ordinary anymore. I've been spending the majority of my time in the office of Mobile Naukri, or going out to Jhunjhunu (nearest big city) to do some marketing. Things have really been picking up at Mobile Naukri. First of all, our bosses came back after a 10-day leave of absence, which was nice, because there's not that much we can do without them. It's a very dependent relationship we have, rather parent-child. As a result, my days have been filled with fun things like website building! And data entry! It's becoming increasingly interesting to work at Mobile Naukri, because a large management university in India has agreed to partner and support us, provided we reach a certain threshold of job opportunities and job-seekers. The pressure is on, and it's nice to know that if we accomplish a concrete goal, we will (hopefully) be able to expand Mobile Naukri into other parts of India.
A large portion of our time has been filled contacting companies (most of whom don't have comprehensive websites or any estabished internet domain) and persuading them to join Mobile Naukri. We have also been going out into the field, to meet with administrators of institutions, such as English-learning and IT schools. The purpose of this is to obtain the names and numbers of recent collage graduates so that we can call them and cajole them into joining the M.N. Revolution. It's rather amazing how willing most institutions are to hand over hundreds of phone numbers of their former students. I imagine that if one were to go to say, the University of Pennsylvania, and ask (no matter how sweetly) for a list of mobile numbers of recent graduates, one would find oneself swiftly and surely escorted out by a stocky force of the Allied Barton brigade. However, we are in India.
Another important aspect of our Business Development plan is procuring the Jhunjhunu district yellow pages, which nicely lists all the businesses in the area, regardless of size. This would make it infinitely easier for us to contact these companies and have them sign up with Mobile Naukri, as the internet has proved rather futile. Today, Deepak, Harsh (new intern!) and I went into Jhunjhunu to take care of some bizznas and generally make it rain. Our friend Sandeep-ji, who runs the computer store in Jhunjhunu, told us that the elusive Jhunjhunu yellow pages could be found near the District Headquarters. Along the way, there are several print and book shops that might just, could possibly, perrrrhaps sell the yellow pages. At the time, it seemed rather natural to walk around for half an hour, expecting to pay actual cash for the yellow pages.
Presuming you, reader, are from America, you are most likely familiar with the U.S. Postal Service's overzealous distribution of jaundiced trees, resulting in no less than a mere half dozen directories littering your porch. I always took it for granted that yellow pages were in abundance, just like, say, oh, oil in the Gulf of Mexico. However, in India, finding these proved epicly impossible. We went to several shops and asked around, each shopkeeper pointing us in the exact opposite direction as the one before him. Our goosechase for this ruby-encrusted livre de business brought us to the physical office of the Housing Board, where we hopscotched from room to room, only to be told that this Book of Souls was.... Well, we haven't quite figured that out yet. The Housing Board is a huge complex, and it doesn't seem like people come knocking on their door everyday demanding the yellow pages. Tomorrow, the search will continue.
Namaste,
Sarah
A large portion of our time has been filled contacting companies (most of whom don't have comprehensive websites or any estabished internet domain) and persuading them to join Mobile Naukri. We have also been going out into the field, to meet with administrators of institutions, such as English-learning and IT schools. The purpose of this is to obtain the names and numbers of recent collage graduates so that we can call them and cajole them into joining the M.N. Revolution. It's rather amazing how willing most institutions are to hand over hundreds of phone numbers of their former students. I imagine that if one were to go to say, the University of Pennsylvania, and ask (no matter how sweetly) for a list of mobile numbers of recent graduates, one would find oneself swiftly and surely escorted out by a stocky force of the Allied Barton brigade. However, we are in India.
Another important aspect of our Business Development plan is procuring the Jhunjhunu district yellow pages, which nicely lists all the businesses in the area, regardless of size. This would make it infinitely easier for us to contact these companies and have them sign up with Mobile Naukri, as the internet has proved rather futile. Today, Deepak, Harsh (new intern!) and I went into Jhunjhunu to take care of some bizznas and generally make it rain. Our friend Sandeep-ji, who runs the computer store in Jhunjhunu, told us that the elusive Jhunjhunu yellow pages could be found near the District Headquarters. Along the way, there are several print and book shops that might just, could possibly, perrrrhaps sell the yellow pages. At the time, it seemed rather natural to walk around for half an hour, expecting to pay actual cash for the yellow pages.
Presuming you, reader, are from America, you are most likely familiar with the U.S. Postal Service's overzealous distribution of jaundiced trees, resulting in no less than a mere half dozen directories littering your porch. I always took it for granted that yellow pages were in abundance, just like, say, oh, oil in the Gulf of Mexico. However, in India, finding these proved epicly impossible. We went to several shops and asked around, each shopkeeper pointing us in the exact opposite direction as the one before him. Our goosechase for this ruby-encrusted livre de business brought us to the physical office of the Housing Board, where we hopscotched from room to room, only to be told that this Book of Souls was.... Well, we haven't quite figured that out yet. The Housing Board is a huge complex, and it doesn't seem like people come knocking on their door everyday demanding the yellow pages. Tomorrow, the search will continue.
Namaste,
Sarah
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Characters, Continued
Allow me to introduce some more constants in my new life in India:
Meat(or lack thereof):
Bagar is a predominantly Hindu town, which means, amongst other things, that people don't believe in killing living things and eating their deliciously cooked, juicy flesh. I thought I could be cool with this. I had tried my hand at vegetarianism before, and had done fine for a couple of months subsiding mostly on cheese and eggs. Unfortunately, I forgot to pack the self-important and all-knowing mentality I had as a fifteen year old. GDL is all veg, all the time, and there is nothing remotely eggy, cheesey, or meaty for miles. I troll through food blogs in my spare time salivating over meat dishes that I don't even eat in the States. It is absolutely disgusting, and I decided that a protein-packed adventure must ensue or I would dehydrate myself through excessive drooling. Luckily for me, the other Penn interns feel exactly the same, as does our Nepalese chef/commander-in-chief, Kamal. See, Kamal is really a meat lover, and doesn't mind cooking vegetarian (or doesn't mind being forced to) but he would rather be elbows deep in a chicken dish. Kamal knows a guy over in Jhunjhunu, the nearest big town, and this guy knows a guy who owns a restaurant which is a 15 minute rickshaw ride from the bus station, and it is really more of a secret door passageway that leads to a courtyard full of chickens and lambs but there, THERE, they cook meat.
And not only do they cook it, you can watch your squawking chickens and squealing muttons be dragged off to come back later cleanly skined and shiny like delicious meaty pennies. It's dinner and a show, and I'm pretty sure that in some touristy off Broadway production, this entertainment would cost well over 1000 rupees. We had to wait for about an hour and a half for the five chicken and mutton dishes that we ordered, but when it came.... I'm actually not really sure what happened. Carnivorous hands grabbed at the meat, bare fingers pulling at skin, teeth sinking into saucy flesh. It was hedonistic eating; no one cared about anything but the tandoori chicken dunked in yogurt sauce. About ten minutes in, I looked up and realized that the world was tilting a bit, and everything was so beautiful, and Meg was just laughing and laughing and laughing. A lopsided grin kept sliding off and on my face and I felt all giddy and warm and fuzzy inside, and that's when I realized. I was actually drunk on chicken.
Transportation:
I actually have it pretty easy when it comes to transportation. The Mobile Naukri office is located in the GDL compound, which means that I simply have to cross the courtyard on my shoe-clad feet. Sometimes, however, I must leave the office for epic adventures that require taking the bus. I would first like to point out that people don't actually cling to the outside and/or top of the bus. The exterior is for the most part, void of human body parts. It's inside where things really start hoppin'. In a country like India, where one billion people have to share a limited amount of space, there is absolutely no concept of personal space. Getting on the bus, getting a seat, and paying the ticket is a complicated and rather hysterical process that requires a great deal of patience and humor.
Step 1: Get on the bus. This usually requires flagging down a monstrous contraption that is decked out to look like a hip discotheque. Crazy painted patterns, shiny embellishments and other decorations adorne the outside. I actually think that if Septa buses were all decorated in the same way, people would go on strike a lot less. Once you have flagged down the bus, it is wise to lightly sprint alongside it to jump in, as a full stop is not necessarily guaranteed. After bounding up three steep steps (usually knocking someone out of the way to be able to do this) it is onto...
Step 2: Find a seat. This can either be extremely simple, or excruciatingly complicated. Sometimes, the buses are empty, which means there are a couple seats left open in the very back. Stepping over extended legs and pieces of luggage left in the aisle, we make our way to those coveted empty seats. Luckily for me, the majority of the time I have been on the bus I have been able to relax my sweaty body on some pleathered cushion. Sitting in the back, although this guarantees a place to sit, can be an extreme sport activity. I have no idea how people drive in India, because most of the time, I try to keep my eyes close. The bus swerves around rickshaws and motorcycles and animals and slower buses. Speedbumps are everywhere, but hardly act as a deterrent. Instead, us Americans, sitting in the back, are sent flying into the air every couple of kilometers. Today was a particularly bouncy ride, and as I hovered a solid food off my seat, I couldn't help but errupt into a little squeal-scream. I think I need to start wearing a helmet and padded shorts. For all the trouble the back of the bus can be, it is heavenly compared to a crowded bus. A no-room bus means being squeezed in the aisle. Sunday night was my first real sardine experience. Practicaly sitting in some woman's lap, my hand made feeble attempts to grasp the overhead bar, resulting in some poor man's face being squashed under my armpit, toppling over onto Siler everytime the bus swerved, and generally looking like a fool. No matter the sitting/standing arrangement, one still needs to complete...
Step 3: Paying. Effortless sometimes. Othertimes, the conductor, spotting our ghostly faces from across the bus, sees an opportunity to charge some tourists double the actual fare. This is not cool, people! I am not a tourist! I am a working woman, living in Bagar, wearing a freakin' salwar kamiz. Even my visa knows that! Fortunately, everytime we have been on the bus, we have been accompanied by a no-nonsense, saavy Indian GDL-er who is NOT THE ONE to mess with. On Sunday, we had a particularly epic episode in which Pankaj and Kamal argued loudly with the conducter for over ten minutes. Finally, the conducter got so fed up that he literally just jumped off the bus and washed his hands of the situation. We paid the local rate that day.
More exciting characters coming soon, such as Indian bureaucracy! And a homemade cinema!
Namaste,
Sarah
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