Paul in India

On Rain, and Affectionate Men

I have been in India for over a week now, and in Manipal for 5 days. Already, I have settled in to a great rhythm, and have started work.

Our accommodation is ‘basic’, which I am just getting used to, having never been to prison. There is no kitchen, and very little of anything else. The shower is cold, and the bathroom is bleak. There are six guys in a three bedroom apartment ( do the math ), which I was not expecting. Mercifully, we have air conditioning, as even in the rain it is very hot. To be honest though, I am really enjoying the minimalist lifestyle, although you have to very quickly let go of western hygeine conventions. There are no laundry amenities, so I have been hand washing my clothes, which is not nearly as much fun as I thought it would be.

My flat mates are all good guys, and although a lot of our humour is lost in translation, we seem to have a laugh together and there is a good atmosphere.

There are two Norwegians- Peter, a man so sweet natured and decent he reminds me of a pleasant and helpful robot. Ironically he is studying Mechatronics. Ole, a worried surfer from Trondheim, suffixes every thing we say with ‘ Guys, I don’t think that is a good idea’. He has a bizarre and dry sense of humour. After nearly every second thing that anyone says, I feel his steely blue eyes find mine from the far side of the room, and he breaks into a wide eyed and distressed nervous giggle. He is pretty funny.

Grant is a way-out thrill seeker from Seattle who came to India with his left arm smashed to hell after an accident involving extreme sports and a mountain. He is a really nice guy, and like most Americans, talks louder than everyone else. When we nearly get run over ( like, every day and stuff ), instead of trying to play it cool ( like I do ), Grant shouts ‘oh SHIT!‘, or ‘DAMN that was close!‘. Ehssan is from Cyprus, but originally from Iran. His father is a writer who was exiled from the country 5 years ago for his anti establishment views. Pretty cool I thought.

My room mate has just arrived. He is a silent Turk. I don’t really know a lot about him yet, but he seems ok. I must admit, one of the hardest things about adapting to being out here isn’t the weather or the food, but at 29 having to share such a small space with other people. I try to pretend that we’re in the army, or a small submarine. This doesn’t help at all. I really wasn’t expecting to share my room, much less with a peculiar brooding Ottoman. However, as a group, we have had a lot of fun so far, and they really are all decent blokes.

I finally got travellers sickness about two days ago ( I’m trying not to say Dehli-Belly), which was inevitable really. I have brought about 3 kilos of various medication with me, so I should pull through. I am more concerned about the graze on my knee- is this a porthole through which tropical fungi and viruses could give me blood poisoning? It does happen.

The monsoon has now arrived in all her glory. It rains now for much of the day, and it will rain over the next few weeks for days on end. At its heaviest, it has to be seen to be believed. Spray bounces off the ground about a foot high, and everyone walks around with their trousers rolled up and sandals, paddling through the inch of warm rain water that gathers on all the streets. Where the roads are not tarmac’d, red mud runs freely over every surface. It is a wonderful sight, but I am careful not to let any of it touch my knee.

The sound of this place is still amazing to me. Walking to work, the humid air is filled with the staccato of car horns, with a background of rolling thunder, like a Phil Spector nightmare. In Ireland, thunderstorms occur in the evening or afternoon, when the warm air rises. Here, there are thunderstorms at eight in the morning.

The people I have come across in India have been in the main friendly, generous, and very warm. However, like, like most places outside Ireland and the UK, I am sometimes startled by their occasional abruptness, although thoroughly enjoying it. This is a conversation I tried to have whilst trying to book a bus to a place called Hampi:

Hello, could you give me any information on buses that run from Bangalore to Hampi?
No.
Um… Is this.. this is the travel centre?
Yes.
I’m trying to get from Bangalore to Hampi and….
Impossible. This bus from Udupi only. Not Bangalore.
* Affects disarming smile and charming manner. Leans forward on counter*
Ok, ok, sorry. Can you give me some information about the bus form Udupi to Hampi?
It is a night bus.
Do you know how long it takes?
No.

Indian administration is truly perverse. They love forms. There are forms to fill in to say you will fill a form in, and forms to fill in to certify that it was you who filled the form in. In applying to come to India, my heart was broken with forms, and it is no different here. I went to get my Library card, and it took half an hour of signing forms, and showing my passport over and over again. They also like to work at a relaxed pace, which is fine when you don’t have the shits. It was all nearly too much for my poor weeping bowels, and I just about made it out of there.

Incidentally, I have found the most glorious toilet in India. The University toilet is clean and marbled, and has a great atmosphere- I have spent a lot of time there. However, like most toilets here, there is no bog roll. Instead, there is a small power hose, which I believe is intended to wash your left hand after you… well, you know. Indians do not eat with their left hand. However, as I am left handed, I took the power hose and guided its ministrations directly on to my ass, which seemed to do the trick. I have not the courage to ask if this is inappropriate, but going to the bathroom is now much more enjoyable.

Of all the wonderful people I have met here, the kindest, and most bodacious is my supervisor, Dr Thukaram. A complete ledge-bag. He is more concerned that I am having a good time and seeing India, than actually getting any work done. He is sending me to Bangalore next week for a field trip, but is very anxious that I spend a night in Mysore, and take a day to batter about. I am getting paid for this. From speaking to other interns, I am really, really lucky, and this more than makes up for the dodgy accommodation. Added to this, my project is really interesting, I am thoroughly enjoying it.

There is still grinding poverty here in Manipal, a relatively wealthy University town. My Da is always amazed at modern technology back home-everytime he sees an i-phone, he just shakes his head, and talks about the conditions his parents lived in in the Illies. Here, the trappings and gizmos of modern life co-exist with the practices and lifestyles of antiquity. I was getting some passport photos taken at a photo shop ( for a new sim card- I shit you not), when a little boy came in in his bare feet. His clothes were dirty and torn, and I thought he was a beggar, until he pulled out a USB stick, and asked to get some photos printed out.

One of the strangest things I have seen here, is the fact that a lot of men seem to walk around hand in hand. I really don’t think this is a gay thing, as it is ubiquitous, and I’m not sure how well homosexuality is tolerated in India. Plus, the young kids are very affectionate, and often have their arms round each other. I think this is just an open display of affection between two men, but I can’t work it out. I mean, they go as far as one man holding the others little finger. I have only got to this stage with a girl a few times. Very strange. Given how much we champion our open and liberal views in the West, I think this is amazing. I mean, I’m all for liberal behaviour, just as long as no one tries to hold my hand.