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Monday, June 29, 2009
Food Glorious Food
Since arriving in Orissa I have eaten almost exclusively in the canteen at the university. Like most cafeterias, it doesn't merely serve regional food. Instead the menu draws from a variety of Indian cuisines, with each dish prepared in such a way that everything tastes almost exactly the same. For this reason, I have very little idea of what Oriya food tastes like, or for that matter, what any Indian food tastes like other than the north Indian-inspired meals that I've found at restaurants in Jackson Heights, NY or Edison, NJ.
In Kolkata I had an Indian food experience that was radically different from the previous Indian food experiences I've had. My coworkers and I went to a small Bengali restaurant called Kewpie's. Even though it is located in a dimly lit alley far from the glitz and glamour of the restaurants on Park Street, everyone we asked seemed to know of and recommend it.
When we found the place we felt more like we were visiting a traditional Bengali home than a restaurant. The dining area was nearly empty with a few tables placed in what would otherwise have been a living room. We scanned the menu and after a few false starts in ordering, we managed to find a few dishes that we wanted to try that the restaurant actually had the ingredients for.
Bengalis are known for their seafood and I must say that the fish I ordered was the main event (it's the second one listed under fish on the menu if you ever go). It was served inside a banana leaf, lightly crusted in some undecipherable but purely delectable spices. We ate in the traditional Bengali fashion: drizzling the sauce over rice, breaking off a piece of our main course, rolling it all into a ball with one hand and then popping the whole mess into our mouths.
In Kolkata I had an Indian food experience that was radically different from the previous Indian food experiences I've had. My coworkers and I went to a small Bengali restaurant called Kewpie's. Even though it is located in a dimly lit alley far from the glitz and glamour of the restaurants on Park Street, everyone we asked seemed to know of and recommend it.
When we found the place we felt more like we were visiting a traditional Bengali home than a restaurant. The dining area was nearly empty with a few tables placed in what would otherwise have been a living room. We scanned the menu and after a few false starts in ordering, we managed to find a few dishes that we wanted to try that the restaurant actually had the ingredients for.
Bengalis are known for their seafood and I must say that the fish I ordered was the main event (it's the second one listed under fish on the menu if you ever go). It was served inside a banana leaf, lightly crusted in some undecipherable but purely delectable spices. We ate in the traditional Bengali fashion: drizzling the sauce over rice, breaking off a piece of our main course, rolling it all into a ball with one hand and then popping the whole mess into our mouths.
Kolkata in Pictures
Kolkata (Calcutta) is often called the intellectual capital of India. And while this may be true, the most striking parts of the city for me was the energy, the movement, the dynamism. Just to get into the city from the bus station, we had to cross the most traveled bridge in the world. Over the course of the weekend we rode in cars, buses, boats and subways, and in each mode of transportation we were caught up in a flurry of people and activity.
In Bhubaneswar students on campus and some residents of the city seem to speak with a bit of distrust of the outside. Not many students come from "outside." "Be careful of outside food." When we ride through the main drag of Bhubaneswar, we see few crowds and even fewer women. In Kolkata, on the other hand, residents seem to embrace the outside with tons of people out and about shopping, eating, selling, and more. Also, Bengali women are dominant on the scene and make their presence known with their fiery fashion sense. Bangles, large bindis, nose rings and red-painted feet are just a few adornments the women were sporting.
We visited Dakshineswar Temple, one of the most famous temples in Kolkata, which is meant to honor the goddess Kali. The building was red and white, which are colors favored by Bengalis. In fact, married women traditionally wear these colors only.
We followed this with a visit to Belur Math, a monastery and temple complex that was created in 1938 in homage to Sri Ramakrishna Paramhansa by his student Swami Vivekananda. Sri Ramakrishna Paramhansa is a respected social and religious reformer that helped advocate for the rights of women. Most notably, he rejected the practices of child marriage, widows being denied the opportunity to remarry, and dowry deaths (the murdering of wives whose parents have not paid their dowries in ways that are meant to look accidental, usually occurring in the kitchen).
On our second day, we visited Victoria Memorial, probably the most recognizable landmark in Kolkata. It was built between 1906 and 1921 in honor of Queen Victoria, also known as the Empress of India. It is currently an art museum, which houses a small section that details India's colonial past (curated somewhat strangely from a British historian's perspective...at least that's how it seemed to me). The grounds around the memorial are vast and provid a nice oasis of calm in the middle of the frenetic city.
In Bhubaneswar students on campus and some residents of the city seem to speak with a bit of distrust of the outside. Not many students come from "outside." "Be careful of outside food." When we ride through the main drag of Bhubaneswar, we see few crowds and even fewer women. In Kolkata, on the other hand, residents seem to embrace the outside with tons of people out and about shopping, eating, selling, and more. Also, Bengali women are dominant on the scene and make their presence known with their fiery fashion sense. Bangles, large bindis, nose rings and red-painted feet are just a few adornments the women were sporting.
We visited Dakshineswar Temple, one of the most famous temples in Kolkata, which is meant to honor the goddess Kali. The building was red and white, which are colors favored by Bengalis. In fact, married women traditionally wear these colors only.
We followed this with a visit to Belur Math, a monastery and temple complex that was created in 1938 in homage to Sri Ramakrishna Paramhansa by his student Swami Vivekananda. Sri Ramakrishna Paramhansa is a respected social and religious reformer that helped advocate for the rights of women. Most notably, he rejected the practices of child marriage, widows being denied the opportunity to remarry, and dowry deaths (the murdering of wives whose parents have not paid their dowries in ways that are meant to look accidental, usually occurring in the kitchen).
On our second day, we visited Victoria Memorial, probably the most recognizable landmark in Kolkata. It was built between 1906 and 1921 in honor of Queen Victoria, also known as the Empress of India. It is currently an art museum, which houses a small section that details India's colonial past (curated somewhat strangely from a British historian's perspective...at least that's how it seemed to me). The grounds around the memorial are vast and provid a nice oasis of calm in the middle of the frenetic city.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The River Ganges
The Ganges is one of the major rivers in India flowing east from the Himalayas to the Bay of Bengal. The 2,510 km river is linked to the goddess Ganga and is considered holy by Hindus. The water is said to have purifying qualities and pilgrims come to bathe in the river in hopes of washing away their sins.
The Ganges is also the site of many religious ceremonies and rituals. As the river is considered a pathway to heaven, families spread the ashes of the deceased there. Believers may also come to the Ganges with water bottles in tow to capture some of the river water and bring it back to their ailing loved ones to help them along the journey to heaven.
One of the cities that the Ganges flows through is Kolkata. On our first full day, we traveled to the edge of the river and dipped our feet in. As our next stop was on the opposite side of the city, we then took a thirty minute boat ride across the river.
A Passage From India
My coworkers and I decided to go to Kolkata (Calcutta) for the weekend. We arrived at the Bhubaneswar train station Friday afternoon at around the same time as the sky opened up and thick sheets of rain furiously came falling down. It was under a cold and gray backdrop that I first caught sight of the blue train that we would be traveling on for seven and a half hours. It reminded me of those trains you see in black and white films in the scene where the starlet's scarf covered head leans outs of the window calling to her lover as he endeavors to out run the train.
This romantic image quickly faded once I entered the non-AC chair car of the train. Replacing it was the odor of frying oil mingled with the faintest smell of chai and something a bit sour, like stale public toilets. The inside had a dingy, fallen look. The formerly white walls were a muddied grayish color accented with a dull peeling blue paint. Six or seven fans were creaking overhead, and small pools of water were gathering on the hard, inflexible train benches as the windows stubbornly stayed open.
We tried to find our seats through the parade of people coming down the aisle. One man selling pakoras out of a flimsy metal plan, another man urging you to buy a bag of potato chips from the crate he was carrying. More men shouting out the goods they were offering: chai, bottled water, and packets of gum dangling from a carrier as if the whole structure were a mobile that belonged in some baby's crib. There were also the travelers, of course, with their overstuffed bags pushing their way toward their seats. And then there were the blind, the one-armed, the crippled, reaching out their hands for just a few coins.
We found our places and squeezed into seats 97, 98, 99 and 100. After settling our belongings, we waited for the train to depart.
Anyone who has ever been on public transportation with me can guess that I was asleep within moments of the train moving. When I awoke, the rain had dissipated and the train car was filled with heavy, clingy air. As best as they could, my fellow passengers had contorted themselves into rest-like positions, mouths half-open and a sheen of sweat on their faces. I was pressed against the window, but when I turned around I saw huge expanses of green land. As the train continued chugging along, I focused in on the leaves and grass holding on to the last droplets of rain.
This romantic image quickly faded once I entered the non-AC chair car of the train. Replacing it was the odor of frying oil mingled with the faintest smell of chai and something a bit sour, like stale public toilets. The inside had a dingy, fallen look. The formerly white walls were a muddied grayish color accented with a dull peeling blue paint. Six or seven fans were creaking overhead, and small pools of water were gathering on the hard, inflexible train benches as the windows stubbornly stayed open.
We tried to find our seats through the parade of people coming down the aisle. One man selling pakoras out of a flimsy metal plan, another man urging you to buy a bag of potato chips from the crate he was carrying. More men shouting out the goods they were offering: chai, bottled water, and packets of gum dangling from a carrier as if the whole structure were a mobile that belonged in some baby's crib. There were also the travelers, of course, with their overstuffed bags pushing their way toward their seats. And then there were the blind, the one-armed, the crippled, reaching out their hands for just a few coins.
We found our places and squeezed into seats 97, 98, 99 and 100. After settling our belongings, we waited for the train to depart.
Anyone who has ever been on public transportation with me can guess that I was asleep within moments of the train moving. When I awoke, the rain had dissipated and the train car was filled with heavy, clingy air. As best as they could, my fellow passengers had contorted themselves into rest-like positions, mouths half-open and a sheen of sweat on their faces. I was pressed against the window, but when I turned around I saw huge expanses of green land. As the train continued chugging along, I focused in on the leaves and grass holding on to the last droplets of rain.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Rath Yartra
Yesterday was one of the biggest and most famous festivals in Orissa. The Rath Yatra - the pilgrimage of chariots - is held in Puri and is meant to honor Lord Jagannath (also called Krishna). Thousands of devotees gather under the June/July sun in order to offer prayers and gain a glimpse of the gods.
In order to beat the heat, which gets unbearable at around 10am, we arrived in Puri at 8:30. Cars are stopped at the main part of town, and crowds of people make a 4 km walk to the temple that houses Lord Jagannath, Lord Balabhadra and his sister Subhadra. Saffron is a color of worship so many of the walkers were donned in bright yellow-orangish clothing. Some worhippers were also doing the walk completely barefoot.
Typically, the three gods are worshipped within the Jagannath Temple, but during this festival a richly decorated and bright chariot is constructed for each. The gods are then removed from the temple, placed in their respective chariots and taken on a journey to their aunt's temple - the Gundicha Temple located 2km away.
Apparently, touching the chariot or seeing one of the gods is meant to be very auspicious, and people face sun, suffocation and potential stampedes for the chance. The pilgrimage of the chariots begins at 4pm, but we didn't think it was wise to stick around for the main event. Even still, in the early morning there were tons of people.
Over the sound of the swarms was a microphoned man leading prayers. At certain points, devotees would reach their arms up to the sky. Throughout the crowd were also men giving out sweets and other foods for pujas, or offerings to the gods.
As we made our way around the festival we found various pockets of activity.Like a minister leading around a sacred cow.
Hare Krishna devotees uniting their voices in sacred sounds.
Volunteers offering spritzes of water to help mitigate the heat.
Men squatting down to get close shaven haircuts.
A coconut seller cracking the fruit open against the ground.
And a costumed man performing a sword dance, until he sees a certain American girl taking pictures and decides to pause and sing her a song.
In order to beat the heat, which gets unbearable at around 10am, we arrived in Puri at 8:30. Cars are stopped at the main part of town, and crowds of people make a 4 km walk to the temple that houses Lord Jagannath, Lord Balabhadra and his sister Subhadra. Saffron is a color of worship so many of the walkers were donned in bright yellow-orangish clothing. Some worhippers were also doing the walk completely barefoot.
Typically, the three gods are worshipped within the Jagannath Temple, but during this festival a richly decorated and bright chariot is constructed for each. The gods are then removed from the temple, placed in their respective chariots and taken on a journey to their aunt's temple - the Gundicha Temple located 2km away.
Apparently, touching the chariot or seeing one of the gods is meant to be very auspicious, and people face sun, suffocation and potential stampedes for the chance. The pilgrimage of the chariots begins at 4pm, but we didn't think it was wise to stick around for the main event. Even still, in the early morning there were tons of people.
Over the sound of the swarms was a microphoned man leading prayers. At certain points, devotees would reach their arms up to the sky. Throughout the crowd were also men giving out sweets and other foods for pujas, or offerings to the gods.
As we made our way around the festival we found various pockets of activity.Like a minister leading around a sacred cow.
Hare Krishna devotees uniting their voices in sacred sounds.
Volunteers offering spritzes of water to help mitigate the heat.
A coconut seller cracking the fruit open against the ground. 
And a costumed man performing a sword dance, until he sees a certain American girl taking pictures and decides to pause and sing her a song.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
The White Tiger
When I travel I like to read novels about my destination. It's nice to be able to place the characters within the appropriate context, and I enjoy when the book mentions a village or a city where I've actually been. Novels also offer a little preview of some of the things that I might encounter during my visit.
On the plane to India, I started the Man Booker Prize winning novel _The White Tiger_ by Aravind Adiga. It reminded me of a darker version of _Remains of the Day_. Told from the perspective of an Indian servant, the author reveals the excesses of the upper class and gives voice to a group of people who are often ignored in conversations about India's economic boom. Put another way, it highlights how the poor have to live in order for the rich to live as they do.
This book has provided a backdrop for me to understand some of the luxuries that have been afforded to me here at this gorgeous university campus in Bhubaneswar. Sometimes I think of this place like a shiny, gilded watch. On the outside, everything is beautiful, golden, simple, clear. But what is masked is the messy, yet intricate dealings on the inside that makes everything work. No one seems to care a whole lot about the inside stuff unless the timing gets a little off.
The four of us have a go-to-guy named Gopal for all of our needs here on campus. He delivers us our drink preferences and biscuits twice -sometimes thrice- a day. When we need office supplies or our Internet isn't working or we have to see someone at a part of campus we haven't been to, he's the one to ask for help. And when our supervisor was off on vacation last week, it was Gopal that made sure that we got to our appointments and that everything was running like clockwork. Honestly, I'm uncomfortable with all of this attention, but as this is the way of life here, I feel like my only option is to make clear my gratitude for everything that he does.
But there is a risk here that I cannot ignore. If I were to get into some sort of mishap, I would not be held responsible. There's a reason why the warden is so strict with us. There's a reason why Gopal is so attentive. Because if the timing gets a little off, no matter whose fault it is, their jobs are on the line. And in a economically depressed place like Orissa, even a bad job is a good one.
On the plane to India, I started the Man Booker Prize winning novel _The White Tiger_ by Aravind Adiga. It reminded me of a darker version of _Remains of the Day_. Told from the perspective of an Indian servant, the author reveals the excesses of the upper class and gives voice to a group of people who are often ignored in conversations about India's economic boom. Put another way, it highlights how the poor have to live in order for the rich to live as they do.
This book has provided a backdrop for me to understand some of the luxuries that have been afforded to me here at this gorgeous university campus in Bhubaneswar. Sometimes I think of this place like a shiny, gilded watch. On the outside, everything is beautiful, golden, simple, clear. But what is masked is the messy, yet intricate dealings on the inside that makes everything work. No one seems to care a whole lot about the inside stuff unless the timing gets a little off.
The four of us have a go-to-guy named Gopal for all of our needs here on campus. He delivers us our drink preferences and biscuits twice -sometimes thrice- a day. When we need office supplies or our Internet isn't working or we have to see someone at a part of campus we haven't been to, he's the one to ask for help. And when our supervisor was off on vacation last week, it was Gopal that made sure that we got to our appointments and that everything was running like clockwork. Honestly, I'm uncomfortable with all of this attention, but as this is the way of life here, I feel like my only option is to make clear my gratitude for everything that he does.
But there is a risk here that I cannot ignore. If I were to get into some sort of mishap, I would not be held responsible. There's a reason why the warden is so strict with us. There's a reason why Gopal is so attentive. Because if the timing gets a little off, no matter whose fault it is, their jobs are on the line. And in a economically depressed place like Orissa, even a bad job is a good one.
More on Birthdays
Last night we went to the four-star hotel Mayfair Lagoon to celebrate Saryu's birthday. The Mayfair is home to one of three clubs in Bhubaneswar willing to serve alcohol to women. As this was a special occasion (and because we sweetened her up a bit with leftover birthday cake), the warden agreed to grant us a curfew-free evening.
Now don't get too shocked/excited about this leniency. Everyone in Bhubaneswar knows that night-life completely shuts down by 11:30 pm.
We left our hostel around 8pm and arrived at the club about twenty minutes later. The first thing we noticed when we walked through the door was a conspicuous absence of women. Best estimate, I would say that the room was 87% filled with men. One of my coworkers quipped to the host that we'd like to be seated in the female section. This gender imbalance was a stark reminder of how other women in the city living in hostels or with their families also have curfews, and some of them are as early as 7pm.
Despite being in a definite minority at this club, we had a nice time. We danced, ate dinner, and, most importantly, didn't worry about the time. When the bill came, Lisa paid and we decided to settle who owed what later.
Then this morning came and we got hit over the head with another cultural difference. Lisa and I thought we'd be splitting the bill three (possibly four) ways, whereas the Delhi girls thought Saryu would be footing the bill. The debate about the bill went around in circles for awhile with one side making arguments like "Of course, we would pay for you, it's your birthday." And the other side making arguments like "Of course I'd pay. It was my birthday."
When it was clear that this conversation was going nowhere fast, I was schooled in how birthdays are celebrated in India.
So at midnight, all your friends and extended family members call you. You say a quick thank you for their calls and then tell them that you will call them back later. In the meantime, your immediate family and very close friends gather around with birthday cake and gifts. This is the first round of celebrations.
After the Happy Birthday singing and the gift opening, you begin calling everyone back. You may be up till about 5am returning phone calls and sharing your birthday plans for the following day. Then you sleep for a couple of hours before you begin the next rounds of celebration.
During the day you may cut cake and open gifts with coworkers, different groups of friends, and possibly also a significant other. It is not uncommon to cut cake three or four times on your birthday. Then in the evening, no matter your age, you have a big dinner to which you invite everyone that you would like, and in gratitude for all of the gifts, you pay for dinner.
I said it before, and I'll say it again. Birthdays are serious business here.
Now don't get too shocked/excited about this leniency. Everyone in Bhubaneswar knows that night-life completely shuts down by 11:30 pm.
We left our hostel around 8pm and arrived at the club about twenty minutes later. The first thing we noticed when we walked through the door was a conspicuous absence of women. Best estimate, I would say that the room was 87% filled with men. One of my coworkers quipped to the host that we'd like to be seated in the female section. This gender imbalance was a stark reminder of how other women in the city living in hostels or with their families also have curfews, and some of them are as early as 7pm.
Despite being in a definite minority at this club, we had a nice time. We danced, ate dinner, and, most importantly, didn't worry about the time. When the bill came, Lisa paid and we decided to settle who owed what later.
Then this morning came and we got hit over the head with another cultural difference. Lisa and I thought we'd be splitting the bill three (possibly four) ways, whereas the Delhi girls thought Saryu would be footing the bill. The debate about the bill went around in circles for awhile with one side making arguments like "Of course, we would pay for you, it's your birthday." And the other side making arguments like "Of course I'd pay. It was my birthday."
When it was clear that this conversation was going nowhere fast, I was schooled in how birthdays are celebrated in India.
So at midnight, all your friends and extended family members call you. You say a quick thank you for their calls and then tell them that you will call them back later. In the meantime, your immediate family and very close friends gather around with birthday cake and gifts. This is the first round of celebrations.
After the Happy Birthday singing and the gift opening, you begin calling everyone back. You may be up till about 5am returning phone calls and sharing your birthday plans for the following day. Then you sleep for a couple of hours before you begin the next rounds of celebration.
During the day you may cut cake and open gifts with coworkers, different groups of friends, and possibly also a significant other. It is not uncommon to cut cake three or four times on your birthday. Then in the evening, no matter your age, you have a big dinner to which you invite everyone that you would like, and in gratitude for all of the gifts, you pay for dinner.
I said it before, and I'll say it again. Birthdays are serious business here.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Birthdays
Today was Saryu's birthday. As she hates the food served in the canteen, we made her a little gift basket of her favorite food-like substances, including Maggi noodles, Cerelac baby food, Hide & Seek biscuits and masala-flavored Lays potato chips. Deepika insisted that we present the...um...present at midnight. Thinking that Deepika was really gung-ho about birthdays, I agreed.
But it turns out that everyone in Saryu's circle of friends (and possibly in all of Delhi) are mad about birthdays. Once the clock struck midnight, Saryu was bombarded with phone calls from friends and family. At 12:10 Saryu commented that her parents were terrible for not calling her. I thought she was joking as I don't know of anyone whose parents would call them at midnight on their birthday. But then at 12:12 her parents did call.
Birthdays are serious business here.
The celebration continued during the daylight hours as well. Saryu's sister surprised her by having a cake and flowers delivered to our office. After taking some pictures of the goodies, we ate the cake in the traditional Indian fashion. Saryu dipped her knife into the cake, separating out the first slice. Scooping the slice up with her fingers, she fed one bite to Deepika, then to Lisa, then to me. In turn, Deepika cut out a second slice of cake and fed it to Saryu. She then passed along that slice to Lisa who offered Saryu a second bite. And I, after receiving the hand off from Lisa, fed Saryu the final bite.
But it turns out that everyone in Saryu's circle of friends (and possibly in all of Delhi) are mad about birthdays. Once the clock struck midnight, Saryu was bombarded with phone calls from friends and family. At 12:10 Saryu commented that her parents were terrible for not calling her. I thought she was joking as I don't know of anyone whose parents would call them at midnight on their birthday. But then at 12:12 her parents did call.
Birthdays are serious business here.
The celebration continued during the daylight hours as well. Saryu's sister surprised her by having a cake and flowers delivered to our office. After taking some pictures of the goodies, we ate the cake in the traditional Indian fashion. Saryu dipped her knife into the cake, separating out the first slice. Scooping the slice up with her fingers, she fed one bite to Deepika, then to Lisa, then to me. In turn, Deepika cut out a second slice of cake and fed it to Saryu. She then passed along that slice to Lisa who offered Saryu a second bite. And I, after receiving the hand off from Lisa, fed Saryu the final bite.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Cultural Festival
So I promised details on the cultural festival, but then I wasn't going to give them because the event was kind of a flop. However, a good friend and fellow blogger encouraged me to write something about it, so here it goes.
The main downfall of the event was that it was poorly organized. It was designed around many competitions like henna designs, tattoos and hair. However, it took place in an outside auditorium with an audience looking on to a stage. The organizers understood that it would be really boring to watch people from afar apply henna, draw tattoos or do their hair for 20 minutes. In order to side step this problem, they decided to have the competitors work backstage, and provide alternate entertainment for the audience to kill time until the competition could be judged. This entertainment came in the form of round after round of musical chairs with ten people going each time.
Now it's been a long time since I played musical chairs, so I can't say with certainty that students at Kiit campus have more intense rules than we do in the States, but I can be sure that they monitor the rules with more rigor. Three people were policing the event, and people were eliminated for touching chairs and running in the wrong direction. After the fifth round or so, I couldn't take it anymore and didn't stick around for the results of the competition.
To be fair, the event started off decently. The MC, who talked a little bit longer than necessary, called people out from the audience to sing traditional Oriya songs. This was followed up by a dance performance that included several female students. The MC then gave a really nice speech about community and the students who contributed to the cultural night. He then asked for all of the international students - the new members of the community - to come to the stage and share a little bit about their cultural festivals.
At this point, I began looking around to see if the other international students would stand up and get on stage. But then as I scanned the audience, looking from one Indian face to another, I realized they were talking specifically about us.
Lisa and I refused to go up by ourselves, so Deepika and Saryu joined us. A microphone was shoved in my hand, and my mind instantly went blank. What on earth could I say about American culture and the festivals that we have to a group of Indian graduate students? I said my name and where I was from and stammered something about how I didn't know what to say. Then I quickly passed the mic onto Lisa.
At this point, Lisa transformed into a Miss Universe contestant. She talked brightly about how she was from Austria and how the film _The Sound of Music_ was set there and showed her culture (which, by the way, is a film she has never seen). She then kicked off her shoes and announced that she would perform an Austrian dance. And the next thing I knew, she was doing a little Austrian jig to Bollywood music. Unbelievable.
The main downfall of the event was that it was poorly organized. It was designed around many competitions like henna designs, tattoos and hair. However, it took place in an outside auditorium with an audience looking on to a stage. The organizers understood that it would be really boring to watch people from afar apply henna, draw tattoos or do their hair for 20 minutes. In order to side step this problem, they decided to have the competitors work backstage, and provide alternate entertainment for the audience to kill time until the competition could be judged. This entertainment came in the form of round after round of musical chairs with ten people going each time.
Now it's been a long time since I played musical chairs, so I can't say with certainty that students at Kiit campus have more intense rules than we do in the States, but I can be sure that they monitor the rules with more rigor. Three people were policing the event, and people were eliminated for touching chairs and running in the wrong direction. After the fifth round or so, I couldn't take it anymore and didn't stick around for the results of the competition.
To be fair, the event started off decently. The MC, who talked a little bit longer than necessary, called people out from the audience to sing traditional Oriya songs. This was followed up by a dance performance that included several female students. The MC then gave a really nice speech about community and the students who contributed to the cultural night. He then asked for all of the international students - the new members of the community - to come to the stage and share a little bit about their cultural festivals.
At this point, I began looking around to see if the other international students would stand up and get on stage. But then as I scanned the audience, looking from one Indian face to another, I realized they were talking specifically about us.
Lisa and I refused to go up by ourselves, so Deepika and Saryu joined us. A microphone was shoved in my hand, and my mind instantly went blank. What on earth could I say about American culture and the festivals that we have to a group of Indian graduate students? I said my name and where I was from and stammered something about how I didn't know what to say. Then I quickly passed the mic onto Lisa.
At this point, Lisa transformed into a Miss Universe contestant. She talked brightly about how she was from Austria and how the film _The Sound of Music_ was set there and showed her culture (which, by the way, is a film she has never seen). She then kicked off her shoes and announced that she would perform an Austrian dance. And the next thing I knew, she was doing a little Austrian jig to Bollywood music. Unbelievable.
Pure Veg
Last night we were working late and decided to treat ourselves to delivery. Deepika was taking our orders and translating it over the phone to the nearby Indian place. This is more or less how part of the ordering conversation went down.
LISA: I'd like chana masala [translation: chickpea stew] and garlic naan.
DEEPIKA: They don't have it; this is a veg place.
LISA (confused): The garlic naan?
DEEPIKA: Yeah, this place is pure veg.
You may be thinking, "since when was garlic naan made from an animal?" Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction too.
In India, people who are pure veg don't eat meat, eggs, dairy, honey, onions or garlic. It's like veganism squared. From what I gathered from talking to my Delhi coworkers, people who are pure veg are typically religious folk. The rationale for them not eating meat is that it is impure or corrupt to harm animals for food. The explanation behind the onions and garlic, however, is a little less clear.
At first I was told it was because onions and garlic are thought of as dirty foods because they are taken from the ground. However, this didn't make much sense to me as pure veg restaurants often serve root vegetables.
The next theory thrown at me was that onions and garlic were considered impure because of their pungent odor. I was willing to buy this argument, but then decided to do some quick, unscientific follow-up research to double check.
The result? Well, according to Lonely Planet, Jains and Hare Krishna are generally the ones who are pure veg, and they may also abstain from root vegetables as they do not believe in doing harm to any living things, including plants. Any other thoughts on this?
LISA: I'd like chana masala [translation: chickpea stew] and garlic naan.
DEEPIKA: They don't have it; this is a veg place.
LISA (confused): The garlic naan?
DEEPIKA: Yeah, this place is pure veg.
You may be thinking, "since when was garlic naan made from an animal?" Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction too.
In India, people who are pure veg don't eat meat, eggs, dairy, honey, onions or garlic. It's like veganism squared. From what I gathered from talking to my Delhi coworkers, people who are pure veg are typically religious folk. The rationale for them not eating meat is that it is impure or corrupt to harm animals for food. The explanation behind the onions and garlic, however, is a little less clear.
At first I was told it was because onions and garlic are thought of as dirty foods because they are taken from the ground. However, this didn't make much sense to me as pure veg restaurants often serve root vegetables.
The next theory thrown at me was that onions and garlic were considered impure because of their pungent odor. I was willing to buy this argument, but then decided to do some quick, unscientific follow-up research to double check.
The result? Well, according to Lonely Planet, Jains and Hare Krishna are generally the ones who are pure veg, and they may also abstain from root vegetables as they do not believe in doing harm to any living things, including plants. Any other thoughts on this?
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Playing Dress Up
Last night on campus, there was a cultural night organized by the students to celebrate the Rajo festival. The flyer for the event described a night of entertainment with songs, dance, and henna/tattoo/hair competitions. The only catch was that you had to come in traditional dress, which for girls meant saris.
Now in India most women in their twenties who are studying in school or are working at casual offices are not likely to be wearing saris day to day. More often than not they'll be wearing a kurta (longish loose-fitting tunic-like top) with a salwar (breezy draw string pants), a churidar (a tighter pant that is tapered but has scrunched up rings of material at the bottom), or a patiala (think MC Hammer pants made of natural fibers). Among the younger generation, saris are generally reserved for weddings, festivals and other special occasions.
My coworkers and I didn't have saris so we went shopping for them on Monday. It was a dizzying experience that involved going from store after store to choose from an assortment of fabrics the perfect material, color and design. Then we had to go to other shops to find matching petticoats and blouses (usually women will get these specially made but we were short on time). By the end of the night we made our choices: Lisa was to be in dark purple, Saryu in light purple, me in green. Deepika decided to wear a fancy churidar kameez she had packed.
Apparently, there are more than one hundred ways to drape a sari. Between the four of us, we didn't even know one. So we had no choice but to ask for help from the only person we knew who could do it: the warden. We told the security guard that we were looking for her and asked that she come to our room as soon as possible. She arrived at our door within five minutes only to find me standing in the middle of the room in a blouse and petticoat hopelessly holding onto an endless piece of green fabric.
She gave the signal for five minutes and went rushing off. She came back later with another member of the staff who we had never met before. As we would later find out, she was an expert with saris.
So first she checked that the petticoat was pulled and tied tightly around my waist. This is important because if the petticoat comes undone the whole sari falls off. Then she wrapped the fabric around my waist tucking it into my petticoat.
Then she tossed one end of the fabric over my shoulder and pinned it into place. 
The most impressive part came next, as she neatly folded pleats in the front and then tucked the rest of the fabric into the petticoat.
The whole process took about 15 minutes.
It was actually kind of a bonding moment, too. The warden sat there with all of us and we actually laughed and had fun. It just might have been a turning point.
Now in India most women in their twenties who are studying in school or are working at casual offices are not likely to be wearing saris day to day. More often than not they'll be wearing a kurta (longish loose-fitting tunic-like top) with a salwar (breezy draw string pants), a churidar (a tighter pant that is tapered but has scrunched up rings of material at the bottom), or a patiala (think MC Hammer pants made of natural fibers). Among the younger generation, saris are generally reserved for weddings, festivals and other special occasions.
My coworkers and I didn't have saris so we went shopping for them on Monday. It was a dizzying experience that involved going from store after store to choose from an assortment of fabrics the perfect material, color and design. Then we had to go to other shops to find matching petticoats and blouses (usually women will get these specially made but we were short on time). By the end of the night we made our choices: Lisa was to be in dark purple, Saryu in light purple, me in green. Deepika decided to wear a fancy churidar kameez she had packed.
Apparently, there are more than one hundred ways to drape a sari. Between the four of us, we didn't even know one. So we had no choice but to ask for help from the only person we knew who could do it: the warden. We told the security guard that we were looking for her and asked that she come to our room as soon as possible. She arrived at our door within five minutes only to find me standing in the middle of the room in a blouse and petticoat hopelessly holding onto an endless piece of green fabric.
She gave the signal for five minutes and went rushing off. She came back later with another member of the staff who we had never met before. As we would later find out, she was an expert with saris.
So first she checked that the petticoat was pulled and tied tightly around my waist. This is important because if the petticoat comes undone the whole sari falls off. Then she wrapped the fabric around my waist tucking it into my petticoat.
Then she tossed one end of the fabric over my shoulder and pinned it into place. 
The most impressive part came next, as she neatly folded pleats in the front and then tucked the rest of the fabric into the petticoat.
The whole process took about 15 minutes.
It was actually kind of a bonding moment, too. The warden sat there with all of us and we actually laughed and had fun. It just might have been a turning point.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Rajo Festival
For the last three days, the people of Orissa have been celebrating the Rajo festival - a festival for girls. During this time all women get to take a break from their daily work, including Mother Earth (there is no sowing or plowing during these days). Typically, families hang make-shift swings from trees and the eldest unmarried daughter comes out to swing on them. Girls of all ages are also celebrated with new clothes and sweets.
Like many cultural festivals, this one is laden with symbolism. Rajo means both dust and menstruation. So the idea is that during the festival the earth experiences her menstruation and then soon after the monsoon rains will come and she will become fruitful and fertile.
As we are on a university campus in a capital city, we have not seen any examples of these swinging girls. In fact, the campus has been pretty empty as girls returned back to their home villages for the festival. However, there is a cultural festival tonight. Details on that to come later.
Like many cultural festivals, this one is laden with symbolism. Rajo means both dust and menstruation. So the idea is that during the festival the earth experiences her menstruation and then soon after the monsoon rains will come and she will become fruitful and fertile.
As we are on a university campus in a capital city, we have not seen any examples of these swinging girls. In fact, the campus has been pretty empty as girls returned back to their home villages for the festival. However, there is a cultural festival tonight. Details on that to come later.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
And That's Why You Don't Ride the Bus in India
I love taking public transportation in new places that I visit. I think it's a great way to connect with the natural rhythm of a city. It gives you the opportunity to do some serious people watching, chat with locals and begin chipping away at the invisible wall between tourist and resident. So when my colleagues and I were deciding whether to take the bus or a cab to the village of Konark yesterday, I was the biggest cheerleader for taking the bus.
Now I recognized that there would be some down sides to taking the bus in India. I knew it was going to be very crowded, which opens you up to the possibility of theft or harassment. And I knew that all of the bodies crammed into a non-air conditioned vehicle midday was going to be oppressively hot. And then of course there is the issue of the quality of the roads themselves, which would make the whole experience feel like a never-ending ride on Rolling Thunder at Great Adventure. But it all seemed worth it for the chance to actually feel like I lived in Orissa.
What I didn't factor in while doing my mental calculus, however, was small children. Small children with weak stomachs. Small children with weak stomachs who puke all over my co-worker one and half hours into our three hour bus ride.
And that's why you don't ride the bus in India.
To her credit, my co-worker handled the ordeal like a champ. She cleaned herself off as best she could with bottled water and agreed to continue on with our day trip as planned.
Our first destination was the Sun Temple, which is actually a temple complex made up of three buildings. As our tour guide told us the three signified the life cycle (child, adult, elder); the cycle of the day (morning, afternoon, evening); the seasons (summer, winter, monsoon); and Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva (the creator, the sustainer and the destroyer).
Each temple had carvings all along the outside. We had hired a tour guide to give us some context to understand the images. The tour started off benign enough. Our guide showed us the dancing hall where there were images of Shiva dancing and the young Krishna being very naughty by stealing and eating butter.
But then the carvings got a bit naughtier than that. It turns out that majority
of the images depicted on the Sun Temple are drawn from the Kama Sutra. So as the images became more amorous, our tour guide became more succinct. He'd point at carvings, mutter something quickly, and then walk as far away as possible as we took a look. Towards the end, he gave up all pretenses of giving this kind of tour to four women. He just borrowed our cameras and clicked photographs of the carvings he'd normally give details about to his groups. As we said our goodbyes, he was very kind and encouraged us to come back again some day....with our husbands.
We followed up the tour with a walk on a nearby beach where a bunch of families were milling around. By this time it was 5 o'clock and the weather was perfect. The sun had gone down and there was a breeze coming up from the bay. We rolled up our pants and splashed around in the warm water. As we were drying our feet and getting ready to go, my co-worker, who still had dried vomit visible on her white top, said "I don't mind taking the bus back."
So we headed to the bus depot, and I sat in the last row of the bus next to the window. As we made our way back to Bhubaneswar, I leaned out the window, letting the wind rush across my face, and watched as scenes of Orissa flickered past.
Now I recognized that there would be some down sides to taking the bus in India. I knew it was going to be very crowded, which opens you up to the possibility of theft or harassment. And I knew that all of the bodies crammed into a non-air conditioned vehicle midday was going to be oppressively hot. And then of course there is the issue of the quality of the roads themselves, which would make the whole experience feel like a never-ending ride on Rolling Thunder at Great Adventure. But it all seemed worth it for the chance to actually feel like I lived in Orissa.
What I didn't factor in while doing my mental calculus, however, was small children. Small children with weak stomachs. Small children with weak stomachs who puke all over my co-worker one and half hours into our three hour bus ride.
And that's why you don't ride the bus in India.
To her credit, my co-worker handled the ordeal like a champ. She cleaned herself off as best she could with bottled water and agreed to continue on with our day trip as planned.
Our first destination was the Sun Temple, which is actually a temple complex made up of three buildings. As our tour guide told us the three signified the life cycle (child, adult, elder); the cycle of the day (morning, afternoon, evening); the seasons (summer, winter, monsoon); and Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva (the creator, the sustainer and the destroyer).
Each temple had carvings all along the outside. We had hired a tour guide to give us some context to understand the images. The tour started off benign enough. Our guide showed us the dancing hall where there were images of Shiva dancing and the young Krishna being very naughty by stealing and eating butter.But then the carvings got a bit naughtier than that. It turns out that majority
of the images depicted on the Sun Temple are drawn from the Kama Sutra. So as the images became more amorous, our tour guide became more succinct. He'd point at carvings, mutter something quickly, and then walk as far away as possible as we took a look. Towards the end, he gave up all pretenses of giving this kind of tour to four women. He just borrowed our cameras and clicked photographs of the carvings he'd normally give details about to his groups. As we said our goodbyes, he was very kind and encouraged us to come back again some day....with our husbands.
We followed up the tour with a walk on a nearby beach where a bunch of families were milling around. By this time it was 5 o'clock and the weather was perfect. The sun had gone down and there was a breeze coming up from the bay. We rolled up our pants and splashed around in the warm water. As we were drying our feet and getting ready to go, my co-worker, who still had dried vomit visible on her white top, said "I don't mind taking the bus back."So we headed to the bus depot, and I sat in the last row of the bus next to the window. As we made our way back to Bhubaneswar, I leaned out the window, letting the wind rush across my face, and watched as scenes of Orissa flickered past.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Deadlines
Deadlines are stressful, especially for me.
Today at work we had our first deadline - a 20 page report documenting the background research we have conducted on Orissa. For the past week, as the good academics we are, we poured over piles of books with census information and survey results, dutifully noting down indicators, demographics and relevant statistics. After a week of research and an intense night of writing, we handed over the report to our supervisor.
But here's the thing. Even though we're living in Orissa, we have absolutely no connection to any of the things that we wrote down. Here in Bhubaneswar we live a pretty charmed life with running water, piped sanitation, paved roads, a western toilet. But this is not at all representative of the state as a whole. By many estimates, Orissa is the poorest state in India, and its development indicators leave a whole lot to be desired. Let's take a look at the numbers.
Today at work we had our first deadline - a 20 page report documenting the background research we have conducted on Orissa. For the past week, as the good academics we are, we poured over piles of books with census information and survey results, dutifully noting down indicators, demographics and relevant statistics. After a week of research and an intense night of writing, we handed over the report to our supervisor.
But here's the thing. Even though we're living in Orissa, we have absolutely no connection to any of the things that we wrote down. Here in Bhubaneswar we live a pretty charmed life with running water, piped sanitation, paved roads, a western toilet. But this is not at all representative of the state as a whole. By many estimates, Orissa is the poorest state in India, and its development indicators leave a whole lot to be desired. Let's take a look at the numbers.
- 46.4% of the population is living below the poverty line
- The infant mortality rate is 77 per 1000 children born alive
- 3/4 of the state's children under 3 suffer from malnutrition
- 60.74% of children dropout before completing primary school
- 85% of the population live in rural areas
- 3.8% of all rural households have access to safe drinking water
- 5.2% of all rural households have access to piped sanitation
Friday, June 12, 2009
Oriya Hospitality
While in Orissa, I vacillate between feeling like a celebrity and feeling like a leper.
First, leprosy. So me and my colleagues get stared at. A lot. Pretty much constantly. Long, intense, unblinking stares. This is not too surprising. Bhubansewar isn't the type of place that gets a lot of foreign visitors. People also take pictures of us. Also fair. I recognize this might be the last time that some of the students and staff on campus will see anyone who looks like us. Yesterday, we showed up at the canteen during prime time lunch hour and had a seat at a crowded table. Almost immediately our neighbors all got up and found other places to sit. Now that hurt a little.
The celeb factor manifests itself more in our interactions with the staff on campus. I feel like they must have been specifically told to do whatever it takes to make us comfortable (much to our discomfort). Here are some examples.
1. We are brought tea and biscuits to our office twice a day, every day.
2. We are the only rooms in the girls hostel that have air conditioning. They installed them right before we arrived for our benefit.
3. When my eye was swollen and I went to the canteen to get some ice, they told me it would take one hour. I said no problem, figuring that they didn't have any made. Five minutes later, I was delivered a plate of ice, and it was clear that someone must of taken an ice pick to some poor, unsuspecting freezer just to fulfill my request.
4. One of my colleagues isn't very comfortable with using squat toilets and mentioned this to our supervisor. The next day, plumbers were pouring cement into one of the squat toilets in the shared bathroom of our hostel so as to put in a standard western one instead.
So it should have come to no surprise to us that the campus tour that our supervisor arranged wouldn't be the typical walk around the grounds type of affair. Three staff members picked us up in this:
Move over Jon and Kate.
The most interesting part of the tour was seeing the tribal school that the university hosts. Ten thousand children from scheduled tribes (indigenous tribes that have been classified by the government as economically disadvantaged) attend this boarding school for free. And free really means free : free tuition, free housing, free food, free uniforms, free supplies. From the outside the classrooms seemed nice. However, the living quarters were pretty cramped with several rows of bunk beds filling the room. For some reason, there were a few kids still there even though it's the summer. A few of them were playing in the playground.
And here are a couple of pictures of the ridiculously beautiful place where I work.
First, leprosy. So me and my colleagues get stared at. A lot. Pretty much constantly. Long, intense, unblinking stares. This is not too surprising. Bhubansewar isn't the type of place that gets a lot of foreign visitors. People also take pictures of us. Also fair. I recognize this might be the last time that some of the students and staff on campus will see anyone who looks like us. Yesterday, we showed up at the canteen during prime time lunch hour and had a seat at a crowded table. Almost immediately our neighbors all got up and found other places to sit. Now that hurt a little.
The celeb factor manifests itself more in our interactions with the staff on campus. I feel like they must have been specifically told to do whatever it takes to make us comfortable (much to our discomfort). Here are some examples.
1. We are brought tea and biscuits to our office twice a day, every day.
2. We are the only rooms in the girls hostel that have air conditioning. They installed them right before we arrived for our benefit.
3. When my eye was swollen and I went to the canteen to get some ice, they told me it would take one hour. I said no problem, figuring that they didn't have any made. Five minutes later, I was delivered a plate of ice, and it was clear that someone must of taken an ice pick to some poor, unsuspecting freezer just to fulfill my request.
4. One of my colleagues isn't very comfortable with using squat toilets and mentioned this to our supervisor. The next day, plumbers were pouring cement into one of the squat toilets in the shared bathroom of our hostel so as to put in a standard western one instead.
So it should have come to no surprise to us that the campus tour that our supervisor arranged wouldn't be the typical walk around the grounds type of affair. Three staff members picked us up in this:
Move over Jon and Kate.
The most interesting part of the tour was seeing the tribal school that the university hosts. Ten thousand children from scheduled tribes (indigenous tribes that have been classified by the government as economically disadvantaged) attend this boarding school for free. And free really means free : free tuition, free housing, free food, free uniforms, free supplies. From the outside the classrooms seemed nice. However, the living quarters were pretty cramped with several rows of bunk beds filling the room. For some reason, there were a few kids still there even though it's the summer. A few of them were playing in the playground.
And here are a couple of pictures of the ridiculously beautiful place where I work.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Airing Our Dirty Laundry
Today was laundry day. Finally. I've been in India more than a week and I needed to clean my clothes. There's no re-wearing outfits when it gets as hot as 45 degrees Celsius (I'm too afraid to translate that into Fahrenheit). I've been asking the warden for days now about how we do laundry and she told me that a guy will come by to pick it up. This evening, as I was attempting to sneak into the hostel past curfew (it was 9:09!), a man came forward to say that he was there for laundry pick up.
Now in the States when you have laundry picked up, they weigh your bag and tell you how much you owe. Not so in India. As I learned the hard way, they charge you by the number of items in the bag.
So three of us handed over our laundry bags to the guy and wrote down our names, room numbers and the number of items we wanted cleaned. Then, to our complete embarrassment, he proceeded to display the contents of our bags - underwear and all- on the floor right at the entrance door of the hostel in order to confirm the number of items each bag held.
Watching someone air your dirty laundry is pretty uncomfortable, but we suspect it was far more mortifying for the warden. She oversaw the whole debacle with a stern stare. Imagine having to watch the new girls in the hostel publicly hand over their undergarments to a man!
Now in the States when you have laundry picked up, they weigh your bag and tell you how much you owe. Not so in India. As I learned the hard way, they charge you by the number of items in the bag.
So three of us handed over our laundry bags to the guy and wrote down our names, room numbers and the number of items we wanted cleaned. Then, to our complete embarrassment, he proceeded to display the contents of our bags - underwear and all- on the floor right at the entrance door of the hostel in order to confirm the number of items each bag held.
Watching someone air your dirty laundry is pretty uncomfortable, but we suspect it was far more mortifying for the warden. She oversaw the whole debacle with a stern stare. Imagine having to watch the new girls in the hostel publicly hand over their undergarments to a man!
On Practice
My yoga practice is a comfort for me when I travel. Sometimes when things get hectic or I'm feeling a bit off balance, it's nice to move in and out of familiar postures. This is more true now that I practice ashtanga, a style of yoga that allows me to fall into the ritual and rhythm of the same poses in the same order day after day.
Two days ago, I practiced yoga publicly for the first time in India at the campus gym. Now while I'm used to being the only black person practicing yoga in a room of practitioners from another racial group (Asian in Hong Kong, mostly white in the US), this is the first time I've had the experience of being the only black person practicing yoga in a room of non-practitioners from another racial group. Oh yeah, that's right. I rolled out my mat and the 7 or 8 staff members at the gym gathered at the door to stare at me.
Now I recognize why this would be a spectacle. If the shoe were on the other foot, I'd want to check out the American girl who was interested in doing yoga in the campus gym. But let's just say it was really intimidating having an audience. But what to do? I couldn't roll up my mat and go home. Instead I brought my hands to heart center, then inhaled arms up, look thumbs.
This morning when my alarm went off at 6:50 am I just couldn't get my eyes open. Even though I wanted to practice, I figured I just needed more sleep. At 7:15 a woman knocked on the door to clean our rooms. I got up to let her in but my eyes still felt heavy. Since I was already out of bed, I figured I should just brush my teeth and get going. I went to the sink, splashed some water on my face, and looked up into the mirror to find that in fact, my eyes actually couldn't open. Well at least one eye couldn't. It was swollen shut. My best guess is that I got a mosquito bite on my eyelid and reacted poorly to it.
As I looked like Frankenstein, I figured I shouldn't head over to the gym and terrify the small children who happened along my path. And with my eye in its condition, I couldn't read or watch a movie or anything really. What to do?
I shoved my suitcase out of the center of the room. Rolled out my mat. Brought my hands to heart center. Inhale arms up, one eye look thumbs.
Two days ago, I practiced yoga publicly for the first time in India at the campus gym. Now while I'm used to being the only black person practicing yoga in a room of practitioners from another racial group (Asian in Hong Kong, mostly white in the US), this is the first time I've had the experience of being the only black person practicing yoga in a room of non-practitioners from another racial group. Oh yeah, that's right. I rolled out my mat and the 7 or 8 staff members at the gym gathered at the door to stare at me.
Now I recognize why this would be a spectacle. If the shoe were on the other foot, I'd want to check out the American girl who was interested in doing yoga in the campus gym. But let's just say it was really intimidating having an audience. But what to do? I couldn't roll up my mat and go home. Instead I brought my hands to heart center, then inhaled arms up, look thumbs.
This morning when my alarm went off at 6:50 am I just couldn't get my eyes open. Even though I wanted to practice, I figured I just needed more sleep. At 7:15 a woman knocked on the door to clean our rooms. I got up to let her in but my eyes still felt heavy. Since I was already out of bed, I figured I should just brush my teeth and get going. I went to the sink, splashed some water on my face, and looked up into the mirror to find that in fact, my eyes actually couldn't open. Well at least one eye couldn't. It was swollen shut. My best guess is that I got a mosquito bite on my eyelid and reacted poorly to it.
As I looked like Frankenstein, I figured I shouldn't head over to the gym and terrify the small children who happened along my path. And with my eye in its condition, I couldn't read or watch a movie or anything really. What to do?
I shoved my suitcase out of the center of the room. Rolled out my mat. Brought my hands to heart center. Inhale arms up, one eye look thumbs.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Finding a New Home Away From Home
My colleagues and I are currently staying at the girls hostel that is associated with the research institution where we are working. It is basically a dormitory but I have come to nickname it the nunnery (others have referred to it as a prison). When we arrived we were given a 10pm curfew (for our own safety, of course), but when we missed the deadline by 4 minutes on Saturday night, it was scaled back to 9pm.
My favorite part of the day is when we go to have a meal in the canteen. It reminds me of one of the final scenes of the Sound of Music when the head nun is leading them through the dark corridors and locking and unlocking gates behind them. It's sort of like that. The warden (this is actually what they call her) leads us through the first floor of the hostel and unlocks the gate into the canteen. It must stay locked because the canteen is co-ed and there is a fear that boys will sneak in.
When discussing the restrictive rules to our supervisor, he told us without any irony "too much freedom, leads to trouble."So as you can guess, my colleagues and I have been looking for alternate housing. While finding accommodations in a foreign city is always hard, in Bhubaneswar it is particularly daunting. First of all, since this is not a big tourist or expat destination city, there are very few furnished apartments on the market. Those that do exist, prefer to have tenants who can sign on for at least a year. Further complicating matters is that we are four women. And landlords are not willing to rent to unmarried women (apparently, we might start a brothel or something with all of our unbridled freedom).
We tried looking for guesthouses and hotels that might be suitable and were directed to Utkal Guest House. We didn't know ahead of time that it was also a marriage bureau. For those unfamiliar, a marriage bureau is a place where parents trying to arrange marriages for their children go to get help finding a match. It's like a corporate matchmaker, just bring your child's horoscope.
When we walked into the guest house/marriage bureau there was a calendar of the gods on one wall of the room and a poster of what looked like an x-rated Indian film on the other. The actual guest rooms were OK, a little musty and shabby. But then we looked up to see that there was a red light bulb over the beds. Hilarious. Needless to say we're still at the nunnery, exploring other options.
My favorite part of the day is when we go to have a meal in the canteen. It reminds me of one of the final scenes of the Sound of Music when the head nun is leading them through the dark corridors and locking and unlocking gates behind them. It's sort of like that. The warden (this is actually what they call her) leads us through the first floor of the hostel and unlocks the gate into the canteen. It must stay locked because the canteen is co-ed and there is a fear that boys will sneak in.
When discussing the restrictive rules to our supervisor, he told us without any irony "too much freedom, leads to trouble."So as you can guess, my colleagues and I have been looking for alternate housing. While finding accommodations in a foreign city is always hard, in Bhubaneswar it is particularly daunting. First of all, since this is not a big tourist or expat destination city, there are very few furnished apartments on the market. Those that do exist, prefer to have tenants who can sign on for at least a year. Further complicating matters is that we are four women. And landlords are not willing to rent to unmarried women (apparently, we might start a brothel or something with all of our unbridled freedom).
We tried looking for guesthouses and hotels that might be suitable and were directed to Utkal Guest House. We didn't know ahead of time that it was also a marriage bureau. For those unfamiliar, a marriage bureau is a place where parents trying to arrange marriages for their children go to get help finding a match. It's like a corporate matchmaker, just bring your child's horoscope.When we walked into the guest house/marriage bureau there was a calendar of the gods on one wall of the room and a poster of what looked like an x-rated Indian film on the other. The actual guest rooms were OK, a little musty and shabby. But then we looked up to see that there was a red light bulb over the beds. Hilarious. Needless to say we're still at the nunnery, exploring other options.
First Impressions of Bhubaneswar, Orissa
I arrived in Bhubaneswar last Saturday and the city felt so different from Delhi, it was hard to believe I was in the same country. Sure, the drivers flouted the rules with the same intensity as those in Delhi, but the similarities basically stopped there. Bhubaneswar has huge stretches of green space, uncrowded streets, and murals using the Warli painting style. Warli is apparently based on a pictorial written language used by some of the indigenous populations in India.
Another striking difference is the language. While many people in Bhubaneswar speak Hindi and/or English, the main language used is Oriya. The curly scripts of the language could be seen on signs throughout the city.
And overall, the city has more of a suburban/residential feel. I felt particularly inclined to take a picture of this block because it reminded me of the opening sequence from the Golden Girls.
Snapshots of Delhi
So for a whole week I have been without phone and Internet. I'm already in Orissa (more on that later) but I wanted to first post some photos from Delhi.
This is from Khan Market. It's filled with shops and eateries. It may not look like it from this photo but it's a bit ritzy. Apparently, the real estate here is the fourth highest in Asia. I went here on my first day to buy an India-appropriate wardrobe.
On the second day of orientation we visited Humayun's tomb. Pre-dating the Taj Mahal this was built under the orders of Hamida Banu Begum, Emperor Humayun's widow.
Another photo from the complex.
And finally a photo of my work colleagues (Lisa, Deepika, Saryu) and I at a party that UNICEF hosted for us on our second night.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
New Chick in Town
I once heard somewhere that there is a special technique for introducing new chicks to an already established coop. In the middle of the night, you must sneak the chicks in, being careful not to wake the others. The next morning the chickens will wake up and instantly accept the chicks, wrongly believing that the new arrivals had always been there. Bring the new chicks in during the day, however, and the newbies will be pecked at and harassed by the rest of the flock.
Arriving in Delhi last Tuesday, I could not help but think of this. Two other UNICEF interns and I emerged from the airport at about 10:30 pm, and we piled ourselves and two months worth of luggage into a taxi cab. As we braced ourselves against the high-speed traffic, the chaotic round abouts, and the aggressive honking, we made our first dim impressions of India. By the time we reached the International Youth Centre (a confusing journey that required our driver to ask for directions multiple times), all was dark and quiet. A man behind the reception desk handed us our keys and almost silently we made our way to our rooms.
For the next three days, in a haze of jet lag, we were ushered from one air conditioned room to another, as the UNICEF staff offered lectures to help orient ourselves to India, UNICEF and the work we will be doing over the summer. We were eased into our surroundings, not really exploring the more populated areas of the city till the end of orientation. By that time, we felt pretty secure with wandering around on our own, and Delhi in its hectic, carefree sort of way seemed more than willing to accept us.
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