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.

Heating Elephant

I hate to be cold. People know this about me because I believe that it is important to make a big deal out of things that bother you. That way people aren’t surprised when they offer you a banana and you tell them you can’t eat it because bananas are disgusting in every way, shape, or form---they are ugly, they smell bad, they squish like rotting hard-boiled eggs (something else I hate, rotting or otherwise, because they look and taste like eyeballs and they smell like a fart).  So naturally, because I hate to be cold, I make a big deal out of it, wear all the clothes that I own at the same time, and call the head of the guest house where I am going to stay to make sure I get in a room with hot water. Otherwise, I would not be taking a shower for a week.  Once I arrived at the guest house and was not put in a room with hot water, I texted and called him until the guard showed up at my door holding a water immersion heating device which you can see in the following photo:

 

Yes, this device can melt plastic and yet it is inserted into a plastic bucket of water and plugged into an electrical outlet in the wall. I wonder if a hair-dryer would have the same capabilities if you took off that tag telling you not to turn it on in the bathtub---it’s pretty much the same concept.  The important thing is that it makes the water warm, although I find that my body is conditioned to expect a mandi (bucket bath to the non-Indo folks) to be cold. So I still brace myself before I throw a bucket of water over my head.

Here are some tips for those of you who may someday be in the position to use a ‘water immersion heating device’:

1.     You must hang it over the bucket by something—a stick, a pole. I used one of the metal curtain rods from the extra bed in my room where the mosquito nets hang.  If you don’t hang it, the metal will rest on the plastic bucket and burn a hole through it. Then, as you may know, the water will all leak out and you cannot heat a shower stream with this device.

2.     Don’t expect the device to heat the whole bucket all the way through. It only heats the water immediately surrounding it. So make sure to let that water get as hot as possible, and then mix the rest of the water with the gayung (smaller dipper bucket for the poor people who have never had the great privilege of learning the Indonesian language).

3.     I don’t know this from experience, but I assume that one shouldn’t stick one’s hand into the bucket of water while the device is still on.  This may be somewhat akin to trying to blow-dry your hair while you are still in the bathtub.  Fortunately, the majority of electrical sockets in India can be turned on or off by a switch. I think this is genius because I can leave cords plugged in wherever I want and just switch off the power without having to unplug everything. It especially helps because sometimes the sockets aren’t screwed in so well and they come in and out if you pull on the plugs too vigorously.  But just to be safe, I don’t put my hand in a bucket of water if the water heating device is in the water, even if the outlet is turned off. Because you never know if the switch really works to completely turn off the electricity…

You may have noticed that I shortened “water immersion heating device” to “device.” I know that’s vague and leads one to imagine a more sophisticated piece of technology, but I tried to find another name for the device, even asking the head of the guest house (who showed up minutes after the guard bringing me another device in case I needed two—I guess I made a big enough deal about the issue that it convinced them to make an extra effort for me.).  Still, no one seemed to know. I had a brief moment of excitement when I looked on the box and saw the word “heating elephant” in bold capital letters. It gave me pause as I tried to think of reasons why the device should be named after a pachyderm.  I thought, “It’s long and coiled and that looks like an elephant’s trunk?” But that would mean that a slinky or a bedspring resembles an elephant. As far as I know, elephants do not have any sort of water-heating power aside from an ability to mix large amount of their own fluids with whatever body of water they happen to be sitting in. Then I realized that the name written on the box is indeed “water heating immersion device.” My guess: “heating elephant” = “heating element.” But it is possible that ‘elephant’ is some kind of technical name for some kind of electric thingy that I would have no idea about anyway…

A collection of thoughts on my life before I head back to the States...not in any particular order...

 Traumatic events build unbreakable bonds between people. So do extra-long church services, I think. When I first met Sam, I was smitten but he was indifferent—not afraid, but uninterested. An hour into the service when he was being unwillingly pinned down in his mother’s arms, he became intrigued by me and my bracelet. Later when he was about to scream during the sermon, his mother, also initially hesitant about my presence in the chair next to hers, ripped the bracelet off my arm (where I had returned it once because Sam had been more interested in the cookie his mother pulled out from her purse) and handed it to him like a pacifier. It surprised me at first because it shocked me out of my deep thoughts about the sermon (of course) and trying to figure out if I had calculated my arrival date to the US wrong (I had), but it made me feel like part of a family in which no one has any embarrassment about taking what they need from someone else. And now Sam and I are pals.

Sam, his mother, and my bracelet

Strikes in India involve women in colorful saris wandering down the streets yelling into megaphones and carrying signs. It reminded me of the sister suffragettes and “votes for women” was running through my head even though this strike wasn’t about votes it was something about farming…if you have never seen Mary Poppins, you will have no idea what I am talking about. If you have seen it you may remember more of the “votes for women” song than I do—since that is the only bit that I remember.

Can you see the line of striking women? I took the photo from inside a store.

India (at least this part of India) doesn’t have our Western Christmas songs translated and installed in their appropriate church-song repertoire—at least not that I have heard and not that the two men I asked about it today knew.  Maybe that’s because I haven’t attended a Baptist church yet, but I am strangely disappointed by that even though I know that it is way more culturally appropriate for them not to have to sing awkwardly translated songs. But translated songs are great ways to have guitar sing-a-longs where everyone can sing whatever words that they want. Also translated songs are great for learning new vocabulary. Also I think it’s fun to sing songs in a multitude of languages. But Indian praise songs are enjoyable too, so I’m ok. If I don’t learn “Joy to the World” in Hindi, it’s fine.

India moving companies are only allowed into Patna after 11:00pm. My movers arrived a 12:30am and unloaded a large truck full of stuff from the Kolkata office.  It took 2.5 hours and left me with a house full of boxes and furniture. I walked around sideways like a crab for days.  We opted for a less sophisticated but equally effective option for moving the stuff into the new office: a parade of bicycle rickshaw drivers. I was told that they would arrive at 5am to get an early start. When I woke up with my alarm at 5am, I realized how dumb of me it was to actually believe that they would show up on time, so instead I called my mom and asked her for a recipe for something to make to serve them while they were in and out of my house carrying stuff.  As I get older, I’m realizing more and more what Asian/Jennie Stillman etiquette that has become deeply engrained in me. Most of that etiquette has to do with food, which is why I’m constantly baking these days to make sure that I never send someone’s plate back to them empty. And people keep giving me food, which is great but not actually a time-saver for me. On a related note, I kept thinking how awesome it was that I could call my mom at 5am and know that I will only be interrupting her dinner, not her sleep.  My phone etiquette, which I probably didn’t receive from Asia (which has no phone etiquette) or my mother (who would never call someone during dinner), was totally ok with this.  And while maybe 1 or 2 bicycle rickshawers were brave enough to try the beautiful cinnamon rolls, I ate them for the rest of the weekend that I spent running to and from the office without a second to spare for cooking food.

                                  

I have become wonderfully adept at small home improvements—these are improvements of things that no one else would naturally think of as things that need to be improved. That is why I can’t think of anyone in particular to call to help me with these things. You know, you can call a plumber if your sink is leaking or a mechanic is your fridge is buzzing. Who is the person you call if you need to unscrew a light bulb that is in the way of a giant lighted glass display case for fancy dishes with extra drawers underneath that you want to move? I couldn’t think of the name either, so I climbed up on a chair, and unscrewed it myself with my pocketknife because of course I don’t have any tools. And that is generally where I end up when doing home improvements: on a chair with a pocketknife unscrewing something.  And my pocketknife is one my dad got for me two Christmases ago as a free gift at a Christian bookstore in Indonesia. It says “Halleluya” on it. It isn’t one of those awesome chunky ones with tweezers, scissors, a retractable hammer, and a cappuccino maker. So clearly, it is the awesome person who is wielding it (yes, I mean me.) who has all the skills. I recently unscrewed two showerheads and then re-screwed in the one that was better in its original state, as I personally believe that one big stream of water pounding on one’s head is better than a tiny trickle spitting out in several scrawny drips.  Moving the large glass display case may have been trickier than unscrewing the light bulb and light blub socket and prying it out of the paint, but it had to be done.  Otherwise my washing machine would have to sit in the middle of the dining room. Now it can be barely wedged between the sink (yes, there is a sink in the dining room for post-dinner-eaten-by-hand-hand-washing) and the glass display case.  Of course, I still have to move it out to the balcony before using it to stuff the drainage pipe down the balcony drain so that the water doesn’t explode all over my house.  I learned this the hard way—by experience. My first load of laundry extended that day’s house chores to cleaning the floors and drying the furniture. I also made a dam out of an old table cloth that I found.to keep the water from getting into other rooms. I kept thinking to myself, “There must be SOME ingenious way that I could force the water to go out on to the balcony and then drain outside.” And I considered building a channel to redirect the water outside with cookie sheets (I am always in favor of using kitchen tools for multiple purposes.), but then I remembered that I only have one cookie sheet and a channel has two sides. I was wracking my brain for various water-proof objects that I could line up and use to trap water when I realized that I could pick up my washing machine and carry it a little closer to the balcony and the plastic tubey thing would reach the drain of the balcony.  Another brilliant solution to my house-keeping needs.

While I was in Sri Lanka I was informed that I have taken to doing the Indian head-nod. I am like a chameleon. I can adapt and change and morph no matter where I am. In the Middle East, I clicked my tongue and raised my eyebrows for ‘no’. And now I shake my head side-ways like a bobble-head doll outside in a hurricane.  I can’t say that it just happened. Initially, I worked on the skill and at least once I was told I was bobbing excessively. Now, however, I am pretty sure I’ve mastered the exact amount of tilt and shake. At least there have been no more comments about my head-nodding now.  I imagine I’ll get a few if I happen to use this new skill in the States though…

And now, here’s a photo of a goat in a rickshaw: