Monday, March 16, 2009
One-sentence Trip to India
I will not notice bumps in the road, for I have seen great beauty on roads that are only bumps.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Three Dinners with Satvir
Satvir stays with me. He is a fine young man and helps me survive the foreignness of things on a regular basis. This includes talking to people on the phone when they try to speak Hindi to me, finding out what people want when they come to our door, and coordinating cleaning and transport. Daily dusting is pretty much a necessity as a pretty good layer settles on everything over 24 hours, so he handles some of that as well. All in all, I would live in a very dusty place and understand much less of what goes on around me were it not for him.
After working Saturday and Sunday in the apartment, I decide to join Satvir when he tells me he is going to get dinner. I need to get out at this point. We go down to the street and walk a couple of blocks to the main road, where there is a shanty mall. I don't really know what else to call it. It is a collection of shops, each with very little physical structure. The nicest shops are made from aluminum siding or tough cloth and branch-poles, and many others are nothing more than goods arranged on a rug.
Our first stop is a pushcart vendor that I decide to call "Egg Man". On the cart is a large pot, heated by one of the small, red propane cylinders I see being moved around the city all the time, often slung around a motorcycle (or its passenger) in large quantities. The whole setup is just inside the "entrance" (it is all fairly open, but there is a flow of foot traffic along a common path). Satvir gets me two eggs, hard-boiled. They are otherwise prepared by being shelled, cut in half and seasoned, whereupon they are placed on a small square of newspaper on a thin metal plate. Satvir remembers to prevent Egg Man from covering mine in masala and "chillys" (as the signs here say) so I end up with just salt on mine, which is itself pink and powdery in consistency. Satvir orders the same dish for himself and Egg Man wants to know if he should include the normal extras. "I am Indian..." Satvir responds, nodding and laughing. Egg Man shrugs and piles on the toppings.
Satvir hands him a 50Rs note, and we eat at the cart while we wait for Egg Man to get us 40Rs change from Fruit & Vegetable Rug across the path. This requires a fair amount of discussion (as most things seem to) and while we are standing there, a ragged, skinny chicken gets away from its new owner and runs clucking across Watches, Pens & Scissors Rug before it is caught by another shop's owner. Everyone around seems pretty amused after the brief commotion. We get our change, return the plates and amble onwards.
A short tour of the mall brings us back to the street to wait for an auto rickshaw. I reflect on the variety and quality of the goods in the market, both of which were remarkably high relative to the expectation I had developed seeing it from afar.
Just off the main road, there is a bike shop with an apparatus for suspending and tuning bicycle wheels, a coffee shop with gas-heated urns and jars of biscotti, a barber with mirrors and shaving cream, a long-distance phone stall (of course; these are everywhere) and other businesses operating in the open air and, by all appearances, strewn randomly along the side of the road.
The first three auto rickshaws to approach are overflowing with people. I'm not really sure why they even bother to slow down. I think I would be able to stand on the back bumper of the third one, a practice I have seen a great deal of, but Satvir waves the driver on and we eventually hop in one with an open seat on the inside.
I overhear Satvir talking to the driver as we motor down the road and I understand well enough to know they are discussing our destination, occupation and the fact that Satvir will be paying for both me and himself. I comment on this dialogue after we exit the (moving) auto rickshaw and Satvir is amazed that I was able to understand the driver, who, he informs me, speaks Haryanavi, not Hindi. "It's all Greek to me!" I say, which does not seem to decrease Satvir's mystification. He takes my hand and we cross the street.
We get me my favorite sandwich from the Black Brew Cafe, a sandwich Tafara and I had established as our go-to backup food when one of us didn't want to eat what was being served by the office staff. The label used to read "Contry Rost Chicken Panani" but Tafara and I had laughed about the unusually high density of spelling errors every time we came in, pronouncing it the way it was (mis)spelled, so they may have heard us and had it changed. A second level of humor present for me as a fledgling etymologist is that "Panini" is also the name of an Indian grammarian alive in 400 BC whose rules for Sanskrit represent the first example of descriptive linguistics. He would certainly disapprove of this loose use of language.
I get Satvir and myself a plate of momos from my favorite momo boy (who happens to be directly across from Black Brew Cafe) while we wait for my sandwich to be grilled, and when it is ready we go to a restaurant above a sweet shop nearby to get Satvir's main course. He orders a plate of breads, sauces, lentils, vegetables and rice, and while we are waiting teaches me the Hindi words for:
I use some of my longer-known Hindi to ask the waiter for the bill, but this feat is reduced to redundancy by my concurrent use of the international hand signal for getting the check (the mid-air scribble).
Our trip home is lengthened by having to wait some time for an auto rickshaw traveling in our desired direction, but one does eventually come by and there is enough space me to sit. Satvir perches on the dividing wall with his lower back against the driver's shoulder blades, which is fine until we came to our drop-off point and Satvir is unable to see out well enough to recognize it as such. Luckily traffic is stopped and we are able to get out. Satvir stays talking with the driver while I start across the street, and when he catches up with me shows me a small, hand-rolled cigarette. He identifies it as a "biddy" as far as I could tell, but I think he may have been saying "bitty" in reference to its size. When I decline to make any use of it, he flicks it away. "Poor man is smoking this. I am not like it."
A new guard is waiting in the lobby of the apartment tower. He asks, in Hindi, for our flat number and I tell him:
"Do-so teen."
After working Saturday and Sunday in the apartment, I decide to join Satvir when he tells me he is going to get dinner. I need to get out at this point. We go down to the street and walk a couple of blocks to the main road, where there is a shanty mall. I don't really know what else to call it. It is a collection of shops, each with very little physical structure. The nicest shops are made from aluminum siding or tough cloth and branch-poles, and many others are nothing more than goods arranged on a rug.
Our first stop is a pushcart vendor that I decide to call "Egg Man". On the cart is a large pot, heated by one of the small, red propane cylinders I see being moved around the city all the time, often slung around a motorcycle (or its passenger) in large quantities. The whole setup is just inside the "entrance" (it is all fairly open, but there is a flow of foot traffic along a common path). Satvir gets me two eggs, hard-boiled. They are otherwise prepared by being shelled, cut in half and seasoned, whereupon they are placed on a small square of newspaper on a thin metal plate. Satvir remembers to prevent Egg Man from covering mine in masala and "chillys" (as the signs here say) so I end up with just salt on mine, which is itself pink and powdery in consistency. Satvir orders the same dish for himself and Egg Man wants to know if he should include the normal extras. "I am Indian..." Satvir responds, nodding and laughing. Egg Man shrugs and piles on the toppings.
Satvir hands him a 50Rs note, and we eat at the cart while we wait for Egg Man to get us 40Rs change from Fruit & Vegetable Rug across the path. This requires a fair amount of discussion (as most things seem to) and while we are standing there, a ragged, skinny chicken gets away from its new owner and runs clucking across Watches, Pens & Scissors Rug before it is caught by another shop's owner. Everyone around seems pretty amused after the brief commotion. We get our change, return the plates and amble onwards.
A short tour of the mall brings us back to the street to wait for an auto rickshaw. I reflect on the variety and quality of the goods in the market, both of which were remarkably high relative to the expectation I had developed seeing it from afar.
Just off the main road, there is a bike shop with an apparatus for suspending and tuning bicycle wheels, a coffee shop with gas-heated urns and jars of biscotti, a barber with mirrors and shaving cream, a long-distance phone stall (of course; these are everywhere) and other businesses operating in the open air and, by all appearances, strewn randomly along the side of the road.
The first three auto rickshaws to approach are overflowing with people. I'm not really sure why they even bother to slow down. I think I would be able to stand on the back bumper of the third one, a practice I have seen a great deal of, but Satvir waves the driver on and we eventually hop in one with an open seat on the inside.
I overhear Satvir talking to the driver as we motor down the road and I understand well enough to know they are discussing our destination, occupation and the fact that Satvir will be paying for both me and himself. I comment on this dialogue after we exit the (moving) auto rickshaw and Satvir is amazed that I was able to understand the driver, who, he informs me, speaks Haryanavi, not Hindi. "It's all Greek to me!" I say, which does not seem to decrease Satvir's mystification. He takes my hand and we cross the street.
We get me my favorite sandwich from the Black Brew Cafe, a sandwich Tafara and I had established as our go-to backup food when one of us didn't want to eat what was being served by the office staff. The label used to read "Contry Rost Chicken Panani" but Tafara and I had laughed about the unusually high density of spelling errors every time we came in, pronouncing it the way it was (mis)spelled, so they may have heard us and had it changed. A second level of humor present for me as a fledgling etymologist is that "Panini" is also the name of an Indian grammarian alive in 400 BC whose rules for Sanskrit represent the first example of descriptive linguistics. He would certainly disapprove of this loose use of language.
I get Satvir and myself a plate of momos from my favorite momo boy (who happens to be directly across from Black Brew Cafe) while we wait for my sandwich to be grilled, and when it is ready we go to a restaurant above a sweet shop nearby to get Satvir's main course. He orders a plate of breads, sauces, lentils, vegetables and rice, and while we are waiting teaches me the Hindi words for:
- "Window"
- "Door"
- "Welcome"
- "Open"
- "Ceiling"
- "Fan"
- "Mirror"
- "The window is open"
- "Rice"
- "Pea"
- "Carrot"
- "Spoon"
- "Table" ("Bench")
- "Napkin" ("Tissue")
- "Glass" ("Glass")
- "Tomato" ("Tomater")
I use some of my longer-known Hindi to ask the waiter for the bill, but this feat is reduced to redundancy by my concurrent use of the international hand signal for getting the check (the mid-air scribble).
Our trip home is lengthened by having to wait some time for an auto rickshaw traveling in our desired direction, but one does eventually come by and there is enough space me to sit. Satvir perches on the dividing wall with his lower back against the driver's shoulder blades, which is fine until we came to our drop-off point and Satvir is unable to see out well enough to recognize it as such. Luckily traffic is stopped and we are able to get out. Satvir stays talking with the driver while I start across the street, and when he catches up with me shows me a small, hand-rolled cigarette. He identifies it as a "biddy" as far as I could tell, but I think he may have been saying "bitty" in reference to its size. When I decline to make any use of it, he flicks it away. "Poor man is smoking this. I am not like it."
A new guard is waiting in the lobby of the apartment tower. He asks, in Hindi, for our flat number and I tell him:
"Do-so teen."
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Accidental VD
Tafara and I are decidedly opposed to observing Valentine's Day in any way. The concept is so far removed from our thoughts, in fact, that at no time in the planning of--or leaving for--our trip to Agra last weekend did we realize the significance of its timing. We were in the city itself, surrounded on all sides by towering trucks, stopped for ten minutes or so between every few feet of forward movement when we heard Kamal (the young man who stays with us) remark "ट्रैफिक Valentine's Day प्रोबब्ल्य रासों" none of which we understood except the English, of course.
When we arrived, some seven hours after leaving for the four hour drive, we walked in from the gate (whence the camel pictures in the latest batch of pics) and began our attempts to enter the attraction. Wiser (or so we thought) from an earlier experience at a touristy place, we had brought with us the following:
"Hah, doh resident tickets." I proclaimed in perfect Hinglish, indicating my desire for two tickets.
"What nationality are you?" Said the man, who was neither young nor impressed.
"Originally, US. Living here now." I replied, procuring my supporting documentation.
"Doesn't matter, only nationality matter." The man spoke in creaking but rapidly paced tones devoid of empathy.
"Sir," I had to speak up at this point, as he had turned away "sir, we are making Indian wages."
"Foreigner passport, foreigner ticket." The man spat back, and, to further indicate the departure of his patience, turned and departed himself.
I reported my failure to Tafara, who immediately agreed in the matter's similarity to bovine excrement. We resolved to have Kamal (the same observant fellow mentioned above) purchase our tickets, and gave him the requisite sum. As we waited in the entry line, however, we remembered our last adventure as tourists and how even when we had managed to secure "local" tickets for the dramatically lower price we were later denied entry after waiting in the second line and had to wait in both again. This current entry line was three times as long as the one before, and the security at its end seemed more officious, so as we waited for that very long time we devised a plan: We would purchase foreigner tickets and have them with us, but present the local tickets to the guard. If he accepted these, we would later return the unused foreigner tickets for refunds. If he did not accept the local tickets, we would be ready to present the foreigner passes without getting out of line. As it happened, Tafara was whisked off to the women's line without a local ticket, and I was not asked for a ticket at all. As it also happened, however, the foreigner tickets could not be returned. This was clearly printed on the back of our tickets (which were quite lovely I might add) and later confirmed when we tried to return mine at the end.
Once inside, we resolved to put all the stress of travel and ticketing nonsense behind us and enjoy the Taj Majal. It is extraordinarily beautiful, after all, and we were there in time to see the sunset. We also saw a man propose (and got pictures, two of which are included in the latest slide show) which was pretty cool also. We talked to them after giving them a chance to revel in their moment a little bit and have sent all the pictures we took to the email address they provided.
Once we left the grounds, we had to try to find the rest of our group (whom we had broken from to explore on our own). They were nowhere around our meeting spot, and when I finally reached one of them by phone, I learned that they had gone for the car. We set off in the direction of the parking lot, looking for a pedal rickshaw to hasten the trip. We found one immediately. It is more accurate to say that he found us, because he pedaled towards us excitedly ringing his bell from the moment he caught sight of our bright, pale skin. He wanted several times what we were advised by our friends to pay, so we walked away with our ears turned back in case he decided to be more reasonable. He had no such change of heart, so we walked the equivalent of a city block or so before we found another man, leaning on his rig. He was agreeable to our offer of 10Rs and nearby destination, so we hopped on and set out towards the car. We came upon a hill almost as soon as we set out, and the old, bony man did his best to tow our well-fed selves up it, but was soon beside himself and his bike, pushing the latter up the incline. We felt very bad for him and resolved to pay him more than we had originally settled on, but it soon became too much to bear anyway. Tafara (as you may already have seen in the pictures) hopped onto the seat and began the workout she claimed to be glad for. I busied myself taking pictures and buying a trinket from the boy that can be seen in them, and then relaxed and laughed at all the attention Tafara was getting. The rickshaw driver was now sitting between the bicycle seat and the passenger seat and everyone we passed was vocal in their amusement.
Having worked up quite an appetite, we asked to stop for food as soon as we got moving in the car. After rejecting the first few places we stopped, we settled on the "Sheesh Majal" which I'm sure means something sensible to local folk, but struck us as quite humorous. As we waited for the Indian feast we had ordered to arrive, the power went out. We are accustomed to this happening by now, so we continued to wait contentedly. The manager, unaware of our familiarity with sitting around in the dark, came rushing out of the back to assure us that everything would be fine, that the generators would come on soon, etc. The generators did not come on soon, however, and we were given a candle (held by its own wax to an overturned plate) before being served our food. Dinner was absolutely delicious, and consisted of daal (lentils), naan (bread), biryani (rice), and murg tikka (grilled chicken). We wished each other a Happy Valentine's Day and laughed.
It was the most romantic Valentine's Day either of us had ever experienced, and it was all completely by accident.
When we arrived, some seven hours after leaving for the four hour drive, we walked in from the gate (whence the camel pictures in the latest batch of pics) and began our attempts to enter the attraction. Wiser (or so we thought) from an earlier experience at a touristy place, we had brought with us the following:
- Our passports, complete with one year visas that proved we were here to stay
- Our company ID cards, fresh off the presses, that proved we were making Indian wages
- Not one, not two, but three whole people who speak both Hindi and Hinglish
- Confidence that we were entitled to the resident rate (2oRs) and not the foreigner rate (800Rs), which for us meant the difference between paying $0.80 and $31.00.
"Hah, doh resident tickets." I proclaimed in perfect Hinglish, indicating my desire for two tickets.
"What nationality are you?" Said the man, who was neither young nor impressed.
"Originally, US. Living here now." I replied, procuring my supporting documentation.
"Doesn't matter, only nationality matter." The man spoke in creaking but rapidly paced tones devoid of empathy.
"Sir," I had to speak up at this point, as he had turned away "sir, we are making Indian wages."
"Foreigner passport, foreigner ticket." The man spat back, and, to further indicate the departure of his patience, turned and departed himself.
I reported my failure to Tafara, who immediately agreed in the matter's similarity to bovine excrement. We resolved to have Kamal (the same observant fellow mentioned above) purchase our tickets, and gave him the requisite sum. As we waited in the entry line, however, we remembered our last adventure as tourists and how even when we had managed to secure "local" tickets for the dramatically lower price we were later denied entry after waiting in the second line and had to wait in both again. This current entry line was three times as long as the one before, and the security at its end seemed more officious, so as we waited for that very long time we devised a plan: We would purchase foreigner tickets and have them with us, but present the local tickets to the guard. If he accepted these, we would later return the unused foreigner tickets for refunds. If he did not accept the local tickets, we would be ready to present the foreigner passes without getting out of line. As it happened, Tafara was whisked off to the women's line without a local ticket, and I was not asked for a ticket at all. As it also happened, however, the foreigner tickets could not be returned. This was clearly printed on the back of our tickets (which were quite lovely I might add) and later confirmed when we tried to return mine at the end.
Once inside, we resolved to put all the stress of travel and ticketing nonsense behind us and enjoy the Taj Majal. It is extraordinarily beautiful, after all, and we were there in time to see the sunset. We also saw a man propose (and got pictures, two of which are included in the latest slide show) which was pretty cool also. We talked to them after giving them a chance to revel in their moment a little bit and have sent all the pictures we took to the email address they provided.
Once we left the grounds, we had to try to find the rest of our group (whom we had broken from to explore on our own). They were nowhere around our meeting spot, and when I finally reached one of them by phone, I learned that they had gone for the car. We set off in the direction of the parking lot, looking for a pedal rickshaw to hasten the trip. We found one immediately. It is more accurate to say that he found us, because he pedaled towards us excitedly ringing his bell from the moment he caught sight of our bright, pale skin. He wanted several times what we were advised by our friends to pay, so we walked away with our ears turned back in case he decided to be more reasonable. He had no such change of heart, so we walked the equivalent of a city block or so before we found another man, leaning on his rig. He was agreeable to our offer of 10Rs and nearby destination, so we hopped on and set out towards the car. We came upon a hill almost as soon as we set out, and the old, bony man did his best to tow our well-fed selves up it, but was soon beside himself and his bike, pushing the latter up the incline. We felt very bad for him and resolved to pay him more than we had originally settled on, but it soon became too much to bear anyway. Tafara (as you may already have seen in the pictures) hopped onto the seat and began the workout she claimed to be glad for. I busied myself taking pictures and buying a trinket from the boy that can be seen in them, and then relaxed and laughed at all the attention Tafara was getting. The rickshaw driver was now sitting between the bicycle seat and the passenger seat and everyone we passed was vocal in their amusement.
Having worked up quite an appetite, we asked to stop for food as soon as we got moving in the car. After rejecting the first few places we stopped, we settled on the "Sheesh Majal" which I'm sure means something sensible to local folk, but struck us as quite humorous. As we waited for the Indian feast we had ordered to arrive, the power went out. We are accustomed to this happening by now, so we continued to wait contentedly. The manager, unaware of our familiarity with sitting around in the dark, came rushing out of the back to assure us that everything would be fine, that the generators would come on soon, etc. The generators did not come on soon, however, and we were given a candle (held by its own wax to an overturned plate) before being served our food. Dinner was absolutely delicious, and consisted of daal (lentils), naan (bread), biryani (rice), and murg tikka (grilled chicken). We wished each other a Happy Valentine's Day and laughed.
It was the most romantic Valentine's Day either of us had ever experienced, and it was all completely by accident.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Communication Problems, Part 3
The title of this entry really should be "Communication Problems, Part 1" because this was the origin of that phrase in our usage. When Tafara sat down to relate this event, however, I insisted she write about something else on the assurance that I would tell this story myself.
I am now, finally, getting to it.
Once upon a time, there were four young people living in an apartment. Despite wide disparities in their respective levels of desire to exercise, they resolved to secure for themselves the membership cards they understood were required for entry into the fitness center.
How did they learn of this requirement? Two of them, having gone to the gym with no such cards, were berated and interrogated during each visit in a language neither spoke by the attendant guard on several occasions before he sought the assistance of a higher-ranking-looking guard who explained about a basement office where membership cards could be obtained.
Eyes bright with the hope of licit workouts, the young couple scrambled quickly up to their apartment to gather everything they might need to get these mystical cards, these IDs of legend. Gripping passports, US drivers licenses, extra passport photos and a reasonable amount of rupees, they descended for the first time into the single subterranean floor of their building. On first inspection, the level in question ("-1" on the elevator menu) is one part laundromat and nine parts parking garage, but beyond a fence and a parked car, they spied a nondescript door with the word "OFFICE" painted on it by hand.
Knocking merited them a garbled mass of responses, all in Hindi, so they were cautious as the young, male member of the duo slowly pushed open the door. A closet-sized kitchen and three or four pairs of curious eyes came into view beyond the door, and, after a pause, a mouth spoke from below one of the wide pairs of eyes:
"Kya यू वांट?"
The young man recognized "kya" as the question word "what" and responded by saying "gym card" and holding up an invisible version of the same. Fingers and arms within the tiny kitchen, with different owners and levels of enthusiasm for the task, gestured towards one wall of the closet, which the young couple now saw housed a second nondescript door with no lettering at all.
"Please, sit"
An older, well-dressed Indian man was speaking with a heavy accent and indicating the chairs across from the seat he occupied behind one of two desks in the room the couple had been peeking into. They pushed the door the remaining eighty degrees to openness and sat while offering timid greetings to the two other men in the room.
"How I can I help you?" The older man continued, leaning forward onto the desk.
"We were told we could come here to get gym cards." The young man responded.
"Gym cards." The older man repeated, audibly fascinated.
"Yes. Are we in the right place?"
"Flat number?"
"I'm sorry?"
"What is your flat number?"
"Uh... two, zero, three."
"Good name?"
"What?"
"What is your good name?"
"Tyler." The young man replied, uncertain of the nature of the question, the quality of his name and the direction of the inquisition in which he had become an unwitting participant.
"I see. And you, miss?" The older man said, making a note and tilting his head to face the young woman.
"Is this for our gym cards?" She asked, in place of an answer, searching the faces of the men stationed there.
The older man shifted himself back from the desk and procured a ledger from atop a filing cabinet. "We have no record..." He began.
"We are guests of Mr. Talwar." The young man interjected, and met the dark eyes that darted up from the ledger to peer at him over gold-rimmed glasses.
--Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of this visit to the basement office and my eventual arrival at a point for this story!
I am now, finally, getting to it.
Once upon a time, there were four young people living in an apartment. Despite wide disparities in their respective levels of desire to exercise, they resolved to secure for themselves the membership cards they understood were required for entry into the fitness center.
How did they learn of this requirement? Two of them, having gone to the gym with no such cards, were berated and interrogated during each visit in a language neither spoke by the attendant guard on several occasions before he sought the assistance of a higher-ranking-looking guard who explained about a basement office where membership cards could be obtained.
Eyes bright with the hope of licit workouts, the young couple scrambled quickly up to their apartment to gather everything they might need to get these mystical cards, these IDs of legend. Gripping passports, US drivers licenses, extra passport photos and a reasonable amount of rupees, they descended for the first time into the single subterranean floor of their building. On first inspection, the level in question ("-1" on the elevator menu) is one part laundromat and nine parts parking garage, but beyond a fence and a parked car, they spied a nondescript door with the word "OFFICE" painted on it by hand.
Knocking merited them a garbled mass of responses, all in Hindi, so they were cautious as the young, male member of the duo slowly pushed open the door. A closet-sized kitchen and three or four pairs of curious eyes came into view beyond the door, and, after a pause, a mouth spoke from below one of the wide pairs of eyes:
"Kya यू वांट?"
The young man recognized "kya" as the question word "what" and responded by saying "gym card" and holding up an invisible version of the same. Fingers and arms within the tiny kitchen, with different owners and levels of enthusiasm for the task, gestured towards one wall of the closet, which the young couple now saw housed a second nondescript door with no lettering at all.
"Please, sit"
An older, well-dressed Indian man was speaking with a heavy accent and indicating the chairs across from the seat he occupied behind one of two desks in the room the couple had been peeking into. They pushed the door the remaining eighty degrees to openness and sat while offering timid greetings to the two other men in the room.
"How I can I help you?" The older man continued, leaning forward onto the desk.
"We were told we could come here to get gym cards." The young man responded.
"Gym cards." The older man repeated, audibly fascinated.
"Yes. Are we in the right place?"
"Flat number?"
"I'm sorry?"
"What is your flat number?"
"Uh... two, zero, three."
"Good name?"
"What?"
"What is your good name?"
"Tyler." The young man replied, uncertain of the nature of the question, the quality of his name and the direction of the inquisition in which he had become an unwitting participant.
"I see. And you, miss?" The older man said, making a note and tilting his head to face the young woman.
"Is this for our gym cards?" She asked, in place of an answer, searching the faces of the men stationed there.
The older man shifted himself back from the desk and procured a ledger from atop a filing cabinet. "We have no record..." He began.
"We are guests of Mr. Talwar." The young man interjected, and met the dark eyes that darted up from the ledger to peer at him over gold-rimmed glasses.
--Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of this visit to the basement office and my eventual arrival at a point for this story!
Monday, January 5, 2009
Communication Problems Part 2
So every time we go shopping we inevitably have to ask where something is or if they have something. Like flour. Or shower rods/curtains. Or meat. Anything really. Essentially what happens is we ask, they don't understand, then we play charades. You won't want to play us in cranium when we get back btw. Generally there are maybe 2 people working at the store who understand enough of our English - which I think is perfect by the way - to help us, and they are never around. So we play games with the people who are working and around.
Tyler asked a guy for mouthwash the other day. We had been up and down each aisle and not found it so we gave in and asked. Tyler acted out actually using mouthwash, putting it in your mouth and swishing it around. First they thought he wanted alcohol. When world-class charades is shot to the ground you go back to words. What else could you do? So he then tried as many descriptors as possible....liquid, rinse, clean, teeth, wash....this doesn't seem to help either. So that guy went and got another guy and Tyler did the same motions and words with him. He didn't have a clue so he went and got another guy. Eventually they went to find the guy who understands American English and he took all 6 of us to the section with the toothbrushes where we had been before and grabs a breath freshening spray. No....not quite it. We still don't have perfectly clean mouths. :( Another customer not helped by 6 employees at the same time.
Tyler asked a guy for mouthwash the other day. We had been up and down each aisle and not found it so we gave in and asked. Tyler acted out actually using mouthwash, putting it in your mouth and swishing it around. First they thought he wanted alcohol. When world-class charades is shot to the ground you go back to words. What else could you do? So he then tried as many descriptors as possible....liquid, rinse, clean, teeth, wash....this doesn't seem to help either. So that guy went and got another guy and Tyler did the same motions and words with him. He didn't have a clue so he went and got another guy. Eventually they went to find the guy who understands American English and he took all 6 of us to the section with the toothbrushes where we had been before and grabs a breath freshening spray. No....not quite it. We still don't have perfectly clean mouths. :( Another customer not helped by 6 employees at the same time.
Friday, January 2, 2009
"Communication Problems" Part 1
So here is an example of our time here.
We haven't had a shower curtain since we moved in. In India its not cutomary to have one because there is not really a difference between water in the shower and water on the bathroom floor. Plus there is a drain on the floor of every bathroom, besides the one that is designated for the shower, which just drains any water that gets on the non-shower bathroom floor. This is all fine. However, we wanted a shower curtain because its actually kind of annoying to have water on the floor. So we found a shower curtain. The only problem is the shower curtains don't come with a shower rod, nor do they sell shower rods anywhere in the country. We spent a week looking for a shower rod and finally found one in the shopping center across from the office. Well of course the guy working there didn't speak English...
Speaking of English: the Hindi that everyone speaks here has English interspersed throughout. So we catch about every three or four words that people are saying. This makes it a little easier for us to understand what other people are saying even if they're not speaking in English. Also, there are many words that just don't have a translation to Hindi. So they only use the English words, usually nouns.
So back to the story...
We buy the shower curtain rods and leave. We decide that we should get a receipt so we go back to the store and try to ask for a receipt. First the guy just says no, so we know he doesn't understand us. Next he thinks that we want to know how to use the shower rod. He pulls out an open shower rod and starts to show us how it works. We say "no, no, no." We try again: "Receipt". We tried "bill". The accompanying hand gestures don't seem to help either. We see a credit card machine behind the counter and point to that...once the guy figures out what we're pointing at he just says "no". So once again, I know he doesn't know what we're talking about. There was a guy at another store who did speak English so we went and got him to come over and tell the guy what we wanted. We said, "Please just tell him that we want a receipt for our shower rods." So the guy walks over with us and says mostly in Hindi "Hindi Hindi Hindi receipt." The guy behind the counter says happily "Oh, yes, yes, yes", and produces a book of receipts. The guy that we brought with us filled it out and we were on our way.
We haven't had a shower curtain since we moved in. In India its not cutomary to have one because there is not really a difference between water in the shower and water on the bathroom floor. Plus there is a drain on the floor of every bathroom, besides the one that is designated for the shower, which just drains any water that gets on the non-shower bathroom floor. This is all fine. However, we wanted a shower curtain because its actually kind of annoying to have water on the floor. So we found a shower curtain. The only problem is the shower curtains don't come with a shower rod, nor do they sell shower rods anywhere in the country. We spent a week looking for a shower rod and finally found one in the shopping center across from the office. Well of course the guy working there didn't speak English...
Speaking of English: the Hindi that everyone speaks here has English interspersed throughout. So we catch about every three or four words that people are saying. This makes it a little easier for us to understand what other people are saying even if they're not speaking in English. Also, there are many words that just don't have a translation to Hindi. So they only use the English words, usually nouns.
So back to the story...
We buy the shower curtain rods and leave. We decide that we should get a receipt so we go back to the store and try to ask for a receipt. First the guy just says no, so we know he doesn't understand us. Next he thinks that we want to know how to use the shower rod. He pulls out an open shower rod and starts to show us how it works. We say "no, no, no." We try again: "Receipt". We tried "bill". The accompanying hand gestures don't seem to help either. We see a credit card machine behind the counter and point to that...once the guy figures out what we're pointing at he just says "no". So once again, I know he doesn't know what we're talking about. There was a guy at another store who did speak English so we went and got him to come over and tell the guy what we wanted. We said, "Please just tell him that we want a receipt for our shower rods." So the guy walks over with us and says mostly in Hindi "Hindi Hindi Hindi receipt." The guy behind the counter says happily "Oh, yes, yes, yes", and produces a book of receipts. The guy that we brought with us filled it out and we were on our way.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Merry Christmas!
...If you're into that sort of thing.
Clock just turned to 00:00 here, which means it's 25/12! (It's been tough adjusting to the 31 month 12 day calendar)
We're all moved in at the new place where we'll be spending the rest of our time here, but before we left our old place we had a raging party to celebrate the end of three days of conferences. We had pretty much given up on anyone showing up at 3AM, but then all our new friends beat down the door and we ended up partying until 7AM or so. The guest list consisted half of people from the New York office that we had met during our stopover there and half of people we met during the conference. Everyone was serving themselves, so the "house boy" just sat in a corner looking extremely tired until we insisted that he go sleep in the unused bedroom.
We found the gym today, and it is really nice. There is AC, 3 walls are windows and the other one is a mirror, free weights, a bench to press, a nautilus machine and a partridge in a pear tree! A guard came in while we were working out and asked us our flat number. That's what I eventually understood him to be asking, anyway. Hinglish is about as hard to understand as straight Hindi sometimes, especially when one's brain doesn't know which to listen for. After he left we laughed at the suspicion we imagined him having; a young American couple sneaking into not only the country, not only the secure condo complex, but also the gym! Another guard with both more hat bling and more familiarity with English came in after that and told us where we need to go to get resident cards. We are lucky to have extra passport photos, so we'll be able to get the cards tomorrow.
Christmas exists mostly in hotels here, but we are excited to have been invited to a party tomorrow at one of our new friends' house.
We'll let you know how it goes! Stay tuned for pictures!
Clock just turned to 00:00 here, which means it's 25/12! (It's been tough adjusting to the 31 month 12 day calendar)
We're all moved in at the new place where we'll be spending the rest of our time here, but before we left our old place we had a raging party to celebrate the end of three days of conferences. We had pretty much given up on anyone showing up at 3AM, but then all our new friends beat down the door and we ended up partying until 7AM or so. The guest list consisted half of people from the New York office that we had met during our stopover there and half of people we met during the conference. Everyone was serving themselves, so the "house boy" just sat in a corner looking extremely tired until we insisted that he go sleep in the unused bedroom.
We found the gym today, and it is really nice. There is AC, 3 walls are windows and the other one is a mirror, free weights, a bench to press, a nautilus machine and a partridge in a pear tree! A guard came in while we were working out and asked us our flat number. That's what I eventually understood him to be asking, anyway. Hinglish is about as hard to understand as straight Hindi sometimes, especially when one's brain doesn't know which to listen for. After he left we laughed at the suspicion we imagined him having; a young American couple sneaking into not only the country, not only the secure condo complex, but also the gym! Another guard with both more hat bling and more familiarity with English came in after that and told us where we need to go to get resident cards. We are lucky to have extra passport photos, so we'll be able to get the cards tomorrow.
Christmas exists mostly in hotels here, but we are excited to have been invited to a party tomorrow at one of our new friends' house.
We'll let you know how it goes! Stay tuned for pictures!
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
What a day....
Today was a day during which the fact that we are in India was driven home. Last night I fell asleep at about 4pm, given the lack of sleep between NY and London. Then, of course, woke up at 4am this morning. Couldn't sleep so we all got up, Tyler Caleb and I, and played video games/checked email/formatted pictures/searched for things to do for about 7 hours. Finally at 11 we got a car to come and take us around for shopping etc. Little did we know that in Gurgaon, aka DLF, (the town we are in South of Delhi) everything is closed on Tuesdays. Of course. :) So making other plans we decide to drive to Delhi to do some shopping there. The drive is about an hour I would guess. On our way there, we hit some traffic where there was a particularly disturbing scene: a man on a motorcycle had been hit by a car or something and was pretty badly hurt. His helmet was on one side of the road, himself on the other...I'm not sure he was alive. I was a little upset by this and a little sick to my stomach, but had little time to think of it because a man at the scene was suddenly getting into our car. Apparently this is not customary :) We had all the doors locked and he couldn't get in, so the driver turned the car off, handed him the key, the guy got in the back where there are two extra seats, handed the key back and off we drove. Our shock lasted for a minute before they told us that this was someone we should know. He happened to be on the road to Delhi...he also happens to work at AdYatra.
Next, we drove to CP...stands for C.... Place. I am having trouble remembering Hindi names. It is essentially the center of Delhi, and nearby is the India Gate. We weren't terribly interested in sightseeing so we didn't stop there, but maybe sometime in the next three months we'll go back. We ate lunch at TGIFridays! Not very adventurous I know, but it's only day 2. We visited Palika Bazaar also, which is an underground market. Busy and exhausting to say the least.
The drive back was as uneventful as driving in Delhi could be, I'll post a video later of the traffic so you can see for yourself. Lines between lanes? What lines? We are still at the office now, it's about 2:45am. Not sure when we'll be working yet, day or night, but there are conferences coming up that will be from early afternoon until 2am so we're trying to get on that schedule now.
Check out our photos on the slideshow below. We'll post more later today. Sorry the writing is horrendous tonight...I'm still a little jetlagged. Hope you're doing well, thanks for checking in!
T
Next, we drove to CP...stands for C.... Place. I am having trouble remembering Hindi names. It is essentially the center of Delhi, and nearby is the India Gate. We weren't terribly interested in sightseeing so we didn't stop there, but maybe sometime in the next three months we'll go back. We ate lunch at TGIFridays! Not very adventurous I know, but it's only day 2. We visited Palika Bazaar also, which is an underground market. Busy and exhausting to say the least.
The drive back was as uneventful as driving in Delhi could be, I'll post a video later of the traffic so you can see for yourself. Lines between lanes? What lines? We are still at the office now, it's about 2:45am. Not sure when we'll be working yet, day or night, but there are conferences coming up that will be from early afternoon until 2am so we're trying to get on that schedule now.
Check out our photos on the slideshow below. We'll post more later today. Sorry the writing is horrendous tonight...I'm still a little jetlagged. Hope you're doing well, thanks for checking in!
T
Monday, December 15, 2008
We made it!
I'm sitting in our apartment in India!
Caleb had already set up access to the Internet, so I am able to say we just got here. We did order some pizza before I sat down. It's time to see if Papa John's can survive translation.
We have a lot more pictures to upload, but those will have to wait.
Thanks for stopping by!
Caleb had already set up access to the Internet, so I am able to say we just got here. We did order some pizza before I sat down. It's time to see if Papa John's can survive translation.
We have a lot more pictures to upload, but those will have to wait.
Thanks for stopping by!
Saturday, December 13, 2008
To New York....and New York
We finished packing! I thought it would never happen. My mom got us a hotel by the airport so we could get there conveniently.
We used the timer on our camera for the first time and drank in the scenery outside our window before Tyler slept for one hour and I slept for three.
New York!!
Here's what it looked like when I left. Now, I'm assuming this must also have been what it looked like in Newark because although I was able to get on a standby flight from Seattle directly to Newark, the flight was delayed by two hours. So was Tyler's, though he was able to make it to Denver and hang out with Caleb for a while. But I made it to the airport, and somehow, with 120 pounds of luggage, made it from Newark to 52nd and 10th in NYC! Much better view there.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Moving to India
In the future, we will move to India. Let's say it's December 10th. Then we'll move to India. In that future. We'll let you know how it goes. :)
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