please don't read this like a college essay

It's truly remarkable when you find someone born and brought up in a totally foreign culture who perceives the world so similarly. Friendships forged straight through differing backgrounds and retained despite geography based on true connections from great conversations mean quite a lot to me. I have one such friend from Japan, one from Mainland China, and one from Taiwan. Now I have one from India. [Note: anyone who's lived in the US for more than 2 years doesn't count in this point I'm trying to make]
That said, I have many other friends from each of these places (Taiwan excluded) whom I care about dearly. But only these amaze me at our similarities and our ease of getting along.
We spoke about how terrible the ASCI administration is and about how much we enjoy certain specific and types of people. She talks about her past pain, and I joke about both hers and mine. In a book I recently read and love, the author explains that one's own pain is the most precious thing he or she can share with another. Well, we've shared some.
On my last day, she produces two Kultas (traditional Indian shirts) that she'd bought for me. Luckily, I'd already given her two CDs that I put a lot of thought and time into crafting. She tells me to wear it and come join in the Puja for Ganesh, 2 hours before I have to leave for the airport. We walk down, and I immediately hope to disappear, trying in vain not to become the center of attention for what should be a religious ceremony. I screw up the part where you dot your own forehead, getting the paint all over my hands. Everyone around me laughs, not least the aforementioned friend. When the plate of fire comes by, its bearer hastily allows me only one pull of air from it. Only the aforementioned notices this subtlety. I get the joke too, but it annoys me instead of making me laugh. After this, though, everything goes pretty smoothly. I can lean over and quietly whisper requests for translation and explanation. And later, the fire's second bearer is nicer to me than the first.
It's staggering how little I understand of the ceremony, of Hinduism, and of India. But I do know that my friend is kind, perceptive, and strong, which I can appreciate anywhere.

a nice night, pt. 2

In the rain, I headed over to the City Centre mall, a "world class mall." I'd been hoping to get a shot at some Haleem (the food that takes a day to make and Hyderabadi Muslims eat each night during Ramadan) since before I arrived in Hyderabad, but first I wanted to pick up my power-shirts on the cheap (as in, $25 instead of $80). At Planet Fashion, where I'd reserved two shirts for myself earlier, I met Anthony Benjamin and his friend, who have longer shifts than I expected.
I walked out of the store with two shirts, unsure of whether I'd landed a great deal or been ripped off, in search of some Haleem. Then I realize that Anthony Benjamin and his friend may have something more to offer, and I walk back through security and into the mall. They point me in the right direction, and as I'm walking on the sidewalk next to the mall, Anthony Benjamin's friend cries down to offer me his guidance to the Haleem shop.
It turns out that the guy calls himself a "foreigner specialist." He loves foreigners' talent and intelligence, he says. Excuse me for my naiveté, but I believe that he honestly and earnestly opened to me. We walk down an alley, and seeing my slight flinch, he tells me not to worry, as I'm with him. Of course, I'm not worrying about anyone else. I tell him that I'm just concerned that we go the right way.
We're there in no time, all the while discussing how Muslims are treated in the US. I tell him that I really don't know, but that I'm sure there are some problems. He's happy and surprised that I have Muslim friends, and I assure him that plenty of Muslim communities exist in our cities, and he'd have no problems finding them. I'm making things up at this point, but I try to remind him at every opportunity how little I really know about what it would be like for him.
He's curious about and attentive to what I say. I'm not sure he understood my description of the project that brought me to Hyderabad, but I guess he got some of it. He's intensely out to prove his morality and good intentions, in part to impress that he's a man worth giving my American time to help later. He refuses to let me pay, and again, I believe only in small part because he's looking for favors later. The Haleem is actually a lot worse than what I expected, but I expected something on par with Hyderabad Biryani. That, in my opinion, it's not, but the flavor is still damn nice. And it probably tastes better when you haven't eaten all day. I'd stuffed myself recently, as it turned out.
My friend later tells me that I shouldn't have trusted this man – that first impressions can often be quite wrong. In my opinion, though, no risk leads to no reward. I learned a lot from my friend at Planet Fashion, and I will remember his kindness no matter what happens.

democracy

In China, Rasul Poora wouldn't be around anymore. It's a slum of people who settled close to the Hyderabad Airport – in fact, many of them on Airport-owned land itself. Now, Rasul Poora is a notified slum, which means that its people have a claim to the land they live on. Adjacent to Rasul Poora, and even closer to the runway (we're talking a couple hundred meters), sit a bunch more houses, some built of concrete, some made of plastic sheets and sticks.
Rasul Poora aside, the fact that this area, right next to the airport, is engaged in an ongoing legal dispute with the Airport authorities in court just plain amazes me. In China, the government wouldn't even blink before clearing out that area. Not a split second of thought. And in India, powerful local leaders pushed to get the matter into court, lest the voters in slums punish them for ignoring the people.
In India, Rasul Poora is far enough outside of the airport fence to get notified, but I highly doubt it would have made it in Beijing. In India, Rasul Poora has pretty mediocre water coverage – most people use public taps and borewells. In China, Rasul Poora (if it survived) might be better served. I'm really not sure. But the two countries are obviously driven by different types of politics, and the difference couldn't be starker than here.

a nice night

I learned more information about any of the enumerators in the hours I spent Friday evening with Praveen, who calls himself Kevin. Hospitable as anyone I know, Kevin had been offering and offering to take me around Hyderabad, his most recent offer being to take me to a place where I could get the haircut I so desired. I finally took him up on it, and Amy came to get Henna. During my haircut – a good one – Kevin and I spoke mostly about getting jobs and the religious and cultural makeup of India and the US. Which was pretty cool in itself – I hadn't had such an intelligent conversation with any of the enumerators before that.
Then the haircut ended, and we still had at least an hour to wait. So Kevin, Raj (who also came but whose English isn't great and tends to sit and text message and get call after call from someone or other), and I sat on a railing, then under an overhang in plastic chairs when the rain started. We chatted about movies, jobs some more, Hyderabad some more, the enumerators and their personal lives, and finally our own personal lives.
This might seem pretty mundane, but for me among the enumerators, it was a breakthrough. I really like these guys and girls, but our conversations usually feel somehow guarded and/or blocked to me.
Kevin helped us catch a cab each way, and his persistence was great to watch and take part in. We both stood out in the rain looking for the few cabs were empty and agreed to turn into our parking lot, laughing at the fact that even a foreigner wasn't enough to attract them. But one gave in to my moneyed looks eventually, and we had our ride home. Goodnight to Kevin and Raj, dropped Amy at ASCI, and I was off with my new driver to buy some expensive shirts in the rain.

Mr. Joseph and the Administrative Officer

There’s a man who works all day in a small office near the door to ASCI. You can see him anywhere, smiling his __ and proving to everyone that he’s harmless and only there to serve. His name is Mr. Joseph, and if you need anything, he’s the first line of defense after the “help desk,” which rarely lives up to its name. “Sir, Mr. Joseph may know.” “Sir, you should talk to Mr. Joseph.” “Sir, you need to get permission from Mr. Joseph.” “Sir, Mr. Joseph is taking his breakfast.”
And then there’s a man who works next door to Mr. Joseph’s office (which also happens to have two other desks with two other workers on its white floor). This man is the campus’ “administrative officer.” He is known only by his last name (or sir – usually both), and he drives in every day from his house a bit higher on the hill where ASCI itself lies. He pulls into his parking space, and three people await him. One opens his door and allows sir to walk out, one opens the back door and takes sir’s bag to carry in, and the other is there in case sir wants to talk with anyone on his way in. He usually doesn’t.
And the administrative officer enforces some serious rules. First, of course, no guests in rooms. That goes without saying. But, it is sometimes necessary to explain, co-workers on a project that ASCI itself is consulting for, and receives a huge amount of money from, certainly do not constitute an exception to this rule. Nor can such visiting co-workers use the library, which is reserved for the students who occasionally frequent it.
Back when he told me this, I thought the officer pretty damn annoying, and I didn’t think much better of him for graciously offering some of Mr. Joseph’s already cramped space. But over time, I’ve seen a kindness in this man. He stands up for his guests and his students. He enforces stupid rules, yes, but with a lot less rigid than many around him. I just wish he had more courage to stand up to those above him, those I never see.

brief note

I am no longer in Hyderabad, but I have at least 7 more posts to make. Pretend I'm still there. I'll spread the posts out.

some notes on water and sanitation

So I’ve been here for almost a month and a half, keeping a blog, and some of my closest friends and relatives still don’t know what I’m doing here. I’ll leave that to another post, but for now I will explain what I’ve learned about the water situation here. Suffice it for now to say that the project I’m working for involves using microfinance to provide access to improved Water+Sanitation.

Hyderabad has a great deal of slums, where people have settled but do not own the underlying land. Many of these slums are “notified,” which means that the government admits that they exist and therefore implicitly agree to take care of them and allow them to exist indefinitely. The idea is to move people along the path towards land ownership. Notification is the first step towards that.

And it also means that in those notified slums live some pretty important constituents for the local government. So it’s nice to see that in the past year and a half or so, the water board has bothered to give most of those people some semblance of water coverage. Not good for our project, but I doubt whether the residents here care whether they make good research subjects or candidates for an innovative water supply program.

The government’s implemented some “100 rupee schemes” (forgive me, but when I hear that word I can’t help but think of “my li’l scheme…of Marching UP and DOWN the square”), which means that residents only have to pay Rs. 100 ($2.50) to get a water connection. That beats any loan to pay Rs. 3000…

Anyway, a ton of people have their own connections, even if these only work every two days and for a half hour each of these days. People fill their pots and drums with whatever they can get, and stick it out for a while. But for these guys, waiting at home for the water to come isn’t that big a deal.

When water becomes scarce and people need more, government tankers are always there, driving around the city. I see them all the time – they say “Rs. 500 for 1000L.” It turns out that the tanker operators may be gouging a bit and charging 700 rupees, but you get the idea.

We’ve found pockets of communities without improved water access, but they’re somewhat few and far between. Of course, before we showed up, our data said nothing of the sort. Why? Someone who works for the MFI we’re partnering with here and I feel that I’m supposed to be working for, suggested that there may be some politics behind it. The idea goes like this: the slum-dwellers want special treatment from the government, and one way to get this is to remain officially a slum. So even when services improve, they prefer that the municipal corporation not update the statistics. And the municipal corporation seems to be obliging, thus far.

Either that or the new connections are just too recent. After all, everything takes forever here.

up on a hill

It’s odd, but it seems that the longer I’m here, the more often I’m ripped off. Or maybe I just notice it more. It turns out that auto-rickshaw (a little yellow machine with three wheels and handlebars somewhat like a bike that has three gears and very little power) drivers can put their meters on a crazy double/triple rate setting, in which the fare advances really quickly. It’s designed for being stopped in traffic, but boy have drivers abused it recently. Needless to say, this trick of theirs has brought me into a couple of arguments. And then there’s the whole driving in circles issue.
So in the past few days, I’ve decided that the best policy is to negotiate a fixed price before-hand, something I only recently became familiar enough with the city to do. I still over-pay. It’s one of the many many situations in which I knew a little more Hindi than how to impeccably pronounce “what’s your name?” I know I’ll get ripped off until then, and that’s just life. I also understand why some people get so bent out of shape over being ripped off, but I don’t see the point. The way I see it, it’s best to try to get ripped off in a way that helps you too. And get the guy to stick to his word. A la:
So the first rickshaw driver this morning agrees to take us to the area around our destination, although he’s never heard of the place. We negotiate Rs. 100. A few minutes later, we’re being told that it’ll be Rs. 150. My friend goes a little ballistic, as I chuckle to myself. We inform him that his options are Rs. 100 or Rs. 0. He lives with it, and we bail on the ride early when we see the best Biryani restaurant in Hyderabad on our left (we pay 100).
After eating that magnificent spiced rice and chicken, we are on our way again. But no one has ever heard of the hill-top Buddhist temple that (surprise) Lonely Planet touts. The best we can do is a friendly policeman in a chair who explains to me in English and a driver in Hindi the directions to the vicinity we’re looking for.
And these drivers (the driver’s friend hangs out in the tiny small seat with him – it’s common) are awesome. They’re not insanely aggressive, and they’re intent on finding the place. We set a fixed price beforehand. Anyway it turns out that Banjara hills isn’t the only posh neighborhood around – we end up in Mahanra hills, which is damn well-off. Lots of nice apartments with spectacular views of Secunderabad and Hyderabad. I see a lot of HMWSSB (Hyderabad municipal water and sanitation supply board) construction going on – looks like they’re getting new pipes or some such. High priority for the government, I suppose.
Up in these dusty, narrow, terribly-kept streets, we ask a well-dressed guy where we can find the temple, and he immediately knows, but can’t describe it very well to me. He tells the earnest drivers instead. After I waste a minute to look at a sign with a really ambiguous arrow, we’re up another road and see it.
You know, I had given up any hope that it would be cool. But the place towers over everything around, has a cool bodhi tree painted on the top, and is new but sparse and almost classy. We were content to just look around and take pictures of the magnificent views of the city and the temple, which we knew didn’t open for a couple of hours. But a really nice guy comes down to the gate and ushers us in. We tell the drivers, probably the only ones within a kilometer, to wait and that we’ll go to Banjara afterwards. Don’t set a price. Whoops.
Next thing I know, I’m sitting in front of a monk with a strong face and bad teeth, who studied in Thailand. Can’t tell his nationality. I hear three things I didn’t expect – he’s only been around for a few months; he doesn’t trust Muslims; and he is a huge supporter of President Bush. He likes how the President stands up to communities and people that are doing bad things. Strong opinions that actually make me stop and think about why I oppose that guy so deeply. I should tell the monk that it’s deception, callous war-mongering without forethought; intentions and policy devoid of intelligence or planning; the very antithesis of Buddhism that I perceive in Mr. Bush and his administration, but I don’t. I want to hear his opinions far more than I want to give mine.
The view from the temple itself is even more breathtaking. The inside is kind of empty, but I like the mid-size orange Buddha they have in front. I donate only a little bit, after seeing the list of local big-shot donors on the wall. The monk told me earlier that the temple is very well-known in the area, and any rickshaw driver will know where it is. I didn’t tell him how apart from the city I really felt at that point.
After taking a book each, we’re headed back. The drivers have waited for about half an hour. Traffic is better than usual, but it’s pretty horrible. I really like the drivers’ style, and I’m pretty disappointed when we show up. Because like idiots, we didn’t fix the price, and left negotiation for arrival. These guys are human, and they ask for a crazy amount. And of course we pay.

collapsing bridge

Last night, in the pouring monsoon rain, I rode in a small car driven by our field coordinator, Madhu. He drove exceedingly slowly, which I really appreciated. After we finished looking at the restaurant that will host our party this week, we made it back to ASCI, where I told Madhu that it’s okay, we can discuss the issue tomorrow morning.

Later last night, Amy received a cryptic text message about how Madhu and Ravi “barely escaped.”

Some scaffolding holding up the "fly-over" under construction (that is, a highway they're building) collapsed in the heart of Hyderabad, and trapped dozens under it. I’m still not sure how many people died. Thankfully the estimates keep shrinking. It's under 10, now.

A few hours after Madhu texted Amy , I received a text from an enumerator, asking if I was okay. His next said “thank god,” and told me that he’d crossed that street only 4 minutes before.

I’m not sure why I’m telling all my concerned relatives this, but now you can worry all the more.

hi-tec city

I first arrived in Hyderabad at 4AM, and two things about my ride here shocked me. First, even the main roads were in pretty bad condition. Second, the traffic, even in the middle of the night. The taxi eventually dropped me at my residence in a place called Banjara Hills, which is pretty much the Beverly Hills of this sprawling, congested, unplanned, diverse city.

Until I’d spent a little time in the middle of Hyderabad, though, Banjara Hills didn’t seem anything special. But now I’ve learned that Hyderabad is really a crowded collection of small shops and residences on winding streets. Over here in Banjara, the streets are actually far calmer, and the stores and residences are noticeably fewer and posher. Sadly, it took me quite a long time to realize this.

If you proceed farther out of the “real” Hyderabad, going west on the one wide, well-lit road out of Banjara Hills, you begin to approach a place everyone here knows as “Hi-Tec City.” And as you make that approach, everything changes again.
Hi-Tec City exists because US companies whose work can be transferred through the internet realized three things about India: one, it is night here when it is day in the US. Two, a lot of people speak pretty good English here. Three, day or night, people are willing to work for a whole lot less than they are in the States.

So in 2007, whereas I’ve seen no building in Hyderabad taller than five stories (and few not built of cement), Hi-Tec city boasts skyscrapers that employ thousands of people each. Although I’m not sure what half the people in there do, I know that a good deal of Hi-Tec City consists of call centers. And if you work in one of those (a great job here, by the way), you work US hours. Once I understood that, I knew why there was traffic on the roads here my first morning drive from the airport.

And when I go to the Hi-Tec City area, where I’ve been twice to go shopping in a pretty fun place (see later posts), I see the excitement and the energy that the FDI from the US tech companies generates here. The bustle of small shops on crowded streets re-appears, where it had vanished in the hills where I live. Large signs advertise “working men’s hostels,” and “working women’s hostels.” Earnestly and painfully, young mothers carrying babies beg for change from every well-to-do traveler they see. Scores of locals walk the streets and chat, hanging out at diverse storefronts and eating snacks.

Just down the street, an enormous yellow and glass building that calls itself “The Pride of Hyderabad” on postcards, has elaborate security in front. It’s rather stark. And it keeps consuming and generating its strange energy into the night, all night, every night.

more posts to follow soon

for now, here is an Economist article on the bombings.

http://www.economist.com/world/asia/displaystory.cfm?story_id=9725391