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.

Two Dog Night

It took me a while to figure out why the dogs I would see around the neighborhoods seemed so different. Finally I realized that they were way too quiet. I guess a lot of people do have dogs for pets, but I rarely see them. (My hostess has explained that around 6:00 AM a lot of people are out walking their pet dogs. I am happy to take her word for it.) The dogs I’m seeing on the street are all stray. I would have thought they would be dangerous, but I have never seen such mild mannered dogs. I have rarely seen any one of them open his mouth to make a noise. We can walk just a foot or two away from them, and they will do no more than lift their heads. My suspicion is that they have learned from a young age that they are not welcome and there is a price to pay for bothering those who pass by.

At night, though, it’s a different story. The pity that wells up in me at seeing these mild-mannered dogs search for food among the garbage dissipates somewhat as I listen to them bark, whimper, and howl. Apparently, the night really belongs to the dogs, as they form packs and, I imagine, do whatever mischief comes to mind.

The other night, as Steve was walking me home from their apartment, we heard a terrible whimpering. We didn’t stop to investigate, but soon after saw a small dog, about half the size of most that we’ve seen, walking a little uncertainly as it poked around for food. We didn’t go to it or call it over, just talked together of how cute it was and how bad we felt for it. It couldn’t have understood. But it walked over and started, rather nonchalantly, following us. It was only a few blocks from there to the place where I’m staying, and we often glanced back and decided that it had turned back. Half a minute later we would discover that it was actually still there. How I wanted to stop and give it a good scratch! And I really don’t think the dog would have harmed me, but these stray dogs are carriers of who knows what filth and diseases, so I carefully restrained myself. But what would it do when I entered the gate and left it outside? I wasn’t surprised when it whimpered a bit. Oh, how I wanted to bring it something to eat and let if feel wanted. The fact that this is not my place helped me hold back. But it quickly realized that Steve was heading back down the street. I laughed as I watched him turn to talk to it.

The next morning I asked how far it had followed him. After all, it had only picked us up about half way between their place and mine. It followed all the way back! In fact, when he arrived home, he went in and got Mary and Alain to come out and see it. This was a smart dog; it must have felt on the verge of hitting the jackpot. So much attention! No harsh words, or shoeing away. But alas, good sense and caution ruled. The desire to adopt the cute, persistent little creature was squelched (not that it would have been allowed inside the gate, even then), and he returned, at some point, to his life on the streets. When Alain and I passed him at around the same point two nights later, I don’t think he even glanced our way.

Later the same evening that Steve & I first noticed the dog, I was having difficulty getting to sleep, partly because one of the dogs in the neighborhood seemed to be making a fuss from a much closer location that usual. In fact, a dog seemed to be on their veranda, which is one floor up from the street. Since my hosts had already turned in for the night also, I wasn’t sure what to do, and ended up doing nothing. Wrong choice. When I came out for breakfast the next morning, I was told that a dog had indeed been on their veranda sometime during the night, and had chewed up one of my sandals and one of my hostess’s. (I suppose they were different courses of his midnight snack.) Fortunately, with all the rain we had been getting, and the dirt and mud we have to walk through, I had been wearing an old pair of sandals that I had actually “retired” at home about a year ago. Now we’re careful to secure the wooden gate at the top of their stairs, and, while I still remove my shoes upon entering their home, I keep them inside. (P.S. You may think the cute puppy was the culprit, but he wouldn’t have been able to get inside the lower gate, if he had returned. They think it must have been the dog of a neighbor within the same gate.)

Weekend in the Mountains - 2

Sunday was still damp, with just a little rain, but also very pleasantly cool. Very near to our accommodations, there was a small Methodist church with an 8:00 AM service in English and a 9:00 AM service in Tamil. Since it was cool, I was more than a bit dismayed to see people leaving their sandals at the door of the marble-floored building, but somehow it wasn’t that uncomfortable. The extremely familiar hymns had somewhat less familiar tunes, at least in parts, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never said The Lord’s Prayer so fast in my life, but the sermon was both understandable and worth some reflection.

We later rented bikes for a short ride, saw more spectacular views (notice my current hosts in front of a waterfall, as well as some monkeys looking for a handout at one of the tourist stops), and played some silly games before dinner that really must have yielded some crazy, blackmail-worthy pictures.

Too early Monday morning we were heading back down the mountain. This time we were squeezed into a regular seating compartment on the train, and it was interesting to watch the scenery. As that doesn’t really satisfy for a seven-hour trip, the four of us foreigners pulled out pen and paper and, by randomly selecting words out of book on India, played a make-shift game of “Pictionary.” A few others joined us as we whiled away about half the trip, and other bored passengers were seen trying to inconspicuously check out this absorbing game.

Everyone seemed to think the weekend was a pleasant break. I didn’t really need a break yet, but I was glad for the chance to get accustomed to the faces I would see at work, and I put some serious effort into learning and attaching names to a few of those faces. They are a pleasant and gracious people, but there’s a certain distance to relationships that comes from being from different cultures; overcoming that is going to take some time and effort.

Weekend in the Mountains - 1

If you’ve been reading along, you know I spent last weekend with many of my co-workers—about 25—in the mountains at a hill center. It was definitely cooler there. For those who wondered—okay, for my mom & dad—here are some more details.

The trip started with a train ride of over 300 miles. Fortunately, since it ended up being about a nine hour trip, we traveled overnight. And we were actually in a sleeper compartment. I never thought I’d get to try one of those out, but this probably cost less than the gas would have cost if we’d driven a car there. As you can see from the pictures (modeling being done by my friends Steve & Mary, as well as Alain), we started out sitting, with the highest bunk over our heads. When it seemed like time, we all got up and raised the backrest up to make a middle berth, while our seat became the lowest berth. You could rent a pillow, and I probably should have, since my makeshift one was a little hard. We were awakened at 4:30 AM, to be ready to hop off at one of the shorter stops, but ended up with a couple more hours on the train. A three-hour bus trip up the mountain allowed for some nodding off, but with that scenery, you really didn’t want to miss much. And praying for the bus driver as we took those hairpin turns couldn’t hurt.

Did you know it’s monsoon season in India? If there hadn’t been scheduling problems this trip would have happened well before I arrived here. After moving into our rooms and then driving to some botanical gardens, the rains began. Umbrellas kept our heads dry, but not much else. Plan B went into effect, and we ended up in a house on the garden grounds, with several small, portable heaters put into service. That felt good, but really drying things out would take some creativity that evening. If light bulbs are the only heat source in your damp room, you figure out a way to use them to dry those soaked shoes. Just call me MacGyver.

Food – First Impressions

After nearly two weeks in India, I think I can state that I’m learning to eat spicy food. Maybe I should say I’m learning a few of the tricks and techniques.

The tricks: Order a side bowl of curd, which is something like a thin, unflavored yogurt. It, along with various types of flat breads, really does cut the heat. Riatha (you’re on the Internet; why not look it up?) is a little fancier, and performs the same purpose nicely.

The techniques: You may have heard that Indians eat with their hands, but it’s definitely a one-handed procedure. If you have some of that flat bread, you fold it and tear off a piece (get that left hand back in your lap!), and then grab some of the meat or vegetable mixture in the fold of the bread. Without bread, it definitely feels like you’re disregarding everything your mother taught you when you were three, but it does take a little practice to master the correct scoop and shovel method.

I can’t say I’ve yet learned, though, why people want to eat food that makes their mouths and lips burn! If I do, I’ll let you know.

More to Life

Since my managers in Orlando gave me the first week off to shop and get acclimated to Chennai, I was able to accompany Mary last week to a couple of the ministries she is involved in. While India certainly has a middle class which enjoys many of the conveniences we do in the US, it also has extreme poverty that you would have difficulty finding an equivalent of back home.

The first afternoon, we went to a home for destitute elderly widows. After a time of prayer with the staff, Mary took the blood pressure of each woman. Since I was there and anxious for something to do, I wrote each one down in the folder each woman carried. What precious women. They spoke no English, and we spoke almost no Tamil—Mary knows at least a greeting—so we could communicate very little. Sometimes Mary would tell the woman, in English, that her blood pressure was very good or improving. Certainly the women couldn’t understand the words, but they could probably read the tone; they did seem to enjoy hearing it.

Many of the women, once we were done and they were waiting for the doctor who volunteers to take a look at each and write some addition notes in the folder, took a seat on the floor. Can you see your elderly mother or grandmother crossing her legs and plopping down on the rug? But chairs were few, and these women didn’t think a thing of it. At night, the fifteen who live at the home sleep on mats in a room about the size of a living room.

Afterward we went across the street to the home of a bedfast woman that Mary gives a bath to each week. The size of the room she lives in and rarely leaves (they bring three meals a day to her from the ministry across the street) is maybe half the size of a small bedroom. Each week Mary has to patiently talk her into going through with the bath, and this week neither she nor the staff members who tried were successful.

The next afternoon I accompanied Mary and many others from different parts of the world--Ireland and Holland, as well as India, of course—on a visit to a Chennai slum. You would barely believe me if I told you the poverty these families live in. Mary and a few others, including a registered nurse, listen to and help those with medical problems. I didn’t know that I would be able to do anything but observe. But we had not yet reached the larger cleared area where they would minister when some younger elementary-aged children started asking my name. I think they were happy to show off some of their English skills, as well as eager for attention from these strange outsiders. Though they put much effort into it, they never were able to get me to remember, or even pronounce correctly, the Tamil words for “What’s your name?” or “I’m glad to meet you.” (One girl finally decided that yelling it into my ear would surely make a difference, but she was disappointed.)

What I lacked in mental capacity, I determined to make up with physical effort. Many of the younger kids were happy to be picked up, and semi-tossing them into the air made for a fun game. Predictably, I was out of breath and energy long before they tired of it. Finally I found a place to sit. You know that game where the dad puts a young child on his knees facing him, and bounces him up and down, suddenly dropping him through his parted knees, and catching him before he hits the ground? I know you do, because a quick survey has convinced me that all dads in every culture play that game with their kids. Must be because it works. These kids thought it was great fun as we played it, and I was at least able to sit!

I do hope to be able to go back to this ministry. I’ll have to see how I can arrange my work schedule to still get a full week in but be able to leave early one afternoon. Life is more than working on computers.

Hearing from You

I can't tell you how much I'm enjoying the comments of those who've taken the time to check out my blog. Family, old friends, co-workers, friends from church, even two boys who used to be in my Children's Worship classes at church in Orlando. (Hi, T & R, I loved hearing from you!)

Thanks for your encouragement, and letting me know you're interested. If there are pictures you'd like me to post, questions you'd like answered, or topics you'd like to hear about, let me know. I'm probably the world's slowest blogger so far, but I'll keep at it.

Getting Around

Fortunately, almost all the places I need to get to on a regular basis are within walking distance. Since I both really enjoy walking and also need the exercise, it works out quite well. Of course, one of the main benefits is the independence it gives me, or will once I figure out exactly which direction everything is.

There is an additional challenge to walking most places, and it’s called crossing the street. To say that all kinds of vehicles are coming from every which way at the same time does not really describe it. The thing that makes it possible is that the main streets are so crowded that none of the vehicles are going very fast. Usually I'm with friends so I watch them closely and just try to stay right alongside. Hey, they have good track records of not being killed! (That was a joke, Mom.) My favorite piece of advice, which I plan to continue to follow is this: if there any Indians around, watch them and cross when they do.

Not everything is within walking distance, however. The next simplest mode of transportation is the auto rickshaw. According to the Internet, there are at least 50,000 of these on the streets of Chennai. Mary and I have ridden them a number of times now to go to more distant stores or a couple of the ministries she is involved in. Finding one never seems to be a problem. The challenge is that you have to negotiate a price first, which involves conveying to the driver the location to which you want to be driven. Then you have to have some idea what a reasonable price is, so you can refuse his first price and counter with something lower, if necessary. Mary has gotten quite good at this in the eight months she has been here. If I end up trying it on my own, I’ll first get detailed instructions on how to describe the area I want to go to, as well as an idea of what it should cost. I’ll also be sure to have acquired a cell phone, which is something I’m working on.

There are also larger vehicles available, including city buses. If we can get a good bus schedule, maybe Mary and I will try that option out, too. But for now, my shoes are good, a main street full of stores is just a few blocks away, and I sure do need that exercise!