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.