You Know You're a New Parent When ...

1. The baby finally goes to bed and instead of reading an interesting book or having a deep conversation with your spouse, you look (again) at pictures you've taken of the child since he was born.
2. The number of pictures taken in #1 could fill the Library of Congress. And the kid is only 3 months old.
3. You get up at 4 a.m. out of habit now.
4. Your favorite household item is now the 24 inch flourescent, stuffed, cloth worm that sings If You're Happy and You Know It when you squeeze his head.
5. You carry a binky in your purse.
6. Going to church involves strategic planning: where to sit, the timing feedings and naps, etc.
7. Hovering.
8. Returning to work is looked upon as vacation.
9. Instead of making zuchinni bread with the summer's produce, you puree it for baby food.
10. You start watching the clock for when your husband is going to come home from work.

Welcome Home Talmage

While the chickens flourished on the Baxter Estate, my attentions were directed to our firstborn son: Talmage. He was delivered C-section on June 23, weighing in at 8 pounds 7 ounces, 21 inches. Two months later he was 15 pounds 2 ½ ounces. He likes being held. I challenge any of you to an arm-wrestle.

The coolest part about Talmage's name is the "Alma" inside of it. Alma is Briton's grandpa's name. We also like that it starts with a "T".

Three Generations

Grandpa Kartchner and Dad

Grandma Barker and Dad

Grandpa BarkerGrandma Kartchner

Nesting Syndrome

I've heard that pregnant people get this "nesting" syndrome right before the baby is born. They do stuff like remodel the kitchen, paint the nursery, etc. I got a literal case of the Nesting Sydrome. I ordered 25 chicks from the McMurray Hatchery in Iowa.

The truth is, we started with 28 chicks. McMurray throws in one free exotic mystery chicken with your order - and for some reason, with this order, they added a couple extra besides. The week after we got back from India, the one-day old chicks arrived via the United States Postal Service. I got the call on Monday morning at 7 a.m. "Your chicks are here. Come and get them." And so we did. They are there in that box. It was love at first sight. Also, I was a little flustered and nervous, because not only have I never taken care of chickens before in my life, but their coop wasn't ready yet. I had every lamp in the house shining on them while I hurried and built their starter pen in the barn from scrap wood, complete with 250 watt red lamp.

Mortlity rate is 3.5%. We lost one the second day. They are five weeks old now. There is rapid growth and change each day.

I'm not sure what brand the mystery chicken is. But the other ones are a variety as chosen by friends and family. There are golden polish, egyptian fayoumis, araucana (the "easter egg" chicken), white wyandotte, buff rock, white cochins, etc. One day they will all be given a Proper Name. Though I am a little dubious of such Naming actually transpiring - mainly because Briton and I are having a hard enough time coming up with a name for our own offspring.

During May, while the chicks were growing by leaps and bounds in their mini-coop, Briton, with the help of Mike and Natalie, were busy building a state of the art coop behind the barn (lots of ventilation). Scrap wood came from home construction site remnant piles and leftover fencing from the Baxters.















Some of the chicks at 5 weeks old, the day half of them were transferred to the big coop. Aren't they cute?

P.P.S. on the D.D.

"Figuring out the system" explained the process of obtaining a demand draft. It ended with a postscript that the "check was in the mail." As it turned out ... it wasn't that simple.

A week after handing the Demand Draft to the hotel receptionist, Praveen told me he still hadn't received it. I spoke with the receptionist who said, "yes, the D.D. had been mailed" and maybe it was just taking extra time because the postal service is unreliable. She cited a case where a hotel guest waited a week for something to get to Chennai ... which is lots closer than Delhi. So I called Praveen back and we decided we'd wait until the day we left to see if it would come and then decide what to do. On Thursday, the D.D. still hadn't arrived.

A D.D. is not like a check because you can't just cancel it. We had to pay cash for it. So we have this significant sum of money in D.D. form, floating around India somewhere. We decided we'd come to Delhi and see if it the D.D. would arrive while we were there. If it didn't come by Monday (about 2 weeks since I'd given it to the receptionist) we would pay Praveen in cash and then work on cancelling the D.D. when we got back to Bangalore.

It didn't come on Monday. Back in Bangalore, first thing on Tuesday morning, I went to the bank and explained the situation. It didn't look like it was going to be a simple transaction. What is involved in cancelling a D.D.?

First, write a letter to the bank's branch manager explaining the situation and the request to cancel the letter. I sat down at the counter and wrote the letter.
Second, the manager is not in the office today, so it will have to wait until Thursday to pass his desk.
Third, after it passes his desk, he mails the request on to the Delhi branch to verify that the D.D. has not been cashed already. If it hasn't, they will issue a new D.D. in my name for the same amount.
Problem 1: In order to cash a D.D. it must be deposited to a local bank account.
Problem 2: I don't have a bank account. "Can I set one up now?" Reply: "No."
Problem 3: At any rate, this sounds like a lengthy procedure, we are leaving the country in six days, is there any way to expedite the process? Reply: "Come back on Thursday when the manager is here."
Problem 4: What if someone has, somehow, foiled the system, and was able to cash the D.D. even though it wasn't in their name? Reply: "You have to pay a Rs100 indemnity fee" and something about owing the bank the sum of the D.D. That was a confusing part to me. The situation didn't look promising.
Problem 5: [posed by the bank employee], "What if Praveen really got the D.D. and you also gave him cash? You shouldn't have done that. You should have cancelled the D.D. first." Reply: We trust the person we sent the D.D. to. Response: Silly American.
Advice 1: [heard from Praveen, the Bank Employee, and Briton's colleagues who heard the story] You should have requested the DD to be sent by courier. It's quicker and more reliable than the postal service and you can track where the letter is. Response: Oh.

I left the bank and hoped things would work out for the best. I spent a couple hours running some errands, then returned to the hotel where a message marked "very, very urgent" was waiting for me. It was from Praveen. This could only mean one thing. I gave him a call. Yep. Sure enough, the D.D. had arrived that afternoon. BY COURIER!!!!!

First, I'm super relieved. The D.D. has been found and isn't just lost in space.
Second, I'm confused. The receptionist said it had been sent by postal, but Praveen said it had arrived by courier ... which meant it had only been sent a couple days earlier - probably while we were still in Delhi.
Third, I need to cancel the letter that requested to cancel the D.D. so that we don't have to go through that long, involved process explained above in problem 1-3. Cancelling the first letter, it turns out, means writing a second letter. Which I did and the hotel faxed it to the bank.

I had a chat with the hotel manager to see if he could help sleuth out the postal vs carrier inconsistency. Here's what REALLY happened to the D.D. (in the billiard room, with the candlestick)...

I gave the envelope to the receptionist to mail. She gave it to the bellboy. The bellboy took it to his desk and then wondered, "Should I send it postal or courier?" He left the question unanswered and then went on leave for a week. The envelope sat on his pile of stuff. When I spoke to reception the first time and she said it had been posted, she was just guessing that it had been sent by postal, since the bellboy wasn't around for her to ask. The whole time it was at the hotel! By the time the bellboy returned, the hotel knew I was anxious about the whereabouts of the D.D. and so they sent it courier ... without telling me. Unfortunately, on Tuesday, because they hadn't told me it had gone by courier just a few days earlier, I had gone to the bank and started the process for cancelling the D.D. They felt bad and were extremely apologetic for the lack of communication. They didn't even charge us for the cost of the fax to send that second letter. They recommended I go to the bank the next day in person, as well, to make sure they didn't sent the first letter to Delhi.

Which I did. And one more "phew": the bank employee (the same one I had spoken to the day before) told me that I sure was lucky. Knowing the urgency of the situation since we would be leaving, and wishing to expedite the process, she had tried to fax the first letter to Delhi the day I'd come in (bypassing the bank manager) ... only the fax wouldn't go through. Hallelujah. She confirmed that they would not cancel the D.D.

Now, what about the extra payment we've made? Luckily and coincidentally, Praveen is coming to Bangalore this Saturday and will pay us back in person. Cash.

Given that that transaction occurs, this story is officially ended.

Delhi-ightful!

On the 13th, we took off for a four-day trip to Delhi and environs. We flew Kingfisher Airlines, whose motto is Fly the Good Times (Kingfisher also owns a beer company). And good times they were. Kingfisher believes in hot meals, even for a 2 hour flight. They believe in giving you a welcome vanity bag with earphones, pen, two hard candies, and a face wipe inside. They like to offer you a drink before take off and the CEO tells you on your personal video screen that you can email him personally at chairman@kingfisher.com. He has instructed his employees to treat us like he would his guests in his own home. All these perks make up for seating space made for skinny sardines. Fly the Good Times.


Iceland has the Golden Circle. India has the Golden Triangle: Delhi at the apex, Jaipur and Agra at the base.

Jaipur
Just outside of Jaipur, we learned about the Moghul rulers while strolling through the Amber Palace, located on a hilltop. One brilliant hall was adorned ceiling to floor by mosaics made from small pieces of mirrors. It was really shimmery. The Moghuls thought of all sorts of inventions to enhance light and keep their cool in the arid desert clime.

Once in Jaipur, we were in for some more world records. We spent some time at a super cool observatory that has, you guessed it, the biggest sundial in the whole entire world. The sundial is accurate within 3 seconds. There were several structures that were used by the Moghuls to track time and the stars. The aerial view below is of mini-sundials that had something to do with signs of the zodiac - like where the zodiac is at that point or something. Find Waldo.

In Jaipur, we also saw a light-switch panel with the most light switches to light up a single room in the whole world. That was just lucky that we got to see that. I didn’t see it mentioned in the Rough Guide. It happened when we were escorted through a carpet factory under the pretense of observing how carpets are tied, but in reality, in hopes we would buy one of the carpets. After the demonstration, the “guy” took us to his darkened, spacious showroom where there were rolls and rolls and piles and piles of carpets. Our eyes grew wide as saucers when we saw that light-switch panel and admired the dexterity with which a waiting employee flipped the various switches to light up the entire warehouse room for our Private Carpet Viewing. I think the salesman clued in that we were not his typical catch when the only picture we took was of the light switch panel and we explained, when pressed, that the reason we didn’t want one of his super good deal carpets was because well, we just didn’t want one. Or need one.

The Red Palace was not worth the entry fee, in my opinion, although Aunt Linda would have liked the textile museum they had inside that included displays of outfits worn by various rulers. Including these super huge pajama bottoms worn by an emperor who weighed over 450 pounds. One redeeming quality of the Red Palace is that it hosts more of India’s world records:
· The biggest silver water containers in the world. The emperor didn’t trust England’s water and so filled the containers with water from the Ganges when he journeyed to England for the king’s coronation.
· The largest carpet in the world
· The largest carpet in the world also has the most knotted threads per square inch in the world.
· The smallest paintings in the world
· The smallest books in the world

And finally, although not officially recognized by the Guinness Book of World Records, our bed in the Jaipur hotel room was likely the largest bed in the world. It could have slept a family of 12, with room for somersaults.

Agra
The sum and quintessence of the whole trip was seeing the Taj Mahal. This structure is ethereal. It deserves every superlative of the sublime. It is definitely one of the most beautiful buildings in the world. We walked through the main entry arch at 6:30 to see the soft morning sun streaming down onto the white marble. We stopped dead in our tracks. It took our breath away. We spent two hours with a tour guide and then returned to the hotel for breakfast. Around 10 a.m., we went back to the Taj on our own for another look (we were able to finangle multiple entry on our “one entry” pass. This was important because the entry fee to the Taj for a foreigner is $17 per person). We enjoyed a couple more hours staring at it from various viewpoints. All I can say is, if you’re ever in India, make it a point to see the Taj Mahal. Time your trip so you go to the Taj Mahal first, then to the Red Fort, because your Taj ticket will get you in the Red Fort without paying another entry fee.

Below: View of Taj in the distance. Taken from the Red Fort where Shah Jahan lived. Shah Jahan had the Taj Mahal built in 1632 for the burial place of his favorite wife after she died.

Isn't it amazing?



Delhi
On Sunday evening we had a free evening. Briton, with some persistence, found out about a double-header play we could watch at the India Habitat Centre. We saw a well-acted student production called Suppressed Desires. We were a little apprehensive about the content, given the title … but it ended up being clean and quite humorous … except we didn’t understand the main play-on-word joke that was repeated throughout the play and everyone kept laughing at. Oh, and we got into the play for free because we’d missed the first play. After three days of paying entry fees and camera-use fees right and left for various sites, it felt good to just go to something without forking out more dough.

The next day, Praveen showed us around Delhi. He is the branch president in Delhi and owns a travel agency and was the one who facilitated this trip. The Jensen’s recommended him. The main story around Praveen is that the Demand Draft that I sent over a week earlier (to cover the cost of our airline tickets) still hadn’t arrived. But that is fodder for another story. As for the comings and goings of the day: Praveen took us to the church, which is located in a renovated home. It comes complete with sweeping marble staircase, and outdoor baptismal font, and a men’s bathroom at the back of the chapel (which has caused some contention among the members, according to Praveen).

If you go to Delhi, don’t go on a Monday if you plan on sight-seeing. Several of the major attractions are closed that day. In a nutshell, we checked out the Qutb Minar Complex, an old astronomy site started in 1199 A.D.; walked through Jami Masjid, India’s biggest mosque (someone set a bomb off in it a couple days earlier); ripped the backside of my pants; rode on the back of a bicycle rickshaw through Old Delhi’s narrow, people-packed streets that were lined with crammed, wall to wall wholesale shops – that was a real adventure; bought some saffron and garam masala from the Spice Market; walked around the WWII monument called “India Gate” and cruised past the parliament buildings and embassies.
[Pic on left: negotiating the price for saffron; Pic on right: people at the Jami Masjid, gathered around a basin, watching three guys at the bottom of the it who are ... cleaning it].

It was a Good Time.
Now, Briton is back to the grindstone. Today he put in the regular 8-hour day and then came home and had 2 more hours of telephone meetings and then a couple more hours of work (but he’s relaxed, I think, because he’s got the Allman Brother’s, Cat Stevens, etc. jamming on his laptop). Tomorrow is his last workday here. It’s hard to believe 5 weeks have already passed. Just like that. And hard to believe you read this entire blog entry.

If the Pants Fit ...

I’m not sure how many of you are aware of this, but the whole reason Briton and I even got married is because of an evening spent laughing about pants. It turns out pants are a theme in our relationship. Last weekend's trip provided two points of pants-provoked laughter.

We were sitting in the shade of the entry arch, feasting our eyes on the Taj Mahal. Whilst gazing, a warm kersplat landed on my pants leg. The warm kersplat of pigeon poop. It was warm and runny and green with white. After hollering a bit, I looked for something to wipe it off with. Before Briton could pull out some tissue, a nearby older lady resourcefully picked an old business card off the ground and, without saying a word, started scraping off the pigeon poop (and then asked for some money for her services). I spent the next little bit trying to keep the wet spot from sticking to my skin. It eventually dried, which was good since I only had that one pair of pants for the duration of the trip.

Those pants hadn’t seen the end of their abuse yet, however. The next day in Old Delhi, I maneuvered my behind onto the bicycle rickshaw and inadvertently snagged it on the sharp metal siding. A perfect L-shaped tear, the size of my hand, gave gaping view to my underclothes. I quickly sat down. Too late, though, as the second bicycle driver who was carting around Praveen, saw it happen and with a twinkle in his eye and unable to suppress a smile, said, “Oh. So sorry.” The guy pedaling our bicycle rickshaw said it was the first time that had happened to any of his customers, if you can believe it. We went back to the car where I changed into the only other thing we had that fit: my pink pajama bottoms. I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the capital of India in ballet-dancer-print pj's, much to Briton’s admiration and amusement. In the pic below, note not only the pj's, but also the baggie containing the prized saffron.

The Jensens

We really like the Jensen’s. Elder and Sister Jensen are a CES missionary couple, based in Bangalore. Our first Sunday here they invited us over for dinner. We arrived not knowing up from down, and left several hours later with brains packed with 21 months-worth of knowledge by proxy: how to find bleach, moth balls in the drain keep cockroaches at bay, the best variety of string bean, recommended restaurants, corn powder is the name for corn starch, and, above all … shopping savvy.

Have you read The Tipping Point? The Jensens are mavens. For example, it is from them that I learned we really had been ripped off at the Mysore Silk Emporium. When I showed them the sari we bought, they were not only able to tell me that we’d paid too much for the sari, but they were able to say how much we were overcharged and where we could buy sari’s of similar quality for cheaper.

We spent seven hours together on a whirlwind shopping tour of their favorite haunts. It was fascinating to watch them in action. Sister Jensen had a knee replacement several months ago, here in Bangalore, and do you think that slows her down? No way.

We visited a silk shop or two in different parts of town, the wholesalers street, and a jewelry store. The shopkeepers who had met the Jensen's on previous visits would light up when they saw them walk in. I don’t think this is just because they hoped they would score a sale. The Jensens are extremely friendly, warm people. For example, after serious wheeling and dealing over the color and cost of some suit material, Elder Jensen made his purchase. Elder Jensen told the shopkeeper that he had been in India two years. The shopkeeper asked how he liked India. “Oh,” Elder Jensen says, pausing and beaming from ear to ear, then, sincerely, “We love India.” They shake hands and are fast friends.



Our last stop was at a jewelry store down the street from the Jensen’s home. The lady next to Sister Jensen is the shopowner. The guy next to Elder Jensen is Sattish, a friend of the Jensens who they hired to drive them to and from the office. Sattish used to work at the Call Center for Dell – but the hours were lousy, so he quit after 6 months and took up driving auto rickshaws.

The lucky thing for us is to know the Jensen’s also live in the Northwest. If anyone is interested in going on a 2 week salmon fishing trip with Elder Jensen in August, he’s looking for takers.

"My White Knight(s)"

My white knight, not a Lancelot, nor an angel with wings ..
Just someone to find me, who is not afraid of what mobbed violence brings.
My white knight who called when he heard of burning cars and knew through the crowd I must plow …
Please, dear Briton, find me now.

On Wednesday, Bangalore experienced a violent outbreak in reaction to the natural death of a famous local actor, Rajkumar, age 76. He had starred in 220 Kannada films. Not only that … at age 70 he was also held hostage by bandits for over 2 months in the Southern Indian jungles! When he was kidnapped in 2000, Bangalore shut down for a week. You can imagine the reaction of the general populace when they heard of his death. He was so loved. I was on the outskirts of downtown when I was warned to go home because shops would be closing down out of respect to Rajkumar.

Because I’m more ethnocentric than I care to admit, I didn’t think all the shops would close down over some actor’s death. I also didn’t catch the intimation that another reason to head home was because it could become dangerous to be outside.

I decided to walk the mile or so to the area I knew had those more “touristy” silk shops. After 15 or so minutes of seeing shops close as I passed by, I turned onto a main thoroughfare and heard, then saw, a band of men marching against traffic. It could have been a holiday parade (complete with banner sporting Rajkumar’s profile), except the tenor of their chant exuded pretty negative vibes. I watched the men attack a local city bus driving in their direction. They slammed the sides, pushed their way on, and forced the driver to remove a sign from the front window.

It was time to get home. Every auto rickshaw that passed would shake their head “no” when I said I needed to go to Koramangala. While walking, I continued to hail down autos, and continued to be denied passenger-age. I tried every trick in the book. Assertiveness, Casualness, Pregnant-bellyness. Finally, after the millionth auto driver said no, I demanded, “Why not?” His response: “No time”. That’s it. Just, “No time”.

I had a long, “perilous” walk ahead of me. After some time, the cell rang. It was Briton. My White Knight. You know how when you are stressed you can get this tunnel vision that keeps you focused? It must be a defense mechanism. You know if you don’t stay focused then you will lose it. And you know how when you think you are all alone in the world, and then, you hear a familiar voice? The floodgates open. I started to cry as soon as he said “How are you doing?” … The compassion and concern undid me. I guess I was more scared and tired than I realized (secondary to the tunnel vision). He said he would come with Deepak and Dinesh (my other two White Knights) to pick me up. What relief!

And I had no idea they would pick me up on motorcycles!!! If anyone ever asks me for an example of pure chilvary, I will cite Briton, Deepak and Dinesh; who left work to come fetch me from the maddening crowds and delivered me safely to our castle, the Halcyon. Halcyon, indeed. The afternoon had turned into anything but.

Later, I learned from the newspaper and television, that the most serious and extensive damage occurred in the more central downtown area. What I saw was mild. In the downtown area, rocks were thrown at shops that didn’t close down fast enough. People took to the streets: chanting, burning buses, cars, and tires; smashing car windows. People stormed the private home of Rajkumar. When the people got out of hand at the stadium where they eventually took his body, police used clubs and tear-gas to try and control the pressing, thronging, crowd. Today, the next day, the unruliness continues. With all due respect to their grief and frustration … it’s sheer craziness.

All Bangalore is shut down today. Intel advised its employees to work from home and covered their building with a green, protective netting to shield it from possible projectiles. Briton has been working from the hotel today and I am also following advice not to go out. But that’s ok. I’m perfectly happy, spending the day in the Halcyon with my White Knight (aww….).

On a Roll?

Robin and I have noticed that our international trips together have a game theme attached to them. In Iceland we played enough Scrabble to keep the sun up all night. Belize found us playing rummy hand after rummy hand waiting in the restaurants. This time it’s Yahtzee! Small, compact, it somehow made its way into our luggage and onto the table. Another round? M’oh boy. We have also noticed that our theme is conspicuously devolving away from the intellectual…

Cross-Town Traffic

Honk! Beep! Putter! Honk! Rrrrrrr! Beep Beep! I turned my head to the right and stared out the auto-rickshaw. Through the thick, hot gray haze of spent petrol I could see that the teeming traffic had come to a halt, except of course for the buzzing motorscooters which totter side-to-side as the drivers negotiate their handlebars to push through the sliver-spacing between vehicles, to gain another meter or two in some nook. The super-tight mosh pit was re-forming and would soon begin bustling again when whatever roadblock ahead cleared…

We were in congested downtown Bangalore, at City Market, on a stuffy Saturday evening. That’s what Sattish, our driver, said anyway. I had no idea. We’d spent the last 5 minutes of driving wedged between two large buses. Had I extended my arms, I would have easily been palming the rear wheels of both buses simultaneously. Somehow the gap persisted, and we were allowed passage between them, along with a bicyclist or other two-wheeler ahead of us.

Auto-rickshaws are three-wheelers. They’re basically a Haunted-Mansion cab with a motorbike front end, only the ghosts don’t lower the safety bars for you. You’re left to clutch the few bars which frame cage around the back seat, which is just comfy for two. On your left, above the bar that separates you from the driver, at shoulder-level sits the rickshaw meter. It’s an odometer which displays rupees. There’s a standardized rate in Bangalore, which is the meter + 20%, due to recent oil prices and traffic. We don’t get in an “auto” unless its meter works, and then the price is reasonable. Most trips around town are 20-50Rs ($0.50-$1.00), like 20Rs to the Forum (mall) or 40Rs to church. All rickshaws come with bright yellow tarpaulin top and a blunt nosecone with windshield. The sides are open, giving you (a) visibility and (b) ventilation, which are both bad things.

I kept my nose buried in my hat. It filters fumes. Even though I hang out with smokers now on my lunch break, I’m still sensitive to engine exhaust, which really builds up in tight, turtle-time traffic. It was building up now as we sat there, another leg closer to the Silk Road to purchase a couple layaways Robin had found earlier in the week as well as have a peek at the fabrics sold for men’s tailoring. I peered over the hat and turned my eyes further to the right. A cow’s head was there, no more than inches from my own head. White with black trim (mine’s white with rust trim). He had one blue horn and one red horn which came to meet each other a short distance above his ears. A used rope ran through his nose, came up and grabbed his horns and then knotted itself before traveling his long spine to meet the hands of a small-oxcart driver. This was probably the first bovine on the streets we’d seen that day which had an owner. [Photo taken out the back of the rickshaw after we were going again]

Independent bovines are not an uncommon sight in Bangalore. They’ll be moseying along the streets, unabashedly taking up a valuable “lane” of traffic, and certainly unconcerned with the cacophony rushing passed them. Some cows skip the mosey-part and just park, right in the road, standing, sitting, laying, whatever suits them. Cars, buses, lorries, etc. give them a small berth just as they do anything else on the road. But I wonder where they come from, where are they going? and what do they eat?

They are just another element of these busy Bangalore streets, these streets which truly fulfill their purpose with the utmost tolerance: provide the path from point A to point B regardless of your mode of transit, cargo, or position in the food chain.

Truly transportation and traffic have been a large part of my culture shock here --the quantity, variety, and its seething nature. Yet I do not call it chaos. Somewhere there is an amazing distributed intelligence to the system and its agents. This intelligence I share not in and I remain a mere passenger in awe.

Kidnapped! Almost.

Last Saturday we went on the local Bangalore tour offered by the Karnataka State Travel Agency. This was a half-day tour, starting at 2 p.m. or so. It was a ton of fun. But we almost didn’t get to go on it.

When the tour started, we hadn’t had lunch yet and we were starving, so we decided to ditch the first stop, a self-guided tour of the science museum. We had one hour, from 2:15 to 3:15, to find a restaurant, eat, and return to the bus before it left for the next site. As we stepped off the bus and debated where we could find food, a gentleman approached us and offered his friend’s driving services. For Rs10 the friend would drive us to a nearby, recommended restaurant, wait for us, and get us back to the bus on time. What a timely stroke of good fortune! We readily accepted the deal.

Woe unto those who accept too-good-to-be-true offers from people who approach you at tourist sites.

At 2:20, we hopped into the backseat of the nearby auto rickshaw. The driver was a clean-cut, older gentleman sporting a white, crocheted skull cap atop his graying locks. From his hard-to-understand accent, I picked out that he had been an auto driver for 25 years, he promised the return trip would only be 10 rupees so he wouldn’t use the meter, and something else about his company.

Any apprehension that we were about to be snookered died away anyway when the driver pulled up to the Empire Hotel, about a 5 minute drive away from the museum – maybe six big blocks. The 3-story restaurant was packed with people. By the time we ordered, we had 45 minutes left before the bus would leave. The waiter assured us that the meal would come quickly – and quickly it came. Unconcerned about time now, we both thoroughly enjoyed the “Executive” platter: a rice, bread and curry meal that fed us both for just under 2 dollars. At 3 p.m., with full bellies, we waddled (well, I waddled) back to the street.

We had left a good 15 minutes time cushion to get back to the bus. As promised, the auto driver was waiting across the street. We still hadn’t paid him, and as we hopped in he said that same thing about his company and something about 5 minutes. We thought he meant he had to stop by his company to grab something. This is when we started to get a little uneasy. We emphasized that our bus was leaving at 3:15 … if he needed to run an errand, ok, but he needed to make sure we could get back to the bus in time. He promised it would only take 5 extra minutes. He didn’t seem to think this extra errand of his would be a problem. I did, though, when he started driving further away from the museum, thus extending our return trip time. He went around a couple turns and then pulled into a parking lot. It was 3:07. By now it was pretty apparent what he wanted us to do. The idea was for us to step inside this store and look at their wares (and buy some, too, of course). With the bus leaving in 8 minutes, and us more than 6 blocks away from the museum, it didn’t take us long to emphatically refuse further services.

Briton thrust a 10 rupee note at him and we began running (uh, scurrying) back to the bus. Once we found our way back to the main street, I’m not kidding you, but every rickshaw was already taken. We started running while looking for available ones to drive by. Nothing. Then we had to turn onto a one-way street, traffic going against us. We were going to have to run the remaining 4-5 blocks on foot.

With the sun beating down and with bellies full of carbs and curry, we weren’t under the best conditions for a workout. It was quickly obvious, too, that at my preggo pace [was that two pasta sauces in a row?] I wasn’t going to make the distance in time. So we made a split-second strategic decision: Briton sped ahead to see if the bus would wait an extra couple of minutes ‘til I got there.

What a sight we must have been! Safari-hat Briton flying down the street. Red-faced Robin several blocks behind, arms pumping back and forth, in hot pursuit. I passed one group of men sitting on a shaded, roadside park bench who must have watched with some amusement when Briton, then myself hurried past them. Another block down a guy charaded that he had seen a running Briton pass him by moments before. When I got closer to the museum, I could see Briton in the distance waving his hands at me to slow down (not that I was going that fast). He had made it. It was 3:15 on the nose.

When I puffed to a stop, there was just time enough before the museum stragglers boarded, for me to shake my fist at the sheepish looking gentleman who had approached us at the beginning, and was still hanging out by the museum. OK, I didn’t really shake my fist. But he probably figured what had happened when we showed up on foot, without the driver.

As I write this, I realize Saturday was April 1st. So, you have to give them credit, anyway, for a first-rate April Fool’s joke.

But joke or no, let that be a lesson to all of you. Eat lunch before you go on ½ day tours.

Down the Street

Around the corner from the Halcyon. The purple tree is a jacaranda. I think. Now the whole road is paved.

Sharing the road. Sometimes the horns are painted different colors and decorated with golden tassles.

A guy selling tasty guava from the back of his bike. 3 rupees for the small ones. That's 6 cents.

Flowers

and Fauna

Mooo.

Figuring Out "The System"

Several people have asked me what I do all day while Briton is at work. Well, I read, study, blog, and ... I go out on the town. Going out on the town can be very time consuming.

For example, yesterday I was charged with the task of obtaining a "Demand Draft" to pay for our airline tickets to Delhi next week. A "DD" is sort of like a money order. I didn't mind doing this because it is also a way to just be "out there" where it's all happening (like I saw a tree being pruned on the way to Bank #1. That was exciting. I may even blog it).

I walked to the nearest bank and found the lobby packed with people. Waiting in a claustrophobic line (no concept of "Wait here for next available teller"), it didn't take long for a steady stream of sweat to start trickling down my spine. After 30 minutes, I was at the "front" of the line. "Front" meaning that men are hanging off of my elbows, and mashed against the teller window, waiting for their turn. The teller says I need cash to do the transaction, she cannot do it directly from my card. "But maybe that lady over there can help you," and she points me to an employee across the room. This employee tells me, "Yes, you need cash first; no, we don't have an ATM for this card; but maybe the manager can help you." She points to a glass-enclosed office against the wall that obviously has air-conditioning. I'm not sure the manager can help me, but I'm sure his office is more cool than where I'm standing. So I wait 10 minutes to see if I can't have a chance to cool off. The people inside are also waiting for something, too. Nothing is happening. So I leave.

Thus began my quest for cash, which involved two auto rides and 6 banks total.

The first 3 banks (Canara, Bank of India, and Citibank) either did not have an ATM at that branch or their ATM didn't work. The 4th bank (I forget the name) only let me withdraw a maximum amount of less than we needed. Plus, the 4th bank is just an ATM so I can't use the money anyway to get the DD. So now I'm walking around town with a significant sum of cash in my backback. Not a safe feeling. I'm on full alert. I tried my card at a 5th bank (HDFC) ATM and was able to get the remaining sum. So, now that I had the money, I thought the rest would be easy. Not so!!!! HDFC wouldn't issue a Demand Draft because I did not hold an account with them. I went back to bank #2, but they had, meanwhile, closed for lunch. And, of course, I had to go to the bathroom. Luckily, the church meetinghouse was just around the corner ... so I waddled over there, waved to the guards at the gate and tried to look like I was a member in good standing, and used the church's bathroom. It wasn't a squatty potty. And it was cool inside. It was nice to rest.

When the bank #2 opened, they informed me it would cost Rs200 for the Demand Draft because they would need to issue two different drafts. The guy in "front" of me at Bank #1 had obtained a Demand Draft for a 36 rupee fee (I know this because India doesn't have HIPPA and I was hanging off of his elbow when I was mashed against the teller window, to make sure I would be next, and observed his entire transaction). So, knowing 200 rupees was a rip off, I declined the services of bank #2. I went to an entirely new bank (bank #6), who had closed 15 minutes earlier, but had open doors still. They wanted to charge Rs78 to issue the DD, which is fine, I guess. However, they informed me I would have to wait until the next day when they were open to process the request.

And that's what I do all day. Now, I'm about to leave to go get that Demand Draft. From bank #1 (well, I'll try there first, and if that doesn't work, I'll go to bank #6, which is on the way to bank #2, which is near where I am meeting Sister Jensen, the CES missionary, for an afternoon of Silk Awareness Instruction).

P.S. (April 6) ... Mission accomplished ... the check is in the mail.

Read at Your Own Risk: Travelogue Ahead

Day Tour from Bangalore to Mysore

The Karnataka (Kar-NA-taka) state government runs well-organized guided tours of Bangalore and beyond. We went on two of their tours this week. The first tour we took was recommended by Dinesh, a friend from Briton’s work. We went on Thursday, March 30, since Intel had the day off for the holiday celebrating the first day of Hindi calendar year. The map shows the direction of travel on this marathon day tour (16 hours) to and from Mysore and its environs. The second tour we took on Saturday and was around Bangalore city. I’ll write about that one later. Maybe.

Daria Daulat Bagh
The first order of business was a visit to Daria Daulat Bagh, Tipu Sultan’s summer palace, which is about 9 miles NE of Mysore. This was our first close-up encounter with Indian history and architecture. Tipu (see profile in pic at left) ruled for 17 years in the late 1700’s and was a key figure in keeping the British at bay during that time. The green walls you see in the picture on the right are to protect the palace exterior from the natural elements. The guy leaning on the cannon is talking on his cell. Cameras weren’t allowed inside. The interior west wall is covered with large, graphic murals (i.e. bayonets rammed down a soldier’s throat) depicting some of the battles Tipu’s father victoriously commanded. You wonder about the people that also walked through these same rooms over 300 years ago. You also wonder where a toilet is because you’re 6 ½ months pregnant. I did find one and paid the requested 5 rupees. Pay per use for the public potties is prevalent practice. The fee goes to the always nearby person whose job it is to keep the toilets clean.

Ranganatha Swamy Temple
Back on the air-conditioned (thankfully) bus and on to Ranganatha Swamy Temple. Everyone removes their shoes before entering the temple (someone keeps an eye of them for you … for a small fee). Alcoves spaced along the perimeter wall each contained a statue of a Hindi god. This particular temple is famous because it has a reclining Vishnu. Most people on this tour were Indians from other parts of the country, and those so inclined would stop at each alcove to perform a certain ritual where they wave their hand over a flame, receive a spoonful of water for their face, and also some dye to dot their forehead. I asked one of the other Indian visitors to explain the dot on the forehead. He said it shows that they have come to the temple and also, the placement of the dot indicates marital status.

Our first stop once we got to Mysore was a Catholic cathedral (felt like we were transported to Europe), then the Silk Emporium. Sigh. Obviously, on a tour your time is not your own. The tour guide dictates how long at each stop. The amount of time given seems to be directly correlated to the importance/grandeur of the site. So, for a small summer palace like Tipu’s, we get 20 minutes. At the Cathedral we get 15. At the Silk Emporium we get … 45 minutes.

Mysore Silk Emporium
And, abashedly, I admit that we used it. To make a 45 minute story short, we plopped down a significant sum for 6 meters of handwoven silk to make into a sari. Now, I ask you, how often am I going to wear that sari? But, you know, the guy is kneeling there on this raised, mattressed, platform, and throwing all these beautiful fabrics at you. He unfurls sheets and sheets of silks: reds, golds, blues, purples, greens … etc. The designs are intricate and brilliant. What's a person to do? Even frugal Briton was wide-eyed and appreciative. I've never considered myself a bona fide shopper or savvy souvenir collector, so not only was this experience out of character, but it certainly was poor character … an instance of instant gratification. The thing is, we knew we were being pressured and at any time we could have walked out of there. But … really … A more difficult thing than that purchase is seeing beautiful fabrics draping almost every female walking down the street, and restraining the urge to want to buy more!!!

Majaraja’s Palace
The highlight of the day was the Maharaja’s Palace (75 minutes). Maharaja means “king”. The palace was finished in 1912, after the original wooden palace had burned down in 1897. Our tour guide instructed us: “After going inside the palace, then come outside and go for snaps.” Even if we could have taken snaps inside, it would have been difficult to have captured the grandeur of the place: the spacious “marriage hall” with the domed, stain-glassed ceiling depicting peacocks and geometric designs; the murals along the walls, the intricate floor tiles, the carved pillars and sculpted arches, the 3-D constellations on the hallway ceilings, the sweeping staircases, and the spooky plaster of paris guy sitting on the landing. All surface areas were covered with detailed artwork. It was incredibly ornate. The palace is a monument to creative hands and minds. Talk about wondering about the people who lived the lifestyle such a place demands. What was daily life like? And where were the bathrooms? Actually, that was one thing missing from the public tour: no public restorations of any sort of bedroom or kitchen or living space like that.

Brindavan Gardens
We also thoroughly enjoyed our very last stop (it’s still Thursday) … at the Brindavan Gardens. The government allotted space for these gardens at the base of a dam. As our bus approached the gardens, our tour guide offered his commentary as he had been doing the entire day - which commentary inevitably included the dimensions of whatever we were about to see. Emphasizing his point, he directs our view outside the left window and says, in his measured, emphatic way, “Look … at the da-am … height.” Briton and I couldn’t stop laughing (but then, speaking for myself, I get a kick out of “dam” jokes ‘cause it’s a sneaky way to swear).

The gardens were a perfect way to end a long day of walking around in the hot sun. They are replete with fountains and all manner of topical flowers.

This snap is with the tour guide. We're doing the "fountain dance". Men aren’t shy about being physically close to other men in public. Many appear quite affectionate, in fact.

At 7 p.m. we watched a real dancing water fountain performance, complete with lights and music. I thought it would be cheesy and artificial like the lights on Niagra Falls. But it was actually pretty cool. Plus, we sat by some friendly people: one guy explained the significance of the different songs being played (e.g. India’s prayer song), and the family in front of us invited us to look up their son the next time we were in Bermuda …

With tired and achy feet, we stumbled back to our bus. We had a kid glued to us most of the way, first trying to sell us postcards, and then just plain asking for 5 rupees (this routine happened at all the touristy sites). We had a two hour drive back to Bangalore (plus a stop for dinner). We pulled into downtown at 10:45 p.m. And if you want to hear about how we were protected from getting beat up by some rowdy guys while we waited for our ride back to the hotel ... email me and ask.

The end.

World Records

India must be the world record holder for the most number of citizens holding Guinness Book of World Record titles. The guy with the longest fingernails in the world hails from India. So does the guy who has given the longest lecture (his mother finally pulled him away from the podium when he started getting delirious. I read about this in the local newspaper). The man who has watched t.v. continuously for the longest period of time? Yep. From India. The tour guide pointed out another superlative: Indian is home to the oldest rock … in the world. It’s in Lal Bagh Gardens. … And we walked on it.

Lal Bagh Gardens is also home to beautiful flowers,

magnificent trees,

and friendly people... (....very friendly).

We had a good time strolling along the twists and turns. I saw a lady selling corn on the cob, cooked at the curbside over a portable charcoal bucket. Just like Maamoura.