If you grew up in a western nation, when you were in elementary school your teacher taught you how to make a line. It’s really not a difficult concept. I remember in first grade we would form a line to go to another class, lunch, etc. If we were being noisy, we had to walk with a finger on our lips and a hand on our hip to remind us not to talk. Then we learned to transfer this to things like the lunch line. Whoever gets in line first gets lunch first; no one marches up to the front of the line, shoves someone out of the way, and orders. And if they tried that, there would surely be some consequences to pay. I honestly never realized how valuable of a lesson this was until I ventured into the eastern hemisphere. Or maybe just this particular country, I’m not sure yet. For those of you who aren’t aware, this golden nugget of info cannot be filed into the “common sense” folder of the brain for the entire world.
You see, most days I want to teach people how to form a line here. And I’m not talking about small children, I’m talking about adults. Yes, ADULTS that have absolutely zero concept of what a line is or what it stands for. This happens at the metro, restaurants, the movies, and perhaps scariest of all, the women’s bathroom. I know that line has a terrible reputation and it can be impossibly long, but it could be much worse my friends. You could have to deal with bathrooms where there are about four stalls and a sort of line, but for the most part, women either pace and shrewdly wait to cut in front of someone or plant their body directly in front of a stall, basically blocking the person in there so they can’t get out before letting her in. That just seems to be breeding ground for a cat fight. Talk about survival of the fittest - a women’s restroom in an Asian country. If you didn’t know already, it’s not a place you want to be.
So the next time you are annoyed about standing in a line that’s not moving as quickly as you want it to, be glad you aren’t standing so close to people that you can feel them breathing on you, so as not to leave a space for someone to squeeze in. Or that you aren’t having to strategically use your elbows to keep people from shoving you out of the way.
On the bright side, I’ve learned that you NEVER ask if there’s actually a line. If you aren’t sure, you just breeze through the people and go straight to the counter like you own the place. I’m not thrilled with the fact that I’ve used this insensitive (and obnoxious) behavior and don’t make it a habit. Survival skills, I’m telling you. I promise that I won’t think this is acceptable behavior upon returning to America one day.
Sidenote: Queue is the word the Brits (and former British territories) use for "line" and it appears to be four letters longer than it really needs to be.
9.10.2010
9.02.2010
Reason and Logic
Last week I was reading BBC and stumbled across an article about the city where I currently reside. There was one sentence that I just couldn't get over. It stated that this is "a city which has long prided itself on its character of independent thought, reason and logical deduction." Let me tell you a story.
One day, there was a girl whose parents mailed her a package (or a parcel, as they tend to be called) from America. The girl wanted the parcel very much as she hadn't seen her parents in five months and was missing them and all. The local post office kept saying they didn't have it, and because she couldn't speak enough language in the past tense, she couldn't tell if they'd ever had it or tried to deliver it. So, deep breath, she went to the monumentally enormous general post office downtown. There she talked to no less than 15 people and was marched all over the building before being sent to the foreign PO. Insert long, frustrated sigh here. After talking to more people, finally she sat before the assistant superintendent, a pretentious woman who was only interested in stamping irrelevant papers and gossiping with her friend (who, by the way, was not employed by the PO). The woman informed the very frustrated girl that her parcel was, in fact, in the very building she was in(!!) but that the girl would have to go home, file a complaint on the internet, and wait for the package to be mailed to her, because that worked so well the first time (enter sarcastic tone and eye rolling here). This was the only reasonable thing to do, and clearly made the most sense. The exasperated girl smiled sardonically and said she wouldn't be leaving the building unless she was carrying the parcel out with her. She wasn't going to complain on the internet, that was too easy to ignore. She would complain in person. Right now. The asst refused every request to let the girl see the parcel to double check and make sure no mistake was made. That, the asst logically concluded, simply "wasn't the custom here." Insert another sigh here. The woman really just wanted to continue stamping papers and gossiping, and the foreigner was just an interruption to that, so she sent the girl down the hall to the real superintendent, who happened to be on a lunch break. He returned, and then commenced with a tea break while the girl waited impatiently outside his office. After being ushered inside the girls explained their situation to the man and some guy that was referred to as "the inspector." After 15 minutes of explanation, these two men finally realized the foreigner wanted to SEE the parcel in question and would probably be a much nicer, less cynical person after that. After being lead around many a corner and dark stairwell, lo and behold! There was the parcel! It was real, it was there! The girl very stupidly didn't have her passport, but whipped out her drivers license and showed the inspector how everything on the parcel and the DL matched. The girl could practically see the synapses in the inspector's brain connecting, because finally the man understood what she'd been saying the whole time. After much more discussion and explanation, the inspector finally convinced the real superintendent to give the girl the parcel. The girl had to write a letter to the PO in case another person by the exact same name, with the exact same address, expecting the exact same parcel came in and made an outrageous claim that someone stole her parcel. Many a xerox copy of the girl's drivers license were made (just in case). I suspect these copies are now hanging haphazardly around the foreign and general PO threatening fine and jail time to anyone who is dumb enough to let this girl back in; after all, she was a huge hassle and annoyingly persistent. After more time and filling out more paperwork that no one is ever going to look at again, the girl snapped at the man who could scarcely believe she'd left her flat during the day, any day, and gone out into the city. That's why she hadn't received the parcel. Clearly, this isn't logical, he reasoned. She should have been at home sweeping the floor, dusting, and cooking, waiting for the postman to come. Why would she go outside? (That's another argument for another day). Logically, the local PO had assumed the girl left the country when she didn't answer the door and they rerouted the box to some other location. Seriously, why else would she be out of the house?! By this time, the girl had the parcel in her kung fu grip and wasn't going to let the downpour outside stop her from leaving the PO. The inspector left the girl with this last little nugget: "In case you get stopped by the police, here is a paper to prove you have permission to have this parcel." WHAT did the inspector think was in this box from the girl's mom? The girl managed to keep a straight face, shoved the paper in her purse, and ran out the door with no umbrella or trash bags to cover her head or body like the locals use, and the PO "workers" all breathed a huge sigh of relief and prayed to their gods they never had to deal with such persistent, pain in the neck foreigners ever again. THE END.
If you got tired reading that story, imagine living it out at the post office for almost FOUR HOURS one afternoon. See how everyone (including the exasperated girl, yours truly) used their critical thinking skills, logic and reason? Remember what I said about sometimes this just doesn't seem like reality and things are foreign to me? Some days are better than others, I suppose.
PS. As I write this, I'm drinking some delicious coffee that was in the said parcel.
One day, there was a girl whose parents mailed her a package (or a parcel, as they tend to be called) from America. The girl wanted the parcel very much as she hadn't seen her parents in five months and was missing them and all. The local post office kept saying they didn't have it, and because she couldn't speak enough language in the past tense, she couldn't tell if they'd ever had it or tried to deliver it. So, deep breath, she went to the monumentally enormous general post office downtown. There she talked to no less than 15 people and was marched all over the building before being sent to the foreign PO. Insert long, frustrated sigh here. After talking to more people, finally she sat before the assistant superintendent, a pretentious woman who was only interested in stamping irrelevant papers and gossiping with her friend (who, by the way, was not employed by the PO). The woman informed the very frustrated girl that her parcel was, in fact, in the very building she was in(!!) but that the girl would have to go home, file a complaint on the internet, and wait for the package to be mailed to her, because that worked so well the first time (enter sarcastic tone and eye rolling here). This was the only reasonable thing to do, and clearly made the most sense. The exasperated girl smiled sardonically and said she wouldn't be leaving the building unless she was carrying the parcel out with her. She wasn't going to complain on the internet, that was too easy to ignore. She would complain in person. Right now. The asst refused every request to let the girl see the parcel to double check and make sure no mistake was made. That, the asst logically concluded, simply "wasn't the custom here." Insert another sigh here. The woman really just wanted to continue stamping papers and gossiping, and the foreigner was just an interruption to that, so she sent the girl down the hall to the real superintendent, who happened to be on a lunch break. He returned, and then commenced with a tea break while the girl waited impatiently outside his office. After being ushered inside the girls explained their situation to the man and some guy that was referred to as "the inspector." After 15 minutes of explanation, these two men finally realized the foreigner wanted to SEE the parcel in question and would probably be a much nicer, less cynical person after that. After being lead around many a corner and dark stairwell, lo and behold! There was the parcel! It was real, it was there! The girl very stupidly didn't have her passport, but whipped out her drivers license and showed the inspector how everything on the parcel and the DL matched. The girl could practically see the synapses in the inspector's brain connecting, because finally the man understood what she'd been saying the whole time. After much more discussion and explanation, the inspector finally convinced the real superintendent to give the girl the parcel. The girl had to write a letter to the PO in case another person by the exact same name, with the exact same address, expecting the exact same parcel came in and made an outrageous claim that someone stole her parcel. Many a xerox copy of the girl's drivers license were made (just in case). I suspect these copies are now hanging haphazardly around the foreign and general PO threatening fine and jail time to anyone who is dumb enough to let this girl back in; after all, she was a huge hassle and annoyingly persistent. After more time and filling out more paperwork that no one is ever going to look at again, the girl snapped at the man who could scarcely believe she'd left her flat during the day, any day, and gone out into the city. That's why she hadn't received the parcel. Clearly, this isn't logical, he reasoned. She should have been at home sweeping the floor, dusting, and cooking, waiting for the postman to come. Why would she go outside? (That's another argument for another day). Logically, the local PO had assumed the girl left the country when she didn't answer the door and they rerouted the box to some other location. Seriously, why else would she be out of the house?! By this time, the girl had the parcel in her kung fu grip and wasn't going to let the downpour outside stop her from leaving the PO. The inspector left the girl with this last little nugget: "In case you get stopped by the police, here is a paper to prove you have permission to have this parcel." WHAT did the inspector think was in this box from the girl's mom? The girl managed to keep a straight face, shoved the paper in her purse, and ran out the door with no umbrella or trash bags to cover her head or body like the locals use, and the PO "workers" all breathed a huge sigh of relief and prayed to their gods they never had to deal with such persistent, pain in the neck foreigners ever again. THE END.
If you got tired reading that story, imagine living it out at the post office for almost FOUR HOURS one afternoon. See how everyone (including the exasperated girl, yours truly) used their critical thinking skills, logic and reason? Remember what I said about sometimes this just doesn't seem like reality and things are foreign to me? Some days are better than others, I suppose.
PS. As I write this, I'm drinking some delicious coffee that was in the said parcel.
Perspective
You should know the city from this perspective (which is 20 something stories up) and the one from the actual ground are completely different. It looks, well, kind of beautiful from this point. From that high, you fail to completely experience the pollution, the sheer volume of people, the trash, the roughness, the noises, the traffic. Somehow this rough city full of chaos has nestled its way into my heart, even though I will admit it is hard place to love. Sometimes when I look around me, I feel like I'm living someone else's life or I'm on a set for a movie, because this just doesn't seem like reality. I've been here just a few days shy of five months, but sometimes I have these moments where it is still surreal to be here. The city from this view is not the city that I know and live in at all. If it hadn't been my hand that I snuck through the slit in the open window, carefully holding my camera and saying a quick prayer that I didn't drop and destroy it, I couldn't even definitively tell you that I live here.
Seeing this picture, I couldn't help but think about how sometimes when I want something, it's completely different than what I expected once I've finally got it and am living it. I beg and plead with God about something for years, and when He gives me what I prayed for so earnestly, sometimes I grow weary of what I asked for. It's been a choice to make every day, usually more than once a day, to live here and enjoy it, to call this place home.
8.22.2010
Colgate Fresh
I've been using Crest toothpaste for as long as I can remember. I finally ran out the other day and had to buy toothpaste for the first time here. No Crest available, but Colgate has quite the monopoly. I found some pepperminty flavor I was satisfied with and noticed this label on it.
I understand being veg is a big deal here, but toothpaste? Really?! What would they be putting in there? And they were really serious about only using a pea sized portion. I didn't really believe that and used a rather generous amount, only to find that it foams up like there is no tomorrow. Pea sized portion it is.
Also, when I was grocery shopping last week, I noticed a bag of beans or something that had a label that said in big letters: "Contains absolutely no poison!" Good to know! I certainly wouldn't want to buy any of those poisonous beans they're selling.
I understand being veg is a big deal here, but toothpaste? Really?! What would they be putting in there? And they were really serious about only using a pea sized portion. I didn't really believe that and used a rather generous amount, only to find that it foams up like there is no tomorrow. Pea sized portion it is.
Also, when I was grocery shopping last week, I noticed a bag of beans or something that had a label that said in big letters: "Contains absolutely no poison!" Good to know! I certainly wouldn't want to buy any of those poisonous beans they're selling.
8.18.2010
Helen Keller Goes to the Post Office
Doesn't everyone who has lived in another country have a post office story? A few days ago we got some packages in the mail, but we knew we still had two on the way, both of which should have been here days to weeks ago. So we set out on a trip to the post office to a) make friends, and b) sneakily scan the place for white USPS boxes that belong to us. We had been given explicit instructions by a friend on how to enter, where to look, and what to do. We started out ok enough, and followed the instructions our friend had given us. Note: the word "intimate" is with a long 'a' like in ate.
"The package is for who?" I told him my name. Around six Indians, in addition to the man we are talking to, gather around to stare at the crazy American girls who have barged in the back way behind the desk at the post office asking about the package room.
"What did you say is your name? Helen Keller?" Hmmm, this is a first. I bit my lip really hard to keep from laughing and repeated my name.
"Oh yes, packages deliver to you already. Early this week. No more."
"Problem. Two more packages are coming. They should have been here many weeks ago. I want to know where they are."
"Oh yes, You must intimate us when you leave. You no intimate us." This is right around the time I forsook the previously received instructions.
"So that means there is a package you tried to deliver? And second of all, what is intimate? I do not know this word."
"Yes, intimate the post master when you leave so we can hold the package for you. Otherwise it goes to the center."
"Great. Where is the center? I'll go pick it up there."
"Yes, the person who sent the package will have it back."
"Oh, you mean the sender."
"Yes madam, the center." I bit my tongue. "Just intimate the post mas-"
"Why do you not leave a card? How am I supposed to know to intimate you when I leave if you do not intimate me that you tried to deliver a package?" There really is no use in asking 'why' questions here. No one knows why they do anything, they just do it b/c that's the way it's done. He appeared to be considering what in the world my last question meant, and I myself am not entirely sure, as "intimate" is not really even a word. I decided that it meant "inform." And he also looked extremely surprised (and supremely annoyed) that I dared to interrupt him. We continued to stare each other down for several moments before we both cracked a smile and even laughed a bit.
"Tomorrow I am going to bring a letter to intimate you that I'm traveling soon. If the packages arrive while I am gone, you intimate me that they are here. See you soon with the intimating letter." At this point I just found the word amusing and wondered how many times I could use the made up word in a way that made sense to this man.
"Yes madam, see you tomorrow."
I'm not sure this counts as making friends, but he definitely knows our address and our faces. I think word has spread that we tip rather well too.
"The package is for who?" I told him my name. Around six Indians, in addition to the man we are talking to, gather around to stare at the crazy American girls who have barged in the back way behind the desk at the post office asking about the package room.
"What did you say is your name? Helen Keller?" Hmmm, this is a first. I bit my lip really hard to keep from laughing and repeated my name.
"Oh yes, packages deliver to you already. Early this week. No more."
"Problem. Two more packages are coming. They should have been here many weeks ago. I want to know where they are."
"Oh yes, You must intimate us when you leave. You no intimate us." This is right around the time I forsook the previously received instructions.
"So that means there is a package you tried to deliver? And second of all, what is intimate? I do not know this word."
"Yes, intimate the post master when you leave so we can hold the package for you. Otherwise it goes to the center."
"Great. Where is the center? I'll go pick it up there."
"Yes, the person who sent the package will have it back."
"Oh, you mean the sender."
"Yes madam, the center." I bit my tongue. "Just intimate the post mas-"
"Why do you not leave a card? How am I supposed to know to intimate you when I leave if you do not intimate me that you tried to deliver a package?" There really is no use in asking 'why' questions here. No one knows why they do anything, they just do it b/c that's the way it's done. He appeared to be considering what in the world my last question meant, and I myself am not entirely sure, as "intimate" is not really even a word. I decided that it meant "inform." And he also looked extremely surprised (and supremely annoyed) that I dared to interrupt him. We continued to stare each other down for several moments before we both cracked a smile and even laughed a bit.
"Tomorrow I am going to bring a letter to intimate you that I'm traveling soon. If the packages arrive while I am gone, you intimate me that they are here. See you soon with the intimating letter." At this point I just found the word amusing and wondered how many times I could use the made up word in a way that made sense to this man.
"Yes madam, see you tomorrow."
I'm not sure this counts as making friends, but he definitely knows our address and our faces. I think word has spread that we tip rather well too.
8.12.2010
Videshi
I never really had much use for people who were well known because they're basically ridiculous. They're in magazines because they wear outlandish clothing, they do dumb things at big parties, their great great great grandfather owns a string of hotels and they spend money lavishly. You get the idea. They're famous for doing nothing. Sometimes I can relate to that, just a little. Here, people know who I am because I am a foreigner, or "videshi." Everywhere I go, people stare because my skin is a different color. Someone calls my number accidentally and when they hear me speak English, they want to keep talking. "Oh, you not Raju? What you name? Where you live? You come from which country?" I hang up. They call back. "How many children you have? Who your husband? What you do?" Yes, these things really happen.
Anyway, this week I stayed in a smaller town where foreigners rarely pass through. After a long day, not much sleep, and several pots of coffee, we returned to the hotel to find that roaches and spiders had plotted a mutiny and tried to take over our room. We immediately set to work to get rid of them with our only weapons: a pair of sandals and a worn out room service menu. The phone rang. Do I want dinner? At 9:30? No thanks. Click. Back to killing the bugs (there were a lot of them). Someone knocked on the door. Ugh. Who would this be? We opened the door. A few teenage girls.
"HALLO! My name is Something-I-didn't-quite-catch and I want to take your picture!!!"
"Oh, gosh. Um...okay? You speak English. Are you going to be in the picture with us?" Photoshoot begins here. Apparently they are not going to be in the picture(s) with us.
I notice a cute little boy smiling and watching us. I smile back and ask what his name is in Hindi.
"Oh! HIndi! She is speaking in Hindi! Listen to her speaking in Hindi! Oooohhhh!" We have now attracted a crowd of about 8 people standing in our door staring at us, half smiling, half curious. Like I said. We get noticed for doing nothing, just being here. Oh, India, how you amuse me.
Anyway, this week I stayed in a smaller town where foreigners rarely pass through. After a long day, not much sleep, and several pots of coffee, we returned to the hotel to find that roaches and spiders had plotted a mutiny and tried to take over our room. We immediately set to work to get rid of them with our only weapons: a pair of sandals and a worn out room service menu. The phone rang. Do I want dinner? At 9:30? No thanks. Click. Back to killing the bugs (there were a lot of them). Someone knocked on the door. Ugh. Who would this be? We opened the door. A few teenage girls.
"HALLO! My name is Something-I-didn't-quite-catch and I want to take your picture!!!"
"Oh, gosh. Um...okay? You speak English. Are you going to be in the picture with us?" Photoshoot begins here. Apparently they are not going to be in the picture(s) with us.
I notice a cute little boy smiling and watching us. I smile back and ask what his name is in Hindi.
"Oh! HIndi! She is speaking in Hindi! Listen to her speaking in Hindi! Oooohhhh!" We have now attracted a crowd of about 8 people standing in our door staring at us, half smiling, half curious. Like I said. We get noticed for doing nothing, just being here. Oh, India, how you amuse me.
8.08.2010
Feels Like Home to me
The week before 2008 ended I started an application that I thought I would never finish, and couldn’t fully grasp that anything would come from it, namely me uprooting my life and planting it on another continent. And whenever I did dream about moving overseas it didn’t include me living where I am now. During the whole process, I was fed tons of info, 90% of which I can’t recall now. But I do remember a blip about culture shock. Psssshhh! Culture shock. I get the idea and all, but I’m just not going to have to deal with that, ok? So thanks, but no thanks, because my life is going to be full of lollipops, unicorns, and rainbows when I move overseas.
Then I actually moved overseas. If you think of culture shock as a giant body of water, I went from playing in a shallow area, to treading in deep water, to huge waves fighting to keep my head above water within about a month. The summer heat here only compounded all this. I had to impose a self-exile from weather.com because I would check the weather different places and disdain anyone living where the temperature was cooler (that's ridiculous, I know). Then I would meet someone who is here for two weeks talking about how everything is so great and they don’t want to go home ever again. Then someone in America would add pictures to facebook. If I saw one more album from a person living in a city where cows didn’t freely roam the streets and trash wasn’t in abundance, or someone who was actually allowed to wear shorts or even a tshirt, I would surely go crazy. Clearly, no one in the aforementioned situations was suffering for the sake of the gospel as much as I was. CLEARLY. I remember after a particularly bad day, telling God, “I don’t even like these people! They are rude, loud, pushy, selfish, and obnoxious! I’m never going to love them!”
Then he kindly reminded me that when I was dead in my trespasses against him, in his great love and mercy, he sent his son to this earth to take on our sin and reconcile us to him. It wasn’t easy for Jesus to die on the cross, and it wasn’t easy or pleasant for the Father either. But Jesus lived among us anyway; a people that he had every right to at least detest and ignore, and truly to send to an eternity away from him. Jesus can empathize with me while I’m in a land where everything and everyone is different because he did it too! Only continually being in the Father’s presence and being on earth can’t really even be compared on the same scale.
I was shown much kindness from the Lord besides that tidbit this summer, part of which included living in another city. I came back and on the way home from the train station I kept looking at my surroundings, wondering if this beauty had been here all along. “I live here! I’m home!” was all I could think.
I talked to a friend the other day and she commented, “You sound good. You look happier to be there.”
“Thanks! I am!”
Then I actually moved overseas. If you think of culture shock as a giant body of water, I went from playing in a shallow area, to treading in deep water, to huge waves fighting to keep my head above water within about a month. The summer heat here only compounded all this. I had to impose a self-exile from weather.com because I would check the weather different places and disdain anyone living where the temperature was cooler (that's ridiculous, I know). Then I would meet someone who is here for two weeks talking about how everything is so great and they don’t want to go home ever again. Then someone in America would add pictures to facebook. If I saw one more album from a person living in a city where cows didn’t freely roam the streets and trash wasn’t in abundance, or someone who was actually allowed to wear shorts or even a tshirt, I would surely go crazy. Clearly, no one in the aforementioned situations was suffering for the sake of the gospel as much as I was. CLEARLY. I remember after a particularly bad day, telling God, “I don’t even like these people! They are rude, loud, pushy, selfish, and obnoxious! I’m never going to love them!”
Then he kindly reminded me that when I was dead in my trespasses against him, in his great love and mercy, he sent his son to this earth to take on our sin and reconcile us to him. It wasn’t easy for Jesus to die on the cross, and it wasn’t easy or pleasant for the Father either. But Jesus lived among us anyway; a people that he had every right to at least detest and ignore, and truly to send to an eternity away from him. Jesus can empathize with me while I’m in a land where everything and everyone is different because he did it too! Only continually being in the Father’s presence and being on earth can’t really even be compared on the same scale.
I was shown much kindness from the Lord besides that tidbit this summer, part of which included living in another city. I came back and on the way home from the train station I kept looking at my surroundings, wondering if this beauty had been here all along. “I live here! I’m home!” was all I could think.
I talked to a friend the other day and she commented, “You sound good. You look happier to be there.”
“Thanks! I am!”
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