It's my first day back at the office in Bombay and I just noticed a helpful new list of suggestions ("LOO MANNERS") in the women's bathroom. These include:
Please lift lid before sitting down.
Please use toilet paper as far as possible.
Please flush toilet before and after use.
There is also an admonition to keep the washbasins clear of hair and "bloggs of soap."
I swear I do not make this stuff up.
Showing posts with label more cultural cognitive dissonance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label more cultural cognitive dissonance. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
just your normal commute
On the drive home Tuesday I looked up at one point, saw something large in the street with a guy sitting on it, and thought, "Hmm. Elephant." Then I went back to reading my novel (Sons and Lovers, if you must know; my literary tastes are nothing if not hifalutin, as Dan likes to tease me about).
Then today on the drive home I looked up and I knew something was weird, because a bunch of guys were walking across the street amid heavy traffic (that part is not the weird part) and they held their hands up to indicate that cars should slow down for them and the cars did slow down. This is unheard of. And then I looked a little behind them, saw that some other guys were pulling a rickety hand cart with a corpse and some flowers on it, and I thought, "Hmm. Dead guy."
As long as we're discussing my reading habits, I should confess that in two of the hifalutin novels I've read in the last week or so, people have used the expression "do the needful" (or at least said something similar involving the word 'needful'). Now, I had in the meantime figured out that this was not just something that the crazy Indian people had made up to make me laugh, and that in fact it was a somewhat archaic British-ism, of which one encounters many on this here subcontinent. But it still made me light up with glee to see it being used by Somerset Maugham and Jane Austen (in Of Human Bondage and Northanger Abbey). Come to think of it, I believe it made an appearance in Howard's End as well. (You can tell the internet has been out a lot this trip, can't you? I have been reduced to reading actual books.)
Another recent literature/India light bulb moment came while I was reading Upton Sinclair's The Jungle--a graphic indictment of, among other things, the scandalous living and working conditions in early 20th century Chicago. There were a startling number of passages that made me think, "Hmm. That sounds like India now." Oh what the hell, here's some of what I am talking about:
[T]here were no pavements--there were mountains and valleys and rivers, gullies and ditches, and great hollows full of stinking green water. In these pools the children played, and rolled about in the mud of the streets; here and there one noticed them digging in it, after trophies which they had stumbled on. One wondered about this, as also about the swarms of flies which hung about the scene, literally blackening the air, and the strange, fetid odor which assailed one's nostrils, a ghastly odor, of all the dead things in the universe.
You know...that sort of thing.
does not register
We have this recurring problem where Indian web sites will not accept US credit cards. This has caused irritation on a grand scale every time anyone wants to book non-business travel, reserve a hotel, whatever.
So today I noticed that the registration is finally open for the Mumbai marathon. The web site makes it very clear that if you live outside India, you must register online (as opposed to in person or by mail). Except, guess what? The only way to pay online is via credit card, and the site won't accept non-Indian credit cards. I.e., they require you to do something and then make it impossible to do it. I LOVE THIS COUNTRY.
EDITED TO ADD:
As usual I had to solve this problem by imposing on our incredibly sweet office manager, Punit, to use his personal card and pay him in cash. But I am now officially registered! Well, supposedly. (For a second I forgot what country I was in. We'll see what goes awry from here.)
So today I noticed that the registration is finally open for the Mumbai marathon. The web site makes it very clear that if you live outside India, you must register online (as opposed to in person or by mail). Except, guess what? The only way to pay online is via credit card, and the site won't accept non-Indian credit cards. I.e., they require you to do something and then make it impossible to do it. I LOVE THIS COUNTRY.
EDITED TO ADD:
As usual I had to solve this problem by imposing on our incredibly sweet office manager, Punit, to use his personal card and pay him in cash. But I am now officially registered! Well, supposedly. (For a second I forgot what country I was in. We'll see what goes awry from here.)
fond memories of good times
I am cleaning out my work email inbox today and I came across a message I sent to Casey in mid-August after my first trip back to the US since getting to India. Feel the love:
Ok, so the airport...first of all, can someone explain to me how it is that I have YET to be dropped off at the right place at the airport ONCE in this country so far? For reals, not once, and these are professional drivers who surely are picking up and dropping off people with some regularity. Am I wrong?? (Did I tell you that the SAME driver from the Hans Hotel in Delhi took me and Alex to the SAME wrong terminal? Even though I told him twice we were on Kingfisher and then even asked when we got there if it was the Kingfisher place, because I didn't see any signs? And he insisted yes and then took off. So we once again got to walk that long weird walk through back alleys to the other terminal.) Anyhooooo, so Ahmed ended up taking me to the arrivals level and getting stuck going in to the parking lot (which cost me 60 Rs to add insult to injury), then eventually we figure out that I need to go upstairs to DEPARTURES (helllloooo? you don't say! departures?), and we find an elevator, and it was one of those typical Indian experiences where people were totally unhelpful and barging past me even though I had a suitcase and was right near the door and shit like that. So I finally figure out which door to go in to the terminal and there is a THRONG of people outside. You know how they'll have a guy (in a brown uniform, of course) standing at the door making sure you have a printout or a boarding pass + passport? So that is what was going on, except for once in this country it would have been helpful to have 2 or 3 people doing the exact same job in the exact same place, so unlike usual naturally there was only *one* guy. And then I realize that part of the effing problem is that people are showing up with their entire extended families to say goodbye to ONE person, and they all crowd along with her or him till the very last second and get in the way of the people who have ACTUAL FUCKING FLIGHTS TO CATCH and keep coming up with one last thing they have to say and one last hug they have to give and ARRRGGGGHHHHHHHH!! And also, what is UP with everyone here traveling with 18 pieces of giant luggage? So I'm in this throng and just trying to move up closer to the door and have about negative 2 inches of space to move into and people are pushing their luggage carts into the backs of my legs and shouting "Excuse me! EXCUSE ME!" and/or making that "sssh! sssh! sssh!" sound like Ahmed does when he is trying to get the attention of the 19th rickshaw driver in a row to get directions to somewhere. I actually was THISCLOSE to turning around and shouting in the face of one woman. It also occurred to me how it was possible for people to get killed in soccer mobs or whatever--there was constant physical pressure from behind me and nowhere to move to.
So I finally wrestle my way into the airport (where it is quite non-crowded...that's when I realized just how many of those people outside were simply relatives of the legitimate travelers), and then things are marked with the same kind of clarity and accuracy as, you know, like roads and stuff are. As in, not so much. Finally I find the Delta line. It involves standing in line and eventually some guy with a clipboard coming to ask you questions about whether your bag is yours and what is in it and do you have any gels or liquids and did you buy anything at the duty free shop and so on. Then he puts stickers on the bags and one on your passport. But then you stay in line and eventually put everything (regular and carry on bags) through one of those big Xrays. THEN you stand in a normal line to get your boarding pass. One of the things they give you is a slip of paper called a "departure card" or something, which you then have to fill out before going through immigration. It asks about your name/passport info, your address in India, etc. I am mainly telling you this because no one points out that this is on the back of the paper, so I had just slipped mine into my passport and then when I finally found the place that looked like the way to my departure gate, there were all these people all scribbling on these forms and I had NO IDEA where they'd gotten the forms or what it was about, and it's not like the long counters where they were filling them out had blank copies or even provided pens...OK, so I finally ask someone (one of those classic "sitting in a chair with a badge with no apparent purpose" jobs) and figure it out and go through the immigration line. That was one of those deals where they look into your passport and maybe stamp something. You know how they loves them some stamps here. THEN comes the regular security line, where they scan your carry on bag AGAIN in the usual manner and put another fantastic, magical, terror-fighting ink stamp on your luggage tag, and then finally you can maybe find your departure gate. I'm just sayin', people--they are not kidding about getting there 2 hours early.
doing the needful
So, in emails our office manager often uses the expression "do the needful" when he means "do what is required." As in, "I will do the needful and arrange to have someone come fix your air conditioner (again)/arrange for an electrician to (possibly) fix your exploded outlet (but probably not)/get new keys made (because yours don't actually fit the lock)/etc."
I thought this was just a quirk of his idiolect, as he is not a native English speaker. We have a running joke about how "doing the needful" sounds vaguely pornographic.
But just now in Dhoom II, Hrithik Roshan, he of the auspicious and SEXY extra thumb, tells (the correctly thumbed) Aishwarya Rai to...
DO THE NEED FULL!!!
My life is now complete.
I thought this was just a quirk of his idiolect, as he is not a native English speaker. We have a running joke about how "doing the needful" sounds vaguely pornographic.
But just now in Dhoom II, Hrithik Roshan, he of the auspicious and SEXY extra thumb, tells (the correctly thumbed) Aishwarya Rai to...
DO THE NEED FULL!!!
My life is now complete.
headline news
Lon, Robin, and Alex have made it here safely. Hooray!
Here is an article on the front page of today's Times of India:
Here is an article on the front page of today's Times of India:
One Night in Mumbai--post by Lon
My contribution to our weekend itinerary was a Saturday night trip to Mumbai's one (and only) gay bar, Voodoo, located in the relatively swank area of Colaba near the Taj Mahal Hotel and the Gateway of India. For those of you making a trip to Mumbai anytime in the future, this is an experience not to be missed, which is not to say that you'll have a good time the whole time.
At first, Robin, Alex, and I were kind of freaked out, and we're not exactly as pure as the driven snow. There was no marquee (well, there was no accurate marquee) so it was first off a little hard to find. Then after deciding that, if there's a gay bar on this street, it's this one, we paid the Rs.300/head admission charge (with Robin getting in free, cuz she's hot like that) and made our way into the club. One enters the club and is immediately on the dance floor - deafening music, strobe lights, dancers - there's no transition.
Likes deer in the headlights, we froze. Then we wondered if we were in the right place. Some things in our favor: men dancing together, disco soundtrack, relatively run-down and seedy decor. Things against: men dancing together (not unheard of here at all) but also with women, gaydar on the fritz after watching men routinely holding hands or with arms around each other every day (very common), and painted Shrek-inspired tableau on the wall (I shit you not). After we caught our breath, though, we agreed that this is the place, if for no other reason than the sensory onslaught perfectly matched descriptions of the place we had read on line. We also realized that a fair number of the women were "women" and that the other recognizable expats would have all looked very comfortable at the Badlands back home.
Voodoo is billed as having two levels, but what that means is that there's a dancefloor with a bar on the main floor, a precarious stairway up to a mezzanine for onlookers, and then a little area off of the dancefloor with some couches. It's small, dark, and mildly sinister - all things in its favor. After each getting our beverages of choice, we made our way to a cubbyhole with some couches to (a) gain some much needed relief from the strobe lights, which were nearly seizure inducing, (b) validate each other's initial freakout over how we just didn't have the tools to read this place upon entry, and (c), wait for some Bollywood music to come on so we could shake it.
Little did we know that there was (d), which is where we got to see men sit with women or "women" as they arranged the details for other, more intimate transactions to be conducted elsewhere. Near our couch were two others, and the only folks who sat there were men led over by women or "women," where they seemed to flirt/negotiate and then leave the bar together. We wish all those young lovers nothing but long and happy futures together!
And then the Bollywood music came on and we hit the floor, where we were warmly embraced by the locals (sometimes more literally than we would have liked). Robin can chime in with some of the hits she recognized, but she wanted me to shout out to Jeanette that they played the "sha-ka-lak-lak-lak-a-BOOM-BOOM" song. The others dancing were happy to have us join in, and several of them poked us to see if it was okay to dance with us (or at least that's why we think they were poking us - the cross-cultural nuances of dancefloor etiquette are still beyond us). But the dancing was a true highlight and we were a sweaty mess by the end of it. Along the way, I saw the first kiss I've been witness to in India, and it was two men. Nice.
We closed out the club (at 1:30) and took a predictably loud and smoky non A/C cabride back home. On the way back, I wondered what the other million or so gay Mumbaiers were up to... It was the second to last night of Navratri, so I hope they were out dancing under the moonlit sky with the rest of the city.
One of the "interesting" things about India is that homosexual acts are still criminalized, although prosecutions are very uncommon (much as in most of the U.S. prior to Lawrence v. Texas (2003)). This does, however, create a climate in which people are afraid to be out lest they suffer violence or extortion, the threats of which are both very real, and so there are very few places to congregate as gays and lesbians as such. All the more reason to appreciate Mumbai's lone weekly gay bar, Voodoo! -L
At first, Robin, Alex, and I were kind of freaked out, and we're not exactly as pure as the driven snow. There was no marquee (well, there was no accurate marquee) so it was first off a little hard to find. Then after deciding that, if there's a gay bar on this street, it's this one, we paid the Rs.300/head admission charge (with Robin getting in free, cuz she's hot like that) and made our way into the club. One enters the club and is immediately on the dance floor - deafening music, strobe lights, dancers - there's no transition.
Likes deer in the headlights, we froze. Then we wondered if we were in the right place. Some things in our favor: men dancing together, disco soundtrack, relatively run-down and seedy decor. Things against: men dancing together (not unheard of here at all) but also with women, gaydar on the fritz after watching men routinely holding hands or with arms around each other every day (very common), and painted Shrek-inspired tableau on the wall (I shit you not). After we caught our breath, though, we agreed that this is the place, if for no other reason than the sensory onslaught perfectly matched descriptions of the place we had read on line. We also realized that a fair number of the women were "women" and that the other recognizable expats would have all looked very comfortable at the Badlands back home.
Voodoo is billed as having two levels, but what that means is that there's a dancefloor with a bar on the main floor, a precarious stairway up to a mezzanine for onlookers, and then a little area off of the dancefloor with some couches. It's small, dark, and mildly sinister - all things in its favor. After each getting our beverages of choice, we made our way to a cubbyhole with some couches to (a) gain some much needed relief from the strobe lights, which were nearly seizure inducing, (b) validate each other's initial freakout over how we just didn't have the tools to read this place upon entry, and (c), wait for some Bollywood music to come on so we could shake it.
Little did we know that there was (d), which is where we got to see men sit with women or "women" as they arranged the details for other, more intimate transactions to be conducted elsewhere. Near our couch were two others, and the only folks who sat there were men led over by women or "women," where they seemed to flirt/negotiate and then leave the bar together. We wish all those young lovers nothing but long and happy futures together!
And then the Bollywood music came on and we hit the floor, where we were warmly embraced by the locals (sometimes more literally than we would have liked). Robin can chime in with some of the hits she recognized, but she wanted me to shout out to Jeanette that they played the "sha-ka-lak-lak-lak-a-BOOM-BOOM" song. The others dancing were happy to have us join in, and several of them poked us to see if it was okay to dance with us (or at least that's why we think they were poking us - the cross-cultural nuances of dancefloor etiquette are still beyond us). But the dancing was a true highlight and we were a sweaty mess by the end of it. Along the way, I saw the first kiss I've been witness to in India, and it was two men. Nice.
We closed out the club (at 1:30) and took a predictably loud and smoky non A/C cabride back home. On the way back, I wondered what the other million or so gay Mumbaiers were up to... It was the second to last night of Navratri, so I hope they were out dancing under the moonlit sky with the rest of the city.
One of the "interesting" things about India is that homosexual acts are still criminalized, although prosecutions are very uncommon (much as in most of the U.S. prior to Lawrence v. Texas (2003)). This does, however, create a climate in which people are afraid to be out lest they suffer violence or extortion, the threats of which are both very real, and so there are very few places to congregate as gays and lesbians as such. All the more reason to appreciate Mumbai's lone weekly gay bar, Voodoo! -L
Ganpartaaay!
Ganpati continues in full swing. This shrine is outside a local store. Note the big ol' tin can of cow ghee at rear left. Yum. And Krishna cookies!
culture, club
This evening Alex and I finally got over to the health club about a block and a half away, where we have a membership that comes with the apartment. We moved here in late July and turned in the paperwork for the club right away. We got our ID cards a few days ago. Welcome to India.
Aaaaaand...the place is closed on Mondays. But at least we found out that on every other day it is open from 6:00 a.m. till 10:30 p.m. And only one hour of that is closed for lunch and only two hours are for "ladies only." (We don't expect that the doors actually open till around 7:00 a.m., because posted hours here are seen as mere suggestions, but we might be brave and try showing up at 6:30 a.m. tomorrow anyway.)
After that we went to The Culture Shop and spent money. Other than a $7.00 shirt I haven't really bought myself anything here so far, clothing-wise, seeing as I have to save my rupees in order to afford tofu and Cheerios, but tonight I splurged on a hand embroidered pashmina shawl from Kashmir:
And since it's All Ganesh All The Time right now in Maharashtra, they had all sorts of extra stuff in honor of the current festival. I got this groovy plaque to hang in my apartment:
Is there anything not to love about Ganesh? No, there is not. Plus I love how he is always making the talk to the hand gesture. You can almost hear him saying "OH HANUMAN NO YOU DITN'T!" With an accompanying head bobble, of course.
By the way--don't believe a damn thing you read at either of those links above, or on any other part of the Hiranandani Gardens propaganda site for that matter. As with so many things here, it is all about pretending to be what you're not. And what this place is not is a luxurious paradise with magnificently constructed buildings and a spotlessly posh clubhouse. I mean, it's no slum (that's next door), but the web site is seriously delusional.
Aaaaaand...the place is closed on Mondays. But at least we found out that on every other day it is open from 6:00 a.m. till 10:30 p.m. And only one hour of that is closed for lunch and only two hours are for "ladies only." (We don't expect that the doors actually open till around 7:00 a.m., because posted hours here are seen as mere suggestions, but we might be brave and try showing up at 6:30 a.m. tomorrow anyway.)
After that we went to The Culture Shop and spent money. Other than a $7.00 shirt I haven't really bought myself anything here so far, clothing-wise, seeing as I have to save my rupees in order to afford tofu and Cheerios, but tonight I splurged on a hand embroidered pashmina shawl from Kashmir:
And since it's All Ganesh All The Time right now in Maharashtra, they had all sorts of extra stuff in honor of the current festival. I got this groovy plaque to hang in my apartment:
Is there anything not to love about Ganesh? No, there is not. Plus I love how he is always making the talk to the hand gesture. You can almost hear him saying "OH HANUMAN NO YOU DITN'T!" With an accompanying head bobble, of course.
By the way--don't believe a damn thing you read at either of those links above, or on any other part of the Hiranandani Gardens propaganda site for that matter. As with so many things here, it is all about pretending to be what you're not. And what this place is not is a luxurious paradise with magnificently constructed buildings and a spotlessly posh clubhouse. I mean, it's no slum (that's next door), but the web site is seriously delusional.
magna cum laude
There is a new water cooler at the office, and on the base it says, and I am not making this up:
WATER DISPENSER
CUM REFRIGERATOR
CUM REFRIGERATOR
Now, I am all for incorporating as much Latin as possible into your daily discourse, but this usage, while technically correct, seems...unfortunate. Or maybe I am seriously in the dark and we're actually running a document review service-cum-fertility clinic over here.
UPDATED TO ADD PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE:
the action, it is not so much
I think this is what is considered action-packed TV programming here:
A guy in lotus position clenching his stomach muscles rhythmically. For a really, really long time.
My action-packed day today has included an hour of power walking and a 4-hour nap. So I guess I can't really make fun.
On an unrelated note, I had trouble while in San Francisco recently conveying to people just how CLEAN it was compared to Bombay. I snapped this typical scene on the drive home one day this week:
Often you'll see people and/or animals picking through small fields of garbage like this. It is so amazing to think that there is anything of enough value in there that it is worth digging through it with one's bare hands. (Click on the photo to get a better feel for just how...trashy it is.)
You also sometimes see big green bins that say "Clean up Mumbai!" in the middle of a pile of garbage. The bins typically are empty.
And also I made another lolcat, from a classic shot of Marie:
A guy in lotus position clenching his stomach muscles rhythmically. For a really, really long time.
My action-packed day today has included an hour of power walking and a 4-hour nap. So I guess I can't really make fun.
On an unrelated note, I had trouble while in San Francisco recently conveying to people just how CLEAN it was compared to Bombay. I snapped this typical scene on the drive home one day this week:
Often you'll see people and/or animals picking through small fields of garbage like this. It is so amazing to think that there is anything of enough value in there that it is worth digging through it with one's bare hands. (Click on the photo to get a better feel for just how...trashy it is.)
You also sometimes see big green bins that say "Clean up Mumbai!" in the middle of a pile of garbage. The bins typically are empty.
And also I made another lolcat, from a classic shot of Marie:
dead ringer
Yesterday we interviewed a guy for a fairly senior position and he left his cell phone on during our conversation and even checked the screen when it would ring. No "Oh, I do apologize, my wife is 10 months pregnant/my child is in a diabetic coma/my home was in flames when I left and I'm waiting for a call from the fire department." Nope, apparently here it's just cool to leave your phone turned on in a job interview. But the real burning question in my mind is the following: Does he enjoy ping pong and watching TV? Because in that case he is totally hired.
swinging. linguist. pad
So, we got the lease on the apartment signed Thursday, and the keys were turned over, and everything was ready for us to move in Friday night. We ended up leaving work kind of late (for a great reason--terrific job candidate we are in LOVE with), and we were in the middle of the worst monsoon electrical storm/torrential downpour EVER, and the streets were starting to flood and it was already dark, so we decided screw it, we would make do without towels and blankets for one night, because no way were we going to wade through ankle deep god-knows-how-dirty water to get in to the store...then we get to the apartment and there are several pairs of shoes outside the door, and I open the door to find three guys working on the wooden valence thing for the living room curtains, tools and sawdust all over, guys on a stepstool hanging curtains in my room, the promised bed linens were nowhere to be seen, no one speaks English and lord knows our Hindi isn't good enough for the sort of conversation we were needing to have, etc. It was CLASSIC. I will admit to you right now that when I opened the door to this scene I let out a rather loud "What the F*CK?" Quite the picture of ladylike Indian modesty, that's me.
Oh, and of course the duplicate keys we had made don't work (awesome Indian craftsmanship), so we still have only one key among the three of us. Speaking of craftsmen, you should have seen these guys sawing away in the middle of our living room, serrated blades a couple inches from their own bare feet, which they were using to hold the wood steady, and millimeters from the marble floor, and so on. It was quite a sight.
Anyhowwwwww, after quite the comedy of errors and various promises made via phone and in person in broken English about how soon they'd be finished, they finally did get all their stuff together and got the hell out, and the linens arrived from the laundry, and we ordered pizza (!), and discovered that someone nearby has a pretty damn good open wireless connection, so all is right with the world. Well, except that we have no towels or blankets yet. But if there is ever a time to not need a blanket, it is in July in Bombay. Conversely, that does make it a fairly lousy time to be without towels, since they are necessary after a shower and all.
But we HAVE AN APARTMENT! And the rain seems to have stopped, so we should be able to venture out tomorrow; the driver is supposed to come at noon and take us to a large department store called HyperCity or some such. I am getting hyper just thinking about it.
EDITED TO ADD: It's Sunday morning now. Turns out that open wireless connection is only available when the owner is using it--we just lucked out that it was running when we first looked for a connection. We did go to HyperCity and we want to live there now. Yes, we want to move in to the store and LIVE there. We got really cool stuff to outfit the kitchen and bedrooms.
Later we were washing some of the new linens and the drainage hose from the washer came out and we ended up with water all over the kitchen floor. We called the front desk and they sent a local guy up within a few minutes. He fixed the pipe (it wasn't a difficult thing to fix, but still--it's not like WE had the tools to do it) and cleaned up the standing water, and charged us Rs 250 (about $6). Sometimes I love this country.
On the other hand, the hot water in my shower doesn't seem to work.
OK, I had better post this before our wireless neighbor decides to go out and have a life.
bobblywood
Have we already talked about the Head Bobble? I don't think we have.
Here in India there is a ubiquitous social phenomenon that we have been calling "the head bobble." It's sort of a gentle side-to-side figure 8 type motion people make with the lower half of their face. As far as we can tell, it can mean any of the following, or sometimes several of them at once, and probably many more things we haven't figured out yet:
* Yes.
* No.
* Maybe.
* Yes, if that is what you are hoping I'll say.
* No, if that is what you are hoping I'll say.
* I would rather not be here right now.
* Lady, you are out of your mind.
* I don't think you want to eat that.
* Please go back to America now.
* Whatever.
* Glad to be of service! But maybe not really so much. But maybe for real! You decide.
* That's not my elephant/goat/cow/monkey, so don't ask me.
* Sure I'll bring you another dosa, you porker; uh, you don't have to consume ALL your day's calories at breakfast, you know.
I have already found myself inadvertently doing the head bobble myself sometimes. "Did you just head bobble?!" Casey asked me the other day, sounding incredulous. I replied with a head bobble.
Here in India there is a ubiquitous social phenomenon that we have been calling "the head bobble." It's sort of a gentle side-to-side figure 8 type motion people make with the lower half of their face. As far as we can tell, it can mean any of the following, or sometimes several of them at once, and probably many more things we haven't figured out yet:
* Yes.
* No.
* Maybe.
* Yes, if that is what you are hoping I'll say.
* No, if that is what you are hoping I'll say.
* I would rather not be here right now.
* Lady, you are out of your mind.
* I don't think you want to eat that.
* Please go back to America now.
* Whatever.
* Glad to be of service! But maybe not really so much. But maybe for real! You decide.
* That's not my elephant/goat/cow/monkey, so don't ask me.
* Sure I'll bring you another dosa, you porker; uh, you don't have to consume ALL your day's calories at breakfast, you know.
I have already found myself inadvertently doing the head bobble myself sometimes. "Did you just head bobble?!" Casey asked me the other day, sounding incredulous. I replied with a head bobble.
taking care of business
Setting up business in a foreign country/culture means you have to recalibrate what you think of as normal. The last couple of weeks I have been learning a lot about the recruiting and hiring process here, and it's been...interesting.
For example, it is considered perfectly normal and acceptable to arrive to meetings, including job interviews, 15 or 20 or even more minutes late, without apology and typically without a call to alert you of the delay. This seems to be a combination of cultural attitudes and the realities of living in a megacity with unpredictable traffic, transportation, and weather.
Now, back in San Francisco, if a job applicant shows up 20 minutes late for an interview, that person had better have a spectacular excuse involving, oh I dunno, a herd of rabid boar loose in the BART tunnel and an exploding clown on Market street, including photographic and preferably video evidence to back it up. AND a note from a doctor. And the person had better have called me to tell me he or she would be late. Only then would a 20-minute delay not warrant summary dismissal as a potential hire, because, dude, it's a job interview. If you can't make it in time to that, why should I believe you can do anything at all on time? But here in India...not so much.
Another thing that fascinates me is the kind of information that is included on resumes. You almost always are told the person's date of birth and marital status, and often you are helpfully provided with the applicant's passport and/or driver's license number. My favorite, though, is that people usually list a few of their hobbies. Cricket is often mentioned (the sport, I mean; I have not seen any resumes from entomology enthusiasts so far), and, oddly, table tennis (not that I would ever turn down a good game of table tennis, but I'm just sayin'--who the hell is that into ping pong that they can't even refrain from mentioning it on their resume?). The very, very best is when people put things like "Vivek* enjoys the movies and listening to soft music," or "Ritu likes to read and watch TV." You are trying to impress someone into hiring you for a director-level position AND THE BEST HOBBY YOU CAN COME UP WITH IS WATCHING TV??" I give up.
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent, and also I can't remember any of their actual names at the moment.
For example, it is considered perfectly normal and acceptable to arrive to meetings, including job interviews, 15 or 20 or even more minutes late, without apology and typically without a call to alert you of the delay. This seems to be a combination of cultural attitudes and the realities of living in a megacity with unpredictable traffic, transportation, and weather.
Now, back in San Francisco, if a job applicant shows up 20 minutes late for an interview, that person had better have a spectacular excuse involving, oh I dunno, a herd of rabid boar loose in the BART tunnel and an exploding clown on Market street, including photographic and preferably video evidence to back it up. AND a note from a doctor. And the person had better have called me to tell me he or she would be late. Only then would a 20-minute delay not warrant summary dismissal as a potential hire, because, dude, it's a job interview. If you can't make it in time to that, why should I believe you can do anything at all on time? But here in India...not so much.
Another thing that fascinates me is the kind of information that is included on resumes. You almost always are told the person's date of birth and marital status, and often you are helpfully provided with the applicant's passport and/or driver's license number. My favorite, though, is that people usually list a few of their hobbies. Cricket is often mentioned (the sport, I mean; I have not seen any resumes from entomology enthusiasts so far), and, oddly, table tennis (not that I would ever turn down a good game of table tennis, but I'm just sayin'--who the hell is that into ping pong that they can't even refrain from mentioning it on their resume?). The very, very best is when people put things like "Vivek* enjoys the movies and listening to soft music," or "Ritu likes to read and watch TV." You are trying to impress someone into hiring you for a director-level position AND THE BEST HOBBY YOU CAN COME UP WITH IS WATCHING TV??" I give up.
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent, and also I can't remember any of their actual names at the moment.
thursday update
First and foremost, Casey is doing much better. In fact, we think he will live. And check this out: the doctor made a house call at 3:30 a.m., gave Casey medicine (including an injection), then came by again this morning (unasked) to check on him and bring him some rehydration tablets to mix with water. The total bill for all this? Six hundred rupees. That's what Americans call, wait for it, $14.83.
Apparently the doctor "sent the bellboy to the chemist" to get some of the medicine. I really like how Indian English maintains a lot of British-ish elements. We're all ladies and gents here, for example, even when we're just getting our hair cut or going to the bathroom.
We are hiring a Hindi tutor to come to the office twice a week and we are very excited about it. I predict we will soon discover that the mysterious script on the back of the auto-rickshaws says "Horn OK Please."
Since much of the Mumbai office is still empty, upon arrival we naturally grabbed three prime pieces of window real estate, which have not only incessant car honking and street noise speaking for them, but also an A/C profile that has exactly two settings: Icelandic Thermal Hot Spring and Icelandic Glacier In January When You're Naked. Anyhoo, you do get a great deal of mesmerizing amusement value any time you stand up and look outside. We three can often be spotted in a row, leaning and looking down the five floors to the major road outside, cameras at the ready, and saying "Oh man, did you see THAT?" Some cases in point from today:
Yes, people, we are in the middle of a megacity. And it's hard to beat a couple of cattle and a wooden cart when you really need to maneuver those crowded urban thoroughfares; I think we can all agree on that. Unless you've got an elephant you can ride, of course, but now I'm just stating the obvious.
Also, I looked up from my chair at some point to encounter this:
The rigging on this guy's gear was seriously scary. And it involved a long metal chain (the kind of chain you use to, say, lock up your bike, or to keep your little brother in his high chair while you go roller skating), which occasionally would slam against the glass next to my head. Alex and I both decided that meant it was time for a coffee break. They're big windows, though, so India's answer to Cirque du Soleil was still in full swing when we got back. The glass is mirrored outside, so I don't think the guy even noticed us staring and pointing at him in terror.
I'll leave you with a photo from our farewell dinner the other night for our colleague Brian. Priya had a knot in her back and upon hearing this Lan helpfully jumped up in the middle of a supremely elegant restaurant in one of the city's grandest hotels and started elbowing Priya in the back with the kind of unbridled enthusiasm usually not witnessed outside of hot dog eating contests and all-girls' junior high school pep rallies:
I [heart] my colleagues!
Apparently the doctor "sent the bellboy to the chemist" to get some of the medicine. I really like how Indian English maintains a lot of British-ish elements. We're all ladies and gents here, for example, even when we're just getting our hair cut or going to the bathroom.
We are hiring a Hindi tutor to come to the office twice a week and we are very excited about it. I predict we will soon discover that the mysterious script on the back of the auto-rickshaws says "Horn OK Please."
Since much of the Mumbai office is still empty, upon arrival we naturally grabbed three prime pieces of window real estate, which have not only incessant car honking and street noise speaking for them, but also an A/C profile that has exactly two settings: Icelandic Thermal Hot Spring and Icelandic Glacier In January When You're Naked. Anyhoo, you do get a great deal of mesmerizing amusement value any time you stand up and look outside. We three can often be spotted in a row, leaning and looking down the five floors to the major road outside, cameras at the ready, and saying "Oh man, did you see THAT?" Some cases in point from today:
Yes, people, we are in the middle of a megacity. And it's hard to beat a couple of cattle and a wooden cart when you really need to maneuver those crowded urban thoroughfares; I think we can all agree on that. Unless you've got an elephant you can ride, of course, but now I'm just stating the obvious.
Also, I looked up from my chair at some point to encounter this:
The rigging on this guy's gear was seriously scary. And it involved a long metal chain (the kind of chain you use to, say, lock up your bike, or to keep your little brother in his high chair while you go roller skating), which occasionally would slam against the glass next to my head. Alex and I both decided that meant it was time for a coffee break. They're big windows, though, so India's answer to Cirque du Soleil was still in full swing when we got back. The glass is mirrored outside, so I don't think the guy even noticed us staring and pointing at him in terror.
I'll leave you with a photo from our farewell dinner the other night for our colleague Brian. Priya had a knot in her back and upon hearing this Lan helpfully jumped up in the middle of a supremely elegant restaurant in one of the city's grandest hotels and started elbowing Priya in the back with the kind of unbridled enthusiasm usually not witnessed outside of hot dog eating contests and all-girls' junior high school pep rallies:
I [heart] my colleagues!
