What the Hell is That?!?!
India is like a box of chocolates: you never know what you’re gonna get, and I’m scared.
American Germaphobe India Saga (part 7)
This is an ongoing true story 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.
In my last post, I rationally explained my plan to endure the suffering of my hotel and bravely stay out the week. Lucky for you I did, as it provided lots more stories to tell.
THE EXCLAMATION
Yikes!
I find I am using this expression more often in India than in the States. And not without reason. In fact, were I to give this hotel a motto or catch phrase, it would be: “What the hell is that?” This phrase, too, I have uttered more than once.
Case in point: this morning I go to turn on the shower and notice that there is some kind of spot on the shower head that I’ve hitherto not noticed. I know, you’re thinking to yourself that I would not have noticed this but let me assure you: you’re wrong. I’ve been on high alert since I’ve been here and have been noticing lots of things. The kinds of things that justifiably summon “yikes” and “what the hell is that?” exclamations from my usually calm facade.
So, there’s a spot. So what? Given the circumstances, one could reasonably conclude that it’s probably just a new strain of mildew and that since I already have multiple strains from the hotel festering in my lungs, I should appear friendly and unthreatening to it, and so it should not threaten me.
Now part of the genus, I feel unafraid.
Until I reach in to turn on the shower and the spot launches itself toward me, zigging and zagging erratically, clearly performing evasive maneuvers in case I launch a counter attack.
“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT??!?!?” I calmly ask myself as I panic and begin kung fu and my own evasive maneuvers. Thanks to my ferret-like reflexes I manage to strike it away with one of my karate chops.
Now the question becomes… “WHERE the hell is that?”
I still myself, barely breathing, listening, looking, searching desperately for any movement.
I can’t find it.
I don’t think it’s dead. I’m not that lucky.
But I can at least quell my fear by naming my enemy: “Spot.” So named, I can use this to my advantage upon coming back into the hotel room later tonight, wooing it into a false sense of friendship with tricky tactics like “I’m home, Spot!” and “Where’s my Spot?” and “Who’s a good Spot?” And when it shows itself like an excited puppy, I will strike.
Don’t think that I won’t.
Ah, but Spot’s unprovoked attack was not the cause of my initial “Yikes.” Indeed, fear is a spice with many tastes — a dizzying array of textures and moments.
This morning I found out that that the average temperature in the office I’m about to visit is a balmy 25–28 degrees C. Do that math, or google it like I did, and that’s 82.4 F.
I’m gonna be sweating like a pig in a police cruiser!
I am told that folks often wear shorts in this office. Well, SO WILL I.
82.4 F inside an air-conditioned office building. Al Gore was right. We’re all gonna die.
Yikes indeed.
Speaking of dying, I find myself in a quandary, debating going downstairs to the Dim Restaurant of Doom and rolling the dice on what they might have for breakfast, or skipping it in hopes that there might be more reliable options at the office. Either way this is a gamble, and if life has taught me anything about gambling, it’s that the house always wins.
Again… yikes.
I decide that I’ve stored up enough calories in reserves I “covertly” carry on my body to get me through a skipped meal or two. I’ll skip breakfast. I’m not too hungry anyway, what with the barely-digestible winter-treaded vulcanized dessert I consumed last night still sitting stubbornly in my belly.
Comfortably swaddled in the satisfied air of a man cleverly making good choices, I sit down at the laptop and try and knock out a few emails before it is time to leave for the office.
THE TRAP
Respecting as I do the wisdom of the ages, I decide one last pit stop is in order before heading out the door. As I walk into the bathroom, however, I notice that it is darker than usual (recall how I told you in my last post that it’s not well lit to begin with). Thinking that I forgot to turn on the light, I reach for the light switch, only to notice that the light switch is already in the on position.
One of the bulbs is no longer emitting light.
Granted, this is not unusual. Bulbs burn out. Why should those here in India be any different? In fact, I should probably expect incandescent bulbs to be burning out with greater frequency here because (a) this hotel doesn’t strike me as the kind of place that invests in quality, (b) it’s constantly too hot inside the hotel for people, much less lightbulbs, giving both a reduced life expectancy, and (c) India’s power grid can sometimes — sometimes! — be just a little unstable.
Ok, so the light was working this morning, and now it’s not working. Allegedly burned out. This is disturbing me because I have a really good range of hearing, and I often hear incandescent light bulbs go through their whining death throes before finally emitting a last, valiant “pop” as their filament finally expires. This one never made a sound.
As if someone meant to keep it quiet.
A little too quiet.
I lean in closer to examine…
…and Spot leaps out from behind the dead bulb, flying directly at my face!
This time I use my squirrel-like reflexes and go for a rodent claw rake to its face. My hand closes on empty air, however, and Spot has once again disappeared. Bah!
Clever little lad to sabotage the bulb like that…
I’d like to finish this business with Spot but I actually do have other “business” to take care of. With my enemy still alive and lurking, I’m in a tactically unwise situation, but I feel it would be even less wise to bet on the future somehow blessing me with a conveniently private and relatively clean toilet, and so logic compels me to take the risk now. I therefore sit my incautious butt down and try and get on with my business.
Knowing that you’re being watched, and with malice and ill intent at that, does not make for a quick job on the toilet, let me tell you. As I sit, I keep seeing movement out of the corner of one eye, then the other, but whenever I turn my head to get a good look, always there is nothing there.
I’ve had uncomfortable sessions on the bogger before, but this is a genuinely unique experience.
Thanks for the memories, India.
THE OFFICE
Anyone even vaguely familiar with the traffic in Indian cities will understand that a key factor in selecting this hotel was that I would be able to walk to and from the office. Walking in Bangalore has its own set of risks, to be sure, but this hotel is so close to the office that it is supposed to be only a 10-minute walk, more or less, albeit one that is not along a straightforward route. There are bridges to cross, turns to make, alleyways to traverse, and who knows how many hidden threats to my life and health. Since this would be my first time braving the route, the office manager agreed to meet me at the hotel and walk me over to the office. Thus, for this particular journey, my attention is obsessively focused on memorizing the route so that I could get back to the “safety” of the hotel later that evening without his help. For the rest of the week I’ll make this trek on my own, but that is a story for a later entry.
As I was led to expect, the office is indeed a bit toasty. My shorts, in addition to being an affront to business-casual dress codes, are inadequate to keep me comfortable. Indeed, I spent most of the day sweating. I must have looked needy because about every 30 minutes someone would bring me a platter of warm bottled water and diet cokes.
I have to say: Indian hospitality rocks.
THE LUNCH
It rocks a little too much, actually, as, around mid-day, the office manager says he’s taking me out to lunch.
A buffet lunch.
Ordinarily this is good: a buffet implies choices that I can make based on a visual inspection of the options in order to reject foods that seem unsanitary or unsavory or just plain unfamiliar.
But alas, this is India, the place where comfort zones go to die.
Case in point: my normal appreciation for the buffet is crushed by the fact that all of the containers are covered and behind a plexiglass shield, precluding inspection of any sort. And, as if that weren’t enough to stir up a little anxiety, I am also reminded of this little nugget of wisdom I picked up in my extensive pre-trip preparatory reading:
To remain disease free in India, be diligent to avoid things like mayonnaise, water, ice, washed fruits, salads, street-prepared food and, most importantly, buffets.
Yet here I am, standing at one of these forbidden buffets, accompanied by someone obviously anxious to please, watching eagerly to see which of the mysterious delights I’ll select to have scooped onto my tray. I don’t want to offend, but the only excuse I can think of to allow me to safely walk away from the buffet with a smile and an empty tray is to claim that I am going to pay tribute to Gandhi and suffer an indefinite fast in peaceful protest against whatever remains of British colonialism. Admittedly the idea isn’t great, and has the added risk of later being caught breaking said fast with another Goodyear Dessert Special dripping from my chin.
Classic no-win scenario.
Perhaps misinterpreting the panicky look on my face as hunger-induced indecision, one of the waiter-like people (they didn’t really wait, except around in the kitchen area mostly) opens one of the buffet trays to reveal what looks like Kung Pao chicken.
A kind of dubious relief washes over me. It feels kind of like being rescued from imminent drowning in the Ganges river: sure, you’re no longer drowning, but you’re still screwed.
I decide to take it. I mean… it’s Kung Pao: the only food so far proven to make me throw caution to the wind and partake of the local culture.
(As an aside, I submitted this story to Webster’s as a possible addendum to their definition of the word “fool.” As far as I know they have not decided not to accept my submission.)
I grab a tray with a plate and bowl and begin a cautious advance toward familiarity.
“You’re not getting soup?” my colleague asks.
There’s something you need to understand about me: I really don’t like to put people in awkward or uncomfortable situations, which means I don’t want to offend or disappoint someone who is so obviously invested in me accepting their generosity. I’ll sacrifice myself on the altar of disappointment and personal misery before I do that to someone else. This, along with Kung Pao (and probably 50 other easily exploitable vectors) are my ONLY weaknesses, and India has found them in less than 48 hours.
“Oh, of course, why wouldn’t I get soup?” I respond with a tone that, to a trained ear, would clearly indicate a strong desire for a reason — any reason — why I shouldn’t get soup. If only I had a legitimate reason to refuse… maybe an allergy!?!?
I ask: “Um… what kind is it?”
The waiter who is now hovering anxiously behind the Kung Pao communicates that he does not know through a profound lack of response.
I can’t speak for everyone, but I suspect most would agree with me that, given the circumstances, this should be sufficient cause to abort the mission and walk away.
I turn to my eager colleague, about to politely indicate that a Plate o’ Pao will be more than enough for a meal, but before I could get his attention, he walks off and enters the kitchen to ask about the soup. A part of me is left wondering why the waiter didn’t do that. But a bigger part of me is wondering why this colleague of mine who clearly doesn’t work here can just casually walk into the restaurant kitchen, and if he can do it, why can’t anyone do this, thus allowing people who aren’t compelled by law to wash their hands after using the restroom to touch kitchen implements that have undoubtedly been involved in preparing things like “soup”?
His abrupt mission into the kitchen leaves me to stand here in uncomfortable silence across from the waiter, who is still standing on the other side of the buffet with ladle in hand, waiting for me to give even the slightest sign that he should satisfy my soup needs. He is staring at me and I am just as energetically trying not to lock eyes with him lest I get sucked into a battle of gestures about the remaining buffet items.
Time passes, and while I succeed in avoiding eye contact with the ladler, I am left with the distinct feeling that I’m still the loser in this contest of wills, setting in place an unfortunate precedent for how the rest of the meal experience will go.
My colleague comes back from the kitchen, breaking me out of my battle trance with an emphatic “Tomato.”
Ah yes… the soup.
I feel trapped. I could say “I don’t like tomato soup” but that’d be a lie and I’m too unsettled now to lie convincingly.
So I give the ladler the signal he seems born to receive and he jumps into action, scooping a portion of what I’m sure will for me be Cream of Red Death from the container. Hanging the ladle over my soup bowl, he asks me to tell him when to stop and begins to pour.
No sooner than the pour touches the bottom of the bowl, I cry out a clear command to “Stop!”
I have to admire his reflexes, as he responds by stopping the pour immediately.
So now I have soup. Just enough to provide a reddish tinge to the otherwise white bottom of my soup bowl.
Mission accomplished, I smartly side-step it over to the Kung Pao. Now that I am closer and can inspect it in greater resolution, I notice that there are weeds and detritus scattered throughout it. This is of only minor concern, however, as I am no stranger to the task of picking out bits of food that I don’t want and hiding them in the clumps of other uneaten foods scattered across my plate, and I figure I’ll just sift those bad boys out when my colleague is not looking. It’s an acceptable risk.
I sit at a table, and my colleague (let’s call him Bob to protect his identity, although he is completely innocent in this adventure) sits down across from me and hands me a class of reddish-pink frothy stuff.
“You’ll like this” he says.
Oh bloody hell.
“Is there tap water in it?” I ask?
Again, another trip for Bob into the kitchen. Yep — mixed with tap water. No pink for me!
As we start with the soup, he gets a look of sudden remembrance on his face and abruptly leaves the table again. He soon returns with a new plate which he sets down next to his soup. It contains what looks like hard boiled eggs in a suspiciously multi-hued sauce, carefully arranged in a culinary presentation reminiscent of recent road kill.
Better him than me, I think.
But as he sits back down he looks at my plate and bowl, I can see him doing some calculations in his head, and I can see a new resolve in his face as he concludes that I’m not eating enough for a boy of my size.
“You’ll like this” says he as he pushes the plate toward me.
Time for some directness. “No, thank you. What I have is enough.”
A friendly argument ensues as to whether I’d like the spiced egg thing. I finally win through sheer attrition and he gives up, and yells off to the kitchen dudes to “cancel the other egg order.”
I feel like a turd. But I hold strong.
Once my soup is finished (I confess it was pretty good…) I start in on the Kung Pao.
It looks really good.
It smells… kinda good.
So I stab it with my fork, pull it up to my mouth, sniff it once more to be sure, and bite down. I am expecting the comforting familiarity of American Kung Pao but find that I’ve instead bitten into a mouthful of bone and cartilage (or at least I hope it is only that). Fortunately, Bob is looking at something else so I can dig my fingers into my mouth and remove all the shrapnel before he notices.
It is most definitely not Kung Pao. I don’t know what it is. I think it could involve chicken in some way. What is not bony or overly tough to chew is pretty good, but my Americanized Kung Pao skills are clearly not up to the task here.
A new approach is needed: enter the knife. I figure if I have to sit here while Bob eats, I might as well try and make the most of this “chicken.”
But if this stuff is chicken, then so are McDonald’s McNuggets. They are the same in the way that they are total opposites of each other. Whereas most McNuggets contain a consistently soft and chewy chickeny center, there is a lot more non-meat-like structure inside these pao-sized chunks than their size warrants. I can barely find a tender spot of flesh to stab a fork through to hold the critters steady enough to slice off a chewable treat.
So, apparently it’s gonna be one of those “eat light” days.
Or so I’d like to think.
Bob wants to order dessert — in spite of my consistent claims that the meager morsels of food I have consumed are enough to sustain me.
Nevertheless, with good intentions, Bob orders dessert for us, adding three new concerns to my brain’s already overloaded list of “Things to Worry About”:
- Waiting for said dessert means more small talk to pass the time. I dislike small talk.
- The only thing I know about this dessert comes from Bob’s repeated assertion of “you’ll like this.” Uh huh. Let me stew on all the ways that’s gonna disappoint while we wait and make small talk.
- I have to pee, but I am not about to even think about entertaining the mere idea of exploring the possibility of using the restroom here. No matter how urgent it gets. Nope.
Days pass.
Ok, it might have been minutes. It was hard to tell the difference.
Dessert arrives and is… interesting.
It was good in the same way that my Chocolate Firestone was last night: I ate it but would never order it again. I can’t recall what it was called. It was some kind of moist, oddly-fried bread ball soaked in a thin sauce that had hints of butter, sugar, honey and coconut.
After lunch it is back to the office for more meetings, overshadowed by the threat of someone taking me out to dinner after work. Nothing makes an afternoon of tedious meetings go slower than knowing you’ll be the star in your own personal Indian Fear Factor episode later that night.
But that is a tale for another post: here.
