The Positive Spin on Slum Tourism

I’m a man of very little principle. I’m now one of those evil westerners that tours slums. Upon landing in Mumbai last Friday morning, my first stop, even before checking into the hotel, was at Dharavi. More specifically, that stop was an organized and guided tour through three of four sections of the second largest slum in Asia. This slum, which is home to more people than the city of San Fransisco, sprawls over two square kilometers. I’ll help with the math; that’s a population density of over half a million people per squarer kilometer. Yes, this is both the slum where the kids were pulled for “Slumdog Millionaire” as well as a major part of Shantaram (I can’t speak for the latter parts of Gregory David Robert’s tale of an escaped thief’s life in the Mumbai slums as I only made it through the first two hundred or so pages of the 900 page behemoth epic).

I liked the ingenuity of using an old billboard for roofing

This tourist activity, slum tourism, is increasingly controversial. The two basic sides of the argument are fairly obvious. On one side, is it wrong to profit from the exploitation of the impoverished? On the other, is giving greater visibility and awareness toward the way others live while (hopefully) contributing toward their economy a good thing? I suppose my actions place me on the latter side of that argument and don’t even allow me to consider the former. Plus, the tour we were on didn’t allow photographs be taken, so that made me feel slightly less exploitative; and to be honest, it was kind of nice to walk through a place without my camera glued to my eye.

The tour began when we were greeted by our local guide, a sixteen year old named Zisha (I have no idea if that’s the correct spelling). The most striking aspects of Zisha were, first, that he spoke impeccable English and, second, that he was wearing the whitest clothing I’ve seen in this country. I nearly asked him who did his laundry so I could send my shirts. He lead us over a walkway that crossed the train tracks. We descended the stairs and were “in” the slum.

Not the stairs into the slum, but one of the few allowed photographs

My first impression upon setting foot in the second biggest slum in Asia was, “This is actually kind of nice.” Maybe that’s nearly two years in India talking. More likely is that my morbid expectations were flushed away by the time I took my second step.

Morbid Myth #1 – Temporary housing as far as the eye could see
I fully expected to see cardboard or maybe (if they were lucky) bamboo framed shelters covered with blue tarps. In the words of Lee Corso, “not so fast my friend.” The structures lining the main street were quite permanent and, much to my surprise, housed businesses similar to those you’d see on any other commercial street of small business in India. These buildings have been there for some time, and unless the planned "rehabilitation" efforts (which the residents have mixed feelings about) take shape, they're going to be there for a long time.

Morbid Myth #2 – Miserable people as far as the eye could see
I expected to find people down on their lot in life, bathing in their own misery. While there are probably more comfortable places to call home, the people hardly looked miserable. This was a fully functioning community with a robust economy, people working (and working hard) to eek out a life, and children coming home from school. Many thousands work outside the slum as the city's drivers and laborers and could choose to leave if they wanted. They don't. Why? It's where they're from. It's home.

Morbid Myth #3 – The worst smelling and dirtiest place on the earth
The olfactory qualities of India have been well documented by both travelers and residents. As such, I was expecting something similar to what Andy had to swim through to escape the warden in The Shawshank Redemption. Not the case. I was almost immediately struck by the lack of "bad" smell. This was partially due to the lack of animals (Mumbai, in general, has far fewer animals roaming around than you see in other parts of India). If Dharavi had the same animals per capita as a place like Jodhpur, this might not be so much a myth. Suffice to say, I've been to far dirtier and far smellier places than this slum.

Morbid Myth #4 – Slums are so cheap that anyone that shows up will find a place
Dharavi still seems to be accepting migrants from other parts of India, mostly from nearby states like Gujarat and Rajasthan; however, it's not so simple as showing up and finding a place to squat. Given the proposed rehabilitation efforts, speculation (as well as the constant supply of land) has driven real estate prices comically higher than one would expect. Our guide pointed to a rather run-down looking building and mentioned that a studio-sized apartment in the building would cost 300,000. Dollars. U.S. dollars.

Say what you want of slum tourism, but I can honestly say I learned more in my two hours about the social and economic systems that exist in a place like Dharavi than I could have from volumes of books that try to describe it. In the end, isn't that part of what travel is all about? Is slum tourism really any different than something like touring the castles of the royal families of the world? Sure, it's on opposite end of the spectrum, but as long as you're learning, isn't that kind of the point?

Finally, the most surprising thing I saw while touring the slum was an oddity that I'm sure very few people would have noticed. The only reason I noticed is that I have a family friend in Minneapolis that is heavily involved in the Minnesota Green Roofs Council. As our tour concluded, I looked up and to the right and happened to notice a do-it-yourself green roof. While I doubt his organization reaches all the way to Mumbai, it was perhaps the most subtle yet prescient reminder that slums aren't all doom and gloom.

F*ck the Maldives

Originally we had intended to take an extravagant four or five night trip to the Maldives as a "reward" for completing this little adventure. I mean, what better way to end this ridiculous experiment than by lounging in some over-the-water hut, watching tropical fish swim beneath our feet, and sipping cocktails without a worry in the world. I'll tell you what better way; taking yet another trip where you (if you're lucky) shower every five days, struggle to breathe, and pack maybe two sets of clothes.

On the second day of our trek to Ladakh, on a day when we climbed our first high pass, we reached a short rest stop in the morning. I quickly scanned the horizon as I tried to gulp down as much oxygen as possible. Three hundred sixty degrees of jagged mountains. I turned to Lindsay and calmly said, "Fuck the Maldives. We're going to Bhutan."

Not the Maldives

In my oxygen-deprived, romantic head, her response would have sounded something like an affirmative response that included the use of an f-bomb. Instead, she muddled through something like, "I think you're right." I don't blame her. This was before she discovered the soothing effects of Diamox, and she happened to be struggling through her initial altitude-related issues at the time.

By the fourth of fifth day, when the drugs had taken full effect, our decision had been made. Rather than relaxing our final few vacation days at a pristine resort in the middle of the India Ocean in a country that may one day not exist, we would fit one final (short) trek to the Himalayan kingdom of Bhutan into our schedule before. The reason? Apparently treks are as addictive as crack. That, and there are beaches everywhere in the world. Now I'm sure there are those that will say, "What's the big deal? There are mountains everywhere in the world." I like those people. Those are the people that crowd the beaches and leave the mountains for the people like me.

Be Careful What You Post

As I walked out of the office on Friday, I was greeted by my driver Ashok. He had taken it upon himself to park on the other side of the road so we didn't sit in 45 - 60 minutes of gridlocked traffic heading in the normal direction. It's little things like this that really make me appreciate how good are drivers are. Especially on a Friday evening. As we stood waiting for "ma'am" to emerge from the building, Ashok (who has become more talkative as of late) told me that he had twenty four pictures of me. Puzzled and slightly worried I might now have a stalker, my response was something like, "Huh?"

He showed me his phone and sure enough, in a folder called "Boss", was a set of pictures mostly downloaded from the blog. I say "mostly" because included in the set was a random picture of a house I didn't recognize and a headstone for John H. Luth who, rest his soul, passed away in 1983. When he got to the headstone picture, he excitedly asked, "Is this you?" I wasn't sure if the concept of a headstone would register and it proved problematic to try and explain to a Hindu that doesn't speak too much English and isn't as familiar with the silly tradition of burying the dead. In addition, he found pictures of himself and Kailash. I had told Kailash I've put some pictures on the internet and that many friends ask what it's like to have a driver. I guess I never really con

sidered that they would, one day, find those pictures.

Ashok, Ma'am, Sir, and Kailash

In addition to the pictures, they've also found the blog. Apparently, both he and Kailash enjoy reading the "stories." Ashok admitted that it's difficult for him to understand; however, he seemed proud that he had found and was making an attempt. I'm not reading any Hindi language blogs so he's doing better than me.

When we leave India, Ashok and Kailash will be two of the people we will miss the most. Outside of the office, there aren't many people with whom we've spent more time and they're a big part of our pseudo-family while here. They're reliable, would do just about anything for us, help put things in perspective, and most importantly, are curious and ask questions. In fact, I think they're just as curious about us and (what I'm sure they see as) our ridiculous lifestye as we are of them.

The Warning Quote for Visitors

It's been over a year since my first and only post. I figured it was time to see if my editor would allow another addition. John finally relented.

India is ‘an assault on your senses’ and accurately describes initial reactions to the country. No amount of preparation can do it justice which is one more reason that we feel so fortunate that many family and friends have (or are planning) to venture here and experience this little adventure with us.

As we prepared for another round of visitors in June, Anne, John’s sister, and her husband were first up. While we knew they were excited to come, we also knew this was going to be quite the new experience for them.

With just over a week to see India, there isn’t a lot of time for ‘easing’ someone in and they were game. Their first day was some light shopping and sightseeing before we jumped all-in on day two with old Delhi in the peak of summer’s heat and humidity. Old Delhi is an amazing, jarring set of sights. We started our six hour day with Red Fort, a bicycle rickshaw ride, headed to Jama Masjid, then old small winding lanes full of crowds, Karim’s for ‘authentic’ Indian fare, more bicycle rickshaws, the Spice Market, and finally one last bicycle rickshaw ride.

This is when I wondered if India was more than they bargained for and the quote of the trip (and probably our whole experience) was born.

Going to the bathroom can become difficult and you have to be strategic. After a fantastic lunch at Karim’s where Anne’s face said it all as she looked at the food soaking in oil and only got better when she made the required bathroom break. I went first and found things to be just fine: basically a teeny tiny room (maybe four foot by three) with just enough room for the porcelain hole in the ground. There wasn’t even space for a sink; it was outside and commonly shared with the boys. It was clean so I didn’t even think anything of it. Anne went in after me and quickly returned; a little too quickly.

I probed “You didn’t go, did you?” Her response? “There isn’t any toilet paper!” My response? “It’s India…bitch” while stifling a giggle on the final word. She sheepishly looked at me and went back, knowing this was her best and cleanest chance for the day.
And so it became the quote of their trip. Once the quote was shared on the trek, it became the quote of that trip (even used by our guide Sanjeev). It was shared with a co-worker who was over from the states who spent time touring with her husband. Legend has it that it became the quote of that trip.

It’s now the first and standard response by either of us when we deal with some trivial adversity or something otherwise frustrating. Future visitors, get ready. It’s India, bitch.

The Morbid Fascination

Locals almost seem morbidly fascinated with the scorching temperatures here and tend to wear it with a badge of pride. When they see a sweating Westerner like myself whom they assume is uncomfortable beyond belief, the first question from their mouth is almost always, "How are you liking the weather?" Translated, this means, "I can tell by the sweat dripping profusely from your head that you are in no way enjoying this country; how are you possibly surviving this heat which is but a slight nuisance to me?"

But here's the thing, it's my second year. I know what it's like. I expect high temperatures. And I never thought I'd say this (and I'm sure it will be followed up with a complaining post later this summer), but it's not that bad. In fact, when I get the "weather" question, my stock response has become, "it's not as bad as last year." I've yet to feel the "hair dryer" effect when walking out of the office at night, though I'm not sure if it's just not that hot or my expectations have changed. Granted, I've only been back in country six days.  Apparently there were a couple hot days while we were gone (46 or 47 Celsius, which in American terms is 115 to 117; I knew it was hot when a colleague responded to my comment from an instant message where I mentioned I was looking forward to returning with the simple phrase, "John, it is hot here").

Sure, when we returned the peanut butter was melting in the cupboard, the hand soap had settled into segmented layers, and it took three days for the air conditioning to actually cool the apartment to a core temperature where it felt like it was working, but these things now seem like slight nuisances. The scorching temperatures have become a morbid fascination.

Again, I've been back six days; the morbid fascination will slowly and surely turn to incessant complaining.

Time for Home?

Note: I'm now back at home, having landed approximately 25 hours ago at O'Hare; however, since my house here is basically a glorified cabin in the woods (i.e., there are sheets on the furniture, we have water and electricity, but we have no internet or cable), posts over the next couple weeks may be a little dated from the time actually written to when posted. Either that or I'll turn into one of those hipster doofuses that blogs from Starbucks.

One of the final things I did in Gurgaon before heading to the airport was get a quick haircut. Even though I get my hair cut at a higher end place (yes, it's a day spa; I tried a cheaper place once and felt like I needed a shower afterward), the price is only Rs. 330 (about $7.50, or half of what I pay in the states). As I sat in the chair waiting to begin, the dude that was going to cut my hair was struggling to get the plug for the clippers to stay in the outlet. He tried a couple different adaptors but each time either the clipper wouldn’t work or it wouldn’t stay plugged to the wall. Very calmly he called one of the boys responsible for sweeping the f loor over and instructed him to simply hold the plug firm to the wall for the duration of the haircut. A task which, should be noted, was executed to perfection.

The fact this in no way surprised me and seemed a perfectly reasonable solution to the problem at hand made me think that maybe it was time for a little break from this ridiculous little Indian lifestyle.

It should be noted that I was happy with the haircut.

Exact Change

A couple weeks ago when I went through the toll booth on NH8, which is the primary road between Delhi and Gurgaon, I noticed a sign that read, "Please pay exact amount. Cars Rs. 21." I'm probably not the first person to think it's odd that you would set your toll price at an uneven number like that and have the gall to expect people to have exact change.

It would seem more appropriate to set the toll one rupee less and make it a nice even twenty rupee fee. If revenue is an issue, why not raise even more and make it Rs. 25? Alas, the toll commission (or maybe it's the National Highways Authority of India) decided on Rs. 21 and decided to invest in a sign expecting exact change. With this decision, you'd hope they also made a decision to stock their toll booths with one or two rupee coins. I grew up in western Illinois where there were two strange $0.95 tolls to get to the Chicago area on Interstate 88. I'm pretty sure those toll booths were well stocked with nickels.

Actually better organized than many toll booths in Chicago

On the way back from Delhi on Saturday afternoon, we were stuck in a rather long line at the toll. I was thinking to myself, "it's probably that 21 rupee deal that's forcing everyone to wait for change." Selfishly, we wanted to get through as quickly as possible as we had a staycation weekend planned at The Leela, which is located just on the Gurgaon side of the toll booth. And yes, I realize The Leela is fifteen minutes from my apartment, but we had a free room; you'd take advantage of this too. After waiting patiently in line for a few minutes, we approached the toll booth; finally, we were set to pay the toll and get on with our day. The bus in front of us went through the toll, advanced far enough for my trusty driver Kailash to pay the toll, and stopped. And it didn't advance.

We were trapped. Our weekend getaway blocked literally and figuratively by this large bus. A couple minutes later, the bus driver jumped out of the bus and walked back to the toll attendant. I immediately thought there was some sort of issue where the attendant had given incorrect change on the Rs. 64 toll (buses cost more than cars; exactly Rs. 41 more; again, pricing at its finest). A fairly heated discussion began. Sensing this wasn't going to get better without a little friendly intervention from an over-privileged Westerner, I rolled down the window and very politely asked what was going on. Hearing English, the toll attendant shrugged his shoulders and gave me one of those, "I don't really care that this is inconveniencing you; just deal with it" looks.

Kailash, always the protective one rolled his window down and asked a couple questions in what sounded like a fairly confrontational tone (though to be honest when you hear Hindi spoken it sounds confrontational more often than most languages, it certainly doesn't flow from the tongue like French). From what he was able to ascertain, it wasn't an issue of correct change, it was an issue of the bus driver's refusal to pay a little something on top (i.e., a bribe) to the toll attendant, which apparently is a fairly common occurrence for larger vehicles where, presumably, its not the driver's money being paid. But here's the thing, the bribe was a flat Rs. 10, thus making the total cost to pass for the bus to be Obviously, in the U.S. assessing an additional toll at a tollbooth would be pretty much the easiest way to get one's self fired and/or put in jail. Here, I've come to accept that these things happen, and there's not much I'm going to be able to do in the next eight months to change it.

What I can't understand is: why not make the bribe an additional rupee? It's win/win, Mr. Toll Booth Guy gets a 10% bump and traffic rolls through a little less less encumbered. Of course, this doesn't solve the issue of a bus driver refusing to pay the bribe, so it wouldn't have even mattered. Thankfully, with Kailash remaining somewhat involved and two increasingly agitated expats who may or may not have raised their voice a time or two, the bus pulled forward enough to let us pass. This entire episode likely took between seven to ten minutes, so it's not like we were stranded passengers on a tarmac for hours; however, do you have any idea how long seven minutes feels like when you you're waiting to pass through a toll you've already paid?

The IPA Quest Continues

I like beer. I'm not afraid to admit it. More specifically, I like India Pale Ale (IPA). I like it so much that I actually googled "India Pale Ale brewed in India" before moving here to see how dire my situation might look for this two year assignment. Not surprisingly, the results weren't good. In fact, I'm going on 15+ months without a successful order. Once, yes ONE time, I found one on a menu. Wine and beer are mere suggestions of things a bar or restaurant may have sold in the past or has every intention of selling in the future. It in no way means it's in stock in the present. Fifteen months, zero IPA*.

You can dress up a Kingfisher, but it's still a Kingfisher

Any time I see a new beer-themed bar or restaurant open, I hope the brewmasters of India have moved beyond the world of lagers and into the infinitely more tasty world of ales, which you would hope might increase my odds of actually being served an IPA in India. No luck as of yet; I still live in the land of lagers. A few days ago I noticed a repeated set of signs on the road near my apartment advertising Gurgaon's latest brewery, Stryker.

I've yet to visit Striker but tried to get a little additional information online about what they might offer Unfortunately, my only bigger pet peeve in India than the unavailability of IPA is the fact that googling a bar or restaurant in India rarely leads to a home page in the first page of results. Often, the home page doesn't make any page of results.

What is it about the Google search string that seems to disable finding a restaurants home page in India? Do these restaurants not have home pages? Do people find more value in whatever review is posted on sites like Zomato or Ask Laila Delhi than the home page? Why do I care?

Striker yielded exactly zero results indicating there was a restuarant or brewery in Gurgaon with that name.It's like the place doesn't exist. It's entirely possible it's just too new. Maybe it's not even open, but you'd think the repeated row of signs would have indicated it was opening soon if that were the case. Of course, maybe they don't even need a web page when their effective "repeated sign on the road" advertising strategy seems to be working such wonders on the IPA deficient. Who am I kidding, it's not like they're going to have IPA anyway.

On the other hand, if my two biggest pet peeves in India are the lack of IPA and restaurant web searches that don't yield home pages, I should probably consider myself lucky.

*Note, in the spirit of full disclosure, my friend Paul smuggled a couple bottles into the country protected with a sock in his luggage. This post in no way devalues his gift to me nor would I oppose if he or someone else were to repeat that feat; I simply want to successfully order an IPA in India.

Gloves? Yes, Gloves.

It's not hot in India, at least not yet. In fact, it's actually been quite pleasant. Temperatures the past week have ranged from the low 60's in the morning to right around 80 in the afternoon. That being said, it's obvious that it's going to warm up here in the not to distant future. Highs in the 90's are forecast by mid-next week.

With temperatures headed north, I was surprised when I saw a street vendor trying to peddle gloves while stopped at a red light in Delhi. It's not uncommon for vendors to walk between cars trying to sell something (ranging from flowers to best selling novels). I immediately made some snarky comment about this vendor not picking the right time of the year for this particular product and how he'd be more profitable selling model airplanes (and yes, you can even purchase a model 747 at any number of intersections in Delhi).

Not ten seconds later, a motorcycle pulled up and the driver and passenger immediately were engrossed with the gloves, trying on a number of different pair before ultimately deciding to purchase. By that point, a swarm of motorcycles had squeezed their way to the front of the light, which is what tends to happen here. Nearly none of them were wearing gloves; nearly all of them paid some level of attention to the glove salesman. Clearly, this vendor, whom I thought was crazy, had found the appropriate target market. He had also found a stoplight that was extraordinarily lengthy. We probably waited at the light for three to four minutes (though it seemed far longer than that). In those three to four minutes, the glove salesman had made a number of sales. He was like a beer vendor at a baseball game right before they cut off alcohol sales. Amazing.

I thought he was crazy for selling gloves in March in Delhi...

I'm not sure if the gloves are an odd fashion statement (unlikely), a way to keep one's hands out of the sun (also unlikely but based on the number of skin whitening products on the market not entirely impossible), or a way to protect or keep one's hands clean while riding a motorcycle through the streets of Delhi regardless the temperature (probably the likely reason). What I do know is that very few motorcyclists were wearing gloves when they pulled up to the red light and that by the time the light turned green, a few of them sped away with nice new gloves to cover their hands from the elements.

...but was once again to be proven a little dense.

The Rajasthani Guard

While we've been busy furniture shopping, I decided I needed a "John" item as well. The result? The four foot Rajasthani guard pictured below. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure he's from Rajasthan. However, since I'm fairly ignorant and have always enjoyed my time in Rajasthan, I'm making the blanket assumption that he's Rajasthani.

Regardless of where he's from, the real issue, according to the wife, is that this proud statue has no name. I've heard suggestions, ranging from "Rajji" which has no meaning and makes him sound like a cartoon character to "Rana Sahib" which is a princely title from his supposed region. You can probably tell which one I like better.

That being said, if you have a suggestion for a name, leave a comment. Your reward? Potentially helping educate me, potentially helping make me laugh.

It's in your hands.

Not So Super Sunday

In India the Super Bowl apparently gets broadcast on a station called the "Asian Sports Network". Unfortunately, this isn't one of 8 sports stationed offered by my satellite provider, Tata Sky. Tata is a little of like the GE of India; they own everything from Tata Motors to one of the larger BPO consultancies to my cable provider to the Himalayan bottled water that I prefer (I like it because they pronounce it "him-AH-lee-yen" rather than "him-a-LAY-en"). Tata owns all of this, yet my basic package didn't show one of the most watched annual sporting events in the world. Sorry, Roger Goodell, I guess it goes to show exactly how much American football means outside the 50 states. Or it's entirely possible that I just have a cheap satellite package.

Regardless, I knew this going in and had planned to record the game on Slingbox and watch it on about a two hour delay on Monday morning. Unfortunately, the video decided to stop working in Slingbox. It's very odd, I'm still able to hear the audio and see the cable system interface to record and select shows, I'm not able to see any of the shows when selected. Since my trusty troubleshooter (aka, Dad) who hosts the Slingbox is busy skiing in Colorado, I'm pretty much out of luck until the problem either fixes itself or he gets back from skiing. Knowing that it wouldn't be possible to steer clear of the internet or people that would update me on the game's conclusion (our friend and fellow expat Kristin is a big enough Packers fan that she actually exhausted her annual home leave to go home and host a Super Bowl party; something tells me she probably would have let me know who won), I decided to listen live to the audio of the fourth quarter through the Slingbox. I'm not much a fan of Joe Buck. And that's when I have a picture to accompany his obvious observations. It's much, much worse when you're listening to him and staring into a black screen.

From all accounts, it was a close and entertaining game. If I was a big enough fan of one team or the other to change my profile pic to a player from a team, I would have been hugely disappointed and this blog post would have been a sharply worded open letter to the fine people at Slingbox. As it turns out, I simply ended up being one of the billions that didn't watch the game.

Blown Fuse

Space heaters, apparently, take a lot of electricity. So much that if you plug two space heaters in at once in my master bedroom, it blows a fuse. I know this. I also know that the fuse box is located in the servant's quarters which is the current residence of our cook, Yashoda. Yet, for some reason I decided to turn two on tonight before sitting down to read a book before going to bed. I'm not sure why I did this, it's not even that cold, maybe I just wanted the stereo effect of warm air being sent my way from two different directions. We've blown fuses in the past and I typically send Lindsay to knock on her door to politely wake her up to reset the fuse box (I mean, I didn't think she'd want me knocking on her door after 11pm at night). After about the third time, Yashoda told Lindsay, "Don't knock on my door, just SMS me." She's a smart lady.

We could punish ourselves and go without electricity until morning; unfortunately, without electricity, the geyser in the bathroom can't heat the water, so the punishment is more than just a few minutes without lights and a night without a space heater. It's also a cold shower.

Don't get me wrong, even me, a completely self-absorbed expat that does very little for himself in the departments of cooking, cleaning, laundry, food purchasing, and transporting, feels more than a slight twinge of guilt when "forced" to wake up someone that helps in so many of those departments.

I get it. I'm a jerk.

The Paper Towel Theory

I'm just going to come out and say it. American paper products are superior to Indian paper products.

Prior to leaving for India we made a stop at Costco and purchased a cache of paper towels, toilet paper, and Kleenex. We had no idea if the supply would last the entire two years but bought an amount that was excessive yet didn't have people looking at us like we were stocking up to tee-pee our neighbors. While the Kleenex and toilet paper are going strong (the reality is that the toilet paper isn't all that bad so we still have quite the supply of Charmin for any guests headed this direction), we recently opened up the last roll of Bounty paper towels. This may become an issue.

I believe in this American superiority for all three varieties of products mentioned above; however, it's especially true when it comes to paper towels. The reason? Bounty paper towels actually, you know, absorb.

I know what you're probably thinking, "John, you have a cook. What could you possibly need a paper towel for? You haven't prepared a full meal in nearly a year and probably haven't cleaned a kitchen in over four" or "John, this is all part of the deal, not everything is available overseas, it's time to man up and recognize this." I guarantee you wouldn't be thinking the same thing if you ever tried to clean up a spill with an Indian paper towel. You'd feel some semblance of sympathy for me. You would.

Not surprisingly, I have a completely unfounded theory on why such a difference exists. My theory is that there's a direct correlation between the type of tree used to make the paper product and its softness and ability to absorb. Or it could just be that Americans are a bunch of wusses that require all kinds of additional crap in their paper products to make them more soft and luxurious. I'd argue that that degree of luxury also adds a degree or two of function. This likely makes me sound like an ignorant fool, but I'm used to that. As a disclaimer, I'm in no way a student of paper science (which believe it or not is an actual thing, it was offered at my university).

Regardless, I'm down to my last roll of American paper towels, which puts me a week or two away from having to slosh liquids around under the tough, non-absorbant fibers of an Indian paper towel any time I spill (which for some unknown reason happens a lot more here than at home).

The "No Heat Chill" Factor

Note: All temperatures in this post are in Fahrenheit. I realize I should learn to convert but can only do that when it's at or near freezing or blazing hot in India (the former because I've been to school where, even in America, they teach you that zero equals thirty-two, the latter because it makes me sound like I know what I'm talking about with co-workers in the summer). Also, I wrote a little about this a couple weeks ago; obviously it's not getting better.

Having lived my entire life in a climate where it can go weeks without getting above freezing, I shouldn't be cold in India. I see posts on Facebook from friends complaining about below freezing temperatures and snow storms. They talk about the wind chill factor to give some idea on how cold it really feels because as we all know 6 sounds colder than 16. The same phenomenon occurs here, but instead of the "wind chill" factor we have the "no heat chill " factor. I'm not exactly sure how to calculate this completely fabricated concept, but my best estimate would cut an additional twenty to thirty degrees from the thermometer.

I get the irony of being the same person that once complained of the "hair dryer effect" when walking outside a building in the summer now being chilled to the bone by the mere thought of a slight wind when walking home on a 50 degree evening. I expect no sympathy from those in cold weather places, and I completely understand the sentiment they'll have upon reading this: I'm a weather wuss. To put things in perspective, as I type this, I'm bundled up in fleece, drinking coffee, and utilizing the heat from my laptop to keep myself warm. Go ahead, make fun of me. I would do the same. It's 50 degrees.

Part of my warmth issue stems from the fact I refuse to admit it's cold. Basically, I treat every 50 degree day here like the first 50 degree day of the year in Chicago. If you live in a cold weather place, you know what this means, you under dress just a bit because "it's now warm" (note, I'm not one of those people on the first "warm" day that feels the need to pull out shorts). Friday night we went to a party that we knew was going to partially be outside on a patio. I wore a sweater, a light jacket, sat next to an open fire pit, and had a couple warm German gluhweins. I was still cold. Having imported a down jacket for a trek next summer, I found myself wishing I had broken it out for the evening.

One morning this week it was 50 degrees in my adopted home of Gurgaon while it was 13 degrees in my actual home of Lake Zurich, IL. I'd be crazy to say that I prefer the Chicagoland winters over anything experienced here, in fact, I would gladly take 50 degree mornings in Chicago in December. However, as you've probably gathered, Delhi isn't like Chicago. The reason? This time, at least, it's the lack of central heat.

When here during the winter of 2004-2005 I was admittedly confused by the people huddled in the streets, wrapped in blankets, braving the winter chill dressed in their woolens. I was dressed in a plain button down dress shirt, cracking jokes about how they couldn't handle the cold. Of course, I was coming from the comfort of a centrally heated hotel while they, in all likelihood, were not. I now (sort of) understand their plight. Other than my laptop, the primary source of heat in our apartment is space heaters that we were smart enough to buy from our neighbors that moved back to Holland. While we could have bought them in an actual store, I have a feeling that trying to buy space heaters in the winter here is a little like buying a snow shovel in Chicago after a huge winter storm; in other words, think ahead because supply is probably an issue. Regardless, we're lucky enough to have two.

Now that we have the heaters, I don't actually use them. It's one of those things where I worry that we'll use them, get used to the warmth, it will get colder (you know, like 40 degrees), and I will once again be cold. And yes, I realize how ridiculous this sounds.

Stay warm, Chicago, and I'll try and do the same. It's more difficult than you'd think.

The Banking Rules

For a high context culture, India certainly has a lot of rules when it comes to writing, cashing, and depositing bank checks. Here's a quick rundown of my "favorites":

Rule #1 - The "payable to" name must be EXACTLY the same as the name on the bank account.
Lindsay received a check that was payable to "Lindsay Luth". Unfortunately, the name on her account reads "Lindsay C. Luth". While it's nice to know they're concerned about fraudulent acts like people trying to deposit checks that don't belong to them, I've got to guess that Lindsay's name is fairly unique at our Indian bank. I'd also have to guess that the the risk of Lindsay Luth defrauding Lindsay C. Luth is a risk worth taking.

Rule #2 - Don't notate the number of paise (100 paise = 1 rupee) as a fraction of 100 when writing out the amount payable.
In the U.S. when writing a check (for those that still write checks), you still have to write out the words for the number of dollars but have the luxury of noting the number of cents as a fraction. In other words, if your check is for $5.43, you would write, "Five and 43/100". In India, if you write a check for Rs. 5.43 (which you likely never would because it's like twelve cents), you need to write "Five Rupees and Forty-Three Paise". I just found this one out because Airtel, my cell phone company, decided they wouldn't accept my check and my cell phone bill went unpaid. Two things I found odd about how they handled the situation, (1) I had been doing this for months without any issues and (2) the form letter they included with the returned check had a closing salutation from the Chief Customer Care Officer that was unsigned but included the clause, "Please note that this is a computer-generated letter and does not require a signature." Nice to know they could automate that but still require me to write out the stupid number of paise on my check.

Special note on Rule #2: I'm not totally convinced this is really the case. I find it odd that it got denied just this one time. Of course, maybe I should just round up to the next rupee and save myself the trouble. I mean, seriously, I write 3 checks a month, so at worst we're talking $0.87 TOTAL over the next 13 months of my assignment. I'll stop talking now.

Rule #3 - When you go to the ATM to deposit a check, you don't actually use the ATM.
When you deposit a check in the U.S., it's basically the exact opposite of taking cash out of an ATM. You enter in the amount of the check and dutifully insert it into the machine. In India, they just have a drop box. It's a locked box that is in no way hooked to the ATM. You fill out a deposit slip or envelope, insert your check, and just hope it ends up at the bank. I've yet to have an issue with this, but it's still a bit of a leap of faith each time you visit the ATM drop box. The first time I used the drop box, I checked with about four different people at the office to make sure that was REALLY the process.

Rule #4 - Endorsing checks is not necessary when depositing a check at the ATM drop box
Once you get comfortable with the whole drop box concept, the next step is getting comfortable with the fact that the check you're depositing into a locked box with no guarantee it will be deposited has not been signed by you. The concept of endorsing doesn't exist, at least based on what I've been told. There's just something a little odd about there not being physical proof on the check was ever in my possession. When in the U.S., I typically will add a "For Deposit Only" line under my endorsement. Whether or not that actually makes a difference, I couldn't tell you. What I can tell you is that I feel more comfortable writing that three word statement on the back of my check.

At the end of the day, none of these things is really a big deal. However, it is a good example of how something you'd expect to be fairly simple and straightforward can cause a little bit of angst, uneasiness, and (what you would think would be) unnecessary minor stress when you move to a strange exotic land.

On a final note, I wanted to wish my big sister Anne a very happy __th birthday today. I was going to send a check, but as you can tell from the post, Anne, it's a little more complicated than one would hope. That, and I'm not sure you'd have much use for those rupees in Kansas. Hope you have a great day!

Anne and I when home during my October homestay (you know, when she was a year younger)

The Freezing Point

At work yesterday, someone told me the upcoming weather in Delhi included low temperatures that dipped below freezing. Skeptical, I decided to check the ten day forecast. Thankfully, he was wrong (at least according to the 10-day forecast). The lowest listed temperature was 55 degrees Fahrenheit, well above the magical mark.

The balmy temperatures not withstanding (it's still typically around 80 here during the days), his comment sparked a little curiousity. Has it ever snowed in Delhi or Gurgaon? What would happen if it did? Based on short research, the closest thing I could find was a morning frost in 2006, which was the first in 70 years.

As a result of this event, weight issues on the power lines caused power cuts across the city and schools were shut down for three days. Slightly more dramatic than the first unexpected frost in Illinois, where the largest victim might be the uncovered flowers in my Mom's garden. Without central heat, it makes a little more sense why such drastic measures are necessary. Based on my short winter in the apartment last year (after living in a hotel with central heat for much of January), I had to admit that 50 degrees in Delhi feels a lot different than 50 degrees in Chicago. While this winter I still probably won't break out the "woolens" quite as regularly as the locals, there will be far fewer sarcastic comments about the thick sweaters and stocking caps in 50 degree weather.

As far as snow goes in Delhi, I'm still not sure it's ever happened. If it does, the two things I'd want to witness would be (1) the locals initial reaction, many of which have probably never seen the white stuff and (2) the traffic.

To stereotype, drivers in the northern U.S. (take me, for instance) and especially those living in mountainous regions consider themselves expert drivers in the snow; whereas, they consider drivers in the warmer southern states to be far inferior when driving in snow and ice based on their exposure to the elements (I'm sure southerners question northerners decision to live in a climate where it's even an issue). Regardless, I can't imagine people that have never seen snow would fare much better than those stereotyped southerners.

Of course, I'm sure the Indian reaction would be much the same: why develop an unneeded skill?

My First Hindi Movie: 3 Idiots

Yesterday I finally took it upon myself to watch an entire Hindi movie, which was long overdue. Seeing as how my Hindi vocabulary is somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty words, this first Hindi movie was viewed from the comfort of my own apartment with the help of subtitles rather than the true Indian movie experience of going to the theatre.

Never one to shy away from a movie from the always hilarious college comedy genre, especially one with "idiots" in the title, 3 Idiots seemed like the right first movie for someone with my refined taste. It was "the" movie when we arrived in January. At the time people were shocked that I hadn't seen it before I gently reminded them of the language barrier and that I'd wait for the DVD. Well, I was in a movie shop a couple weeks ago (an actual one, not the pirated one at Super Mart I) and finally saw the film on DVD. It was time.

Like most Hindi you hear spoken here, the characters readily slipped between Hindi and English. While still not enough English to entirely understand what was going on without the trusty subtitles, I gave the movie points for accuracy. With the help of those subtitles, I found myself enjoying the movie. While it wasn't the Indian-Old School that I was expecting based on co-workers descriptions, I must admit it kept me interested. I was surprised that the movie made light of the Indian education system and its reputation for learning for the sake of what will be on the test and memorization rather than learning for the sake of learning. Culturally, it presents a progressive view of Indian culture where people should follow their passions in life rather than what their parents tell them. Again, messages that I agree with, but not what I expected from a comedy. At least not a comedy I was hoping came from the same vein as Old School or Animal House.

There were a couple of Bollywood-style numbers, which seemed to have just been inserted because that's what they do with movies here. It was also longer than expected. It could have easily been wrapped in a 90 minute movie but went one at least an hour longer. It wasn't "too" long, just long, which is (again) kind of what they do with movies here. I think it kept my interest based on the settings. Primarily set in Delhi with some absolutely stunning scenery from Ladakh and Manali. It presented an Indian that I was either familiar with or have plans to become familiar with over the next year.

While I wasn't able to finish it in one sitting (we went to friends' apartment last night to gather for the opening ceremony of the Commonwealth Games), I found myself looking forward to getting home to finish up the final 45 minutes, which, I think is an indication that I actually enjoyed the movie.

Next up in the Hindi film hopper, My Name is Khan, which I've heard described as Shah Rukh Khan's post-9/11 version of Forrest Gump. With a hook like that, how can I not watch?

Cricket Explained?

Having been here for over eight months, I decided it was finally time to try and understand cricket. Coincidentally, Friday marked the beginning of the Champions League which continues cricket's complete copy of the European soccer model (i.e., India has a "Premiere League" for club teams and now a Champion's League much like the UEFA event). The brand of cricket played in the Champions League (or CLT20) is 20/20, which is the made for TV version (i.e., a match last a couple hours and not five days). I'm happy to report that I might just understand how the game is played (though the terminology I use through the rest of this post is probably less than official).

In 20/20, each team gets to bat for 20 overs. Each over contains 6 balls which means each team gets 120 attempts to hit. Each team has around 10 people that bat. A person bats until they're considered out. So it's possible (though probably unlikely) that only one person could bat for the entire game. A batsmen can be called out in one of three ways, (1) they hit a ball that is directly caught by a fielder (like a fly-out in baseball), (2) the bowler (pitcher) gets the ball past them and a wicket (the building blocks set behind the batter) gets knocked over, or (3) after making contact and starting to run, if the batter is caught between the two lines they must run between to score runs. If all batters are out before the 20 overs are complete, the team is finished batting.

The scoring is fairly simple. When the batter makes contact, he runs back and forth between a couple lines making sure to be behind a line when the ball gets returned. Most hits that stay in the park result in either one or two runs. If the ball leaves the field of play on the ground, it's considered four runs. If the ball leaves the field of play without touching the ground, it's six runs.

There's a coin flip and the team that wins the flip typically elects to bat second so they know exactly what they need to do to win. The first team bats for their 20 overs (or until everyone is out) then the second team does the same. The team with the most runs wins. Pretty simple.

If you see a score for a team that reads 169-3, it means that a team scored 169 runs and that three of their players were out. So even if one team has 169-3 and one has 182-5, the team with 185 wins even though they had more players out. If one player scores 100 runs before making an out, it's called a century and is a big deal.

Now that I've mastered 20/20 cricket (or at least enough that I think I know what's going on; I could be completely wrong), here's a few random observations from my first extended viewing experience:

• Commercials tend to happen at random times and happen quite frequently. Many commercials are just promotions for the CLT20.
• The best commerical is for Kingfisher Premium Drinking Water. The commercial shows a number of players from various teams and ends with the slogan, "Divided by teams, united by Kingfisher." Effective marketing made even more so because Dr. Vijay Mallya, the Indian Richard Branson, is basically able to use his airline and drinking water to indirectly market his beer. Genius.
• Even the Indian teams have cheerleaders that resemble NBA cheerleaders, which is surprising considering the conservative nature of the culture. I guess what makes it appropriate is that there appears to be very few Indian cheerleaders.
• I've decided that I am a Mumbai Indians fan. When else in life will I have the opportunity to root for a team called the Indians and not have to justify the social implications of the team name?
• The Indians best player is Sachin Tendulkar. From what I can gather, he's kind of a big deal and has both the stats of a steroid-aided Alex Rodriguez and the class and integrity of Derek Jeter. Earlier this year he recorded cricket's first double century.

I have no idea how much I really understand and I could easily be wrong on a lot of this stuff; however, even with my understanding as it stands right now, I can appreciate where the game might be more exciting than the ground-ball home run derby I previously understood it to be.

Expats and Locals

Here's a link to a blog I follow with an interesting post that attempts to answer the question (as definitively as I've seen and much better than I could have answered), "Why don't expats hang out more with locals?"

http://delhibound.blogspot.com/2010/08/friendships-expat-and-locals.html

If you're an expat or a local, I highly recommend checking out the link and sharing your thoughts.

Similar to what she mentions, I've been involved in more than a handful of conversations that start with the question, "So how do you find India?" or where I ask, "What part of India are you from?" The reality (or probably more my opinion than reality) is that if you don't have something in common besides geographically being in the same spot, there's likely not a meaningful and lasting friendship on the horizon.

Open Letter to My Sisters

Dear Anne and Sarah,

Recently at work a colleague brought to my attention a festival named Rakhi. The thing that caught my attention the most about this festival, in this colleague's words were, that it was basically a day when for sisters and brothers. More specifically, it was a day when sisters pray for their brother's long life and show their love and affection for their brothers by tying a bracelet of threads on their brother's wrist.

Imagine that! A festival specifically for sisters to honor their brothers! I thought to myself, what a GREAT idea!

Before doing some additional research on the topic, I started thinking through the logistics of how I could import Rakhi back to the states, what day it should be, and whether it should work the exact same way (primarily symbolic) or if we needed to work some sort of gift giving toward the brother in addition to the bracelet.

Unfortunately, this colleague had failed to point out that there is gift giving associated with the festival. However, it's actually the brother that gives the gift and promises to care for their sisters for a long life, thus shattering my lifelong dream of importing a scarcely known actual celebration where sisters honor their brothers. I mean, the actual meaning of the festival is noble and all, it's just not the same thing.

Don't worry though, I'll keep my ears open in the event there are other festivals that might qualify.

Love,
John

Note to readers that aren't my sister: For actual information on the true meaning behind the festival of Rakhi (also known as Rasksha Bandhan) that took place yesterday, check out this link.