Computer Genius

Once, several years ago, I was talked into going with a group of friends to dinner at the mall. This is pretty much exactly my definition of the ideal worst way to spend my time, but I was convinced by the big brown puppy-dog eyes of my extroverted friend who was inevitably going to have the best time ever, surrounded by people she loved.  As we crowded together into a large car and pushed several tables together at the restaurant, I began to estimate the amount of time I had left to suffer through this torture. The perky waitress took our orders, meticulously separating them into individual checks (which always takes forever) and conversations swished around me, making me feel like I was caught in a tornado, not knowing which one I was supposed to listen to or which one I was more interested in trying to hear, knowing that there would probably be useful information in at least one of those conversations that could potentially help me in another future awkward social situation when I would be expected to participate, unlike this situation where I could nod and smile and pretend like I was a part of one of the conversations so people would not realize that I was drinking as much water as possible, so as to have a legitimate reason to escape to the bathroom as soon as possible.  When dinner was finally over, and I had a headache from my brain trying to push itself out of my eyeball sockets, everyone (naturally) wanted to wander around the mall. Our large group mostly stayed together since some of us rode together and some of some of us were dating some of some of the others who drove together, and I had to stay with the group because I am the kind of person who gets left behind at the mall and has to hitchhike back home because no one realized she wasn’t in the car.  At some point, someone said, “Let’s go to the Apple Store.” This sounded boring to me, but I was committed to getting home in a car driven by someone I knew, so I thought to myself, “How bad can it be? Yes, if you wanted apples, you could just go to the store and choose—red, green, yellow, whatever, but maybe this is a fancy store with specialty apples…candied and caramel and international apple varieties…probably those decorative wooden apples that my best friend’s mom always kept in a bowl on the table, looking deceptively fresh and appetizing until you saw the one with the bite out of it, with the perfect teeth marks carved into the wood (something I always thought was kind of creepy) while the white-painted apple flesh never turned brown…Maybe after this Apple Store we can finally go home.” But we continued wandering the mall. We went into some computer place where everything was fancy, and strange people wandered around being very excited about the fancy computers. We finally ended up going home, and no one bought any apples. I don’t know how many years later I finally realized that the computer store was the Apple Store, but this story is an example of my familiarity with the Mac computer brand.

Today I am typing this from my MacBook Pro, given to me by Neverthirst for the purpose of Work. I do use it for work and for other things, but I definitely remember trying to talk my boss into getting me a PC, not because I don’t like Macs, but because some PCs have Mahjong on them…also, the only people I knew with Macs (except for my wannabe hipster sister), were really good with computers. This is important because I am not, and I know that there would be systems I would have to set up on my laptop and issues with different programs that I would have to figure out, and I am not great at that. So I would need someone to help me, and as the world is increasingly filled with more and more computer nerds, I knew I would be able to find someone in India to help. But I also knew that they would more likely be familiar with PC programming than Mac programing. But the Boss would never deign to give me such an inferior machine as a PC, so I took the Mac and tried to figure out as much as I could. Meaning: I set up an iTunes account so that I could play my music on the computer. This is directly related to the time that I almost broke the computer, but I learned my lesson—do not dance around while holding the computer, if you are trying to move from one room to another with your music while wearing socks on tiled floors. If the song is one you must dance to, set the computer down, dance, then when the song is over, carefully carry the computer to the other room.

When I arrived in India, I quickly found out how right I was that Indian computer nerds would not be as familiar with the Mac systems as they are with PCs, as the following phone conversation (a mash-up of several conversations I have had over the last few months) will show:

Me: I need to install this Airtel internet connection, but I can’t get it to work.

Computer Nerd Phone Answerer (CNPA): Ok Madam, go to your ‘Start Menu.’ Double click on ‘My Computer.’ Then you will see…

Me: OK, I have to tell you--I have a Mac computer.

CNPA: Yes, Madam, you can right click on…

Me: No, it’s a MAC computer—you know the one with the Apple on it…

CNPA: Oh! Apple computer! Please wait….

Then I am put on hold for an hour, listening to Airtel advertisements until I give up and restart my computer and somehow that works.

But this past week I have been called upon to help my friends with their computer needs at two different times. They were both so excited and grateful and kept saying how happy they were to be learning so much about computers from me.

My first session went super-well. My friend Shamlina wanted me to teach her how to use Skype. I helped her install it and then told her that she needed to buy a microphone if she wanted to use it because she has a little netbook that, for some reason, does not have one built in. Then I helped fix her keyboard, which was set on something so that unless you held down the ‘Fn’ key, you couldn’t type half of the letters. That had not been a huge problem for her in the past because when you only type with one finger, it’s not a big deal to hold down one key with one hand and plunk out what you want to say with your other hand. I, however, could not stand it, as I am a master speed-typer, thanks to Mavis Beacon and my mom. Shamlina was very grateful, though, because she realized that it was way better to be able to use the whole keyboard, and she thought it was impressive that I knew what the Control Panel was.

Then a few days later, my field coordinator Rakesh asked me to help him set up Skype. Buoyed by my recent computer-genius success, I agreed and started with the download. I patiently explained why you should uncheck boxes that want to ‘automatically set Bing as your search engine’ because Bing is stupid and trying too hard, and nobody cares about it. Soon we had Skype downloaded and set up and we decided to try to call my computer. Everything was working great except the sound. I tried everything to get his microphone to work: yes, I used the Control Panel. I probably right-clicked on something. I definitely fiddled with the “Advanced Settings.” I did a Skype test call, which told us in a refined British accent that the microphone was working. I knew, I just KNEW, that it was impossible for the issue to be with my computer since it is a Mac, and therefore a superior machine, and Rakesh’s computer is a PC. Finally, I saw my dad on my Skype, and I thought maybe I should have him call Rakesh and see if that works. So I called my dad, and that was the moment that I noticed that I had muted the sound on my computer.

The moral of this story is “You can give a fancy computer to the girl, but that will not make her a Computer Genius.” But I did find out how to download Mahjong…

I will leave you with this photo of Shamlina and me, which is her new Skype photo, but don’t try to add her as a friend because I already warned her about adding people she doesn’t know, since they are probably just stalkers who are trying to steal her identity.

Being Domestic in India

Apparently I’m throwing myself a birthday party on Tuesday. Somehow it has gotten out to everyone that my birthday is coming up, and that is the power of Facebook.  Everyone keeps asking me what I’m doing, which I have taken to mean that I have to do something. The ideal introvert birthday for me is to take a quiet sleepy day at home and eat only junk food. I already know that is not going to happen.  Somehow, against all stereotypical introverted characteristics, I have been able to make a lot of friends who all know it is my birthday and all expect me to do something. I have agreed to make a cake, something I feel that the birthday girl should never have to do for herself. Also things the birthday girl should never have to worry about doing: buying her own candles, cleaning her house in preparation for lots of people coming over, having lots of people over.

Anyway, as I plan for making cake and cleaning my house, I’ve been thinking about my increasing domesticity. The more I live alone in various places around the world, the more I get tired of eating the two things I know how to cook, so I start branching out. Today, for example, I made nasi goreng (fried rice) without the bumbu packets from Indonesia, which would have made it better, but it was actually quite good. The tricky part was pouring it from the pan into the bowl. Half ended up on the floor and I had to sweep with the second broom I’ve bought in the last two weeks. First I was trying to use the Indian-style broom, which was already in the house because I am ridiculously cheap, and I don’t care so much about cleaning that I would actually worry about the type of broom that I have. But it turns out that the Indian-style broom is short like a sapu lidi with long floppy straw to sweep with, and you are supposed to squat and hop as you swish the dust outside of your house. I realized that the physical effort of doing it that way was more than I wanted to expend in the interest of not making footprints in the dust on my floor. So I bought another broom with a long handle, but the bristles squeak on the floor and make me want to claw out my eardrums. Then after hours of sweeping and screaming in pain, the only result is that the dust on the floor has been streaked into interesting patterns.  Fortunately, the newest $3 broom that I brought works well and only requires minimal effort to swish across the floor.

Another domestic triumph: I changed the light bulb in my bathroom. It took 3 days and two minutes—three days to decide that it was necessary, one minute for me to drag a chair into the bathroom, another minute for me to find an old light bulb that I had unscrewed and pried out of the wall with my trusty pocketknife. I realized the light bulb still worked, so why should I go to the store and buy a new one? Yes, the cheapest girl in India also thought that would be a waste so she didn’t bother.  It took 3 days for her to bother about changing the light bulb at all since she has showered in the dark plenty of times—the bathroom in the camp in Yemen didn’t have lights, so she is great at finding my shampoo and lathering up with minimal light.  Basically, I just kept my bathroom door open while I showered to get the light from my room (it’s so convenient to live alone). Since in one of my previous home-improvement times I took off the shower-head, the pressure is pretty good and I realized that a drops of water were spraying out of my bathroom (Indian showers, like many around the world, do not have shower doors or curtains to keep the water off the floor of the rest of the bathroom. Instead, after showering, you just squeegee the water into the drain.), and some tiny drops landed on my kindle which was on the bed and now there is a small corner of the screen that is messed up. It keeps me guessing the last letter of the last word on the page as I read, which is probably ultimately going to be really good for my brain and keep me from losing my mind too young.  But it is also annoying, and it propelled me to do the two-minute light bulb changing routine mentioned above. And the good news is that there are plenty of other useless light bulbs around the apartment that I can replace if I need them later…guest room light bulb? Unnecessary as STILL no one has come to visit me. Balcony light bulb? Unnecessary as I never go out there at night.

So my house will be clean for my birthday party festivities and maybe well lit, and I will make a cake that people will probably like, although one boy in my apartment building said that my cake was very sweet. I am surprised that he has the ability to make that judgment as Indian desserts include donut-holes soaked in buckets of syrup and curdled cheese balls marinated in sugar goo. As you eat these diabetes bombs, you feel your teeth squeak as the sugar coats them with impending cavities. But my cakes are definitely sweeter than the cardboard fluff-frosted ones you can get at the bakery that taste like dried sea-sponges. And I have lived in China, so you know that I have tried dried sea-sponges.

Before we get off the topic of Indian sugar, the other day I bought some brown sugar, which I have been substituting with white sugar, as I haven’t seen brown sugar anywhere here. I opened the box and noticed an odd sticky consistency. I looked at the ingredients on the side of the box and was realized that what I had bought was literally brown sugar. The ingredients read “sugar and caramel-colouring.” So the cookies I make are the right color, but this isn’t exactly the tasty crumbly brown sugar that some people like to eat out of the box…ok, maybe just me, but I do love me some brown sugar.  And why can’t I find gummy candies ANYWHERE in India? Worms, bears, beans, sour sugar-covered children, I miss them…

So before I sign off to go psych myself up for a social event at my house with an ending time that I have no control over, here is a photo of me at the last birthday party I went to. My field coordinator’s wife’s birthday. Yes, I made the cake. Little Merrison sang “Happy to you” over and over, the only part of the song that she cares about. There was great Indian food (aloo prantha, various curries, spicy chutney), 4 people, and it was not at my house so I could leave whenever I felt like it…

Scaring People

From childhood it’s been a hobby of mine to scare people—I startle them in guilty moments and play on their phobias…OK, fine. I mostly just did that to Marian because it’s always funny.  One minute she’s up in the schoolroom, thinking she has convinced Mom that she is doing her math when really she is reading Little House on the Prairie for the twentieth time (I’m all for multiple readings of good books, but Laura Ingalls Wilder makes me want to ride a buffalo over a cliff). The next minute she’s jumping up in the air, hitting her head on the ceiling as all tall people do when they exceed the normally accepted boundaries of human height, and grabbing at her math book…one minute she’s confessing to me her deep dark fear of finding a dead body behind a shower curtain and the next minute she’s wrapped in a towel, screaming at my doorway holding a bundle of soggy clothes that looked just like the corpse of someone who had been murdered just before slipping and falling into the bath. 

Scaring people can be wonderfully cathartic and stress-relieving. It also gives one a sense of accomplishment if one has put any kind of careful and/or spontaneous thought into the act of terror. But as I found out this week when I scared two separate groups of people at two different times completely by accident, it can still be funny. And laughing at other people really is a way of bonding across cultures. For example…

I was off for my morning run the other day. Now that it’s getting lighter earlier, I can go running earlier, which is nice because there are less pedestrians (four-legged and two-legged) wandering around in the streets, blocking my tiny paths around mud puddles and pot holes. (I hate having to stop in the middle of a run to wait for a cow to saunter around and give me room to get by.) But I found out that a solitary runner, in a place where morning exercise means standing in a group and clapping together or laughing as loudly (and fake-ly) as possible, can be a suspicious person.  Since I hate running dead ends, I always try to find as many loops as possible—around two blocks or three or even one, it is better than getting to the end of the road and having to turn around.  It always looks like you forgot where you were going. Well, as I was running around one of my little loops, I happened to come up behind two unsuspecting ladies…one lady heard my footsteps behind her and suddenly grabbed the lady with her and yelled, “Run! Hurry!” Then they looked back and saw me, and as I apologized profusely while laughing and continuing to run in place (because I hate stopping), they also laughed (embarrassedly) and we had a quick bonding moment in the street. Later, because it’s India, Karma struck me for my inconsiderate, culturally inappropriate pastime, and a bug got stuck in my eyelashes. That was traumatic, though, so I won’t say anything else about it, except that I did NOT stop running.

Later on that day when I was no longer running, I managed to scare some of my friends when I used the wrong word to tell them that I had a problem. The problem was that our office water filter was not working, but I made it seem like there was a DISASTER happening to me--one could argue with the prevalence of arsenic in the water system of Patna that me potentially contracting cancer could be considered a disaster, but it didn’t necessitate that my friend and his sick wife rush right over (and they did).  We laughed again and then had fun hanging out in the office while we called someone to come fix the filter and had a Hindi lesson. I've got to say, it’s kind of annoying learning languages from books. The expression I used is translated in every book as “I have a problem,” but the connotation is that impending doom is coming, apparently.  Like the word “dhobi” which is in every single Hindi book I have ever seen and always used in sentence examples (The dhobi is washing the clothes. The dhobi was washing the clothes. The dhobi had washed the clothes. The dhobi is about to have been wishing that he had been almost having been washing the clothes.). Then I use the word to suggest that we hire a washerman (dhobi in case you didn’t figure that out from the context) to wash some bedding we had purchased and the room erupts in laughter.  I learned that calling someone a ‘dhobi’ or especially a ‘son of a dhobi’ is a profound insult and could potentially land me in a fight. So at least that language mistake was totally useful: I now know a great and devastating insult to throw at people who annoy me.

Before I sign off this blog post, which I am writing because I missed my train and now I have lots of extra time with my new beautiful wireless internet, I want to post a beautiful photo of my little sister screaming over the shower corpse…since she posted some photos of some of my earlier hijinks in her usually deep and insightful blog (www.inkblotcoffee.blogspot.com) which you probably all read already because she is so famous.

Faces are blurred to protect the terrorized.