A long overdue explanation of GP
If you read my last post, you might think Kelly and I were a little exhausted, frustrated, overwhelmed after a few weeks in the subcontinent. This may have been partially true, but as the days went on, our appreciation for the chaotic environment grew. As we traveled from city to city, I took to implementing coping mechanisms to dampen my irritation from the noise and constant queries. This post will explain the conception of two specific coping methods I created and how they enhanced our (my) enjoyment while in India: GP and 2D vs. 3D.
“In psychology, coping is “constantly changing cognitive and behavioral efforts to manage specific external and/or internal demands that are appraised as taxing”or “exceeding the resources of the person”.
Coping is thus expending conscious effort to solve personal and interpersonal problems, and seeking to master, minimize or tolerate stress or conflict. Psychological coping mechanisms are commonly termed coping strategies or coping skills.”
India is crammed full of people. It’s population is now about 1.2 billion people which accounts for 17.5% of the world’s population. This is almost equal to the combined population of the United States, Indonesia, Brazil, Pakistan, Bangladesh and Japan put together.
When venturing around some of India’s most interesting sights, you are invariably accompanied by a body density similar to Summerfest on the Fourth of July. Shop owners are asking you to come in, hawkers are asking you to buy, beggars are looking for a few coins, and the general population is reaching for their phones hoping to catch a picture of my beautiful mug.
With all the commotion going on, it’s exhilarating. You’re a star, whether you like it or not (which I guess I should be used to by now from my experience in the states :)). But just like President Obama, all I want to do sometimes is sit and enjoy the beautiful surroundings without being noticed.
At the very least, I’m spotting such wild and remarkable scenes that I’d like to capture the moments with a picture to share with the world. But alas, if I stop for even a second, I will be engulfed by the paparazzi that are tracking my every move as I march through the busy streets.
The sting from this conundrum was quickly relieved as I looked through the settings on my camera late one night. Unlike many of my friends who have a knack for photography (Willie and Chet), I am barely competent with a camera. But my curios mind stumbled upon my camera’s “Sports” setting which changed the game.
With the “Sports” setting activated I could now take pictures without waiting for the camera to flash and focus. Sadly, this dramatic decrease in the time it took me to take a picture was not enough. It wasn’t until I started holding the camera at my waist and snapping in mid-stride that I had solved the photo riddle.
Guerrilla Photography was born!
Kelly by my side
I will approach this post similarly to the last. You’ll hear stories which are less than lovely, but I can promise you that though they’re negative, our outlook on this crazy place is overwhelming upbeat.
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Flying back to New Delhi from our Himalayan excursion was a welcomed change. Ladakh was breathtaking and it may even have been the highlight of our trip, but after almost a week of trekking and camping, we were ready for the sights and sounds of a busier world.
Our trip originally comprised of 3 train rides along the Golden Triangle (New Delhi to Agra to Jaipur to Udaipur), but our plans quickly muddied as we approached our first train station. New Delhi station was chaotic and with the humidity ready to burst into rain at any second, Kelly and I were eager to jump aboard our first Indian railway.
A man in work clothes approached us as we walked towards the station entrance. He explained that, due to the rain in the north, our train had been canceled. This seemed reasonable from the many floods we had watched on the news the night before. There was another train in an hour, but we had to go to the Government Travel Agency which was a few kilometers away to buy a ticket.
“Why can’t we just buy it at the station?” I asked skeptically.
“Here, only Indian’s can buy tickets,” he said.
I racked my brain for any familiarity with this initially strange parameter. Many of the monuments have different lines and prices for Indian citizens and I seemed to remember reading something in my trusty Lonely Planet that said you could only buy train tickets at the downtown Government office. As the drizzle commenced with a promise of cats and dogs soon to follow, we hurried in a taxi to buy a ticket for the next train.
We pulled up to the “Government” office in the now heavy downpour, too eager to get inside we never thought to look up at the sign to see where we were. The staff inside was friendly, easing our concern and we sat down at a man’s desk to book the next train.
“Next train is full,” the man said as I looked at the computer to see the disappointing news. (I had booked our trains early because it’s common for them to fill up almost a week before their departure.)
“The train tomorrow is open. You wait until tomorrow?” He asked.
Obviously, I’m writing this post to share with everyone how Kelly and I were scammed for the first time. The recount of this story is riddled with red flags, but the combination of a frantic station, heavy rain, a tight sightseeing schedule (with booked hotels), and this man’s patient approach to showing me all the train options available was enough to slip under my guarded tourist disposition. I took the bait and I was his.
“We can’t wait until tomorrow for the train because we have a full week planned,” I shared, giving the exact phrase he was hoping to hear.
“We have driver here who can leave in 20 minutes.” (SOLD!)
In retrospect, what happened wasn’t the worst thing in the world. When we planned the trip, we had strongly considered taking a driver and we were able to negotiate a lower price than what we first looked at. Finally, our only train experience, overnight in first class, didn’t leave us wishing we had spent time in 2nd and sleeper class seating (which is where we were scheduled to sit for our first 2 trains).
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Our new driver got us to Agra (home of the Taj Mahal) in about 4 hours. For my summary of this classic destination I will use the words I’ve heard most other visitors utter. When traveling to Agra, see the Taj Mahal and get out. Twenty four hours is too much time to spend in this dirty, unappealing city.
It’s not that Agra is unbearable, it’s just that there are so many better places to see.
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After our night in Agra, Kelly and I began the two most hectic days of our trip. “How can this be,” you may say. “Your account of New Delhi and Agra didn’t seem painless.” Alas, the struggles of the last few days were simply a boot camp for our experiences in Fatehpur Sikri (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fatehpur_Sikri) and the Old City of Jaipur.
Again, I must reiterate, Kelly and I had an absolute blast on this trip. I am sharing the roughest parts of our excursion because they’re the most entertaining. A blog about unbelievable food, gorgeous hotels, wonderful poolside service, historical treasures, and our many massages/milk baths would quickly get boring. You know you like the drama.
Ok, back to the shit show that is Fatehpur Sikri. It’s a temple between the drive from Agra to Jaipur. I was excited to take the car because I had read about Fatehpur’s architecture and we would not have been able to visit it if we’d taken the train.
Our driver warned us that the hawkers (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hawker_(trade)) were quite aggressive because the police forces concentrated on making Agra and the Taj Mahal safer. Being experienced travelers, we were skeptical, but Fatehpur Sikri quickly made Kelly and I feel like Princess Diana and Dodi Fayed. From the moment we got out of the car people were in our face. “Come to my shop. You come when you’re done? You like necklace? Where you from?”
With a quickened pace and our heads down, we finally got to the confines of the temple, after dodging a few tour guides by pretending we didn’t speak English. After being in India for a while we were used to some attention, but the pace and courage of the hawkers in Fatehpur Sikri was definitely at an 11. As we left the temple things got even crazier on the shuttle that took tourists to and from our cars.
Our trip to the shuttle was non-eventful, but once we made it on the bus, we proceeded to stay stagnant for what felt like 10 minutes. Every hawker in sight pounced on the vehicle. With no windows on the bus, the hawkers were able to reach in and poke us for our attention or push their products up to our noses. As sweat poured down the backs of our necks, the bus finally started to move and before no time we were back on the road to Jaipur.
Needless to say, we were happy to leave Fatehpur Sikri.
Kelly has arrived
After about a month apart, Kelly started her 24 hour journey to meet me in India’s capitol city of New Delhi. At about 6:30am her flight landed and we began exploring after a quick breakfast at our hotel.
It didn’t take long for us to be reminded of monsoon season as a moderate rain welcomed us to our first destination, Gandhi Smriti (where Gandhi was killed and spent the last 144 days of his life). The grounds were modest, but the history was apparent as we read about his impact before and after the assassination. The rest of our day was spent walking, rickshawing, and eating our way through the contrasting world. To our left, a 5 star hotel with Maseratis in the parking lot, and to our right, a slum which smells worse than any outhouse I’ve ever visited. Amazingly, Kelly cruised along for almost 12 hours until her body succumbed to the inevitable jet lag.
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Olympics anyone? At home in San Francisco Kelly and I are confined to the world of Internet streaming for our favorite sporting events. From what I’ve read, this form of viewing has been quite frustrating in the states due to its unreliability. Luckily for us, our hotel was stocked with 3 different channels showing the live competitions (vs. the tape delayed events in good ‘ole USA).
The differences of our Olympic viewing did not stop there. Here in India we were exposed to a much more varied buffet of events (as compared to NBC’s swim, gymnastic and USA participant heavy fare). I found myself engrossed by the fast paced sport of badminton, while Kelly is ready to follow in Katniss’s footsteps after watching the archery competitions. In the end, I think the same reasoning holds true for the aired events in their respective countries, we like to see people like us win, and Asians have very good hand eye coordination.
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The next morning we hopped on a plane to Leh which sits at around 3500 meters. We had one day to acclimatize.
Acclimatize, a word whose meaning I understand, but whose pronunciation I continue to struggle with. This became apparent as we waited with a lovely Dutch couple sipping tea before our 4 day trek began. The Dutch woman was doing her best to converse in English when she stumbled trying to explain why her and her husband stayed two days in Leh before starting.
“We needed the extra day to acclima . . .” she hesitated.
“Acclimi . . .” I said with an unsure tone. “Acclimize?”
The woman was confused. “Didn’t you just say you were from California? The United States where they speak English?”
Our relationship eventually got back on track after a few minutes of explaining that I hadn’t lied to her, I just had difficulty with words.
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The trek (hike with 4 horses, a horseman, a guide, and a cook) has been amazing. Our days consist of about 6 hours of hiking, 2 hours of reading, 2 hours of napping, 2 hours of eating, and a varied amount of card playing and bathroom breaks. Kelly has been destroying me in cards, while I’m pretty sure I’ve won the potty competition.
We are on our final evening as I write this and throughout our journey we’ve encountered jaw dropping landscapes, beautiful mountain villages, and plenty of large smelly animals along the trail. Traveling with an entourage was a bit uncomfortable at first, but we quickly got used to not having to put up or take down our tent and enjoying at least 3 tea times a day. We also thought the hamstring rubdowns were a little odd at first, but now we couldn’t imagine trekking without a healthy “ham rub.” (Ok, I made the hamstring thing up.)
Our trip today had Kelly and I in familiar roles as she encouraged me up the steep slopes to our highest point at 5000 meters. I was tired, but the main problem was the sketchiness of our footing. My backpack’s weight made my balance uncertain, but I was able to do my best beached whale impression to the top as Kelly confidently climbed ahead of me.
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Sites and sounds from the last week:
The peak of K2 from the window of our plane
Kenny G playing in the background during multiple dinners
Guards with automatic rifles at the airports and our hotel in Delhi
“Achoo.” Which is what our cook would say every few minutes as he talked to the others in our entourage. I think it means “brother.”
20 year old boys with Kee$ha ringtones (Kee$ha knows no boundaries)
What sounded like hundreds of dogs aggressively barking throughout our nights in Leh
Our driver’s Notorious BIG T-shirt (I guess tourism has its benefits)
Crowds of people walking in the streets as we headed our way back to the hotel following our trek. We learned that “His Holiness” (the Dali Lama) himself was in the area. This had the unintended benefit of much fewer people on the trails during our trip.
Will the real India please stand up
I’ve been in Bangalore for almost 3 weeks now. For the most part, the city has met my expectations. Crowded streets, trash everywhere, delicious food, strong smells ranging from spicy paneer to spicy piss, and vibrant colors in all directions. I know my description doesn’t sound wonderful, but it really has been amazing to this point. But does Bangalore really represent what India is?
My roundabout bus ride has brought me to the countryside of Wayanad. It’s a lush, mountainous, area with rubber trees, coffee/tea plants and rice fields covering the landscape. The journey here excites me as I anticipate meeting the other side of the country.
My first morning in Wayanad started early as my “Home-Stay Mother” Alice explained that it was important to get on the trails before everyone else. “Early bird gets the worm,” I muttered in my head.
6:00am: Alice knocked on my door promptly with a hot cup of coffee and the promise of breakfast downstairs. The time should have been familiar to me, with my morning schedule in the states, but because I’ve been working nights, 6am seemed like a bit of a stretch. I woke with groggy eyes, got out of bed, packed my rain gear, and headed downstairs for a delicious breakfast. The next 10 hours exploded like buck shot from one of my Dad’s 12 gauges.
6:30am: My driver Bernard arrives. He’s hilarious. Tall, gangling, smiling for days. My Prabaker, one might say. I jump in the car and we begin our 2 hour journey to the base of Chembra Peak.
Bernard is a married man with 2 kids. His wife just had their second child 30 days ago and she’s spending the first 3 months with her immediate family (about 200 km north). Bernard is staying back with his 2 year-old son and lives with his mother and father in their family home.
During our journey, we cover topics such as whiskey, trekking, the rich in India, and homosexuality. His English wasn’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but I really think he understood me when I said that it shouldn’t bother anyone to allow a man to marry another man J. Keep in mind it’s only morning, but Bernard is bringing out the best in me.
8:30am: We arrived at the base of Chembra Peak after a long and bumpy road. I headed to the “ranger station,” or “shack with a table and 2 chairs in it,” to get my day pass for the climb. Bernard followed me to bring some local knowhow. After 10 minutes of negotiation, I left the lovely shack with my pants down (figuratively). It’s the first time I’ve really felt ripped off since I’ve been here. I was forced to take a guide up to the peak and my day pass cost me 1000 rupees (about $20 US Dollars). I got over it soon, and I hope the money was going directly to maintain and improve Chembra Peak, but it’s still a lot of money to be throwing down without getting a beer.
9am: If you’ve looked at my Facebook pictures recently, you’ve seen I have a few of a stoic character with a lovely windbreaker draped across his shoulders. This is my guide for the climb. I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t remember his name (I know that it was long and complicated), but he will always be remembered by me as “Quickie.”
I’m in shape. I’ve been working out since I arrived here and I do my best to keep up with my fanatically fit wife in the states. But Quickie had something to prove. I was a lone white guy eager to get up this damn peak and he saw me from a kilometer away. Quickie sports shorts, a short sleeve button down shirt, rain pants and a rain coat. The real kicker with his outfit though was his footwear. We’re climbing a fricken mountain, man! Quickie over here has sandals on! There not like the covered toe, traction packed, sandals you’d find at REI. These are the smooth bottomed, Velcro that doesn’t work on the back, sandals that you’d find at the Dollar Store.
My Dad is going to get 2 shout-outs on this post because I’m pretty sure I’ve heard from him more than once that “your footwear is the most important part of a long hike.” “Break those shoes in Hannah, you can’t do 10 miles in new shoes.” “Make sure to bring that Newskin when you go backpacking. That stuff has saved my life from more than one blister.”
Walking at a pace faster than the top speed of a Hoveround, my guide crushed me up the mountain. At the beginning of the trip I was doing my best to stay step for step, but the second half reminded me of a few journeys that I’d like to memorialize below:
1.) Chet rocking me in Yosemite on John Muir Trail for the second part of our day after his hilarious meltdown in front of a French family: “I can’t go any further. I drank like ¾s of that Jack Daniels last night.”
“Viennent les enfants, cet homme est évidemment un monstre de la pire espèce.“
“Smack,” as Chet falls on to a flat rock for an extended sleep. After his nap he proceeded to destroy me for the next 6 miles with a blistering pace that left me crying for rest.
2.) Kelly destroying me as we climb the tallest peak in the lower 48 states (Mt. Whitney): This trip was a bad time for me. The altitude (14,000+) really got to me. I’d take a step, I’d stop. Breath in, breath out. I’d take another step and stop. Kelly would provide some words of encouragement. “You can do it Andy, just take your time.” My next step would lead me to a place I’m very familiar with, a defecation session , squatting behind 2 foot boulders (not hidden at all).
3.) Jesse, Jesse, Jesse: My bachelor party (after my wedding), was an experience I’ll never forget. One of the funniest parts about the trip was looking at the pain in Jesse’s eyes as he went along the trail. I’m sorry Jesse, but I’ve been dominated by you for too long in physical interactions. I must share this with the world.
1pm: The trek was complete. (I’m not sure why they don’t just say “hike,” but I’m sure my friend Steve Hollich can explain. Please leave a comment Steve.) Bernard was waiting for me in his car at the trailhead. I jumped in with my guide and we headed back towards the ranger station to drop Quickie off.
“Lunch,” Bernard asked.
“Why sure Bernard, what do you have in mind?”
“Pizza? Chinese? KFC?”
I shared with Bernard what I’ve found myself explaining a lot while I’ve been here, that I would love to have Indian food (north or south). I’m here because I want to experience the people, food, and habits of this crazy place. I have no interest in trying some imitated dishes of foods I don’t like much to begin with.
Bernard understood what I was going after and we headed to his uncle’s house for a homemade lunch.
3pm: After a delicious meal which consisted of Kerala’s native rice and some tasty fried fish, we headed to Bernard’s house to enjoy some Toddy with his 2 year-0ld son. Bernard’s house was simple. We sat in plastic chairs made for “patio seating” around a modest side-table which starred as the center of the room and held our cookies and Toddy.
Over the next hour I witnessed Bernard cut off a bandage from his leg and throw it on the ground outside his front door, I was spit on with mushy food from his son’s mouth, who didn’t enjoy a new face in his house and I was given a tour around the home with stories of each of the elders whose pictures hung in the different rooms.
Just like Bangalore, the description of my experiences at Bernard’s house doesn’t sound magnificent, but I can promise you it was the highlight of my long weekend.
Was Wayanad the “real” India? I guess I’ll have to do more research as I travel the north for 2 weeks with the love of my life, Mrs. Kelly Hansen. Expect a detailed report upon my return.
The trip to Wayanad did not go as planned
Note to self, when boarding a bus at 4am (just as your night shift is ending), don’t fall into a deep sleep which will cause you to miss your stop. Even if the driver says it’s the Wayanad bus, there will be other stops and Wayanad is most likely not the final destination.
If I had followed the advice above, my trip from Bangalore to the lovely jungles of Wayanad would have taken at most 5 hours. Because I wore a black hat over my eyes to fall asleep and didn’t specifically ask the driver to wake me when we reached my destination, things did not go as planned.
I lifted my hat over my eyes around 10:30am, awaken by the “On Bus Bollywood Special.”
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Andy’s first rant of the blog:
I’m generally quite accepting of other peoples cultures, but Bollywood is where I draw the line. Boy are those movies painful. My experience with the films has been a mix of sappy romantic comedies and reoccurring Michael Jackson music video remakes (held in different scenery, with second rate dance moves, and some of the most laughable lip-sinking I can remember). As most of you already know, I feel the same passionate hatred toward the majority of American films, but after my recent experience, I think Bollywood sucks more.
The fact that it was a full hour and a half past the time I was supposed to be at my destination had not hit me yet. It wasn’t until we passed a large crowd of protesters and descended thousands of meters on a road as sketchy as anything I’ve seen in Colorado, that I realized there might be an issue.
“Wayanad?” I ask the driver hesitantly, realizing I may have made a major mistake. Luckily for me, the driver didn’t speak English, so the process of actually finding out that I was over 100 kilometers (3 hours) past my intended destination took 3 phone calls and 30 more minutes. When it was clear I was heading in the wrong direction, I asked the driver to drop me off at the nearest taxi, so I could begin backtracking my costly error.
“Umph,” as I sat down in my new vehicle. I had brokered a conversation between my hosts in Wayanad and my new driver. The destination was recognized and I thought it would be smooth sailing for the next few hours. I was a little late, but I try to take a laissez faire on these excursions and I wasn’t letting this diversion get to me.
Then it hit. On our way back up the same road I came down only hours before, we were at a standstill. No traffic for miles in front and/or behind us was moving. We were on the only road that took us up and over the mountains and it just so happened that the protesters we were barely able to get through on the bus hours before, had grown in size and were not letting anyone through.
We sat in the hot, on and off rain, for over an hour before the protesters gave way and allowed the back-up of traffic to meander bumper to bumper up the pass. Twelve hours after I started my journey to Wayanad I finally arrived. Greeted by a family of 5 (2 grandparents, 2 parents and a son my age), I was given a delicious meal and some heartfelt teasing.
I’m really in the middle of nowhere here. Bugs are making extremely loud noises, I just heard a growl that could have come from a tiger, and the balcony I’m writing this from looks out into an endless tropical jungle. Let’s hope I don’t have a similar experience tomorrow when I attempt to climb the highest peak in Kerala.
I wish you all the best.
Andy
I’ve been Shantaramed
Shantaramed (verb: Shantaramed, Shantaraming)
Definition:
to embody a sickness which leaves a gangster or wanna-be gangster incapable of doing anything but read the story of Shantaram until it is finished in its 900+ page entirety.
Verb Phrases:
a. Shantaramed Vig: to not charge a vig because a person is distracted with Shantaram
b. Blue Shantaraming: to be consumed with Karla’s fleeting love
c. Wow, it is hard to come up with these Verb Phrases. FOR THOSE OF YOU READING THIS BLOG, HERE’S A CALL TO ACTION. PLEASE LEAVE A NEWLY CREATED VERB PHRASE USING THE WORD SHANTARAMED
Origin:
July 12, 2012 Bangalore, India; Andrew Hansen at an unnamed café over a cup of cappuccino.
I’ve been consumed by the novel Shantaram. Here’s an example of what I’ve been doing every day for the last week:
10am: Wake-up, open Shantaram on iPad and read in bed
10:15am: Bring iPad to hotel restaurant for breakfast while reading Shantaram
11am: Take iPad to café and enjoy a cappuccino while reading Shantaram
2:30pm: Leave café to workout at hotel gym while reading Shantaram
3:30pm: Leave café to eat lunch with iPad
4:30pm: Get picked up by taxi to go to work while reading Shantaram on iPad
5pm – 1:30am: Daydream about Shantaram and how he’s going to: win Karla’s love, escape from prison, escape from Afghanistan, kill Madame Zhou, get clean from heroin, and stay alive.
2am: Take taxi to hotel while reading Shantaram
2:30am – 3am: Read Shantaram until I slowly pass out
I’m heading to Kerala in the south for a few days. I miss my wife Kelly, but I’m excited to see the elephants and ride on a houseboat overnight.
Andy
My best Edgar Allan Poe Impression (without the scariness)
Early-afternoon, about 82° F, before work at 4:30pm. I walked the streets of my new neighborhood in search of the perfect open aired café for my eagerly anticipated reading session. (Kelly can attest that this “hunt for the best place” can be painstakingly thorough and time consuming. For me though, it’s important that I’m cozy for the next few hours.)
At last, I found a restaurant with comfortable chairs, shaded tables, and a decent enough name, “Friends.” I ordered a coffee and opened up my book, a common backpacker companion, Lonely Plant’s “India.” My goal today was to research the North and come up with enough ammunition to convince my lovely wife to come for a visit.
In the background, Indian covers of famous ‘70s and ‘80s hits played. “While the other kids were Rocking Round the Clock, we were hopping and bopping to the Crocodile Rock.” “Take on meeee. Take me onnnnnnn. I’ll be gonnnnnnne. In a day or two00000000000000!”
I looked up and met eyes with a man sitting at the next table. A few minutes later I looked up again, greeted with the same big brown eyes. “What are you reading,” he asked.
Before I could even finish my answer he had somehow made his way over and sat down across from me at my table with a smile. “It’s a beautiful country,” he explained, acting like nothing he did was out of the ordinary.
Over the next hour, Uday and I were in an out of conversation as I put together a potential itinerary starting from New Deli. Uday has been the manager of Friends for over 20 years. We discussed the different areas of his country, what I must do and what I should skip. During our conversation he had his employees bring over articles about his restaurant which were framed and placed on the wall.
He gave his phone to one of the waiters with instructions in Hindi. A few moments later, the waiter began his best paparazzi impression. It started with inconspicuous photos, hiding behind a plant in the restaurant, and ended with a jerry-rigged camera stand made from napkins and a salt shaker which videotaped the last 10 minutes of our conversation.
Uday was friendly and our conversation was pleasurable. Surprising to the readers of this blog I’m sure, but I actually enjoyed the attention :).
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Throughout my first week at the office I was greeted by many of the hundreds of Oracle employees on my floor. They were friendly and curious about my stay. “Why are you here? How long? Where is your wife?” Invariably the next question that came up was around my upcoming plans for the weekend.
I was honest, I didn’t have anything set in stone, but I was also firm in my assertion that I was comfortable exploring the city on my own. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to hang out with anyone, it was simply that the sheer volume of people coming up to me had to be filtered in some way and I decided not to commit to anything as best as possible.
On Friday, a man named Dhruv approached me. I had worked with him before on an opportunity with BNSF Railway. The Director of the group I am working with, Barry, had told Dhruv I was interested in the outdoors. Wildlife and nature being one of Dhruv’s passions, he proposed we get together on Saturday to head to a wildlife preserve. It was late in the day and I decided it would the perfect way to spend my first weekend in Bangalore.
Dhruv picked me up the next day with another Oracle employee and his younger brother “Big Sid” (my nickname) as the driver. We drover 30 minutes to the wildlife preserve (a Zoo that also had an area for animals to roam in larger fenced in plots of land). As an American, I am in most cases, against the idea of animals living in captivity. I explained this to my hosts, as a subject of conversation. Dhruv informed me that most of the animals in captivity had been rescued from circuses, which put me more at ease with the activity.
My hosts worked with the employees of the Preserve to get me the best seat on the bus as we started our Safari Adventure. I sat up front with both the driver and his young assistant who took turns grabbing my camera to get the best photo. I was a little uncomfortable with this at first, but I quickly realized they were much more talented with my camera and weren’t going to have it any other way. I sat back and enjoyed the ride through the lens of my own eyes.
Lions, tigers, and bears were all part of the ride, but the mighty tiger definitely stole the show. The bus gained an air of excitement as we entered the tiger’s lair. People moved franticly to fit their cameras through one of the small holes in the fence which covered each window on the bus.
And then it was over. I was given my camera back, tipped the driver and his young assistant, and got back into the car with Dhruv and his friends. A round of bowling and a meal followed which made the day feel quite familiar.
Searching for a Home (via Bangalore)
I woke early the next morning lying on my stomach, my face buried in a pillow, just like at home. I was upset as I betrayed my nighttime promise to sleep like a mummy on my back, trying to touch as little as possible. “What can you do?” I thought to myself, wiping drool from my face.
I was quick to check out of the hotel that morning. “I’m sorry but my friend is insisting I stay with him,” I persisted. I was doing my best to smooth over our “business breakup.” A cab was called and I headed into the office for my first day.
It was 7:30am and after stopping at 3 different Oracle offices, we finally found the building where a cube was waiting my arrival. I made my way up to the sixth floor and was greeted by a guard. “Today is my first day. I’m working at 6A 466.”
The guard left into another room and out came three more dressed in the same blue and black uniform. The one who spoke English made his way to address me and I explained my situation. After passing my business card to each of the 4 men, I was given a visitor pass and was allowed to enter office.
To my surprise, the office looked exactly like the office I had left California: rows of cubes, inspiring corporate phrases like “Be There First!” on the wall, and offices around the edges of the room. All that was missing were the people.
My eagerness to leave the hotel had brought me into the office a full 9 hours before everyone else on the floor was coming in. This explained the guard’s apprehension to letting me through, as I was literally the only person on a floor that housed hundreds of people during the work day.
I walked the rows of cubes for 5 minutes before I sat down at my workspace for the next 2 months. I got out a pen and paper and wrote down my itinerary for the day:
1.) Find a new hotel
2.) Get phone, computer, and iPad set up/connected
3.) Eat
After putting the list to paper, I realized that I needed a phone to complete #1, so I adjusted my priority list and got to work.
Within a few hours I was negotiating between 2 different hotels which were located in the “happening” neighborhood I hoped to live in. I was in my element negotiating, as it’s what I spend the most exciting times of my current job doing. “2000 rupees Net, not before taxes. That’s what Blupetal is offering. I’m going to be staying there for almost two months, that’s got to be worth something. Oh, and I want two liters of water a day, not the customary one.”
At last I had reached a deal both parties could stomach. My new home has free breakfast (which is actually delicious), a work-out room, and wireless internet that works most of the time. I have a double bed that is cleaned each day; there is a shower door and even a safe to leave my valuables in.
I finally found my home.
India has arrived
It was 9pm in Singapore. John and I were each 4-7 beers deep and smiling ear to ear. As I gulped my last one down we both realized I had only an hour before my plane took off.
John rushed into the street scanning in both directions for a cab. “The most difficult thing about this city is getting a cab when you need one,” John explained earlier in the day when we began our get together.
His anxiety was obvious and he paced back and forth searching for an empty taxi. Another full cab crossed our position when it suddenly stopped 150 feet down the road to let its customer out. John recognized his opportunity and in flip flops and cargo shorts, sprinted down the road screaming at the top of lungs, “Taxi! Taxi!” I did my best to keep up, but my pace was much less inspired.
“Got it,” John huffed. I thanked him for his efforts, gave him a hug, and hopped into the cab. The spicy sting ray, cold beer, and invigorating conversation amplified my excitement for my Indian Adventure. I was at 11.
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My travel arrangements for India were put together quite hastily a few weeks before my departure date. I had the assistance of two coworkers from our Bangalore office who were going to find me a “good Indian deal” for my accommodations (as I was put on a tight budget). After struggling to find a place which would be in a bustling neighborhood, but also financially viable, we finally booked a room a week before I left.
The cab ride to my room was interesting, to say the least. It was actually more like getting punched in the face or jumping in naked to a snow fed river at Rocky Mountain National Park. We weaved in and out of lanes which weren’t marked, with cars offset at different widths depending on which row of traffic they were in. Construction to build an expressway from downtown to the airport 30km away forced traffic to drive between the main road, over a bumpy median, onto a frontage road, and back to the main road at blistering speeds. My driver had been working this same route for over 2 years and his familiarity showed as he raced to a nonexistent finish.
A phone call to my new residence for the final directions brought us down a mysterious alley to my new home. I was greeted in the dark, short ceilinged, simple lobby by a young man at the front desk. He was expecting me and recommended I head up to bed, leaving the paperwork for tomorrow. A small man, who did not speak English, took the heavier of my two bags and opened the elevator door by hand. We got off the elevator into a pitch black hallway and entered my room on the 3rd floor.
Aged and patchy furniture lined the family room and kitchen. There were two numbered doors on the back wall of the sitting area. “Bedroom,” the short man explained.
“Is the other room a bedroom too? Is anyone else staying here?” I asked to no avail. I decided to see the bedroom first before I brought my questions to the young man managing the front desk.
Two small beds followed the theme of the family room, aged and clean but dirty (similar to the pit stains on my shirts :)). The bathroom was not much better, with a shower directly next to the toilet (no curtain or tub).
“Internet?” I asked the short man, hoping I had found a word that had no language barriers. I showed him my phone with the available wireless networks and he pointed to the one I should use.
I thanked the small man for his help and locked the door to the hallway. Turning off the lights in the family room and dead bolting myself into my bedroom I contemplated my new digs.
“Can I really do this?” I knew I was going to be roughing it a little, being away from my Kelly and our lovely home, but was this place really sustainable for 2 months?
I showered quickly in the freezing cold water, slithered into bed, trying to touch as little of the sheets as possible and decided this was something I had to sleep on (thanks Jake and John for your tips during Bermuda).
My first night in India was spent locked in a small bedroom, under a noisy fan, as I struggled to stay logged into the internet for more than 20 seconds trying to get a glimpse back at the world I had just left.
My Asian Adventure - Indian Style 