Bangalore: Clean and Beautiful
You keep saying that. I don’t think it means what you think it means.
American Germaphobe India Saga (part 9)
Day three. Tuesday. Enough time to have become infected, but not enough time to manifest much more than five or six hypochondriacal symptoms.
You know, the kind that are totally real.
This is an ongoing true story (that starts here) of a work trip to India where I, a spoiled, frightened, American germaphobe, desperately cling to my waning sanity by finding humor in the fear.
Yesterday I crossed the street, which in my past life would have been nothing to write home about, but here in Bangalore, it’s a Darwinian test that winnows out the weak and makes heroes of the quick.
Foolishly emboldened by such a euphoric victory, my adventures continue…
BREAKFAST OF HEROES
I have found a pattern of success which shall for the rest of this week define my EXACT breakfast: an egg, cheese and chili-pepper omelet with a diet coke. (Don’t worry, I insist on the diet coke to be served to me in a sealed, unopened can, not in a glass with ice. Do you take me for a fool?) And to fill time while I wait for my omelet to be delivered, I steel myself for the day’s upcoming trials with the test of a Bangalore breakfast donut. Every morning the donut tray woos me with a variety of savory promises, but I’ve discovered that at least one of these is a trap: usually the so-called “plain” donut. Appearing to be the healthy choice among the other sugar- and chocolate-coated options, the plain donuts call to those looking to appease both the sweet tooth and the conscience. But instead, this “Curry Surprise” turns out to be a poisonous ring of deceit, disappointment and despair.
It was a lesson I would not need to learn twice.
Now, patterns are useful and comforting to those of us blessed with various forms of anxiety. However, the problem I now face is that by the third morning, the pattern has become evident to the restaurant staff. Why is that a problem? Because I still can’t figure out the tipping rules here. Stay with me — this will make sense in a minute.
The situation is that my breakfasts are included in the hotel fee, so the only thing I have to sign for at the conclusion of these morning “meals” is the diet coke. That’s perhaps 200 rupees more or less. There is a service charge on the bill, which I understand to be tantamount to a tip included in the bill and so anything extra would be “my decision” (cue the fading echoes of Eyesh). So I need not tip.
But it makes me feel uncomfortable not tipping. Especially when, every morning now, immediately after I sign the bill, the same waiter comes quickly to the table, picks up the closed bill booklet with a murmured “thank you sir” that is one part respect and nine parts hope, and immediately opens it up to look inside as he walks away.
Thus the problem: if I’m consistently disappointing this lad, what are the odds at getting a “personalized” omelet at tomorrow’s breakfast? Can I afford the risk?
I dare not.
I know what you’re thinking. It’s so simple: just tip the lad.
Not so fast, my generous friend. Remember that I became very rich in cash when I entered this country. So rich that the smallest bill I have is a 500 rupee note. That’s like $7.50 or $8. A tip of that magnitude is more than a little hefty on an already outrageous $3 charge for a diet coke and a delivered omelet, and I have to think about the message THAT would send. I don’t even know what I mean by that but it makes me anxious.
Alas, the pattern prevails and I do not tip again. (Later in the week I will eventually give into this pressure to tip and the results will confirm that I was right to be anxious, but I’ll save that for a later article.)
After breakfast, I need a quick trip back up to my room to “freshen up.”
Side note: I find that I put lots of innocent phrases like this in quotes because here in India these things are just not quite the same for me as they are in my comfortable America. For instance, how does one “freshen up” when the water is anything but fresh?
So as I brush my teeth using the minimal amount possible of my precious, limited bottled water, I ponder the work day ahead of me. As it is every day this week, it is another day full of meeting new people, trying in vain to remember their names and faces, then moving on to the next meeting, punctuated by the fearful “food” encounter unjustifiably called lunch. The people are friendly and the meetings are productive, but every night I get back to the hotel and just want to lie down, close my eyes and enjoy the solitude of just me and Spot.
And this little guy. He’s bigger than Spot and probably more dangerous.
In spite of my anxiety-laden breakfast experience, on this morning I was somehow bold and confident as I set out to walk to the office.
On my own.
Well, as much as one can be alone in a country full of 1.2 billion people.
Which… oddly… suspiciously… isn’t as crowded as I think it should be.
MIXED SIGNALS
In the peak hours of the morning rush hour, walking down some of these streets and alleys, I realize that am not surrounded by the mobs of people I expect, and this makes me wonder what it is about the area that is keeping so many people at bay.
Perhaps it is the stench? Or… those roaming packs of feral dogs? Am I trespassing some dangerous gang’s territory? Am I in danger?!?!
Alas, I do have some clues.
The area in which I’m staying and where the office is situated is called the Diamond District. My route to the office takes me out of the hotel, across a bridge over very, VERY troubled waters, and then along a road which follows this body of water. Between the road and the river is a chain link fence. At one point along this fence is a sign. It says “Diamond District — Clean and Beautiful.” I took some pictures to capture the moment.
I do not know the official name of this conduit of mysterious gifts from upriver, but I have been calling it the Little Ganges. If this is in any way typical of the tributaries that lead into the real river Ganges, I am now more than ever terrified at falling into the Ganges, even though (a) I was already sufficiently mortified at such a prospect and (b) the Ganges is actually quite far to the north and the risk of accidental ingress into such waters is quite small. Having said that, it is only a fool who walks confidently unprepared atop such unstable precipices of fate, and I, not wanting to ever be accused of being such a fool, always pack an extra pair of underwear lest I fall into a pool even when where I’m staying has no such facility. Principle thus established, I fear falling into the Ganges — even from Bangalore.
So you saw the pictures, and you’ve read my statements above, but what you cannot get, and will never fully appreciate, is the main clue which emanates from Little Ganges that leads one the conclusion that this flow of “stuff” is most definitely not potable. Think back, if you will, to times when you have been so overwhelmed by a cloud of stench that you are desperate to expel all of it from your lungs and to then hold your breath until long after your vision is fading, your lips have turned blue and an ambulance has already been called on your behalf. Combine that thought with the memories of those times when you’ve been swimming in a pool enjoying the nice, cool, refreshing feel of the water as it slips over your clean yet vulnerable skin, only to swim into a patch that is suspiciously warmer than its surroundings. Whether you bank on it or not, it occurs to you that a rather obvious if not heinous conclusion might be that someone has “warmed” that area for you by increasing the overall volume of liquid in the pool though a personal contribution of their own. Now combine that with the feeling you think you’d have (as I suspect the probability of firsthand knowledge is rather slim here) were you to be in a dark room with no idea which way is the way toward an exit, and knowing that in all other directions lie certain, horrible consequences.
The smell wafting up, out and aggressively from the Little Ganges toward its unsuspecting victims is strangely reminiscent of unprocessed, raw sewage, garbage and undiscovered bacteriological life forms, with overtones of cottage cheese aged for precisely 693 days in a sealed Tupperware container locked in a discarded and closed refrigerator along with a cat which has long since died from bursting lesions from the unclassified microbes after having been overcome by the funk emanating from the curdled milk it was originally attracted by.
All that and with a slight hint of sunflower.
Walking into this foul fog of fetor is kind of like when you eat a Habanero pepper. It has a bit of a spicy bite at first and you think to yourself, “this isn’t so bad.” It is the slow, ever-intensifying burn that gets you after you’ve already been fooled into compounding it with bite after bite. This funk is like that. Except that you don’t choose to imbibe more — you have no choice. At first you’re like “oh, man, that’s awful.” Then seconds later you’re like “no please, no more, I can’t… can’t take much… more.” And then a few more seconds and you’re not even able to think coherently because your brain has gone into emergency shutdown mode to protect itself.
All week I had to face that 2x each day.
They say whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I have my doubts.
On the more positive side, though, the journey between the office and the hotel has made me appreciate how relatively nice and fresh my hotel room smells.
Score: Bangalore 3, Scott 2.
But enough about such things. Discussion on those topics is what therapy is for.
THE DOGS OF WAR HAVE SLIPPED
Oh yes, the dogs. I mentioned seeing gangs of dogs in an earlier post. Well, they are quite ubiquitous. I suspect that the gangs of dogs are expanding their turf. The other gang of six year old boys smoking cigarettes at 3 in the morning are surely putting up a good fight, but they can only do so much, and are clearly spending more money on cigarettes than on weapons which would be more suited to this battle, such as tennis balls on ropes and milk bones.
I bring this up because on my treks to/from the office I have seen a number of these squads from the canine syndicate. These dogs are lean, muscular pups with menacing teeth, able to chew through a plastic garbage bag like Batman can chew through a piece of tough celery. And there are a lot of these bags around, left on the streets and walkways (and floating down the Little Ganges) as payments to the mutt mafia for protection. The following picture is blurry because I had to take it while walking and not looking like I was standing there taking a picture of garbage.
While there were indeed several encounters I had with the dogs actually ripping into trash bags, I did my best to avoid them. I did consider a couple of opportunities to capture this on camera, but alas, I thought it wiser not to lest they believe I am spying on them for the 6 year olds. Plus I didn’t want to look like the silly American tourist taking pictures of dogs in the Diamond District (“Clean and Beautiful”) ripping apart the trash bags for sweet morsels of curried curds.
If I’m honest, though, these creatures scared me, and I had the distinct impression that standing still and focusing my attention on them would have the effect of getting them to notice me. This comes scarily close to the reasoning of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal:
The Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal is a vicious wild animal from the planet of Traal, known for its never-ending hunger and its mind-boggling stupidity. One of the main features of the Beast is that if you can’t see it, it assumes it can’t see you. Due to this it has been considered one of the least intelligent creatures in the Universe.
… but I’ll stick to my theory that it was wiser to ignore the beasts and steer clear of them as much as possible. I was vaccinated against several things coming here, but rabies was not one of them. (This is also why I have also been carefully avoiding monkeys, and am rationalizing the fact that I saw none in my stint in Bangalore as evidence of a successful effort, and not a failure on my part to be more observant.) So in the immortal words of Shakespeare, slightly altered using my dubious poetic license, I did indeed…
whisper havoc and let slip the dogs of war.
P.S. I can’t find Spot. I think he moved on. He was a good spot.
There’s still more to come! I’ll let you in on a little secret: being in Bangalore worries me.
