Wanderings & Ramblings

kiva.org

2007-12-21T14:18:00.000+05:30

Ever wanted to donate money to the developing world but didn't know how to do it?

Ever thought that if you did in fact donate if your money would reach its intended destination, or if it would be tied up somewhere in the middle covering administrative or other costs?

Ever had $25 in your pocket and thought: "Hmm... I could really go for a beer (or three) right about now, but I bet there's a lady in Togo that needs help purchasing yams to resell at her local market"?

Maybe your thoughts were more in tune with a Samoan woman looking to expand her food stall, or a Tajik shoe salesman looking to restock his inventory for the winter.

Wherever your mental meanderings may take you, allow them to focus for a moment on kiva, a non-profit organization that offers a mechanism for you to loan money to low-income entrepreneurs in the developing world. As such, you can provide affordable working capital for the poor (money to buy a sewing machine, livestock, etc.), thus empowering them to earn their way out of poverty.

Kiva is a relatively new and hopefully sustainable way to combat global poverty, while giving you a window into the plight of (really) small businesspeople around the world.

Even if you decide not to donate, it's still worth a peek. Just click the banner below.

How Smart Are You? / How Much Do You Want to Save the World?

2007-11-12T18:25:00.000+05:30

Here's a perfect chance to answer both those questions. Beef up your vocabulary while feeding the needy.

http://www.freerice.com

Is there a more altruistic way to blow your free time? Prizes go to the first ten callers that can mention one: 086.135.7787.6477

Quiz #1: Vietnam

2007-10-26T12:08:00.000+05:30

This is a relatively short, hardly educational multiple choice quiz about Vietnam, and me in Vietnam. Hope you enjoy it and best of luck!

And feel free to post your scores as comments below, either by name or anonymously...

Quiz #1: Vietnam

Scored Quiz by Quibblo

Livers and Hearts and Gizzards, Oh My: A Year in Review

2007-10-04T12:12:00.000+05:30

The time, dear readers, has come. I'm not referring to my re-entry into the US, but rather an attempt to recap what has transpired in my life since I last found myself in lady liberty's red, white, and blue embrace.

I had intended on making this, as most years in review are, a summary of a dozen months, but unforeseen ~~typhoons~~ ~~coups~~ ~~bouts with dengue~~ vacations prevented me from getting to work on it. It has, therefore, morphed into a baker's dozen - thirteen months, which, contrary to what the number 13 may suggest, have ended up being rather lucky... and pretty damn sweet.

Below I offer you my year in review Harper's-style: by the numbers.

Days outside of the US: 422

Countries visited: 4

Countries worked in: 3

Days in India: 269

Days in Thailand: 9

Days in Vietnam: 119

Days in China: 25

Longest plane ride: 16 hours (Newark to New Delhi)

Longest bus ride: 14 hours (Hue to Hanoi)

Longest train ride: 27 hours (Ranchi to Jabalpur)

Longest train ride with diarrhea: 22 hours (Delhi to Jaisalmer)

Trips to the toilet on that train: >20

Percentage of time I spent awake (lying on my stomach) wishing I hadn't chosen the top bunk: 75%

Scripts I learned to read: 2 (Vietnamese, Hindi)

Scripts I learned to read of which I actually understand what I'm saying: 0

Languages I have tried to speak: 8 (Bengali, Chinese, English, French, Hindi, Spanish, Thai, Vietnamese)

Languages that I have spoken without being laughed at: 1 (Spanish)

Nationalities of people laughing at my English: 1 (Australian)

Days spent in a hospital: ~175

Days spent in a hospital as a patient: 0

Hot showers: 0

New French friends: 6

New American friends: 1.5 (yes, Bram, you're the 0.5)

Items stolen from me: 2 (pair of sneakers while sleeping on a train)

Most mosquitoes killed in one night: 34

Time at which those mosquitoes were killed: 2am

Days that I spent the whole day in bed feeling utterly wretched: 1

Number of samosas eaten prior to spending that day in bed feeling utterly wretched: 5

Number of days following that wretched day in bed that I boycotted samosas: 4

Most samosas eaten in one sitting: 6

Bananas eaten in the year prior to my arrival in Asia: 0

Bananas eaten since: 100s

Most consecutive days that I ate rice: ∞

Most consecutive meals that included noodles: ~10

Most consecutive days dancing until after 5am: 5

Most consecutive days eating noodles after dancing until 5am: 5

Place attained in a five-man chili eating contest: 1

Days following the chili contest that I experienced extreme quantities of rectal displeasure: 2

Odd things eaten (by US standards): 10 (chicken livers, gizzards, and hearts; cow stomach; crickets; snails; fish heads; baby bunting; dried squid; duck embryos; porcupine; cobra)

Sick days following the consumption of the aforementioned rarities: 0

Times eating Western food: 5

Sick days following the consumption of the aforementioned Western non-rarities: 2

Times hit by a vehicle: 3 (motorcycle, bike, car)

Drivers of such vehicles that acknowledged that they hit me: 0

Injuries sustained in vehicle accidents: 0

Injuries sustained while playing cards: 1

Injuries sustained while dancing: 2

Most rats seen at a single time: >200 (Kolkata)

Times seen dogs and cows fighting over garbage: >5

Times seen dogs and humans fighting over garbage: >10

Times seen cows and humans fighting over garbage: 0

Times stepping in dog shit: 0

Times stepping in cow shit: >10

Number of many-armed gods seen thrown into a river: 2

Placentas seen prior to August 2006: 0

Placentas seen since: 100s

Percentage of Vietnamese women that wear full arm gloves and face masks around town: ~20%

Time it took for me to understand that Vietnamese women don such attire not to stay clean but to stay white: 10 days

Percentage of Chinese women that carry umbrellas around town: ~35%

Time it took for me to understand that Chinese women carry umbrellas not to stay dry but to stay white: 10 minutes

Times that the temperature exceeded 100ºF/38ºC: ever been to India in April or Vietnam in June?

Scubadives: 4

Times lost underwater by divemaster: 2

Length of time spent in the dive shop pestering the staff for a refund: 2 hours

Amount of money recovered: $0

Number of pamphlets stolen from the dive shop by my dive companion: 20

Most expensive haircut: 75 cents

Disparaging remarks made to me, an American, by Vietnamese about the Vietnam war: 0

Disparaging remarks made by Vietnamese about the Iraq war: >10

Length of intended original stay: 5 months

Projected stay: 17 months

Person I miss most: you

Since you managed to make it through this list, here is your prize: a beautiful rendition of a Beatles classic.

Speak of The Devil (or Why I Spend Half My Time Outside the U.S. Apologizing that I'm American)

2007-07-09T05:15:00.000+05:30

It is rare that I comment out loud about politics and I don't see that changing much in the near future, at least not in this forum. My sincerest apologies if you're hoping this will provide in some way, shape, or form a touch of humor or a window into a world outside the U.S.; this entry will probably do neither.

I've been outside the U.S. for 11 months now and I must admit that I'm tired. It's not that I'm tired from a life or lifestyle altogether different from the one I was accustomed to before I left. No, it's not that at all; in fact, I live a very comfortable and enjoyable life here in Vietnam and to a somewhat lesser extent previously in India. What I'm truly tired of is the utterly soul-sapping experience of meeting people from other countries and feeling the need to apologize for being American.

Although I think it pretty clear that I'm well distanced from the American government as well as the unfathomable number of Americans that still think the 9/11 attacks were masterminded by Saddam, I nevertheless am guilty by association.

It usually starts with a perked ear, morphs into a glare or a pointed remark, and then culminates with an exaggeratedly pronounced eye roll. After a bit of conversation most people (usually) forgive me and for the rest of the evening refer to me as "a different American" or something of the sort. Periodically, it takes on an amusing twist as they introduce me to other people and offer their own half-apology/ half-justification as though they'd already done the research: "He is American, but you know, not like an American".

I used to see their initial skepticism as rooted exclusively in our reputation on the traveler's circuit as, well, obnoxious. But now I think it's more as though we're looked at as the poster children for our government. And just in case no one cc'd you, people around the world aren't too rosy on our government. And why is that?

There's one name I hear an awful lot: Dick Cheney.

My apologies for the tangent...

Ten days ago or so, The Washington Post began a four part series on the Vice Presidency of Cheney. The series is impressive in its investigations and shocking in its detail. There isn't much there that we haven't all heard before at some point and in some fashion. When you take it all in the aggregate, however, it is rather outrageous and exasperating what has occurred in the past handful of years.

I'll offer a bit of summary here. Should you then like to read further, you can simply click on the links to select the sections that interest you most.

The first part, 'A Different Understanding With the President', illustrates how Cheney revolutionized the role of the Vice President, turning it from one characterized by public appearances and fundraising into one of real power. The Constitution left the position without any real formal authority; note how well that vacuum has recently been filled.

The second, Pushing the Envelope on Presidential Power, details Cheney's work toward the accretion of power for the executive branch not, ultimately, for the good of the country but for himself, and by default, Bush. You know the difference between "torture" and "cruel, inhuman or degrading methods of questioning"? According to Cheney there is a difference, with the latter being labeled as "robust interrogation." The semantics are chilling indeed. Three cheers for the degradation of American moral authority! [If you don't know who David Addington and John Yoo are, you should really read this section]

The third, A Strong Push From Backstage, depicts Cheney as frighteningly comfortable outside his traditionally familiar turf of defense (war) and energy (oil). He plays with taxes, the space program, The Supreme Court, corruption ... ever wondered how to skirt the law? Here's your chance to find out. Read up.

The final section, Leaving No Tracks, illustrates Cheney's utter disdain for pro-environmental legal precedents. The Clean Air Act? Too strict. Caps on greenhouse gases? There's really no evidence that humans adversely contribute greenhouse gases. The ban on snowmobiling in National Parks? Forget conservation, snowmobiling is too much fun! Endangered species? Not as important as satisfying constituencies. [Anyone that loves Oregon will especially enjoy this section]

Some people have called for Cheney's impeachment. Others have called for his head. But who's really to blame? Where does the buck ultimately stop?

As far as I understand it, it is the President's responsibility delegated to him/her in Article II of The Constitution to take care that the laws of the country be faithfully executed and to see that his/her administration behaves lawfully and appropriately. Everything Cheney has done has been with Bush's explicit or tacit consent. If anyone should be held responsible for the breathtaking surrender of authority to the Vice Presidency that we have seen, it should be the President in his failure to perform his elected duties.

Do we then settle for Cheney's head?

An Offer I Couldn't Refuse

2007-06-24T19:30:00.000+05:30

Dear India,

It’s been more than a month now since we last saw each other and almost as long since we last talked. I appreciate your numerous attempts to contact me and I’m sorry for not getting back to you until now. I apologize for the distance I imposed and any hurt that it may have caused you.

I know that you resent me for taking this break from you—from us—but it was something that I needed to do both for my emotional wellbeing as well as for my career. I don’t really know where we stand or what you want, and, quite honestly, I’m not sure what I want either.

If you’re mad at me and don’t want to talk, I understand. Hopefully though, at some point in the near future, you’ll want to talk again so we can make sense of the numerous ideas, thoughts, and emotions that are no doubt swirling around in our heads. It saddens me to think of how great our disconnect already is.

I wish I could call you right now or come over, but it’s 2am and you’re probably sleeping. Actually, you’ve probably been asleep for a good four hours now which, sadly enough, reminds me of so many nights together with me sitting awake trying to communicate with you, and you completely passed out.

I feel like I tried to make it work. I feel like I tried hard and really wanted it to. But then we fell victim to that same old pattern. You ignore me. I start looking around. You don’t call. We don’t talk. I need reassurance. You say we’ll talk later. I want to spend time with you. We’re never alone.

Sure, some of your friends I really don’t like. But I never asked you to end or even change your relationship with them, nor did I quit spending time with you just because they were around.

You were always pushing me away. We both know you have trust issues. The moment I got too close, you put up a wall and started to sabotage our relationship. And then you would get drunk and say the most hurtful things.

And yes, I have trust issues as well, and my feelings are easily hurt. When I say I need reassurance and you say we’ll talk later, when I make suggestions and you don’t offer any opinions of your own, I feel as though you’re pushing me aside. I tell myself that you don’t intend to be flippant or unaffectionate, that you don’t try to ignore me, that you don’t mean to struggle to not answer your phone in bed or at breakfast—but the fact remains that I still resent it. And that resentment came out when I wasn’t concentrating or was too tired to keep it inside.

You say I’m a victim. You say you don’t see this ending. You say you want me to look you in the eyes and say your name and tell you that I love you. I say I need reassurance. I say the thought of leaving you made me physically ill. You were all I wanted and you were the only one on my mind. But we can’t pretend that we didn’t have our issues.

I spent nine months with you and seven in what many would refer to as your armpit. Your thighs I have never seen. Your knees? No, not those either. An ankle perhaps? Well, no, not even an ankle. I’m aware that this is your culture and we would have to marry before I could see any of that, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

And yet in spite of all of that, there’s no question that I miss you. I often feel lonely without you, without your sweltering presence, your inquisitive eyes, your numerous bodies pressed against me.

I don’t know what you want at this point. If you want to wait until I return (either in August or November) and then give it another shot, I’m more than willing to do it. If you just want to be friends, then let’s just be friends and not plan to do date-like stuff, because then I end up wanting to kiss you, and then you act all awkward and then I just feel stupid, which really won’t help me meet other people who might actually want to date and kiss me.

My biggest fear was then, and remains still, the fever dream—one that I’ll wake up from and think, wow, I was with India and it was crazy, but that was then and now it's all a blur. I know you’re not the most communicative one, but I really need to know where you stand and what you’re thinking, so we can make a decision that's best for the both of us.

Tera Karela,

j.

p.s. I’ve included some photos: one is of the view from my room here in Saigon; the other is of a dragonfruit. I threw some video in there too of local moto traffic.

Stop the Clocks

2007-06-18T09:09:00.000+05:30

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

I stand before you today, the representative of a family in grief, in a country in mourning, before a world in shock. We are all united not only in our desire to pay our respects to Chepe, but rather in our need to do so. For such was his extraordinary appeal that the tens of millions of people taking part in this service all over the world via television, radio, and internet who never actually met him, feel that they too lost someone close to them in the early hours of Saturday morning. It is a more remarkable tribute to him than I can ever hope to offer him today.

Today is our chance to say thank you for the way Chepe brightened our lives, even though he himself was granted but half a life. We all feel cheated that he was taken from us so young and yet we must learn to be grateful that he came along at all. We have despaired at his loss over the past few days and only the strength of the message he gave us through his years of selfless giving has afforded us the strength to move forward.

The last time I saw Chepe was on June 10th of last year in North Carolina. I was sitting at the dining room table in my brother's house with my nephew and my girlfriend, the three of us languidly watching Chepe out on the front lawn. I cannot recall what he was doing, but I distinctly remember glancing at my two companions: his bright blue eyes were as large as dinner plates; and she, an admitted anti-cat person, eked a grin out of the corner of her mouth that eventually spread into a full-fledged smile. Unable to spend more than a few waking moments away from him, I opened the front door and whistled. Chepe meowed and bounded in and immediately leapt up into my mom's lap. My brother's wife, adorable nephew number two in tow, sat down at my mom's left as my mom began to scratch behind Chepe's ears. If the newest addition to the family hadn't shortly thereafter been distracted by his portable breakfast, he too would have been fixated on Chepe. Such was Chepe's charm. He was as charismatic as any four-legger, and most two-leggers, that ever were and was almost impossible to keep your eyes (and hands) off of. He touched us all and we will miss him dearly.

Chepe is survived by his loving parents in DC and Vietnam, his sister Minga in Minneapolis, three siblings in Guatemala, and, I think, no children.

Chepe Alejandro Tuchman belongs to the ages now. But I'll have to admit, it was much better when he belonged to us.

The End As We Know It?

2007-05-08T22:10:00.000+05:30

Judged by the current international reckoning, English has emerged as the lingua franca of the world.

The rampant growth of the British empire from the 15th century into the 20th is what fueled it. Some people were forced into using English by their colonizers. Other took to it as a means to access political power.

The Industrial Revolution played a role as well, as two-thirds of inventors the world over were from English-speaking countries; people had to learn to speak English to make use of the new inventions. Today, nearly 80 percent of scientific literature is in English.

English has also dominated the world monetary system over the last 200 years. It was adopted as the primary language of the United Nations just over 50 years ago, and any countries with “other” languages were encouraged to speak ours if they wanted a piece of the action.

And let us not forget the largely American juggernaut of cultural expression—in music, television, and cinema—that has succeeded in invading almost every home on the planet.

For those of you now swelling with pride, wait just a moment. Some linguists say that the heyday of our version of English is almost over.

At present, close to 1.5 billion people worldwide speak some form of English.

More than 400 million of those speak it as their mother tongue. Almost 400 million more, mostly in former British colonies, speak variations of English as their second language. And another 700 million speak it as a foreign language.

With second language countries growing at approximately 3 percent per year, compared to mother tongue countries at a paltry 1 percent, the variants will soon have more adherents.

Switch on any television here in India and you’re bound to hear one--the fastest growing one at that.

A Domino’s commercial: “Hungry kya?”

McDonald’s: “What your bahana is?”

Coke: “Life ho to aisi”

Apparently, this one—Hinglish—will soon become the most commonly spoken form of English in the world. Already a third of Indians are speaking it and the numbers are growing.

They say that a third of the people here speak Hinglish already (that's more people than the entire US), though I think I've yet to hear it. What I do hear more than anything is Hindi with English sprinkled throughout. Perhaps that's Hinglish? Perhaps I should do a bit more research in the 16 hours I have left here?

Ok, so this doesn't exactly pertain to what you are about to see, but I couldn't find any signs in Hinglish. It felt cheap simply posting photos, so I built a bridge where it probably didn't belong. It's the effort that counts anyway, right?

I'm scared to think what this is a euphemism for.

Perhaps not funny, per se, but something seems odd about this.

A high-end electronics manufacturer. Not only do I not understand the ad, but this "spokesperson" just doesn't instill that shopper's confidence.

I'm not sure I care to see what happens with a cream that's too effective.

Ahh yes, a splendid idea. Let us take to the skies for all those that can't afford to.

Sober looking? What's the opposite of that?

A peculiar, albeit completely valid, niche market.

The most popular porcelain manufacturer in India (from my perspective at least).

Rumor has it that local STDs are the most authentic.

Deepak Palace pulls out all the stops. Get your STD in style.

Phenomenal food, though the service is definitely a bit erratic.

Like what? Edible? Chocolate-covered? Glow-in-the-Dark?

The Water is Always Bluer on the Other Side

2007-04-06T23:11:00.000+05:30

It was nearly eleven am. The streets were jammed with fat yellow taxis, rickshaws, pedestrians, and cows. Car horns blared. Bicycle bells rang. And above their cacophony resounded the cries of itinerant—and ubiquitous—street-vendors.

The smoke and aroma of cheap incense filled the cabin of a taxi. I slouched in the back, infrequently glancing down at my watch. Not yet gnawed at by the moths of despair, I lay adrift in a haze of anticipation, buoyed by apparitions of nameless beaches.

A pot-bellied man approached the half-open car window and thrust a strikingly red dustpan to within an inch of my face. I sleepily shrugged him off: "Nahee, boss."

He retracted the dustpan and replaced it with a mildly offensive yellow one. “Twenty rupees.”

I mustered a feeble grin. He again withdrew his offering, and reached for a toilet brush. The driver glanced back at us over his shoulder and the car lurched forward.

A minute or two or thirty later, I was roused in Bengali. The only word I caught was "airport."

"International terminal." I rubbed my eyes with the sides of my index fingers, a bit disoriented. "You don’t know?" I continued in Hindi.

The car slowed. The driver’s voice picked up speed. "Yes, this is the airport."

I peered out the window, the bright sunlight warming my face and burning my unprotected eyes. "There."

The entrance to the terminal was flanked by two soldiers in tight olive-green sweaters. They were both cleanly shaven, their mustaches fastidiously trimmed. From what I gleaned of their attention to duty, they may as well have still been in the barber chairs. A line formed in front of them—a tenpin bowling triangle—filled with passengers, documents in hand. As I joined in, someone tread on the side of my shoe. Another pushed from behind. The three of us stared blankly ahead.

I handed my passport and internet printout to one of the soldiers. With his head tipped in contemplation, he gently stroked his mustache, and uttered something in Bengali. I nodded slightly and he waved me through.

Five days before, a local friend and I boarded a bus headed for Nepal. There were goats chickens boxes bags their owners, and rumors that the India-Nepal border was closed by Maoists. There were two people getting off the bus, one of them several shades lighter than the other.

Four days before, I bought a train ticket to Kolkata and a plane ticket to Bangkok.

Three days before, my visa expired.

On the overnight journey to Kolkata, I armed myself with a litany of excuses—some true, some not, some flimsy, others flimsier—for overstaying my visa. Checking in at the airport, I tried my best to recall them, burbling softly through my options to select the most believable one.

I approached the immigration section, steeled against the prospect of paying the penalty fee: the equivalent of 700 cups of chai, 500 samosas, or 3 goats—hardly a minor sacrifice.

My passport and immigration card dutifully placed on the counter, I peered, squinting, over the shoulder of a stony faced immigration officer. His black, interrogating eyes swiveled at me as he held aloft my passport. He stared until I was off balance, and opened his mouth to speak. In an instant’s silence of indrawn breath I gathered my response. Then, as spurious and cliché as it may sound, his cell phone rang.

He looked at the mini-screen in his hand and a ripple of disgust spread over his face. Folded peaks of exasperation formed on his forehead as he hunched over his desk and dispassionately stamped my passport. Laconically, and without raising his eyes, he handed it back to me. His mustache now sprung and wild, he lifted the mobile to his ear as I turned and walked away.

The plane was large and the cabin quiet. There was no one seated next to me and the rows behind and in front were empty. I turned to my left and accidentally caught a glimpse of myself in the window. Noted to self: shave.

We touched down into a warm and humid afternoon, a light grey sky sporadically interrupted by dark grey-cemented progress.

Someone asked me where I was going and I told them. We got into a taxi and headed to the center of Bangkok.

It eventually got dark but didn't cool off. I ate three dinners. The fan in my small room lulled me to sleep.

I awoke to an iron-grey morning with a low sky. I combed the streets for coffee and clutched my plastic cup tightly as I boarded my bus. I propped my head against the window, laced my fingers over my chest and closed my eyes.

We again passed grey buildings hedged in by grey sky and arrived at the airport. I sat in the terminal waiting to board. Before I stood up, the sun tore through the clouds.

A day-and-a-half and six curries later, it was a bright morning. Warm. I don't know exactly where I was. A white sand beach. All around me were huge limestone cliffs, and blue-green water licked my feet. I lay immobile, interrupted only by moments of lush stretching. A book at my side remained unopened.

That evening I sat twenty feet from James Bond, and fervently presided over my seventh curry. A light breeze stroked my neck and a Chang beer my throat. I danced until 3am with two Dutch girls whose names I couldn't pronounce.

The following morning I paid someone to take me underwater. On the first trip down the 'master' lost us. We resurfaced, giggling uncomfortably. The second time he again lost us. Claire and I did flips, inches above the coral, and flipped off the general direction of where we imagined the 'master' to be. We were off by a good 100 degrees.

Mom's Kitchen was crowded when I entered to have my last two curries. It was crowded when I left.

I stirred to a mosquito bite a freckle or two south of my hairline. It was 6am. I took a boat to a sǎwngthǎew to a scooter to a plane. The massive grey buildings of Bangkok again filled my eyes; this time they were ringed with blue.

I visited Chinatown with Ed and he told me stories. We ate shark fin soup, but not sea slugs; he doesn't like those.

Noon. A market of 10,000 stalls, 100,000 people, and 100 percent humidity. There was a dull knocking in my head that only seemed to shut up with guava and chrysanthemum juices. I repeatedly humored it.

That evening, Ed's son, Ben, and I sampled a bit of Bangkok's nightlife. We tried to tackle a bottle of scotch while watching a Thai rock band, but the cigarette smoke didn't agree with Ben's recent Lasik surgery.

I nodded off on the plane back to India and woke with a cramped neck and a paean to Thailand on the tip of my tongue. There was white sand in my hair ears eyes nose, but no beach. Eleven nine one—twenty-one hours and I would be back at work, dust in my hair ears eyes nose, but again no beach.

In front of the terminal, a lime-colored mob encircled a young Korean boy. His shoulders hung in dejection and exasperation, hardly belying his discomfort at being the cynosure of all eyes. A guidebook lay clutched in his tightly folded arms, scarcely protecting him from a brazen sea of taxi drivers. I couldn’t make out what they were saying to him, but I could see the specious twinkles in their saffron-tinged eyes.

I paused as I slipped into a taxi, my index and middle fingers trying to rub the sun out of my eyes. It was a warm and humid afternoon and a strong whiff of urine drifted in through the half-closed window. I eased back into the seat as the driver started the car. He began to hum a song I thought I recognized.

Ranchi... Live!

2006-12-31T20:36:00.000+05:30

Ok... so this is not really a day in the life in Ranchi. It's a five minute snapshot of one of the busier roundabouts. And If you're searching for the true experience, turn your speakers up as high as they go. No... Higher.

Falling in Love All Over Again

2006-12-13T17:18:00.000+05:30

It may be said that Mumbai is the (Indian) city of dreams, a place where an ambitious businessman can achieve incredible wealth, and a budding thespian can give concrete shape to their celluloid dreams.

Passing a week there illustrated to me why the mega-metropolis is a destination for dreamers – posh colonies with chic boutiques and swanky lounges serve up international brands to the high-heeled glitterati.

It is, however, a city of extreme and undeniable contrasts. Although it has the largest concentration of wealth in India, it is home to the single largest slum in Asia with nearly a million occupants. This slum, and others that sprawl in a similar fashion, provide ample setting for even the smallest of dreams to die a cruel merciless death.

Although I may soon end up there, I don’t dream of Mumbai.

Taking full advantage of my window seat, some 5,000 feet above the city, I look down on Mumbai's amorphous sea of lights and think wistfully of Kolkata. I squint and imagine those lights displaced by the rush of the Hooghly and not uninterrupted as they now appear. But in that case I would be looking down on Kolkata and leaving it, so perhaps that would leave me no better.

Before I left for India, something about Kolkata (Calcutta) called to me. Considering it was the closest “urban” – a word that is so wonderfully subjective here – area to my work in Ranchi, I could think of no better spot for my first mini-vacation. I did not leave disappointed.

As soon as I boarded the train in Ranchi, I could feel it.

I knew it from the moment my ears were graced with the sweet melodic sound of Bengali.

From my first glimpse of the Bengali script, a touch more angular than its cousin, Hindi, numerous triangles festooned with innumerable swirls.

From arriving at Howrah rail station and journeying across Howrah bridge: the stunning thickness of the smog-laden evening air dwarfed only by the viscosity of the traffic below it (on the world’s busiest bridge).

From zigzagging my way across the Hooghly River (an offshoot of the mighty Ganga) aboard ferries, gazing at colorful crowds of locals on the banks performing puja (praying), bathing, swimming, and “wastewatering”.

From witnessing various touching father-son moments, fathers shamelessly holding mini-penises, their sons letting fly into the street.

From wandering the streets of North Kolkata and being reminded of Havana (with less ass-shaking and –peddling), bougainvilleas spilling on to the streets from formerly well-apportioned balconies.

From stumbling upon the Pareshnath Jain temple and its intricate mosaics of mirrors, tiles, gold inlays, and paintings, seamlessly and peacefully tucked into a North Kolkatan side street.

From the various relics of the British Raj: the Maidan, a common in the center of the city where I finally had a chance to re-polish my Guatemalan football skills; the Victoria Memorial, possibly the finest piece of architecture left by the Brits on the subcontinent; and the Park St. Cemetery, in whose therapeutic shade I took refuge from the madness of Kolkatan streets.

From the absolutely sublime fish curries. And the addling addictiveness of the hot kati roll, a curry-laced, blazing hot fajita.

From the Girish Park metro station, in which a pair of 8-year old boys and I provided ample entertainment for everyone around, making faces at each other, and exclaiming wildly in English, Hindi, Spanish and Bengali.

From the evening of Kali Puja, when we jam-packed ourselves into a truck with the blue goddess Kali, maneuvered our way via the equally jammed (and raucous) streets down to the river and tossed her in.

From reacquainting myself with the traveler’s lifestyle as well as conversations borne from moments with fellow travelers, especially Jonny & Lucy. L let me borrow J for backgammon and J let me borrow L for dancing.

From my various clubbing excursions (Tantra, Venom & Roxy), in which I was photographed and put on page 3 of The Times of India (either due to my noticeable dancing skills or my noticeable size and complexion).

(NB: I think the other time I died in India was on a motorcycle. Remind me not to do that again. Thanks.)

I knew it then and I know it now, yet I’m not quite sure what it is that I know. I fell in love with something but was it Kolkata, or was it being on vacation, or was it my reintroduction to traveling?

Upon his return from Calcutta, Mark Twain said, "I'm glad I went, and I'm glad I never have to go back."

When I returned I said, "I'm glad I went. Why did I ever leave?"

I guess not everyone is into fish curries.

Oxford English

2006-12-03T20:03:00.000+05:30

The British were not the first Europeans to arrive in India, nor were they the last to depart; the proud owners of both those distinctions are the Portuguese: 1498 & 1961. The Portuguese did not possess ample resources to leave much of a legacy outside of the coastal area of Goa. The British legacy, however, lives on today via the extensive rail network, the chai culture, the famous Indian bureaucracy, and Hinglish.

In 1600, Queen Elizabeth I of England granted a charter in which she gave the East India Company a full-fledged monopoly on all British trade with India. The London-based company founded their first trading post in Gujarat in 1613. By 1668, they had established additional trading posts in Chennai (Madras), Bengal, and Mumbai (Bombay). Virtually all of Britain’s affairs in India were administered by the East India Company until 1858, when the British government officially took control. Although the government had accepted a more active administrative role beginning in 1784, for nearly 250 years it was not the British Government that ruled over India – it was a commercial trading company.

As the government in London assumed a more permanent and fortified presence in India, it retained the same priorities as the trading company: trade and profit. They planted tea, coffee, and cotton; developed iron and coal mining; and commenced with the construction of the rail system.

The British also installed a system of central government replete with bureaucratic models that existed at the time in London. This system, jettisoned long ago in Britain, still prevails throughout India in incomprehensible proportions.

Additionally, we must not forget to mention the imposition of the queen’s tongue. In order to more efficiently (see: underhandedly) administer a land of countless local languages, the new rulers decided that selecting one official governmental language would be most practical. They chose English.

The Constitution of India currently recognizes eighteen languages. There are, amazingly enough, believed to be over 1600 other languages spoken throughout the country. Hindi is the most widely used, though English remains the official language of the judiciary. There are significant efforts being made to promote Hindi as the country’s official language, but the majority of south India rightfully objects; Hindi is the primary tongue of the north.

Just as American English has followed a course distinct from that of British English, Indian English (Hinglish) has developed its own idiosyncrasies as well.

I recall being surprised the first few times I watched CNN’s affiliate in India, CNN/IBN, by the awkward manner in which the anchors conversed in English. I was further confounded by the number of spelling errors in the ticker that graced the bottom of the page. When I mentioned this to a few of my Indian colleagues, they assured me that it was because I spoke American English.

Almost in unison they continued: “This is Oxford English.”

I leaned toward the imaginary Oxford man at my side and mumbled out of the corner of my mouth: “That’s just bad English.”

There was no response. He had fainted two phrases back.

Without further ado, I give you Hinglish, umm… I mean Oxford English. Some of it may be amusing. Other phrases may be totally confusing. Don't be alarmed. After four months here, I don’t understand some things that I see and hear.

A bit draconian no doubt, but the traffice polic is a force to be reckoned with.

Although the lift is now completely functional, I continue to opt for the stairs.

While same-sex sex is illegal in India, same-sex marketing is a real hit.

A section of a cricket stadium in Kolkata. I chose to sit elsewhere.

So much for supplementing my income (on that street).

If you’re not personally familiar with UTIs, then you’re lucky (or perhaps just a guy). I wonder if this bank actually has many withdrawals.

Urinating in public is totally acceptable in India. Alas, the irony is lost.

Amen!

Considering I wasn’t in the market for any of that, I kept on walking.

That’s what I’m saying, brother! Wait… What?!

There are so many more wonderful examples. More to come, I promise.

We Know Where You Live... I think

2006-11-08T14:28:00.000+05:30

Dear Sir (or Madame?),

I don't know your name -- as we were never formally (or informally) introduced -- so forgive me for addressing this to you as such. In fact, I don't know anything about you other than where you live, or better said... where you were at around 8am on Tuesday, November 7th. I'm not sure, but I have a strong suspicion that you meet many people this way, thus I won't trouble you with a complicated introduction. It wouldn't behoove either of us for me to present you with my full name... Actually, now that I think about it, let me simplify it even further and henceforth refer to myself as number 31. Yes. Sleeper Car 1, Bed 31.

I write to you now from Jabalpur and will be here until Monday night presiding over the training of our 8 newly hired nurses. By my calculations, I should be back your way by noon or so this coming Tuesday, the 14th. I can't say exactly what platform my train will stop on, but I think I can trust you to inquire at the station. It's the Allahabad station, right? I was rather tired, well... sleeping to be exact, so I'm not positive. Either way, I'll be sure to keep a look out. And although you may not remember precisely what I look like, I'm pretty sure you took notice that I was rather light-skinned. And tall, too. I'm sure you must have at least by now realized that; I mean with size 13 shoes and all.

Just so you know, I'm not mad. I would hate to be you though, because the 8 nurses are a bit ticked at your giving their country a bad name. They say that hell has no wrath like a scorned woman, and while these women weren't exactly scorned, there are 8 of them, so be careful.

It's not my place to judge need. For all I know you needed them more than me. Size, however, I can judge, and in a country of a billion people, there aren't more than a dozen that will fit into a size 13 shoe. Forgive the hyperbole, but seriously... a size 13?!

Anyway, I'm assuming that you just borrowed my sneakers. After all they're running shoes, and in more than three months in India I've yet to see someone out for a jog. Once you realize that, I'm sure you'll happily return them. I look forward to (re)meeting you.

Thanking you in advance,

Number 31

P.S. Feel free to keep the sock. Actually, I'll bring the other one with me and you can have them both.

P.P.S. I'm enclosing a photo of some of the nurses. Just so you know, this photo was taken several hours before the incident, so don't let the smiles fool you.

GEN, SC, ST, or OBC?

2006-09-30T14:45:00.000+05:30

Recently, a very special friend of mine politely undressed me regarding my nonchalant viewpoint on the use of labels and titles. It isn't so much that I flippantly apply such distinctions to people, or groups of people for that matter, but rather that I simply don't think much about them. I believe the luxury that I have never had to ponder over them much is due primarily to the place in society that I was born into -- that of a middle-class white male.

"Semantics are vital," I was reminded. "The ways we talk about things are the ways in which we create them both within us and in the world. If we walk around being uncareful of our language, we reinforce and support problematic political and social discourses."

As work has been a bit slow lately, I've been investing more time in chai breaks and in discussions with my coworkers. After more than two years in rural Guatemala conversing on little more than agriculture and sex, I find the dialogue here to be inimitably more refreshing. Being at an institute of higher learning, topics of the more intellectual variety are regularly fostered, such as history, culture, science, and politics (Side note: we do not speak much of agriculture here, but sex talk is fair game and quite common).

I stopped in with one of the senior researchers to chat about the various malaria studies currently in progress in the area. He detailed the rationales behind the studies; the studies' objectives; the field site locations and characteristics; the methods of data collection and analysis; and the target populations. He referred a bit to the plethora of tribal people around here and then threw out the word "backward". I assumed his employment of the word was similar to the fashion in which it is cavalierly tossed around in the US: as a descriptor, a pejorative fashion of portraying a group that was, in his mind, lacking in social and/or cultural advancement and achievement.

As he repeated it a few more times, I motioned for him to pause, “Did you say backward?" I asked.

"Yes... The backward castes."

"Achcha (I see)... So which castes are the backward castes?"

"That is it. The backward castes. Other backward castes."

To him I replied, "Achcha" and to myself I thought, "What a ~~dick~~ jerk!"

It is important to note that his (or the prevalent Indian) use of the word 'backward' is not necessarily the same as ours. Regardless, I still felt a bit uncomfortable and shortly thereafter excused myself.

About a week later, I was perusing some of the questionnaires used in local malaria studies to see what information was being solicited. Date. Participant ID number. Name. Age. Caste/Tribe. Under caste/tribe, there were a few options for boxes to check: SC, GEN, ST, and OBC. I approached one of my friends here and inquired as to what each of the abbreviations represented.

GEN = General Castes

SC = Scheduled Castes

ST = Scheduled Tribes

OBC = Other Backward Castes

"Is 'Other Backward Caste' a term that you just use here or is it widely accepted in India?" I asked.

Her response was startling: "Mandate 340 of the Constitution."

The caste system in India is believed to be some 3,000 years old. The ancient Hindu society was initially divided into four exhaustive, mutually exclusive, hereditary, endogamous (in-marrying), and occupation-specific Varnas (translated into English as caste via the Portuguese word casta which means breed or race).

According to the Vedas (Hindu scripture), the progenitors of the four castes sprang from various parts of the body of the primordial man -- he who was created by Lord Brahma from clay. Brahmans (priests) originated from the mouth to provide for the intellectual and spiritual needs of the community. The Kshatriyas (warriors) were forged from the arms to bestow protection. Vaishyas (merchants and landowners) sprang from the thighs and were entrusted with the care of agriculture and commerce. The feet gave rise to the Shudras (artisans and servants), who were entrusted with the care of all manual labor. Conceptualized later was a fifth category, the Ati Shudras or Untouchables, unto whom was bequeathed all menial and polluting work related to bodily decay and dirt.

As the economy became more complex, the varna system morphed into the jati system, with jatis sharing the same basic characteristics as the varnas. The difference in the systems is that jatis are not exact subsets of varnas; and there has also been considerable regional variation in the evolution of specific jatis. Thus, a jati may be considered "backward" in one state but not in another.

Caste divisions are not as dichotomous as they may appear, but the distinctions are simplified by the nature of the available data.

The general castes (GEN) are comprised of those that belonged to the three highest classes in the varna system: Brahmans, Kshatriyas, and Vaishyas.

The scheduled tribes (STs), that make up around 7-8% of the population, are socially and economically marginalized tribal people known throughout India as Adivasi.

The scheduled castes (SCs) are those formerly categorized as untouchables and are composed of 16-17% of India’s population.

The other backward castes (OBCs) form a very large and heterogeneous category (~30% of the population) and are remarkably close to SCs in terms of social and economic "backwardness". Hence, the distance between the SCs and OBCs only manages to understate the chasm between the top and bottom tiers of the caste hierarchy.

Although there are laws banning caste-based discrimination, violence habitually occurs across the country. It must also be noted, that not all forms of violence are obvious or overt. For example, land is owned almost exclusively by members of the dominant castes which allows them to economically exploit lower-ranking laborers and artisans.

In recognition of caste-based inequalities, the Indian government initiated affirmative action as a remedial measure. Every state now has a quota for the SCs and STs that implies reserving 22.5% of seats in the legislature, government-sponsored educational institutions, and public sector jobs. The present-day quotas do not offer opportunities for those belonging to an OBC.

Recently, the government declared its desire to set aside an additional 27% for OBC members as well as a few other disadvantaged groups. The announcement led to widespread backlash from many higher caste Hindus, especially those attempting to matriculate into the Indian Institutes of Technologies (IITs). Graduates of these prestigious engineering colleges have, in recent years, flooded Silicon Valley and triggered India's information technology boom.

I have tried my best to get first-hand information regarding the caste system, but many Indians are loathe to speak of it.

A couple of days ago, I mentioned to some colleagues here that I imagined that lower caste members here were poorer and suffered from worse health outcomes. Some very effortlessly agreed. Others nodded a bit more begrudgingly. A third contingency excitedly stated that it used to be like that but wasn't any longer, and then made it clear that the conversation had reached its end.

Tensions have greatly increased recently due to the proposed quota increase. The blogosphere offers a taste of some voices that may not be suitable for an even-keeled discussion.

A sample:

"I look around me and all I see angry voices protesting, dissents, strikes, suffering of services, all of which tarnishes the image of the India I would like to belong to, one where I am who I made myself into and not what I was born as!"

Another:

"I am, in no way a snob or elitist. I have friends from all walks of life, colleagues who may or may not be an OBC/SC/ST, teachers who I admire and respect for their wisdom rather than where they came from, neighbors with whom I share festivals and events and meals with no thought spared to ‘Are they the same caste as me?’... I honestly couldn’t care less what caste you belong to!" (Editor's note: What caste do you think he belongs to?).

My turn:

I think it safe to say that if you deserve something based on your skills, abilities, and talents, then you should get it. The problem with that, however, is that too many people have been marginalized for too long so that the playing field is no longer equal.

Those in power and those who continue to make up the privileged sections of the country's society have inhibited the empowerment process by denying education and knowledge to the lower castes.

It ain't black and white, though it kind of is. Sound familiar, America?

Data Has a Face? / Detachment

2006-09-21T19:39:00.000+05:30

Epidemiology is somewhat of a new field, so definitions of the field itself, quite like the many terms that fall under it, vary widely. One definition from an unknown source (e.g. the depths of my own imagination) is: the collection and analysis of information concerning the distribution and determinants of disease in populations.

When someone in the U.S. initiates a conversation with that oh-so-American inquiry of "What do you do?", I often simply reply that I am an epidemiologist. The most common response is a furrowing of the brow or the question as to whether or not I study skin. If we both choose to pursue the topic further, it is usually not too difficult to convey the concept of health-related data collection, organization, and analysis.

In India, I find the potential for a disconnect to be much greater. Due to limited Hindi and/or English skills, the typical response is a rolled up pant leg or shirt sleeve to expose a previously unfathomable, oft-bearded growth on the surface of the skin. I never utter the word 'epidemiology' in my description, so there is no comparable employment of the 'Latin root' trick. I think it begs more to my inability to provide any valid, understandable descriptors that paint me as anything other than a physician.

I remember in high school, and again during the beginning of my undergraduate studies at the University of Michigan, the desire I had to be a physician. Looking back (I mean now, here, from this particular juncture in time, able to be utterly objective and overly courageous thanks to the miracle of modern narrative technique), I see my folly quite clearly. It was never a tangible desire, but rather just an ideal or, even better yet, just a word. It was a standard, a paradigm to measure myself against, something that served, albeit unsuccessfully, as a means of motivation.

Yet now -- ten years removed from my aforementioned folly -- more than at any other point in my life, I feel that desire more genuinely. Hindsight aside, I don't regret any decisions I have made to place me where I am today. I enjoy the life that I lead now and, more importantly, I am pleased with who I have become. I don't feel as though something in my life has gone unfulfilled. I think it merely a product of moments like this, spending hours staring at data on a computer screen and wishing that numbers had a face.

You can look at morbidity and mortality figures and say that they correspond to real people with real problems, real lives, and real faces. Perhaps it is my way of processing things, but I need to see the affected people to help me bridge the disconnect, for the numbers to shed their inanimate status and transform into real life flesh and blood.

I have not a clue what attracted me to medicine in my youth, but I see now why I find it appealing. Simple human contact is one reason, but I think more importantly still, is the ability to interact face-to-face with the people that you strive to assist. Public health can provide you with that, but the possibility of detachment is real and, to me, a bit frightening. Regardless of whether or not you work in the field of business, health, or whatever, having your client in front of you allows you to minimize that likelihood.

I honestly know -- and know well -- that I do not want to invest the amount of time and energy required for me to become a doctor. I also recognize that I have a difficult time laboring at an occupation that does not foster contact with the people that my work aims to benefit.

Show me the faces of some sick people once in a while and my work as a public health professional will seem a lot more real.

(Update: October 2nd to Ranchi. No more data analysis = Real live people)

Tabula Rasa

2006-09-14T15:45:00.000+05:30

It didn't take me long to realize that people here are accustomed to that which I find enchanting. It's probably akin to the sensation, or lack thereof, that a New Yorker has when walking the streets of New York. After years of coexisting with the steel and concrete behemoths that surround them, it's easy to forget they are actually still there. They just are, and you go on with your life without paying them much mind. Clearly there are people that will never cease to be in awe of their surroundings but, for argument's sake, let's leave it at that.

For the past five weeks I have been living on an island of sorts, a figurative one: a lush green campus on the outskirts of a bustling town of a million. In this respect, one could say that I'm not as of yet getting the full living-in-India experience. I do eat curry at least twice a day and drink copious amounts of chai. I speak a bit of Hindi. I watch cricket matches and Bollywood movies. I try my best to use Celsius. However, as I do not live in the center of town, the area in which I usually find myself is actually quite peaceful. Street noise and pollution are virtually nonexistent; what reigns supreme here is nature.

On the expansive grounds of the campus, there are packs of rather hilarious cackling birds that swarm in gangs of ten or so; squirrel-chipmunk hybrids ("squirmunks" as I call them) that paradoxically propel themselves faster as the morning air thickens; swallows and bats that take to the predusk sky in droves; crabs to distract -- or dissuade -- you from strolling the dimly lit footpaths in the evening; and stray dogs that hover near street lights and swat massive bugs out of the air for nighttime snacks.

In the building in which I work, sparrows fly up and down the hallways and staircases; lizards cruise the walls and windows; a family of owls inhabits a small nook just below the roof, directly above the main entrance -- if you're lucky, which I once was (although everyone here told me I was actually unlucky), you can witness them hunting. Despite the fact that I have yet to see one, a monkey has been known to visit work and dangle outside the windows of one of the laboratories.

I live in a small three-room flat located in the workers' quarters of the malaria institute's campus that I share with T.P. (yes, that's a nickname -- for Tej Pratap), a PhD student working on a malaria vaccine project (Side note: the use of the abbreviation, T.P., as it is employed in the U.S. is probably about as common in India as the use of actual T.P. itself). I don't share my bedroom with T.P., but I have been cohabiting with a small gecko that lives on one of my shelves, seemingly guarding my books and toiletries from any six- or eight-legged ruffians; and a trail of mini sugar ants that daily snake in through one window and depart via another, starting at around 5am and abating at almost midnight.

About a week ago, I woke up at nearly 6am and could not fall back asleep. It may have been a consequence of the extraordinarily small bed that I sleep in, one that forces me to lay diagonally yet still fails to provide ample space for my feet. Perhaps it was a product of me watching the flow of mini-ants approach its typical dawn-time viscosity. Either way, I eventually stood up and peered out the window. Like so many other natural phenomenon that I live amongst here, what I beheld was not something I regularly came across in the States. It was hardly unrecognizable; I mean, anybody that has spent more than fifteen minutes on a college campus knew what that was.

When he eventually got up, I said to my flatmate, T.P.:

"You see all these plants?

Just like the times that I excitedly pointed out the cackling birds, and the crabs, and the little ants, and anything else that seemed remotely interesting, he shrugged and nonchalantly replied that he did, in fact, see the plants.

Sometimes I can't tell if he's disinterested, moody, or just plain ornery, so I tried a different tack.

"You know in America, this is illegal."

"Here too, is legal," he returned.

I turned the volume up a bit: "No. Illegal... Not legal."

"Oh," he half-grunted.

Several years back, I entered a kitchen in Nepal and was surprised to see the dried form of this plant in a rather large pile on the table. When I inquired about it, I was informed that it was fed to goats when they had a "bad stomach". At the time, my Nepali was incapable of eliciting from anyone how to tell when the animals were actually suffering. I probably would have pursued the issue further if I hadn't been distracted by trying to figure out how to subtly convey in Nepali that my stomach was feeling a little off.

I continued with T.P.: "This is what sadhus smoke," referring to the orange-bedecked men that wander India barefoot from one holy site to another.

"Oh," he replied again, disinterestedly, "Ganja."

Yes, T.P.... Ganja. I suppose I too would think nothing of it if I grew up with weed in my backyard. Fact is though, I didn't.

No way his lack of enthusiasm was going to dampen my mood. I immediately swore to myself that I would write to all my friends and tell them about it.

And then I did.

The Essence of जुगार

2006-09-08T17:40:00.000+05:30

One of the first words I learned in Hindi was जुगार (jew-gaar). At the time, I was cruising around in an auto-rickshaw in Delhi with my new friend, Tariq, beside me. I can't recall how it came up, be he kept saying "जुगार". As I'm not one to disappoint in the hilarity department, even (see: especially) if I have no clue what's going on, I continued to repeat it and he continued to laugh.

Signaling to Gupta, our driver, I bellowed: "Hey Gupta... जुगार."

And we all laughed, though only some of us understood why.

Now, three weeks later, जुगार has resurfaced. This time, everyone gets it.

Take a quick glance over to the right of this text and behold a brand new Rio Karma MP3 player. That is precisely what mine looked like approximately eighteen months ago when it first arrived on my doorstep. Trusty as it proved for the first sixteen of those months, about two months back it began to develop a foul temper. The power button gradually lost its effectiveness, encouraging me to push harder and harder on it each time I needed to turn the player on or off. As much as I coddled it and made disparaging remarks about iPods, its condition continued to deteriorate. A week ago, it failed to power on altogether.

During the week that followed, I continually vowed to fix it, though those thoughts were often tempered by the realization that maybe it was done for.

Eventually, lacking any palpable idea of what I would do should I actually get it open, I went in search of a mini-Phillips head screwdriver. My initial quest, into the IT department here at work, produced only a single slotted tip screwdriver which was undoubtedly too big. One of the computer technicians was insistent that we could make it work with the slotted option. I let him have at it until I noticed the screw getting stripped. Somewhat dejected, I resigned to look again another day.

A second tech then nodded toward a drawer and said: "जुगार".

A third opened it and produced a rather flimsy-looking exacto knife.

A fourth gestured for me to surrender the Rio.

A fifth removed the three tiny screws with the exacto.

The fifth, Tiwari, then separated the machine in two. Catching our first glimpse of the innards, the power button tumbled out on to the table. We -- Tiwari with me watching over his shoulder -- attempted various methods to slide, urge, and simply force the button back in place with no success; the machine would not turn on. He finally asked that I entrust the player to him over night and I gladly acquiesced.

The following day he returned to the office with a soldering kit and wires of distinct colors and sizes. I hovered over him during various stretches of the morning, hoping to witness the reawakening, to see the LCD display flicker anew. Several times while working, he held up the exacto and exclaimed: "This... is जुगार," and whoever was present laughed. Oh yeah, totally... Wait. What?

The beginning of the afternoon was highlighted by a few unsubstantiated "Eureka" moments, with assorted techs awakening me from data work to see the progress. At almost 5pm, about a half hour before closing time, I was summoned by Tiwari himself. He could not suppress his grin.

Before I had even finished opening the door to his office, he burst out: "Now this is जुगार!" and presented me with my Rio.

It looked quite a bit like my old Rio, except for a double-tipped wire that protruded from where the power button once lay; it was affixed to the outside of the machine with scotch tape.

It reminded me of a conversation I had with someone almost two years ago in Havana. When I mentioned how shocked I was that cars there were still running, he replied: "Sometimes we need a brake pad, so we bend some scrap metal and use that. It's not an ideal solution, but it's what we have."

Though probably not as inescapable a situation as what a Cuban car mechanic faces where parts are simply unavailable, there's a certain amount of improvisation here in India that we just don't regularly see in the U.S.

It is precisely that tendency to get more use out of things that is so impressive; it is that ability to improvise that is जुगार.

So what do I do now?" I asked.

Tiwari took the player from me and touched the tips of the wires together. The display lit right up.

I thanked him profusely and he responded with a head wobble. A few minutes later, I headed for the door.

"You know that wire?" he asked.

Before I could hazard a guess, he continued: "It's a phone cord."

Data Analysis & The Mahabharata

2006-09-05T17:25:00.000+05:30

We quickly blow through introductions, sit down, and begin to stare around the room. He picks up the phone, says something in Hindi, hangs up the receiver, and proceeds to pick his teeth with a sewing pin. A strange silence ensues. A minute or so later, the actions are repeated: Phone, Hindi, pin, silence. And then again. The only variation I notice, is that with each ensuing phone call his voice grows successively louder. I try a few times to interrupt the awkwardness with questions pertaining to his data, but he doesn't seem interested.

As time passes, the awkwardness morphs into a confusion that borders on discomfort. Just as I am considering the possibility of excusing myself, the door opens.

“I hear you like coffee,” he offers. “And I ask them make it strong.”

I struggle to think of a better way to dispose of the silence than the proposition of satisfying my three-week long coffee fix.

“Theek hai. Theek hai.” (is good), I reply, wishing that my Hindi brain would allow me to dispense a superlative to properly articulate my gratitude.

Within two minutes he finishes his drink. I hasten to follow suit.

He moves over toward his computer and pulls up a chair along side where I then seat myself. He proceeds to open up Excel file after Excel file -- a veritable treasure trove of malaria data –- wasting little time explaining the plethora of letters and numbers flashing before our eyes. A good ten minutes later, he leans back in his chair, sighs, and smiles.

“I do not boast. I am very good researcher. But... but now I have these numbers and I do not know what to do.”

I spent the majority of that afternoon, and many that have followed, helping Gyand Chen familiarize himself with the world of statistics. Our working relationship has developed into a pattern: I expound on the appropriate statistical tests to use, employment of them with various statistical packages, and the interpretation of the outputs; and he feeds me copious amounts of “coffee” (see: Nescafe) and illuminates interesting facts and facets of Indian history and culture.

Toward the end of our third session together, he asks me if I know Arjun. I furrow my brow a bit and run through a full catalog of new faces in my head. I had met so many people in the last few weeks and I was sure one of them must have been the Arjun of whom he spoke. I replied that I wasn’t sure.

“You are like Arjun…” he begins.

“Dhritarashter and Pandu were brothers. Dhritarashter was born blind and although he was the elder, he was compelled to forfeit his claim to the throne on account of his physical defect; Pandu thus became king. Whereas Dhritarashter married Gandhari, Pandu selected two wives -- Kunti and Madri. Gandhari was so devoted to her husband that she bandaged her eyes and chose to remain voluntarily blind for life. She became the mother of the Kouravs, 100 in total. Kunti had three sons and Madri two.

”One day while hunting, Pandu accidentally killed the wife of a sage, who became enraged and cursed Pandu that should he ever have relations with a woman, he would die instantly. Pandu renounced his crown for the life of a hermit and went to the jungle with his two wives, Kunti and Madri. One day, Pandu could not resist temptation, had intercourse with Madri, and died. Madri immolated herself and walked into her husband's funeral fire leaving behind her two sons, Nakul and Sahadev, in custody of Kunti with her three sons, Yudhishthir, Bheem, and Arjun. On Pandu's death, Dhritarashter became the king and the five sons of Pandu -- the Pandavs -- grew up in the guardianship of Kunti. The five Pandav princes were educated along with Kourav boys under the patronage of Dhritarashter. They were taught the art of archery as well as various techniques of warfare.

”Yudhishthir, the eldest of the Pandavs, was so righteous that he was anointed with the name Dharamputr. Bheem was a giant in physical strength. Arjun was handsome and the most skilful archer. Dharamputr was the beloved of the people and being the eldest among the 105 princes, was the natural heir to the throne. Duryodhan, the eldest of the Kouravs, however, was jealous of the Pandavs and tried every means to destroy them. When Yudhishthir was proclaimed king, Duryodhan could not sit quiet and watch. Duryodhan hatched numerous plans plan to kill the Pandavs, one of which eventually forced the five brothers, along with their mother, to escape into the jungle. After their departure, they did not return to the palace but instead roamed about in disguise as priests. Everyone, including the Kouravs, believed them to be dead.

”During that time, they heard of the beautiful Swayamvara of Droupadi. The qualification to marry her laid in the extraordinary skill of hitting a moving target with a bow and arrow. Arjun won easily. The spectators, undoubtedly surprised by the bowmanship of the priest, eventually discerned that it was in fact Arjun. The Pandavs were discovered.

“Arjun took his bride to their hut and called to his mother to come and see what he had brought. Instead of doing so, she answered back: ‘My dear children, whatever it may be, share it among yourselves’. Hence, Droupadi became the wife of all five Pandavs.

“The kingdom they received as dowry was divided into two parts. Naturally, the better half was seized by the Kouravs. Still, the Pandavs built a wonderful city in their own half and named it Indraprastha. Duryodhan, watching the increasing prosperity of the Pandavs, could contain his fury no longer. He openly challenged Dharamputr to a game of dice in which the losers would live in the forest for thirteen years without any claim to the kingdom. The last year of their exile was to be spent incognito; should they be discovered, the thirteen year cycle would begin anew. Sakuni, deceit in human form and uncle of the Kouravs, played for them. Inevitably, Dharamputr lost.

”In the thirteenth year of their exile, the Pandavs and Droupadi went to the palace of the king of the Viratas and stayed there as servants. Duryodhan made frantic efforts to discover them and eventually concluded that the Pandavs must be in the Virata country. The Kouravs then attacked the Viratas. The Pandavs took part in the battle, but by the time they were recognized as Pandavs, the time limit of thirteen years had already passed.

“The hundred Kouravs and their supporters were on one side, and the Pandavs and theirs on the other. The armies arrayed themselves for war.

“The Kouravs had devised a formation that only Arjun knew how to defeat. Shortly before the war is to begin, Arjun has second thoughts about his participation and leaves the battlefield. His brothers become disconcerted and are unsure how to proceed…”

“So you see,” Gyand Chan continues. “You are like Arjun.”

I struggle to make the connection and I think he notices.

“You see… I can enter all this data into the computer, but I do not know what to do with it. I can penetrate the formation but then I can not get out. If I can not get out, what happens? We lose the war.”

As I sit back and attempt to draw parallels between data analysis and one of the most famous battles in Indian history, he lifts up the receiver and barks something in Hindi.

A moment later, the door swings open. This time I know what's coming.

A Strange Competition

2006-08-29T12:34:00.000+05:30

An interesting website, where you can check boxes to define what countries you've visited and it creates a map for you. I'd always felt that I'd been to a few places and now looking at my map makes me realize how much more there is to see.

You can make your own at:
http://www.world66.com/myworld66/visitedCountries/

This reminds me of a TV program I once saw that highlighted a club where members competed to visit the most countries. I think at that time there were 317 countries in the world and entrance into the club was granted to people that had been to 100. Competitors would take day-long detours -- and pay visa fees! -- just to get that border stamp, or would make specific journeys to countries that were about to break up or disappear, like Yugoslavia or the German Democratic Republic. There were even rules disallowing airport stop-overs or in utero visits.

I was a bit disturbed by people itching to canonize themselves for the most different border crossings. I ran a quick search on the web that produced blog titles like: "Bangladesh. Been there. Done that." Is that really what traveling is all about? Although it is gratifying to possess a passport full of stamps, it seems more rewarding for it to serve to provide memories of being itinerant and not persevering.

Whatever you reasons are, the map is an entertaining way to lose a good half hour at work.

Ok. Time to get back to work.

Gupta, Tariq, and a Free Tour of Delhi

2006-08-12T17:30:00.000+05:30

The joy of talking to random people is rarely lost on me. I like to ask questions and then verify my newfound info on other unsuspecting souls. In some situations, I feel as though I’m entertaining myself (and them as well). In others, replies vary so widely that I continue to appeal to more people in an attempt to reach some sort of consensus.

The latter was certainly in effect this past Saturday morning as no one seemed to no where the post office was. Contradictory responses had me retracing my steps.

Eventually, one young loiterer confidently directed me toward my desired destination. He seemed honest enough and it turned out that he also knew where the office was.

I went back to thank him and chat a bit: “So, is this your job? I go to post office, come back, and you still here.”

“No. Well, this some time job. I take tourist to shop and shop pay me commission. I am Tariq.”

Considering that I wasn’t all that interested in shopping, I figured I’d have him help me plan out my day.

“Birla Mandir temple is nice?”

My guidebook had told me it was Orissan-style, whatever that meant, with soaring domes. Something about the description sounded indecent -- I was interested.

“Yes. You go?”

“I think…” I often deem it unwise to give too much credence to a local person's estimation of whether a visit to a specific sight is worthwhile or not. With language and cultural barriers, our impressions of any given sight may be drastically different. What interests me about India is the colorful, the spiritual, the sensory overload. One Indian friend, prompted about potential destinations to visit in my free time here, suggested a steel plant. Another mentioned a coal mine.

“You got to Mandir temple?" he continued. "I take you. Free. I honest. First go to shop, then temple, ok?"

Such attendants, widely referred to as touts, receive the equivalent of 100 rupees (~$2) in the form of a coupon – often for gas credit – to bring business to the plethora of shops nestled amidst the major landmarks in the Delhi area. You go to the Gandhi Museum and just two short blocks away tucked in behind a minister’s house or a rich kids’ school is a store. I’m not referring to a modest stand overloaded with trinkets, but rather an operation, an emporium replete with hundreds of thousands of dollars of merchandise: gold and silver necklaces, rings, toe-rings, anklets; precious and semi-precious gems; bronze and terracotta images of deities; musical instruments; paintings; silk, saris, and textiles; and carpets.

I had to hand it to him. I wasn’t prepared for the ol' honesty shtick. “Ok. One shop. No money. No buy. No problem? They pay you?”

“No problem,” he replied. A minute later he had recruited Gupta, an auto-rickshaw wallah (driver) to take us there in his chariot.

I had imagined this whole process would take half an hour. We go to the store, I wander a bit, they get paid, and then they take me to the temple. By the time I had visited the third shop, without seeing any temples, we were on the other side of town. Just when I had started to think it a rather shady affair, they gave me free rein to go anywhere I wanted. I mentioned a place or two that we had passed along the way and they took me and showed me around. That became our routine: half an hour in some shops and then an hour of sights.

After arriving at a shop, Gupta would say: “Just 10 minutes,” and flash his vast smile, bidi smoke curling around the sides of his face. “Ok. Five minutes. Please. Thank you.”

Twenty minutes later I would walk out and deposit a newly-acquired business card into the center console of Gupta’s rickshaw. He would then show me his coupon. The three of us would try to suppress our smiles until we had at least gotten the vehicle moving.

"Gupta, pashmina carpet for your lady,” I would call, motioning to the card.

“Ahhh, yes,” he would respond with a raspy laugh, conscious that he would need more than six months of income to buy one of those.

I don’t remember the first shop that well, nor the second for that matter; in fact, the eight or so that I visited over the course of that day have all melded together in my head. I do, however, recall wandering around, surrounded by hundreds of mini-Ganesh statues, trailed by overly assertive shopkeepers:

“Come look at the gold jewelry, sir. Something nice for your lady.”

“This will look great in your palace.” Was he referring to the three-bedroom apartment I had shared back in Cambridge?

“Special deal today... Only for you, sir.”

For some reason, I gravitated toward the carpets. At first I couldn’t tell wool from silk. By the third or fourth shop, I had gotten a hang of the lingo.

I went from saying, “I think maybe a red carpet,” to “I prefer the Afghani and tribal designs,” “How many knots per square inch does this one have?” and “Are you sure these are natural dyes? They look chemical to me.”

The more knowledge I professed, the deeper in I would get. They would narrow it down to a choice of three to five or so and then would assure me "a very special deal.”

I was forced to reach a bit deeper down into the bag of tricks: “I like this one, but the problem is that I need to ask my wife. She knows the exact size we need and she has different tastes than I do.”

“But where is she? In America, no?”

“No, she’s with friends at the hotel…The Sheraton,” I allowed, citing one of the most expensive places in town.

“But sir, she will be very happy when you bring this beautiful piece to her.”

“That’s not how the American woman works. My wife wants a hand in the process.”

“Ok. You buy the one you like and then you can come back and exchange it for another. No problem.”

I would then ask for their business card and inquire as to what time they closed, and they would feign dejection and supply me with the information.

Although I went to more shops than I had anticipated, I got to see a remarkable amount of Delhi and its sights: the Mahatma and Indira Gandhi museums; India Gate, an Arc de Triomphe-like structure commemorating Indian soldiers lost in WWI and the Afghan Wars; the president’s house and parliament house; Gurdwara Bangla Sahib, a gold-topped Sikh temple; and the Delhi polo club and horse racing track to name a few. They also took me to Birla Mandir, the temple I had originally wanted to visit, and thanks to the multiple vendors shoving postcards in my face, I could see the temple wasn't all that sweet. I never even emerged from the rickshaw.

And it was all free. We gallivanted around town on the dime of rich Delhiites, and my new friends, Gupta and Tariq, were left with something left over to take home to their families. I hardly felt like a modern-day Robin Hood, but it was probably as close as I’ve been in a while. As Tariq had told me at the start: “You help us. We help you.”

Now, armed with their phone numbers, I just have to figure out how to get them to drive me around without taking me shopping, allowing me to pay the non-tourist price. That, perhaps, would be true friendship.

American Express. Close. All India

2006-08-11T19:15:00.000+05:30

It's difficult, and not necessarily worthwhile for me, to attempt the whirlwind tour of a city. I prefer to select a few places, vaguely map out a plan of action, and see what happens. Rarely does the plan follow its course, where transportation is found -- at a reasonable price -- when needed; there are no accidents or strikes blocking the way; no holidays or siesta hours keeping the gates or doors closed; no lethargy or apathy encouraging me to return to my room, take a cold shower, and stand in front of the fan. And this doesn't necessarily apply only to the sights; at times buying a bus or train ticket is an adventure, or getting something (somewhat) safe to eat, or changing money.

For the first and probably last time in my life, I purchased travelers cheques prior to an excursion abroad. It's much easier to carry small amounts of cash and then bank on the ubiquity of ATM machines. But this time I thought it'd be prudent to play it safe. After all, "it's India," everyone had told me. "You gotta be safe over there."

I headed down to Connaught Place, the area of town that puts the New in New Delhi. It's where you're most likely to rub shoulders with Delhi's high society over a cup of decent (non-instant) coffee or some I'm-not-so-sure-what at KFC. It's also where the majority of the official money changers are, where I would be able to turn my AMEX travelers cheques into something I could use. At the $250 a night Sheraton, travelers cheques and cash are interchangeable; at the 250 Rupee a night Hotel Vishal, it's a much different story.

Although my map had told me precisely where the AMEX office was, I combed the area and came up empty. One guy told me it was one way, another told me it was the opposite way, and a third didn't seem to understand what I was saying or why I was saying it to him. I suppose I was naive in assuming that AMEX would choose a more noticeable, if not ostentatious, sign. I eventually spotted a small placard, about (my) chest high, hidden from sight by a small group of cell phone-wielding teenage Delhiites.

I explained my business to the guard in the doorway and he motioned me up a winding staircase. About halfway up I was again encouraged to state my business to another semi-official looking gentleman. He responded with the characteristic apologetic head wobble: "American Express. Close. 10 October 2005. All India."

"But the sign on the..."

"American Express. Close. 10 October 2005. All India. Now, only Indians."

He escorts me outside. "Come," he says and proceeds to lead me to no less than four different moneychangers, each a touch shadier than the last. And each time he lingers, presumably awaiting a commission he earns on what I change. None of the rates are particularly appealing, so I eventually part ways and meander a bit more.

It seems somewhat disingenuous to wander the streets, spending an extra half hour or more trying to get 45.5 rupees to the dollar as opposed to 45. I would, however, much rather be taken for a few rupees here and there by a chai vendor or a rickshaw driver than by someone basking in the glory of an air-conditioned office.

About 45 minutes later, I again climb the winding staircase and again am greeted by the same guy. "American Express. Close. All India," he affirms and pilots me out of the building. This time he starts quoting exchange rates.

It's easy to get lost in Delhi. The streets are hardly marked. Building signs are often faded or usurped by signs of newer and/or bigger buildings. There are plenty of people around to ask directions of, yet after most interactions you fail to feel more confident than if you hadn't asked at all. Many people, I think, truly have no idea where you're going. Others have no idea what you're saying. Some know exactly where you want to go and can help you get there. I'm sure there are plenty more types of responses and responders, but the group I find most interesting is a more insidious one: those that know where you want to go, but take you elsewhere.

With some, it's obvious; with others, it's not as much so. It's often hard to tell the difference, because someone may appear totally genuine at the start -- or may work for an official agency or the government -- and then lead you astray. At what point do you succumb to your desire to be in control of each and every situation versus the desire to trust someone and be rewarded for it?

I smile, give him the head wobble and walk away. I choose another fairly reputable-looking operation and head in, ready to accept a lower-than-desired exchange rate, but with a budding knowledge of the system -- and a thirst for some A/C driven by wandering the streets in 100 degree heat.

Now that I think about it, I still don't know if American Express is really closed.