Oh man, Internette Followers. I am so very sorry for the horrific delay between this post and my last one. I imagine all two of you that read my blog have been sitting at your computers, dehydrated and sleep-deprived, clicking the refresh button at five minute intervals. Your eyebrows must have grown to the floor by now! Fear not, I have returned, although my computer is baroque-n, and I am required to steal other people's laptops. This means no pictures of Kolkata, for the time being. If you want a visual fix, you can check out Collin's blog.
I have been in Kolkata for a week, and plan on being here until the 29th of July. I am volunteering with a Penn organization called Pratit, which runs medical and educational mobile camps in several slums across Kolkata. Pratit is entirely student run and staffed. There are eight of us here right now, from Penn and the University of Illinois. Our fearless leader is Turja Chakrabarti, who founded the organization, is a Kolkata native, and holds our hands for most of the day. Technically, I am supposed to be on the education team, but because we are understaffed, everyone pitches in everywhere, and I am also working with the medical team. More on this ill-fated pairing soon.
We have hosted one official education camp thus far, with another one planned for tomorrow. School children in Kolkata attend tutoring centers in the afternoon, from 2:30 to 5:00, where there is usually one teacher for twenty to thirty age-varied kids. These children come from neighborhood government schools, which suffer from a multitude of problems. Teacher absentee rate is the most detrimental; because teacher positions are government-jobs, the benefits are limitless, which apparently includes never getting fired, no matter what. These children are not receiving the proper educational support that they deserve, and many of them are well below the math and reading levels that they should be at. Our goal is to provide some after-school education that will give them some science, English and math foundations, that they can then apply to their schoolwork. We also want to stress the importance of innovation and creativity, and want to encourage the children to partake in art and music activities.
Last week was a name-tag making extravaganza that involved too much glitter (that curiously is still all over our bodies, glitter actually never dies) and assessments of the students. Song-i (head of edu. team) and I pulled out students one by one and had them complete English reading passages and questions, as well as math. We have two translators working with us, Turja's cousin Godaih and Chandan. They are awesome. However, we were only able to get through seven of the oldest children. These older girl struggled with English, which is actually quite handy. Our greatest asset right now is our ability to speak and teach English, which other teachers might not be able to do so well. I do not trust myself to teach anyone math, even a thirteen year old, so it was a good thing that they zipped through the math section with much zeal.
Being more of a humanities and social science type person, I assumed that I would enjoy working with education much more than medicine. To be frank, science baffles me. Microscopic cells and atoms and Golgi apparatuses and all that other stuff really confuses me, and I find it easier to chalk it up to magical elves wearing pointy shoes with bells on them. I am also extremely squeamish when it comes to blood or any body abnormality, and I get way too emotionally involved with people's problems to actually help them. In short, I have all the qualities that you wouldn't want in an EMT. My first medical camp was on Monday, in a large slum under a busy highway. Pratit's first medical camp as a team had been the day I arrived, and Collin and Shomik whisked me from the airport to the clinic at the slum, where I was told to sit in a chair and not touch anything.
This time around, I would be touching things. Turja held an info session for those of us who were new to the program. Song-i, Rikka, Moshe, Alex and I were taught how to take vital signs (blood pressure, pulse, temperature, eyes, skin and lungs) as well as patient questioning, which follows the acronym "SAMPLE OPQRST". Do you have any idea how hard it is to take blood pressure? It's frightening. Sadly for Alex, he offered to let me practice on him. After taking his blood pressure five times and messing it up each time, I feared that he might actually faint. It's a complicated dance of pumping and listening to blood drops (gag) and turning the dial juuuuusssstttt so, and it is impossible. Turja had the wrong idea that we all "Got it? Great!", now we could just plunge head first in the lion's dens.
How these medical clinics are set up is pretty hectic. First off, we have a couple of doctors that come in, all through Turja's connections. They are assigned two Pratit members, one who takes vital signs and the other who asks the SAMPLE OPQRST questions through a translator. The doctors prescribe the medication. These doctors are wonderful people for dedicating their time and energy to this task, but most of them want to work in terms of quantity. Our job is to slow them down, and make sure they collect all the necessary information from the patient. Most of them just want to immediately make a diagnosis and prescribe medication, in order to see as many patients as possible, and then leave quicker.
Rikka and I partnered up, and were assigned a doctor. I was handed a stethoscope, a blood pressure cuff, and some sanity, and told to go at it. For three hours straight, patient after patient streamed in, and I took countless blood pressures, listened to creaky lungs, and felt for faint pulses. I think the doctor was misinformed and thought that I had some knowledge of what I was doing, because he asked me to check the patients' stomachs several times. "Um," I replied, "I feel something tough over here....?" Luckily, none of these patients are deathly ill and bleeding profusely, so I don't feel like I am actually endangering life. We mostly got old people. One woman came in who was shaking, clearly mentally unstable. I smiled and said hello, and she smiled back and broke my heart. Even her lips were trembling. The doctor rushed through the medial questions and wanted to prescribe her some vitamins. I have a morbid fascination with mental disorders, and spend inordinate amounts of time on Wikipedia studying depression and panic attacks and so forth. I asked the doctor to ask this woman some social questions about her life. He laughed at me. "No," I insisted, "her respiration are shallow and rapid, she can't stop trembling, and she seems skittish all around. I think she suffers from anxiety and depression." The doctor asked her some questions, and it turned out this woman lived all alone, suffered from depression and panic attacks, and was just generally unstable. We didn't have any sedatives at the clinic pharmacy, but the doctor prescribed therapy and meditation.
These clinics aren't very uplifting. Egotistically, it feels insanely gratifying to be able to "help" someone so personally, but I can't help but feel that my impact is minimal. We have no way of knowing if these patients are actually going to take their medications, if they will get better or worse, or where they can get the money to pay for surgeries. A woman with a baseball-sized malignant tumor on her throat as a result of thyroid swelling kept asking me for money. Besides the fact that I had left my wallet at our dorms, I couldn't pay the money needed for the investigation and subsequent surgery(s). In the end, Pratit gave her some money for the investigation. But we can't give money to some people and not others; this is not a substantial way to help communities in the long-run. This whole experience kind of makes me want to be a doctor, to work with people and improve lives. But then I would have to study chemistry, and that's no fun.
I'll be back soon, promise!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Bye-Bye, Bagar....
Well, this is sad. On Sunday, Meg, Lindsay, Siler and I piled into a van and drove off into the dusty distance, waving good-bye to GDL and Bagar. I'm really going to miss Bagar. It was an amazing opportunity to work with the GDL staff, and to meet so many people I would never have had a chance to meet otherwise.
So, a big thank you to the University of Pennsylvania and the Center for Advanced Studies of India for sending me there, Bagar for hosting me, Mobile Naukri (Bossman, Pankaj and Deepak) for working with me, and all the interns and IndiCorps fellows for being fun to hang out with, and Kamal-ji for all the delicious food! I'm excited for the next leg of my journey. I will be volunteering in Kolkata with Pratit, a Penn organization that runs medical and educational mobile camps in slums in the city. You can find the link on the sidebar of this blog. Internet is a bit wonky, so I won't be blogging for the next day or two. Stay tuned, though.... things should get kooky in Kolata.
Sorry. Couldn't resist that one.
So, a big thank you to the University of Pennsylvania and the Center for Advanced Studies of India for sending me there, Bagar for hosting me, Mobile Naukri (Bossman, Pankaj and Deepak) for working with me, and all the interns and IndiCorps fellows for being fun to hang out with, and Kamal-ji for all the delicious food! I'm excited for the next leg of my journey. I will be volunteering in Kolkata with Pratit, a Penn organization that runs medical and educational mobile camps in slums in the city. You can find the link on the sidebar of this blog. Internet is a bit wonky, so I won't be blogging for the next day or two. Stay tuned, though.... things should get kooky in Kolata.
Sorry. Couldn't resist that one.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Holy Matrimony
"Are you married?"
This is a question that one doesn't hear too often at the ripe (and beginning to be over-the-hill) age of twenty in the United States, especially not for someone very much still enrolled at a liberal East coast university. In India, particularly in rural India, the exact opposite is true. After the obligatory introduction of name and place of origin, my matrimonial status is questioned by both men and women. "No," I respond. Eyes narrow, lips purse, and thinking caps are put on. "Well, when are you getting married?" they ask, searching my body for signs of sagging skin and graying hair and other physical attributes that would signal my inevitable demise into spinsterhood. I have yet to come up with an eloquent and acceptable answer to this question, so I usually just try to explain that women in the US get married at a later age, sometime in their thirties, and I may or may not get married, and if I do, it will most certainly be a love marriage. Spectacularly disappointed by this answer, most people shake their heads and tell me I must get married in the next five years. Because I am a dairy product, and my expiration date is 2015.
Marriage is of utmost importance in India, especially in rural Rajasthan. When I asked Deepak, who is twenty-one and has been married for nearly four years about his wife, he simply told me that "My wife is my life." Every girl I've had a conversation with talks about her future husband in very certain terms, regardless of the actual existence of said husband. The status quo is to get married at an acceptable age, move into the groom's house, and live in matrimonial bliss for the rest of one's days. The overwhelming majority of weddings in this part of India are "arranged marriages." Having gone to an all-girls school for the majority of my life, and then continuing my education at said-liberal university, I've always been wary of the concept of arranged marriages, because I've only viewed them as stripping women of a say in their life. Sure, India has a significantly lower rate of divorce than America's 50%, and this is largely attributed to arranged marriage, but if a woman has no voice before the marriage, how can she speak out if the arrangement isn't working for her once she has moved in with her husband's family? The assumption that a couple learns to love each other over time is a frightening concept for a young girl who is expected to sleep with her husband on their wedding night, even if they have never even spoken to each other before. Aditi was telling me that marriage rape is problematic in some relationships, but since women don't understand their right to consent, and they don't know who to talk to about this stigmatized subject, most cases go unreported. Also, I'm more of a stickler for romance- the idea of meeting my life partner one day and then having to spend the rest of my life with him is pretty unromantic.
I've learned since coming to Bagar that most women don't have the same Western views of arranged marriage that I do. Indian culture is very family-oriented, as opposed to the more individualistic culture of the US. Families live together, survive together, and depend on each other for important decisions. Few women would dream of choosing a mate entirely on their own, and instead rely on their parents to make an educated decision for them. After all, your parents aren't the ones who are going to screw you over with this sort of life decision, and, as I'm sure we've all learned since we were angsty fourteen year olds, they're usually right about Important Stuff. Marriage culture has changed a lot, and engaged couples spend a year or more courting each other (with a companion, of course!) before actually getting married. Potential suitors can be dismissed by the bride, depending on the family. The whole concept of arranged marriage is that young love and passion can fizzle out quickly, leaving hearts broken and lives shattered. And relationships can be pretty destructive- it seems that most Americans get at least one divorce, which can have a very damaging effect on their children. Arranged marriages understand that relationships take work, and a couple matched up for life is more likely to grapple with the hard stuff than wimp out and cite "irreconcilable differences." Love will come later.
As an outsider, the most important thing about a marriage is the wedding. I was quite excited to come to India so that I could attend a traditional wedding. I envisioned glittering saris, intricate dance routines, and whole legs of lamb every couple of feet. Obviously I was wrong. Most wedding receptions are eat and leave situations where people wear jeans and men and women don't talk to each other. We have been to two weddings thus far; the first was very disappointing and involved walking along a dark highway for an hour, the second was far more enjoyable. Sahil Bossman explained to me GDL's three-pronged system used for assessing the elegance of a wedding. First, the wedding invitation. Wedding #1 had no invitations; at least not for us, someone just came to GDL and invited us to a reception that was about to begin in an hour. We should have taken this as our first sign, but we had no idea what to expect. Wedding #2 had a glossy, hard-paper color brochure that looked not unlike a menu at a cheap Italian restaurant. The invitation had been made in Jaipur, detailed the bride's achievements (Master's in Economics) as well as the groom's (a doctor!) and included full length pictures of the lovebirds. Apparently this is the last word in elegance, and Sahil knew right away that this was going to be the wedding of the year. Second, location. I have no idea where Wedding #1 was, some sort of outdoor wedding hall, I think, but we had to walk for a blister-inducing hour, and all I remember is foot pain. Wedding #2 was a 5 minute walk from GDL- automatic points. It was also in the park in front of the temple, which is very nice and also happens to have a merry-go-round, swing set and a seesaw. Apparently the last wedding that was at this location had servers in tuxedos and appetizers, and is Sahil's favorite wedding. Excitement was mounting.
The third and final measurement is the menu. I'm not even going to talk about the food at Wedding #1 because it's not worth taking up space from Wedding #2. There were rumors that there would be cold drinks, filtered water AND ice cream- really the height of luxury. We got there and were not disappointed. They had an appetizer bar, where there was panne pourri, fruit salad with apples!!!!, and ice cones. There were two types of paneer, three different kinds of sweets, naan instead of roti, fried rice, a dosa station, and grilled vegetables. It was delicious. The odd thing about this reception was that neither the bride nor the groom were in attendance. Indian weddings span several days and have a variety of activities, and this reception hosted by the bride's family wasn't top of the list. So basically they just threw this giant, expensive party for their friends and family and just assummed we would all stuff our face and have a good time. It's kind of strange, but apparently very common. Could you imagine if an American bride, after all the wedding planners and pain-staking hours of bridezilla preparation, didn't show up for her reception? Violent fights would likely ensue.
So, thank you to the bride and groom (who we never met and still have no idea who they actually are) for inviting us to your wedding. May you live in holy matrimony for the rest of your days!
July 2010 Most Eligible Bachelors: Pankaj and Kamal-ji
Filtered water? Don't mind if I do!
Meg and Lindsay, wondering why they weren't asked to be flower girls:
Glitzy lights:
Appetizer tent:
Pondering spinsterhood:
Siler engaged in some masculine conversation:
Unwedded interns at the entrance to the wedding:
This is a question that one doesn't hear too often at the ripe (and beginning to be over-the-hill) age of twenty in the United States, especially not for someone very much still enrolled at a liberal East coast university. In India, particularly in rural India, the exact opposite is true. After the obligatory introduction of name and place of origin, my matrimonial status is questioned by both men and women. "No," I respond. Eyes narrow, lips purse, and thinking caps are put on. "Well, when are you getting married?" they ask, searching my body for signs of sagging skin and graying hair and other physical attributes that would signal my inevitable demise into spinsterhood. I have yet to come up with an eloquent and acceptable answer to this question, so I usually just try to explain that women in the US get married at a later age, sometime in their thirties, and I may or may not get married, and if I do, it will most certainly be a love marriage. Spectacularly disappointed by this answer, most people shake their heads and tell me I must get married in the next five years. Because I am a dairy product, and my expiration date is 2015.
Marriage is of utmost importance in India, especially in rural Rajasthan. When I asked Deepak, who is twenty-one and has been married for nearly four years about his wife, he simply told me that "My wife is my life." Every girl I've had a conversation with talks about her future husband in very certain terms, regardless of the actual existence of said husband. The status quo is to get married at an acceptable age, move into the groom's house, and live in matrimonial bliss for the rest of one's days. The overwhelming majority of weddings in this part of India are "arranged marriages." Having gone to an all-girls school for the majority of my life, and then continuing my education at said-liberal university, I've always been wary of the concept of arranged marriages, because I've only viewed them as stripping women of a say in their life. Sure, India has a significantly lower rate of divorce than America's 50%, and this is largely attributed to arranged marriage, but if a woman has no voice before the marriage, how can she speak out if the arrangement isn't working for her once she has moved in with her husband's family? The assumption that a couple learns to love each other over time is a frightening concept for a young girl who is expected to sleep with her husband on their wedding night, even if they have never even spoken to each other before. Aditi was telling me that marriage rape is problematic in some relationships, but since women don't understand their right to consent, and they don't know who to talk to about this stigmatized subject, most cases go unreported. Also, I'm more of a stickler for romance- the idea of meeting my life partner one day and then having to spend the rest of my life with him is pretty unromantic.
I've learned since coming to Bagar that most women don't have the same Western views of arranged marriage that I do. Indian culture is very family-oriented, as opposed to the more individualistic culture of the US. Families live together, survive together, and depend on each other for important decisions. Few women would dream of choosing a mate entirely on their own, and instead rely on their parents to make an educated decision for them. After all, your parents aren't the ones who are going to screw you over with this sort of life decision, and, as I'm sure we've all learned since we were angsty fourteen year olds, they're usually right about Important Stuff. Marriage culture has changed a lot, and engaged couples spend a year or more courting each other (with a companion, of course!) before actually getting married. Potential suitors can be dismissed by the bride, depending on the family. The whole concept of arranged marriage is that young love and passion can fizzle out quickly, leaving hearts broken and lives shattered. And relationships can be pretty destructive- it seems that most Americans get at least one divorce, which can have a very damaging effect on their children. Arranged marriages understand that relationships take work, and a couple matched up for life is more likely to grapple with the hard stuff than wimp out and cite "irreconcilable differences." Love will come later.
As an outsider, the most important thing about a marriage is the wedding. I was quite excited to come to India so that I could attend a traditional wedding. I envisioned glittering saris, intricate dance routines, and whole legs of lamb every couple of feet. Obviously I was wrong. Most wedding receptions are eat and leave situations where people wear jeans and men and women don't talk to each other. We have been to two weddings thus far; the first was very disappointing and involved walking along a dark highway for an hour, the second was far more enjoyable. Sahil Bossman explained to me GDL's three-pronged system used for assessing the elegance of a wedding. First, the wedding invitation. Wedding #1 had no invitations; at least not for us, someone just came to GDL and invited us to a reception that was about to begin in an hour. We should have taken this as our first sign, but we had no idea what to expect. Wedding #2 had a glossy, hard-paper color brochure that looked not unlike a menu at a cheap Italian restaurant. The invitation had been made in Jaipur, detailed the bride's achievements (Master's in Economics) as well as the groom's (a doctor!) and included full length pictures of the lovebirds. Apparently this is the last word in elegance, and Sahil knew right away that this was going to be the wedding of the year. Second, location. I have no idea where Wedding #1 was, some sort of outdoor wedding hall, I think, but we had to walk for a blister-inducing hour, and all I remember is foot pain. Wedding #2 was a 5 minute walk from GDL- automatic points. It was also in the park in front of the temple, which is very nice and also happens to have a merry-go-round, swing set and a seesaw. Apparently the last wedding that was at this location had servers in tuxedos and appetizers, and is Sahil's favorite wedding. Excitement was mounting.
The third and final measurement is the menu. I'm not even going to talk about the food at Wedding #1 because it's not worth taking up space from Wedding #2. There were rumors that there would be cold drinks, filtered water AND ice cream- really the height of luxury. We got there and were not disappointed. They had an appetizer bar, where there was panne pourri, fruit salad with apples!!!!, and ice cones. There were two types of paneer, three different kinds of sweets, naan instead of roti, fried rice, a dosa station, and grilled vegetables. It was delicious. The odd thing about this reception was that neither the bride nor the groom were in attendance. Indian weddings span several days and have a variety of activities, and this reception hosted by the bride's family wasn't top of the list. So basically they just threw this giant, expensive party for their friends and family and just assummed we would all stuff our face and have a good time. It's kind of strange, but apparently very common. Could you imagine if an American bride, after all the wedding planners and pain-staking hours of bridezilla preparation, didn't show up for her reception? Violent fights would likely ensue.
So, thank you to the bride and groom (who we never met and still have no idea who they actually are) for inviting us to your wedding. May you live in holy matrimony for the rest of your days!
July 2010 Most Eligible Bachelors: Pankaj and Kamal-ji
Filtered water? Don't mind if I do!
Meg and Lindsay, wondering why they weren't asked to be flower girls:
Glitzy lights:
Appetizer tent:
Pondering spinsterhood:
Siler engaged in some masculine conversation:
Unwedded interns at the entrance to the wedding:
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Riding in Cars with Mobile Naukri
On Tuesday, Mobile Naukri tried out a new marketing strategy. We were going to do it bigger, better, and more expensive. It wouldn't involve a helicopter or fire-breathing camels, but it would incorporate a loudspeaker, a microphone and a cherry-red jeep. The Jeep Operation involved Pankaj, Deepak, Meg, Siler, Harsh and myself piling into the car/on the roof and cruising around 18(!) different villages, shouting things into a microphone. I was pretty incredulous as to the success of this campaign; it cost a lot more money than tabling, and the majority of towns we drove through were farming villages that seemed to be entirely inhabited by children. We spent a lot of time throwing business cards and posters out the windows as though we were at a Mardi Gras parade, and then driving away from Husein Bolt-fast kids who demanded more cards.
But, it actually turned out really well. Nearly 30 people registered that were from one of the villages we passed through. Because we were safely locked inside a car, or in some cases, on its roof, we were well out of the reach of creepy men. What we were not out of reach was the torrential monsoon downpour. Maybe I'm just spoiled, but I'm used to cars being water-proof. You know, like where the windows and doors and things close and protect you from the elements. This jeep had those plastic-y zipper windows, that just kept flap-flapping in the wind. Naturally none of the zippers worked, and we showered in this ill-constructed Noah's Ark for the majority of the afternoon. I have very little recollection of what actually happened during this marketing outing; the combination of sweltering humidity, bumpy terrain, cold rain and massive headache brought on by all three of these things clouded my memory. Luckily I took pictures, and new to this blog, a video! That may or may not work- I apologize for any technical difficulties; since GDL has a minimum amount of internet broadband, I can't actually view this video online...
Pankaj Spreading the M.N. Gospel:
Somewhat loud speaker
Collecting fallen cards
Windswept rooftop models
Skeet adjustin' volume skeet
Pankaj, Sahil Bossman and Deepak
Magic Truck
M.N. Team in front of truck
But, it actually turned out really well. Nearly 30 people registered that were from one of the villages we passed through. Because we were safely locked inside a car, or in some cases, on its roof, we were well out of the reach of creepy men. What we were not out of reach was the torrential monsoon downpour. Maybe I'm just spoiled, but I'm used to cars being water-proof. You know, like where the windows and doors and things close and protect you from the elements. This jeep had those plastic-y zipper windows, that just kept flap-flapping in the wind. Naturally none of the zippers worked, and we showered in this ill-constructed Noah's Ark for the majority of the afternoon. I have very little recollection of what actually happened during this marketing outing; the combination of sweltering humidity, bumpy terrain, cold rain and massive headache brought on by all three of these things clouded my memory. Luckily I took pictures, and new to this blog, a video! That may or may not work- I apologize for any technical difficulties; since GDL has a minimum amount of internet broadband, I can't actually view this video online...
Pankaj Spreading the M.N. Gospel:
Somewhat loud speaker
Collecting fallen cards
Windswept rooftop models
Skeet adjustin' volume skeet
Pankaj, Sahil Bossman and Deepak
Magic Truck
M.N. Team in front of truck
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Uh-merica
Celebrating the 4th of July in a foreign country is always a bit strange. The patriotic waves of freedom and democracy that beat at the shores of people's American-ness during John Legend-led parades and fireworks displays aren't exactly present in Bagar. Very few people here know about or care about the 4th of July, even though American and Indian independence are strikingly similar. Well, the whole bit about expelling the British out at least. The Revolutionary War wasn't exactly a non-violent movement, per se. But then again, I doubt that the majority of Americans know that India's independence day is on August 15th, and they celebrate with even bigger parades and (probably) better food.
Bagar 4th of July ended up being an affair of biblical proportions. First, there was a flood. Well, there would have been a flood if we didn't live in the desert, where the parched earth drinks up the rainfall with the same panache Joan Crawford exhibits at an open bar. It rained and rained and rained until mid afternoon. We were bummed! Us Americans had made big plans to go to Jhunjhunu and buy some supplies for a jugar-BBQ. All morning, we tried to stay dry and ate a ton of mangoes, because nothing says rainy day fun like curling up on a plastic chair clutching a mango. Meg and I watched Thank You For Smoking, which is a clever look at that all-American of industries, Big Tobacco.
Once the rain subsided, it was time to cut the BS and get down to some USA!USA!USA! business. We needed to listen to patriotic songs. For some reason, it was decided that my ipod had patriotic music, and Lindsay turned on the two songs I own with a vaguely country-specific theme: Counting Crows' "American Girls" and Green Day's "American Idiot", both of which are horrifically embarrassing holdovers from my middle school years as an alternative music-enthusiast. After listening to Canadian rockers, it was determined that Beyonce was the best bet for the rest of the day, because is there anything more American than Beyonce? No, and if there is, there shouldn't be. Beyonce is Queen.
With the music in check, it was time to make a delicious, all-American meal. A new jugar monster was born in the process of making this dinner. Lindsay, Meg and I toiled in the kitchen for hours, making french-excuse moi, freedom fries and mango salsa (you know, to represent Arizona) and kidney bean burgers that depressingly resembled meat burgers. There were no burger buns or cheese, but there was Indian ketchup and Mountain Dew and it almost, almost! felt like home.
Burgers and fries, burgers and fries!
Posing, all patriotic:
Lindsay flipping burgs:
But then, the plague happened.
The locust invasion, the Black Death, the killing of all first born sons. Whatever you want to call it, it really dampened the festivities. After it rains, all is nice and cool for a couple of hours, but then these demonic giant winged-ant/beetle things invade in droves, swarming towards the light and up my nostrils and into our delicious burger heaven. Really quite rude. Also, I have no idea where they come from or how they grow so quickly. The only nice thing about them is their 10 hour lifespan. So we slept peacefully, like lambs with colic, knowing that in the morning we wouldn't have to have a finger permanently shoved up our nose scraping out these bugs. What we weren't expecting was the open mass grave of all these bug bodies, silver wings crushed to oblivion, bodies twisted from deathly convulsions, resulting in a rather um, creative carpeting. The night before, Kamal-ji had successfully lit fire to a couple thousand of them, and their charred bodies lay in the outside sink, which, incidentally, was my safai's team turn to clean. We also found a hard-shelled, vertebrae insect with giant pinchers that was actually the size of my face. Sahil identified it as a cockroach, and proceeded to throw a giant brick on it to kill it. Come to think of it, our 4th of July invasion and subsequent massacre was not unlike the colonies revolting against the invading British. No taxes without representation! Hear that, bugs??
Battle of Lexington:
Hocus pocus, locust:
Bagar 4th of July ended up being an affair of biblical proportions. First, there was a flood. Well, there would have been a flood if we didn't live in the desert, where the parched earth drinks up the rainfall with the same panache Joan Crawford exhibits at an open bar. It rained and rained and rained until mid afternoon. We were bummed! Us Americans had made big plans to go to Jhunjhunu and buy some supplies for a jugar-BBQ. All morning, we tried to stay dry and ate a ton of mangoes, because nothing says rainy day fun like curling up on a plastic chair clutching a mango. Meg and I watched Thank You For Smoking, which is a clever look at that all-American of industries, Big Tobacco.
Once the rain subsided, it was time to cut the BS and get down to some USA!USA!USA! business. We needed to listen to patriotic songs. For some reason, it was decided that my ipod had patriotic music, and Lindsay turned on the two songs I own with a vaguely country-specific theme: Counting Crows' "American Girls" and Green Day's "American Idiot", both of which are horrifically embarrassing holdovers from my middle school years as an alternative music-enthusiast. After listening to Canadian rockers, it was determined that Beyonce was the best bet for the rest of the day, because is there anything more American than Beyonce? No, and if there is, there shouldn't be. Beyonce is Queen.
With the music in check, it was time to make a delicious, all-American meal. A new jugar monster was born in the process of making this dinner. Lindsay, Meg and I toiled in the kitchen for hours, making french-excuse moi, freedom fries and mango salsa (you know, to represent Arizona) and kidney bean burgers that depressingly resembled meat burgers. There were no burger buns or cheese, but there was Indian ketchup and Mountain Dew and it almost, almost! felt like home.
Burgers and fries, burgers and fries!
Posing, all patriotic:
Lindsay flipping burgs:
But then, the plague happened.
The locust invasion, the Black Death, the killing of all first born sons. Whatever you want to call it, it really dampened the festivities. After it rains, all is nice and cool for a couple of hours, but then these demonic giant winged-ant/beetle things invade in droves, swarming towards the light and up my nostrils and into our delicious burger heaven. Really quite rude. Also, I have no idea where they come from or how they grow so quickly. The only nice thing about them is their 10 hour lifespan. So we slept peacefully, like lambs with colic, knowing that in the morning we wouldn't have to have a finger permanently shoved up our nose scraping out these bugs. What we weren't expecting was the open mass grave of all these bug bodies, silver wings crushed to oblivion, bodies twisted from deathly convulsions, resulting in a rather um, creative carpeting. The night before, Kamal-ji had successfully lit fire to a couple thousand of them, and their charred bodies lay in the outside sink, which, incidentally, was my safai's team turn to clean. We also found a hard-shelled, vertebrae insect with giant pinchers that was actually the size of my face. Sahil identified it as a cockroach, and proceeded to throw a giant brick on it to kill it. Come to think of it, our 4th of July invasion and subsequent massacre was not unlike the colonies revolting against the invading British. No taxes without representation! Hear that, bugs??
Battle of Lexington:
Hocus pocus, locust:
Friday, July 2, 2010
Animal Farm
I've spent a lot of time talking about the people in my Bagar life, because people are important and I like them. But I am completely ignoring the animal kingdom, and this is not correct. So, a remedy.
Ants:
Let's start small. Ants. They made a movie about them once, cutely (and cleverly!) titled ANTZ, and Jerry Seinfeld or someone personified these ants, and after that, we humans were supposed to realize that ants have feelings too, dammit! and we should respect that. I like ants. Correction- I used to like city ants, for whom life is rather bourgeoisie, seeing as there is leftover food everywhere, making for easy pickins. It's also easy to kill city ants when they invade your West Philly apartment, with magic potions and paid exterminators and such. And then I came to Bagar. To be fair, my first introduction to desert ants was a giant anthill that had somehow formed at the foot of my bed, greeting me at 2AM our first night here. From there, the relationship could only, quite literally, go downhill.
I successfully swept away the anthill, sprayed our entire room and my bed with Deet 99%, and assumed the worst was over. I clearly need to stop making assumptions in India, or assume the completely opposite of what I initially want to assume, because I keep getting things wrong. On the ant side of life, things were tame for a while. There was nary an ant in our room; they had all migrated to the kitchen and tripled in size. The kitchen ants look more like mini tarantulas, and since GDL has a strict veg diet, that means we can't kill the ants. That are in our kitchen. Eating our food. I find this counter-productive, because we have each eaten about fifty ants at this point, which is very much not vegetarian, so it would be easier to kill them in the first place. No one else seems to follow my radical branch of logic, so the ants in the kitchen remain.
Where my school of thought is allowed, is in my bedroom, where the ants have returned with a vengeance. See, a while back, Meg's mom sent her this package, stocked with goodies like Pringles and Gummi Bears and Swedish Fish and other delicious preservatives. It's important to remember that all these things were stored in their unopened package, which were in zipped ziploc bags, which were all in a box, tightly closed under a bed. The other day I came into our room and a carpet of ants greeted me, all diligently marching towards Eden. These are not normal ants. These are desert ants, hardened by a lack of food and heat and a very demanding Queen Ant, and possibly a centuries-old rivalry with neighboring ant tribes. Somehow, these ants managed to get inside the sealed Pringles can (which has TWO seals) and were gorging themselves literally to death. Little tiny ants were resting in peace, having eaten more sour cream and onion crisps then their little tiny tummies knew what to do with. It was rather depressing. We were really looking forward to eating those chips.
Dogs:
I've travelled to a couple of developing countries, and the animal that roams in the streets is most often the cat. Surprisingly, I have seen only one or two cats here in India, instead, the streets are filled with dogs. Not Air Bud and Beethoven type of dogs, but mangy, scrawny, dirty dogs that usually look half-alive. A Penn student who had come to Bagar a couple years ago warned me about the dogs.
"Watch out for the dogs," she cautioned. "They chase you a lot. And they're not safe dogs; they're probably rabid."
"Charming," I replied. "Were you ever chased by a dog?"
"Oh yeah," she said nonchalantly. "Once I was walking to the market and a dog started chasing me, growling really loud and stuff."
"What did you do?" I asked, on the edge of my seat.
"I ran to someones house, knocked on the door and explained the situation, and they let me in," she said.
"But I don't know any Hindi!" I said, hysterical at the thought of contracting rabies.
"Oh don't worry," she said. "Just point to the dog and they'll know."
Great. When I went to Student Health to get my vaccines, I was tempted to ask for the five-part installment of the rabies vaccine, but my doctor assured me that if I were to get bit by a dog, I would know, and I would have ample time to get to the hospital. Then I got to Bagar, and realized that most of the dogs are too lazy from the heat to do anything besides flop over on their sides and generally look sad. My favorite dog is one that doesn't have any hair left, but somehow his splotches have darkened parts of his skin. The rest of him is covered in pimply pink skin. I like to call him Proactiv, but I've never actually gotten close enough to him to coo that to him while scratching behind his ears.
Thus far, the saddest thing I've ever seen in India has been dog-related. I was waiting for the bus in some village (I forget the name now) with Deepak. Pankaj and Sahil had gone off to get cold drinks, probably. Across the street, I saw a dog who had his back legs, but could not use them. He was dragging himself across the cement, supported only by his front legs, his hind legs two useless sticks that were chafed and burning in the 120 degree heat. He was moving unbearably slowly, with only the sheer determination of survival. I whimpered and pointed this out to Deepak.
"Yes," he responded. And then, so matter-of-fact: "Handicapped."
I shouldn't have laughed, but I did.
Peacocks:
India's national bird is the peacock! Isn't that cool? We got stuck with the eagle, which, while majestic is often bald, and India gets the peacock. And they can fly- I always thought peacocks were like vain penguins. Yesterday, we went to Hot n' Cold Paradise for some Mountain Dew Mocktails, and up in a tree was a giant peacock, screeching the most terrifying sounds I have ever heard. Beautiful things, but can hardly carry a tune. Not unlike if Ashlee Simpson was stuck in a tree, singing "Invisible" without the help of a computer.
Cows:
Vacca, bovine, vache, kuh. Cows are all over the place in India. They stroll down streets on their way to work, nudge people out of the way at markets to get the best produce, drop the kids off at school, and generally act like they run this place. Which they kind of do. Cows are a very holy animal in Hinduism, which means they get the right of way in every situation. The bus won't slow down for a human crossing the street (you better run!) but if a cow happens to waddle across the road, the bus driver is obliged to fiddle with his stick shift and slow down the car.
I have one funny cow story, but it's not exactly G-rated, so don't stay tuned if you can easily visualize the written word. A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting in the bus with Harsh, coming back from Jhunjhunu. The bus was parked in the marketplace, and the driver was outside smoking consecutive cigarettes, so we weren't about to move anytime soon. Right outside of my window, there was a gathering of doe-eyed young cows, and some muscly, beefy bulls. The girl cows were being all girly and coy in the middle of the marketplace, nuzzling each other and sniffling through the dirt and whatever it is that cows do. The bulls were horny. Off in the distance, they eyed these girl cows.
"Yo man, that Bella has gotten really, really hot. Mmm, that ass," Edward whispered to Jacob.
"No way man, Veronica is so much hotter. And I hear she's really easy. Javier from Sultana hooked up with her last week," Jacob responded.
Meanwhile, the girl cows were hardly paying attention to any of it. They were just doing their cow thing! Having some girl talk! Chatting about this and that and Foucault and ferns. Then the bulls came over. Edward came first, he was more of a pusher. No, that's not true. He's a protector. It's not his fault that he's a glittery vampire bull who LOVES Bella so, so much, but she's a human cow, see, and they just can't possibly be together, at least not in that way, until he turns her into a glittery vampire and oh, my, young love is just so very, very complicated. The events that followed would give Mormon Stephanie Myers a coronary. I felt not unlike a teacher at a high school dance, watching two kids grinding in a devastatingly embarrassing way, but Ms. Krazinsky can only sit and watch in horror, unless it's a Catholic school. I knew I shouldn't look, but I honestly couldn't look away. Luckily, Bella and Edward did this weird scrampy dance thing that shot them straight out of my view, and I could begin some personal therapy lessons. The funniest part about this whole debaucle was that I seemed to be the only person who noticed anything.
Ants:
Let's start small. Ants. They made a movie about them once, cutely (and cleverly!) titled ANTZ, and Jerry Seinfeld or someone personified these ants, and after that, we humans were supposed to realize that ants have feelings too, dammit! and we should respect that. I like ants. Correction- I used to like city ants, for whom life is rather bourgeoisie, seeing as there is leftover food everywhere, making for easy pickins. It's also easy to kill city ants when they invade your West Philly apartment, with magic potions and paid exterminators and such. And then I came to Bagar. To be fair, my first introduction to desert ants was a giant anthill that had somehow formed at the foot of my bed, greeting me at 2AM our first night here. From there, the relationship could only, quite literally, go downhill.
I successfully swept away the anthill, sprayed our entire room and my bed with Deet 99%, and assumed the worst was over. I clearly need to stop making assumptions in India, or assume the completely opposite of what I initially want to assume, because I keep getting things wrong. On the ant side of life, things were tame for a while. There was nary an ant in our room; they had all migrated to the kitchen and tripled in size. The kitchen ants look more like mini tarantulas, and since GDL has a strict veg diet, that means we can't kill the ants. That are in our kitchen. Eating our food. I find this counter-productive, because we have each eaten about fifty ants at this point, which is very much not vegetarian, so it would be easier to kill them in the first place. No one else seems to follow my radical branch of logic, so the ants in the kitchen remain.
Where my school of thought is allowed, is in my bedroom, where the ants have returned with a vengeance. See, a while back, Meg's mom sent her this package, stocked with goodies like Pringles and Gummi Bears and Swedish Fish and other delicious preservatives. It's important to remember that all these things were stored in their unopened package, which were in zipped ziploc bags, which were all in a box, tightly closed under a bed. The other day I came into our room and a carpet of ants greeted me, all diligently marching towards Eden. These are not normal ants. These are desert ants, hardened by a lack of food and heat and a very demanding Queen Ant, and possibly a centuries-old rivalry with neighboring ant tribes. Somehow, these ants managed to get inside the sealed Pringles can (which has TWO seals) and were gorging themselves literally to death. Little tiny ants were resting in peace, having eaten more sour cream and onion crisps then their little tiny tummies knew what to do with. It was rather depressing. We were really looking forward to eating those chips.
Dogs:
I've travelled to a couple of developing countries, and the animal that roams in the streets is most often the cat. Surprisingly, I have seen only one or two cats here in India, instead, the streets are filled with dogs. Not Air Bud and Beethoven type of dogs, but mangy, scrawny, dirty dogs that usually look half-alive. A Penn student who had come to Bagar a couple years ago warned me about the dogs.
"Watch out for the dogs," she cautioned. "They chase you a lot. And they're not safe dogs; they're probably rabid."
"Charming," I replied. "Were you ever chased by a dog?"
"Oh yeah," she said nonchalantly. "Once I was walking to the market and a dog started chasing me, growling really loud and stuff."
"What did you do?" I asked, on the edge of my seat.
"I ran to someones house, knocked on the door and explained the situation, and they let me in," she said.
"But I don't know any Hindi!" I said, hysterical at the thought of contracting rabies.
"Oh don't worry," she said. "Just point to the dog and they'll know."
Great. When I went to Student Health to get my vaccines, I was tempted to ask for the five-part installment of the rabies vaccine, but my doctor assured me that if I were to get bit by a dog, I would know, and I would have ample time to get to the hospital. Then I got to Bagar, and realized that most of the dogs are too lazy from the heat to do anything besides flop over on their sides and generally look sad. My favorite dog is one that doesn't have any hair left, but somehow his splotches have darkened parts of his skin. The rest of him is covered in pimply pink skin. I like to call him Proactiv, but I've never actually gotten close enough to him to coo that to him while scratching behind his ears.
Thus far, the saddest thing I've ever seen in India has been dog-related. I was waiting for the bus in some village (I forget the name now) with Deepak. Pankaj and Sahil had gone off to get cold drinks, probably. Across the street, I saw a dog who had his back legs, but could not use them. He was dragging himself across the cement, supported only by his front legs, his hind legs two useless sticks that were chafed and burning in the 120 degree heat. He was moving unbearably slowly, with only the sheer determination of survival. I whimpered and pointed this out to Deepak.
"Yes," he responded. And then, so matter-of-fact: "Handicapped."
I shouldn't have laughed, but I did.
Peacocks:
India's national bird is the peacock! Isn't that cool? We got stuck with the eagle, which, while majestic is often bald, and India gets the peacock. And they can fly- I always thought peacocks were like vain penguins. Yesterday, we went to Hot n' Cold Paradise for some Mountain Dew Mocktails, and up in a tree was a giant peacock, screeching the most terrifying sounds I have ever heard. Beautiful things, but can hardly carry a tune. Not unlike if Ashlee Simpson was stuck in a tree, singing "Invisible" without the help of a computer.
Cows:
Vacca, bovine, vache, kuh. Cows are all over the place in India. They stroll down streets on their way to work, nudge people out of the way at markets to get the best produce, drop the kids off at school, and generally act like they run this place. Which they kind of do. Cows are a very holy animal in Hinduism, which means they get the right of way in every situation. The bus won't slow down for a human crossing the street (you better run!) but if a cow happens to waddle across the road, the bus driver is obliged to fiddle with his stick shift and slow down the car.
I have one funny cow story, but it's not exactly G-rated, so don't stay tuned if you can easily visualize the written word. A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting in the bus with Harsh, coming back from Jhunjhunu. The bus was parked in the marketplace, and the driver was outside smoking consecutive cigarettes, so we weren't about to move anytime soon. Right outside of my window, there was a gathering of doe-eyed young cows, and some muscly, beefy bulls. The girl cows were being all girly and coy in the middle of the marketplace, nuzzling each other and sniffling through the dirt and whatever it is that cows do. The bulls were horny. Off in the distance, they eyed these girl cows.
"Yo man, that Bella has gotten really, really hot. Mmm, that ass," Edward whispered to Jacob.
"No way man, Veronica is so much hotter. And I hear she's really easy. Javier from Sultana hooked up with her last week," Jacob responded.
Meanwhile, the girl cows were hardly paying attention to any of it. They were just doing their cow thing! Having some girl talk! Chatting about this and that and Foucault and ferns. Then the bulls came over. Edward came first, he was more of a pusher. No, that's not true. He's a protector. It's not his fault that he's a glittery vampire bull who LOVES Bella so, so much, but she's a human cow, see, and they just can't possibly be together, at least not in that way, until he turns her into a glittery vampire and oh, my, young love is just so very, very complicated. The events that followed would give Mormon Stephanie Myers a coronary. I felt not unlike a teacher at a high school dance, watching two kids grinding in a devastatingly embarrassing way, but Ms. Krazinsky can only sit and watch in horror, unless it's a Catholic school. I knew I shouldn't look, but I honestly couldn't look away. Luckily, Bella and Edward did this weird scrampy dance thing that shot them straight out of my view, and I could begin some personal therapy lessons. The funniest part about this whole debaucle was that I seemed to be the only person who noticed anything.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Constant Bureaucracy
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? ;)
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? ;)
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