Jaded

It's only been three weeks, but the noise, congestion, poverty, etc. no longer weigh on me. Sure it's frustrating bumping along slowly on the commute home from work, or being stared at when I walkdown the street. Yet at this point, it's something that I hardly notice or take into account in my every day actions.

For instance, I spent some time this afternoon walking down the coastal stretch in Bandra (the area I live in), and didn't really think about the dilapidated looking buildings or low ceiling slum homes I passed by on my way to the cement walkway that stretches the western edge of Bandra. It is hardly what you can call a "beautiful or pleasant" walk in terms of the scenery as at times I had to maneuver around a couple friendly, albeit mud soaked feral dogs, or avoid the group of youngsters gazing at me in amazement as if I were the next coming of Gandhi or Tendulkar (famous cricketer here), all the while I gaze out as waves that roll into the small cove littered with a mix of rusty slum roofs, and small heaps of trash. There is no "beach" to speak of, and the walkway is just a raised area above the sea wall of rocks. There are a few, small, various colored boats that are moored just off the cove area. No one sits in them, and I'm not sure anyone would want to swim out to hop in one. So, in true Indian style, the purpose they serve is a little hard to determine.

For a minute or two I stood staring out at the water and up the coastline switching between my perceptions as a westerner and as someone slowly acclimating to life in India. It was like sitting in the optometrists chair as the doctor flips between lenses asking me to decide if lens one or two provided a better description of what lay before me. If this were a true medical exam my optometrist might be a bit frustrated at my lack of a clear answer, but I can say I'm less taken aback by what I observe, and continually finding a rhythm of dealing with the differences.


Yet, a stroll is a stroll, and the purpose was to get a better sense of what's around me as I moved into my new apartment about a week ago. My reference to being jaded is less about my growing numbness to the somewhat challenging surroundings, and more about my lifestyle. Needless to say I live quite well with a two bedroom, two bathroom apartment. Do I need all this space? Definitely not. Is it necessary that I have a maid/cook, and a driver to take me to work everyday? Probably not. Although, as you can imagine, it's quite nice.

So yes, I'm jaded in that I look around and see poverty staring right back at me on every street corner yet live a life above most everyone else. My initial thought was to forgo the perks that most expats, and for that matter just about all fairly well off Indians, are privy to. However, the comforts and ease of living that these provide make life more manageable rather than struggling to adjust to a solo life in the disorganization and mayhem of Mumbai.

Ok, not the best reasoning, but the good news is I'm not having too much difficulty settling in. To point out the "disorganization", and general inefficiency that you might hear about India, I spent the majority of my Saturday (specifically from about 10 a.m. - 7 p.m.) watching a whole crew of about 10 guys move out my old furniture, and put in the new goods. Not only that, but this was supposed to happen a week ago, and for some unforetold reason it was delayed a week. The point to highlight is that the sense of time is obviously different, but the abundance of human capital is overly apparent. The convergence of the two make everything overwhelming slow moving. I've been in the process of opening a local bank account for about two weeks now. The answer to when everything will be approved and ready is still unclear, but it's just another example.

I can't fault the Indians for the willingness of its people to work. It explains why we have seven guys at our office that all simultaneously fill the role as copy maker, janitor, cafeteria cook, and general maintenance. That's at least what it looks like at first sight. However, the nuances of the "office boys" relationships can only be described as a modern age caste. At the top, there seems to be one deputy general task master, who I've never seen smile. I'm convinced his prestige and standing come with his prowess in upper lip hair development; very strong. I'm unclear what he actually does around the office, but there's no need to question.

Then there are a couple of his henchmen that sit right behind me sharing a computer. They will fetch any print out or quickly make a copy. They seem to lie at the same level or just below the guy I call the maitre'd. This is mostly because he wears a suit vest and often bustles from the reception room to office area carrying tea. He also seems to run the kitchen, where, yes, they serve breakfast and lunch for free. I wouldn't say the food is exquisite, but it works by my standards as good Indian food.

The base of the system are the janitor types, who are constantly sweeping, cleaning, and picking up what looks like nothing most of the time. Again, I can't fault them as they need to keep a job, and looking busy certainly helps. It's no secret that the "office boys" face hardships that I can't pretend to comprehend. There's an especially unfortunate looking young guy who's conspicuous lack of communication and uneasiness greeting or even looking normal employees in the eye arouses the greatest sense of empathy. It's this type of person that forces me to feel jaded to the point of hypocritical in myself. It makes me realize that my sense of altruism is just that; a perception rather than reality. This is why its difficult to justify for living so well. Yet, I fall into the Indian attitude of living life on a personal level. I'm told, and in instances like these am embarrassed to say that I agree, that the issues around poverty and inequality are too great to change.

Aside from the somewhat drab profile of many Indian workers, everything has been going well. I'm enjoying figuring out the city, learning to live a new lifestyle, and meeting new people. The highlights so far waver between several experiences. Of note are, going out for the company party in which several people bestowed it on themselves to teach me proper Indian drinking etiquette. This really just means drinking as much whiskey as possible and dancing like an idiot in front of everyone (the former I attempted, the later not so much especially being the lone white man in the office). I've met people out of work from all over: Europeans, Americans, Indians, Indian-Americans, Indians who went to the U.S. to study and then come home. So going to dinner and out to bars/clubs with them has been fun.

All in all, it's a bit of a challenge living completely on my own, and forces me to be more proactive in reaching out. However, this "growing-up" thing isn't treating me too bad so far. I've met great people, and can at least thank my maid/cook Sandra for making me some great meals.

A Week's Glimpse

I'd first like to thank everyone for their concern after the recent bomb blasts in the city. I'm perfectly fine, and staying well away from where everything occurred. That being said, it's quite startling how quickly the city recovered from the incident. It's almost as if nothing even happened, and sadly because it is nothing new. The ethnic and cultural diversity that makes the country so unique, also lead to these traumatic events, especially in the hub of cultural conflict that is Mumbai.

The proceeding descriptions of my experience so far are mostly limited to the residential pseudo-suburb that I'm staying in called Bandra. That being said, I think it gives me a glimpse, albeit on a smaller scale, of what the city is all about. For starters, the commotion here is similar to what I've seen driving to work everyday, and maybe even more so as the streets are more compact and the rickshaws arent allowed to venture downtown.

The appeal of the city so far is being able to amble along the streets that wind and connect with little semblance of order or planning. I can turn a corner and be facing a modern mall area with huge posters begging the passing clientele to check out the "50% off sale". Next door might be a small stationery store with no semblance of what's sold inside other than some files and folders posing in the window. Just 100 yards away is my favorite entrepreneurial experiment in which a withered old couple, beaming with toothless smiles, stand behind what looks like a hardware store counter or maybe more like a pawnshop window, attempting to sell passersby disco balls and stereo speakers. There's no rhyme or reason to the products they offer or even more astounding the apparent joy they experience by selling them.

Down the lane and a slight curve up hill is the outdoor produce market, jammed with local groceries like New York bodegas. Crammed somewhere in there is the local PVC pipe vendor, doing more smoking and gabbing with his pals than selling plastic piping. Take a left and head more downhill there is an old guy, supporting his weight with a crutch, plugging away on his pipe and staring at no one, but taking in everything. Some local teenagers sit at the western pizza parlor, sharing furtive, hormone induced, glances with each other as they learn to slowly embrace the fact boys and girls can co-exist.

Aside from walking around, most of my day to day experience so far are in taxis, eating in small restaurants, or buying some groceries. In all of these the apparent missing element is women. There is no struggling student busing tables to make ends meet, or the wife of the grocer helping to bag your goods. Not even the chefs I've seen are women, let alone the cabbies. The place to find women is on the streets, and especially the large vegetable market that I pass by on my way to work. They diligently chop away at large hordes of produce that litter the streets, and are simply dumped in piles on the roadside. They seem to have a powerful sway over most traffic, as taxis and trucks stop and sway to allow a sari clad elderly lady to cross the street with a basketful of veggies propped on her head. So I see them on the street, shopping or idling or just going about their day. The most recognizable thing is that while many women or girls wear a sari or salwar kameez, no two are exactly the same design or color. It makes for a wonderful contrast when looking at some of these drab buildings.

The city really grows on me at night. The darkness veils the unappealing aspects, and as lights pop up the true nature of the city starts to shine. It helps that the temperature cools, and the ever present rains of the monsoon season seem to subside during the night. It's also harder for me to stand out and incur staring eyes as I walks down the street. During the night I also find it easier to succumb to the notion of letting India take over, forgetting my preconceptions and inhibitions. It's like a trust fall at summer camp where you ensure the hands behind you will impede the inevitable disaster. Except now, I'm relying on the hands of millions to catch me, and sweep me along the congestion, noise, senses and smells that are so unfamiliar. The other night I was meandering along in a rickshaw when, without noticing, we were stuck in a traffic jam which resembled one of those metal puzzles in which you need to twist and turn to remove the ring from a chain that connects two horseshoes. I could feel the frustration setting in, when I remembered to let go. I fell back into a million pairs hands and just kept moving along. Keeping this in mind has definitely helped in my transition.

Another great experience was going to lunch with some colleagues, and eating my first meal with my hands. By that I mean my right hand, as you would never consider eating with your left. In all honestly I didn't expect this to happen right away, but noticed my colleagues doing it, so decided to follow suit. In some ways it's a bit unnerving, but enjoyable all the same. It's not some dainty procedure as if you're sipping from a tea cup, grasping the handle with thumb and fore finger and avoiding any further contact by poking a pinky finger out. No, you get all digits involved, picking, ripping, dipping, and mixing all in the same. I think I passed the test, as no one said anything, but like learning to use chop sticks for the first time, it's a skill I can definitely improve.

What I've learned about India is that it is real. Real in the sense that it's not the lofty images of Buddhist temples and elephant headed gods being worshipped by beautiful shawl clad women gazing at you with mysterious dark eyes while the chubby raj's mustache bristles in tune to the upbeat music. The taj mahal and palaces of rajhistan exist, but not in the everyday lives of the people in the city. My everyday life meshes with them, so in that sense I'm learning to fall in line. When, like on friday night Im cruising down the highway, again in the small three wheeled space capsule called a rickshaw, I know to take it all in stride as a huge truck rushes by leaving us shaking in it's wake as if we were a canoe being pushed aside by a cruise liner. The road is then left empty for us as we buzz along and eventually I arrive home safe and sound. The chaos works, and accepting it makes life easier and more enjoyable.

The Madness of Mumbai

I made it safe and sound to Mumbai on Friday night. My experience after that was nothing close to "safe and sound". I'm perfectly healthy and uninjured, but as someone mentioned to me before, it's a constant attack on all your senses. Cars scream by rickshaws (also known as tuk-tuks in other s.e. Asian countries) that whizz by trucks who happen to barely miss the two old ladies wrapped in saris sitting on the corner of the guard rail for the on ramp to the highway. No, I'm not joking, I think I've witnessed more close encounters on my 15/20 min commute by cab to work everyday than I've ever seen in my life. Amongst the 30 or so officially recognize dialects, and what I'm told is a out 200 actual ones, I'm pretty convinced the fine push of a steering wheel, squeeze of a rickshaws horn, and ring of a bicycle bell all fall within the category of a language. New York really has nothing on the continual street noise here.

The funny thing, I do feel safe. Right from the start I decided to just assume the attitude of the mayhem being normal, and have quickly become immune to cars nearly driving over my toes or knocking me over. I think the "out of sight out of mind" rule doesn't apply here, but it's more of a "not in your control, not your problem" attitude. It's definitely every one looking out for number one in the commotion of daily life.

I read about modernizing cities and emerging economies, but what I'm sensing is that many assume a romantisized view of what that means, and take the poverty as something to put in the back of their minds. I know I do it too, but being here makes you realize the nature of your normal citizen. I guess i forgot a bit about what china was like, but i think its certainly more apparent here in india. For instance, the buildings here are certainly not clean, minus corporate offices, by western standards. As I looked around for apartments over the weekend, I tried to put my perception of cleanliness aside when viewing the exterior of what would possibly be my home for the next year. I know my dad would spend every weekend for a good six months trying to wipe away the grime that builds up from the humidity, monsoon, then heat. It's a good thing yard work isn't mandatory anymore. Yet, in reality it doesn't bother me that much. Not too sound like a cliche real estate agent, but it brings about a certain charm the way people accept a scrubby exterior as a community. Hey, if it doesn't bother them I can't let something like that get to me.

This rambling is making my experience sound less than optimal, which is not what I'm trying to portray. The challenge will be to adjust, and meeting people is key. I met a German guy on saturday who's lived in the city for about a year. It was helpful to get his perspective on everything, and certainly going out late with some of his Indian friends settled some anxieties. What has also been nice is the food. I understand the British desire to rule this land of spices, as everything, even the office cafeteria, tastes great. I'm probably jaded in my opinions at this point, but I'm about to head out now and try some new dishes.

I haven't taken many pictures yet, but I'll leave you with the image of me sitting in the back of a local cab, which means no A/C, with most likely a rusty fender and designed for some reason to be about 3/4 the size of a normal car (probably because most are from the 1960s). My driver is weaving around every sort of vehicle, person and the occasional holy cow, as I take in a couple puffs of tar black exhaust belching from the truck beside us. I'm clearly the only white guy in thet congestion in which everything is viewable due to the transparent nature of car windows here, and because I'm wearing a button-down work shirt that shines like new compared to most peoples clothes. We head off a ramp twisting around the bay, and pass by, you guessed it, a slum next to the water, right before we duck into the more residential alcove where I'm currently staying.

So yes, sensory overload.

A Week in Singapore

I spent the last week partaking in a career workshop during the day, and enjoying my time with the other people in my program at night. The workshop was somewhat helpful in revealing personality characteristics and career goals, but I think it's important to remember that I still need to apply myself at work otherwise defining my goals will mean nothing.

Obviously the best part was interacting with everyone in the group, touring the city, and general rabble rousing when the time called for it. One night I found myself sitting at a low wooden table in the middle of a pedestrian street in Singapore's "Chinatown" surrounded by a mix of cultures represented by the people, food, and general scenery. In the midst of a conversation I suddenly realized the uniqueness of my situation. For starters, I was in Singapore; the confluence of Easter and Western cultural rivers. Walking into Chinatown I could sense the Asian influences permeating through the streets. There was a hint of sizzling spiced meat along with the occasional, if somewhat off putting, stench of sweat and refuse that doesn't exactly make me cringe, but reminds me that the cookie-cutter, anti-microbial hygienic obsession in the West isn't all that normal. The red lanterns draping across the street put up a face of being Chinese, but the tautness of the wire betrays this Chinese appearance to reveal an attention to detail and order only found in Singapore.

This scene set the stage for what I often fail to recognize as an overwhelming blend of cultures and people in my program. It's at moments like this that I appreciate the situation I am in, and what I can learn from everyone else. At the table were: Jin and Feifan (two girls from China), Prashant (India), Kazuaki (Japan), Brendan Kilpatrick and Sean (Ireland), Nacho (Spain), and Brandon (U.S.). The collection of our various backgrounds in that particular setting eating various Asian influenced foods, sipping on cold bottled beer, and engagin in conversation about our travel experiences and general cultural differences we noticed in each other created a hilarious and insightful conversation that set the tone for our week together. It also helped that we spent several late nights chasing the young adult dream of humorous social interactions that can only be appreciated without any overbearing responsibilities. The transition from our college days to real maturity is, as I notice the world over, consistently cloaked in a veil of inebriation. Needless to say, it was fun.

I must admit that my feeling towards Singapore changed a bit as I ventured around different areas of the city. Everything is beautifully laid out with small green parks surrounding the sleek modern skyscrappers. Yet, there is an overwhelming commercial feel to it all. The main Clark Quay area is basically an outdoor shopping mall consisting of mainly bars and restaurants snaking along the river that cuts through the city. The tell-tale sign was walking by a Hooters after just passing by a Mexican restaurant with some ridiculous name like "Tacorita de Amor". Everything was a bit too focused on extracting every last cent out of the crowds that are trying to decide if they wanted to forget their daily problems by eating shitty generic quesadillas, gazing at the owl eyes on the Hooter's waitress' shirts, or fist pumping in the dark cavern of the clubs (I must admit I did partake in this last one a bit). On top of that, all Asian girls sport the same designer labels that I'm convinced is the only reason Italy's economy hasn't gone completely under.

Adding to the Big Mac eating, Prada bag swinging, eyeshadow covered dolls is the omniscient eye of the Singaporean government. Everything does run very efficiently as a result of this influence: from the Metro to the legal prostitutes that advertise on every street corner. On the flip side, efficiency makes life very easy here, but it's at odds with the enjoyable chaos that I think will be present in India.

Criticism aside, I still enjoy Singapore. The weather is hot and humid, but easy to adjust to seeing how every building blasts you with a suffocating amount of AC. I'm currently crashing with my friend Prashant in his temporary serviced apartment before my departure to Mumbai on Friday.

Fourth of July Facts in Singapore:
Yes, I'm writing this and drinking a Budweiser.
No, I'm not at the beach.
Yes, I'm wearing my USA soccer jersey.
No, I did not get any compliments on it.
Yes, I ate a Big Mac for dinner.
No, I did not feel good after.

Hope everyone enjoys celebrating the fourth

(The dinner group described above, and a scene from the street)

P.S. I forgot to give a shout out to my cousin Madeline. I still can't find a present for you. I need more ideas.