0.9 Rupees

Well, I wanted to get my 2-cents (0.9 rupees) in here since the title does include my name. First, though, I have to say that I am shocked and dismayed by the death of Steve Irwin, especially since he was killed while scuba diving! Can you imagine? - a stingray through the heart! But, man, of all the ways to go, you don't get much cooler than that! Although I hope my ultimate demise is in the distant future, I sure hope it is something groovy - maybe get eaten by a giant squid when I'm 92!
To Elizabeth's driving advice, I'd add my own. If a huge truck in front of you slams on the brakes, be cautious as you whip around to pass them on the left... you just might find yourself approaching the less fragrant side of a cow much faster than your two wheels can brake. I very nearly missed what would have been a tragic "rear-ending".
Also, I've travelled with so many tour groups on so many busses that I can't help but to stare and study everything I pass. I don't just glance at the temple facade, I try to peer inside and glimpse the priest and devotees. I often forget that I am on a motorcycle and this has caused some near misses and more than a couple wide-eyed looks from my wife on the scooter near me. We are in the final days of Ganesha Chawurti, a 10-day festival to venerate Ganesha. So, it is quite common to find myself in the middle of a darshan parade. This usually involves a flat-bed truck or even a farm tractor with a trailor hauling an 8-foot moulded clay image of Ganesha painted in bright pinks and reds. Generally, there are around a dozen exhuberant devotees of all generations aboard with drums and instruments and bells. Ganesha is adorned with fresh jasmine and marigolds and all the traffic slows to get a glimpse. The procession carries the group to lake where Ganesha is tossed into the water to remind the devotees of the emptiness of the idol and the pervasiveness of God's presence.
How could I possibly be attentive to my driving with all of that going on around me?!?

Looking my way

The other day, I e-mailed my sister-in-law Cathy and in that e-mail, I told her how strange it was to be stared at all the time, to have become a commodity. She wrote back and pointed out that she completely understood the dilemma, because of her daughter, Caylyn. Caylyn is the most precious little girl you'd ever dare meet, and she just happens to have Down's Syndrome. As with many Down's babies, Caylyn has a "recognizable facial appearance" , which makes her susceptible to stares. (As a side note, Caylyn is also battling Leukemia right now. Please visit her site and write lovely comments for her!)

This got me thinking about stares. I've had a few people ask me how people stare at me here. After Cathy's e-mail, I started paying attention to the different stares of which I was the object. There are the requisite, lustful stares that make my insides churn. Those were the ones I was expecting, but there are a plethora of reasons why people stare at me. First and foremost, I am a rarity. Bangalore is a city of 6 million, but there are only 15 thousand ex-pats here. Of those 15 thousand, many are of Indian descent. That means that less than .25% of the people here are white. Now I know that tourism may drive that number up, but I'm not going to the places tourists go. So I feel comfortable quoting that figure at you. I've put almost 300 km on my bike, and I've yet to see another white person driving, except when I'm with Brad. So it makes sense that people would take notice of me.

As I began taking notice of the messages that floated through the eyes of those who noticed me, I couldn't help but notice the people that I took notice of. There was the girl who had a full burka on but was with a man who was dressed like a Westerner. The contradiction of their clothes confused me. She was draped in black cloth, with only the tips of her fingers and toes and her lush brown eyes showing. Meanwhile, he had on a button down shirt that had the first few buttons open, baring his chest for all to see. I tried and tried to come up with a circumstance that would put these two together. Perhaps they were brother and sister? Or maybe they had met on the internet? It took a good five minutes for me to even consider that I was being a daft, ignorant American.

The other people that I stare at are white people. Now, I know this seems strange, but in a sea of brown, we are few and far between. If I'm with Brad, I'll tug on his arm and say "Honey, look! White people! Why do you think they're here?" I want to know the story of every white person I lay my eyes on. At the lab, there is an older gentleman who is British (I eavesdropped on him today) and I'm desperate to sit down and ask him what brought him to NCBS.

All of this reflection has changed my mind on being stared at. I was bothered at first. It seemed intrusive. But having turned my expanding lens toward my own behavior, I've tried to take the time to look at someone and infer why they're looking at me. If it's because I'm white, well, that's okay. I do my best to make eye contact, smile and then go my way. Don't get me wrong, there are the people who make me uncomfortable. There are the cars that do their best to drive just alongside me, honking in a weak attempt to get my attention. But for the most part, people are just as interested in me as I am in them. They want to know my story, what brought me to India. I'm entering into places where outsiders just don't go. And really, aren't I fortunate that I'm able to do that. I can't imagine a Bangalore where I would be prevented from going somewhere because of my skin or nationality.

And I have to challenge you to do the same. If you find yourself being gawped at, ask yourself why that person may be looking at you. And take note of the people you stare at. You may decide to be a whole more tolerant of the looks you get in life. Really, if you try really hard, you can look at it as a compliment. Someone is just interested in who you are and what you do. Personally, I can't ask for more than that.

The Official Board Smarty-Pants

And I mean that in the nicest possible way. Alison was kind enough to translate 50 km/hr into 31 m/hr. So thanks to her, and Alison, if you'd like your postcard, I'll need your address, please. Wow, I should totally hold monthly contests.

Driving like the locals

Yesterday was my first day at the lab. There isn't much to tell yet, as nothing of interest happened. I don't know yet what project I'll be working on; I won't until Monday. So I'll save the discussion of the lab until there is something legitimate to discuss.

I've now made the drive to the lab twice. The first was a trial run this past Monday. That was an adventure. I got lost both coming and going, which, if nothing else, ensured that I saw a bit more of Bangalore.

Driving here is a bit of an adventure. The best advice I can offer, after living in another country for three weeks, is that if you choose to drive, always drive like the locals. To a certain extent, I learned this lesson in Manhattan. If you behave like the locals, they can anticipate your movements and behave accordingly. It's usually the visitors who end up causing accidents, because their behavior is erratic, at least according to local custom.

Well, to drive like a Bangalorean, you have to be a bit daft. They use the horn to an obnoxious extent. At first, I thought it was out of rudeness, as in my life is more important, so get out of my way, punk! And while that is part of the it, it's also that the horn is used to notify other drivers of your relative location to them. If a driver is about to pass me, they'll honk on their horn, letting me know hey, man...here I am...please don't enter my space...It's taken some time for me to get used to this, and I always feel as if I'm being criticized.

The problem with the horn, however, is how often it is used to try and get my attention. For instance, yesterday I was at a light and the gentlemen next to me noticed that there was a white woman on a scooter. The driver proceeded to lay on the horn while his companion yelled out the window at me. I did my best to stay focused on my iPod (playing The Last Kiss soundtrack...a must if you're a fan of indie rock), but it's really hard to ignore a blaring horn. I have to admit that it makes me a bit nervous when I get that much attention on the road. Someone else decided they wanted to talk to me, while we were doing 50 km/hr down the road. (A postcard will go to the first person who converts that from km -> m, both for the reader and the humble writer of this blog. I'm too lazy to do it myself.) He pulled up next to me and started yelling at me as we were going down the road. I did my best to ignore him, but it's just so damned hard to do that.

With all of that being said, I've had some fantastic adventures on my bike. When I was coming home from my practice drive, I came to a suspension bridge, and wasn't sure whether I should go over it or under it. I decided that it would be fun to see the view from the top, so I went over. Of course, this was the wrong choice, and I ended up sitting in a gas station, looking at a map to try and figure out where I wanted to go. Two gentlemen, seeing my dilemma, came over and pointed me in the right direction. Well, I drove down the road and followed the crowd around the side of the suspension bridge. About 100 yards down the road, everyone turned off onto a dirt road. That couldn't be the way I wanted to go, so I continued on and quickly hit a dead end. So I turned around, thought of Brad, and decided that I should just go ahead and take the dirt road. What was the worst that could happen, I thought. Well, the dirt road became very narrow, filled with bumpy rocks and divets. The course was going slightly downhill and I saw that it made a quick right hand turn at the end. This seemed to be the right direction for me to go in, so I just kept on going. As soon as I turned, I saw where traffic was going: through a small tunnel, that wouldn't have been tall enough for me to walk through. It was only wide enough for one bike to pass through at a time, and I was at the end of the line from my side. I bucked up and drove through. Geez, it was so much fun! :) Everyone should take the time to go offroading in Bangalore. I eventually found my way back to Outer Ring Road and all the way home, but I have to say, I'm so glad that I got lost. I don't think I'll ever intentionally go back that way, because who knows what may happen the next time. But it was a local experience. No tourist would find there way there. I feel initiated into the fold. I'll never be a true Indian, but that trip has got to count for something. The only thing that may pull me back is a desire to take pictures of it, so I'll forever remember the shortcut tunnel that I found by getting hopelessly lost in Bangalore.

Good times...

You know it's bad when...

Now, I know I made a big show of inviting everyone here to join in our fantastic experience in India. And I've been thinking about writing, every day, mostly saying to myself when I have an internet connection at home, then, then, I will write something. Well, that blessed day has come, and the event that has pushed me to finally get out of bed and write something is my mother's nagging. That's right, my mom wrote and asked why we hadn't written anything and then proceeded to e-lecture me about how important this blog will be in 30 years. You gotta love my mom.

The thing is, I don't really know where to begin. I've been in India for almost three weeks now, and I've had loads of fantastic (and a few not so great) experiences. I've been stared at (thanks go to Chrissy for the prep on that) and helped (thank God for the broad use of English) by perfect strangers. I've had people assume things about me, both complimentary and horrid, because of my hair, eyes, nationality and style of dress. I've gotten into an accident (only a little one, Mom, it's okay) and driven for hours, finally knowing why people ride on motorcycles. (breeze rushing through your hair, connection to surroundings, etc.) As I wrote at Kristin's blog, I feel friendless, loveless and smelly.

Or at least I did. For two weeks solid, I wanted to go home. I wanted my mommy. I wanted to go to the store and be able to make banal conversation with the clerk behind the desk. But then something dawned on me. This is why I'm here. My husband and I decided that we wanted to live overseas in order to know the world, and ourselves, a little better. I want to go through the drama. I want to be scared, confused, frustrated and angry. And as my mother likes to remind me, I'm fiercely independent (NOT TELL ME WHAT TO DO!) and the idea of learning to survive in a culture with only my husband's brilliant input is thrilling.

So now it begins. Our big adventure. So far, the food has made me ill, so there's not much to report there. The apartment is mostly unfurnished, so the pictures will be bland and boring. I go tomorrow to see if I have a job that will keep my wandering mind entertained for two years. And I have the best husband in the world asleep a few feet away, just waiting to hold my hand and go through this with me. Care to join us?