An epidemic of "they"

Having now lived (for varying amount of time) in seven countries outside of the United States, I believe I am now somewhat qualified as an expert on the matter of Expat Culture. Expat Culture in London obviously looks somewhat different than Expat Culture in Namibia, and Expat Culture amongst lifers is also pretty different than Expat Culture amongst short-termer, but there are certain similarities. And one of these similarities--which I find particularly pronounced in India--is what I refer to as the epidemic of "they".

Here is what the epidemic of "they" is:

"They really don't know how to do good waiter service in this country."

"They are incredibly rude to their servants, and pretty much everyone else."

"They really take elections seriously here. It's very inspiring."

"They really only process directions one at a time. Like, if I tell my driver to pick up my daughter at school and then pick up the dry cleaning, he will go immediately to the dry-cleaners."

"They will always say no if that is the easiest answer for them. You have to really push them to see if they can do something."

"They are idiots. Total bureaucratic. form-filling, trying to drive me crazy idiots."

The examples above are all statements actually heard by me in the past few weeks. And as you can see, the epidemic of they is perhaps something akin to racism or nationalism--except not quite because the "they" in question is almost never the entirety of the impugned nation but rather some small sub-sect, like waiters, wealthy Indians, drivers, cashiers who refuse to exchange large bills for small bills, or Indian bureaucrats. (In fact, I admit that the last statement was mine because every interaction I've had here with a bureaucrat has turned me into a anti-bureaucratic bigot).

Only when the "they" is referring to some positive imputed quality (e.g., democratic fervor), are expats comfortable generalizing about the nation as a whole. But otherwise, I find that expats, who tend to be a liberal progressive bunch, are far too political correct to come out and say something negative about the host nation, generally. But, I can't helping feeling that sentiment is still there, in a gently understood metonymic way.

Of course, it's a lot harder to call out, especially because I personally think that these statements are often based on a frustrating truism about the country. Generally, India doesn't have such attentive wait staff as in the US and generally the bureaucrats are out to hassle me as much as possible (Seriously guys? You're holding up my tax-payer application because you don't believe that "Katherine Sara Barth" on my passport is the same person as "Kate Barth" on my work contract?)  But I also think that these statements ignore a perfectly understandable reason that may be behind such phenomenon. For example, is it possible that your driver/maid/whomever doesn't understand your "First do this, then do that" instructions because of a language barrier? Is it possible that Indian culture is to linger over meals for longer so it's actually more appropriate for wait staff to be hands-off? Is it possible that, if Katherine Sara Barth and Kate Barth do turn out to be separate people, and on of them is a terrorist, that whoever stamped my application will be thrown in a dark pit for all of eternity?

I really don't know the answer to these questions, and especially for the shorter term expats, I suspect they don't either. And maybe the epidemic of "they" shouldn't bother me so much as it really is just processing of culture shock via communal bitching. 

 

But still, there's just something about it that feels a leeettle bit uncomfortable . . . .

  

Human tables, blonds preferred

Last night, at our weekly "ladies night" drinks one of my friends--a pretty blond--confided in the group that she's concerned she might not be able to stay in Delhi for much longer. "I've been volunteering at this organization and burning through my savings," she said. "They'd like to offer me a position, but the problem is the visa."

Ah yes, the visa indeed. See, India has a somewhat notorious two-tiered visa system. In order to stay here on an NGO-employee visa, a foreigner must earn less than 10,000 rupees (USD $170) a month. While many poor Indians do, in fact, subsist on 10,000 rupees a month that would be a pretty hard trick for a foreigner to pull-off. But, in order to stay here on a regular work visa, the foreigner must earn more than USD $25,000 a year and NGOs simply do not have that kind of money to pay employees.

So what ends up happening is one of the following: (a) the foreigner arrives on an NGO visa and discretely gets paid some extra money under the the table or (b) the foreigner arrives on an NGO visa and then burns through her savings. As my friend had already burned through her savings, however, option (b) wasn't really an option. And as the organization she works for is very concerned with the integrity of their books (because they're very concerned with the government trying to shut them down), option (a) didn't seem to be plausible either.

(As a side note, one of my other friends whose worked in the Indian NGO sector for a few years is convinced that this relatively new two-tiered structure is an attempt by the government to stifle civil society by depriving NGOs of their inflows of foreign aid workers. I suggested, perhaps, that the government was rather trying to encourage the hiring of Indian employees instead, but my friend is certain the impetus was more nefarious. For the record, I'm actually here on a translator's visa (given for my work in Spanish), so I was able to bypass the above salary requirements.)

Anyway, as we bemoaned my friend's fate, my Italian friend piped up. "Well," she said. "You can always be a human table. That's what my friend Natalie does for money and she earns like 7000 rupees for three hours work. Kate, you could do it too--she says they prefer blonds so they'd definitely take you both!"

7000 rupees (or, about USD $120) for three hours of work is a phenomenal amount of money here so naturally our curiosity was piqued by this intriguing job description. (And naturally, the jokes started flying: "Is 'human table', the Hindi slang for 'Giver of Blow Jobs'?")

But my Italian friend insisted that the job was above board--more or less. "Wealthy Indians will pay quite a lot of have foreign women at their big events: weddings, birthday parties, etc." she said. "It's not prostitution at all--actually, the men can't even get close enough to touch you! You're like a kind of bartender, see. Except they put you standing in the middle of a circular table and dress you up with a table cloth so you literally become a human table. And then you serve the drinks!"

Well, while this is a fairly hilarious image, the implications of this are actually awful, right? It means that some rich Indians are literally turning foreign women into objects of furniture in order to show off their wealth and power to their friends. This is, of course,  not only incredibly demeaning to women generally to treat them as furniture, but also is a wretched crystallization of the idea that an attractive foreign women is a status symbol, while local Indian women are not. Gross, gross, gross.

But, well-paid. And word on the street is that my friend who, ironically, is volunteering with a women's rights organization, is seriously considering human tabling as a way to pay the bills if she can't supplement her NGO visa any other way. But I'm pretty sure I'll give this one a pass. 

Postscript: I actually came across this article written by a human table in India this morning (which is where I got the photo from)! So apropos.

Recycling and momos

There is no formal recycling program in Delhi, but nothing goes to waste. This is because poverty is a much greater recycling motivator than the good intentions of the environmentally-conscious.  In every dumpster in this city there is a group of children and/or adults who pick through the trash to save anything that might be in any way salvageable. Certainly, this is true for the dumpster at the end of my street (pictured below) which, I imagine, as a dumpster in a wealthy part of Delhi, must be quite coveted real estate; there are always 4-5 guys (all men) already there in the mornings when I leave my house around 7:45am. 

Delhi-wallahs are, in general, quite ingenious when it comes to recycling and reducing waste. Behold, for example, this snack I picked up from a street vendor last weekend.

So, you're probably all wondering why I picked up a bag of chili-flavored chips and a bag of some ketchup for a snack right? Well, the bag spills its secrets below:

Ta da! It's a plate of momos, which are what Indians call dumplings. (Well, if we're going to get technical about it, it's what Indian's call baozi, not jiaozi--which is what Americans refer to when we speak of dumplings. Booyah! Don't say I didn't learn nothing from living in Beijing for a couple of months!)

These "take-away" momos were carefully wrapped in a recycled potato-chip bag (don't worry, it looked clean as new), with the accompanying chile sauce being delivered in a teeny plastic bag). Compare this with your average Chinese delivery box in the USA and you'll see it's quite an efficient use of resources.

And, for those who were wondering, the momos were pretty good, but not great. A bit too salty for my taste, honestly. 

The 10 Commandments of Delhi

10. Thou shalt not drink the tap-water.

9. Thou shalt bargain.

8. Thou shalt not overeat. (Ok, well, only once or twice a week)

7. Though shall not covet thy neighbor's scarf.

6. Thou shalt not reveal thoust's knees.

5. Thou shalt check spice levels before taking a big bite.

4. Thou shalt join in Bollywood-style dance parties, without irony.

3. Thou shalt not take the name of the air conditioning gods in vain.

2.Thou shalt tip hassle-less autorickshaw drivers well.

1. Thou shalt hydrate.

Bindis

This is what happens when you let an aspiring Indian make-up artist get near you with an eyeliner pen and some rhinestones.

Dramatic, yes, but perhaps not quite the look for me. My friend, who is a doctor by day, amateur makeup artist by night, certainly had a lot of fun glitzing up his models for an orange-themed party. And I guess I'd be lying if I said we didn't have a lot of fun getting bindi-ed up too!

Contents of a Delhi purse

I thought it might be interesting for you all to see what I schlep along with my every day in my purse--my Delhi survival kit, as it were. The above pictured items of course aren't the only things in my big bag--but they're the things that come with be everywhere.

My wallet. Normally I roll with somewhere between $15-$30 bucks on me (which is like the price of a crazy expensive meal or 15-30 cheap meals). Anything more than that and I figure the vendor will be sophisticated enough to take a credit card. But I always make sure that I carry smaller bills on me to give to the rickshaw drivers.

My water bottle. It's 113 degrees out there, folks. Hydration is key!

My phone (not pictured). This is the number one item I must have with me at all times. In addition to the very convenient phone and camera uses of my phone, it also serves as a safety net for me. In particular, googlemaps allows me to track my cab drivers (you know, to make sure they're not trying to take me off route to some sketchy area), uber allows me to call a safe ride home at night--which has proven a lifesaver more than once, and zomato gives me reviews of nearby restaurants so I can chose one with a "high" hygiene standard. I have literally cancelled nights out before when I realized I didn't have my phone on me.

Bug spray. I went out one night without bug spray to a roof deck party and got 27 (yes, I counted) bug bites on my feet and legs. And with those little bastards carrying around dengue and malaria, bug protection here is no joke. I now put it on every evening before I leave the office. But note, that I do not carry around sunblock. This is because, with the crazy heat I actually rarely spend more than a few seconds in the sun and, even in March when it was cooler out, I noticed that the blanket of pollution encases Delhi did have one good side effect--no tanning!

Sunglasses. I do however carry my sunglasses everywhere because even in the shade that Indian sun is blinding!

Sweat rag. Yup, totally necessary. Changed daily.

First aid kit. Including my inhaler (because, pollution), cough drops (because, pollution), allergy pills (because, internationally, cats are out to kill me), band-aids (mainly for blisters, socks are too hot for this weather), and pepto bismal (because, of course).

Pollution mask. For when I'm stuck in traffic in an open-air auto rickshaw. 

 

My keys on my I heart NYC keychain. Cause I'm still Katie from the block.

Pepper Spray. Which looks so much like some cutesy perfume bottle I had to label it "Pepper" to prevent myself from accidentally macing myself sometime in the future. If I'm ever walking around in a sketchy area I take this out and put it in my pocket for easy access. BUT DON'T WORRY, PARENTS, THERE'S BEEN NOTHING BUT SMOOTH SAILING SO FAR--I'M BEING CAREFUL.

Little black book. To write down all of the numbers of my Indian lovers. I kid, I kid--my love life is sadly reduced to Skype calls these days. But my LBB is very useful for writing down addresses to show cabbies that might not speak English and other assorted things.

Tissues. Because more often than not the bathrooms are not well-stocked with toilet paper.

Scarf. In case I find myself in a more conservative part of Delhi, wanting to visit a mosque, or under frigid air-conditioning.  

 

Hand-sanitizer. For oh, so many reasons. 

Beauty in the decay

Many buildings in Delhi are crumbling or decaying--but that grittiness can lend itself to a certain kind of loveliness. For your viewing pleasure, here are two doorways I came across recently that I thought were quite elegant in their own ways.

(Especially check out the carved peacock above the doorway below--isn't it grand?)

 

I wonder what "418" refers to. The building  number or . . . ?