That's not a burrito.

 Monday, after Melissa's class on development and modernity, a group of us headed to AECOM in Gurgaon to get a glimpse of how an amoral inevitability-of-the-system multi-national mega corporation operates. The answer (unsurprisingly) is with powerpoint, suits, and coffee. AECOM takes on huge development projects from the gold line extension in LA to the creation of entire new cities (ahem...nodes) along the Delhi Mumbai Industrial Corridor. The corporation houses multiple planning, engineering, environmental science, yadda yadda groups becoming the one stop shop for all things development for any city or private developer with big ideas. They are completely beholden to the client when it comes to any ethical decisions. If the municipal Delhi  government wants as little people removed for its new sewage system revamp, then it'll take that into consideration. If the Chinese gov't says move this town and building a dam, then it'll do that. If a private developer wants to maximize profit, then besides a rudimentary go/no go checklist, AECOM will do whatever it can to maximize their clients profit, human toll aside. The corporation is only as responsive to the demands and desires of the people as its client wishes. Even in democratic Delhi decisions are fairly top down and hardly ever without severe consequence for certain parts of the population. For this reason it's hard to look at any development without a skeptical eye.

Been taking the metro more. Got on today and had people getting low and using their legs to push everyone into the train. I could hardly breath. There was a pungent man stench. There were people touching up on all my bits. I accidentally elbowed a dude in face, he was unhappy but knew it was an outcome of the shitshow and not personal. Meanwhile, I assume the girls are getting pedicures, facials, and massages while a harp soothes the mind for a luxurious travel experience in the female only car.

This is not a burrito.
 Not because it's a picture of a burrito, but because it's really not a burrito.
It's a picture of a non burrito.

 Tuesday we visited Kirkhi, a 600 year old urban village. As Delhi began to expand and absorb the surrounding villages, it was decided that the residents of the villages should not have to change their lifestyles, so political lines were drawn around the villages and Delhi municipal laws do not apply within. This is great for the upper caste landowners of the villages who do not have to pay taxes, abide to building codes, or develop with any sense of order. The land is very valuable, especially as high end malls pop up nearby and developers know they can do almost anything they want with the land within the red lines, and yet the keen residents know better than to sell. Still these areas develop rapidly, but they do so without the sterility and formality defined by Western  modernity. This leads Professor Hogi to call the areas a hybrid modernization, a modernity that is still somehow indigenous. Again pictures would sure be helpful here, gotta get that communal flicker account going. Point of this oversimplified lesson is that for lunch I went across the street to a super swanky mall, found a mexican food place in the food court, and ordered a burrito that was really more of a bean and onion panini. Not even close, Delhi.

Deviant to nubile in 30 rupees. Check it out:

 Got a shave across the street from Champak's on the second floor of market one. For a small fee the guy slapped me around, rubbed my face, and came at me with a straight razor.
Sorry Torii, I'm out of the club. You'll just have to creep alone.


Got a bug this week. Knocked me out with a nasty cold. I went to class anyway and instantly fell asleep. Woke up to Kalyani's disappointed eyes from across the room. Rough. Feeling mostly better after some serious sleep and hydration. Champak even bought me some multi vitamins. They come in foil and are candy coated. Now I just have to figure out how to stop sneezing. If not for my sake then for all the people next to me on the subway.

Tomorrow I'm heading to Rishikesh for a the weekend. They do a lot of yoga there. The Beatles found their guru there. I just wanted to take a train somewhere.

Wadzi said she'd beat me up if I put this on the internet. Let's find out if she reads my blog. 

Deepakanova

I saw this etched into one of the step wells of Mehruali. Leaving the ethics of tagging on a 700 year old ruin aside, I first thought Deepak only double arrowed Soma because a heart was too strong in a city where many marriages are arranged. But then I thought of the movie ‘Me and You and Everyone We Know’ and how a similar symbol was used to signify pooping back and forth forever, an idea one of the characters thought was outstandingly romantic. Then I thought that was stupid. THEN, and this is the ‘then’ that matters, I harkened back to the Logic class I took over the summer and considered the symbol in the language of sentential logic. The double arrow designates a bi-conditional translating to English as “if and only if”, so maybe: ‘Deepak if and only if Soma’. Pause. Sigh. Holy shit, if that’s not the most beautiful tiny passionate tag, than I don’t know what is. It’s a whole lot dreamier than a lame heart and certainly more meaningful than pooping back and forth (though not necessarily less relevant-see first post).

Wednesday off. So Tuesday night I met up with Shane near his house in North Delhi. Had some Afghani chicken on the suggestion of Matt, an impressively-bearded friend of similarly-bearded Jacob Sadowski. Got the house tour from Jilly, who apparently is in the same sorority as Sarah Inkelis and is often confused for her. And then went drinking with the guidance of Nick,  dj guru extraordinaire. All Berkeley people, all in Delhi, all shoved into a single rickshaw while its monsooning on everyone. It was a squishy ordeal, but we finally arrived at My Bar. It’s called My Bar, it’s not mine personally, but I still sound really obnoxious when I describe to everyone in IHP that My Bar is the best and cheapest bar in Delhi. We had unreasonably cheap beer and even more unreasonable 24 rupee party shots, which we think may be one part whiskey, one part vodka, one party Delhi tap water, and totally responsible for the state of our physical health on Wednesday.

Champak is teaching me to cook Indian breakfasts. I’m making everyone pudas when I get back.

For market day, my group was sent to Chandi Chowk market to find and research the complex relationship between the formal and informal markets. We were given 100 rupees to buy things and engage shopkeepers on the touchy subject of their legal status. We found a dude selling pirated movies and songs from his laptop in a legally rented stall in a government approved market. Illegal formal? We spent all of our rupees on 35 of his favorite India songs and tried to get him to dance with us. He declined, but laughed at our dancing attempts before trying to jack up the price for his songs. Nay nay we shouted, 1 gb for 100 rupees, no takebacks sucka.

Our translator was Sushant. I had been with him for neighborhood day but he was much easier to work with then. This trip he chose a place for us to eat and then told us he hated the place, the food was terrible, and everyone in the restaurant was a jackass right after we’d ordered our food. He led us into alleys that led nowhere, refused to admit he had no idea where we were going, wouldn’t answer our questions for him, wouldn’t translate some of our questions for shopkeepers, and was hardcore creeping on the girls. Too touchy feely they said. Here’s a snip of a conversation he had with Avery.

Sushant: Where do you live?

Avery: Uhh…around.

Sushant: I live one kilometer from there, you should come over, we can go buy scarves together.

I dropped the water bottle Maya gave me in front of a flower stop. The bottom broke open. My laboriously filtered water was depurified by the dirty ground. The little kid in charge of sweeping the area in front of the store was pissed, he began furiously sweeping flower petals at me until I apologized and walked away. My b lil guy.

My black and white phone has snake. I have extremely nimble thumbs. I have the highest snake score ever recorded (unverified). Mike wants to beat my score. He has fat slow thumbs. Mike is very frustrated with life. 

Friday we took a tour of the Salaam Balak Trust and the neighborhood they serve. They round up abandoned or runaway kids in the New Delhi railway station and give the kids who can’t or don’t want to go home an education and a place to live until they’re 18. It’s really feel good work and it’s no surprise its merited visits from Obama and other world leaders and receives millions of dollars in donations from big name corporations. What they do makes a huge impact on thousands of children’s lives and there needs to be a million more organizations just like this one. That said, there’s no controversy in helping kids, it’s kind of boring.

Skylar, Brandee ,Henry,  Bianca, Rachel, Mike, Melanie, Marshall, Marly, Liz, and I walk into a bar. Everybody has a good time. Is that a joke? No, it’s a Friday.

Mike and I went on a run. Nobody runs here. Everybody stares at runners. Especially if they’re white.

Saturday we went to 4 clubs in an hour. Everything was crazy expensive. We should just go to My Bar. Shut up about your bar already. No it’s called My Bar. Yeah shut up.

This is my last week at Champak’s. We started making plans for our separation. I’ve only known her for two weeks and I already know it’s gonna be tough to leave. She thinks maybe we can meet up in the US this summer. I could meet her daughters. That would be great. Five weeks per city on IHP’s super packed schedule is perfect to grasp a thorough introduction to the major issues of these metropolises. It’s not, however, even close to a satisfactory amount of time with the people we meet.

For Crarys and tennis enthusiasts everywhere. A clay court! In Delhi! And one court is empty for you and me!

Subway Etiquette

First things first, I want to thank a good deal of you for your concern and advice regarding all things delhi belly. I assure you the Champak Bengla household is now outstandingly regular and healthy. I’ve even slowly been drinking more and more tap water each day as to slowly acclimate myself to India H20. Julia warns me that giardia doesn’t work that way. Pfft.

Allow me to state the obvious so that I can feel better about this blog having stated the following sentences:  There is no way I can even come close to truly articulating the sights, smells, feelings, and thoughts I’ve encountered and will encounter while abroad. There’s no way this goofster blog can do justice to the realities of India, Senegal, and Argentina or my experiences with them. I mean look how many ‘z’s are in the title of the blog. Get real. Actually, I'm planning on leaving certain things out of the blog. This blog is meant to be proof that and I'm alive and an outlet for sillyness after some very heavy days. The difficult stuff is better shared in person.

Let’s arbitrarily start here: Following a very complicated and confusing lecture on the new field/mathematics of spatial syntax, the class went to India Gate/The Presidential Palace to see how space reflects power. For those familiar with spatial syntax, the space was relatively shallow at a city-wide level but showed surprising depth once the radius of measurement was restricted to 5 km, perhaps a calculated move meant to create a hierarchical space where power is expressed through exclusion. BLECH. The math and maps of spatial syntax were interesting if not totally over my head, but I think the general lack of use could also be attributed to restrictive zoning, dirt sidewalks, and the really pointy/rusty chains threatening you with tetanus if you dared crossed into the grass. It’s more of a parade space anyway. We did get some really nice pictures out of it. I will provide a link to Marshall’s flicker when he gets that going. He takes all the good pictures. I’ve decided to trust him with taking the necessary pics while I meanwhile will focus on the trivial and the silly.

Afterwards we went shopping at Connaught Place, one of the great shopping districts of Delhi which surrounds a giant roundabout built by the twirly British back in the day. Mostly we walked around aimlessly, occasionally being harassed by vendors, Liz and Marly looked for scarves and elephants. Mike and I looked for pajamas. In the end Liz got a phone and I got a sunburn. Mike found himself engaged in a conversation about Pashima. It was never made clear Pashima is a material and not a place to go on vacation. That conversation confused everybody. Later we went to Wimpy burger to get some fast food chicken sandwiches (don’t judge me). There was security guard at the door and all the patrons exuded a certain level wealth he hadn’t seen much in the market. In India, fast food seems to be a luxury for the middle/upper class. Crazy eh!? Cool observation Dylan.

Afterwards Mike and I took the new Delhi subway to get home. The trains are sparkling and air conditioned and everything ran super smooth. It’s been hailed as one of the only places where the elite and less wealthy mix in Delhi. The two cars in front are women only, which unfortunately we hear is very necessary, wandering hands seem to be all too common in Delhi. The freshness of the entire system is very apparent. Everyone pushes madly to get in and out of the subway, which is hilarious and totally unnecessary because the doors remain open for a full minute and there are tons of seats available. So after a violent rush at each station everyone stands around for a long while, breathing too hard, and looking around before the train starts moving. Also people unabashedly fart on the subway. Really Delhi!? I think as the subway gets older some sort of subway etiquette will develop and the violence and gas will stop.

A real conversation:

Dylan: 100

Rickshaw driver: 120

(Repeat 20x with both laughter and angry faces in between, no less than 5 minutes, honestly)

Dylan: 110

Rickshaw driver: Ok.

It’s not the ten rupees (24 cents). It’s the principle of the damn thing.

I got a super cheapo phone (with cricket cup and snake on it!), my number is 813-067-1811. So, you know, if you’re in India, hit me up. We’ll get some dosas or something.

Neighborhood day was a trip. My group was told to go explore Nizamuddin West for a day and report back the next day. We were provided with an awesome translator named Sushant, a map, and some advice on giving interviews. The neighborhood was a Muslim enclave partially built by a 700 year old Sufi shrine. The neighborhood was divided in half with slums, religion, vendors, and working class apartments on one half and wide gridded streets, walls, mansions, secularism, cars, and unused space on the other. Only the dogs spent time on both sides of the neighborhood. We spoke with vendors, rickshaw drivers, students (aging 5-18, the toddlers had a lot to scream about), a tv personality from the rich side of the hood, a security guard, a mosaic maker, and a large group of slum dwellers. All in all it was another 12 hour day with IHP. It was pretty spectacular. A real eye-opening experience. Details are better in person. It’s one of those things I know I’ll butcher on the internet.

Kalyani gave an impressive lecture on caste. It could have lasted a week and we would still have had questions. Learning never stops. The power in Delhi does though. Honking never stops. Rickshaw drivers do, to pee, mid ride. P90x yoga never stops. Neither does Champak’s laughter when she watches Mike and me try to do yoga.

A group of us went back to Lodi Gardens. We heard someone blasting dance remixes of a Black Eyed Peas song. Followed the music for a half mile which led us a row of houses larger than any houses I’ve ever seen before. Every house was 4+ stories and wide enough to be a hotel. Apparently some ambassador was throwing a party, we weren’t going to be able to get in.

Lecture about the Indian government. Largest democracy in the world. The two major parties have similar platforms except that one believes India should be a secular nation while the other believes it should be a Hindu nation. Hindu right argues everyone was once a Hindu, some merely converted, probably those in low castes. It’s a problem. Hundreds of millions of citizens voting on representatives to decide how to allocate resources across 1.3 million square miles (or lately to decide which big corporations should be handed billions of dollar), democrazy! Hey-O. Feel free to use that one anytime.

One unfortunate not-to-be-named roommate had scratchy balls. So we went to a busy pharmacy in the swanky Khan Market to remedy the situation. Unnamed roommate asked the man behind the counter if they had anything for jock itch. “JOCK ITCH!?!?!?” screamed the man, having not heard the term before and wondering if he had heard it right. Everybody looks. Roomie- “Yeah it’s for him” as he points at me. Thanks bro. This happened twice, no store owner has any jock itch cream, but they all gotta yell about it. We got some baby powder and I hear everything is gravy.

Had our first beer in India at an Australian themed bar at Kahn Market. Met a dude named RJ, he turned 21. The drinking age in India is 25. Nobody cares. RJ says if we devote a week of our five weeks here to partying with him, we’ll have the best week of our life. He was drunk. Henry or Marshall has his number.

John, Mike, and I went on a four hour excursion around Chittiranjan Park (where we live), GK, and GKII. At one point we emerged from a long zigzagging market to find ourselves on the edge of a super dense slum like settlement. Along the busy, cow-heavy, sidewalkless street we faced some startling dirty looks. I think it was because we were discussing whether cricket is a game or a sport.

Weekend with Champak’s family. Drinking and cards. I am a Kanasta god. We were served on by a quiet butler. We spoke of economic relations between Japan and India. Whiskey for the men. Vodka for the women. We had lots of laughs. I should have had a cigar. They’re a really nice family.

We went to a trash collectors camp today. It was a harsh punch to the gut by reality. It's great we can all lean on each other as we come face to face with things we only read about and only kind of believed.

Happy Valentine’s Day! Here are few pictures.

A bunch of clowns in Lodi Gardens.

Mike modelling wedding dresses for Champak's daughter in America. Nuff Said. 

This is Dre. Phd. I told her I don't do normal pics.

Tara and I with our chairs.

 Neighborhood day. Left to Right: Sushant, man obviously excited to show us his home, Skylar, and Bianca G 

Eat. Shit. Blog.

I don’t blog. I don’t keep a journal. I hardly even reflect on my day. So this may be interesting. Just insulted myself there. Sally, my super opinionated-blunt-brilliant-Grandma Honeyesque-South African cultural anthropology traveling professor says “interesting” is one of the least descriptive words in the English language and should only be used when talking about a friend’s shitty piece of art. This blog may be interesting.

I’m a bit behind in getting this started. We, the eager- eyed Cities of the Twenty First Century International Honors Program, are  two+ weeks into our journey. We’ve already left New York and have begun our Delhi portion of the trip.

New York in a pea pod: DUDE! I love cities, do you love cities? YEAH! New York City. WOAH!

New York in a nutshell (awkwardly smaller than a pea pod): You’re great. No, you are. I love you guys.

New York in succinct summary: The two weeks in New York served to orient us to group living/learning/loving. We were pretty much on program time from 8 30 in the morning until 9 at night during the weekdays. We heard lectures from professors, city officials, community leaders, and faculty. We visited treatment plants, union halls, homeless shelters, community development corporations, and a half million different neighborhoods. For each visit we would report back our findings to the group and in this way get a rounded view of the city. Everybody is very enthusiastic and in only two weeks I feel I understand more about New York than the average Northeasterner. Cocky, eh? The faculty is fantastic, the student group is remarkably cohesive and we are all a surprisingly functional family. Besides the tiny cots we slept on, the sleep we didn’t get, the amount of time we spent on the floor, and the frequency Sally called us out for saying ‘like’ or ‘culture’ or ‘weird’ we have little to complain about. Except for maybe the cold, which we defeated with the pub located in our residence hall at ihouse anyway, we were a very happy bunch.

Newark airport. 1000 dollar travel package and a free hotel room/food to give up seat on the plane and fly to Delhi only a day later? Fine, Melanie, I won’t, but you owe me a thousand dollars. 13 hour flight. On flight battle ship against other passengers. The Social Network, good flick. Nap. Pee. Nap. Meal. Nap. Read. Delhi. Customs. Lots of jokes, no smiles, airport workers have no sense of humor. Last time I was here there was a workers strike and the airport had a giant puddle full of trash by the baggage claim. This time totally dry. I don’t remember a lot of the names or minute facts of the first and only other time I was in Delhi, but the smells, sights, and noise had memories rushing back. That was a fantastic trip with Mom and Honey and I'm ecstatic to be back. No culture shock for me. I’d been jolted years ago and you can’t get shocked again. It’s like chicken pox.

We stayed in a hostel the first night. We all read our Delhi handbooks. Highlights: put safety pins in your fists to poke off sexual harassers, use pickpockets as an opportunity to practice your martial arts, rickshaws are safer than taxis because you can jump out of them, you’re single because you’re too pretty, 4S nightclub happy hour from noon to 10 30 (closes at 11 30). The toilet was a hole on the floor which required you to squat to poop and we had a bucket shower. Both things I will soon be installing into my bathroom at home and at Berkeley. They use much less water and they’re both way more fun.  I don’t think I’ve ever giggled so much as I pooped and showered (not simultaneously, although now that I think of it…)

In the morning I walked to the nearby Lodi Park, which just so happens to be the park I went to on the last day of my previous Delhi visit which I had forgotten the name of but remember really loving. It was a great park with open spaces for cricket, 15^th century gumbas, and cops with bats to beat all the couples showing too much affection. I talked to an Indian expat named Dave who moved to Sydney when he was 15 and is visiting his parents in Delhi. He's bored to death and wants to hang with people his own age. He also said the most fun thing in Delhi is the Taj Mahal, which is not in Delhi. Dave is crazy. I might call him this weekend.

Indian Food!! DUH!

The next day we were placed with our homestays. I was paired up with Big Mike and our homemother is Champak. She’s a retired dancer. Her place is on the second story of a small apartment building across from a park and market no.1. It’s awesome. Champak is super sweet (when she’s not talking about the Chinese). We spoke of our interests, her first daughter’s marriage, and everything in between during our initial two hour tea session, which I’m hoping is a regular thing. Oh hey, I’m back on the tea tip. Mike and I share a bed but we get our own bathrooms. Go figure.  The first night our household competed in the biannual first night poopathon. We reached double digits, unfortunately for Mike, it was he that was really carrying the team. Indian food is tough on the bowels. So is the water. So is the traveling. I’m sorry if this blog is defecation heavy, but we were told we should to be ready to talk about it once we got to India. I intend to follow that sage advice. Mike Wittner (other mike) ruined his homestay family’s toilet, put it out of commission for a day+. Quite the first impression. It’s ok because he made up for it by almost losing the dog, breaking a glass in the middle of the night, stepping on said glass in the morning and bleeding on his new home.

Today, after arrival to class via auto rickshaw, we had great lectures on the Imagined History of India and the Politics of Partition. The second lecture was so good I went through a five minute depression when Salil Misra stopped talking. I wanted to listen to him speak forever, everything made so much sense, it was so important, I’ll tell you about it sometime. After a quick lunch, we spent the afternoon hopping around the Mehrauli ruins. I befriended a puppy. It had fleas. I defriended a puppy. I laughed until I cried four times today, goddamn the people in this program are funny. Back at Champak’s we helped her show her younger daughter the wedding dresses she got her. Mike made a fantastic model (pics later when my camera is back up and running).

I’m going to stop here because I fear by making this first blog entry so long that I’m setting you, poor reader, up for disappointment as I inevitably write shorter and shorter entries. It’s not personal. I’m just so tired, and I don’t have a chance to catch up on sleep until April. Miss and love you all. I’ll try and get better about taking pictures or at least linking this blog to the photo albums of my snap happy classmates. Maybe I’ll start writing some more detail and analysis too. I swear I’m more than short non-sentences. Maybe.