School is out

For what seems like the 10th time this month, the local kids have school off for a minor holiday or religious festival. It feels like the kids here are never in school. I asked a coworker about this curious trend and got a bit more than I was expecting.

In short, the kids get a hell of a lot of time off – much of it for seemingly ridiculous reasons. There is no better example of this than the month kids got off from school in 2000 due to the kidnapping of the state’s most beloved film star, Rajkumar. Yes, you read correctly. I didn’t believe it either but the facts don’t lie.

I’m going to grossly oversimplify this story but in 2000 a gang leader, named Veerappan, kidnapped the 71 year old Rajkumar and held him in captivity for 108 days while demanding the release of several gang members. Rajkumar was freed but events surrounding the kidnapping remain murky.

What is not up for discussion is that business in Bangalore came to a near standstill during the saga. The kidnapping was a political and social crisis and a month of closed schools should tell you all you need to know. To read more about this kind of bizarre moment in history read here.

But anyway, this story left me thinking. What would have to happen in the U.S. to cause schools to close for a month? After 9/11 we had maybe a day or two off. Barring some kind of natural disaster, I just can’t imagine schools being closed for that long. In fact, is there any pop culture figure whose death could trigger even one day off?

Kenny Jones

Bangalore has one English language radio station and one fantastic American DJ.

Kenny Jones and Radio Indigo are keeping me sane. When India’s eccentricities and messiness sometimes loose their charm I have my rides to work with Kenny to cleanse the pallet.(Photo from the Hindu)

Most days, I ride into work with a friend, Krithika, and we spend much of those rides laughing at Kenny, or at the absurdity that is Bangalore during rush hour.

Kenny Jones is a former PE teacher from Orlando turned Indian DJ and he has revolutionized Bangalore radio. With his sidekick, Sriram, Kenny has given Bangalore a level of interaction on the airwaves Americans apparently take for granted.

Hearing local folks call in and interact with Kenny is priceless. Most callers are generally pretty awkward on-air and fall over their words when given the opportunity to speak with him. The calls are gold. His signature line, “love, ya,” is apparently a crowd pleaser but I could hug the guy for simply being American and giving me a taste of home.

For a little more on Kenny, American’s unofficial ambassador to Bangalore, check out a great profile on him in the Hindu.

And finally, I owe Krithika a big thank you. She has gotten way more America than she bargained for when she agreed to carpool with me. She is a trooper and done her best not to completely tune me out when I go on about the Redskins, missing Jessie or craving a juicy burger. So, thanks, you certainly earned it.

Rickshaws and Rainstorms

The lightest drizzle can turn Bangalore’s streets into streams. A hard rain puts half the city underwater.

I woke up this morning to the drumming of a downpour on corrugated tin. With a groan, I began imagining -- with well-deserved dread -- the commute to work. Not only would Bangalore’s incredibly poor drainage system turn many intersections into small ponds but the rain would provide my nemesis, the rickshaw drivers, with a horrendous leg up in my morning negotiations for a decent fare.

With my computer wrapped in a plastic bag and tucked inside my backpack, I ventured out into the deluge. A wet three blocks later, I arrived at my go-to rickshaw stand. Of course, along the walk, I had tried waving down 10 autos, but they were all taken. The prospects for getting ripped off were looking pretty good.

The rickshaw stand which usually hosts a dozen or so lazy drivers, was abandoned except for one beat up, muddy auto. The driver looked up at me over his newspaper and gave the customary head shake which says, “Where do you want to go?”

A metered fare to work typically costs about 150 rupees or a little more than three dollars. That’s expensive for India but my office is 45 minutes and 15 kilometers away. Navigating India’s Byzantine bus system simply isn’t in the cards, so I opt for the autos when I can’t get a ride.

Sticking my head into the rickshaw I delivered my destination, “Jakkur village, new airport road.” I waited with baited breath for the response. I’m typically quoted fares for the trip that are 4 or 5 times what they should be. Considering the rain, demand for autos and the distance, I was expecting a response of 400 rupees. If I was lucky, I might be able to talk him down to 200.

The neatly choreographed negotiations never materialized. I’m not sure if the driver felt bad for me or if he is just one hell of an honest guy, but he nodded, switched on the meter and waived me inside.

Past wild dogs and through streams we pushed forward – the underpowered rickshaw struggling in the rain, Gunga Din and I moaning with every pothole.

Chris Cooley in Bangalore?

Half dead from an over zealous workout, I walked towards the water fountain and found myself staring at a very familiar face. Coming full sprint right at me was Chris Cooley, in poster form, curly hair and all.

I spun around to share my joy at having a Washington Redskin “in the gym” and quickly realized there wasn’t another soul around who would have any idea who he is. That realization led directly to some obvious questions.

1. How does a poster of Chris Cooley in a Reebok football shirt end up in a gym in Bangalore India?
2. And, if people have no idea who he is, who exactly do they think is in the giant poster?

On a side note, and much to my chagrin, no one in India knows the first thing about American football. It’s been such a desert of football talk for me that one evening I ran into a Nigerian guy wearing a Roy Williams Cowboys jersey (31 – the former safety) and I gave him a hug. Appalling, I know.

But back to the questions. My gym, Fitness First, is a British-based outfit that apparently has some kind of partnership with British-based Reebok. My guess is that a Fitness First marketing exec saw the poster of Cooley, thought he was in fact a burley soccer player wearing a European football shirt, and figured he might as well become a wall decoration in India.

Perhaps of more interest is who exactly Indians think is in the poster. I asked my trainer, Vivin, if he had any idea and with a shrug, gave me an earnest, “no.” He thought it was just some fitness model.

Now, Chris Cooley is without a doubt one of my favorite athletes, but I think even he would laugh a little bit at being called a model. Just look at the poster. In classic Cooley form, he looks half asleep and a little goofy. But the bottom line is this, Chris Cooley can add Indian fitness model to his impressive list of accomplishments – probably right behind pro bowl tight end. (Below, Vivin and Captain Chaos)

The World's Most Expensive Home

India is a country of contrasts. After my first trip to Bangalore I tried my best to paint a picture of 21st century India by describing the ride into the heart of the city from the brand new international airport.

I would talk about the shiny new terminals, marble floors, wonderful new highway but also about passing bullock carts and cows in the middle of the road and seeing entire families of five on top of one motorbike. I would try and describe the physical transformation of the city as well. You might pass a two hundred year old bazaar or temple but then turn a corner to see a brand new 40 story apartment building with a helicopter landing pad on top.

Well, India's evolution is continuing and as the economy liberalizes and grows the gap between the haves and have-nots is becoming painfully obvious. There is no better example of this than the construction of the world's most expensive home in Mumbai.

The home is a 27 story building that casts a looming shadow over some of India's poorest neighborhoods. The one billion dollar edifice can actually be seen from Dharavi, Mumbai's infamous slum containing well over a million people.

A feature on the building in the Times of India does a wonderful job of capturing the grandeur and controversy surrounding the project. A short excerpt from the piece:

"The newest and most exclusive residential tower for this city's superrich is a cantilevered sheath of steel and glass soaring 27 floors into the sky. The parking garage fills six levels. Three helipads are on the roof. There are terraces upon terraces, airborne swimming pools and hanging gardens in a Blade Runner-meets-Babylon edifice overlooking India's most dynamic city.

There are nine elevators, a spa, a 50-seat theater and a grand ballroom. Hundreds of servants and staff are expected to work inside. And now, finally, after several years of planning and construction, the residents are about to move in...All five of them."

Yeah, the feature is worth a read. Enjoy.

An Indian Wedding

For all of the fathers out there that complain about the cost of their daughter’s weddings just count your blessings you don’t live in India.

Indian weddings are spectacular. No expense is spared, and it’s common for many families to take out loans to host proper celebrations. A typical wedding seems to be something out of a novel or fairytale – they stretch over several days and will include hundreds of people that travel from all over the country or world for the celebration.

In July of 2011 two of my friends are getting married in Bangalore. He is French and she is the eldest daughter of a very prominent local family. By all indications their wedding is going to be the super bowl of ceremonies.

This past weekend I accompanied them to see the site her father has chosen for the event. Let me begin by saying I had read about the place in guidebooks.

The wedding is taking place at the Bangalore Palace – a replica of England’s Windsor Castle built over several decades in the late 1800s upon 454 acres of manicured grounds.


We arrived in the early evening and the castle was lit up like it was the backdrop of a climatic scene in a Hollywood love story. It’s a moving place and will surely make for an incredible setting for the wedding. It’s also worth mentioning there probably wasn’t another site in the city large enough – they are expecting at least 2,000 people.

Frankly, I can’t wait. This should be the event of the year and there are rumors that the bride and groom will be arriving on elephants. I have got my fingers crossed.

Bangalore and Buffalo

I have always found it pretty funny how easily you can get a rise out of folks in the U.S. if you bring up outsourcing and Indian accents on the end of customer support lines (Mom). But to my surprise, you get the same kind of excited responses when you bring up the subject here.

Few Bangaloreans are aware President Obama is winding down the war in Iraq or that he passed healthcare reform, but they all are well aware of his position on reforming American corporate tax structure.

You might recall the line, “our current corporate tax system encourages paying lower taxes if you create a job in Bangalore, India, than if you create one in Buffalo, New York.'' It’s catchy but it has created a firestorm in India.

The President is making an official visit to Delhi on November 5 and as far as Bangalore is concerned the only state issue worth addressing is his stance on outsourcing. This is a position reflected by taxi drivers, waiters, corporate stiffs and seemingly every newspaper.

I suppose this isn’t that surprising considering outsourcing has become almost as synonymous with India as yoga. In fact, outsourcing has provided much, if not the majority, of the fuel for Bangalore’s meteoric rise over the past decade.

IT firms and call centers seem to be on every block and a trip to the outskirts of the city puts the industry’s contribution in perspective. What were once village farms five years ago are now massive IT parks that are the shiny, new homes of tens of thousands of Indian workers.

This outsourcing fiasco – and yes, I am going to call it that – is a wonderful example of the power of words. I’m a card carrying member of the Obama cult but prez you should have known better.

Considering U.S. aims in Pakistan and Afghanistan, and global issues high on the President’s agenda -- such as climate change, the relationship between the U.S. and India has never been more important. The Buffalo/ Bangalore comment should have never happened.

I find it rather depressing that hours of the President’s visit are going to be spent discussing Dell call centers when Muslim extremism in Pakistan, the Kashmir issue and U.S. India cooperation on renewable energy development await well-deserved attention.

Corporal J. Sullivan

(British soldiers in India, early 20th century)

26th of May, 1906, Bangalore, India – After four weeks of struggle, Corporal J. Sullivan of H Company, 1st Battalion, Essex Regiment, closes his eyes, squeezes the hand of the nurse who has been wiping the sweat from his forehead and finally succumbs to Enteric Fever. He is 25, a veteran of campaigns in Burma and Natal, South Africa and impossibly far from home and the people he loves.

Outside the hospital a half dozen of his friends smoke the day’s last cigarettes and wait for the news they know is coming. Some of them comb their hair to pass the time, others twist mustaches and all of them wear thousand-yard stares as they contemplate the inevitable.

The doctor finally walks towards them, delivers the news and they comfort each other as soldiers do. No one cries; they are used to death, but after a long silence they all agree to write letters home to Sullivan’s young wife and his mother, and pitch-in to purchase him a proper Granite tombstone.

Corporal J. Sullivan will be one of dozens of soldiers from the 1st Essex laid to rest between April and August of 1906 in the new, tree-lined Protestant cemetery along Hosur Road in Bangalore. After surviving skirmishes and battles, bullets and shells, these men, like so many soldiers before them, fell to tainted drinking water.

I stumbled onto this cemetery about a week ago and was overwhelmed by the scene. This solemn monument to British history in Bangalore has been repurposed for the needs of new India. In between, or at the base of, forgotten British headstones are new crosses and graves of Bangalore’s Christian Indian population. The cemetery is unkempt but still beautiful.

After my first accidental visit, I promised myself I would return with a camera and notepad and try to give this seemingly forgotten place a little bit of new life.

I returned a few days ago at dusk and picked out J. Sullivan’s grave. As I sat and scribbled down his name, and the names of a few other men, four rickshaw drivers walked behind me, smoking hash as they ended their day, and stared inquisitively in my direction. I’m sure they were thinking, “What the hell is this guy doing?”

But after a little research, a few small pieces of Sullivan’s story materialized. While his grave made no mention of his cause of death, clues from surrounding markers put things in focus. At first, I thought he may have died, with dozens of his comrades, during a small campaign in India. But, Bangalore in 1906 was a place for R&R and polo games. An online history of the Essex Regiment confirmed that the 1st Battalion did not see action that year.

One grave in Sullivan’s row gave me my best clue. At the base of Driver Edward Collin’s tombstone, of C Battery, Royal Horse Artillery, was the phrase “From Enteric Fever.”

Enteric Fever is in fact Typhoid Fever, which remains to this day a killer in India. Typhoid Fever is picked up from contaminated drinking water and kills its hosts with 104 degree Fahrenheit fevers, unrelenting diarrhea and eventual fatal dehydration. It is a slow and awful way to die.

Bangalore in 1906 was hit with a rash of Typhoid cases. If the mortality rate spiked in the British army, one can only imagine the suffering laid on the local Indian population.

This, unfortunately, is as far as I got. The scene I described at the beginning of the post is fiction but I don’t believe too far from the truth.

(Sullivan's cemetery today)

Team America

“But come on, I just need a half liter of gasoline to get the bbq going, we’re trying to make burgers.” I can’t even believe these words have come out of my mouth. The Indian gas station attendant smiles, wobbles his head and pushes the empty, plastic bottle of coke back at me.

His manager walks in, assesses the situation and says, “You need a metal bottle, which you can have for 300 rupees.” Damien, my French counterpart, quickly responds, “Do you have any smaller bottles?” The manger nods, and 150 rupees later I’m walking out of a Shell station with a half liter of gasoline that will be my “lighter fluid” for the stubborn charcoal that has been preventing me from having my first cheeseburger in an impossibly long time.

For the three weeks I have been in India I have tortured anyone who cares to listen with an exhaustive description of a true American burger. Luckily for me, I have become friends with a group of Indians and ex-pats that have a taste for beef.

While I will never be able to repay the people who have done so, so much to welcome me here, I figured firing up the grill and making a few burgers might be a start.

So there I am, standing in front of the grill, eyeing the two plates of patties that are covered in salt, pepper, Worchestire and bbq sauce, as Al Green’s “Love and Happiness,” blares over a speaker to my right. For a half a second I close my eyes, take a swig of my beer, breath in the smell of smoking charcoal and disappear home.

Damien’s laugh snaps me back to reality. He is pouring gasoline into the top of the metal bottle and in his thick French accent says, “Oh zis is going to be so Team Americaaa, no?” His arm flicks forward and the gasoline falls onto a few red embers buried in the charcoal. A miniature fireball erupts from the grill and we both let out a “wooohhhh” as Al Green whales through a broken heart. I turn to Damien and say, “America, fuck yeah!”

The Paper Route

Waking up at 5:45 in the morning to go the gym is a terrible idea. That said, I’m doing it. I have found these early mornings bearable – in large part – because of the walk there. Shaking off the stiffness of sleep in the cool and relatively clear, morning air, when most of Bangalore hasn’t yet woken up, is remarkably refreshing.

When I step out, the streets nearest to the apartment are almost completely deserted except for the neighborhood’s exceptionally faithful Muslims who have already prayed at the Mosque. They tend to wear all white, don prayer caps and have red, hennaed beards. Of that group, a select few also wear Kohl, which seems to be devotional black eyeliner. If I have taken a keen interest in their garb, I can only imagine what they think of my t-shirts, white tennis shorts, black mid-calf socks and white Adidas running shoes.

Once onto Brigade Road and past the Johnson Market, the sidewalks are generally clear except for a few sleeping beggars and stray dogs. While I had walked Brigade Road dozens of times before I started my early morning trips to the gym, I didn’t actually “see” the street until the chaos of the day’s traffic was pealed away.

Even though I’m half asleep, I find myself chuckling at wonderfully Indian signs, Jerry-rigged patches of sidewalk (usually precariously placed granite slabs covering holes) and almost unimaginable tangles of wires. Or, I shake my head in disbelief as a single rickshaw will speed by, driver honking his horn at no one but simply out of habit.

My favorite part of the walk comes just a few blocks before the gym. Outside of a Times of India newsstand, paper boys and paper men work furiously to stack and tie bundles of the day’s paper for delivery (everything in India seems to happen a little later). Perhaps it’s because I can’t see a newspaper without thinking of my father, but this moment always stops me in my tracks. It has been repeated in hundreds of thousands of villages, towns and cities the world over, every day, for time immemorial. Some things should never change.

The Meter Please

After lunch yesterday I decided to leave the dust and crowds of Commercial Street and retreat to the apartment. Satisfied from my doughnut and sauce experiment, I ducked out of the restaurant and bee-lined it for a group of idle rickshaws.

Every rickshaw in Bangalore has a meter but finding a driver willing to use his can be a challenge. Most drivers ask where I want to go, give me a good look up and down, and quote me a price for the trip that is at least five times what the metered rate would be.

I have developed a suite of techniques for identifying honest drivers and if needed, persuading the cheats to turn the meter on. Yesterday I was sure I spotted the right man for the job from a half a block away.

This driver had a traffic cop lounging in his back seat for a moment’s respite from the sun. I strolled over, asked if he was working and he immediately shot back, “where do you want to go?” It didn’t come out quite like that but bear with me.

I responded, “Richmond Town—the Johnson Market.” Without batting an eyelash, he responded, “100 rupees.” I was almost surprised by his response but I have been in India just long enough to know better.

The two and half kilometer trip over to Commercial Street from my place had cost me 24 rupees, or just over 50 cents. I laughed, peered past the driver and made eye contact with the cop. Speaking to the driver but looking at the cop, I said, “we both know it costs 25 rupees to get over there; use the meter and you have my fare.”

All I got was a shrug from the cop and an accented reply of “100 rupees from the driver.” It’s common knowledge here that the vast majority of cops are corrupt but I will give this guy the benefit of the doubt and just call him lazy. Anyway, shaking my head, I walked off, flagged down another driver and began the process anew.

My new driver was a straight shooter, a meter guy, and 15 minutes later, after we pulled up to the apartment, I gave him his 25 rupees and handed him another 20 more.

Two of the Doughnut-Looking Things

This morning I caught a motor rickshaw (called autos here) across town to Commercial Street, the home of Bangalore’s textile industry, to pick up a custom-made linen shirt and get some lunch.

After grabbing the shirt, my first garment with a Nehru collar, I wound my way through choked streets and alleys, taking time to people watch and search out the dozens of well-preserved Raj-era buildings that are a feature of the neighborhood.

My walk was relatively uneventful until I decided to stop for lunch. I have a bad habit of walking until I’m so hungry I’m completely out of energy to search for a decent place. Today was no exception. Starving, drained and dehydrated I ducked into the first restaurant I saw with a sizeable crowd.

The place was a smallish but typical Indian lunch spot with a window to the kitchen in the back, a few counters where you can stand and eat in the center, and a booth up front where you pay and place your order.

I’m still new to this system and inevitably fouled it up. I walked straight to the back, tried to order and was quickly redirected to the front. Although the guy taking orders spoke English, communication between us was poor at best.

I pointed to a stack of doughnut-looking things in the kitchen and said, "I will have two." He mumbled the name of whatever I had just ordered, asked for 20 rupees and slipped me a coupon that apparently detailed my order, even though it looked exactly like all the other coupons that had been passed out to the patrons who had ordered quite different things before me.

Back at the kitchen, I slid my coupon towards the server and -- much to my amazement -- he stacked two doughnut-looking things on a stainless-steel tray, filled up two cups with interesting looking sauces and slid it in my direction.

I began to say, “but how did you know…,” realized I was holding up the line and went on my way.

The Johnson Market

If you walk out of my apartment building, take a left onto Curley Street, walk past Alexandria and Serpentine, and head towards Aga Abdullah, you will run smack into the Johnson Market.

Walking into the market is like stepping directly into a time portal. The building, the people, animals, sites and sounds seem totally removed from the IT parks and luxury stores that have become the hallmark of new Bangalore. The Raj-era building faces busy Hosur Road and is hemmed in by a Shia mosque on one side and an unreal kabob, shawarma and roll joint called Fanoos Hotel on the other.

The market caught my attention when I visited Bangalore two years ago but I was a little hesitant to venture in on that trip. This go-around I'm a regular.

I will never forget my first expedition into the center of the market upon my arrival a few weeks back. All seemed relatively tame until I turned a corner onto the goat aisle. There, hanging from the ceiling, were three freshly killed and skinned goats twisting on their ropes. Blood was still dripping in beads into small pools on the floor. My jaw must have dropped a mile but it got better. Just a few yards away a live goat was tied up awaiting what was sure to be a similar fate. We locked eyes and I whispered to myself, "you're definitely not in Kansas anymore."

Poorly lit, dirty and a little intimidating, the Johnson Market has to be one of my favorite places in the city. It certainly seems to be the heart of the neighborhood.

Won't you be my neighbor?

I am, by own admission, not a very good photographer. I have never taken a class and my miniature Canon PowerShot often leaves me feeling like I have brought a knife to a gun fight whenever I encounter another photographer taking shots of the same site.

Luckily for me, India can make really bad photographers look pretty good. I don't want to sound this cliche but the colors here are fantastic and the people immensely interesting.

Anyway, Part 1 from a walk around the neighborhood.




My neighborhood, Richmond Town, is in large part very modern. There are gorgeous brand new apartment buildings, sparkling offices and a few really nice cafes. However, there are still some rough patches. Empty lots, piles of rubble, squatter shanties and the bit. I'm making this point because these photos are not a portrait but just a snapshot.

Good Morning Bangalore

A man’s voice blares in Kannada or Urdu or Tamil–I’m not sure which one–and my eyes open in startled disbelief.

What the hell is happening? Who is this guy? How is this allowed? What time is it?

I have woken up to these same four questions for the past 10 days.

Every morning before the auto rickshaws start to buzz, and even before the doves really start cooing, the Call to Prayer erupts over loudspeakers strategically placed throughout my neighborhood. The Shia mosque just a few blocks away is my very unwelcome alarm clock.

You would think I would be accustomed to the routine but unintelligible chanting at four thirty, maybe five in the morning, is simply startling. It’s still pitch black out.

While it might sound like I’m complaining, I’m not. The fact is I’m partly to blame for these early morning jolts and I have almost come to enjoy them.

I take great pleasure in sleeping with the AC off and the windows open, letting the cool, night air seep into my room after evening rainstorms. I arrived in Bangalore at the tail end of monsoon season and it seems almost every afternoon or evening the city is blessed with thunderstorms or showers to wash away the day’s grime and push back the heat.

At dusk I often stand in the living room of the apartment listening to the rain tap dance on corrugated tin awnings. I wait for the evening Call to Prayer and breath in one impossibly rich and exotic aroma after another as kitchens in neighboring buildings come alive before dinner.

While I may not understand what is being said in my early morning wake-up calls, I have decided to translate them this way.

“Conor, if you needed a reminder, welcome to India.”

A Beginning

Welcome.

This blog has been a longtime coming and I'm glad I have finally taken the first step. I have been in India for nine days now and I'm still just getting my bearings.

Bangalore, my new home for the next few months, is very much the epitome of new India. It is the country's IT capital, the subcontinent's messy and bursting Silicon Valley. The city has grown in leaps and bounds with the emergence of the tech industry. The population was roughly two million in 1990 and is estimated at six million today. Honestly, it could be much larger.

I have taken up residence in a central part of the city known as Richmond Town, an area originally part of the British cantonment. For my American readers, a cantonment is a semi-permanent or permanent military establishment. During the Raj, Bangalore was once the largest British military base in southern India. (See the map below from 1924).


However, to call it an encampment really doesn't do it justice. The cantonment was a city unto itself. At 13 sq KM, it housed barracks and parade grounds but also contained markets, busy commercial avenues, churches, and rows upon rows of exquisite Victorian and Edwardian bungalows.

For the most part, those bungalows are gone, replaced with new apartment buildings, schools, temples and mosques, but the cantonment's British influence remains thick. I live just off of Alexandria Street, next to the Baldwin Boys School. Alexandria Street runs into Wellington Street and Wellington Park which join Richmond Road. Walk further and you might find yourself on Brigade, Residency, Infantry or Museum Roads. If it weren't for the cacophony of screeching rickshaws, motorbikes and horns you might almost be able to imagine British regiments marching down tree-lined streets and officers lounging, scotches in hand, puffing on their pipes. Or, maybe even playing a little polo (note the photo at the top). Well, almost...

I'm intrigued with this place and hope to provide a glimpse at the new, vibrant city as well as the relics from its rich past. More soon.