First blog post.
For those of you who weren’t following the visa debacle,
here’s a brief overview of the important bits:
I was supposed to come to India a month ago, but my visa was
denied. I went to the consulate in San Francisco where I was told, in more
words, to go away and not come back. I hung out in San Francisco for the month
until I was allowed to re-apply, and then re-applied, got the visa, and
promptly flew out two days later.
Highlights from San Francisco include martinis, making
tentative plans to live in San Francisco at some point in the future, SF Pride,
a crabby British lady who was also staying in the apartment where I was
couchsurfing, and a vacuum cleaner that smells like parmesan cheese when you
run it (this I discovered this when the lady seemed to think I was
housecleaning service). Generally a successful way to spend the month (even if
I wasn’t allowed into India at the time).
The flights here all went well, except for the fleece I left
on one of the planes. Good thing I shouldn’t actually need it here. Somehow I
managed to get a free seat next to me on two of my three flights. The man
sitting next to me between Hong Kong and Chennai, though, was a little odd. He
seemed like a perfectly friendly, harmless man; my intuition was that he seemed
like a good person. Buena onda, if you will. Well, after a short conversation
and some excellent airplane saag paneer, I decidedly started to sleep, and he
decided I needed help, and gently but firmly put one of his hands over my eye
mask, as if he was holding a washcloth to my forehead. Turns out it was touch
therapy, and apparently he worked (or so he said). Whether or not the therapy
was for him or for me, I don’t know. But, again, he didn’t seem like a creeper,
and I still got to sleep, so no harm no foul. After I borrowed his pen later to
fill out immigration stuffs, he had me keep it “to remember him by” and I
thought to myself, “I will forever remember you as the man who touched me on
the plane”. Then, as I realized how that thought sounded out loud, it
simultaneously became clear to me that I had just ensured that that title would
be cemented in my brain for the indefinite future. I guess I must be traveling
again, no?
Before I came, everyone I talked to had prepared me for
India. Not just India, but India. “Be
prepared for crowds,” they had told me. Not just crowds, but a certain lack of
personal space that apparently unique to these local norms. I was referred to
books that described the near-apocalyptic reaction that occurs when you step off
the plane in India. I was told that I should be prepared for indescribable
poverty. True, I may have lived in the slum in Kenya, but this is India we’re talking about. Here there is
Indian Poverty.
So, I was prepared. When I stepped off of the plane in
Chennai, I expected some sort of “pow”. It didn’t come. Then again, it was also
1:30 am. Perhaps this Indian assault on your senses only occurs between certain
hours of the day. Maybe it’s asleep right now, along with any sensible person
on this side of the world. During my brief jaunt outside between customs and
re-entering the airport, I saw a few dogs, smelled a few piles of trash, heard
a few beeping horns from a nearby traffic circle. I saw plenty of color and
sequins in the small crowd waiting for arriving friends and family, but nothing
too overwhelming.
Considering my brief intro to India that had been Chennai in
the wee hours of the morning, I imagined Hyderabad would be a mad-house by the
time I arrived at 7:30 the next morning. I was wrong. In stark contrast to the
smelly, dirty, unkempt Chennai airport, Hyderabad’s airport might just be nicer
than DIA. I don’t know… I can get over Denver’s lack of tropical beauty, but
surely we have at least one fountain to match Hyderabad, don’t we? The gorgeous
airport again postponed the India
that I was sure to find waiting for me just outside. On my way out, I was
offered a cab, who tried to charge me three times what I was told my maximum
accepted price should be (as a white foreigner, mind you). I laughed and told
them what I would pay, they told me that for a small car, I could pay slightly
less, I gave my response again, and they let me move on. They were perfectly
content to wait for the next foreigner to pay them exorbitant prices, and let
me go quite calmly, even wishing me well. Even outside, nobody tried to grab my
bags from my hands, nobody pushed me around, and within two minutes I found
someone willing to take me for my requested price. Had I made it to the right
country? Surely the India everyone
else had visited must be some other place.
As it turns out, Hyderabad’s airport is located a few
kilometers outside of the city, so it took us a while to get into the thick of
things. On the way to my flat, I saw a few people defecating on the side of the
streets, but they did so in a subtle, appropriate (if such a thing is possible)
sort of way. I saw crazy Hindu “tiny temples” as well, but the only thing that
really woke me up to where I was was when my cab nearly got smushed between two
giant busses. Adrenaline pumping through my veins, I thought of that bit in
Star Wars where they’re in some trash chute that’s about two centimeters away
from crushing them. I think they had more space than my cab did at that moment.
We arrived at my posh little (by which I mean really huge)
apartment in Banjara Hills, the nicest part of the city. I share the flat with
another American, Laura, and three Indian girls, Sneha, Ritika, and my
roommate, Tanu. Turns out they’re all great. As in really, truly excellent.
And, because I arrived after everyone else, I even got to miss out on part of
the fun of all the logistical crap that goes into setting up an apartment
through at least 4 different levels of authority and management. By the time I
got there, I already had a bed on the way (sort of), a semi-automatic washing machine
on the way, and a cupboard full of dhal, curry powder, and any sort of
masala-related spice you can think of. Not bad for arrival day. Of course, nothing actually works,
everyone seems to want more money, and nothing can really get coordinated, but
at least it’s all on its way to being together, in theory.
I spent a good hour and a half at a cyber café (no way in
hell our internet will be working anytime in the next week, at this rate),
trying to fill out a residency form (because clearly the Indian government
needs me to answer all the same questions yet AGAIN and then make an
appointment to give them all kinds of crazy, obscure documents that won’t seem
to load on any computer), when I realized that I had left my passport at the
flat. I found a phone, called home, and had a flatmate search through my things
and read me all my visa information, only to finish filling out this form and
find out that I had taken too long. Instead of submitting the form, it had
reloaded.
My wonderful flatmates then took me to get a phone, which we
finally purchased from the 14th shop we visited. No joke. In order
to get a SIM though, I need to submit another 8 obscure documents to someone,
along with 4 passport photos. Good thing I had to go get more photos taken for
all my other forms, anyway.
Early to bed, and awake at 5:00 a.m. for the elaborate call to
prayer for Ramazan from the mosque that neighbors our building. But, no
complaints; my bed was delivered safely (though they confirmed that I was
supposed to have arrived a month ago – does this mean that if they knew I’d be
here now, I wouldn’t have a bed for a while?), I slept through the night, and
most of these strange, random hurdles seem quite do-able. This was my day.
Today was a tour with many of the other fellows, which was
just about what you’d expect from a lot of foreigners all put into one place
and sheparded around. Everyone seems pretty nice, worldly, smart, etc. Generally
a good crowd.
I have appropriate clothes to wear, I no longer live in a
backpack, and I get to spend my time in an awesome place with awesome people. I’ve
decided I’m going to try to learn Hindi because I might actually be able to use
it outside of Andhra Pradesh, and it seems to have a lot of words in common
with Swahili. Moreover, all that practice learning to count in Farsi at the
King Soopers deli counter will contribute as well! Telugu, the local language,
may or may not happen, but it makes me smile every time I see it written
somewhere, because it’s always so loopy and boisterous that they make me think
of boba tea.
That’s enough for now, I think, but I’ll try to post again
at some point in the near future. My goal is to surpass my
3-blog-posts-per-7-months record that I made in Kenya. Hopefully that actually happens this time.
