I have some things that I need to move out of my head and into the public domain. It's the same principal as co-location for servers, so that if the data is lost or destroyed in one place, it's backed up somewhere else. In my case, the biggest danger is forgetting once the moment's passed.
Thought 1: The Odds Game
As I ride around in the back of rickshaws through the city, I've noticed that there are certain probabilities of seeing certain things as you go by. I guess it's like the road bingo game we used to play when were kids on long trips in the back of the family station wagon. This game can be played alone, in teams, for money, for surreptitious shots of booze, whatever your pleasure. To illustrate your chances of seeing these things around town, I've compiled a mental list which will now be immortalized on the stones of Planet Grelican.
Odds (per 5 km travel distance) of:
Seeing a leper: 40%
Seeing someone urinating (male): 90%
Seeing someone urinating(female): <5%
Seeing a cow in the road: 50%
Seeing a diseased cow in the road: 10%
" someone praying to a Hindu god (various): 30%
" someone praying to Allah: 10%
" someone praying to Jesus, etc.: <5%
A rickshaw driver who actually goes by the meter: 80%
A rickshaw driver who takes the most direct route: 60%
A rickshaw driver who understands more than 1 word in 10 of your directions: 20%
Smelling something nasty other than pollution: 35%
Driving by shanty housing (tarps and tents): 90%
Seeing a large open fire: 15%
Seeing a fellow westerner/white person: 5%
Seeing a dog getting into something it shouldn't: 70%
Smelling incense: 50%
That list is in no particular order, and may be added to if more things come to mind. Just something to pass the time.
Thought 2: The Indian Peasant Diaper (IPD)
IPD is a term I came up for men who wear a large amount of fabric below the waist tied up in a way that makes it look like a diaper. IPD's are too common to include in the odds game. I'll try and get a good picture of an IPD and post it on here if I can figure out the HTML. It's something that you see on the side of the road; a man standing there with a vapid look in his jaundiced eyes, puffing on a beedi, waiting for something to happen. In a diaper.
Thought 3: The Indian Head Nod (IHN)
The IHN is anthropological proof that the up-down for yes, and side-to-side for no are not universal, ingrained traits in the human psyche. It's maddening to someone from the outside. To illustrate, it's sort of a bobbing from side to side like a go-go dancer or something, making a sort of infinity symbol with your head. For anyone who ever played Mike Tyson's Punchout for the original Nintendo, it's the exact gesture that the Indian tiger guy did before you were supposed to sock him with an uppercut for the K.O. To me it looks like some sort of non-committal gesture, like, eh, maybe. An example of its use:
I flag down a rickshaw, ask him to take me to Magadi Road and Majestic, right by the Leprosy Hospital (where I live). The request is made in pidgin English with a bad attempt at an Indian accent for clarity. The driver does the IHN. I ask, "Yes?... No?" IHN, smile. "Uh..."
As a matter of practice, the IHN has about a 75% probability of meaning yes, but it's always good to get some kind of secondary confirmation. Now I'm doing it. We'll see if it confuses you when I get home.
The Jerry Springer Final Thought:
The common thread of these bits of information is probability. It seems that fuzzy math is really the best way to negotiate this city. There are no absolutes; you need to know the odds of a certain event in advance, and play the game accordingly. I think quantum theorists could have a lot of fun with it. It's the predictability of unpredictability, really stretching the bounds of traditional logic, Newtonian physics and all those things I was never really good at. Odds games are simpler, and they must have driven generations of starched British colonialists mad. For me, the uncertainty is comforting in its predictability. It only works when you grow an intimacy with a place that no science has really tackled. I think that's still literature's jurisdiction.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Batman Begins...
Batman Begins right at 1:35, exactly what the ticket says, except for one thing. It really begins. I mean, everyone from the 11:00 show pours out, shoving through the crowd trying to get in, and the movie has already begun before half of the new crowd can find their seats, which luckily, are assigned. The theatre is pitch black as you push in through the doors. Ushers with high candle-power flashlights show each and everyone to their seats. People continue to straggle in for the next half hour, and ushers move through the seats. People are all talking; talking about getting some popcorn, something to drink. They're sending text messages and using the lights from their phones to rummage through purses for tissues, and other mundane tasks. The movie was spectacular, probably the best Batman movie since the first one. Right at the climax comes the intermission. 10 minutes pass. Popcorn is retrieved from outside, and the process of resettling into seats takes place during a preview for an upcoming Bollywood movie, which, I gathered, was something about the Bombay gangster underworld. The lead actor is an Indian Al Pacino. Looks like it'd be worth checking out. I wonder if they have English subtitles.
So eventually Batman Begins ends, and we are the people shoving our way out between the throngs clawing to catch the opening sequence of the 4:00 show, between the bumpers of tightly packed valet parked cars, followed by row upon row of scooter, motorcycle, and strange hybrids inbetween. This species of vehicle here is called a "two wheeler". That's a term I stopped using around the time I stopped using training wheels, but in this context the difference between "two wheeler" and "four wheeler" makes a lot of sense. Most people get around on some form of two-wheeler or another. Gas is expensive, the streets crowded, and even parking a car anywhere is a luxury few can afford.
I've had a few terrifying rides on the backs of two wheelers for various reasons. The important thing to remember is that you have no control. Find a good hand grip, keep your feet up, good posture, and place all faith in the person at the helm. People do it all the time, right? I mean , I see women sitting side-saddle in saris as their husbands take them home. I see families of four precariously balanced on mopeds in stop-and-go traffic 6 "lanes" wide. A father and son with a 25" tv on the kid's lap, balancing for all he's worth. How bad could my lot be, right? I keep telling myself this to keep calm. This is normal. People do it all the time. We whip clockwise around a circle, and fly off down a road like a pinball off the spring release, down into bumpers and flashing lights, we never seem to fall. Trust the pinball wizard I say. He's got such a supple wrist, revving the engine, grabbing clutch and brake. How do you think he does it? I don't know. What makes him so good?
I'm working on spreadsheets at the office this week, combing through ream upon ream of Indian Bureaucratic documents, tallying up various forms of corrupt acts, committed by all level of civil servant, in all of 28 districts that make up Karnataka State. The spreadsheet. When you get into this kind of work, it's not long before it's all automatic. The "in" stack on the left gradually moves into the "out" stack on the right. The sands of the hourglass pass from top to bottom, and it's time to go. I've been spending my afternoons and evenings making instant noodles with my primative hot water heater, drinking imitation Tang, and heading into downtown to buy presents for people back home. I'm just busy enough. Just enough time to read books, do push-ups, swat mosquitoes, and stare out the window. It's really OK. I relish the private time here. It's dawned on me just how rare a silent, uninhabited corner is here. Isolation is really at a premium. I imagine there's a market for it that's controlled by some mysterious cabal like the DeBeers family has on diamonds. They've been kind to me. I must owe them a favor by now.
So next week I travel. I'll be headed to Hampi, a backpacker temple town, then on to Pune to visit Public Heath colleagues doing their research up there, on to Bombay, and then down the coast into Goa and points south. Should be a blast, though the monsoons are coming, and I hear the sea is filled with jellyfish. No matter. I'll find a cabana and a coconut drink one way or another, rain or shine.
So eventually Batman Begins ends, and we are the people shoving our way out between the throngs clawing to catch the opening sequence of the 4:00 show, between the bumpers of tightly packed valet parked cars, followed by row upon row of scooter, motorcycle, and strange hybrids inbetween. This species of vehicle here is called a "two wheeler". That's a term I stopped using around the time I stopped using training wheels, but in this context the difference between "two wheeler" and "four wheeler" makes a lot of sense. Most people get around on some form of two-wheeler or another. Gas is expensive, the streets crowded, and even parking a car anywhere is a luxury few can afford.
I've had a few terrifying rides on the backs of two wheelers for various reasons. The important thing to remember is that you have no control. Find a good hand grip, keep your feet up, good posture, and place all faith in the person at the helm. People do it all the time, right? I mean , I see women sitting side-saddle in saris as their husbands take them home. I see families of four precariously balanced on mopeds in stop-and-go traffic 6 "lanes" wide. A father and son with a 25" tv on the kid's lap, balancing for all he's worth. How bad could my lot be, right? I keep telling myself this to keep calm. This is normal. People do it all the time. We whip clockwise around a circle, and fly off down a road like a pinball off the spring release, down into bumpers and flashing lights, we never seem to fall. Trust the pinball wizard I say. He's got such a supple wrist, revving the engine, grabbing clutch and brake. How do you think he does it? I don't know. What makes him so good?
I'm working on spreadsheets at the office this week, combing through ream upon ream of Indian Bureaucratic documents, tallying up various forms of corrupt acts, committed by all level of civil servant, in all of 28 districts that make up Karnataka State. The spreadsheet. When you get into this kind of work, it's not long before it's all automatic. The "in" stack on the left gradually moves into the "out" stack on the right. The sands of the hourglass pass from top to bottom, and it's time to go. I've been spending my afternoons and evenings making instant noodles with my primative hot water heater, drinking imitation Tang, and heading into downtown to buy presents for people back home. I'm just busy enough. Just enough time to read books, do push-ups, swat mosquitoes, and stare out the window. It's really OK. I relish the private time here. It's dawned on me just how rare a silent, uninhabited corner is here. Isolation is really at a premium. I imagine there's a market for it that's controlled by some mysterious cabal like the DeBeers family has on diamonds. They've been kind to me. I must owe them a favor by now.
So next week I travel. I'll be headed to Hampi, a backpacker temple town, then on to Pune to visit Public Heath colleagues doing their research up there, on to Bombay, and then down the coast into Goa and points south. Should be a blast, though the monsoons are coming, and I hear the sea is filled with jellyfish. No matter. I'll find a cabana and a coconut drink one way or another, rain or shine.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
This is the part where...
...things all start to blur together. I think I've been everywhere in Bangalore I've wanted to go, seen what I want to see. It's getting that comfortable feeling, the reliability of going to the same internet cafe, smiling at the kid with eczema, eating at the same 5 or six restaurants. (Rotation: Indian, Chinese, American, Indian, Chinese, American...) It's kind of a cool feeling to get used to the streets, feeling the labyrinthine snakes of roads and alleys coalesce into an internal map fueled by instinct. I could never draw the map accurately, but I always seem to know where I am, and when a rickshaw driver is "taking me for a ride".
Other than some wrap-up work for Dr. Sudarshan, the last thing I really have to do in Bangalore is buy gifts for people. It is sort of a strange thing when you go by the appropriate stores all the time. Which one to step into? Stepping in means you'll be buying something. Which neighborhood has the best deals? What do people want? How much money do I have, anyway? One of these days, I'll just pick a spot and a budget, and take care of all of it in one busy day. Email me with any special requests, and I'll do my best to fill them.
So this is the time where it pays to be patient. To not get carried away in being alone and starving for social stimulus. Things will pick up next week. I plan to start traveling around July 1, and will have almost three weeks to take in a few corners of this endless place.
India is the second nation outside the US that I have been that actually feels like a "nation". Brazil had that feeling as well. You turn on the TV and it's all Indian programming. All the food is Indian-grown, the cars, Indian-made. You read the paper, and international news seems to take a back seat to yesterday's cricket matches and bus accidents. Of course there's Bollywood, which is at least as prolific as its parallel universe brother-in-law, Hollywood. Like the US, there is the sense that this is Planet India; if you were to go somewhere else, it'd involve jet propulsion, great expense, and a dire reason to go. There are over 20 major languages, 5+ major religions, endless state and ethnic identities, huge geographical variation... there is this sense of, "how could there really be anywhere else out there?"
But there is. There are a lot of other nations out there living out their existences in their various patches throughout the world. Connected by history, tenuous fiber-optic cable and shipping lanes. When you consider how much humanity is at the end of these narrow pipelines, it's no wonder we still live in relative ignorance of one another. There is no way to be everywhere at once, to know everyone. Most people in the world probably never travel more than 100 miles from where they were born. Even if you do meet them, what do you say? What would make sense to a stranger?
Other than some wrap-up work for Dr. Sudarshan, the last thing I really have to do in Bangalore is buy gifts for people. It is sort of a strange thing when you go by the appropriate stores all the time. Which one to step into? Stepping in means you'll be buying something. Which neighborhood has the best deals? What do people want? How much money do I have, anyway? One of these days, I'll just pick a spot and a budget, and take care of all of it in one busy day. Email me with any special requests, and I'll do my best to fill them.
So this is the time where it pays to be patient. To not get carried away in being alone and starving for social stimulus. Things will pick up next week. I plan to start traveling around July 1, and will have almost three weeks to take in a few corners of this endless place.
India is the second nation outside the US that I have been that actually feels like a "nation". Brazil had that feeling as well. You turn on the TV and it's all Indian programming. All the food is Indian-grown, the cars, Indian-made. You read the paper, and international news seems to take a back seat to yesterday's cricket matches and bus accidents. Of course there's Bollywood, which is at least as prolific as its parallel universe brother-in-law, Hollywood. Like the US, there is the sense that this is Planet India; if you were to go somewhere else, it'd involve jet propulsion, great expense, and a dire reason to go. There are over 20 major languages, 5+ major religions, endless state and ethnic identities, huge geographical variation... there is this sense of, "how could there really be anywhere else out there?"
But there is. There are a lot of other nations out there living out their existences in their various patches throughout the world. Connected by history, tenuous fiber-optic cable and shipping lanes. When you consider how much humanity is at the end of these narrow pipelines, it's no wonder we still live in relative ignorance of one another. There is no way to be everywhere at once, to know everyone. Most people in the world probably never travel more than 100 miles from where they were born. Even if you do meet them, what do you say? What would make sense to a stranger?
Monday, June 20, 2005
The Nervous System
Since it's really just a series of circuits, the nervous system of the human body has all the complements of its cousin, the silicon circuit board. A large Indian city, as I imagine, a sensory deprivation chamber would do, reveals some of these commonalities. Resisters are used to buffer sensitive pieces of the board, allowing passage to only small drops of the deluge of amperes that comes from the mainline current. Capacitors store up electrical current for sudden bursts of energy, like a camera flash. Doides allow current to flow one way, but not another. The human body and mind has all of these. A city provides endless stimulus, which the brain needs to mitigate in order to make sense of its perceived surroundings. They say that for every million bits of input that the nerves receive, only about 2000 of them ever make it to the conscious mind. That's a hell of a job for the bureaucracy of the mind; constantly filtering out the nonsensical, the harmful, or just the irrelevant. Parts of the mind lay dormant, spurned only by moments of agression and adrenaline, brought on by a dishonest rickshaw driver, or crossing an impossibly busy road. Much of being alone in a place with lots of stimulus means that things can flow in, but there are few outlets to let the information go on back into the ether from whence they came. Resisters, Capacitors and Diodes.
It is tough to be alone for an extended period of time. I used to think I was born to go on deep-space missions, where months would pass silently in empty space with little to do, save for the daily log. There is no way I could hack that. I much prefer the overload of the city to the absolute solitude of black vacuum. But it's hard. I can smell the tang of burning copper filiment. It's time to hit the beach. The city, with its noise, smoke, and poverty is impossible to handle alone forever. At this point I'm looking forward to national parks, shorelines, temples, and cool drinks served in coconuts. But really, I'm looking forward to going home.
It is tough to be alone for an extended period of time. I used to think I was born to go on deep-space missions, where months would pass silently in empty space with little to do, save for the daily log. There is no way I could hack that. I much prefer the overload of the city to the absolute solitude of black vacuum. But it's hard. I can smell the tang of burning copper filiment. It's time to hit the beach. The city, with its noise, smoke, and poverty is impossible to handle alone forever. At this point I'm looking forward to national parks, shorelines, temples, and cool drinks served in coconuts. But really, I'm looking forward to going home.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Data Collection Complete
Sparing the details, I finished gathering my research from the hinterlands of Karnataka State yesterday, and to my relief, am now happily in an upscale district of Bangalore. Aaah the good life. The process of being by myself, bouncing from town to town on state and local busses was grueling. A lone whitey in a crowd of brown. The people I worked with all sort of understood what I was trying to do, but since I was working with 5 different teams of guys in all, I fear that the data is so variable and error-ridden that it may not be quite thesis material. The whole process was strikingly un-scientific.
I have decided that if I am going to undertake independent research in the future, I am going to draw up exact, unbreakable, ten-commandments-style, tablet and tabernacle protocols. I will resist heat and confusion. I will bring mosquito nets and hire drivers. I will get a grant and come with real money, and pay people who know what they are doing to handle the work I need done. The contacts have been made, mistakes recognized, and preliminary plans ruminating in my many stomachs of passive thought. In the words of a General at Luzon: "I shall return..." I add to this, "...and not get my butt spanked next time"
So the next phase is transcribing and translating my focus group tapes, doing the data entry required of 90 surveys, and look at whatever correlations exist in that sea of numbers, however stormy they be. After that, I will forget all about the academic purposes that brought me here and try to see some of the wonders (and beaches) of South India.
To prepare myself for this, I have been reading The Moor's Last Sigh by Salman Rushdie. It's all about the marriage of a Portuguese Cochin spice trader's daughter with a Cochin Jew-- from a community that is dwindling after its founding shortly after the fall of Jerusalem in 72 AD. In case you haven't noticed, his leprechaun-style prose is rubbing off a bit. anyway, it's a good read, and as most of his stuff tends to do, summarizes all the facts, fictions, and emotions of this complicated, intensely zany place. He adds subtlety to a place that is not known for delicate flavors, or spartan religious rites. Maybe I'm just missing the subtleties here.
Anyway, trepidation over my research aside, things here are good. I now feel as acclimated as I should feel. My room, which once looked like a bare cell now seems like the Hilton. Flush toilets, hot showers on command, showers at all? Wow, that's paradise. The streets, whose autos flowed with the randomness of red blood cells while at the same time reducing my haemoglobin levels with their Carbon Monoxide emmissions, now seem just like streets. It shows that you can get used to anything.
I have seen some incredible and some horrible things in my travels. I've been places that white people only go to if they're filming for National Geographic. I've seen malnourished children, remote temples of beauty, a man dying on the street in convulsions, and vermillion sunsets over rugged, parched landscapes. So many people here live in a sort of illiterate, austere beauty. But I do not envy them their lives. Squatting over ditches in loin cloths, dragging crops in from dry fields, building fires on primus stoves under cover of corrugated metal donated by the World Bank. These are the peasants that we all descended from. Their lives are squalorous, tough and short. But you can get used to anything.
The work I'm getting into is all about eliminating the scourages of peasant life, in a sense, to create the literate proliteriat that Lenin and Marx envisioned. But their essential problem is the same today, socialist or capitalist. In a country of a bllion people and change, everyone needs a job. If we bring in modern, mechanized agriculture, what do all those people in the fields do? The steel mills and call centers are full-up. Besides, it's hard to get a service job in a loin cloth. There is an essential paradox to the mission of eliminating poverty. When the communists tried it, they created massive food shortages and gulags. We need these people at the bottom of the pyramid to stay busy, to keep making our food. Even if machines start to do it for them, they will be unemployed, uneducated, at the margins, slipping below subsistence into famine and death. This paradox drives me nuts. We need a value-added pyramid for goods, that is, raw materials refined into cars and microchips and sold at 1000s of times their material value. The same is true for labor. For every doctor and lawyer we need ten janitors. For every call centre wallah, we need one hundred laborers to build the place, supply the food, and clean their modest suburban homes. How does this ever change? I have no idea, but, like India,
"hey, I'm working on it."
I have decided that if I am going to undertake independent research in the future, I am going to draw up exact, unbreakable, ten-commandments-style, tablet and tabernacle protocols. I will resist heat and confusion. I will bring mosquito nets and hire drivers. I will get a grant and come with real money, and pay people who know what they are doing to handle the work I need done. The contacts have been made, mistakes recognized, and preliminary plans ruminating in my many stomachs of passive thought. In the words of a General at Luzon: "I shall return..." I add to this, "...and not get my butt spanked next time"
So the next phase is transcribing and translating my focus group tapes, doing the data entry required of 90 surveys, and look at whatever correlations exist in that sea of numbers, however stormy they be. After that, I will forget all about the academic purposes that brought me here and try to see some of the wonders (and beaches) of South India.
To prepare myself for this, I have been reading The Moor's Last Sigh by Salman Rushdie. It's all about the marriage of a Portuguese Cochin spice trader's daughter with a Cochin Jew-- from a community that is dwindling after its founding shortly after the fall of Jerusalem in 72 AD. In case you haven't noticed, his leprechaun-style prose is rubbing off a bit. anyway, it's a good read, and as most of his stuff tends to do, summarizes all the facts, fictions, and emotions of this complicated, intensely zany place. He adds subtlety to a place that is not known for delicate flavors, or spartan religious rites. Maybe I'm just missing the subtleties here.
Anyway, trepidation over my research aside, things here are good. I now feel as acclimated as I should feel. My room, which once looked like a bare cell now seems like the Hilton. Flush toilets, hot showers on command, showers at all? Wow, that's paradise. The streets, whose autos flowed with the randomness of red blood cells while at the same time reducing my haemoglobin levels with their Carbon Monoxide emmissions, now seem just like streets. It shows that you can get used to anything.
I have seen some incredible and some horrible things in my travels. I've been places that white people only go to if they're filming for National Geographic. I've seen malnourished children, remote temples of beauty, a man dying on the street in convulsions, and vermillion sunsets over rugged, parched landscapes. So many people here live in a sort of illiterate, austere beauty. But I do not envy them their lives. Squatting over ditches in loin cloths, dragging crops in from dry fields, building fires on primus stoves under cover of corrugated metal donated by the World Bank. These are the peasants that we all descended from. Their lives are squalorous, tough and short. But you can get used to anything.
The work I'm getting into is all about eliminating the scourages of peasant life, in a sense, to create the literate proliteriat that Lenin and Marx envisioned. But their essential problem is the same today, socialist or capitalist. In a country of a bllion people and change, everyone needs a job. If we bring in modern, mechanized agriculture, what do all those people in the fields do? The steel mills and call centers are full-up. Besides, it's hard to get a service job in a loin cloth. There is an essential paradox to the mission of eliminating poverty. When the communists tried it, they created massive food shortages and gulags. We need these people at the bottom of the pyramid to stay busy, to keep making our food. Even if machines start to do it for them, they will be unemployed, uneducated, at the margins, slipping below subsistence into famine and death. This paradox drives me nuts. We need a value-added pyramid for goods, that is, raw materials refined into cars and microchips and sold at 1000s of times their material value. The same is true for labor. For every doctor and lawyer we need ten janitors. For every call centre wallah, we need one hundred laborers to build the place, supply the food, and clean their modest suburban homes. How does this ever change? I have no idea, but, like India,
"hey, I'm working on it."
Monday, June 13, 2005
A Slogan for a Country
How's this one: India... hey, we're working on it.
In all possible places, there is money being poured into the infrastructure here. Sure, the power still goes out a few times a week, the roads are insane, and the sheer number of humans, cows and dogs, presents unique challenges to city planners. But public works projects abound. The road from Mysore to Bangalore is being expanded from 2 lanes to 4. The expansion proceeds, while farmers drive their cows along the shoulders, and dry their rice crops on the hot asphalt that hasn't yet been opened to traffic. Overpasses are going up all over town, and there is even talk of a Bangalore Metro. This strikes me as a particularly bad idea. Seeing what's above ground here is enough for me to seriously question what is, or would be underneath.
This is a country with all the drive and interest in running the world. One thing that seems to hold it back is this overwhelming sense of paternalism that pervades everything. I was at a bar/restaurant in Mysore two nights ago, and discovered that I couldn't go to the rooftop garden area because I was a man alone. It was reserved for "ladies and families". In other words, if I had a woman with me it'd be fine. In the States, this discrimination is limited to "free drinks for ladies", with the intention of skewing an unfair sex ratio for men more in their favor. Here, it has the opposite effect. Men drink with one another, families, couples, anyone else, drinks together. I, being a man on my own, drink alone. I guess this all relates to the general demographics of the country. The newspapers always run stories on the sex ratios of various districts and municipalities. It is not uncommon here for there to be 900 (or fewer) women for every 1000 men. Pregnant women have sonograms here to determine whether they want to keep the baby. This is officially illegal, but there are "diagnostic clinics" all over the place, and an investment of a few thousand rupees now saves many thosands in dowry, and lost wages later. A cold calculation, but this is a tough place to live. I hope these things change as the brutality of underdevelopment abates. India is moving forward. I think it could use a dose of healthy libertarianism. People in the United States sometimes call government tyrannical. They see Washington as the new King George. Funny that those same people voted for a guy named George. But they know nothing of the baroque bureaucracy, endless processions of civil servants, rules, rules, rules. I understand that this holds back a potential tidal wave of chaos, but it seems to retard true progress. Immaculate starched shirts, and blazers vs. Anarchy. Who wins?
This paternalistic effect resonates clearly in the work that I am doing here. Going to hospitals and public health clinics, you see patients overwhelmingly at the mercy of undermotivated staff. There are a lot of people trying to do a lot of noble things in the country sides. A lot of lives saved, and people who are really there to help. But at the end of the day, the patient is the object, and not the subject of the health system. In particularly poor and underserved communities, this manifests itself in the small bribes that desperate people pay for a stretcher, an IV, anything. Some discussion my the work I am doing will make more sense of this.
I am traveling to five separate districts in Karnataka State; taking surveys and focus groups at one District Hospital, one Taluka (sub-District) Hospital, and one PHC. This is a large-medium-small approach. In all I will have visited 15 health facilities, surveyed about 100 people, and conducted 5 focus group discussions. So far I have visited 3 of the 5 districts. I'll give a description of each here:
Gumballi Disrict:
This was the first place I went to. A largely flat area, inhabited by poor farmers, harvesting rice and sugar cane. The roads were fairly rough, and the population scattered in the country, and in some hamlets peppered over the landscape. I arrived at Kollegal on a bus from Bangalore, and got off the bus into a swirling dusty-diesel sort of mayhem. Everyone was staring at me and my stupid backpack with all its straps, buckles, cantilever mechanisms and the like. I had to get out of there. I called my contact for Gumballi, and he was on the other side of the terminal, waiting for me in the health center ambulance. All the people I am working with are employees of Karuna Trust, an NGO that has health centers throughout the state, and supplies medicine to perhaps 20% of its overall population. The guy who picked me up as a short, mousy-looking guy. He never smiled, and spoke broken English. Soon he explained that another doctor would be joining us who spoke better English. This guy spoke it a little better, but this was counteracted by a general stupidity, his needing me to explain things at every site, for every survey. It was slow going that day, moving from facility to facility. We completed the surveys and focus groups, and found that 1) everyone was satisfied with the health services, and 2) that no one had had to pay bribes for service. This was good for the people and bad for my data. We went back to the Gumballi PHC, and settled into a mosquito-filled evening on the drenched plains. People were nice there, but overall, it was very isolation.
A little monkey business:
.
T. Nasipur:
This second district went a bit better. The landscape was hillier, more wooded, carved by gorges filled with lazy rivers, and rocks jutting 100 feet out of the soil. The team I worked with was great. Dr. Archutta Rao was a portly guy in his early 40's with a good sense of humor, and the first person to entirely understand what I was saying in many days. He and his team drove me around from facility to facility, presenting our official letter to the government to cowering Medical Officers, conducting our surveys and an excellent focus group in a side room of an overcrowded rural hospital. The results here were interesting. We found a high level of satisfaction with the services, but people were very angry at the bribes they had to pay for service. This was the poorest place I'd visited, the roads barely passable in places, and the facilities facing the worst crunches of patients that I'd seen here. Dr. Rao pointed to a guy receiveing 10 rupees for something from an elderly woman, right in the middle of a crowded hallway. People were angry, and just waiting to get organized. That night I went to the T. Nasipur PHC and slept on the warm concrete floor of a schoolroom. More mosquitoes, but this time I was smart enough to light up a mosquito coil. Dr. Rao was the most attentive, intelligent person I have worked with so far here. I hope to do some work with him and his team again.
Tithimatti:
The road from T. Nasipur improved as I entered a forest reserve and gained altitude through dense Eucalyptus and Banyan trees. Coffee and spice plantations could be seen from the side of the road, and shacks became concrete houses with red Spanish tile roof. The temerature dropped as we went up, and civilization seemed to be more scattered in the underbrush. I was met by the third doctor I'd work with, a tall guy with a mustache. He was extremely friendly, but after a few hours I found him obsequious and just plain annoying. Is this ok, sir? Is that ok, sir? I just wanted to get the work done. That and he only understood about 50% of what I said. We brought along a couple of young doctors who really did speak English, and conducted our work in three spotless facilities where the doctors and staff were all sincere and attentive to their patient's needs. People were there, but well within the capacity of the system. Everyone was happy to be in that district. It was like Switzerland or something, with a smattering of the general mediocrity of the developing world. The data here was as boring as the Swiss. Everyone was uniformly happy, no bribes, no nothing. Good for the people bad for the thesis. The place I stayed that night was pleasant, but my roommate was a snoorer, and truck bounded up the road rattling my scull until dawn. Oh well. Here's some nice landscape:
http://flickr.com/photos/46438144@N00/19076474/">.
So then I headed to Mysore, where this post began. After some mild hassles, I settled at the Parklane hotel, and had dinner downstairs, along with a couple of cold Kingfisher beers. They had live music. One guy on tabla drums, and accompanied by a bamboo flutist. Indian drumming exists somewhere in the vacuum of space between rhythm and melody. It seems to trancend those divisons, and place its listener in a trance state. I visited the Maharaja's palace and got the heck out. It was time to get back to Bangalore. I took the "local" bus-- bench seats, crowds, all that. Traffic was rough we were at a standstill in the heat for an hour. It turned out that the holdup was a wedding on the side of the road. People were just crossing back and forth over the highway with no regard to traffic. My room in Bangalore was peace. I had my first hot shower in days, made some tea and instant noodles, settling into a book and falling asleep by 9:30.
Today, I 'm having a little fun. I went to one of the nicest clothing shops here. The sell all varieties of textiles. I decided to splurge. Here is what I got, all made custom from me, all my measurements taken, and to pick up in about 10 days:
1 suit, cashmere wool blend. Pin stripes.
1 suit, irish linen, tropical.
6 shirts: 4 casual, two dress, all custom fitted.
1 pair of trousers, nice beige pattern.
Total cost (materials and labor): $250.
A shave and a great haircut today: $2.50
This time here: frustrating but priceless.
In all possible places, there is money being poured into the infrastructure here. Sure, the power still goes out a few times a week, the roads are insane, and the sheer number of humans, cows and dogs, presents unique challenges to city planners. But public works projects abound. The road from Mysore to Bangalore is being expanded from 2 lanes to 4. The expansion proceeds, while farmers drive their cows along the shoulders, and dry their rice crops on the hot asphalt that hasn't yet been opened to traffic. Overpasses are going up all over town, and there is even talk of a Bangalore Metro. This strikes me as a particularly bad idea. Seeing what's above ground here is enough for me to seriously question what is, or would be underneath.
This is a country with all the drive and interest in running the world. One thing that seems to hold it back is this overwhelming sense of paternalism that pervades everything. I was at a bar/restaurant in Mysore two nights ago, and discovered that I couldn't go to the rooftop garden area because I was a man alone. It was reserved for "ladies and families". In other words, if I had a woman with me it'd be fine. In the States, this discrimination is limited to "free drinks for ladies", with the intention of skewing an unfair sex ratio for men more in their favor. Here, it has the opposite effect. Men drink with one another, families, couples, anyone else, drinks together. I, being a man on my own, drink alone. I guess this all relates to the general demographics of the country. The newspapers always run stories on the sex ratios of various districts and municipalities. It is not uncommon here for there to be 900 (or fewer) women for every 1000 men. Pregnant women have sonograms here to determine whether they want to keep the baby. This is officially illegal, but there are "diagnostic clinics" all over the place, and an investment of a few thousand rupees now saves many thosands in dowry, and lost wages later. A cold calculation, but this is a tough place to live. I hope these things change as the brutality of underdevelopment abates. India is moving forward. I think it could use a dose of healthy libertarianism. People in the United States sometimes call government tyrannical. They see Washington as the new King George. Funny that those same people voted for a guy named George. But they know nothing of the baroque bureaucracy, endless processions of civil servants, rules, rules, rules. I understand that this holds back a potential tidal wave of chaos, but it seems to retard true progress. Immaculate starched shirts, and blazers vs. Anarchy. Who wins?
This paternalistic effect resonates clearly in the work that I am doing here. Going to hospitals and public health clinics, you see patients overwhelmingly at the mercy of undermotivated staff. There are a lot of people trying to do a lot of noble things in the country sides. A lot of lives saved, and people who are really there to help. But at the end of the day, the patient is the object, and not the subject of the health system. In particularly poor and underserved communities, this manifests itself in the small bribes that desperate people pay for a stretcher, an IV, anything. Some discussion my the work I am doing will make more sense of this.
I am traveling to five separate districts in Karnataka State; taking surveys and focus groups at one District Hospital, one Taluka (sub-District) Hospital, and one PHC. This is a large-medium-small approach. In all I will have visited 15 health facilities, surveyed about 100 people, and conducted 5 focus group discussions. So far I have visited 3 of the 5 districts. I'll give a description of each here:
Gumballi Disrict:
This was the first place I went to. A largely flat area, inhabited by poor farmers, harvesting rice and sugar cane. The roads were fairly rough, and the population scattered in the country, and in some hamlets peppered over the landscape. I arrived at Kollegal on a bus from Bangalore, and got off the bus into a swirling dusty-diesel sort of mayhem. Everyone was staring at me and my stupid backpack with all its straps, buckles, cantilever mechanisms and the like. I had to get out of there. I called my contact for Gumballi, and he was on the other side of the terminal, waiting for me in the health center ambulance. All the people I am working with are employees of Karuna Trust, an NGO that has health centers throughout the state, and supplies medicine to perhaps 20% of its overall population. The guy who picked me up as a short, mousy-looking guy. He never smiled, and spoke broken English. Soon he explained that another doctor would be joining us who spoke better English. This guy spoke it a little better, but this was counteracted by a general stupidity, his needing me to explain things at every site, for every survey. It was slow going that day, moving from facility to facility. We completed the surveys and focus groups, and found that 1) everyone was satisfied with the health services, and 2) that no one had had to pay bribes for service. This was good for the people and bad for my data. We went back to the Gumballi PHC, and settled into a mosquito-filled evening on the drenched plains. People were nice there, but overall, it was very isolation.
A little monkey business:
.T. Nasipur:
This second district went a bit better. The landscape was hillier, more wooded, carved by gorges filled with lazy rivers, and rocks jutting 100 feet out of the soil. The team I worked with was great. Dr. Archutta Rao was a portly guy in his early 40's with a good sense of humor, and the first person to entirely understand what I was saying in many days. He and his team drove me around from facility to facility, presenting our official letter to the government to cowering Medical Officers, conducting our surveys and an excellent focus group in a side room of an overcrowded rural hospital. The results here were interesting. We found a high level of satisfaction with the services, but people were very angry at the bribes they had to pay for service. This was the poorest place I'd visited, the roads barely passable in places, and the facilities facing the worst crunches of patients that I'd seen here. Dr. Rao pointed to a guy receiveing 10 rupees for something from an elderly woman, right in the middle of a crowded hallway. People were angry, and just waiting to get organized. That night I went to the T. Nasipur PHC and slept on the warm concrete floor of a schoolroom. More mosquitoes, but this time I was smart enough to light up a mosquito coil. Dr. Rao was the most attentive, intelligent person I have worked with so far here. I hope to do some work with him and his team again.
Tithimatti:
The road from T. Nasipur improved as I entered a forest reserve and gained altitude through dense Eucalyptus and Banyan trees. Coffee and spice plantations could be seen from the side of the road, and shacks became concrete houses with red Spanish tile roof. The temerature dropped as we went up, and civilization seemed to be more scattered in the underbrush. I was met by the third doctor I'd work with, a tall guy with a mustache. He was extremely friendly, but after a few hours I found him obsequious and just plain annoying. Is this ok, sir? Is that ok, sir? I just wanted to get the work done. That and he only understood about 50% of what I said. We brought along a couple of young doctors who really did speak English, and conducted our work in three spotless facilities where the doctors and staff were all sincere and attentive to their patient's needs. People were there, but well within the capacity of the system. Everyone was happy to be in that district. It was like Switzerland or something, with a smattering of the general mediocrity of the developing world. The data here was as boring as the Swiss. Everyone was uniformly happy, no bribes, no nothing. Good for the people bad for the thesis. The place I stayed that night was pleasant, but my roommate was a snoorer, and truck bounded up the road rattling my scull until dawn. Oh well. Here's some nice landscape:
So then I headed to Mysore, where this post began. After some mild hassles, I settled at the Parklane hotel, and had dinner downstairs, along with a couple of cold Kingfisher beers. They had live music. One guy on tabla drums, and accompanied by a bamboo flutist. Indian drumming exists somewhere in the vacuum of space between rhythm and melody. It seems to trancend those divisons, and place its listener in a trance state. I visited the Maharaja's palace and got the heck out. It was time to get back to Bangalore. I took the "local" bus-- bench seats, crowds, all that. Traffic was rough we were at a standstill in the heat for an hour. It turned out that the holdup was a wedding on the side of the road. People were just crossing back and forth over the highway with no regard to traffic. My room in Bangalore was peace. I had my first hot shower in days, made some tea and instant noodles, settling into a book and falling asleep by 9:30.
Today, I 'm having a little fun. I went to one of the nicest clothing shops here. The sell all varieties of textiles. I decided to splurge. Here is what I got, all made custom from me, all my measurements taken, and to pick up in about 10 days:
1 suit, cashmere wool blend. Pin stripes.
1 suit, irish linen, tropical.
6 shirts: 4 casual, two dress, all custom fitted.
1 pair of trousers, nice beige pattern.
Total cost (materials and labor): $250.
A shave and a great haircut today: $2.50
This time here: frustrating but priceless.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Some Humanity in a Sea of Humans
Yesterday started with Dr. Deb picking me up at my place at 8:15 to pilot test my survey at a nearby primary care center (they call them PHC's). Dr. Deb is a retired civil servant physician who volunteers full-time for the NGO that's helping me. We went to Karuna Trust (the NGO) and picked up Dr. Sudarshan on our way out of town. Sudarshan is an intense fellow. He's in his mid-fifties, never married, no visible vices, abhorrs all sloth and gluttony. Working with him means moving at a fever pace, constantly drilling me and Dr. Deb from the passenger seat. Deb called him "sir" despite being older and not even on his payroll. I handed him a copy of my survey, and he started making suggestions to change it, add questions, adapt it to Indian English, etc. It was the first time I could get anyone to look the thing over, but was unfortunately after having made 110 copies. After stopping for an unexpected and unintelligible meeting with a local think-tank that no one had mentioned to me, we continued on down the road to the PHC. The care center was off the side of the road, a compound in the middle of a dirt field in a semi-urban spot outside the city limits. Women were waiting on the porch outside, people wandering aimlessly awaiting whatever treatment was available to them. Sudarshan raised his hands and gathered about 10 women and kids, pointing them to a room and speaking authoritatively. This wasn't what I would call "subject recruitment", but what the hell? Deb administered the survey, asking the women the questions in Kannada, Tamil, Telgu, and who knows what other languages. We had time to do about three surveys before being summoned urgently to a conference room on the other side of the courtyard. The room was crowded with hospital staff, docctors, nurses, caretakers, and everyone was facing Sudarshan as he spoke sternly in the mixture of Kannada and English that they use in these contexts. He raised his voice at one doctor in particular, admonishing him for not living in the quarters provided to him. The man whimpered some response that angered Sudarshan more. "I am not coming from Karuna today" he growled, " I am here as a representative of the Lokayukta." This went on for about a half hour, as women came serving tea and biscuits, and I took down some observations. From what I gathered, this PHC had been a pain in his side for quite a while, full of inefficiencies, directionless and dirty. Suddenly, the tenor of the meeting shifted; Sudarshan became jovial and the atmosphere warmed up about 5 degrees. We were escorted out in a hurry, and were quickly on the road back to town. Sudarshan was excited about my survey. It was an oppportunity to establish a baseline of quality and problems in these centers, that could be followed up and monitored for improvements. He was talking about getting the World Bank involved somehow, and scaling it up to more districts. Very cool. Nothing here had been monitored for improvements, no incentives given for performance. It was all top-down discipline, and this was a way to change that approach.
Deb breathed a sigh of relief as Sudarshan drove off. We went and had a beer and a little food. "Please don't tell Sudarshan that I drink beer", he told me. "He frowns on all of those things". We went to his favorite spot, and chatted over a bit of lunch. He was from Western Bengal, near Calcutta, and came down to Bangalore for his medical training. Very nice man, good sense of humor. He's the one who's really helping me to coordinate my work.
By the time I got back, it was around twilight and the mosquitoes were kicking up. I was being eaten for breakfast. I lit up a mosquito coil and left my room, going to read a book while the room got bombed for the buggers. Outside, some of the cleaning women were hanging out with a few kids. One little girl started talking to me in decent English, and the next thing I knew, everyone outside was surrounding us, asking me questions through her, and offering me to come for dinner. After some imploring, I followed the group off the compound and out onto Magadi road, where I live. We wound through some narrow alleys, everyone talking, grabbing me, and the girl asking question after question. We went into her sister's house; a three-room place that slept fifteen people on the floor and a makeshift couch. They brought me a plate of banannas, cake, chips, cookies, tea, and other stuff, all staring at me, insisting that I eat everything. This is one of those classic situations where you really never, ever turn down food, but it just kept coming. They stood over me, fanning me with pieces of cardboard because it was hot as hell in there. The girl said, "we have two house more". The second house was across Magadi road in another portion of neighborhood, back in some winding alleys. They insisted on turning the tv to something in english. It was that movie Monster with the lesbian serial killer. I insisted on watching some inane Hindi dancing instead. More tea, more biscuits. People brought babies in and sat them on my lap. Some little kids shrieked in horror at my presence, and everyone kept insisting that I do things, eat things, trying desperately to communicate through this one little girl. "One more house"
The last house was where the little girl lived. She told me that she loved school, loved geography, and math. Wanted to be an engineer and travel on airplanes like I did. I told her that when I was her age I slept under a map and dreamed of all the places I'd go. We came to the street corner, and everyone passed between a crack in the wall less than three feet wide. Her house was an 8x10 room where she lived with her mother and father. They made me sit in the only chair and ran out to buy me pepsi and ice cream. They kept apologizing for the place being dirty and small. I kept asssuring them that it was no problem, as I'd been assuring countles others during the evenig, and the girl said that no one thought I would have come and done what I did that night. To me it was the chance of a lifetime. Nothing back home meant anything anymore. I was tired, hot and dirty, and it was all barely a taste of these people's daily lives. They walked me back to my place, and I took a cold shower, collapsed on my bed under the ceiling fan and slept in the peace and quiet. Today I went out and bought a set of pens, a notebook, and a pocket atlas for the little girl. It was the least I could do, and possibly the best money I've ever spent.
Deb breathed a sigh of relief as Sudarshan drove off. We went and had a beer and a little food. "Please don't tell Sudarshan that I drink beer", he told me. "He frowns on all of those things". We went to his favorite spot, and chatted over a bit of lunch. He was from Western Bengal, near Calcutta, and came down to Bangalore for his medical training. Very nice man, good sense of humor. He's the one who's really helping me to coordinate my work.
By the time I got back, it was around twilight and the mosquitoes were kicking up. I was being eaten for breakfast. I lit up a mosquito coil and left my room, going to read a book while the room got bombed for the buggers. Outside, some of the cleaning women were hanging out with a few kids. One little girl started talking to me in decent English, and the next thing I knew, everyone outside was surrounding us, asking me questions through her, and offering me to come for dinner. After some imploring, I followed the group off the compound and out onto Magadi road, where I live. We wound through some narrow alleys, everyone talking, grabbing me, and the girl asking question after question. We went into her sister's house; a three-room place that slept fifteen people on the floor and a makeshift couch. They brought me a plate of banannas, cake, chips, cookies, tea, and other stuff, all staring at me, insisting that I eat everything. This is one of those classic situations where you really never, ever turn down food, but it just kept coming. They stood over me, fanning me with pieces of cardboard because it was hot as hell in there. The girl said, "we have two house more". The second house was across Magadi road in another portion of neighborhood, back in some winding alleys. They insisted on turning the tv to something in english. It was that movie Monster with the lesbian serial killer. I insisted on watching some inane Hindi dancing instead. More tea, more biscuits. People brought babies in and sat them on my lap. Some little kids shrieked in horror at my presence, and everyone kept insisting that I do things, eat things, trying desperately to communicate through this one little girl. "One more house"
The last house was where the little girl lived. She told me that she loved school, loved geography, and math. Wanted to be an engineer and travel on airplanes like I did. I told her that when I was her age I slept under a map and dreamed of all the places I'd go. We came to the street corner, and everyone passed between a crack in the wall less than three feet wide. Her house was an 8x10 room where she lived with her mother and father. They made me sit in the only chair and ran out to buy me pepsi and ice cream. They kept apologizing for the place being dirty and small. I kept asssuring them that it was no problem, as I'd been assuring countles others during the evenig, and the girl said that no one thought I would have come and done what I did that night. To me it was the chance of a lifetime. Nothing back home meant anything anymore. I was tired, hot and dirty, and it was all barely a taste of these people's daily lives. They walked me back to my place, and I took a cold shower, collapsed on my bed under the ceiling fan and slept in the peace and quiet. Today I went out and bought a set of pens, a notebook, and a pocket atlas for the little girl. It was the least I could do, and possibly the best money I've ever spent.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Adjusted to Chaos
Deductive Logic 101:
IF hell is other people,
THEN India is hell.
I am in India.
THEREFORE I am in hell.
But actually I am not in hell. I am the only white person in a sea of brown. Once the nervous system adjusts to the unholy amount of stimulus it receives here, it's really a lot of fun. At first, traveling across a new foreign city is like a Flintstones cartoon where Fred is running through the house and passes the same table chair and window ten times before cutting to the next scene. It's interesting to go past the same places as before, and rather than a continuous blur of billboards, shantys, stray dogs, things start to stick out. Unless you're in the dunes of the Sahara, there are always landmarks. Some things are just plain redundant, and this is still confusing. For example, yesterday, I saw Mahatma Ghandi five times around town. First, he was rummaging through a pile of trash, next he was standing on a corner smoking a cigarette, then he was in heated debate with one of his countrymen, after that I saw him in a shirt and tie with a briefcase on his way to work. The last time I saw Ghandi was on the way back to my place, where he was tilling some of the red soil outside of his house, getting ready to plant something.
Transportation here is an artform. The idea of a westerner accustomed to western rules of the road trying to manage any vehicle whatsoever is plain ludicrous. Streets are often 6 lanes wide, but there are no lanes. People and animals are wandering in the middle of the smoke and din, crossing wherever they please. Crossing the road on foot is an artform in its own right. About a dozen times a day, I wait for a slight lull so that I can stroll directly in front of busses, cars, bikes, scooters. It's unnerving at first, but then again, how can a billion people all be wrong? Another reason why having your own vehicle here is that autorickshaws, or "autor's" cost about 20 cents a kilometer, which means that any trip around town costs less than a dollar. Autorickshaws are the more humane version of their predecessor, the people-powered kind. They are little three-wheeled covered go-carts with a bench seat in the back, powered by flatulent two-stroke LPG engines that spew black, dusty noxiousness into every cranny of town (and onto me as well... who needs talcum powder?). They go everywhere and have to be the best way to get immersed in the city. I take somewhere in the range of 6 autors a day.
Last night I had my first conversation with a white person since I got here. I went on a chatboard about Bangalore and posted a message saying I was here and bored. A software programmer from New Zealand responded. We met up and had a couple of beers at the Guzzler's inn on Brigade Road in the semi-posh part of town. As it turns out, no one who comes here for work isn't bored and isolated. Apart from this blog and a few emails, it was the only chance I've had to get all these pent up observations and feelings out of my system. Very cathartic for the both of us.
Things here are fascinating. The spectrums of views, sounds, smells, and tastes are all brand-new to me. There is nothing to do but to stay sharp and try to take it all in.
IF hell is other people,
THEN India is hell.
I am in India.
THEREFORE I am in hell.
But actually I am not in hell. I am the only white person in a sea of brown. Once the nervous system adjusts to the unholy amount of stimulus it receives here, it's really a lot of fun. At first, traveling across a new foreign city is like a Flintstones cartoon where Fred is running through the house and passes the same table chair and window ten times before cutting to the next scene. It's interesting to go past the same places as before, and rather than a continuous blur of billboards, shantys, stray dogs, things start to stick out. Unless you're in the dunes of the Sahara, there are always landmarks. Some things are just plain redundant, and this is still confusing. For example, yesterday, I saw Mahatma Ghandi five times around town. First, he was rummaging through a pile of trash, next he was standing on a corner smoking a cigarette, then he was in heated debate with one of his countrymen, after that I saw him in a shirt and tie with a briefcase on his way to work. The last time I saw Ghandi was on the way back to my place, where he was tilling some of the red soil outside of his house, getting ready to plant something.
Transportation here is an artform. The idea of a westerner accustomed to western rules of the road trying to manage any vehicle whatsoever is plain ludicrous. Streets are often 6 lanes wide, but there are no lanes. People and animals are wandering in the middle of the smoke and din, crossing wherever they please. Crossing the road on foot is an artform in its own right. About a dozen times a day, I wait for a slight lull so that I can stroll directly in front of busses, cars, bikes, scooters. It's unnerving at first, but then again, how can a billion people all be wrong? Another reason why having your own vehicle here is that autorickshaws, or "autor's" cost about 20 cents a kilometer, which means that any trip around town costs less than a dollar. Autorickshaws are the more humane version of their predecessor, the people-powered kind. They are little three-wheeled covered go-carts with a bench seat in the back, powered by flatulent two-stroke LPG engines that spew black, dusty noxiousness into every cranny of town (and onto me as well... who needs talcum powder?). They go everywhere and have to be the best way to get immersed in the city. I take somewhere in the range of 6 autors a day.
Last night I had my first conversation with a white person since I got here. I went on a chatboard about Bangalore and posted a message saying I was here and bored. A software programmer from New Zealand responded. We met up and had a couple of beers at the Guzzler's inn on Brigade Road in the semi-posh part of town. As it turns out, no one who comes here for work isn't bored and isolated. Apart from this blog and a few emails, it was the only chance I've had to get all these pent up observations and feelings out of my system. Very cathartic for the both of us.
Things here are fascinating. The spectrums of views, sounds, smells, and tastes are all brand-new to me. There is nothing to do but to stay sharp and try to take it all in.
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