So, I was heading into the city in the faculty van one afternoon when I glanced over at the two men on a motorcycle next to me.
Or rather, I glanced at the sheep splayed between them.
The men's attitude was that this is business as usual. The sheep seemed resigned, its gray face registering an expression of "So this is happening."
And then off the trio went to who knows where.
I really love it here.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
In Which it Seemed Like the Right Bus
Naturally, I was carrying 12 pounds of guavas in a plastic bag.
It might not have been so bad otherwise, but a punishing amount of semi-ripe fruit just makes an unplanned nighttime trek seem insulting. I was feeling judged. Like, who the hell is this ridiculous fruit to be mocking me? I'd like to see it get on the correct bus.
So, I'd gotten on the wrong bus. And not only that, I'd done it blithely, to the point of smugness: Yes! Finally! The Devegere bus! I'd be spared getting off in Nalakhamba and walking the mile back to campus. Which was especially nice on account of, you know, the guavas.
As the 229 bus pulled into the Kengeri bus station, where I was sitting on a bench with my guavas on my lap, and the conductor called out, "DevegereDevegereDevegere," I leaped for the bus door. Hooray! I never manage to catch the 229!
Turns out I should have clarified if he meant Devegere Colony, where I live, or Devegere village, where I do not.
But did I ask? Of course not. I sat down - there miraculously was an open seat! - and beamed in a self-satisfied manner as I handed over my 19 rupees fare.
Oh, it was a convivial ride! Zig-zagging down Mysore Road, the bus glowed from the inside with an aquarium radiance as it weaved through the inky night. The balmy evening air tumbled in through the open windows, bringing with it an India perfume of highway dust and burning trash and incense. I closed my eyes and turned my face into it, not thinking about much at all besides my guavas.
Have I mentioned that I live in the countryside? And that it's quite dark out here?
Anyway, I wasn't paying attention, is the point. But when the bus zipped past the road where it usually turns to go to Nalakhamba, I thought, "Wait a sec..." I've seen the 229 - or a 229, at least - drive directly past my apartment, so shouldn't this bus... ?
Meanwhile, we boldly charged down a road I'd never been before.
I cast a furtive look back over my shoulder at the conductor. He appeared inscrutable, so I didn't know what he was playing at.
A quick glance over my other shoulder and I saw that the women behind me were beaming. At me. In amusement/pity: piusement. Great.
"Um?" I asked no one in particular, pointing a sad inchworm finger at the road up ahead. "Devegere?"
Several women nodded, and smiled even bigger.
"I don't think I live there," I explained helpfully.
"Village," one of the ladies said.
"Oh," I sighed. "Colony?"
Nope. They shook their heads in piusement, and I offered a "What can you do? Oh, wellllll" shrug that I really wasn't feeling. Ha. Ha ha. Got on the wrong bus again! Whoopsy daisy!
Dammit.
A mile or two later and the bus stopped in Devegere village. So I got off. I looked hopefully to my left, thinking maybe I could spot the school that's up the hill from mine and thus orient myself, but nothing doing. The bus took off and I stood there in the dark with my guavas.
Across the narrow village road I spotted a lady who works at the school, so I waved merrily. Hi! Don't mind me! Just out for my evening constitutional with a bunch of fruit in a bag! She smiled and pointed behind her to a doorway glowing friendly yellow, and I assumed that was her home.
"What a lovely home!" I enthused in English, giving her a big A-OK sign. "Beautiful! So, so nice! OK, I'm just going to, um... walk home now! Bye-bye!"
And I strove for a jaunty, devil-may-care stride as I headed up the dusty shoulder, navigating by the light of the moon. Out of sight of the village, I alternated between a self-pitying shuffle and a "why is nothing ever easy???" stomp. It turns out defeat and rage are a potent fuel for forward momentum. I alternated the bag between hands every so often so it could do some equal opportunity digging into the flesh of my palms.
Finally, I came to the road I recognized, where my usual bus usually turns. Onward I stomped, my false pride not allowing me to ditch the guavas, staring straight ahead in white-lipped, homicidal focus. It was while I was in this mien that a kid on a white scooter pulled up on the roadside opposite me and asked if I needed a ride.
Keeping in mind that it was dark and I was alone and I don't speak the language and this was among the stupider ideas I'd had in a while.
"Sure," I said. "Thanks."
I swung a leg over the back and secured the stupid guavas on my lap, pointing him in the direction of campus and my apartment. And delightful thing that he is, he took me straight there and dropped me off with wishes that I'd have a better night. I gave him two guavas.
And I forsook all 229 buses forever.*
*Except for the next week, when I actually did catch the correct one.
It might not have been so bad otherwise, but a punishing amount of semi-ripe fruit just makes an unplanned nighttime trek seem insulting. I was feeling judged. Like, who the hell is this ridiculous fruit to be mocking me? I'd like to see it get on the correct bus.
So, I'd gotten on the wrong bus. And not only that, I'd done it blithely, to the point of smugness: Yes! Finally! The Devegere bus! I'd be spared getting off in Nalakhamba and walking the mile back to campus. Which was especially nice on account of, you know, the guavas.
As the 229 bus pulled into the Kengeri bus station, where I was sitting on a bench with my guavas on my lap, and the conductor called out, "DevegereDevegereDevegere," I leaped for the bus door. Hooray! I never manage to catch the 229!
Turns out I should have clarified if he meant Devegere Colony, where I live, or Devegere village, where I do not.
But did I ask? Of course not. I sat down - there miraculously was an open seat! - and beamed in a self-satisfied manner as I handed over my 19 rupees fare.
Oh, it was a convivial ride! Zig-zagging down Mysore Road, the bus glowed from the inside with an aquarium radiance as it weaved through the inky night. The balmy evening air tumbled in through the open windows, bringing with it an India perfume of highway dust and burning trash and incense. I closed my eyes and turned my face into it, not thinking about much at all besides my guavas.
Have I mentioned that I live in the countryside? And that it's quite dark out here?
Anyway, I wasn't paying attention, is the point. But when the bus zipped past the road where it usually turns to go to Nalakhamba, I thought, "Wait a sec..." I've seen the 229 - or a 229, at least - drive directly past my apartment, so shouldn't this bus... ?
Meanwhile, we boldly charged down a road I'd never been before.
I cast a furtive look back over my shoulder at the conductor. He appeared inscrutable, so I didn't know what he was playing at.
A quick glance over my other shoulder and I saw that the women behind me were beaming. At me. In amusement/pity: piusement. Great.
"Um?" I asked no one in particular, pointing a sad inchworm finger at the road up ahead. "Devegere?"
Several women nodded, and smiled even bigger.
"I don't think I live there," I explained helpfully.
"Village," one of the ladies said.
"Oh," I sighed. "Colony?"
Nope. They shook their heads in piusement, and I offered a "What can you do? Oh, wellllll" shrug that I really wasn't feeling. Ha. Ha ha. Got on the wrong bus again! Whoopsy daisy!
Dammit.
A mile or two later and the bus stopped in Devegere village. So I got off. I looked hopefully to my left, thinking maybe I could spot the school that's up the hill from mine and thus orient myself, but nothing doing. The bus took off and I stood there in the dark with my guavas.
Across the narrow village road I spotted a lady who works at the school, so I waved merrily. Hi! Don't mind me! Just out for my evening constitutional with a bunch of fruit in a bag! She smiled and pointed behind her to a doorway glowing friendly yellow, and I assumed that was her home.
"What a lovely home!" I enthused in English, giving her a big A-OK sign. "Beautiful! So, so nice! OK, I'm just going to, um... walk home now! Bye-bye!"
And I strove for a jaunty, devil-may-care stride as I headed up the dusty shoulder, navigating by the light of the moon. Out of sight of the village, I alternated between a self-pitying shuffle and a "why is nothing ever easy???" stomp. It turns out defeat and rage are a potent fuel for forward momentum. I alternated the bag between hands every so often so it could do some equal opportunity digging into the flesh of my palms.
Finally, I came to the road I recognized, where my usual bus usually turns. Onward I stomped, my false pride not allowing me to ditch the guavas, staring straight ahead in white-lipped, homicidal focus. It was while I was in this mien that a kid on a white scooter pulled up on the roadside opposite me and asked if I needed a ride.
Keeping in mind that it was dark and I was alone and I don't speak the language and this was among the stupider ideas I'd had in a while.
"Sure," I said. "Thanks."
I swung a leg over the back and secured the stupid guavas on my lap, pointing him in the direction of campus and my apartment. And delightful thing that he is, he took me straight there and dropped me off with wishes that I'd have a better night. I gave him two guavas.
And I forsook all 229 buses forever.*
*Except for the next week, when I actually did catch the correct one.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
In Which Ugly American Here Rampages King Kong-Style Through the Bus
The great and cruel thing about an indifferent universe is that my recent successes at the bus mean very little in the face of the Sunday afternoon crush. I'm not entitled to ongoing bus success, it turns out, which is how I ended up on the verge of tears and declaring "This sucks!" to a mystified audience.
Which is to say, I had my first true Ugly American moment and I'm really ashamed of it.
I can only blame myself, of course. I know better than to ride a bus anywhere on a Sunday afternoon, when the buses are guaranteed to be rolling sardine cans, but I was in the city and I needed to get home. Having (kind of) mastered the bus, I'm now especially loath to pay an autorickshaw driver to take me all the way to campus, so OK, there might be a little stubborn belligerence at play here, too.
Anyway, after waiting at the Kengeri bus terminal for what felt like a really long time, I leaped at the 228A when it came by, even though a veritable horde was leaping at it, too. And it was already jam-packed.
No worries! I insinuated myself up the steps, gently nudging a woman in a sequined green sari and a man who seemed to think he didn't have to move, though I wordlessly let him know that he did. Teetering almost on tip-toe at the top of the steps, squeezed on every side, I twitched and jerked with every bump of the bus, flailing for something to hold onto and repeatedly falling backward into the two large bags on the floor behind me.
This happened maybe half a dozen times, and I was starting to sweat. I'm not terribly claustrophobic, but that bus ride was slowly tightening an invisible fist around my neck. Things got a little irrational inside my head: Does my travel insurance have any crowded-bus caveats? What if there's a fire?
Uh, spontaneously, Rachel? And inside the bus?
It was then that I felt a sharp smack on the back of my thigh. I looked down and a scowling woman in a navy blue sari raised her hand to smack my leg again, because it was her bags that I kept lurching into. They were filled with flowers, so I guess I understand her distress, but hitting me?
She shoved at my hip to get me away from her two large bags, and I could almost hear this mean little thing inside me snap.
"There's no room, lady!" I declared, helpfully, in English. She scowled and shoved me again, and this was too much. On a bus that crowded she thought her two huge bags were entitled to precious floor space?
Wriggling a sharp, huffy 180 degrees, I grabbed the handles of the top bag, jerked it up and plopped it on her lap. She was angry. I was furious. Everybody around me was staring.
Then, like magic, a path appeared between the women crammed at the front of the bus, and a lady standing halfway up the aisle indicated I could stand in front of her.
Well. If it had been possible to stomp I would have, but I had to settle for sidling between alarmed bus riders in one of my most towering pouts. "This is The Worst," I declared, again in English, not sure what I was expecting with that proclamation.
Once I got to what felt like a square inch of floor space, I announced to the people around me, "Don't worry, I won't touch your stuff!" Again, not sure what I hoped to accomplish with that, so I grabbed the handrail above my head and stared petulantly into the middle distance outside the bus, refusing to let the ready tears fall.
And that's when shame descended. I loathe a scene, and I'd just created a doozy: this shockingly tall, obviously American woman having a spaz at someone who didn't want her flowers crushed and pouting over the crowded reality of Indian public transportation. Nobody who saw it would forget it anytime soon.
As we neared my stop, the conductor caught my eye and pointed to indicate it was where I should get off. I couldn't even offer an annoyed sigh - I know my stop, lady! - so I meekly nodded and tried to inconspicuously work my way toward the door. Thankfully, the woman with the flowers had gotten off several stops before.
I slouched down the steps and trudged along the road toward home.
Maybe I should buy a bike.
Which is to say, I had my first true Ugly American moment and I'm really ashamed of it.
I can only blame myself, of course. I know better than to ride a bus anywhere on a Sunday afternoon, when the buses are guaranteed to be rolling sardine cans, but I was in the city and I needed to get home. Having (kind of) mastered the bus, I'm now especially loath to pay an autorickshaw driver to take me all the way to campus, so OK, there might be a little stubborn belligerence at play here, too.
Anyway, after waiting at the Kengeri bus terminal for what felt like a really long time, I leaped at the 228A when it came by, even though a veritable horde was leaping at it, too. And it was already jam-packed.
No worries! I insinuated myself up the steps, gently nudging a woman in a sequined green sari and a man who seemed to think he didn't have to move, though I wordlessly let him know that he did. Teetering almost on tip-toe at the top of the steps, squeezed on every side, I twitched and jerked with every bump of the bus, flailing for something to hold onto and repeatedly falling backward into the two large bags on the floor behind me.
This happened maybe half a dozen times, and I was starting to sweat. I'm not terribly claustrophobic, but that bus ride was slowly tightening an invisible fist around my neck. Things got a little irrational inside my head: Does my travel insurance have any crowded-bus caveats? What if there's a fire?
Uh, spontaneously, Rachel? And inside the bus?
It was then that I felt a sharp smack on the back of my thigh. I looked down and a scowling woman in a navy blue sari raised her hand to smack my leg again, because it was her bags that I kept lurching into. They were filled with flowers, so I guess I understand her distress, but hitting me?
She shoved at my hip to get me away from her two large bags, and I could almost hear this mean little thing inside me snap.
"There's no room, lady!" I declared, helpfully, in English. She scowled and shoved me again, and this was too much. On a bus that crowded she thought her two huge bags were entitled to precious floor space?
Wriggling a sharp, huffy 180 degrees, I grabbed the handles of the top bag, jerked it up and plopped it on her lap. She was angry. I was furious. Everybody around me was staring.
Then, like magic, a path appeared between the women crammed at the front of the bus, and a lady standing halfway up the aisle indicated I could stand in front of her.
Well. If it had been possible to stomp I would have, but I had to settle for sidling between alarmed bus riders in one of my most towering pouts. "This is The Worst," I declared, again in English, not sure what I was expecting with that proclamation.
Once I got to what felt like a square inch of floor space, I announced to the people around me, "Don't worry, I won't touch your stuff!" Again, not sure what I hoped to accomplish with that, so I grabbed the handrail above my head and stared petulantly into the middle distance outside the bus, refusing to let the ready tears fall.
And that's when shame descended. I loathe a scene, and I'd just created a doozy: this shockingly tall, obviously American woman having a spaz at someone who didn't want her flowers crushed and pouting over the crowded reality of Indian public transportation. Nobody who saw it would forget it anytime soon.
As we neared my stop, the conductor caught my eye and pointed to indicate it was where I should get off. I couldn't even offer an annoyed sigh - I know my stop, lady! - so I meekly nodded and tried to inconspicuously work my way toward the door. Thankfully, the woman with the flowers had gotten off several stops before.
I slouched down the steps and trudged along the road toward home.
Maybe I should buy a bike.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
In Which I Probably Should, I Don't Know, Take Up a New Hobby or Something
Not that my life was frantic before - I've always made a point of moving at a pace that could best be called 'desultory' - but it has calmed the heck down living here in the Indian countryside.
I became vividly aware of this yesterday when I spent 20 minutes watching an ant drag a dead bug out of my apartment.
Why was there a dead bug in my apartment that I hadn't picked up, you ask? Or an ant, for that matter? You're missing the point, I answer.
Anyway, out of the corner of my eye I noticed what looked like a dead bug moving across the white tile floor. Scuttling over to investigate, I saw a single, tiny ant, easily 30 times smaller than the dead bug, pulling it slowly but resolutely toward the crack beneath the front door. It was a mesmerizing effort.
I mentally composed rhapsodic odes to Hard Work and A Spirit of Never Quitting, going so far as to become misty-eyed over this ant's determination. It disappeared under the door with its prize, so I waited a few minutes before opening the door to check on its progress.
Which, OK, oops, that's when I remembered there's a plastic guard at the bottom of the door, so I cruelly snatched the dead bug away from the ant.
You can imagine how terrible I felt.
The ant scurried off, even though I tried to nudge it back toward the dead bug, which I'd liberated from beneath the plastic guard with a stick. Nothing doing.
So, I poked the dead bug to a prominent and visible spot on the tiles of my front patio and went to have some lunch. To my delight, when I came back I saw that seven or eight ants were now pulling the dead bug toward wherever ants take dead bugs. Teamwork! Perseverance! Hooray!
All of which is to say, I'm spending quite a bit of time in the company of ants and clouds passing and birds soaring and the idle meandering of my drifting thoughts. In a country of 1.2 billion people, I'm learning to open my eyes and take the deep breath that lifts me just off the ground, so I can float beside the loneliness instead of bashing my forehead against it.
Besides, all it takes is one bus ride into the city and I'm ready to be back with the ants pulling their treasure home.
I became vividly aware of this yesterday when I spent 20 minutes watching an ant drag a dead bug out of my apartment.
Why was there a dead bug in my apartment that I hadn't picked up, you ask? Or an ant, for that matter? You're missing the point, I answer.
Anyway, out of the corner of my eye I noticed what looked like a dead bug moving across the white tile floor. Scuttling over to investigate, I saw a single, tiny ant, easily 30 times smaller than the dead bug, pulling it slowly but resolutely toward the crack beneath the front door. It was a mesmerizing effort.
I mentally composed rhapsodic odes to Hard Work and A Spirit of Never Quitting, going so far as to become misty-eyed over this ant's determination. It disappeared under the door with its prize, so I waited a few minutes before opening the door to check on its progress.
Which, OK, oops, that's when I remembered there's a plastic guard at the bottom of the door, so I cruelly snatched the dead bug away from the ant.
You can imagine how terrible I felt.
The ant scurried off, even though I tried to nudge it back toward the dead bug, which I'd liberated from beneath the plastic guard with a stick. Nothing doing.
So, I poked the dead bug to a prominent and visible spot on the tiles of my front patio and went to have some lunch. To my delight, when I came back I saw that seven or eight ants were now pulling the dead bug toward wherever ants take dead bugs. Teamwork! Perseverance! Hooray!
All of which is to say, I'm spending quite a bit of time in the company of ants and clouds passing and birds soaring and the idle meandering of my drifting thoughts. In a country of 1.2 billion people, I'm learning to open my eyes and take the deep breath that lifts me just off the ground, so I can float beside the loneliness instead of bashing my forehead against it.
Besides, all it takes is one bus ride into the city and I'm ready to be back with the ants pulling their treasure home.
In Which I'm Running for Public Office, Apparently
I read the other day that Pope Francis speaks something like nine languages, but instead of sending me into further raptures over my favorite modern-day hero, my first thought was, Oh, yeah??? Well, I'd like to see you try Kannada, pal!
Once again, I find myself facing a language that seems like nothing more than an elaborate practical joke, designed to make me blurt random, poorly pronounced - and wrong - words at hapless strangers.
Kannada is not going into my brain. It is not rolling melodiously off my tongue. Whenever I try to stutter a word or two that I've managed to memorize, I'm seized with antiperspirant-defying nerves that cruelly shove me into gibberish. Gaaaaa! Leeeehhh! Eeeooom!
I've grown used to politely puzzled looks and alarmed side-eye: Is she OK? Should we put a pencil in her mouth so she doesn't swallow her tongue?
So, I compensate with the ol' thumbs up.
On the bus and trying to tell the conductor where I need to go, I mispronounce a few words and then give him a winning thumbs up. At KR Market and attempting to indicate that I don't, in fact, want to pay 100 rupees per kilo for pomegranates, I say 80 rupees and get that thumb in the air. Trying to tell akka that I'd like a bottle of water, I point confidently at the shelf with the water and give her a double thumbs up.
Go big or go home, I always say.
Oh, occasionally I mix it up and flash the thumbs up's equally convivial cousin, A-OK - index finger and thumb forming a circle, three remaining fingers arrayed in a jaunty sunburst of support - but I like the decisiveness of the thumbs up. It's like an exclamation point on the top of my hand. "Yay!" it says. "I may not technically 'understand' what you just said, if we're being persnickety, but maybe I do? Subconsciously? On some sort of 'we all speak the same language as members of the human family' level? I mean, check out this optimistic thumb!"
I also pair my thumbs up with a smile so friendly it borders on manic. I smile my mouth practically off my face. If anyone's trying to cultivate an image of America as a land of intellectuals, I'm doing nothing for the cause. Sorry.
You know what, though? I may be some goofy golden retriever of a foreigner - one with opposable thumbs, luckily! - but the thumbs up also says that I'm trying, I think whatever is going on right now is awesome and I'm really happy to be here.
And I get quite a few smiles, and even a few thumbs ups, in return.
Once again, I find myself facing a language that seems like nothing more than an elaborate practical joke, designed to make me blurt random, poorly pronounced - and wrong - words at hapless strangers.
Kannada is not going into my brain. It is not rolling melodiously off my tongue. Whenever I try to stutter a word or two that I've managed to memorize, I'm seized with antiperspirant-defying nerves that cruelly shove me into gibberish. Gaaaaa! Leeeehhh! Eeeooom!
I've grown used to politely puzzled looks and alarmed side-eye: Is she OK? Should we put a pencil in her mouth so she doesn't swallow her tongue?
So, I compensate with the ol' thumbs up.
On the bus and trying to tell the conductor where I need to go, I mispronounce a few words and then give him a winning thumbs up. At KR Market and attempting to indicate that I don't, in fact, want to pay 100 rupees per kilo for pomegranates, I say 80 rupees and get that thumb in the air. Trying to tell akka that I'd like a bottle of water, I point confidently at the shelf with the water and give her a double thumbs up.
Go big or go home, I always say.
Oh, occasionally I mix it up and flash the thumbs up's equally convivial cousin, A-OK - index finger and thumb forming a circle, three remaining fingers arrayed in a jaunty sunburst of support - but I like the decisiveness of the thumbs up. It's like an exclamation point on the top of my hand. "Yay!" it says. "I may not technically 'understand' what you just said, if we're being persnickety, but maybe I do? Subconsciously? On some sort of 'we all speak the same language as members of the human family' level? I mean, check out this optimistic thumb!"
I also pair my thumbs up with a smile so friendly it borders on manic. I smile my mouth practically off my face. If anyone's trying to cultivate an image of America as a land of intellectuals, I'm doing nothing for the cause. Sorry.
You know what, though? I may be some goofy golden retriever of a foreigner - one with opposable thumbs, luckily! - but the thumbs up also says that I'm trying, I think whatever is going on right now is awesome and I'm really happy to be here.
And I get quite a few smiles, and even a few thumbs ups, in return.
Monday, July 27, 2015
In Which I Missed the Bus
OK, fine, so The Bus Gambit didn’t go very well.
Two weeks of living in the Indian countryside and I decided that it was time to venture into Bangalore proper on my own. And not by texting Papu the congenial autorickshaw driver to come pick me up at campus. No! I was going to ride the bus!
“O, it is to laugh!” said India, then yanked my underwear up in an atomic wedgie.
I spent an embarrassing number of hours Friday scouring the Bangalore Metropolitan Transport Corporation’s website, plotting my Saturday morning ninja strike. I had times. I had routes. I thought I knew where the bus stop was, just up the road from campus. In retrospect, I see that I was one of those stray ducklings trying to waddle across eight lanes of interstate highway.
According to the schedule, the 212 bus should be by at 8:30 a.m. Conscientiously, I left my apartment early and strode purposefully to where I thought the bus stop is. Except there was nothing to indicate a bus stop – no sign, no bench, nothing. I shuffled down the street and back up: no bus stop.
Finally, I sidled up to akka, behind the counter at her shop, and asked, “Bus?”
She shook her head.
Twisting my left arm into a Z so that she could see my watch, I tapped its face and said, “8:30?”
She laughed merrily.
“No, 8!” she said, and I the silly American dork who thought the BMTC bus would run according to the schedule on the BMTC website. What is this, Switzerland? No, the bus comes by at 8-ish, maybe 7:45-ish, maybe 8:20-ish.
“Bus stop?” I asked pitifully, and she pointed to the spot across the road from her shop, where I should like to point out there is no sign.
Fine. Fine! I bought some cookies and angrily crammed them in my mouth as I stomped over to school, where I brooded in my office until I could hitch a ride to Bangalore in the faculty van. For comfort, I looked at the stupid schedules on the stupid BMTC website and saw that the stupid 212 is supposed to come at stupid 8:30. Who do I call??
Oh, right, nobody. I don’t speak Kannada.
Anyway, after the very kind Nishad, who also teaches here at IIJNM, showed me around his Bangalore neighborhood and we ate some delicious dosa, it was time to go home. But I hadn’t researched many city bus routes, so I got an autorickshaw to the central KR Market.
And may I just say wow.
You know those photos you always see of India? Of people people people everywhere and vendors lounging behind pyramids of pomegranates and cows and women in their saris and women in their burqas and everything in the world for sale and shoeless children and an inexplicable horse cart and trash and hawks looming over the butcher stalls and the odors. The odors! Jasmine and pee and curry and rotten meat and exhaust and BO and sandalwood and burning trash and bread baking and India. Just India.
Did I mention the crowds? I found myself buying a kilo of pomegranates and I’m not sure why except that I clearly had entered some sort of fugue state.
As for the buses, well, there were a bunch parked over here and a bunch idling over there and the nutso Bangalore traffic in between and the noise from the freeway flyover providing an overarching soundtrack to the rest of the noise and I loitered over here and shuffled around over there, crossing the road and then crossing it back and looking hopefully at each bus that came around the corner.
Finally, impulsively, I just got on one, handing the attendant 50 rupees, getting 20 back in change, and immediately regretting my decision. I didn’t even know where it was going! But because the universe is kind to idiots, it headed down Mysore Road, a road I actually know.
But then I panicked. What if it turned in a direction I wasn’t familiar with? Not that I’m familiar with any of them, really, but what if I ended up in, I don’t know, Calcutta?
So impulsively, I got off.
And then I sat at a bus stop on Mysore Road for about half an hour, considering my options. I could wait for a bus whose number and route I knew, but none of them came by. I could become a silent bus stop weeper, and that definitely was tempting. I could start walking, but the distance seemed daunting, maybe 15 miles.
Or I could just flag down an autorickshaw, even though I vowed I wouldn’t, even though I smugly told people that I Believe in Public Transportation, even though I wanted to be independent and self-sufficient and a cosmopolitan woman of the world.
Of course India had other ideas. I flagged down an auto and was vague enough about where I live that he agreed to take me there. Miles into the countryside he kept looking at me like “Here? How about here?”
“Just a little farther!” I kept trilling with a winning smile, pointing an indefinite finger in the direction of Just Up There.
Finally, after he sadly indicated what he’d never get another fare back into the city from that far in the countryside, I paid him double the meter – 500 rupees (about $7.75).
Fine. Fine! And a big fat whatever.
I’ll try again next Saturday.
Two weeks of living in the Indian countryside and I decided that it was time to venture into Bangalore proper on my own. And not by texting Papu the congenial autorickshaw driver to come pick me up at campus. No! I was going to ride the bus!
“O, it is to laugh!” said India, then yanked my underwear up in an atomic wedgie.
I spent an embarrassing number of hours Friday scouring the Bangalore Metropolitan Transport Corporation’s website, plotting my Saturday morning ninja strike. I had times. I had routes. I thought I knew where the bus stop was, just up the road from campus. In retrospect, I see that I was one of those stray ducklings trying to waddle across eight lanes of interstate highway.
According to the schedule, the 212 bus should be by at 8:30 a.m. Conscientiously, I left my apartment early and strode purposefully to where I thought the bus stop is. Except there was nothing to indicate a bus stop – no sign, no bench, nothing. I shuffled down the street and back up: no bus stop.
Finally, I sidled up to akka, behind the counter at her shop, and asked, “Bus?”
She shook her head.
Twisting my left arm into a Z so that she could see my watch, I tapped its face and said, “8:30?”
She laughed merrily.
“No, 8!” she said, and I the silly American dork who thought the BMTC bus would run according to the schedule on the BMTC website. What is this, Switzerland? No, the bus comes by at 8-ish, maybe 7:45-ish, maybe 8:20-ish.
“Bus stop?” I asked pitifully, and she pointed to the spot across the road from her shop, where I should like to point out there is no sign.
Fine. Fine! I bought some cookies and angrily crammed them in my mouth as I stomped over to school, where I brooded in my office until I could hitch a ride to Bangalore in the faculty van. For comfort, I looked at the stupid schedules on the stupid BMTC website and saw that the stupid 212 is supposed to come at stupid 8:30. Who do I call??
Oh, right, nobody. I don’t speak Kannada.
Anyway, after the very kind Nishad, who also teaches here at IIJNM, showed me around his Bangalore neighborhood and we ate some delicious dosa, it was time to go home. But I hadn’t researched many city bus routes, so I got an autorickshaw to the central KR Market.
And may I just say wow.
You know those photos you always see of India? Of people people people everywhere and vendors lounging behind pyramids of pomegranates and cows and women in their saris and women in their burqas and everything in the world for sale and shoeless children and an inexplicable horse cart and trash and hawks looming over the butcher stalls and the odors. The odors! Jasmine and pee and curry and rotten meat and exhaust and BO and sandalwood and burning trash and bread baking and India. Just India.
Did I mention the crowds? I found myself buying a kilo of pomegranates and I’m not sure why except that I clearly had entered some sort of fugue state.
As for the buses, well, there were a bunch parked over here and a bunch idling over there and the nutso Bangalore traffic in between and the noise from the freeway flyover providing an overarching soundtrack to the rest of the noise and I loitered over here and shuffled around over there, crossing the road and then crossing it back and looking hopefully at each bus that came around the corner.
Finally, impulsively, I just got on one, handing the attendant 50 rupees, getting 20 back in change, and immediately regretting my decision. I didn’t even know where it was going! But because the universe is kind to idiots, it headed down Mysore Road, a road I actually know.
But then I panicked. What if it turned in a direction I wasn’t familiar with? Not that I’m familiar with any of them, really, but what if I ended up in, I don’t know, Calcutta?
So impulsively, I got off.
And then I sat at a bus stop on Mysore Road for about half an hour, considering my options. I could wait for a bus whose number and route I knew, but none of them came by. I could become a silent bus stop weeper, and that definitely was tempting. I could start walking, but the distance seemed daunting, maybe 15 miles.
Or I could just flag down an autorickshaw, even though I vowed I wouldn’t, even though I smugly told people that I Believe in Public Transportation, even though I wanted to be independent and self-sufficient and a cosmopolitan woman of the world.
Of course India had other ideas. I flagged down an auto and was vague enough about where I live that he agreed to take me there. Miles into the countryside he kept looking at me like “Here? How about here?”
“Just a little farther!” I kept trilling with a winning smile, pointing an indefinite finger in the direction of Just Up There.
Finally, after he sadly indicated what he’d never get another fare back into the city from that far in the countryside, I paid him double the meter – 500 rupees (about $7.75).
Fine. Fine! And a big fat whatever.
I’ll try again next Saturday.
Saturday, July 18, 2015
In Which I Have Some Roommates
It wasn't so much the frog, but the fact that he brought a friend. And the fact that they were lurking behind my bedroom door. And the fact that a sizable lizard and all his friends seemed to have joined them.
At least they eat the bugs.
At least they eat the bugs.
In Which I Fail to Procure the TP
This is a little indelicate, and I apologize, but: I'm almost out of toilet paper.
I'm watching my single roll go inexorably down down down, despite my best efforts at moderation, and I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do about it. Maybe steal some from work? I feel like I'd be discovered, and "Toilet Paper Thief" doesn't seem like a label I want to acquire after just one week here.
I've tried buying some, but TP is weirdly hard to come by in the villages around the school. I discovered this when I sidled over to the little shop nearby and tried my very best to get some.
The store is run by a very nice lady that everyone calls akka, which means "sister" in Kannada. I don't actually know her real name, so I usually just stick my face directly in front of hers and start talking. Anyway, if I want eggs or laundry detergent or those insect repellent coils that will give you cancer, the smoke is so toxic (I bought two the other day), her little roadside shop is the place to go.
But I needed toilet paper. I felt sure she'd have it. Unfortunately, she doesn't speak English and so far I only speak about five words of Kannada, so communication can be a challenge. Mainly, I rely on my village idiot grin, an expression of pleading hopefulness and gestures so flamboyant that I automatically win every game of charades in the whole world for the next month.
Anyway, I approached akka's store and bent conspiratorially over her front counter.
"Paper?" I whispered, because it's embarrassing.
She gave me a blank look.
"Paper," I tried again, the tinsiest bit louder, and gave her a knowing nod.
Still nothing.
"Toilet paper," I suggested in a strained stage whisper. "Uh, WC? Bathroom? Washroom?"
Nope.
Desperate, I curled my right index finger into a hook and frantically stabbed the air in the direction of my bottom: "Paper," I repeated. It was not my finest moment, I'll admit, but it did the trick. No dice, though.
Instead, I bought a fizzy apple drink and a package of cookies, slinking away with my sad consolation prize.
Maybe I can sneak into the students' dorms and steal some TP from there.
I'm watching my single roll go inexorably down down down, despite my best efforts at moderation, and I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do about it. Maybe steal some from work? I feel like I'd be discovered, and "Toilet Paper Thief" doesn't seem like a label I want to acquire after just one week here.
I've tried buying some, but TP is weirdly hard to come by in the villages around the school. I discovered this when I sidled over to the little shop nearby and tried my very best to get some.
The store is run by a very nice lady that everyone calls akka, which means "sister" in Kannada. I don't actually know her real name, so I usually just stick my face directly in front of hers and start talking. Anyway, if I want eggs or laundry detergent or those insect repellent coils that will give you cancer, the smoke is so toxic (I bought two the other day), her little roadside shop is the place to go.
But I needed toilet paper. I felt sure she'd have it. Unfortunately, she doesn't speak English and so far I only speak about five words of Kannada, so communication can be a challenge. Mainly, I rely on my village idiot grin, an expression of pleading hopefulness and gestures so flamboyant that I automatically win every game of charades in the whole world for the next month.
Anyway, I approached akka's store and bent conspiratorially over her front counter.
"Paper?" I whispered, because it's embarrassing.
She gave me a blank look.
"Paper," I tried again, the tinsiest bit louder, and gave her a knowing nod.
Still nothing.
"Toilet paper," I suggested in a strained stage whisper. "Uh, WC? Bathroom? Washroom?"
Nope.
Desperate, I curled my right index finger into a hook and frantically stabbed the air in the direction of my bottom: "Paper," I repeated. It was not my finest moment, I'll admit, but it did the trick. No dice, though.
Instead, I bought a fizzy apple drink and a package of cookies, slinking away with my sad consolation prize.
Maybe I can sneak into the students' dorms and steal some TP from there.
Saturday, July 11, 2015
In Which How Weird Is Too Weird?
When it comes to the taste of water, I mean.
Obviously I boiled it until half of it was evaporated, but it still tastes... odd. Maybe it's just a matter of getting used to new water. Indian water! And anyone who says water doesn't have a taste has never been to central Florida. Or Bangalore, apparently. This water definitely has a taste.
But too much of one? I've been contemplating each mouthful. And the electric kettle does have some sort of weird, mineral-looking grunge on the bottom, which I'm unable to scrape off.
So, ha ha, yep.
Maybe I'll just wander over to the village this afternoon and see about a new one.
Obviously I boiled it until half of it was evaporated, but it still tastes... odd. Maybe it's just a matter of getting used to new water. Indian water! And anyone who says water doesn't have a taste has never been to central Florida. Or Bangalore, apparently. This water definitely has a taste.
But too much of one? I've been contemplating each mouthful. And the electric kettle does have some sort of weird, mineral-looking grunge on the bottom, which I'm unable to scrape off.
So, ha ha, yep.
Maybe I'll just wander over to the village this afternoon and see about a new one.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
In Which Oh Good Grief, Not Again
I'm not saying it's the most pitiful thing in the world, but it certainly makes the list: the dorky, desperate hope that compels you to keep checking all the bags lurching past on the conveyor belt, even though you've checked them twice before.
Maybe third time's the charm! Maybe this time the navy blue suitcase that clearly isn't my navy blue suitcase will, um... magically be mine! Maybe it will contain all the stuff I'm generally indifferent to -- the 11 different iterations of breton-striped shirt, the mediocre hairbrush -- but now treasure with a fervor usually reserved for snake handling or fan fiction.
But nope, my suitcases decided to loiter in Frankfurt, for the pretzels and beer, apparently. Meanwhile, I arrived in Bangalore.
Unlike when I moved to China and my bags went missing for several days, however, this time I vowed to handle it with fewer tears and more equanimity. A man named Franklin is on the case, and when he told me that maybe my bags went to New Delhi, I did my best to smile beatifically. Who wouldn't want to go to Delhi? It's great there!
He said maybe they'd arrive tomorrow, but maybe not. Swell! I'll just toddle over to the village and buy a sari!
Welcome to India. I really am thrilled to be here.
Maybe third time's the charm! Maybe this time the navy blue suitcase that clearly isn't my navy blue suitcase will, um... magically be mine! Maybe it will contain all the stuff I'm generally indifferent to -- the 11 different iterations of breton-striped shirt, the mediocre hairbrush -- but now treasure with a fervor usually reserved for snake handling or fan fiction.
But nope, my suitcases decided to loiter in Frankfurt, for the pretzels and beer, apparently. Meanwhile, I arrived in Bangalore.
Unlike when I moved to China and my bags went missing for several days, however, this time I vowed to handle it with fewer tears and more equanimity. A man named Franklin is on the case, and when he told me that maybe my bags went to New Delhi, I did my best to smile beatifically. Who wouldn't want to go to Delhi? It's great there!
He said maybe they'd arrive tomorrow, but maybe not. Swell! I'll just toddle over to the village and buy a sari!
Welcome to India. I really am thrilled to be here.
Monday, August 2, 2010
In Which Eggplants Are Beautiful and Delicious
By the time I mentioned that eggplants are purple, all hope was lost. The house built of my Chinese flash cards was about to topple, with me inside it.
I offered a winning smile to my mystified audience and tried not to betray my hysterical internal monologue: THINK!! What else are eggplants? Oblong. Like I even know that word in Chinese. Actually, they're shaped like my old piano teacher. Maybe I should mention that? And they're delicious, but I've pointed that out already. They're cute, with their little green caps, and shiny if they're fresh. Ha ha. Ha. WHY ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT EGGPLANTS?? AAIIIEEEEEEE!! They're so pretty.
What began with bananas and good intentions had come to this.
Before me sat the headmaster and vice-headmaster of my school, the school's Communist Party representative, some guy I didn't know and Alena, the long-suffering foreign affairs liaison who hired me. They'd come to my apartment bearing gifts -- two cases of milk, three dozen bananas, some mangos and a bag of oranges -- and sympathy. It had been officially decided that Life Is Not Easy for Foreigners in Xinjiang Right Now.
And they were right. After the July 5, 2009, riots in Urumqi, internet service to the whole province had been blocked, as well as phone calls dialled to or coming from outside Xinjiang. By December, the other foreign teachers and I were feeling varying degrees of isolation.
Hence the goodwill visit. They filed into my apartment, borrowing from the News Anchor's Big Book of Emotions: So sad you can't talk to your family (frown, mournful shake of the head). But (smile, encouraging nod)! Here are some bananas!
They sat down and beamed at me. The headmaster offered a brief speech about, essentially, how nice it was that I hadn't broken my contract and fled the province (I'm reading between the lines of Alena's translation). Then he threw my second graders in my face: They love you and you love them, right? Right? Please don't break your contract.
I tried my best to reassure him in Chinese: "I don't! I don't!"
We all smiled and nodded in "yep, yep, yep" fashion, and an unwelcome silence blossomed and grew. Finally, Alena asked me in English whether I often cook at home.
I thought, since they'd been so kind with the bananas and all, that I should do my best to reply in Chinese. I mean, I'd been studying and I knew a lot of nouns...
"Sometimes," I answered. "Sometimes I cook tomato and egg. Fry them. Delicious!" They nodded agreeably; tomatoes and eggs are, indeed, delicious. "But sometimes after school I tired, you know. I don't cook. I eat chocolate and bread." Why chocolate and bread? Who even knows. It was all I could think of.
"But yesterday!" I continued. "Yesterday, I cook eggplant. I love eat eggplant, but in America I don't eat eggplant. I don't know why not." They shook their heads, mystified. They didn't know why not, either.
"In China, I want eat eggplant every day! Too delicious! Ha ha!" The ha ha helped, I think. "Yesterday, I cook eggplant and garlic together. Also, tomato and ginger. Maybe onion? I think so. Also, white rice. Delicious!" They glanced at each other and nodded. Yum.
By now, I was sweating and panicked. I'd charged down the eggplant road without a map. "Um," I said. "Eggplant best beautiful vegetable! I think! Purple! Also, healthful."
That was all I could do. I slumped back in my chair, vapor locked, and offered a wan smile to my perplexed audience. They glanced at their watches: Hey, would you look at the time! As one, they rose and offered me best wishes for health and prosperity and happiness and... whatever. Bye-bye.
Ha ha! Bye-bye! Let's eat eggplant together sometime! Ha ha! Ha.
Back to the flash cards.
I offered a winning smile to my mystified audience and tried not to betray my hysterical internal monologue: THINK!! What else are eggplants? Oblong. Like I even know that word in Chinese. Actually, they're shaped like my old piano teacher. Maybe I should mention that? And they're delicious, but I've pointed that out already. They're cute, with their little green caps, and shiny if they're fresh. Ha ha. Ha. WHY ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT EGGPLANTS?? AAIIIEEEEEEE!! They're so pretty.
What began with bananas and good intentions had come to this.
Before me sat the headmaster and vice-headmaster of my school, the school's Communist Party representative, some guy I didn't know and Alena, the long-suffering foreign affairs liaison who hired me. They'd come to my apartment bearing gifts -- two cases of milk, three dozen bananas, some mangos and a bag of oranges -- and sympathy. It had been officially decided that Life Is Not Easy for Foreigners in Xinjiang Right Now.
And they were right. After the July 5, 2009, riots in Urumqi, internet service to the whole province had been blocked, as well as phone calls dialled to or coming from outside Xinjiang. By December, the other foreign teachers and I were feeling varying degrees of isolation.
Hence the goodwill visit. They filed into my apartment, borrowing from the News Anchor's Big Book of Emotions: So sad you can't talk to your family (frown, mournful shake of the head). But (smile, encouraging nod)! Here are some bananas!
They sat down and beamed at me. The headmaster offered a brief speech about, essentially, how nice it was that I hadn't broken my contract and fled the province (I'm reading between the lines of Alena's translation). Then he threw my second graders in my face: They love you and you love them, right? Right? Please don't break your contract.
I tried my best to reassure him in Chinese: "I don't! I don't!"
We all smiled and nodded in "yep, yep, yep" fashion, and an unwelcome silence blossomed and grew. Finally, Alena asked me in English whether I often cook at home.
I thought, since they'd been so kind with the bananas and all, that I should do my best to reply in Chinese. I mean, I'd been studying and I knew a lot of nouns...
"Sometimes," I answered. "Sometimes I cook tomato and egg. Fry them. Delicious!" They nodded agreeably; tomatoes and eggs are, indeed, delicious. "But sometimes after school I tired, you know. I don't cook. I eat chocolate and bread." Why chocolate and bread? Who even knows. It was all I could think of.
"But yesterday!" I continued. "Yesterday, I cook eggplant. I love eat eggplant, but in America I don't eat eggplant. I don't know why not." They shook their heads, mystified. They didn't know why not, either.
"In China, I want eat eggplant every day! Too delicious! Ha ha!" The ha ha helped, I think. "Yesterday, I cook eggplant and garlic together. Also, tomato and ginger. Maybe onion? I think so. Also, white rice. Delicious!" They glanced at each other and nodded. Yum.
By now, I was sweating and panicked. I'd charged down the eggplant road without a map. "Um," I said. "Eggplant best beautiful vegetable! I think! Purple! Also, healthful."
That was all I could do. I slumped back in my chair, vapor locked, and offered a wan smile to my perplexed audience. They glanced at their watches: Hey, would you look at the time! As one, they rose and offered me best wishes for health and prosperity and happiness and... whatever. Bye-bye.
Ha ha! Bye-bye! Let's eat eggplant together sometime! Ha ha! Ha.
Back to the flash cards.
Friday, February 19, 2010
In Which I Eat Donkey
I thought it was beef with an unseemly past.
It was not delicious.
And that's all there is to say about that.
It was not delicious.
And that's all there is to say about that.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
In Which, Um, Yes?
I knew it was coming before the word even left their mouths -- the fleeting hint of panic flashing across their faces, the momentarily closed eyes clearly indicating a brain screaming, "AIEEEE!!! DON'T PANIC! THINK!" and then the face quickly arranged into one of three expressions:
1. pathetic, woebegone hound dog-style hopefulness
2. let's-roll-the-dice pluck
3. owlishly wise
And then they'd say the same word one of three ways, depending on their expression:
1. Yes?
2. Yes!
3. Yes. (This one was accompanied by a knowing nod.)
At which point I'd inwardly sigh and repeat my question: "Where... are... you... from?"
I was midway through oral exams, done one-on-one with each of my students at the end of the term. I asked students questions from what we'd studied during the previous months, they (in theory) answered and we had a nice little conversation. And sometimes it worked out that way. Sometimes my students and I had great little chats and I wrote A+ in my grade book with an ecstatic flourish.
But then there were the Other Times.
I could always tell it was going to be one of those Other Times when a student slunk into the teachers' office with all the enthusiasm of a visit to the oral surgeon. They'd slouch into the chair near mine and either avoid eye contact or tremble pitifully. I wrung my heart out for them and tried to be gentle.
"What's your name?"
"Where are you from?"
"What do you like?"
Um, yes?
I tried not to sigh. But sometimes... *sigh* If I paused or wilted even a little, they quickly amended to an emphatic "No!" Then I just smiled, said it slower, nodded encouragingly and, finally, whispered hints in Chinese. In the end, everyone got a sticker on their hand and encouraging pats or squeezes to convey my heartfelt message of, "You! Good-ish job, you!" I knew they were trying their best.
Plus, I'm not exactly in a position to judge. Like my students, I'm a congenital guesser.
Sometimes, it's the only thing to do with these impossible languages. As hard as I study Chinese, it remains my Waterloo. In my darker moments, I believe it's the most elaborate practical joke foisted on the world, and that these alleged "Chinese" speakers go home, lock their doors and have a merry laugh, all the while speaking a normal language.
Fortunately, Mandarin Chinese has a sentence construction where people end a thought with "dui bu dui (right or wrong)," "shi bu shi (yes or no)," "you mei you (have don't have)" -- things like that. For example, I could go to a store and say, "Wo yao suan nai -- you mei you? (I want yogurt -- do you have it or not?)" (Which looks really aggressive, but I'd say it nicely.)
So I figure, when people talk to me -- and I don't understand all or most of it, of course -- all I have to do is guess right. My odds of saying the correct thing are 50 percent, odds I can live with.
Unlike my students, however, the only expression I can muster is pathetic, woebegone hound dog-style hopefulness: "Um. Shi? You? Dui?" Like my students, I always start with the affirmative. Positivity must count for something! If I'm met with a weird expression, I quickly amend my answer. Bu dui! Mei you! Bu shi!
Sometimes I even say the right thing, and mentally put a sticker on my own hand, awarding myself an A+ for effort and praying the conversation ends there.
1. pathetic, woebegone hound dog-style hopefulness
2. let's-roll-the-dice pluck
3. owlishly wise
And then they'd say the same word one of three ways, depending on their expression:
1. Yes?
2. Yes!
3. Yes. (This one was accompanied by a knowing nod.)
At which point I'd inwardly sigh and repeat my question: "Where... are... you... from?"
I was midway through oral exams, done one-on-one with each of my students at the end of the term. I asked students questions from what we'd studied during the previous months, they (in theory) answered and we had a nice little conversation. And sometimes it worked out that way. Sometimes my students and I had great little chats and I wrote A+ in my grade book with an ecstatic flourish.
But then there were the Other Times.
I could always tell it was going to be one of those Other Times when a student slunk into the teachers' office with all the enthusiasm of a visit to the oral surgeon. They'd slouch into the chair near mine and either avoid eye contact or tremble pitifully. I wrung my heart out for them and tried to be gentle.
"What's your name?"
"Where are you from?"
"What do you like?"
Um, yes?
I tried not to sigh. But sometimes... *sigh* If I paused or wilted even a little, they quickly amended to an emphatic "No!" Then I just smiled, said it slower, nodded encouragingly and, finally, whispered hints in Chinese. In the end, everyone got a sticker on their hand and encouraging pats or squeezes to convey my heartfelt message of, "You! Good-ish job, you!" I knew they were trying their best.
Plus, I'm not exactly in a position to judge. Like my students, I'm a congenital guesser.
Sometimes, it's the only thing to do with these impossible languages. As hard as I study Chinese, it remains my Waterloo. In my darker moments, I believe it's the most elaborate practical joke foisted on the world, and that these alleged "Chinese" speakers go home, lock their doors and have a merry laugh, all the while speaking a normal language.
Fortunately, Mandarin Chinese has a sentence construction where people end a thought with "dui bu dui (right or wrong)," "shi bu shi (yes or no)," "you mei you (have don't have)" -- things like that. For example, I could go to a store and say, "Wo yao suan nai -- you mei you? (I want yogurt -- do you have it or not?)" (Which looks really aggressive, but I'd say it nicely.)
So I figure, when people talk to me -- and I don't understand all or most of it, of course -- all I have to do is guess right. My odds of saying the correct thing are 50 percent, odds I can live with.
Unlike my students, however, the only expression I can muster is pathetic, woebegone hound dog-style hopefulness: "Um. Shi? You? Dui?" Like my students, I always start with the affirmative. Positivity must count for something! If I'm met with a weird expression, I quickly amend my answer. Bu dui! Mei you! Bu shi!
Sometimes I even say the right thing, and mentally put a sticker on my own hand, awarding myself an A+ for effort and praying the conversation ends there.
In Which I Become That Person
It was such a subtle transformation that I didn't notice it happening. Over what seemed like the space of a long sigh, I went from being Fun Aunt to being That Person.
That Person, who eats enough fiber, who never wakes up with confetti in her underwear, who doesn't think burps are funny, who could stop a steamroller with one stern "ahem."
That Person doesn't wear frivolous shoes. That Person gets eight hours of sleep. That Person would never guzzle sugared soda or cram an entire donut in her mouth.
That Person spots three boys lurking behind a door and is filled with world-saving purpose.
I couldn't help it. It was time for the Monday morning assembly, when everyone in the primary and middle schools lines up on the football field to be harangued (I'm guessing -- it sounds like haranguing) by the principal and endure the middle school band's rendition of the Chinese national anthem. I was a bit late arriving from the other campus, so I scurried to my spot in line by the other teachers.
But that's when I saw them, three sixth-grade boys half-hidden behind a door. They should have been out on the football field with every other student, but instead they were hunched over a Gameboy.
Here is where I should make clear that they were not my students and therefore not my problem. Rather, they were not Fun Aunt's problem.
That Person, however -- an Atlas with the world rightfully balanced on her righteous shoulders -- had to Do Something. This Lurking and Hunching and Skulking was not to be endured.
So engrossed were they in their miscreance that they didn't hear my approach.
"Ahem," I said, all raised eyebrows and thin lips.
They jerked around with fearful eyes, hyenas caught in the act of eating a cute baby zebra.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
The sputtered and stuttered, the Chinese equivalent of "hubba wubba."
"Go," I said, pointing a Zeus-like finger toward the football field. They scuttled away at, I would estimate, 40 miles an hour.
Well. Indeed. That was that. I mentally dusted off my hands and continued to my place in line, That Person in all her beige, rule-abiding glory, radiating sensibility and virtue.
And elsewhere in the universe, a handful of confetti died.
That Person, who eats enough fiber, who never wakes up with confetti in her underwear, who doesn't think burps are funny, who could stop a steamroller with one stern "ahem."
That Person doesn't wear frivolous shoes. That Person gets eight hours of sleep. That Person would never guzzle sugared soda or cram an entire donut in her mouth.
That Person spots three boys lurking behind a door and is filled with world-saving purpose.
I couldn't help it. It was time for the Monday morning assembly, when everyone in the primary and middle schools lines up on the football field to be harangued (I'm guessing -- it sounds like haranguing) by the principal and endure the middle school band's rendition of the Chinese national anthem. I was a bit late arriving from the other campus, so I scurried to my spot in line by the other teachers.
But that's when I saw them, three sixth-grade boys half-hidden behind a door. They should have been out on the football field with every other student, but instead they were hunched over a Gameboy.
Here is where I should make clear that they were not my students and therefore not my problem. Rather, they were not Fun Aunt's problem.
That Person, however -- an Atlas with the world rightfully balanced on her righteous shoulders -- had to Do Something. This Lurking and Hunching and Skulking was not to be endured.
So engrossed were they in their miscreance that they didn't hear my approach.
"Ahem," I said, all raised eyebrows and thin lips.
They jerked around with fearful eyes, hyenas caught in the act of eating a cute baby zebra.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
The sputtered and stuttered, the Chinese equivalent of "hubba wubba."
"Go," I said, pointing a Zeus-like finger toward the football field. They scuttled away at, I would estimate, 40 miles an hour.
Well. Indeed. That was that. I mentally dusted off my hands and continued to my place in line, That Person in all her beige, rule-abiding glory, radiating sensibility and virtue.
And elsewhere in the universe, a handful of confetti died.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
In Which You Know How Sometimes Bears Climb Up Mulberry Trees, then Gorge Themselves on Berries Until They're Kind of Punch Drunk?
And then they accidentally fall out of the tree? No?
Anyway.
At least I didn't break anything.
Anyway.
At least I didn't break anything.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
In Which We Speak the International Language of Camera
The staring has never really bothered me. I know how tall I am, how pink, how American-looking. I know my brown hair, so average in the United States, is startling here. If I were truly rotten, I know I could scare the crap out of people by making a sudden movement in their direction.
Instead, I smile. A lot. I smile to say, "Ni hao!" And I smile to say, "See? We're so alike! Both of us human!" And I smile to say, "Have no fear. I am not a gorgon come to eat your children."
Sitting on the train from Korla to Kuche -- a journey of four hours, made mostly with Uyghurs returning home -- I smiled my mouth very nearly off. People strolling the aisle glanced at me and then did a whiplash double-take: What the... ? I began noticing the same people walking by again and again, slower each time, unblinking. They dragged their friends along with an implied, "See? And you didn't believe me!"
So, I smiled and smiled. I said, "Ni hao!" I said, "Wo shi Mei guo ren! (I'm American)." And I pulled out my camera to take photos of them, because they were beautiful and because I wanted to demonstrate that Americans are so friendly -- like highly trainable puppies.
They blushed and waved their hands, then posed. Others approached shyly, proudly holding babies, clearly wanting their pictures taken, too. I'd take a picture with my little point-and-shoot, then turn it around so they could see themselves on the LCD screen. There was gasping and exclaiming and laughing. I demonstrated the camera's use, then lightly placed it in a few hesitant but eager hands.
Well. After this, all shyness was gone. A few adults invited me to pose with them, pointing to the camera, to me and to themselves, and I understood perfectly. Soon, nothing would do but I must sit down while various children were deposited in my lap to have their picture taken with me, in the manner of a department store Santa Claus.
I fretted that I had no way to get these photos to the various parents, but I don't think that mattered. The taking of the photo was the thing. This is why there now are quite a few children in Kuche who know exactly one English word: cheese.
Instead, I smile. A lot. I smile to say, "Ni hao!" And I smile to say, "See? We're so alike! Both of us human!" And I smile to say, "Have no fear. I am not a gorgon come to eat your children."
Sitting on the train from Korla to Kuche -- a journey of four hours, made mostly with Uyghurs returning home -- I smiled my mouth very nearly off. People strolling the aisle glanced at me and then did a whiplash double-take: What the... ? I began noticing the same people walking by again and again, slower each time, unblinking. They dragged their friends along with an implied, "See? And you didn't believe me!"
So, I smiled and smiled. I said, "Ni hao!" I said, "Wo shi Mei guo ren! (I'm American)." And I pulled out my camera to take photos of them, because they were beautiful and because I wanted to demonstrate that Americans are so friendly -- like highly trainable puppies.
They blushed and waved their hands, then posed. Others approached shyly, proudly holding babies, clearly wanting their pictures taken, too. I'd take a picture with my little point-and-shoot, then turn it around so they could see themselves on the LCD screen. There was gasping and exclaiming and laughing. I demonstrated the camera's use, then lightly placed it in a few hesitant but eager hands.
Well. After this, all shyness was gone. A few adults invited me to pose with them, pointing to the camera, to me and to themselves, and I understood perfectly. Soon, nothing would do but I must sit down while various children were deposited in my lap to have their picture taken with me, in the manner of a department store Santa Claus.
I fretted that I had no way to get these photos to the various parents, but I don't think that mattered. The taking of the photo was the thing. This is why there now are quite a few children in Kuche who know exactly one English word: cheese.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
In Which I Eat the Bread and Hope for the Best
Not five minutes before, I had watched those grubby little hands being licked clean. And previous to that, they had wiped the dirt from the soles of small purple sandals. Now, they were reaching toward me, grasping the piece of bread I was being offered.
Her enormous dark eyes, which had dimmed with fear when she first saw me -- she'd never seen a foreigner before, her mother explained -- were friendly little gingersnaps now. I was a singer of songs, a maker of silly faces and a shameless tickler. We were pals, this 4-year-old and I. Her mother had given her piece of flat bread, and she tore off a piece for me.
And now it was waving in front of my face, held in the hand that I knew was very, very dirty.
A strident voice in my head sputtered and tut-tutted and implied that I deserved for every amoeba, parasite and germ in the world to take up residence in my intestines if I even thought about eating it. "Are you insane?" the voice screeched. "You're in rural China! You'll get sick! Just look at those hands!"
"Yes," echoed a gentler, quieter voice. "Just look at those hands, those sturdy, sweet little things with their dimples and grime, hands that rarely rest from playing." This voice, this nicer voice, reminds me that after all I can do -- after getting every shot before I came here and taking every health precaution I can when I'm by myself -- sometimes I just have to take a deep breath, eat the bread and hope for the best. This is the voice that won't let me say no to a little girl sharing her lunch.
So, I grinned and took the bread, making a great show of eating it with rapturous delight and nummy-nummy noises. I may have even patted my stomach.
Wise? Probably not. Before I came here, I vigilantly read everything the CDC has to say about food safety, and can sum it up thus: Just don't. Don't drink the water. Don't eat the street food. Don't eat the uncooked vegetables. Don't even consider anything that's been touched by ungloved hands. Don't look directly at uncooked meat. Don't talk about raw fish in anything louder than a whisper.
This is excellent advice, and I've done my best to heed it. But I'm conflicted over what I should to do when I'm out hiking with my new Chinese friends, and we've stopped for a rest, and they're passing around the cucumbers, and it's such a friendly, convivial moment. Most likely, the cucumber was rinsed in tap water, rather than soaked in iodine water in my kitchen. I should refuse. But... I can't. Reckless and foolhardy, I know.
So far, Providence has been kind and my immune system is champion of the world. This may not always be the case, but I hope the universe smiles kindly on those who try to consider the feelings of others, only occasionally practice food safety relativism and don't act like big, American jerks.
Perhaps this is why I was offered another piece of bread after the first, and then another piece after that, each accompanied by a friendly little smile.
Open wide, chew chew chew, big swallow and bigger grin. Mmmm-mmmmm, nummy nummy.
This is the girl who gave me the bread. I mean, really: those eyes? Like I could refuse.
Her enormous dark eyes, which had dimmed with fear when she first saw me -- she'd never seen a foreigner before, her mother explained -- were friendly little gingersnaps now. I was a singer of songs, a maker of silly faces and a shameless tickler. We were pals, this 4-year-old and I. Her mother had given her piece of flat bread, and she tore off a piece for me.
And now it was waving in front of my face, held in the hand that I knew was very, very dirty.
A strident voice in my head sputtered and tut-tutted and implied that I deserved for every amoeba, parasite and germ in the world to take up residence in my intestines if I even thought about eating it. "Are you insane?" the voice screeched. "You're in rural China! You'll get sick! Just look at those hands!"
"Yes," echoed a gentler, quieter voice. "Just look at those hands, those sturdy, sweet little things with their dimples and grime, hands that rarely rest from playing." This voice, this nicer voice, reminds me that after all I can do -- after getting every shot before I came here and taking every health precaution I can when I'm by myself -- sometimes I just have to take a deep breath, eat the bread and hope for the best. This is the voice that won't let me say no to a little girl sharing her lunch.
So, I grinned and took the bread, making a great show of eating it with rapturous delight and nummy-nummy noises. I may have even patted my stomach.
Wise? Probably not. Before I came here, I vigilantly read everything the CDC has to say about food safety, and can sum it up thus: Just don't. Don't drink the water. Don't eat the street food. Don't eat the uncooked vegetables. Don't even consider anything that's been touched by ungloved hands. Don't look directly at uncooked meat. Don't talk about raw fish in anything louder than a whisper.
This is excellent advice, and I've done my best to heed it. But I'm conflicted over what I should to do when I'm out hiking with my new Chinese friends, and we've stopped for a rest, and they're passing around the cucumbers, and it's such a friendly, convivial moment. Most likely, the cucumber was rinsed in tap water, rather than soaked in iodine water in my kitchen. I should refuse. But... I can't. Reckless and foolhardy, I know.
So far, Providence has been kind and my immune system is champion of the world. This may not always be the case, but I hope the universe smiles kindly on those who try to consider the feelings of others, only occasionally practice food safety relativism and don't act like big, American jerks.
Perhaps this is why I was offered another piece of bread after the first, and then another piece after that, each accompanied by a friendly little smile.
Open wide, chew chew chew, big swallow and bigger grin. Mmmm-mmmmm, nummy nummy.
This is the girl who gave me the bread. I mean, really: those eyes? Like I could refuse.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
In Which English Is a Bit Clever
In the gentle mists of vagueness through which I sometimes wander, where laziness or manners prohibit specificity, there is no more "kinda." My old friend "sorta" is gone, too, along with "oh, well, you know..."
Instead, there is "a bit."
Rachel, is it hot today? A bit. Are you hungry? A bit. Do you enjoy playing ping-pong? A bit. Are you, yourself, starting to sound like a beginning English learner? A bit, a bit, a flipping bit! And a British one at that.
My younger students know "a bit," thanks to the British textbooks from which they're learning English. And I've discovered that it's so much easier to speak in the vocabulary my students know.
When they do well in class, when I'm happy and they're happy and everyone's swaddled in the rosy cocoon of understanding, I want to bubble, "You guys are so smart!" Except they don't know "you guys" or "smart." So, I settle for, "Students! You are clever!"
Clever? Clever? Since when? I say! So veddy, veddy clevah! I've taught them smart, but they're getting "clever" three times a week from their Chinese English teachers and "smart" once a week from me. So, clever it is.
And naughty: Any bad behavior is deemed "naughty," from talking in class to running out into traffic. On more than one occasion, I have shaken my head disappointedly and murmured, "So naughty." Like a twittering debutante with a fan and a dance card and the attentions of London's most notorious rogue.
It's a little easier with my older students, though I consistently praise them for being "cool" and "hard-working." They know these ones very well. And whenever I ask them for a noun, I can count on it being "banana." I don't know why, it just always is.
The thing is, I catch myself talking this way all the time now. "The problem is," I told my sister on the phone the other day, "the boys in that class are a bit naughty. And they're clever! They're just not hard-working, is the thing."
*Sigh* I need a banana.
Instead, there is "a bit."
Rachel, is it hot today? A bit. Are you hungry? A bit. Do you enjoy playing ping-pong? A bit. Are you, yourself, starting to sound like a beginning English learner? A bit, a bit, a flipping bit! And a British one at that.
My younger students know "a bit," thanks to the British textbooks from which they're learning English. And I've discovered that it's so much easier to speak in the vocabulary my students know.
When they do well in class, when I'm happy and they're happy and everyone's swaddled in the rosy cocoon of understanding, I want to bubble, "You guys are so smart!" Except they don't know "you guys" or "smart." So, I settle for, "Students! You are clever!"
Clever? Clever? Since when? I say! So veddy, veddy clevah! I've taught them smart, but they're getting "clever" three times a week from their Chinese English teachers and "smart" once a week from me. So, clever it is.
And naughty: Any bad behavior is deemed "naughty," from talking in class to running out into traffic. On more than one occasion, I have shaken my head disappointedly and murmured, "So naughty." Like a twittering debutante with a fan and a dance card and the attentions of London's most notorious rogue.
It's a little easier with my older students, though I consistently praise them for being "cool" and "hard-working." They know these ones very well. And whenever I ask them for a noun, I can count on it being "banana." I don't know why, it just always is.
The thing is, I catch myself talking this way all the time now. "The problem is," I told my sister on the phone the other day, "the boys in that class are a bit naughty. And they're clever! They're just not hard-working, is the thing."
*Sigh* I need a banana.
Monday, May 11, 2009
In Which the Stylist Almost Has an Aneurysm
One solution to this belligerent insistence hair has on, you know, growing is baldness. I wondered if that's what the stylist was thinking, too, because it had been 15 minutes and he was still back there combing, combing, combing with shaking hands. He could comb me bald and I'd never traumatize him again.
It seemed like such a simple thing, getting a trim. My hair was a little shaggy, I had some wayward split ends and I'd solemnly vowed to several people that I would stop cutting my own hair. So, I'd have someone else do it! No big deal! Twenty minutes, in and out!
China, as usual, found my notions to be charming and laughably quaint.
There's a salon near my apartment -- next to the store where I don't buy Oreos every single day, even though I want to -- and it seemed like a nice, friendly place to get a haircut. I spent half an hour writing the appropriate speech: I'd like a haircut, please. Please cut 3 - 4 centimeters. I like this style I have now, with the layers.
Striding confidently into the salon, I smiled winningly and declared, "Qing, wo yao yi ge lifa (Please, I want a haircut)." The lady nodded. Then it went precipitously downhill, as usual: "Qing... uh, qing (frantic scissor motion with my fingers, jabbing choppily at the lock of hair I was grasping)..." Finally, after repeated spasms of pidgin Chinese, I just handed her the paper with my speech. She read and the corner of her mouth trembled. What had been the straight line of her mouth began dancing like a sound wave.
Then it was an open grin. She called to the other stylists, what I assume was the Chinese version of "Y'all! C'mere and git a load of this!" They passed my paper around like it was a mash note, pointing out the particularly juicy bits to each other. Haw haw, lookee there.
So, I was feeling a little defensive. Just cut my hair, OK?
But they meant no harm, and a small crowd of stylists and other customers led me to a chair. From the crowd, one stylist emerged. A black utility belt was wrapped around his waist, from which protruded various scissors and combs. He wore an expression of determination mingled with terror.
At this point, it's important to remember two things about getting a haircut at the salon near my apartment:
1. Foreigners are very rare in Korla.
2. Chinese hair is extremely textured and uniformly black. It's gorgeous -- a rich onyx that catches and holds light -- but very different from my own disobedient, medium brown hair.
Through charades, we determined how much I wanted cut (thumb and forefinger held 4 centimeters apart) and that I wanted layers (flat hand chopping up my hair). He read my note again, just in case. He adjusted his shirt. He flexed his fingers. He smiled weakly at the other stylists who were hovering nearby. And then he began combing.
And kept combing. Combing, combing, combing in long, even strokes. He adjusted his shirt again and squared his shoulders. And combed, combed, combed. Deep breath. Comb, comb, comb. He got a stool so he could sit behind me. Comb, comb, comb. He pulled a pair of scissors from his belt and combed some more. Then he decided those scissors would never do, which called for more combing. Different scissors! Comb, comb, comb. He clipped portions of my hair up, then combed the hair beneath.
Comb, comb, comb. Comb. Comb... comb.
Finally, with the delicacy of Indiana Jones exchanging a golden idol for a bag of sand, he raised the scissors to my hair.
Snip. Snip... snip.
I could feel my hair growing back between snips. He trembled onward, growing almost imperceptibly more confident with each cut. The photos probably helped.
As he cut, other stylists approached with their cell phone cameras. At first, they stood at a distance, recording their Brave Comrade in his Valiant Dealings with Caucasian hair. He was a hero. He was a rock star. They inched closer, standing to my side, venturing in front of me, snapping pictures with every snip of the scissors.
Then I cut my eyes to the left and saw another face beside my ear. Photo opportunity! Hi, mom! The stylist grinned and flashed the peace sign while her co-worker took her picture. My haircut: fun for everyone.
And the man cutting my hair braved resolutely onward. My bangs, with their impossible cowlicks, caused him particular pangs. Cutting a molecule at a time, then stopping between times for some soothing combing, he sighed and fretted. I wanted to tell him, "You're doing awesome!" And I wanted to tell him, "Dude, don't worry. No matter what happens, it'll grow back." But all I could do was grin like a lunatic and declare, "Hen hao! Wo hen kuaile! (Very good! I'm very happy!)" He smiled wanly and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his cuff.
Anyway, he worried for nothing. Two hours later and I had a great haircut. As he whipped the cape from around my shoulders, several other stylists applauded, like he was a chef who'd just set the baked Alaska on fire. Ta da!
They all saw me to the door, and I don't know whether I made his day or ruined it when I said I'd see him next time.
It seemed like such a simple thing, getting a trim. My hair was a little shaggy, I had some wayward split ends and I'd solemnly vowed to several people that I would stop cutting my own hair. So, I'd have someone else do it! No big deal! Twenty minutes, in and out!
China, as usual, found my notions to be charming and laughably quaint.
There's a salon near my apartment -- next to the store where I don't buy Oreos every single day, even though I want to -- and it seemed like a nice, friendly place to get a haircut. I spent half an hour writing the appropriate speech: I'd like a haircut, please. Please cut 3 - 4 centimeters. I like this style I have now, with the layers.
Striding confidently into the salon, I smiled winningly and declared, "Qing, wo yao yi ge lifa (Please, I want a haircut)." The lady nodded. Then it went precipitously downhill, as usual: "Qing... uh, qing (frantic scissor motion with my fingers, jabbing choppily at the lock of hair I was grasping)..." Finally, after repeated spasms of pidgin Chinese, I just handed her the paper with my speech. She read and the corner of her mouth trembled. What had been the straight line of her mouth began dancing like a sound wave.
Then it was an open grin. She called to the other stylists, what I assume was the Chinese version of "Y'all! C'mere and git a load of this!" They passed my paper around like it was a mash note, pointing out the particularly juicy bits to each other. Haw haw, lookee there.
So, I was feeling a little defensive. Just cut my hair, OK?
But they meant no harm, and a small crowd of stylists and other customers led me to a chair. From the crowd, one stylist emerged. A black utility belt was wrapped around his waist, from which protruded various scissors and combs. He wore an expression of determination mingled with terror.
At this point, it's important to remember two things about getting a haircut at the salon near my apartment:
1. Foreigners are very rare in Korla.
2. Chinese hair is extremely textured and uniformly black. It's gorgeous -- a rich onyx that catches and holds light -- but very different from my own disobedient, medium brown hair.
Through charades, we determined how much I wanted cut (thumb and forefinger held 4 centimeters apart) and that I wanted layers (flat hand chopping up my hair). He read my note again, just in case. He adjusted his shirt. He flexed his fingers. He smiled weakly at the other stylists who were hovering nearby. And then he began combing.
And kept combing. Combing, combing, combing in long, even strokes. He adjusted his shirt again and squared his shoulders. And combed, combed, combed. Deep breath. Comb, comb, comb. He got a stool so he could sit behind me. Comb, comb, comb. He pulled a pair of scissors from his belt and combed some more. Then he decided those scissors would never do, which called for more combing. Different scissors! Comb, comb, comb. He clipped portions of my hair up, then combed the hair beneath.
Comb, comb, comb. Comb. Comb... comb.
Finally, with the delicacy of Indiana Jones exchanging a golden idol for a bag of sand, he raised the scissors to my hair.
Snip. Snip... snip.
I could feel my hair growing back between snips. He trembled onward, growing almost imperceptibly more confident with each cut. The photos probably helped.
As he cut, other stylists approached with their cell phone cameras. At first, they stood at a distance, recording their Brave Comrade in his Valiant Dealings with Caucasian hair. He was a hero. He was a rock star. They inched closer, standing to my side, venturing in front of me, snapping pictures with every snip of the scissors.
Then I cut my eyes to the left and saw another face beside my ear. Photo opportunity! Hi, mom! The stylist grinned and flashed the peace sign while her co-worker took her picture. My haircut: fun for everyone.
And the man cutting my hair braved resolutely onward. My bangs, with their impossible cowlicks, caused him particular pangs. Cutting a molecule at a time, then stopping between times for some soothing combing, he sighed and fretted. I wanted to tell him, "You're doing awesome!" And I wanted to tell him, "Dude, don't worry. No matter what happens, it'll grow back." But all I could do was grin like a lunatic and declare, "Hen hao! Wo hen kuaile! (Very good! I'm very happy!)" He smiled wanly and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his cuff.
Anyway, he worried for nothing. Two hours later and I had a great haircut. As he whipped the cape from around my shoulders, several other stylists applauded, like he was a chef who'd just set the baked Alaska on fire. Ta da!
They all saw me to the door, and I don't know whether I made his day or ruined it when I said I'd see him next time.
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