And so the expatriate becomes the tourist.

After a quick 11 weeks, I have come to the end of my practicum. Following the study presentation to a team in Koppal on Wednesday, my preceptor (Mohan), Mallika, Chethan and I went on a celebratory two day vacation to Hampi (a wealthy dynasty from the 15^th century destroyed by the Muslims). It was truly spectacular to see this UNESCO site and the many ancient ruins known for their architectural wonders (eg. musical pillars). Though my final presentation at KHPT was actually on Friday, it was definitely a good way to end the internship!

Me, Mohan and Chethan in Hampi

Leaving Bangalore early next week, I’m proud to say that I have developed a strong appreciation and love for this city. I am now able to tell you that the markets are the seemingly only aspect of Indian life that is organized and that I have officially cheated the phone credit system (haven’t paid once!). I can tell you that ants no longer crawl out from my keyboard and that the Indians I have known have an oddly exaggerated aversion to feet. I can tell you that different hair oils are applied according to the seasons for cooling/warming purposes. After reading: “put baby in fridge” from translated interviews, I can tell you that language barriers present endless challenges in global research. And finally, I can tell you that my confidence has been restored in NGOs, though I will remain a skeptic.

I’ve come to enjoy the challenge of crossing 8 lanes of traffic coming from the office (think 'frogger' style) and have recently started cutting back on my advil intake, even after temporarily losing the hearing in my left ear for a day from all the commotion (fact).

Mallika and I devouring some street
mangoes with chilli, salt and lime

Betel-nut in betel leaf
(chewed entirely)

I’ve grown to recognize the lasting remnants of the ‘garden city’ that Bangalore once was before the recent industrial boom, and now accept the trees that dangerously stand in the middle of busy roads, as well as those left to grow straight through buildings and temples. In this Garden story there is also a forbidden fruit that I unfortunately can no longer resist on a hot day. Once fearful of evil pesticides and unsanitary washing, I have now succumb to the temptations of mangoes in their skins. I brush my teeth with tap water and shower with no shoes. I’ve neglected my bug spray, my only bottle of Purell remains full, and I bravely braced the monsoon gloom (with no umbrella). I have a closet full of kurtas and don’t wear a watch. I've tasted real chai, chewed on some betel-nut, and have even been blessed by the trunk of an elephant (for 1 rupee). 

Masala Dosa with
coconut chutney and sambar

Typical wedding sign made of flowers
(Kamal weds Kandini!)

Soon leaving my South Indian home, along with the  masala dosa delicacy, I feel ready, but sad. I never made it on a local bus and I never attended an Indian wedding, though saw the decorative entrances to many.



Thankfully, though, I'm not leaving India yet. There is still plenty more foods to try, plenty more to see and plenty more to do.

                             Thanks for reading and see you all at the end of August!

Living the good life.

Being the procrastinator that I am, with one week left to go in Bangalore, I have a TON of work to do for the final report and two presentations to prepare. Thus this post will be rather short.

Now that I’ve been the fly on the wall in this guesthouse for over two months, I thought I’d report on what it’s like to live in Dollars Colony.

Project House balcony

My room!

Thinking back to my fight night in the guesthouse at the end of April, though I was drowsy and severely disoriented, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Anticipating something of similar standard to Kenya – living out of a suitcase in a concrete room with a padlock metal door and sleeping in a bug-netted cot on a mattress colonized by an aggressive army of red ants after not being able to shower for 10 straight days – I was truly shocked at where I would be living for the next few months. Much to my surprise, I was greeted by a security guard at the front of the building and then proceeded to take the elevator (?!) up to 301 and entering with a reassuring breeze of A/C in my new home. I was given a brief tour of the kitchen, laundry area, 4 bathrooms, 2 balconies… and then after taking a HOT shower, I lay in my queen bed in utter disbelief.

Monica and I

Since that welcoming initiation to Bangalore, the KHPT project house still continues to amaze me. Though I do appreciate the bare-essentials lifestyle experienced in Kenya, having a comfortable place to come home to after a fully day of being haggled makes all the difference in the world. I now look forward to Monica’s spicy food and have grown accustomed to Dinesh planted on the couch watching a 4-day long cricket game on television. The early-morning squawks from birds that sound like humans in pain, and the unbelievably, indescribably unnatural noises unleashed by men with pushcarts no longer bother me at 6am. And I can now somewhat confidently use a sparker to light the gas stove with only fleeting premonitions of setting the building ablaze. The cockroach incident of June 2011 has been the most of my worries and I found even that to be more hilarious than upsetting. I can’t really say there is much to complain about here. On top of everything, I get to live here for FREE.

In the first post, I mentioned that there would be updates on the expected future roommates. At that point, I had no idea how many would actually come and go from this place. Since I moved in, I would guess that there have been about 30 people at an incredibly fast turnover rate. The fun part is that I never know when the next intern, family, co-worker etc is going to show up! I’ve gone to bed some nights when the project house is completely empty but wake up to all rooms full with one guy sleeping on the couch. They may stay for a few weeks or leave in a few hours….I never really know. I often have breakfast with complete strangers that arrived the night before and then they’re gone by the time I get home from work. I’ve been able to get to know so many different types of people and they always make for interesting dinner company (and travelling tips!).

The guests often work for KHPT but are also friends of KHPT employees or from other NGOs in India. Some are other interns, some just in town for a conference, and others on contract work for the Public Health Foundation of  Canada. I’ve even had the opportunity to live with and get to know both officiates of the Sukshema project which I work under. This place is truly a networking hotspot (and has good internet).

Me and Andrea out for dinner
(I ordered the pizza for two
....and it was GOOD!)

Milena bargaining for her first kurta
(a proud moment as her teacher) 

Occasionally, and thankfully, there will be someone around my age to hang out with. Andrea was the first and she was here for about two weeks in May. She had previously lived in Bangalore for four years throughout high school so she showed me around a bit and filled me in on some Indian customs and answered a lot of my questions. There was also a girl from New York working on some immunology nonsense I did not understand, and just last week there was someone from Winnipeg en route to an HIV-care centre internship just outside of Bangalore. I got to pay it forward and take her around the city and share my own words of acquired wisdom to her. So, as you can gather, there is never really a boring moment in the guesthouse. Though my social life is extremely transient, it keeps things interesting!

Milena and I out for traditional
South-Indian thalis

Yep, life in Dollars Colony ain’t too bad. I do confess that I must be careful to dodge enormous road kill on my street (rats the size of puppies, headless crows, dead kittens) and be weary of fellows on motorbikes who try to solicit me for sex work, but nothings perfect, right? The families of hungry cows roaming around mansions with security guards continue to make me laugh and there was even a camel wandering around one day that was evidently lost. I tried to direct the poor thing North.

Sadly, I’m nearing the end of my Bangalore Folklore but I am hoping to post once more after my last week of work and before the backpacking begins!

Couldn't resist...

KA02 B634: the little rickshaw that couldn't. 

Leave it to my driver to push it all the way up the hill with his foot!

Rickshaw camaraderie at it's finest.

HORN OK PLEASE

Picking up from promised thematic tactics, this time around will be an attempt to convey the chaos that is Bangalore. A blog about India would simply be incomplete if not touching upon the round-the-clock road traffic and noise pollution amongst the city streets. To help paint this picture, plastered on the back of rickshaws, trucks and buses, one will commonly find the phrase: “horn ok please.” Translation? Honk if you’re passing. Honk if you cross an intersection. Honk if you’re bored in traffic. Honk if you’re happy/sad/angry. And most importantly, honk if you just feel like honking.

Let me start with a thorough description of the auto rickshaw, also referred to as ‘rick’ or ‘auto.’ Unfortunately, I no longer have the privilege of getting a ride to work since all the important people have since left the guesthouse. Taking an auto to work everyday, however, has proved to be a very exciting and energizing method of morning transport (though the combination of no coffee, early morning bargaining and shameless discrimination can occasionally unleash my inner fury). Now that two months have passed, I feel quite confident in my ‘rick’ abilities. Below are a few tricks of the trade that I have picked up after the 45 minute journey to and from work each day and from habitual weekend battles:

One: Always tie your hair back…unless you enjoy a mouthful whipped at you every 2 seconds.

Two: Carry small change. If not, you run the risk of the driver conveniently misplacing cash…even after pretending to dig into the depths of his front shirt pocket for some extra rupees staging the ultimate art of trickery.

Three: Hold your breath when stuck in traffic and sandwiched between two monster buses and surrounded by motorbikes to avoid the exhaust shedding minutes off your life.

Four: Lean forward. I say this for two reasons. The first being that the back of the seat often only reaches less than half way up your back and can be very uncomfortable for a long ride (which is the common case in Bangalore). Secondly, it helps to prepare your jaw and every bone in your body for the sudden jerks and bumps along the way.

Five: Don’t make eye contact with the Hijras (transgendered solicitors) or the beggars that aggressively encircle vehicles stuck in traffic with an exaggerated, but undoubtedly genuine expression of pure melancholy. I must admit to giving in to the occasional pregnant woman (can’t fake that!) but with the thankful excuse of the moral obligation that comes from the subject matter of my research study.

Five.point.one: DO make eye contact with annoyingly blatant onlookers when stuck in traffic. On one of my ‘down’ days here, I decided to reciprocate and stare straight back at two curious but competitive teenage boys on the motorbike next to me. It was an intense stare down that sadly resulted in the overly-confident duo colliding with the motorbike ahead of them. I like to consider that karmic retribution.

Six: Be patient if the driver unexpectedly pulls into a gas station joining a rickshaw traffic jam.
Seven: Don't be alarmed if the picture on the ID card in the rickshaw bares absolutely no resemblance to the real deal.

Eight: Learn the Kannada word eshtu (how much?). It’s all about street cred!

Rickshaw gas station

Most of the drivers are pretty stern and I’ve noticed that in the morning they are slightly more difficult to bargain with. Alas! A few days ago, a passerby who clearly recognized my struggle revealed that there is apparently a superstition among rickshaw drivers that if they don’t crack a good first deal in the morning, the rest of their day will be cursed and they will not make much money…well that makes sense. They are much friendlier in the evening (or maybe just desperate). I recently found one friendly fellow whom I believe will now be my own personal rickshaw driver to take me back to my area from work. He cleverly noticed a trend in my departures from Rajajinagar and made sure to get my schedule straight for next time.

These rickshaws never cease to amaze me. They cram themselves into the tiniest of spaces at full speed and with absolutely no apprehensions. It took a few weeks but I officially experienced my first rickshaw accident after it was hit from behind in the middle of an intersection. Much like would happen at home, the driver stopped the engine, got out and immediately started screaming and finger-pointing at the other driver. The part that was distinctively Indian, however, was the laughter that ensued just minutes after the aggressive arguing. They seemed to have peacefully reconciled their differences in a matter of minutes.

When you’re not caught on a bad day, you can really come to understand a lot about India through the way the autos operate. There’s an incredible sense of camaraderie between rickshaw drivers that becomes quickly apparent. They are always in lighthearted conversation with each other when stuck in traffic and even while driving (an impressive feat). They are also considered the trusted googlemaps of the road. Drivers roll down their windows and bikers often speed up to the rickshaw in a hurried attempt to ask for directions that are always welcomingly returned (whether accurate or not).

Never missing an opportunity
to showcase merchandise

CFAR office
(I had to go through the majority of those
papers looking for MNCH articles)

The motorbikes are a whole different story. Words really can’t describe how they whiz through the busy streets in their massive uncoordinated fleet. I’ve seen entire families on one single motorbike where the woman is holding onto to her children or baby with one carefree arm while the other is casually clutching the back of the bike. In addition to this recklessness, even though the drivers carry helmets, they seem to only feel the need to put them on if a police officer is nearby. Strangely, only the driver is required to wear a helmet, so the rest of the family clinging onto the back is still off the hook! Great logic. It still entertains me to imagine my coworkers riding their motorbikes to work everyday, though that is the exciting reality. In the office, helmets often serve as paperweights.

It's truly amazing what some of
these guys carry on their bikes

Unfortunately, I have still yet to brave the bus system in Bangalore, though Chethan has promised to be my escort one of these days. It is on my list (along with finding a rickshaw driver to allow me to get behind the handles). What I do know about the buses, however, is that they are always jam-packed and just as aggressive on the road as rickshaws. Completely amazed, I once witnessed a bus driver climb out the drivers side window at a red light, slide under the bus to crank some screws on every tire before effortlessly climb back up through the window – and all before the light turned green! It was pretty impressive.

I could go on to talk about how sad I feel for the bicyclists who just don’t stand a chance in the pandemonium of Bangalore traffic, but I think I’ll end here.

Hope you enjoy!