My Quintessential South Asian Moment

 We’ve all seen Slumdog Millionaire right? If you answered no to that question, go watch it right this instant because it is incredibly accurate pertaining to life in South Asia.  But strangely enough, since being here, I hadn’t experienced anything I could call my quintessential South Asian moment… until last week.

The moment I stepped foot on the bus I knew… I knew I would soon be writing a blog post for what I was experiencing was just too good.

Let me provide you with a context for the story.

It is festival season in my city. But I don’t just mean that a couple people get together and celebrate their religion with family and friends. This is the largest celebration for this particular Goddess in the country (and this country is a pretty big country).

This is not a thanksgiving parade. This is a city of 15 million people doubling in size, marching, dancing and singing in the streets for five straight days. This is not residential neighborhood tastefully decorating their houses for Christmas. This is an entire city wrapped in flashing, dangling and sparkling lights. This is not a family going trick-or-treating. This is an entire population of people throwing money, paint, flowers and gifts at idols that have popped up on every corner and in every alleyway.

For reals. It is INSANE.

Ok that is your context. So now imagine I am getting on a bus, literally days before this festival starts. It is late, I am tired and all the autos and taxi’s are speeding up once they see my skin color. I hate being a silly white girl.

Then I see it. A mob of people sprinting after a bus that is already so packed that limbs are dangling out of every crevice. There is man clinging to the outside , yelling 

RUBY RUBY RUBY…

Crap, that’s my bus.

But instead of calmly and rationally assessing the situation, noting that other buses are soon to follow, I simply turn around and join in, running like a crazy person.  I even started waving my arms up and down and jumping like everyone else as if it would make the slightest difference.

But then, all of a sudden, I kid you not, a hand reaches down and grabs me as the bus is still moving! This man picks me up, shoves people into the bus as if he was shoving clothes into a suitcase that wouldn’t zip, and places me down in the precarious position of one foot on some sort of hard surface, one finger barely grabbing onto a pool and every other part of my body dogging oncoming traffic.

The bus jerks to a stop. Everyone topples onto each other. People may or may not have died. And I jump out of the way as hoards of people start piling off, literally climbing over each other in self-preservation, gasping for air.

But this is not my stop so I climb back on.  This is where it gets really fun.

Since there are now “vacant spots” I don’t get the luxury of hanging off the outside. I am pushed farther and farther back into the abyss of bodies, limbs, purses, and who knows what. Day turns into night and air becomes a precious commodity. Somehow I make my way over to a seat, where a woman has motioned that she will soon be leaving. As she gets up, a nice man wards off the wolves until I make it safely down.

But the seat next to me is vacant as well and I brace myself for the fight that is surely to follow. Curiously, amidst the chaos of men and women literally struggling over the seat, I see this little head pop up between the mass of legs. This tiny hand grabs the seat cover. And slyly a child slips onto the chair. What a boss. The girl smiles at me, beaming for she knows she outsmarted everyone. Her mom is the second to break through the wall of human bodies and proceeds to instruct her daughter to sit on my lap as a means of making room.  The little girl makes herself comfortable and turns around, showing this toothy grin as if we’ve been friends forever.

But alas my stop has come, or so I think because I cant really see. Literally anxiety starts creeping up.  There is no freaking way I am getting out of this death trap. I am doomed.

There is only one thing to do. Make a scene.

Hahah I don’t know how to describe this next part because you will think I am either lying or crazy. Well unfortunately it is neither (well it may have been a little crazy, but desperate times call for desperate measures.)

So I decide to stand up, on top of my seat, and announce to the bus that I am getting off and everyone better move or prepare to be squashed. Of course to everyone I am the teacher from Charlie Brown and all they see is a crazy white woman mumbling at them. Some actually look scared while others get the gist of my freak out and start to make room.

As I start crawling over the woman and her daughter I look at the little girl with that toothy grin and am suddenly inspired by her tactics. I progress forward by actually getting on all fours and slithering my way out. Finally the end is near. I see the outside world! My head pops out, I look both ways and I literally tumble out of the bus.

No one seems to have noticed. So I brush off, laugh a little to myself and continue on.

OII (ONLY IN I****[South Asia])

(PS Sorry for the bad photo quality.. these are just quick snaps I took with my iphone...better photos are coming). 

When you have a classically American moment in a classically non-American place

My Team!

I spend lots of time and energy trying to fit into this culture so I can pass as a local and slip in between the crowds, get on my way and continue unseen and unbothered. I bobble my head every time I answer a question or address a person. My sentences always end on a high note. My dupata hangs lightly over my shoulders doubling as both a cover and a mouth guard. I glue my left hand to my side so as to never mistakenly use it. I even haggle for one to two coins as if I was fighting for a fortune.

But still there are times when, no matter how hard I try to conceal it, my American ways burst forth as if mocking my pathetic attempt at assimilation.

There are sadly many examples of this, like when randomly the backstreet boys pop into my head and I start doing the running man in the middle of the market. Or when I cut off the auto driver because I am leaning into his rearview mirror trying to fix my French Braids.

But there is one example that outdoes the rest. When all I can do is laugh and succumb to the inevitable fate of any expat … the idea that, at the end of the day, I will always be a silly American girl crying on the dirt floor trying to figure out how the dang lock works.

It was late on a Saturday night; I had been working weekends trying to get caught up on the small task of learning the entire South Asian political system. But alas I was done for the day because my brain had stopped working, my emotions had run dry and I was craving chocolate (the ladies know what that means.) So I shut down my computer, turned off all the lights and went to lock the door. Simple task? Think again. This is South Asia; nothing is simple.

So I start with the first key. It works. I move down the door to the bottom lock ... it takes awhile but it finally turns and locks. Then I reach up and pull down the large metal crate that covers every window and every door of the entire city. All it requires you to do is stick the key in the padlock, turn left, undo the lock, fit it through the crate and relock.

Fast-forward 20 minutes (Not exaggerating. I checked the clock.) There I am sitting on the floor, shaking and rattling the padlock with all my might, yelling at the freaking door to freaking close with my feet up against the crate as leverage against the demon possessed padlock.

My white leggings have yielded their dignity to the muggy and ambiguously procreating cement floor. A mom walks by and protectively covers her children while moving past the crazy white woman as fast as she can. And of course my overactive tear ducts let loose and my face quickly becomes the cleanest part of my body.

Finally I give myself over to the embarrassing task of calling one of the guy interns to come help me lock up the office. That was a fun conversation. I never thought I had an issue with pride until mid-October 2012.

About 5 minutes later I notice a different gold lock out of the corner of my eye hanging innocently on the door to my left. I get up, wipe off the tears and put the key I was given into the lock.

It opens.

The end. I am silly white girl from America. Nothing I can do about it.

TYPICAL ...

In an effort to capture the reality of life in K (I think you all know what K stands for…) I will take you through a typical day, for in any given day there are perfect and cliché South Asia examples.

I wake up at 5:30am because, like every morning, the sun rises at 5am with a vicious intent to destroy all remnants of slumber. After tossing around, desperately searching for my pink eye mask that inevitably slips behind the bedpost at night, I surrender. By this time the sun and the heat have formed a dangerous pact in the name of world domination. But being the savvy and somewhat spoiled westerner that I am, I whip out the atomic bomb and turn on the AC.

Now I settle into a pseudo version of comfort, eat my imported cereal and turn to the verse that talks about persevering in order to gain treasures in heaven J.

Finally I concede that I must leave my apartment if I am to get anything substantial done, so I put on my pajama-like outfit, clip my hair as far away from my neck as I possibly can and take in a massive breath, while I am still able.

Bicycle Rickshaw (will try to get a photo of the Auto Rickshaw'

After securing the 5-part lock on our door, I head toward the street. The first thing to note is that every time you even near a sidewalk you have instantly decreased your chance of survival by 60%. I know most third world countries claim they have crazy drivers, as if it is a contest to see who can be more reckless, but I would like to say to those countries … at least you have cars. The three wheeled auto rickshaws, which surreally resemble the carts from Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, literally answer to no man. If there is space between you and the taxi you are entering, they will beat you to it. This is especially true if you make eye contact with them, for their rationale is … well you saw me.

Somehow I make it through the field of stray bullets and jump in a taxi, which even though it costs $1 dollar for just about anywhere you need to go, I still feel guilty about not taking the bus. I negotiate with the driver for a bit because I am white and he wants to charge me $2 … heck no. 

Then I start to pray.

As we weave between cars, people, sidewalks, huts and courageously stupid dogs in the middle of the street, I keep my eyes fixed on the 100-page map I bought of the city. Ok, here is the gas station this must be right before Gariahut. There is the huge Sprite Ad; we have just passed Deshpriya Park. There is the blue and white fence; we are getting close. There is the tea man; I’m here.

I pay the driver. Doh noh bad (meaning thank you. A word South Asia made up for foreigners who insisted on being polite). 

As I step out to look at this huge metropolitan complex, which is air-conditioned, I am acutely aware of the fact that I have officially turned into the girl who feels most at home in a mall…. Mehhh. 

I leave with two bags stuffed full of food because you have to pay 5 Rupees per bag (Los Angeles please take note. K is more economically advanced than you in this area. That is just straight up embarrassing).

Now that I have brick filled bags hanging off each arm I decide to scuffle toward a smelly, packed bus because, well, I am an idiot.

There is a man holding a pole leaning vertically off the side yelling Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby… but it sounds more like Ro Ro Ro Be. I make eye contact with the driver signaling I want to get on, so naturally he starts driving away as if jumping onto a moving vehicle is fun. Thankfully I get on and make my way to the back … badddddd idea! It was as if the whole bus was waiting for the trigger in which to lift their arms at the same time releasing their bent up body odor. I must have been the trigger. I stick my head out the window for “fresh” air, which is full of burning trash, gas, oil and human pee. At that moment I realize my face is only a couple inches away from a puking kid in the bus next to ours. This kid is sitting on his father’s lap spewing who knows what into his father’s hand. No one else even stirs. The father calmly takes the puke and dumps it out the window onto the street like it was gum, barely missing my face. I decide to take my chances with the BO. 

(Lovers of the God Card – I was going to make a reference to my roommates about how God let’s us spill all our crap onto him and he removes it like a doting father… but then I realized we weren’t on that level yet)

So I begin to stare at the tea stands where men with huge potbellies sit like Buddha, fitting into compartments smaller than your carry on, with their shirt pulled up so you have an extra good look at their potbellies.

A woman adorned in an elegant and colorful Sari steps over people sprawled out, lining the streets as far as the eye can see, as if they were cracks in the ground.

There are two police officers snuggling up on a motorcycle as the officer in back rubs the shoulders of the officer in front. No big deal … totally normal.

Finally, tired of starring, I face forward and zone out, letting the world around me fade away.

But in my peripheral vision I can still see colors blending together in an abstract portrait of urban beauty. And suddenly the sticky and humid air mixes with an array of alluring spices. The relentless honking becomes a rhythmic beat for a chorus of human bartering. The death defying traffic flows into a graceful and intricate dance in which every person participates. The moonlight, typically hidden behind a cloud of pollution, breaks through, shinning forcefully and equally on all people no matter their status. All are subject to the power of her beauty. 

It is then I have an epiphany. I have finally crossed the threshold of appreciation. I will never be able to understand the dance these people have learned to execute so delicately. But at least I can hear the music.