It’s hard to be Jolly . . .

. . . when you’re sick. One week and I’m bedridden with some wicked bacteria. I will spare you the details, but know that only antibiotics (Cipro expired in 2006 - Mike assured me that even the military feeds soldiers expired Cipro?!) put a stop to my misery. And I have stiff neck from lying in bed for 48 hours. India suddenly becomes a retched place when you are sick. You start to wonder how it’s possible that you aren’t sick every moment of being here. I spent ample time running over the list of culprits: the bus stop chai I drank last weekend? The water that inevitably clings to all plates, cups and spoons you’re served on? Surely it must have been the samosa chat stand. It’s my own fault for eating street food so fresh from an industrialized country, but this was a truly amazing snack! I was hoping for just a samosa that I could take home and eat with my homemade mint chutney, but the 10 year old chat wallah surprised me by smashing my samosa with his hand. Then he stuck it in bowl, poured brown (tamarind?) water all over it, and covered it with about 15 other unidentifiable condiments. It is not possible this boy had access to soap and hot water, in fact that is the true culprit, lack of awareness about how disease is spread and access to hot water and soap.

The other thing that happens when you’re sick is that your mental health bottoms out. Like I said, it’s hard to be jolly when you’re sick. Suddenly all of life seems sour. I notice I’m sleeping on a two inch straw mattress, the chair cushions smell like urine, the power is out . . . again, the endless smells of ridiculously over spiced food make me nauseous, and I’m sure I can hear Indian men running over puppies on purpose.

Mike thinks I should end on a positive note, so I’m posting this photo of a mangosteen . . . next blog will be jolly, I promise.

Kafka is Alive and Well in Bangalore

It takes awhile to get used to Indian style bureaucracy. I don't expect I will be here long enough to reach that point, even if I go with Plan B and retire to Nandi Hills to manage a monkey ranch.
The bureaucratic structures are evident everywhere, sometimes literally. I am told you need 200+ signatures to complete a construction project, and you can't get them all before you begin. There are half built buildings on virtually every block. Sometimes construction halts for years. Eventually, the right rupee drops in the right place, the right signature is generated, and construction is finished in weeks.

Other bureaucratic structures seem to have sprung from Kafka's nightmares directly. To get reimbursed for my travel expenses, I need a bank account. To get a bank account I need a PAN card (social security card). To get a PAN card I need proof of residence and to get proof of residence I need to register with the foreign office.

Registering with the foreign office meant standing in line for 2 hours to submit my application which consisted of two copies of 7 documents. After standing in line, I was "preprocessed" by an officer to be sure I had the right documents, and the documents were then stamped by a second officer. Finally I met the "head officer" only to be told that I didn't have the right documents. Fortunately, he could be persuaded to admit that I did have the right documents, grudgingly overlooking the fact that I didn't. He gave me his final stamp of approval. The end result of all this is that I received a ticket to come back that afternoon to have my documents processed. Trust me, it makes even less sense when you are actually doing it. It seems like no matter what I do, I keep ending up here:When the place I am looking for is here:



Needless to say, I still don't have a bank account. Don't get me started on getting a cellphone. I had to go back 4 times, twice because my signature on two of the documents didn't match. In the end, they suggested that I place one document over the other, and trace the signature. Which I did, and in doing so invalidated the whole purpose of the signature. But, the bureaucro-saurus was satisfied.

-F. Seahorse

Streets of India

It's so hard to capture the smells and sounds of the streets of India but if you look at these photos and pretend you hear a variety of honking horns, smells of jasmine flowers, exhaust and a myriad of spices being sweat out of the body you're halfway there.

Mike won't tell you this himself but he has mastered the Indian head nod! It's really a treat to watch and honestly removes a layer of confusion from all basic interactions. It's the equivalent to knowing yes, no, yes-I-understand-you-but-no, and thank you in the local language.

Breakfast Words of Wisdom

And is it possible we haven't posted any food photos? Let's start with breakfast. This is one of the most common breakfasts in India; Idli (fermented and steamed rice lentil flying saucers), Vada (a savory fried donut) Coconut chutney and sambar (spicy soup). It's not for everyone but we dig it.

There I am at 7:30am, sitting in a cloud having morning chai and idli. What you can't see in the photo is the crowd of gangly teenage boys sharing our table . . . or the phrase printed on our Lipton chai cup: "When your outgo exceeds your income, then your upkeep is your downfall". Ah, India.

- S. Mangosteen and F. Seahorse

Nandi Hills

Sounds jolly, no? Nandi means bull but it really ought to be called Monkey Hills cause those lovable little mini humans were everywhere. Just a wild two hour bus ride out of the smog of Bangalore there is fresh air and lush gardens.





There were temples and blabla bla but let's get to the monkeys. People like monkeys as much as dogs and babies right? And there is no need to explain because their irresistible allure is obvious. Here is a SMALL sampling of the monkey photos I took. Can you believe blogger only allows you 6 photos per post. I'm going to need an entirely different post for breakfast!
- S. Mangosteen

Home Sweet Home

Why is Mike always making me travel ridiculous distances just to hang out with him? Let the 20 hours of flying (not including layovers) be a testament to just how far I'm willing to go!

See that lovely pink condo? That's home. And it's called "The Embassy", can you believe Mike didn't both to blog about that? It's actually massive, like a whole city block with really lush green grass, plants and trees throughout the courtyard. We have a yoga class every morning and veggie market twice a week just for the building. Outside its more like the other photo. If it were more socially acceptable I'd wear galoshes and a surgical mask as a prophylactic for pollution, red paan spit, dog poo and garbage:). A few more days and I won't even notice. I'll just smell the indescribable perfume of sweat, lime pickle, smoke and rose incense.

I'm discovering that being a personal chef sounds far less glamorous to Indians that it does at home. "Oh, you are a house wife?" Me: "No, I cook in other people's homes" The only logical conclusion after that is that I'm a servant. It's all very confusing. Mike also didn't mention that we have a 21 year old boy who lives in our apartment named Sagar (Anil got the boot) who makes our bed, washes the dishes, does the laundry and cleans. It's actually only weird in juxtaposition to the state of our apartment which is great for India but not something I would agree to pay money for in the US. And yet we have a house boy, like everyone in this building. It's just like that here.

Have you heard of eyebrow threading? It's starting to make it's way out of India. The other ends of those strings are in the stylists mouth. With a quick bob of the head she's ripping out your eyebrow hairs in some esthetically pleasing shape. It's not as painful as it sounds and makes for a fun afternoon adventure. Basically leaving the apartment is an adventure.

- S. Mangosteen

Outdoor Adventure Camp

As it turns out, India is a weird place. For example, I just ate a bean and spinach burrito at a restaurant near my apartment. When I say "bean", "spinach" and "burrito, I mean that only approximately. There was no spinach, though broccoli and onions were in the burrito. There were beans, but they were not IN the burrito, they were on the side. And what I thought were dollops of sour cream turned out in fact to be whipped cream. I realize that ordering Western food when abroad is generally a bad idea. I don't know what I was expecting. But I do know that I did not expect whipped cream.

To be fair, eating here has been great. Exhibit A: my dinner last night; 2 mangoes, and 6 mangosteens. At US prices that would be $20 worth of fruit, but here it cost me around $1.25. I also ate masala dosa for both lunch and dinner.

I am quickly finding out that Indian English is a little bit different than American English. This is probably because they picked up the language from the British. For example, a few weekends back I went on a trip organized by the Bangalore Mountaineering Club advertised as "Rock Climbing at Ramnagar", Ramnagar being a famous rock climbing destination. Below is a picture of me "rock climbing".

I know what you are going to say, "That's not rock climbing, that is you on a zipline." You would also probably say that I didn't do any rock climbing at all that day, and that walking for 20 minutes back to the bus is not "trekking". My response would be that you have a very US-centric view of what words mean. Maybe you should stop imposing your western views on the rest of the world.

- F. Seahorse