I've Left

Well, it certainly wasn’t easy—in more ways than one—but I have actually left India. I’m writing this blog entry as I sit a gate of the Frankfurt airport for six hours. (It would be really nice if I could post it from here, but, no, I don’t have an Internet connection. So I’ll use this text to post after I arrive home.)

Why was it hard? Well, first there was the packing. Yes, I bought too much stuff. Even after pulling out some things that I brought from home and can easily and cheaply replace when I get back there, fitting it all into my two large suitcases, carry-on, and laptop bag didn’t seem quite doable. I did end up leaving behind a couple books, but not much else that I would really have liked to fit. You might be amused to know that I’m wearing a watch on each arm—has worked out rather well, because I can set them to different time zones—as well as a couple bangle bracelets. And no, that wasn’t a fashion decision. (Those suitcases are REALLY packed.)

As you might guess, it was also rather hard emotionally. Having my landlady in tears after praying for my trip was a bit of a surprise, though for weeks now she’s been telling anyone who would listen how much she’s going to miss me. I’ll miss her, too. And saying good-bye to the group at work? No tears, but certainly sadness. I remind myself that we’ll still instant message, talk, and even have video conferences, but as I’m hugging a co-worker good-bye (only females, of course) it’s so evident that it will never be the same.

I’m sure I’ll be glad to be back home. It will have to feel good to blend in with everyone else around, and to just automatically know what’s appropriate in the culture. I expect to enjoy driving again, and am pretty sure I’ll be fine with not bargaining over prices.

But when I left Orlando six months ago, it was with a confidence that I’d return shortly. India? I refuse to say I won’t be back—sorry, Mom—but the future, as always, is a mystery. If there are more adventures like this one to be had, don't count me out!

Can It Be?

Nearly six months in India already? Yes, having arrived here on October 21st, the time has come to head back to the US. I'll be catching a plane in Chennai to do so in the wee hours of Thursday, April 17th. (Not quite supper time the previous day back in Orlando and Ohio.)

Am I eager to get back home? Well, as I've packed and said my good-byes, I have become excited about seeing everyone back home, and getting back to things I'm familiar with, such as driving in an orderly fashion down streets with marked lanes!

Am I eager to leave? That's a different story. There have been a few moments where an interaction here has left me wondering how I can possibly go. This has been an adventure beyond my dreams, and it's hard to see it end.

As a matter of fact, I've begun compiling a list of reasons that I need to come back. (Sorry, Mom.) While I've fit a few new experiences into my last week here--I've always needed a sense of urgency to really get moving--it just hasn't been possible to do it all. Doesn't look as though I'm going to be able to:

1. Ride a "government" bus, the ones that take people around the city. Mary and I had talked about doing this, since she had done it once or twice with an Indian, but it never worked out.
2. Ride a share auto, which is a larger version of an auto rickshaw that has a defined route and can sure squeeze a lot of people on (which is the fun part, of course).
3. Check out the tower that's just a 10 to 15 minute walk from the office and would let me look out over a portion of Anna Nagar (the part of Chennai where I live and work).
4. Visit the ministry of Jacob Beera, which is, I'm told, just an overnight train trip from Chennai. I've been familiar with his ministry of children's homes and evangelistic crusades since the 80s. Can't believe I didn't work at arranging a visit, since he's located in the state just above Tamil Nadu.
5. Attend a Christian wedding. I know two people getting married (not to each other) in May, and probably would have been invited to both, but alas, I'll have to settle for pictures.

Hmm. I'm sure there were more. I'll work on it. But for now, I'm working on fitting things in my suitcases and somehow saying good-bye to a land and people that are quite firmly entrenched in my heart.

My Overseas Birthday

I'm much too old to go around announcing my birthday ahead of time. Plus, I had reason to believe that people at the office might make a fuss if they knew it was coming. I've already told you how terribly spoiled I am, haven't I?

Also, I had told a few people of the tradition at my office back in Ohio that required us to bring in our own birthday treats for our co-workers. That had always worked out well. So, on the way in to the office this past Wednesday, I stopped at The Grand Sweets and Snacks and picked out half a dozen each of five different Indian sweets that looked good to me.

But I had done some laundry that morning, and gone to Mary and Steve's for homemade bagels (what a birthday treat that was!), so I got in to the office quite late. It was really too close to lunch to start handing out treats, so I didn't say anything. Besides, after everyone has come back from lunch, we have tea, so I thought I'd have a little work meeting with the team, and also pass out some sweets. After that, I would take the rest to the people on the other IT teams, as well as friends in the HR department.

In the meantime, one of the guys on the team, who had taken half a day off to go with his father to the doctor, called in to say that they were still waiting and he would have to be gone the whole day. Yet another snag in my plan; I blurted out to the woman I was working with that he would miss the birthday treats I had brought in. And that was my big mistake; she gave me up!

Even my afternoon plans were not working out: the team of six never seemed to be working at their desks at the same time. Where were the three young guys on the team? Had they gone for a snack right after lunch? Even so, why weren't they back? Things were getting strange, and I was beginning to get suspicious. When Steve came by--he had been ill and not in the office much that week--the head of HR needed to talk to him privately. At that point I was convinced that something was going on, and was not too surprised when Steve told me that we were wanted down in the HR office.

Sigh. In the center of the office was a cake with the words, "Happy Birthday, Cathy Williams" and about 20 people showed up to sing a full three verses (Did you know?) of the standard birthday song. Yes, candles to blow out, too. Since my treats had not yet seen the light of day, I brought them down also, and we had a nice feast. Afterwards, very much in keeping with the Indian Christian traditions, the manager of the entire office prayed a lovely prayer for me.

So, it was a lovely day, and the fuss I tried to avoid was just arranged in less time than if I had given some warning. That evening Steve, Mary, and I went to the home of an Indian family that we've gotten to know mostly through the ministries Mary works with. The invitation had nothing to do with my birthday, but Mary hadn't been hesitant to give out that information, so there was a second chocolate birthday cake, with candles, but just one verse.I'll have no trouble remembering my overseas birthday, and it will probably always be with a chuckle. Remember those guys that disappeared from the office in the afternoon? The cake was from the whole office, but the gift they picked out was from the team of six Indians that works with us. Who do you think this is suppose to be, anyway? She just doesn't look Indian.

A Little Indian Humor

One of my Indian co-workers was telling me the other day of his intention to buy a bicycle for riding to work. He currently drives a motorcycle (referred to here as a 2-wheeler), but feels the extra exercise of a bike would do him good. I learned that it's not that simple, as you can see in the following close-as-I-can-remember account of our conversation:

Him: Status is very important to people here. When they see me on a bike, they'll think I can't afford a 2-wheeler.

Me: Back home we have bumper stickers on cars that say something like, "My other vehicle is a BMW." You could put one on your bike that says, "My other vehicle is a 2-wheeler."

Him: Yes, but then they'll think, oh, he can't afford the petrol (gas) for his 2-wheeler. I'll have to further explain on my sign, ". . . and yes, I can afford the petrol. I'm riding this for the exercise." To which they will respond, "Aha, he can't afford a membership to a health club!"


Ah, so glad we've gotten beyond such pettiness back home. ;- )

My Ghostwriter

Well, I guess I really do have to get back to posting. Apparently desperate for something to read and comment on, one of my friends has taken an account I Skype'd to him and created a blog entry for me! It's my story, and true enough. But would you have known I had significant help, if I hadn't confessed? (I don't want to risk ending my time overseas enmessed in a blog scandal, though.) Here it is, with just a couple minor edits by me:

You may remember from a previous blog post what a harrowing thing it is to cross the street here. Eventually I learned that most drivers do actually try to avoid you – except for city buses. I'm pretty much convinced that they try to run you down. (I think it's a contest, but no one will tell me what their prize is.) The other day I was crossing the main road near the office, and there happened to be a very short man beside me (you would be amazed at how many very short Indian men there are). After getting to half way, the light was still with us, but there was a bus waiting on the second side. It wasn’t moving, so I didn’t consider it too much of a threat, but the really funny thing is that the man, starting to run, looked toward me (most people on the street act as though they don't see me, and certainly don't talk to me), and said something very close to, "Run, city bus!" To see someone else actually admitting to panic over one that wasn't even really moving at the moment, just really struck me funny. Two days later, I still can't think about it without smiling. But I understood. And, yes, I ran!

What Pride?

Aren't you glad that laughter is so good for people? If nothing else, I can feel that I'm making the people around me healthier. You know there's a story coming. . .

Sometimes after work, I have an informal Tamil lesson from one of my Indian co-workers. Today I practiced some of the words on my way in to the office, while referring to my "cheat sheet." When I came in the door, I tried one phrase (basically "How are you?") out on the receptionist. I had to say it several times before she could figure out what language I was speaking, let alone understand the phrase. Not a resounding success.

I decided to try again with my teacher. Surely he would understand. Still took at least three repetitions, before he replied, while shaking with laughter, "I was doing fine before you got here."

Desperate for success, I tried again with another co-worker. Totally confused looks were my only reward. I gave up temporarily, needing to go do something that offered me some chance of success.

After lunch I pulled out my cheat sheet again, reminding myself to slow down and focus on speaking clearly. My third victim from the morning's fiasco was even willing to stand and chat with me, in English, but throwing around a few of my Tamil vocabulary words. As the three younger guys on the team returned from lunch, something came over me. I believed that I, even I, could speak Tamil and be understood. "Sappitingala?" ("Have you had your lunch?") I threw out, slowly and clearly. Yes (or maybe it was Yeah), came back the answer, accompanied by smiles and even applause. I probably shouldn't admit it, but I took a slight bow.

A little success made me crave more. (Heard in an unidentified Indian house in Chennai, "Didn't it sound like that foreign woman was asking someone over and over whether she had had her dinner, as she walked by?") I greeted my landlady this evening in English, so as not to immediately startle her, but followed it slowly and deliberately with "Sappitingala?" (The question also applies to dinner.) "Illai," she answered with a smile, and watched to see whether I understood her answer. I did!

How Many People Does It Take . . .

. . . to dress an American in a saree? Well, including the one who's just standing there, it seems to take five.

Dwayne, one of my coworkers from Orlando, has come to Chennai to do some training for a few weeks. He arrived last Friday morning, and since Saturday was a work day for those in the office, the plan was for him to stop by to meet everyone that day, but not jump into the training until Monday. The Indians I work with wanted to do something special to welcome him, and we decided as a group that we would greet him in traditional Indian dress. That was a fairly big deal for them, since the men always dress in a very western fashion, and the salwars which the younger women, and I, normally wear are not really the traditional south Indian garment.

But it was a much bigger deal for me, since I had never yet pulled out the saree given to me before leaving the US, along with the matching blouse that I had had sown here, and worn them. Part of the reason is that the blouse didn't really fit that well after it was sewn. And I wasn't sure that it could be fixed very satisfactorily. But I knew that I would eventually do my best to adjust it. Besides, the saree material would mostly cover it, so it might go unnoticed.

I asked my landlady, who has been wearing sarees all her life, if she would help me Saturday morning. She asked one of the servants who comes each morning to come early to help also, since she always fixes her own sarees so nicely.

I had no idea just much work it would be. As mentioned above, I basically just stood there and allowed the ladies to fold, pin, and wrap the lovely material around me. I did help by stooping at the appropriate times, I think.

Once everything was secured and I was pronounced lovely, I took my usual walk to work. It took a little longer than usual, and of course, I was quite self-conscious. A couple women made encouraging comments to me, some smiled in a friendly (but uncharacteristic) manner, but most amused me by pretending not to notice anything out of the ordinary. Come on, people, it would be very impressive to act as though this is how I dress every day of my life, but I know I'm not pulling that off!

Anyway, a number of people at the office knew of our plans, and I was greeted quite enthusiastically. The three lovely young women in the Human Resources Department had all donned sarees, also, even though Saturday usually calls for more casual dress (but still salwars). As they gathered around me, two of them asked whether they might make some "adjustments." After the long session at home, what was there left to adjust? But I allowed it, while nixing the idea of basically starting from scratch. Unfortunately, the pictures taken before leaving home were lost, so I can't let you make your own comparisons. I can't even say which was better, or whether you'd notice the difference.

In fact, I think I've said plenty. Let's get to the pictures.

You know who this is. Don't you?

This was taken right after my "adjustments," with Jerry, the receptionist; Jemimah, the only other female on the programming team; and the three lovely HR ladies. Yes, I'm a little taller, but otherwise I'm pulling this whole ethnic Indian thing off, right?

Here's the whole team. The men are wearing dotis; I wasn't sure the younger guys were really going to play along. But isn't it great?

Thirty-Six Days

Some of you have asked for my address in the past, and when I gave it to you privately, I let you know that the mail system here isn't known for being extremely reliable. So, most decided it just wasn't a good risk to send anything. While perfectly logical, that was a little disappointing on this end.

Enter Mom, who’s not going to let a little risk and expense—turned out to be more than a little—keep her from getting some good, dark chocolate to her daughter who is suffering (yes, meant to be read with a smile) in India. She let me know that she had sent it on January 4, so I started watching for it about two weeks later.

It’s a good thing I wasn’t holding my breath. Two weeks, three weeks, four weeks. . . . Hope waned. Mom mentioned other items in the box that she hoped someone was making good use of. I tried to face the fact that, even if it did eventually arrive, the chocolate might not be any good, after all this time in a warm country.

This finally moved me to actually go to the post office to inquire about it. After sending someone to check on it in the back, it was obvious that the man I talked to agreed that it should have been here by then (nearly four weeks after it had been sent). But he assured me that it would probably arrive tomorrow or the next day. (Is endless optimism a common Indian trait? I’m not sure; I’ll have to watch for that.)

Well, when I arrived home yesterday, there was a box sitting in my landlady’s living room. I tried to hold my reaction until I knew for sure that it was mine. Her enthusiastic greeting increased my hope. “You owe me a treat!” she said. Not only had she sent a friend to the post office to inquire for me—though with no more success than I had—but she had repeatedly asked the mail carrier to watch for it. Her son suggested that it had had to go through customs, so that probably explains the thirty-six day delivery period.

The contents seem fine, and there were several things that I didn’t know were coming. I’ll not give a detailed inventory, but I’m now the happy owner of not only two kinds of dark chocolate, but also tea, hot cocoa, cough drops, and two microwavable meals, in addition to a couple of toiletry items.

Sure, I could have continued to live without all of these items (maybe not chocolate, but you can get that here, even if it’s not as good as what she sent), but it was so nice to receive a care package from home. Thanks, Mom!! And thank you, Lord, for getting it here!

All Things Become New

It's amazing how the things you take for granted have to be looked at in a whole different way in a new culture. For instance, milk. I've always been a big fan of milk, buying my gallon of 1%, and usually having no trouble finishing it off—between cereal in the morning and a glass of cold or hot with chocolate at night—before it goes bad.

Don't try to find that gallon of milk in Chennai, though. Half gallon? Nope. Liter? Well, that you can hunt down, as long as you don't look in the refrigerated section. No, it's right there on the shelf, complete with warnings that it's "best" before 120 days from manufacture, and should be refrigerated once it's opened. Now that's a good deal--just load up those pantry shelves and toss one in the fridge the night before you're going to need it. One problem—could you see this coming?—it's just not that tasty. Whatever "toned" and "flash heated" mean, it's not "taste unaffected." As usual, you pay a price for convenience.

Yes, there is another option for the milk connoisseur. You can buy a half-liter of pasturized, delicious milk in a bag. But this you need to drink within a day, or two at the most. As usual, you pay a price for taste.




Could there be a best-of-both-worlds? Yes, there is, when you live in India, with a sweet, elderly widow. I don't know if they're called "milk men," but there are people who will deliver these bags of milk right to your door in Chennai! In fact, some of the gates have milk boxes mounted on them. When I discovered that my landlady had a bag (or maybe two) delivered each day, I asked if I could get one each day along with her. Since she has assumed quite a bit of responsibility for my health and welfare—and there's really nothing I can do about it one way or the other—she went right to work on it.

There's one more thing you should know. Traditionally Indians have boiled their milk before using it. There was a day when it was essential, but now the bagged milk is pasteurized, and it is not necessary. But—and I report this based on observation and discussion—the older generation just isn't comfortable drinking milk that hasn't been boiled. Those in my generation will freely admit that it isn't necessary, even as they are going about the daily ritual of boiling it. So, my landlady takes my bag of milk each day and puts it into a "milk boiler" until it whistles for a while. Then she pours it into a little metal kettle that she has set aside for my use. (Warm milk on cereal is really a lot tastier than it first sounds.) After I finish off my day's worth of milk in the evening, I wash out the kettle and make sure it's back on the dining room table before I go to bed, so it will be filled with delicious milk once again, before I arise for the day!

Okay, yet one more thing you just have to hear on this subject. I know some of you remember the days of the milkman bringing the bottles to your doorstep. My landlady remembers when they used to bring the cow from house to house and fill up their containers!

A Taste of Kerala

Today the four of us were invited to have lunch at the home of an Indian couple that is somewhat affiliated with our organization. Believe me, I've eaten plenty of Indian food, but having a home-cooked, authentic Indian meal was just about a first for me. In fact, with the exception of one small Christmas party, this is the only time I've been invited to the home of an Indian family for a meal.

We had a lovely time, and they could not have been kinder or more gracious. While we live in Tamil Nadu, this couple is originally from Kerala--those two states together comprising the southernmost part of India. Their food is a little different, but rice is still the staple, unlike the north, where bread is more popular. Their language is also different from the Tamil spoken here--good thing we all spoke English!

I'm always game for anything like this, but there's also a little uncertainty for me when it comes to food. I had nothing to worry about here. We had two kinds of rice (one specifically the type they eat in Kerala), lovely chicken curry (initially described as "bird"--was it the surprised look on my face that caused him to further clarify?), chapatis (thin, flat, round bread, very nice for tearing pieces off with which to scoop up other dishes), a mixture of delicious vegetables, beet root, bitter gourd (might take a little getting used to) and more. Nothing very spicy, but all very good. Oh, if you're wondering, they offered silverware, but we declined.

The most unusual thing about the experience, for me, was that neither of our hosts ate with us. There was room at the table, and he sat with us the whole time. The wife also sat down, when she wasn't busy serving. They never explained themselves--the rest of the group was not surprised by their not eating, and I seemed to remember reading something about it--but at one point mentioned that they would be eating lunch before going to pick their kids up from school. Odd to us, but normal to them, I guess.

We took an auto rickshaw to and from their apartment, so on the way home we had to walk a short ways to get to a main street where we could hail one. There it hit me that I definitely live in one of the nicer parts of Chennai, a truth that only becomes apparent through comparison. But I don't think this family would consider themselves poor. And nothing important really seemed to be lacking.

Yet another lovely day in Chennai.

Still Here

Greetings! Perhaps I need to reintroduce myself. Sorry for such a long break in new entries. I was warned before I came over here that things would begin to seem normal after a couple months. There's a fair amount of truth to that, though I'm not going so far as to say that India feels like "home" at this point.

Did I tell you that there was a period where I was just so tired of being different? No matter what I did as far as dressing, eating, etc., every time I walked onto the street, I was an oddity. I just couldn't blend in. Well, my skin is as light as ever, and my hair is way too short, thin, and non-black, but I think I'm over it. Let them wonder, but this is where I live. In fact, for six months (two and one-half yet to go), this is where I belong.

Now that things like crossing the street and living to tell about it are becoming old hat for me, I'm able to focus a little more on the finer points of Indian culture. Let me tell you a couple of the things I've learned recently.

As you may remember, I'm living with a lovely, older, Indian widow. Very often when I come in to the house in the evening, she'll ask me whether I've had my dinner. Since my ex-patriot friends and I have gotten into the habit of having a larger meal earlier in the day and having a light meal or snack in the evening--plus I tend to eat later anyway--I usually answer in the negative, but quickly add that I'm planning to have a snack, baked potato, etc. But I've wondered why she persists so in asking. Well, someone at work was trying to teach me a little Tamil, and mentioned that asking whether a person has had her lunch yet (or dinner) is a common Indian courtesy. And if you're at someone's house and answer that you haven't, their gracious Indian standards of hospitality pretty much ensure that you'll be offered something for the meal. Ah! So my hostess continues to ask just because she's Indian.

Another difference that I've been impressed with in this country is the formality of gift giving. As an honored guest at the office where I work, I've often been asked to help give out gifts. For example, when the office had a Christmas lunch, complete with gift exchange, I was one of the first to be invited up to hand out gifts. This consisted of standing on the stage, having a present handed to me, and immediately handing it to the recipient, who had been called up to the stage to receive it. My role certainly didn't seem essential, but I've learned that it was an important one in this culture. As another example, when Alain returned from his Christmas visit to Switzerland, he brought lots of chocolate and wanted to give some to the twenty or so people who work with us in the programming department at the office. He put it all in one spot and invited everyone to come and take what he wanted. People were not reluctant--it was all gone pretty shortly--but a co-worker asked if that was a common way of giving something out back home. Of course, it is; we often like to give people the option of taking as many or as few as they like. But he let me know that here in India, they would always go around to each person's desk and hand him a piece. (And you would not refuse it, but you could slip it to a friend later, if you wanted. I checked.)

Don't get me wrong. Alain's giving out his chocolate in a non-Indian way was not a failure on his part, or an insult to the people at work. Everyone understands that we come from different cultures and different things seem normal to us. But it's interesting to learn what is important to people here.

And it's fun to find out how I can become "more Indian," without coloring my hair!

Light Up the Night

On our way home from our visit to friends in Bangalore at the end of last year, we really did the "tourist thing.” We stopped in a town named Mysore (yes, pronounced the way it looks) to see a famous palace.

The palace isn’t really all that old. It was rebuilt with much help from the British, during the time of the maharajas, after the old palace burnt down in the 1890s. But it was quite a home at one time. The really spectacular thing is that, for one hour (7:00 – 8:00 PM Sundays), it is lit up with 97,000 light bulbs! Quite an incredible display.

Going to see it lit up reminded me somewhat of going to a concert-in-the-park back in Canton, Ohio--probably because it was just a low-key, unhurried thing to do on a pleasant evening. Entry was free, though we did have to stand in line for a while at the gate, and people of many colors and backgrounds just wandered around the grounds between the palace and its gates, exclaiming over the beauty of the lights and looking for the best vantage points for pictures.

The next morning we paid to take a tour of the inside of the palace. It was quite impressive—especially the gorgeous ceilings, stained-glass windows, and carved wooden doors. There were two things we were not allowed to take with us on the tour: cameras (actually had to pay to leave them at a little camera-check spot ) and shoes (no charge to hold those for us). Hence, the only pictures you’ll see below are from outside. But if you’re curious, I’m sure you can find more on official Internet sites.

If any post needed pictures, this one does.

Front of palace, lit:Side of palace, lit:
Front gate, from inside, lit:

Palace from distance, with models (hostess Joyce):Novelty--taking picture in mirror: Unlit, still impressive: And through the front gate:

Happy New Year!

I know it’s a little late, but maybe I can slip in under the wire and wish you a Happy New Year before you get used to replacing 2007 with 2008 on your checks. I hope the first week of the year has been a pleasure and not a disappointment for each of you. Either way, I hope that you are looking forward to the rest of this new year with anticipation and trust, because we know Who is in control and we know that He is love.

You might be interested in how I celebrated the coming of the new year. Well, you might if I had done anything interesting. Actually, Mary, Steve, and I spent about seven pleasant hours coming the other direction on that express train (it was a longer trip because we had traveled further away from Chennai—another thing I need to tell you more about later) then were pleased to find a reasonably priced cab for the trip home from the train station. (The cab made a noise that none of us had heard an engine make before, but it made the 20 to 30 minute trip with no evident difficulties.) We arrived home slightly after 10:00 PM on New Year’s Eve, with no desire to do anything but get settled back in and have a good night’s rest. However, I’m never quite comfortable with letting an old year slip away and a new one slide in without being awake to see it happen. So, after Skype chats with my mom and a friend, I found an Internet site that was counting down the seconds to the new year in India time. Nothing dramatic—when it got to zero, it started counting up the seconds in the new year. But I was there to see it happen. And I did hear lots of fireworks going off right after midnight. They sounded impressive, but I didn’t want to go wandering around at that time of night, and could see almost nothing from the house due to trees and buildings. After that I called another friend, which is a lot safer to do when you know it’s mid-afternoon in her time zone. That’s it. Well, except for fighting off the mosquitoes once I did try to turn in. They ended up winning our first battle of the new year, but they won’t win them all!

It would probably be more interesting to you to hear about how the Christians here in India celebrate New Year’s. When a friend back home expressed surprise that January 1st was a holiday here—in fact, the office was closed on the 31st, also—I replied that New Year’s is a secular, rather than Christian, holiday, so why wouldn’t they? However, I’m not sure how accurate my statement was. My landlady told me that the Christians do more to celebrate it than those of other common religions here. She left for a service at her church shortly after I arrived home that evening, and didn’t get back in until around 2:30 AM. Their celebration consisted of a time of worship, prayer, and testimonies, followed by a light snack. A young woman that I work with spent that extended weekend with her family in a more southern part of India. Their service extended from 10:00 PM to 5:30 AM. I guess I was too impressed or in shock to inquire about the details of that one! Apparently some other churches have services at more reasonable hours on the 1st. So, it varies, but a worship service is an important part of seeing the old year out and the new year in.

In all of this, I was well aware that 2007 was a slightly shorter year for me. Since I started it in the eastern time zone of the US and ended it where the time is ten and one-half hours earlier, I lost those ten and a half hours. But I have great expectations for 2008, since I should gain them back!

You may think that my New Year’s resolution was to write fewer blog entries, in which case I’ve done a splendid job of keeping it. No, I bypassed the resolution-making, and have just had a busy first week: getting settled back at home, washing most of my clothes, and picking up our systems project where I left off. I know there’s a lot I still haven’t told you about my surroundings and activities here; if you’re willing to keep reading, I’m willing to jump back in and tell you more about what continues to be a fascinating adventure for me.

Merry Christmas!

Still having a lovely time in Bangalore with friends. Will have to tell you more about it when I get a little more time, but wanted to send my wishes to you while they were only a little late. Has been a pleasure to celebrate with brothers and sisters on this side of the world--just wish I could be with many of you, also!

Holiday Traveling

In spite of the title I put on my last entry, I have been trying to squeeze in as much work as I can. In the past couple weeks we’ve started working quite aggressively on the project I came here to lead. The development method we’re using has us working in “sprints” for four to six weeks to complete components on the system, so we’re trying to “flat-out run” to get as much accomplished as we can by mid-January. Biggest problems: three India programmers waiting on one person (me) to define, as well as review, all their work, and a user (responsible for giving me direction in what they need) who lives in Dallas and basically sleeps while we work and works while we sleep. But it’s coming along, and it’s fun.

However, it’s Christmas time! Since Mary, Steve, and I are obviously not getting home to celebrate with family and friends, we were invited to spend the time with some fellow workers in Bangalore, about 200 miles away. So, enough of work, it’s time to celebrate!

First, of course, was the matter of getting to Bangalore. Steve bought train tickets weeks ago; our round trip cost each of us about $30. Yesterday morning I got up just after 4:00 AM, to be at the station by 6:00 AM. (We were actually there before 5:30 AM, so you know I wasn’t setting the schedule.) We took an express—no stops between the two cities—that I am told is the second fastest in India. I believe it; we were at the Bangalore station meeting our friends before 11:00 AM. And though we took a second-class coach, we traveled in very pleasant style. Even before leaving the station, I think, we were handed large bottles of water, along with an English newspaper .That was soon followed with a snack of plain cookies and coffee or tea. (South Indian coffee or tea, which means it was loaded with milk and sugar—which also means that I was happy to have it.) A little later they brought breakfast, consisting of a type of Indian bread that’s something like pancakes with onion, sauces to dip it in, and regular bread with butter and jam. This was follow by our choice of coffee or tea. All together it made for a very nice and comfortable trip.

So, we’re here for about ten days with our friends who have lived in India for close to two years. They have a lovely three-bedroom apartment that’s decorated beautifully for Christmas. And I’m already quite sure they have the gift of hospitality. Oh, and how could I forget to mention that the weather in Bangalore is significantly cooler than in Chennai! In fact, it had been downright cold—from what I hear—earlier in the week. Now it’s just plain lovely.

Yes, I’m still here suffering in India!

Working? Who’s working?

Greetings to my faithful readers who keep checking--at least periodically--even when I'm doing a very poor job of keeping you informed. Sometimes I'm too busy doing, and not taking the time to write about it.

Yesterday some of the Indians on our systems development team here took us out to a Chinese restaurant for lunch. That was quite fun, as well as tasty, and touching that they wanted to do something special like that for us.

Oh, and the day before we had a Christmas potluck at the office for lunch. Since many Hindus are vegetarians, there were tables on two opposite sides of the room: one for veg. and one for non-veg. Then there was a table in the middle for breads, sweets, bananas, etc. I used Mary’s large toaster oven (regular ovens are very rare here) to bake a vegetable quiche for my potluck offering and it came out pretty well. That was fortunate because it was placed on the middle table and was cut up into small enough portions that everyone who wanted could taste it. But other than that and a veggie pizza, it was strictly Indian fare. And it was very good! A prawn (shrimp) dish had a little “heat,” but I know now to scoop a little raitha (kind of an onion yogurt mix, in this case) with those bites and it’s not too bad.

The fun thing about that potluck was that it marked the end of their office Christmas game. It’s interesting to me that many in the office are not Christians in any sense, but they still participated. (Yes, many celebrations back home are totally secular, but this is India, where other religions are dominant, and sometimes blood is shed over their differences.) The game was kind of a twist on “Secret Santa,” but uniquely Indian. The person who drew the name was the “Chris-mom,” and responsible for giving a gift to his/her “Chris-child.” But that was only part of the “mom’s” role. The authority of a mother in India is undisputed—she is to be obeyed at any age! So these “moms” were to covertly pass instructions to the “child” during the week or so leading up to our lunch. The ones I observed included wearing traditional Indian clothing to work, passing out candy to everyone in the department/office (I enjoyed that one), and greeting everyone who entered the door with the traditional, formal Indian greeting (sounds like “wanna come”). As far as I know, no one was instructed to stay home for the day! We weren’t invited to participate in the game, though, so I have no personal accounts for you.

The actual office Christmas party was last Saturday night, though. I think most of the people from the office attended, but it was not at all secular. We sang carols, saw the gospel presented in drama, and listened to an evangelist. IT (Information Technology) professionals from other offices were also invited, and many came. I pray that hearts were touched.

Tying a Different Style of Knot

A week ago last Saturday—the Indians work Saturdays, and we can choose whether or not we go in also—I was working for a few hours, and one of my co-workers, whom I barely know since he works on another team, brought me two wedding invitations (one for Steve & Mary). They were for the Hindu wedding of his eldest brother, to be held the following Tuesday and Wednesday. As is common, the reception would be on Tuesday evening and the wedding the following morning. Generally, the wedding is attended by family and close friends, but exceptions are nearly always made for us foreigners. Since I had been told that I should try to attend one Hindu wedding while I was here, this seemed to be something I shouldn’t pass up.

With an escort provided by the office—are they afraid to let us out on our own?—we left a little after eight o’clock Wednesday morning in a cab for a ride to a somewhat distant part of Chennai. When we arrived around nine o’clock, the stated time of the start of the wedding, we were invited to go upstairs for breakfast. That was quite interesting, as we ate off banana leaves, and young men came around serving food out of metal buckets. I wish I had a picture of that meal, but will have to wait until I attend something similar.

After a while, the music downstairs got louder and we were informed that the ceremony was due to begin. As we went down to a good-sized hall and prepared to sit in about the 5th row from the front, the brother of the groom went up to the first row and had three people move back to make room for us! I felt bad, but there wasn’t much we could do. And it did give us the best view we could ask for.

That view still wasn’t great, as this ceremony is for the participants, rather than the spectators. But there was a man with a video camera, and some of the action was shown on the TV screen in the front as it was happening. (And it was informal enough, away from the couple, that Mary could walk up a ways to get some nice pictures.)

Up on a stage there was a square pavilion, about ten feet wide, I guess, covered with garlands. Within that sat a Hindu holy man, shirt-less, with a younger assistant standing nearby. As the bride and groom sat, stood, or walked throughout the ceremony, words were spoken, incense was lit, baskets and platters of food and various gifts were passed around. Nothing was actually explained, so I can’t tell you the meanings. There was a point later in the ceremony where a basket of colored rice was passed around and the guests all approached the pavilion to throw rice at the couple. (Thought that was quite interesting.) But that wasn’t the end, rather was followed by additional rituals. As you can see, it was certainly beautiful.

All in all it was interesting, but not something I’ll probably do again. Marriage is very sacred to the Indians, but it was sad to see them praying to false gods for theirs to succeed. Oh, and you might wonder whether the bride and groom had met before the ceremony. I don’t have that inside information, but based on the people I’ve talked to here, there’s a good chance that their parents arranged the match, but they were allowed to spend a little time getting to know each other before the wedding.

Having changed clothes for pictures and greeting guests:

Can you pick out the brother of the groom?

And these were just really cool. (Not for consumption!)

The Way to a Cat's Heart

There is a cat that often lives outside the home of my landlady. I say “often” because it’s common to hear it meowing at various times during the day or night. But it’s also not uncommon to see (and hear) no sign of it for a few days. The frustrating thing is that, no matter how much it would cry, when I would try to gently approach it, it would back away, sometimes even hissing. How it could cry for attention and do everything it could to avoid it made no sense to me. But, I suppose it wasn’t really attention that it craved.

Finally, last Sunday afternoon, I took some of my milk out to it while it was near the front door with the only one of its kittens that still seems to be around. Now milk it was very interested in. The kitten was interested, too, but a bit more nervous about my proximity. And that momma cat was not worried about saving some for the little one! But in its haste, the bigger one forgot to be wary, and I was able to gently pull it back from the small jar lid of milk. Alas, there was hardly a lick left, so I had to go inside for a little more. More milk, same story--but this time I was quicker to pull the momma away, and the small one had a nice little drink, also.

The interesting thing was that later that day when I walked slowly up to the momma cat, it allowed me to bend down and run my hand along its back several times. That was WAY easier than I expected it to be. Interestingly, it was several days before I saw the older cat again. Perhaps it was embarrassed by the ease with which it allowed itself to be befriended, and decided to beg elsewhere for a while. But it’s a start at friendship.

A safe place:

What's cuter than a kitten?

Meant to Blog

This evening (Sunday) I'm stuck at home while Steve and Mary are attending what promised to be a very nice choral concert at an old church over on the beach side of Chennai. The reason for my being left behind will be revealed in a later blog. To console myself, and pass the evening pleasantly, I thought I'd spend part of it watching one of Alain's DVDs, since he graciously offered us full use of them. I found one that I hadn't seen, but think I saw good reviews of, and settled in to be entertained.

Alas, the dreaded region code, which I had never even heard of until last week. Someone has cleverly come up with (and implemented) a plan to divide the world into seven regions and code each DVD that is created with one of those regions. A laptop is set up to play DVDs from only one region; those from other regions it will refuse to play. It's not that it can't play them, because there is an option to just change the region code in the laptop and let it play away. However, it can be changed just four times--well the Internet says five times, but mine says I have four left and I know I've never changed it--and then is stuck forever in that last region. Such a dilemma. Four precious changes! Do I use one on this evening's entertainment? I almost did. Why not change it now and then back to the US code in April? Certainly living in a different region for six months is a good reason to change it. Only one thing has held me back: I brought an exercise video with me, and I'm sure I'm going to start using it one of these mornings--probably even this week! (Go ahead and laugh.) I'm thinking I'd better leave my laptop set on the US region code and watch any movies over here on Steve or Alain's laptops.

So, at least in planning, I place fitness over entertainment. What shall I do this evening then? (Exercise might seem like the natural choice, but again, I'll let you know in a later blog why it isn't.) I know, I'm quite behind in my blogging. Last week contained a number of "firsts," so maybe I'd better get started telling you about them.

After the Shift

So, I've been in my new place for over a week now, and inquiring blog readers want to know. . .

I suppose it was the easiest shift/move of my life--one carload, complete with two men from the office to carry it all in for me. Setting up living quarters in two rooms is taking a little longer, but I'll tell you about that at a later date--after I've had time to straighten up a little.

For now, I thought I'd try to give you an idea of the setup of the houses here. I would have had a hard time finding nicer accomodations in Chennai than those that I enjoyed for my first month over here. I had a lovely, large room with attached bath. And I was treated like royalty by my hosts (except for the part about being locked out, I guess). But that was meant to be temporary right from the start. And the great thing about my new long-term place is that I'm within the same gate as my friends from Orlando and Switzerland. The guys don't have to walk me home at night any longer, and I can stop over for short visits easily. So here's your pictorial, outdoor tour.

My hostess is a widow in her 70s. She's a lovely Christian woman who is very concerned as to my comfort. This is her home, from the street. You can't really tell from the picture, and even in person would have to be told initially, but this is a somewhat upscale neighborhood. Here's the gate to her home. It is locked at night and sometimes during the day. Apparently there can be a problem with theft otherwise.The car belongs to her son and is usually parked inside the gate. It's nice having a black and white gate, as it is a little different, and so, easier to distinquish. Yes, I have a key; this one would be hard to scale, even with a boost!
Once you step inside the gate and look straight in from the street, this is what you see. The house to the right is where I'm staying. The one straight ahead is where Steve, Mary, and Alain live. These are the only two homes behind this gate.

Now if you walked in just a bit and then looked directly to your right, you'd see my hostess' front door on the street level, and her son's home up above. The style of the second floor is a little different, because he built it right on top of his parents' home, years after they had built theirs. It seems that that is common.
This view is at a little different angle.
My room is at the back--first floor, obviously. This is a view of my window--with wonderful, brand new air conditioner unit--taken from the door of my friends' place, looking almost out toward the street.

Conversely, here's their door, taken from just outside my window. If I were of a mind to enter my place via the window--there are metal bars, so it's not going to happen, no matter what doors are locked--I would have to take about ten steps from their place to mine. Actually, I use the front door of my hostess' place, so I have a walk of 30 to 40 feet, but all within the gate.

I'll throw in a couple more pictures for fun, and so you can see some of the vegetation. But that pretty much covers it. It's good to have a place in India to call "home."

What I Won't Do for Research

A number of you have expressed some fascination with the street ironers that I’ve mentioned. I have been fascinated myself. There they stand, with piles of clothes all around them, some in heaps, some nicely ironed and folded. How do they do this out on the street with no electricity? And how do they have any idea which clothes belong to which customer?

The answer to the first question was easily observed. They have a little fire beside them and they put the coals into a large metal iron. It seems to do the trick. The other question remained a mystery.

When I lived with the manager at the office in which I’m working, her servant girl would wash, iron, and fold my things. It was wonderful! When I left that house, I gave her some money, so she hadn’t done work for an extra person for only her usual pay.

But now that I’ve shifted, I’m on my own. I can do my wash in the small machine that Mary has, or wash by hand in my bathroom. Either way, I then hang the clothes out on the line to dry. Not too difficult. But just about everything then has to be ironed. Mary has an iron and board that I am welcome to use, but that’s not really interesting enough to write a blog about.

So for the sake of research, I asked my landlady, Angelina, about taking some clothes to be ironed. Though she doesn’t take any of her things right now, she told me of problems she had had in the past with one down the street. Not all of her son’s shirts had been returned (partial answer to the second question), and, no matter what they said, things were never returned at the time they asked for, sometimes taking three or four days. We ignorant foreigners (hey, I truly am ignorant of how things are done here in India) have to be watched out for anyway, so she immediately said she would talk to the new ironer who was in front of a neighbor's house and find out whether he was honest and would not cheat me.

Apparently his answers were good--she received a price from him as well as a promise not to overcharge the foreigners--so in a little while we were headed there, me with just two items, since the others were in the process of being washed. It seemed like a good test case. He promised to deliver them to the house in half an hour. I’m pretty sure he missed that target by about another half hour, but they were nicely done, and delivered in what was certainly a reasonable time. In fact, once my wash was dry, I took seven more things to him (the research never stops), which he has promised to deliver later this afternoon.

The cost, you ask? You don’t really want to know. Really.

Okay-- two rupees each, which comes out to a total of about ten cents. No, I can’t send him to the US to work on your street. But you can come here.

Okay, I'll Take the Puddles!

(Please read the below post prior to this one.)

Puddles? I was such a rookie yesterday. We had some very steady rain in the early morning hours, and today there were PONDS! Step around them? Not quite. I must have amused any observant Indians--again--as they watched me gingerly step along one narrow strip of above-water ground, only to turn around and come back half a block because the cross street at that point was impassible.

As I left the house, I thought about paying for an auto rickshaw to take me the short distance to work, just to avoid the water and mud, but decided to tough it out. Given the chance five minutes later, I would have so readily reversed that decision!

One more test to add to the list of how I'll know when I've become a "true Indian": when I carry my sandals and wade right through those waters. I'm especially doubtful about this one.

These pictures don't really capture it, because they were taken hours later, but they'll give you a little bit of an idea. (This is the backstreet I thought I was going to use to get to lunch.)

Skip Two, Swerve One, Hop Three

I think I'm starting to catch on to this walking stuff. What, and you've not quite been there a month yet? you say. Hey, sarcasm not allowed until you've walked a block in my sandals on the streets of Anna Nagar, Chennai.

The trick is to believe that the bikes, motorcycles, ox carts, auto rickshaws, share autos, cars, SUVs, buses, and lorries are not actually trying to run you over. In fact, any of the list--well, I'm actually not convinced about the last two--will swerve slightly to avoid hitting you! Once you believe that, you prove it to the world by continuing to walk, rather than stopping every time one comes in your vicinity. They expect you to keep going, anticipate your movement, and actually change their path enough to let the two of you continue to share the road. Of course, you change your path slightly also, to make it easier for them.

I mean, if they were aiming for you, they wouldn't honk to let you know they're there, would they? And they certainly do honk. Who needs to be alert, when their horns will do the work for you? But I haven't found the purpose yet of the practice of honking, loudly, exactly as they go by. If you weren't already out of the way, you'd be under their vehicle. I think that practice may be just plain meanness, but I'll have to let you know.

Anyway, apparently it was getting too easy, so today--it being monsoon season anyway--we added puddles! Big ones. This morning it was a bit like working out a puzzle: move to the right, slow down to let a bike go by, now up on the sidewalk for three steps, back down, around another walker, and a slight leap over the next puddle. This evening, in the dark, it was a losing cause. Fortunately, I had my older sandals on--I felt funny bringing more pairs of shoes than outfits to India, but it was a good decision, considering the dog-ruined pair--so now I just hope they will dry out by morning. Tomorrow could be another car-swerving, puddle-jumping day and I need to be ready.

What's Normal?

It's tempting to go to a foreign country thinking they should just be reasonable, and act like you! It's not recommended, though.

A conversation from my walk to the office with the guys yesterday will illustrate one of the "interesting" differences we've encountered.

You may realize that crossing the street is a daily adventure here for us expatriots. (If you need a definition of that last word, it's a person working in a country that's neither his country of birth nor his nationality.) Somehow Alain is much better at it, and accordingly, much more comfortable doing it. We were mentioning that the other two of us just try to cross with him, when I quipped, "Yes, if it were culturally appropriate, I would grab on to Alain whenever we were crossing. Wait, you could do that, Steve!" At which we all had a good laugh.

What you need to know is that it's inappropriate for an unmarried man and woman to have any physical contact. (Perhaps a man could offer his hand to help a woman with a difficult step; I think that's true.) Married couples don't show any physical affection publicly. But it's quite acceptable for a couple men to hold hands or touch each other casually. It indicates nothing but a friendship. As you would guess, this has been a tough adjustment for the guys, though it feels natural to the Indians they are befriending.

Awkward for us? Yes. Wrong? Who says?

Time to Shift

Sorry, pictures would add so much to this story, but there were no cameras present, for which I am grateful!

If you've been reading along, I think you know that I'm presently staying with the manager of the office here, but spending my days at the office and the apartment of my friends. Each evening, when it's dark and the streets are not crowded, Steve or Alain accompanies me on my walk to my hosts' home. That walk will happen any time between 9:00 and 10:30 generally, depending both on what I'm doing and when it's convenient for one of the guys.

Wednesday evening was a little more difficult. Steve and Mary turned in early, and Alain was on the phone with a co-worker in Orlando, getting ready to put lots of changes into our systems over the coming weekend. I made good use of the time by instant messaging with a friend in NC that I hadn't talked with in months. Alain's conversation was interrupted by a call from his family in Switzerland. Though I was getting tired, I wasn't going to ask him to hang up on his mom! So I stretched out on the sofa. When Alain did hang up, he immediately called the co-worker back. Oh, I had forgotten that he had that to go back to! Perhaps I should have made myself more visible; from his room, there was nothing to remind him that I was there. In a short while, he stepped out to look, and found me on the sofa. We headed right out, but it was already after 11:00 PM.

Since I have a key to the house, I wasn't too worried. Anyone still awake might hear a little click and the soft padding of feet, but that shouldn't bother anyone too much. Wrong! The gate at the street was locked! It had never been locked before, and I certainly wasn't given a key to that. We didn't have many options, so Alain gave me a boost and I was up and over the chest-high gate in no time. Whew! He headed back home, as I climbed the stairs to their second-floor home. Surprise number two! My key would not work in their door. They must have thought I had already returned, since I had always been in by that time, and locked the door in such a way that it couldn't be opened from the outside even with a key. Too late to head back to the apartment--I'd never catch Alain. After struggling with the key (and sending up desperate prayers), I gave up and rang the doorbell. The husband opened the door for me, and responded kindly to my murmered apology.

According to my hostess's mother at breakfast the next morning, the above happened at 11:38 PM. More apologies, hopefully less murmered. This home was only to be a temporary lodging place for me, until the woman who lives in front of my friends' apartment returned from the US (which she did last week) and got a room in her house ready for me to rent. Perhaps it's getting to be that time.

Here in India, it's not called "moving," but rather "shifting." I'd better get ready to shift.

The English Language Barrier

I have:

- walked back and forth on a main street, looking for the 8th street intersection and finding only 5th and 10th, while trying to meet friends for lunch

- held my breath as I was sure for the 5th time in 2 minutes that the auto rickshaw I was riding in was going to collide with a motorcycle or a bus (but they almost never do), and

- cautiously tried another Indian dish that my friends thought might not be very spicy, only to find once again that it's sure spicier than I like,

all with a pretty steady sense of adventure, but yesterday I had my first strong moment of frustration.

Unsurprisingly, the straw that broke the camel's back was the language barrier. But it wasn't my total lack of understanding of Tamil. I'm not going to understand anything spoken in Tamil; that's just a fact of life. But when--on top of all the technical differences I have to learn about working in the office here in India (What schema do I use for this? Who can sign in to that? What's the password there? How can I do that, if A can't talk to B?), plus the level of concentration it sometimes takes to process the technical details that are just part of this work--once again I listened to a sentence from one of my Indian co-workers that I knew must be in English but from which I could not pick out a single word, internally I wanted to scream. Why do I have to listen so hard to people speaking my native tongue, and still come away convinced that I've never heard any of those words before?

The moment passed, a quiet prayer settled my spirit, and I'm assured that another month or so of listening will make a huge difference in my level of understanding, but I thought I'd share a frustration with you, as well as the fun things.

In other news, that same day saw me at an Indian Pizza Hut for the first time. Yum!

What's with India Time?

You may have been surprised when you first saw the Chennai time on my blog. Sure it's way off from the time in the US, but what's with that half hour? It always bothered me, too, but I only recently bothered to ask anyone.

The answer is quite simple: The land of India stretches over what would normally be two time zones, so the western part should be one hour later than the eastern part. But the decision was made--I don't know any details here--to have the same current time throughout the country. Obviously, a half-hour compromise on each side was the most fair way to go.

By the way, India doesn't have daylight savings time, so, now that the U.S has turned its clocks back, we're ten and a half hours ahead of US Eastern Standard Time.

How Did I Guess?

How can I give you an idea of how rare it is to see a Westerner here in Chennai? Let's try this anecdote:

On Monday, my expatriate co-workers and I ate lunch at a Chinese restaurant that we enjoy. While eating, one of the guys commented on hearing an American voice. Aside from the four of us, that truly is rare. My view was blocked, so I made a mental note to glance that way as we were leaving, in order to catch a glimse of the woman. As usual, when the time came, I totally forgot. But Steve did look and later told me he had seen a blonde woman sitting at the table.

The next day, the manager at the office (with whom I'm currently staying) brought a blonde American woman up to meet me--just because we're both American, I assume. Right after being introduced, I asked her whether she was "the voice I heard in the Chinese restaurant yesterday." And it turned out she was! She was shocked. I was surprised to be in the same place with her two days in a row, but not at all surprised that she was the woman behind the voice. There just aren't many of us here. (She's here for a few weeks for a business conference, I think; we probably won't run into each other again, but you never know.)

Ordinary Sights

Now that I've been working in the office for a week and a half, life is settling somewhat into a routine. I'm also finding myself with less time to write. So today, please come along on my normal walk from my hosts' house to the office, and view some of the sights that are becoming standard for me.

(1) The lovely home of my hostess, who is also the manager of the office at which I'm working. She lives, along with her husband and mother, on the second floor. You're seeing their veranda above the cars. My bedroom is basically at the top of the stairs.

(2) A Methodist church at the corner of their street. It has both English and Tamil services on Sunday mornings. Though under 3% of the people of India are Christians, in the southern states it can be as high as 10 to 20%, and they are not shy about their faith! They are burdened for those who don't yet believe in Christ. (3) The next corner, where a number of auto ricksaws eagerly await customers. As usual, this foreign woman--who might not know enough to avoid paying top dollar, if she would only ride--will disappoint them by walking by.

(4) A street ironer. Do you see the huge iron at his right? Who needs electricity? He'll fill it with hot coals, and do a very nice job on the clothes people bring him.

(5) All kinds of purchases can be made right along the way.

(6) Don't expect to see large equipment doing the jobs that people can do. The labor force is plentiful and cheap.

(7) A Hindu temple, right along the street. No, they aren't just for show. The faith of their ancestors is very important to the Indians.

(8) At this point, we've crossed the one major street, no doubt relying on the timing of Indians who were also waiting to cross. I haven't checked out either the bookstore or Internet cafe, but at least they're available.

(9) About 10 minutes after we took off, we're here. Though you can't see it in this picture, someone is probably waiting to open the door and the receptionist will have some gracious words or witty quip as she stands to greet us. Ready for another day of trying to tame those computers.
Thanks for coming along.