The Great Big Killer Blue Line (as opposed to the thin one that protects us)

Earlier this week in Delhi a teenage boy, who was on his way to buy fruit for his mom, was hit and killed by a bus when it decided to make a speedy (and illegal) U-turn. That alone makes it a tragedy. The fact that this is the 79th person killed by a Blueline bus in Delhi this year, makes it a travesty. I believe this is how the system works. A business man buys a permit for a bus route. He is then completely responsible for maintaining the buses and hiring the drivers, and has little or no supervision from the government. Often the buses are driven by men with no licenses, usually relatives of the permit holder, who know that the more passengers their bus can carry in a day, the more money they make. The result of this is a city full of over crowded, speeding buses hurling through the streets trying to squeeze in as many people and routes as possible before 10pm. They make NYC taxi drivers look like sissies. At one point when the Blueline had a particularly bad week and the public outcry was too loud to ignore, the city stopped all the privately run buses, vowing to fix the system. Unfortunately the next morning when those who were crying out tried to get to work, fixing the system lost it's public support. If you want to know more about this story in general, type "Delhi Blueline bus deaths" into your favorite search engine. It is not pleasant reading.

This became a much more personal story to me a couple of days ago when Number One Son told me that he and Star On Stage had a very near miss with a Blueline while they were in a bicycle rickshaw (like the one on the left). Like the teenager above, they were out running an errand for their mother. Apparently it was close enough to scare even the rickshaw driver. Now THAT scares me. The only thing crazier than bus drivers are rickshaw drivers, they're just less deadly. Luckily for us, most of our traveling is done in a minivan that is driven by the only man in India who follows all of the traffic laws. I am sure this is for our benefit. I have no doubt whatsoever that after he drops us off at home he drives through the city without stopping for a single red light and on whatever side of the street offers the most room. I am not sure, however, that even our sturdy minivan and dependable driver is enough to keep us safe. I recently read the following: "Where is the safest place to be when there is a Blueline bus on the road?......Riding inside of it."

Mr. Smith Takes Another Turn

To say that living in India is an adventure is overstating it on most days. There are days filled with it, don't get me wrong. Days like when the transformer caught on fire (the electrical one that affects the power supply to our neighborhood, not the autobot/decepticon kind - they usually repair themselves), or when Mrs. Smith tried to have a heart attack and leave me a widower with seven children - admittedly not the most marketable of men even in the best of times - something we are still working through and I keep reminding her about as my husbandly duty. But most days are humdrum days where I go to the office and come home to a room full of people watching TV or fighting over who gets to be next on the computer. One person that never fails to bring a tad more adventure to the house is our landlord. I believe Mrs Smith has made mention of him previously, so I will offer a brief recap for those who might not have read that part - came into the house uninvited with his wife and said "hello?" as we were gathered at the dinner table; came into the house uninvited with his son and two friends to inspect the termite damage; came in uninvited to inspect the termite damage and forced his way into the bedroom while two of our daughters were bathing in that room's bathroom and then tried to go into the bathroom; brought multiple people into the house to show it to them - prospective investors, and still uninvited - completely unannounced. I'll leave it at that. After 5 months of constant intrusion and badgering, he has finally stopped coming in (we renegotiated the contract to give him more money and stipulated 24 hours notice before coming to the house). Until yesterday...

In all fairness, he didn't actually come into the house. In truth I wasn't even present as I was entertaining a colleague from Hong Kong at Bukhara (an Indian restaurant in Delhi that is number 37 on the current list of the S.Pellegrino World's 50 Best Restaurants - I tried to find a website for them but only found a copycat restaurant in Cape Town and lots of reviews, so google them and check out the reviews - they are amazing) so the story all comes from Mrs Smith, who dealt with it amazingly well.

He came to the gate and wanted to see that the lights were all working on the outside of the house. Why, I am not sure, but I imagine he wanted to be able to see the house lit up and have others see it as well. That should be good for our $325 dollar monthly electric bill (some things are cheaper here, but not housing or electricity - or electronics, or dinner at Bukhara for that matter). Anyway, he then proceeded to come to the side door of the house and spoke to the cook, demanding the oven. Yes, that's right. He wanted to take the oven. So Uday came to Mrs Smith and told her that he wanted the oven (thinking he wanted the oven that we bought, Mrs Smith AND the cook both became rather indignant about that and said no) but then he made clear that it was the microwave oven he wanted. Um... still no. We use that. Then he said that if we were going to use it we needed to pay him rent for it. Last I checked, the $3000 plus dollars he gets in rent included the microwave. Which reminds me of a story.

In 1992 when Mrs. Smith and I were attending BrighamYoung University (rise and shout...) we lived in a cute little 2 bedroom apartment in Provo, Utah. It was on the third floor of a small apartment complex that was filled almost entirely with married students. It was a great little apartment. It really was. We had so much fun gathering at the railing in front of the apartment and talking with the other couples in the complex on warm summer evenings. It was a pleasant place to live and we remember it fondly. It even had a dishwasher in it. We were not allowed to use the dishwasher, however, because we were not willing to pay the landlord the extra money he asked for after he installed it. We were paying $350 a month, and when he installed the dishwasher he wanted an extra $25 a month (maybe $50 - Mrs Smith will know). They taped it shut with security tape and checked it regularly to make sure it wasn't compromised. I should have known then that people are ridiculously stupid. Really. We are. All of us. Remember when we elected Dubya the first time? When we almost elected Al Gore instead? Case in point...

So our current landlord is at the side door demanding the oven, and the cook is telling him no. Frustrated by the refusal of the microwave by the mighty Uday Singh, he then demands the hotplate that was in the house when we moved in. It was set aside when we bought the oven (the range with the oven and the stovetop, not the microwave) and hasn't been used for months, so the cook pulls that down and gives it to the landlord who takes the hotplate and leaves, presumably to cook something but I don't really know because he didn't take the cylinder of propane (the propane sits inside the house next to the oven connected loosely by a rubber hose without a clamp - but that is another blog entry) so maybe he was going to steal someone else's propane. About this time, Mrs Smith decides to check the house register to see if the hotplate was provided by the landlord. This register lists everything in the house and who provided it, some by the landlord and some by the company. Lo and behold, the landlord stole the company's hotplate.

Needless to say we may be looking for a new home. Then again, there are never any guarantees that the landlord there will be any better. After all, remember the whole people are stupid thing. Need more evidence? We elected Dubya again last time and we're looking at Hillary for next time. Maybe we should just elect our landlord (who actually happens to be a local politician). His slogan could be "put your hotplates in a lockbox," or "the ever present president," or maybe "vote for me or I'll steal your hotplate". How about "I invented the internet and environmentalism"? I think that one's taken though...

Common Sense Is Not So Common

Something that Mr. Smith and I have noticed is that while a lot of the people in India are highly educated, things that are common sense seem to escape them as a whole. This is something that has provided some entertainment and much frustration during our stay. For instance, we bought a battery back up for our computer this week. Basically you plug all the parts of your computer into the UPS (Uninterrupted Power Supply) and then plug the UPS into the wall. Now when the power goes out, our computer won't shut down while the generator kicks in. Pretty smart huh? Unfortunately all the outlets into the UPS are too close together, the result is that you can only actually use every other outlet. Grrr. While we are on the subject of outlets and such, there seems to be only a basic guideline as to the size of the prongs on your plugs. Some plugs fit well, some are too snug, some are so loose they fall out. These are not old and new things. These are all electronics that have been recently purchased.

Here is another strange practice; when you go shopping in a department store, as you choose things to purchase, they don't actually let you take them. They give you a slip, you go and pay, then you come back with your receipt to pick up your purchases. I understand that this is to safeguard against shoplifting, but come on! Yesterday we were shopping for our daughter's 12th birthday and had to make several stops on several different floors after we had shopped and paid, to pick up her gifts. It is really annoying.

As usual there is a reason for the subject of this post. Last week our cook pointed out that there was no vent in the kitchen. He was hoping that we could arrange to have one put in. What Uday didn't know is that there is a vent in the kitchen. Kind of. There is a fan and there is a pipe from the fan to the window... a window that does not open. With bars on the inside that also do not open. So the pipe ends about four inches short of the bars and glass. Not a very effective set up if you want to actually get the hot air and smoke out of the kitchen. "Not to worry!" said we. "Surely the office will send someone to fix this silly set up if we point it out." And they did. Work men came, they looked, they discussed, they measured, they cut a hole in the glass and they left. Now the system works like this: Fan, pipe, four inches of open space, metal bars, one inch of open space, 5 x 5 inch square hole in the glass, the great outdoors. Not only is this a completely ridiculous way to solve the problem, but it is also a fabulous entrance for the gazillion mosquitoes that are outside. And right during Dengue season too. Sweet! Now our kitchen is still hot and smokey and Skater Girl looks like she has polka dots. Even on her forehead. I don't know what it is about this girl that the bugs love so much, but we are all safe while she is in the room.

Tomorrow round two of the great kitchen vent adventure will begin. Perhaps this time they will put in a screen to keep all the bugs out. Of course they will have to cut a hole in it, in case some of the hot air and smoke wants to show itself out.

To Tip, Or Not To Tip, That Is The Question

When we first arrived in India we were beholden to the restaurants that delivered for our survival. At that point we continued the American practice of tipping between 15-20%. We were informed by a good friend that even 10% is considered generous. Since then Uday has come into our lives, now we order out about once a week. So, for the last 7 months when our food is delivered we have tipped 10%. Sometimes the delivery boy looks very surprised, usually they look happy, once in a while they look guilty.

A few weeks ago when our McDonalds arrived, a manager had come along for the ride. He politely explained that tipping is not encouraged. Apparently there were fights at the restaurant over who got to deliver the food every time a call came in from our address. "Please!" he said, "you must stop tipping, it is causing me many big problems." I apologised to him and to the delivery boy who would not be getting his tip and slunk back into my house. Since then I have stopped tipping the McDonald's delivery boys.

Yesterday I went to the Indian version of a supermarket. Every time I go I buy about 10 bags full of stuff. Some poor kid grabs all 10 bags and goes out into the street and finds my car. It is not an easy street to navigate because it is always packed with traffic and there are no sidewalks. I usually give this brave soul Rs. 100, or $2.50. Lately I have noticed that when my shopping cart is almost full, the grocery baggers start jockeying for position to get me into their lane. I really didn't think it was a big deal. But once again I was approached by the manager. This one was neither so nervous, nor so polite. "You must stop giving the boys money!" No explanation, just the order. Perhaps this was all his English would allow, but I doubt it. Either way, when we made it to the car I didn't tip the young man who had carried out all of the groceries.

Today, however, I am wondering if I did the right thing. It is my natural inclination to follow the rules, but if $2.50 is enough to make a measurable difference in the week of these boys, should I stop giving it to them just to avoid inconveniencing the managers? I honestly don't know. So I am asking you, what do you think?

Jaya He!

Last week India celebrated 60 years of independence from Great Britain. I knew that I had to have a post on this subject, but I was stumped. I started many times and from many different angles, usually critical. It is not hard to find fault with India. Drive through Delhi on any given day and you can easily see many of the problems through your window. But I wasn't able to finish any of these posts and feel good about it. After all India has gained its independence at a very different time in world history from my own country and it really wouldn't be fair to compare them. Not to mention the fact that the India has been independent for 60 years, not 231 and I am biased, no country can compare to my own.

So, I have instead decided to congratulate India on her Independence. (I am sure she is relieved.) Learning to govern yourself with such a huge population, crushing poverty, religious and linguistic diversity, and uneasy neighbors, all under the scrutiny of the "Global Village" cannot be easy. And yet it seems that India will succeed where so many others have floundered. And so I will instead add my voice to the 1.1 billion Indians chanting "Jaya He!" or in my own language"Victory To Thee!"

ER - India Style!

For those of you who don't know me well I must preface this post with a little information. In 2002 while I was pregnant with twins, I developed a couple of fairly serious heart problems. As a result I take a lot of medication and have a low energy level, not that I was ever considered hyper active. I am generally a decent heart patient, not great, but not the worst. However, since we moved to India I have been a textbook rebellious heart patient. I haven't been taking medication or seeing a cardiologist. So, on Tuesday when I was taking clothes out of the dryer and had some pretty severe chest pains, I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was.

In the interest of getting to the important part I will summarize the next two hours. I took a dose of medication for the first time in a long time (dumb), I took a low dose aspirin (smart), I laid down and hoped it would go away by its self (dumb), I called my husband for a ride to the hospital (smart) and I decided that if I was going to the hospital I had better shower (dumb). Despite the New Delhi rush hour traffic, and my own stupidity, I made it to the hospital alive.

One of the interesting things about Indian medicine is that your medical records really are yours. You take them home with you. They leave them next to you while you are in the hospital and no one blinks if you pick them up and flip through them. So during the down time that comes in every trip to the hospital, Mr. Smith and I amused ourselves by looking at what the staff had written about me. It was all pretty normal until we got to a line that said "State of Mind of Patient: Psychotic Violent Combative" and the nurse had circled "Combative". Combative?! Me?! I am so not combative. The worst you could call me is stubborn, or even passive aggressive. Honestly though, that is only to my husband. To everyone else I am nice to the point of being a pushover. Luckily this gave me something besides the current situation to obsess about. Since I am all about ignoring a problem until it goes away, that worked for me. So here are the three possible explanations that I came up with for my being erroneously labeled combative.

1. My Fault. Upon arriving at the hospital the diuretic (a medication that helps my body get rid of the fluid my heart can no longer pump off) I took kicked in and I suddenly had to go to the bathroom very badly. Now, everyone knows about the paperwork that must be filled out when you check into a hospital, and normally I have no problem answering all the questions about myself, my parents, my habits, my religion, my choice of shampoo, whatever. But, have I mentioned that I had to go? So as the sweet nurse, then the doctor, then some guy with a stethoscope, all took their turn asking me seven hundred and thirteen questions in broken English, I might have mentioned a couple of times that I really had to go. All right it was more than a couple of times and I eventually became a bit insistent, extremely polite, but insistent. Truly, I was only looking out for them. Did they want to change the sheets and mop the floor? I don't think so. Finally the paperwork was complete and a wheelchair was found and I was wheeled to the bathroom about 50 feet away. After that, I didn't ask. I just got up and walked to the bathroom. Perhaps my initial insistence, or the fact that I wouldn't wait for the wheelchair after that, came across as combative.

2. Mr. Smith's Fault. Mr. Smith is on the large side. He is tall and wide and has the ability to look a little scary and when someone he loves is in danger he becomes all business. On my second trip to the bathroom (and all subsequent trips) he walked beside me and stood outside the door with his arms folded over his chest and a scowl on his face. People in the ER waiting room must have wondered who I was that I needed a bodyguard just to go to the bathroom. Then he got in a little tiff with a guy at the desk. First, the guy showed him a list of room types that he could choose from for me. Suite, deluxe private, private, shared, etc. Mr. Smith chose one, only to have the guy inform him that only shared were available. To his credit, Mr. Smith made no comment at this point. Then the guy told him that there were no beds ready at all, and that it would take "some time" to get one for me. Mr. Smith asked if "some time" meant that they were preparing one and it would be half an hour, or if it meant that we had to wait for someone to checkout in the morning or die to get a bed. The guy said that it was best if he didn't commit to a time frame, in case he was wrong. This is where the tiff came in. There was no yelling and no cursing, which in my book means that Mr. Smith behaved himself, but nobody at the desk was under the impression that he was pleased. Finally the nurse took pity on Mr. Smith and told us that it would be morning at the earliest, at which point I sent him home.

3. The Nurse's Fault. This one is my favorite for obvious reasons. I think her lack of English skills played a part in this. Perhaps she thought that this line had to be filled in, so she chose one at random, or, if she knew what the words meant, picked the lessor of three evils. I like this explanation the best and choose to believe it. It fits in nicely with the image I have of myself.

As for everything else, I am home and doing just fine. I have been scared straight and promise to follow all the rules in the heart patient handbook.

Silly Signs

One of the entertaining things about living in a foreign country is some of the signs that we see. English, although known by most educated people here, is still a foreign language which leads to some funny mistakes. I also think the British influence causes problems. Recently a new mall opened up nearby with underground parking. As you pass the security check there is a sign like this...

This has been a favorite of my kids and is always the cause of stifled giggles. We tried to get an actual picture, but alas, no luck. I noticed this week that they had written " CAR^ " in front of the word Dicky. This of course made me wonder what exactly some poor confused mall goer had opened.

Now there is a new favorite. Today is Friendship Day, so for the last week or so there have been several billboards around Delhi advertising it like this...

I'm not sure if this is supposed to represent mending an old friendship, or if "The Bird" means something different here than it does in the US, or if someone just really misunderstood what this gesture means. Either way, being flipped off by a 20 foot rainbow covered hand is down right funny in my book.

I know this is a short post, but I think I will start posting more examples of the language mess ups and culture confusion that we see. We always get a good laugh out of them.