The Road to Shimla and Back

This is Post #1 of the remaining ones from India. Bear with me as I try to write up the rest of the trip (where do I start?) while also trying to keep up with my to-do list at the beginning of the new semester. I also promise to return to the last weeks in Nicaragua after finishing the India posts.

The trip to Shimla, the capital of the northern state of Himachal Pradesh and the primary destination for our school research trip, took more than 10 hours. We traveled in style for the first leg of the trip (4.5 hrs) in a first-class air-conditioned train car – our seats reclined; we were served tea, cereal, a vegetarian cutlet, and some fruit. I have learned that serving is not always done very efficiently here. One guy would first hand us each our tea cups, then another one would come by with the hot water. One would first give us our bowl of cereal and a second one would pour the hot milk. Sure makes for job generation. The second leg of the trip was far less comfortable but far more exciting. We took a toy (narrow-gauge) train from the city of Kalka that wound its way slowly up the mountainside, through a total of 103 tunnels in a little over 5.5 hours. Before we even boarded, I noticed the segregation – foreigners were directed towards one car, locals towards another. Our porters (who accosted us as soon as we exited the previous train) were very eager to put our luggage on board before we had even bought tickets. And only my classmate’s extremely firm and loud “No, stop!” cut short their crusade to hoist all of our luggage through one of the train windows. I think we boarded one minute short of the train leaving. Our car was filled with Brits going on a motorcycle tour of the northeastern part of the state. They had already taken up most of the space on the two-person benches (which in all honesty were not made to fit two people comfortably), so we had to squeeze next to some of them and try not to dwell too much on the fact that we would have to ride like that for more than five hours. As the train chugged along, the scenery that opened up definitely kept my mind off the uncomfortable seats. Small towns perched vertically on the mountainside; the air became fresher and cooler the longer we traveled; pine and other evergreen trees soon started appearing; and the sight of the railway tracks zigzagging up the mountain was certainly impressive. It was hard to believe that this was still India for it defied any and all images and descriptions of what I had ever thought to be India.

Shimla is located at an altitude of 2159 meters in the foothills of the Himalayas. At first sight, and in comparison to Delhi, the town seemed almost serene – the fresh air and greenery lent it a very different feel. The town is built vertically with roads winding their way between the different levels and series of stairs connecting them. Going on foot makes for a significant cardiovascular endeavor. The terrain also adds a tinge of scariness to driving (or being driven) on Shimla’s roads. Drivers break suddenly at sharp turns, overtake while honking wildly (to signal their approach to anyone coming from the opposite side around the bend), and are not too concerned about passengers’ proneness to motion sickness. The most amazing thing to me is that amidst all of this, pedestrians walk slowly and calmly on the side of the road (there are no sidewalks) and don’t move a muscle during all the honking taking place around them, while I would continually get startled. Often they don’t even move to the side for passing vehicles. Somehow they seem confident that drivers will look out for them (why or how I am still to find out).

Our goal while in Shimla was to talk to the Principal Secretary of Health for Himachal Pradesh and his staff and potentially visit some health centers and villages in more remote areas of the state. We did both the office and field visits and while I won’t get into the details of those (since I am not sure everyone is interested in my school project), I will try to note the things that struck me over the week spent in Himachal.

1. People are extremely welcoming. The feeling that people are trying to take advantage of you and potentially rip you off disappears once you leave the mainstream tourist trail. I didn’t get a sense of that once while we were in Shimla and the surrounding area. Himachal Pradesh is also one of the better off states in India – we didn’t see any beggars and the streets seemed much cleaner than most places in Delhi. Everyone we spoke with met us graciously, offered us tea multiple times (tea-drinking is actually an inseparable part of the meeting process and it would appear rude to refuse it although often times this meant that we would spend way more time than we had anticipated with a given group of people), and seemed to want to help us in any way possible. Women are especially sweet and gentle. Given that they often come second (see next section), they have this shy look about them, often averting their gaze downwards, but once you’ve caught their eye and smile, a genuine, friendly smile lights up their face.

2. Women are largely ignored. Very early into our meetings it became apparent that we would have to work hard to make ourselves heard and voice our opinions (and questions) during conversations. Everyone we met (mostly men) directed their attention to our professor (a man) and hardly even looked at us, the students (all women), let alone address questions our way. For a state that prides itself on its programs for female empowerment and raising the female-male sex ratio (side-note: because of the very strong traditional male preference in India, sex-based abortion is a large-scale problem here that the government is working hard to address and overcome), it was surprising to see such behavior. We had a couple of awkward (and somewhat amusing) situations in which our professor would wait for us to walk into a room first, while the Indians would wait to him to walk in first, which resulted in a lot of confusion. In the end, we just admitted defeat and waited for the men to walk in first. Even our interpreter, who for all intents and purposes was hired for all of us, addressed most questions to our professor and very soon referred to him as Sir Jeffrey while he never learned our names. This was both amusing and somewhat frustrating but given that there was little we could do to change it without appearing extremely rude, we simply ignored it for the rest of our trip.

3. Our every move was tracked. No matter where we disembarked, we were immediately recognized by people around us as foreigners and followed around (sometimes only by gazes, sometimes quite literally by crowds of children, who would start laughing hysterically if you looked back at them). Mostly we were stared at by men. And I don't mean a quick gaze or look-over. I mean full-on, very obvious staring. I still haven't quire figured out whether these were "sexual" stares or stares of curiosity given our white-ness. Given that culturally women are more modest and in generally do not stare at anyone, they would largely dismiss us (or steal furtive glances our way when they thought no-one was looking). Our interpreter was particularly “good” at following us around. He tracked our every move like a mother lioness, making sure we didn’t go too far astray. I guess he was only looking out for our wellbeing, but after a while this got slightly annoying. One evening as we decided to take a stroll in the town we were staying after dinner, he saw us leaving and quickly inquired, “Where are you going?” He did not follow us but he did wait for us in the yard of the hostel we were staying until we came back.

4. Lost in translation. It turns out that not as many people as I had thought speak English fluently, especially when you leave the bigger cities. Luckily, one of my classmates is Pakistani and her Urdu served us well among the Hindi-speaking population. But even with the people that do speak English, there were some misunderstandings. Like the housekeeper in Delhi, when people try to show deference and ask you something politely, it comes out sounding more like an order, “Sir, you come eat now.” “Go in, please.” “We go now, please, go in the car” (with an accompanying gesture). I couldn’t help feeling like a small child that was being told what to do (something I don’t particularly enjoy and never have, even as a child). Of course, I realized it wasn’t meant this way, but sometimes it was hard to ignore the tone regardless.

5. India is a very hierarchical society. To this day, caste and social status have a significant bearing on everyday life. Matrimonial classifieds are listed by caste. Higher-caste doctors in rural areas will not touch lower-caste patients (which makes you wonder how they actually treat them). Higher-status families have house staff (usually a driver, a housekeeper, a gardener, and a couple of guards). An even simpler example I noted at the Directorate of Health Services in Shimla was the fact that each of the staff we met with had their own assistant. In contrast to the Western world, however, this assistant would often stand outside his/her boss’s office and enter only when summoned by a buzzer. The buzzer button would be located somewhere on the superior’s desk. Being in India reminded me in a lot of ways of being in Zimbabwe. At the time we were living there (and I was too young to fully comprehend this at the time), whites were higher-status than blacks. They lived in bigger houses, with huge yards and house staff. Even we had a gardener. In contrast to people who have grown up in such hierarchical societies though, my family always felt somewhat awkward of being assigned such status power. I still feel extremely uncomfortable at the thought of having someone else “serve” me. Hence I uttered many more “thank you’s” and made eye contact more often to let people know my appreciation than seemed to be the norm in India. May be one gets used to it after a while and doesn’t even notice. I think it would take me a while to get fully accustomed to it though.

After a week in Shimla and the surrounding areas, we drove back to Delhi. Monkeys observed our winding descent from the side of the road. Big, colorful TATA trucks passed us by. Slowly, the air got warmer and the traffic heavier. Until we were engulfed by the craziness of Delhi once again.

Taste of Delhi

Day two in Delhi concluded. I think I have had an overload of impressions but perhaps not as many as I would have had had I not spent 2.5 months in Nicaragua. The level of poverty is very similar. But I noticed one big difference. The flies. In Nicaragua, no matter where you find yourself (in a city or the most remote area), people will keep flies away from their food. They cover plates, utensils, bottle necks, and glasses with napkins. They wave flies away almost continuously when they sell fruit or cooked food on the street. (Funnily enough, they have invented a simple tool for this - a plastic bag tied to the end of a stick. Works very well.) Well, people here are not at all careful about the flies. They are everywhere in some areas and they land on everything. But anyhow. That as more of a tangential remark. Delhi is quite a hectic place. I have learned several things so far:

1. Big trumps small. That seems to be the primary (and only) rule of driving here. That and the horn-blowing (more below). With the craziness of motorcycles, rickshaws, cars, trucks, and buses (add to that pedestrians and bicycles in some areas) on the roads, I am surprised I haven't seen any accidents yet. Two lanes often are improvised into four or even five lanes of traffic. But somehow magically, everyone knows exactly what to do, where to go, and how to react when driving between a bus and a rickshaw with a car forcing its way before them. Guess the rule works.

2. One hand on the horn. All drivers (whether taxi, rickshaw, car, truck ,or bus) seem to have one hand constantly on the horn and blow it intermittently. Similarly to Nicaragua, it is used to signal to others that you are approaching or passing them or are thinking of passing them (and probably a multitude of other things). As soon as a traffic light changes to green, the first thing that happens is almost everyone blowing their horn. "Here I come," it seems to say. Horn blowing is so ubiquitous that buses and trucks sometimes have the following words written on the back "Horn please." Well, now that you politely asked, don't mind if I do use my horn. Which leads me to another thought.

3. Indians' funny signs. So far I have seen the following: "Speed thrills but kills", "Say no to plastic bags" (posted randomly on the side of the road under a street sign), "Safe operators are smooth operators" (I guess this refers to construction workers since it was posted near construction but I love the pop music reference) and my favorite so far by a landslide: "Ladies are requested to remain seated through the performance" (Guess where? On the inside of a toilet stall door. Yes, the performance :) )


4. The guilt trip. Another major part of being a foreigner in India. Taxi and rickshaw drivers will always try to extract more from you than is the usual fare. I am not trying to be mean or make a generalized statement. This has been my experience here thus far. Out of the 7-8 taxi and rickshaw rides taken so far, only one driver didn't try to up the fare. There are several ways drivers do this. 1) They hide the meter under a towel. You always have to check that it is turned on at the start of your ride. 2) Even if they show you it is working, sometimes it does not move - they have to start it, which they sometimes "conveniently" forget to do. 3) If there is no meter or it isn't working, they will quote you a higher fare than you know you are supposed to pay. One of my classmates got charged 600 rupees for a ride that should have cost 100 at most (she didn't know that at the time). 4) You agree on an amount but once you get to your destination, they suddently quote you a different amount. Once I argued and told the driver that we know the fare should be X amount, he replied by saying, "You not a good madam." Yes, the guilt trip. And then you feel like an *&$hole for denying them the $1. It is not that I really care about the $1 or $2 they are trying to overcharge me, but to me it is the principle of the matter that counts. I would gladly give them that extra money if they just treat me cordially and get me to my destination. But blatantly lying and then pulling the guilt trip card just won't work. I know they don't do it out of spite or any malicious intent, but still.

5. 'I don't know' does not exist in the Indian vocabulary. Similarly to Indians' inability to say "No" is their inability to own up to the fact that they don't know something. Very dangerous when you are a first-timer in Delhi and asking for directions. Last night, our taxi driver couldn't find our street address so he stopped to ask. Well, it was more complicated than that. He didn't speak very good English, so we first had to get him to understand the address we were telling him. Also tough to do, because he would nod (or more correctly, wobble his head in typical Indian fashion), although it turned out he did not understand us. That barrier overcome, he had to explain to the people we stopped the address (which he kept forgetting). We had several night guards point us in what seemed to be the right direction, but our driver was quite unsure and kept stopping every 20-30 meters to ask someone else. We were finally on the right street and asked one final time, when the guy we asked told us (very authoritatively) that such an address did not exist. "But we were there last night," we argued. It was futile. Finally we just continued driving down the street and I recognized a landmark. From there, it was easy. As our hosts told us when we finally made it back, "The more they don't know, the more detailed directions people will give you." :) Guess I will watch out for that next time.

And other than that, we finally managed to do a little bit of sightseeing in Delhi. That was an experience in and of itself as upon leaving the Red Fort we were joined by one man who steadfastly followed us around and kept pointing out landmarks. He did this so well that in the end he spontaneosly turned into our private tour guide. At first, we weren't sure it was a good idea, but in the end after maneuvering the crowded streets of the various bazaars close to the Red Fort, having him around turned into a blessing. He took us to the mosque and the Jain Temple; showed us Silver and Wedding Street (the latter an explosion of colors); popped us into several fabric stores (which may give him a commission, but at that point buying a pashmina, which I would have regardless, seemed like an insignificant price to pay even if that were the case); and had us back at the Red Fort for the Light & Sound Show two hours later. We tipped him and surprisingly he was not unhappy with the amount we gave him.
The trip home was yet another adventure as we braved a bicycle rickshaw ride to a taxi stand after the Light & Sound show, which seemed close to suicidal on the crazy roads. Also, as we got dropped off at the "taxi stand", we realized it was not a taxi stand at all but a parking lot. Our driver had yet again misunderstood us (although he had nodded so emphatically that he would take us to "taxi stand".) We sighed. That's just how things go here. It is never simple. Of course, you make your way to your destination eventually, but how eventually can vary widely. After confirming that indeed there was no taxi stand there, several guys came to our "rescue". "Yes, madam?", "What do you need, madam?" Even simply saying that we needed a taxi caused some confusion.
"Where is the nearest taxi stand?"
"You looking for taxi, madam?"
"Yes, we need a taxi."
"Where is your taxi, madam?"
"We don't have a taxi yet. We need one."
"You told taxi to wait here, madam?"
"No, we didn't come by taxi."
(Looks of confusion at which we try to explain.)
"We need taxi, now."
"Oh, you need now taxi? No taxi here, madam."
"Ok, where then?"
"Taxi at taxi stand, madam."
"Great, where is the taxi stand?" (which, if you were paying attention, was the question we started out with)
It is hard not to get exasperated sometimes. But then you remember that things don't always work the way you are used to in other countries, and why should they? You breathe deeply and move on. And, in the end, you get home.

Good Morning, Delhi!

So, I have officially landed in Asia for the first time. As our Australian ex-pat host put it, "At the deep end." I had heard much about what India would be like but decided to try to come as impressionless and expectationless as possible in order to formulate my own opinion and not merely mirror what others have told me. But let me start at the beginning. The flight from Newark.
For a 13-hour flight it was pretty painless. I was surprised. We had our own entertainment system, with over 300 movies (and additionally, TV programs and music) to choose from. The middle seat next to me was empty. The only "disturbances" so to speak, included my pillow mysteriously disappearing after I had made a trip to the bathroom. This was topped only by my snacks (handed to us in order to survive the hours between dinner and breakfast) disappearing during the last hours of the flight (probably also during a trip to the bathroom, but I didn't realize it until some time later). Perhaps it was the young guy on the other side of the aisle or some random passer-by... I will never know. Nevertheless, my "Indian" experience began the moment I boarded the plane. We were offered Indian food as one of the options. Older generation Indians mulled about in a confused fashion trying to decipher their boarding cards and find their seats. My classmate sat one seat away from a gentleman who seemingly polite (he kept apologizing for making her get out of her seat when he needed to use the bathroom), ended up trying to put his feet onto her lap after taking up all of the middle seat between them. (She glared him down into keeping his distance.) I decided there was no better time than this one to watch a Bollywood movie. I didn't really enjoy it much but at least I can say I have seen one.
Then we landed at Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi. I stepped out into the heat and made my way to immigration. The officer didn't ask me anything. I noticed that his nameplate was handwritten with bubble block letters that were filled in pen. It was hard for me take him seriously after noticing this fact. Passport stamped, I moved on.
Our professor was supposed to meet us but he was nowhere to be seen. Then one of my classmates had the smart idea to look at the signs people were holding. Sure enough, our names were on one of them. We stepped outside and made our way to the car. I didn't notice the smog or smell that I had been warned multiple times about. Perhaps, I will today. The scene on the road also did not match what I had been told. I had pictured a madhouse of cars, rickshaws, people, bicycles, and cows. All I saw was quite a bit of traffic and a crazy way of driving. Not to say that the above isn't still coming, but those were my first impressions. Apparently, Delhi is not as smog-filled as it used to be. Our host told us that many of the buses and taxis have switched to natural gas for fuel, which apparently has made a big difference.
I woke up at 4:20 am. Not surprising given the time difference. I dozed on and off till about 8 am. As I got up, an eager Indian housekeeper ordered me to come have breakfast, "Madam, come have your breakfast now." Although I'm sure she didn't mean it that way, it sure sounded like an order and something I should not disagree with. So, I obediently went to have breakfast. Which brings me to something else I had been warned about and experienced already. Indians' inability to say "No". Apparently, this is not because they are trying to be mean, confuse you, or rip you off. They are just trying to save face. It seems inappropriate for them to refuse you anything. So when asking for directions they will assure you you are on the right track although you are not. They will tell you, they have something in stock when they do not. And so forth.
There is plenty of room for misunderstandings. This morning as our host left, she told us she would tell her driver that we may need him to drive us to the World Bank office at some point. Five minutes after she left, the eager housekeeper came over to tell us that the driver is going to the World Bank, now. When my classmate explained that we wouldn't need to go until later, she stubbornly stood her ground, "But driver is leaving now." In the end, all my classmate could do was shrug her shoulders.
And thus begins our Indian adventure.

Bye Nicaragua, Hello India

Yes, I am back from Nicaragua. I apologize for not having written in the last couple of weeks but travel made that hard. There are just too many impressions to share and I won't do them full justice if I don't devote enough time to them. Unfortunately, time is currently an issue, since I leave for India (on a school-related trip) today. I feel like I still need time to mull over everything I saw and experienced in Nicaragua, but won't be able to properly before being whisked off to a new country and a new continent, where I am sure I will be overwhelmed by a whole new set of impressions. I am not complaining though. I am sure it will all make sense and come together one of these days. And when it does, I promise to capture the highlights in writing.

Stay tuned.

Mini-Nicaragua in a .... dance performance

I was super excited to find out that the one night I would be in Managua (Saturday), there was a performance of their Ballet Folklorico Nicaragüense at the National Theatre. I was also very pleasantly surprised to see that the theatre was packed, people wore formal clothing, and the seats were super comfortable with enough leg room (extremely important for me with my height and something I didn't expect given that I tower over almost everyone here, including men). The performance included approximately 20 different dance sequences from the different regions in Nicaragua, all in bright, colorful costumes. At the end of the performance I also thought how well it exemplified Nicaragua and Nica traits:

- Patriotism: We all had to stand up and listen to the national anthem before the performance began (this is probably also at least partially due to the fact that the Sandinistas are currently in power, and I couldn't help but think back to Communist times in Bulgaria). A number of songs and a poetry recital glorified Nicaragua, and everyone in the audience clapped and cheered.

- Religious Faith: A performance that exemplifies Nicaraguan culture would not be complete without some religious references. The last "number" in the sequence was in honor of the Virgin and included the lowering of her image onto the stage from above. People in the audience sang along.

- Having a good time: I guess this is part of any culture's folklore, but I was still very impressed with how full of life, color, and energy the dances were. And although I am sure many in the audience had seen these types of dances multiple times, they still "ooo-ed" and "aah-ed" each time the dancers appeared in new costumes. It made me realize how proud they are of their cultural heritage and how different that seems to be from the way a lot of Bulgarians feel about theirs.

The highlight for me was a dance in which the women swirled and glided across the stage with big flat weave baskets on their heads (without holding onto or supporting said baskets). I thought, "Surely, those aren't real. They are probably made to look like baskets but are somehow fastened to their heads so they don't fall off." Well, as if in answer to my skepticism, at the end of the dance they proceeded to take the baskets off their heads and hold them in such a way as to show us the inside. They were real.

Sun Protection

Nicas are very careful when it comes to protecting themselves from the sun. Most men wear baseball caps, women frequently carry sun umbrellas, and people try to stay out of the sun during the hottest midday hours. So, I guess given this meticulousness regarding sun protection, I shouldn't have been at all surprised when the driver of the mini-bus I was in on Saturday whipped out a sweater sleeve (yes, a stand-alone black sweater sleeve) and proceeded to put it over his left arm (the one that would be exposed to the sun through the window). But I was. And I couldn't suppress a smile.