Monday, July 30, 2007

Mysore: Home of the Royals

On Sunday morning two staff members from our Bangalore support team presented themselves at the Royal Orchid (our hotel) ready to take us on a day trip. We presented ourselves in the hotel lobby freshly showered and in the same crusty clothes we’d just spent the last 18 hours traveling in. Nothing quite like putting those back on, let me tell you. But I was very glad to realize that I’d packed my camera in my carry-on when Harish (whom I’d met before in the States on his first trip over) and Dikshit (an unfortunate name the 7th grader that still lurks inside of me just won’t let go) told us where we’d be going that day. Mysore (prounounced exactly like it is spelled) is a district two hours southwest of Bangalore and home to the royals and royal palace. There is also a large Hindu temple there that’d we would visit. Were we game? You bet. It seems that the company has provided us a driver for the week too which, I soon found out, is a very good idea.

First of all…driving around in Bangalore is terrifying. There are absolutely no rules whatsoever. None. Zero. Everyone goes at breakneck speed, there are 10 motorcycles to every car (because of the congestion, people buy bikes) and double the “ricks” as they call them for rickshaws. Very few lines exist on the roads. I’ve yet to see one cop. People honk madly and pass at will regardless if there is a car coming in the opposite direction. That car will just have to move. I mean that literally. Our driver ran people off the road several times. I finally got to the point that I just couldn’t look anymore. Harish and Diskshit just laugh at our expressions. “It’s the only way you can get around here,” they insist. At one point, we just missed a man who was lying in the street his leg sprawled nearly into the traffic itself. And speaking of the motorcycles, the women ride side saddle because they wear saris. They hold their children in front of them with no helmets. At one point, I saw a man driving, a woman riding side saddle, the child in between them. And we get bent out of shape because metal slinkies are back on sale.


In addition to out of control traffic, cows wander the streets at will. So far as I could tell, they didn’t belong to anyone. I asked about this. Harish told me that people feed them but generally do not eat them since 90% of Bangalore’s population is Hindu and Hindus consider the cow sacred. I took the opportunity to find out a bit more about the Hindu religion (since I would be visiting a Hindu temple anyway). He told me that Hindus think that cows are used by the Gods and Hindus believe in more than one God. He named several but the more are those that people are used to seeing and represented by the Elephant – Ganeesh and Shreeva – the God with many arms. I asked him, “Used how by the Gods?”

“For transportation, mainly.” He told me. “So, if you kill a cow, you are interfering with the Gods.”

“So, if a cow were to cross the road, right now in front of all this traffic, “ I asked, “Everyone would just drive around it?”

“Yes.” He said.

And indeed, the streets are full of wandering cows. I even saw one in a shop and the owner paid it no mind. I also asked him about the red paint on the foreheads of people in India. “What does this represent?” He told me it was also part of a religious belief. Which religion? Hindu again. What does it mean?

“You can think of it as meditation. When people use the red paint, it shows much devotion and concentration to their beliefs. They are concentrating.” He said. I thought about this a moment then had to ask. “Harish, aren’t you a Hindu?” “Yes.” “So, do you not concentrate very much? I see you do not wear the red dot.” I grin at him. He smiles back, “I am not meditating very much these days.”

“And the turbans people wear. I don’t see very many here. Not Hindu? Muslim?”

“Not Hindu.” He agreed. “But not Muslim either. They are Sikhs (pronounced sick). And underneath their turbans, they have taken a vow not to cut their hair. It is very, very long.”

Finally, I saw something I recognized - something I knew. A car passed us with a bumper sticker: Jesus is Love. “There are Christians here?” I asked, surprised.

“Oh, yes.” Harish said. “Not very many. But some.”

“Are they frowned upon?”

“Not often. Sometimes. If they get too aggressive when they try to convert. But not often.”

Soon enough, we were in the Mysore district. Which, to be honest, didn’t look much different to me from Bangalore. Everything about India speaks to me of crushing poverty. I kept waiting to be out of the ‘poor district’ but you never are. The temple, we are told, is a place of great importance to India and one of the larger one’s so, therefore, a great attraction. Since we are there on a Sunday, the crowds are also expected to be much larger.

The driver drops us off at the base of the hill where we will have to walk to the temple and, for the first time, I feel acutely western and acutely white. We attract immediate attention and stares. There is a statue of a demon God that people are milling around and two young boys immediately rush up to us and begin their sales pitch. They are selling postcards and identify us for what we are: American and money.

“Ma’am, ma’am,” he says to me, “Beautiful postcards for you to take home. Only one American dollar. Just one.”

“Don’t buy anything.” Dikshit immediately warns me. “We’ll be swarmed by them.”

I shake my head and say no thank you but they persist. They follow us all the way up the hill, jabbering the entire way for us to buy their cards. Finally, at the top of the hill, he shouts in frustration, “George Bush is a bad man!” and leaves us alone.
This almost makes me laugh because, after all, I do not disagree with that sentiment.

At the top of the hill, the temple itself is a site to behold.
We are told that we will have to remove our shoes and socks and enter the temple barefoot. I am skeptical about this. There are a whole lot of people here and a whole of dirt. But I don’t want to miss the experience so I comply. Dikshit tells us we will not have to stand in the long line because his grandfather “knows someone”. I’m not sure how I feel about this. How will these Indians feel about these westerners bypassing the line to go into their holy place? But the Indians, polite as I’m realizing they always are, smile and nod and let us pass.

Unfortunately, I could not take pictures inside the temple as it was not allowed but it was very pretty and very different. I do have a shot of me standing outside the temple after I received the priest’s blessing. And no Mom, I’m not converting to Hinduism, but I did receive the blessing so as not to offend.




Finally, to end our day, we went back to where the royals lived in their palace. This is the only wealth I have seen so far to this country other than the hotel that I, myself, am staying in. Not even the worst ghettos of NYC and DC, that until now I thought were pretty bad, compare to the poverty here. The three overwhelming smells here are curry, jasmine, and dirt. Literally. When walking the streets while we waited for the “Palace show” where they turn on the lights to the palace, I had to carefully watch where I was going as, often as not, there are not sidewalks or I’d walk into a car, cow, or mongrel dog. And this is a city. Shanty huts and tents abound and begging is out of control. If you give a rupee to one, you are instantly swarmed and because you are white, they come for you anyway. There was one child, five years old, bone thin who looked at us, held up his hands and was so instantly crying when he saw us (with no mother in sight) I had to wonder if it was an act. Nevertheless, it was a good one that won him 10 rupees. People in the US often complain about taxes and I’m one of them. Having seen this however, I’m reminded just where that tax money goes and should go. Thank God I was born in the US where we have roads with lines, sidewalks, healthcare (such as it is), police and fire stations, and food and drugs are regulated by agencies to protect us. Where I don’t have to wonder if things have been checked out first and I know they are safe because, yes, the government has ensured that. India is a growing country. But it has a long way to go.

At 4:30 a.m., a light tapping came at my door. "Ma'am, your bags have arrived." Came a soft voice. "Oh, thank God." I say. I let him in and thank him profusely as he cuts the wrapping they have tightly wound it with. He is there and gone within 60 seconds after thanking me profusely. I sleepily go back to bed. It only occurs to me the next morning why he was so happy. I tipped him an American dollar. The last one I had left because it was in easy reach on the desk. The equivalent of 40 Rupees when the standard tip is 10. Oh, well. I have my clothes back now and all is well.

Indian food eaten today: Dosa. Good. Sort of like a pancake. Paneer Pochokae. Eh. Chicken Mui something. HOT. But okay. By the end of the week, I have no doubt I will have offended the Hindus by coveting a cow. ;)

Saturday, July 28, 2007

Arrival...

Even when you think you are ready for a 24-hour jaunt halfway round the world, it stretches on forever. It's weird to think that I'm closer to China now than Carolina. The airline tried to get our internal clocks on the new time. They started serving breakfast 1:00 a.m. eastern because it was 9:00 a.m. Frankfurt. I still wasn't ready for it however so I skipped it. By the time I actually landed in Germany I was a zombie because, true to form, I couldn't sleep on the plane and it was 3:00 a.m. eastern.

When you fly business class, you have access to the business lounge so that's where we went to relax for the hour and a half wait we had between boardings. In the business lounge everything is free too apparently. There was, quite literally, an open bar where you could walk up and mix your own drinks. There were two soldiers there who were living it up with the Frankfurt beer at 11:00 a.m. in the morning while everyone else was having at the coffee machine and breakfast bar. I finally just started drinking coffee and sugarless hot chocolate (blasphemy!) figuring if I was going to be up, I might as well commit. There was also a bin full of gummy bears that people were obsessing over. "Oh, my God. These are the best gummy bears ever. Look, there's even gummy larva." says my co-worker. But, despite the fact that indeed they looked a little better than the average gummy bear, I've never been a big fan.

Finally we board and get to do another 7 hour plane ride all over again to Bangalore. By the end of this one, I was really ready to be off the plane. As nice as business class is...the free drinks they serve before you even take off, the hot towels you feel compelled to use even if you don't feel dirty because, well, they are there...and they are hot...the good food...the movies of your choice...the chairs that lay almost all the way down...the fact of the matter is...you are still on a plane..for 24 hours. So by the time we actually arrived in Bangalore, I was really ready to be here. Until we get through customs and are waiting for our bags.

Now this is no modern airport. No big shiny baggage carousels here. Its loud, packed, and hot. Lot's of shouting going on. I look around and see a currency exchange booth and decide that while I'm waiting I'll go exchange a hundred dollars. I get 3800 rupees for my $100. I'm not sure yet how far that will take me. When I get back to the baggage carousel, I notice all the bags are nearly gone and my bag is not there. My co-workers are there and they still do not have their bags either. Worse, they look worried. "All business class bags are out." they tell me. "Ours are missing." I do a quick mental check. Yeah, I'd like to have my bags but my absolute essentials, money, passport, and medications are on me.

We are led over to fill out some paperwork for out missing bags (we all used the same check in person in Washington too - this is a USA mishap I bet!) and are given "essentials" for the night. Hairbrush, t-shirt, toothbrush, shampoo. I have to laugh. They can't lose my bag when I travel to NYC for the night. They have to lose it when I'm halfway round the world for a week.

Finally, we get in a cab and are taken to our hotel, which as far as I can tell sits in the middle of one of the worst slums I've ever seen in my life. A pack of mongrel dogs literally was fighting on the street and then a guarded gate led into a somewhat westernized looking hotel. They man at the desk asked me for my business card. "No card." I say. "My bag was lost."

"Ah." He says. "Would you like coffee in the morning?" I think about this. I've been warned not to drink the water but I wonder if that includes hot water. Surely the heat would burn off any bacteria? I have no idea. I play it safe. No thanks I say regretfully. I make may way up to my room where, thankfully, there is a mini bar. It is 2:00 a.m. in India and around 4:00 in the afternoon in the states. I open the mini bar and take inventory. I have my laptop and the clothes on my back. I have my passport and my American Express. I have this Kingfisher beer. The lights blink off. Then back on. Welcome to the third world.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

It's All Over But the Packing...

Well, I leave on Friday night at 6:00 p.m. I have my Visa in hand and have received my last Hep shot. By the way, it costs a pretty penny to prepare for overseas travel. I'm glad this first trip is on my company. The Visa itself was $173, passport (expedited because the U.S. gov't is incredibly slow) - $160 and I don't even want to know how much my shots were. Anyway, I'm pretty much set at this point except I've not packed yet. I'm a little worried about obtaining the currency but that's my travel OCD surfacing a little early. Everyone keeps assuring me that I'll be fine once I arrive.

So earlier this week I ask in my team in my staff meeting, (they've all been before), 'So, they have cabs, right?'

Because honestly, the biggest thing worrying me is getting around and not being able to speak, well, Indian. Everyone tells me, if you get stuck, find a young person. The older generation is pretty traditional and doesn't speak English but the younger generation is getting pretty westernized.

'Rickshaws, mostly. But some cabs.' One of my Sr. Analysts says.

'Rickshaws....' I say slowly. I have this picture of a little Indian trying to haul my big butt around in a two-wheeled contraption. My team is grinning at me.

'The Indian team is gonna be scared of you.' Someone says.

'What do you mean? I have a naturally sweet and kind disposition.' I am busy googling 'rickshaw' to make sure it is what I think it is and ignore the glances they exchange.

Sure enough...this is a rickshaw.

'Yeah, I'm pretty much gonna need a cab.' I say.

'Uh huh. The Indians are gonna be terrified of you.'

Bah.

Next time I write, it will be from Bangalore. :-) Until then...