Paul in India

Work

After two weeks at sea, my digestive system seems to be back on dry ground ( well, not quite dry- more like its paddling on lisfannon beach up to its ankles with its jeans rolled up. But much better), my sweating is back to normal, and my toenails are a healthier sheen than at any time previous. So, it was with a spring in my step that I set out for my first day in work in Bangalore this morning. This was as good as the day got. I was due to meet a friend of my supervisor’s in Bangalore University this morning. Unfortunately, there are a few Universities in Bangalore, and I didn’t know which one I was supposed to be in. I tried calling my professor a few times over the weekend, but he was unable to help much, and was a little disinterested ( a recently recurring theme), so I went to the largest University, about 6km out of town, where my professor ‘thought’ his mate worked. I jumped in an auto, and after an abortive attempt to haggle, agreed a price. ( My skills with haggling have come a long way. On arriving at Bangalore on Friday night, I insisted to the taxi man that he put on his meter, as is advised in my lonely planet. He looked hurt and said ‘Meter go round’ and made an imaginary circle in the air with his finger. I stood firm, and said, ‘Boss, meter’ [trying to act experienced yet warm, like Michael Palin]. At this point, two of his friends put their heads into the taxi, and said, ‘Meter go round’; all three now making circles in the air. Realising that they had me where they wanted me [I didn’t know what they were on about], I aquiesced and bent over to the inflated price he was asking to take me the few yards to my hotel ).

The driver sped through the city, but it was still a 30 minute trip in rush hour traffic. He dropped me at the vast, sprawling, closed, deserted campus, where I wandered around by myself for nearly an hour. It was mostly shut down for the summer. After practically breaking in to the Geology department to use the bathroom ( the tide came in at Lisfannon pretty quickly), I finally came across someone, who was able to tell me that the guy I was looking for worked at a different University, in the city centre, not far from my hotel as it goes. He was good enough to get me an auto, make sure the meter was on, and give the driver directions. With the meter running, it was a slower 50 minute journey back into town with no traffic, but still worked out a lot cheaper. I am learning.

I finally got there at about half ten, and had my excuses ready, but found that Dr Satheesh wasn’t in yet. I waited outside for a while, and checked again, with the lovely receptionist. No joy. A half hour later? Na. How about now? No? At One o’ clock she invited me inside. ‘You shouldn’t sit out there you know. There are snakes’. ‘Snakes?!‘ I said. ‘Do they bite?‘ ‘Yes’, she said, ‘they are snakes’. I spent the afternoon waiting inside (As I left for lunch, I turned and looked at the building, emblazoned with the legend ‘Centre for Atmospheric and Oceanic Research’, shortened to the acronym ‘CAOS’).

It turned out that Dr Satheesh’s brother is ill, and he didn’t come in all day. Suddenly, I realised I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing, so I called my supervisor Dr Thukaram to tell him of the developments. ‘What do we do now Paul?‘ he asked me. For f…. To be fair though, the department were really helpful, and are getting me set up tomorrow. I think it is more a reflection on my Supervisor, a seemingly benevolent man, but less excited by my presence in India than Swine flu’s.

I really like Bangalore. The guide books say there is not a lot here, but it is a nice city to be in. The name means ‘City of boiled beans’, and it is not known for glamour. However, it is a smaller, more manageable version of Mumbai, with some of the madness, but much easier to get around. It is quite home-like in a sense. There is a Richmond centre, a Racecourse road, and even a Shanti (Sadly, there is no Shoe-Zone, Raymonds or Owens’s). I went for a walk yesterday and got completely lost. As I got further and further into what seemed like a dodgier part of town, the people became friendlier and friendlier, and more helpful, although none of them had heard of Tipu Sultans palace. Haven’t they read their Lonely Planet?

On Saturday I went to a youth football match in the state stadium, not far from here. I was sitting next to a guy who was telling me about the teams, and was very keen to know what I thought of the standard. ‘That number 15 is handy’ I said, ‘but that Kerala team are shocking. That keeper should have come out, and that centre half needs chased’ ( with thanks to Deano ). It turns out he was scouting for the National set up, and was only an ex bleeding international. Well, at least he thought so; he was less forthcoming on the number of caps he’d won. He called himself Thomas, was about 35 and played centre half (Cliffs and Brendy will get to the bottom of this, I thought to myself).  A lot of people did know him though, and he carried a lot of clout. He sneaked us out of a side gate at half time for a cup of tea, which is so sweet in India, they sometimes drink it as a shot. We drank, (to India, no less), talked about football, and went back inside, with people smiling at him, and glaring at me. At the start of the second half he picked up his notebooks, wished me well, and left. I was tempted to follow him, to see if he tried to convince anyone he used to swim for Belgium.

On Sunday morning, I decided to go for a stroll to a bookshop, buy a book, and read it in the sun at a coffee shop. I had bought an India cricket top on Saturday, and decided to wear it. I had a bad feeling about this, but couldn’t place it, and since it was my only clean top, I stepped out feeling invincible. As I walked into the crowded market area, I realised it had the effect of pouring petrol on a flaming western tourist. As if people needed an excuse to single me out. I was barely able to walk five yards without wooden snakes, drums, boxes and bangles being pressed into my face with people patting me on the back saying ‘India, India!!‘. It was unbelievable. Being followed is a terrible feeling, and makes you edgy, but I have gotten used to it here, as people know that sometimes you will eventually give in and buy something. I stopped for a second to get my bearings and realised that my own personal circus was behind me. I looked up to see the taxi driver whom I had made eye contact with three streets back cerb crawling alongside me, shouting ‘I wait, I wait sir, I take you back!‘. I sat down to have a coffee, contemplating walking a different way home. I actually wanted to buy some stuff, but I have become so defensive, if someone came up and offered me eternal life, I would still tell them to fuck off. I feel terrible though- in Ireland, everyone is worthy of politeness, and no one should be dismissed. However if you smile, or engage, or show any weakness, you just will not get away from the hardened core, who have been selling things to fools for centuries. I am able for it, but that’s not to say it comes naturally to me. I wish they understood that my life in India has to fit into a bag, and I have no room for a new hat. The best was when a little kid started running along side me asking to shine my shoes. Come on wee man, I’m wearing sandals!

I had to run this Gauntlet three times, after forgetting something in the coffee shop and going back, and I jumped in the taxi ( who had waited ) home. I was exhausted, and I had only gone for a coffee. On Sunday night, I went to the pictures ( by myself, yeah, so what. It can be cool to do that you know), to see ‘NewYork’ the latest bollywood release. As it’s set in New York, and due to its title (New York), I had hoped it would be in English. However, unlike the ads, the entire thing was in Hindi, with no subtitles. I sat through it though, and was able to follow along for most of it. The place was rammed- I had to book my ticket a day in advance. There was a bit of a crush on the way in, even though we all had our seat numbers. One thing I’m getting used to is that there are no ‘queues’ here. Its just a concept they don’t subscribe to. The scene at the cinema last night:

Four boisterous young men with their girlfriends push to the front of the group of families waiting to see the film.
‘Hey’
The boys quieten down and turn around. In a dark corner a figure with skinny legs and a plump face is clutching a small coke and a small popcorn.
‘There’s a queue. You big bloody dickheads’. *

There is no point in getting wound up however, as its just not rude here to skip the queue, since queues don’t seem to exist. It has happened me so many times now. It is similar to car horn beeping- if I was driving here, I would have had an aneurysm by now with impotent road rage. But when they honk, it can just mean, I’m turning left, or, I’m turning right, or, I’m speeding up, or I’m slowing down, or simply, I’m in a car. Since they don’t use mirrors, indicators or break lights, it actually works. Its like driving by sonar. I haven’t seen one accident yet ( Ok, I did see a motorbike burst dramatically into flames shortly AFTER an accident, but I’m trying to suppress this memory to make a point) .These and a million other things constitute what I think is called culture shock. After three weeks, I’m still getting it every day.

Crossing the road here is just madness. At the start, I thought I was missing something, so I watched for a while for a break in the traffic. There wasn’t one. There is no ebb; just a flow, of noisy, crazy, polluting traffic six cars across, all fluidly changing lanes. When you see this, your heart sinks in realisation that David Cameron cycling to work maybe hasn’t made that much difference after all. The only way to cross the road is to place your body ( soul, hopes, memories) in front of an oncoming vehicle, and will it to stop. When this happens, you go on to the next one, hoping its not a bus. Which procession eventually gets you to the far side in one piece. Its best done slowly, not like my first attempts, where I leapt across like a heavily laden Ballerina with cruciate ligament damage. On my way home from work today, I watched a woman walk HEAD FIRST into six lanes of traffic in the middle of the road for a good 200 yards. I have never seen anything like it. I have seen one pedestrian crossing here, but the ‘man’ was fixed firmly on ‘red’ and didn’t change for the length of time I stood there. Good advice.

*Didn’t actually happen