Salazmeyer Indian Roadshow: Kochi Chapter

Day something something now, sometime in the early afternoon. Two days ago: visited a Catholic death commemorative with neighbors, followed by feast complete with Indian whisky. Chatted in English/Malayalam pidgin with crazy uncle. Visited Ashram; might go back to stay. Dragged around in forest for a little while with Aunt/Nun - pointing out the fruit trees and the vast expanse of land which now belongs to the children since Dad died (2 years ago exactly, per commemorative event).  Stopped at elephant reserve and monkey zoo on the way home. Surprised to learn monkeys can freely exit cages. Not too fond of their sharp teeth, otherwise cute. Elephants quite entertaining taking bath in river. Lots of ants near the river. Note to self: watch for ants near the river.

 

Yesterday chartered a houseboat with a group of locals to explore Keralan backwaters, again with Indian liquor but this time Brandy. Excellent with soda and 15 types of Chilies. Food extremely tasty - taste buds more or less stoned for the next week. Spent most of the trip providing utter fascination to small children dazzled by pasty skin. Taught one to dance. Took lots of photographs. Perfected use of English/Malayalam pidgin; successfully communicated many complicated subjects, such as, "we love you people too!!!" Stopped somewhere along the water to a small shack producing coconut toddi, a mild intoxicating juice produced from the flowers of coconut trees. Purchased some for the ladies who were not interested in brandy. Us? Stuck fast to the old college mantra; "Brandy before Toddi, very Naughty". Ultimately refrained on the advice of whichever sages coined that one. Took a canoe ride; didn't sink. Success!

 

Today trucked it down to catch a bus onward at 6:30 am. Learned of bus strike in destination town. Returned home discouraged, but not downtrodden. Working on hiring a private car to make the trip. Will press on.

Ahoy India

2:21PM Friday. Alicia here. Day 2 in India (or Day 3 if you count landing day) and we're successfully eating, drinking, and moving about. We've taken a rickshaw, munched on chapatti, and withstood a couple of brief monsoon downpours. Also taken a liking to tea with milk and cardamom. Further dispatches sure to be brief and damp.

The American Medical Conspiracy is Similar to the American Mechanical Conspiracy

Ok I don't really believe there is an American mechanical conspiracy, I really do believe full well in the power of capitalism to bring me the best products and services at the lowest prices, and I simply acknowledge that I've never been able to have my a/c serviced for less than $150 before and yesterday at the petrol station it cost me (along with replacement of a high side service valve) a mere $45. The American medical conspiracy, on the other hand, is less like an orchestrated conspiracy and more like just a generally bad system that nobody has the power to change. Why are we required to pay $1500 an hour to see a doctor who will grant us access to the 600-milligram ibuprofen? Nobody knows. What I do know, though, is that the gas-station garage a block from my house is going to be a God-send.  They say: bring us the parts from the Seat company, and we will fix your car. AND, we'll charge you almost nothing for it!  Successfully getting your car repaired in a foreign country is really a great thing; it provides a feeling of well-being and general competence, as well as reassurance that you really LIVE HERE NOW. 

Prescription? How Quaint.

Alicia here. We've been gearing up to enter some low-to-medium risk malaria areas (according to the WHO map, left) and so for weeks now I've been saying to myself that I need to call a doctor and visit a travel clinic and get some antimalarials and perhaps a few other precautionary medicines to take along. But, wouldn't you know, I blinked and it was suddenly the weekend before departure. So, knowing full well that a full evaluation by a doctor was not going to be an option, we headed down to the local pharmacy to see if we could at least stock up on ibuprofen and rehydration salts.  Before I could even say, "don't be ridiculous", Stanley asked the pharmacy man for some antimalarials, Lo and behold, he presented us with 4 fully functional boxes of Lariam for a mere 34 dirhams apiece. Encouraged by this success, we further requested a general antibiotic and were given a box of real-live genuine amoxicillin, marked right on the package with GlaxoSmithKline, at 154 dirhams. Bing! Some more over the counters; salts, DEET, immodium, and, ah yes, the dreaded 600-milligram ibuprofen tablet. Some of you may know that, stateside, the 600-milligram ibuprofen tablet is a controlled substance. You let that out on the shelves, people will kill themselves with it. It's just far too convenient to let the people have access to 600 milligrams at once.  Only the most intelligent of a given population can figure out the workaround: I've been shoveling a six-count of OTC 300-milligram ibuprofens every time I get cramps since last year. But now? The good man at the pharmacy has released this coveted product into my eager hands. I'll only have to take 3 of them at once - nobody tell the FDA. 

Politics, Pride and Two Descriptions of Lebanon

Stanley here. I work in an office with 3 women. Two are from Lebanon (Nat and My Boss The CFO), one is from The Philippines (Polly), and one is from Argentina (Silvana). I’m getting to know them a little better as the days go by. A couple of anecdotes:

Nat asks me, “Do you like The States?” I reply, noncommittally, “There are definitely good things and bad things. I like the city that I’m from.”

She follows up, “Are you proud to be an American?” It’s worth noting that I’ve always been slightly disturbed by the notion of “pride” at being from a particular place. I never really know what it’s supposed to mean. I’m not proud like when I sink a tricky pool shot…and I’m not proud like when my sister publishes an article on her latest research…and I’m not ashamed…except of George Bush.

So I shake my head and reply, “No.”

“Ah,” says Nat. “So you’re a terrorist?” I laugh. She still feels she should make it clear she was only joking. Frankly, I’m impressed with her knowledge of the black and white sentimentality that many Americans have on this subject, and her ability to joke about it in English, her third language. Polly and Silvana join the conversation. Everyone agrees that George Bush is awful.

The next day we discuss Beirut. I’ve heard several students, both here and at HCT sing its praises. The beaches, the mountains, the cafés: The Paris of the Middle East. It sounds fantastic. Nat talks about the smell of the air and her morning coffee. She nostalgically recalls the “cache”. “You know this word, cache?” She asks.

“I understand what it means.” I say. I decide I must see this place. “Next summer.” I say.

My Boss The CFO stops by to use the copy machine. She tells about her time in Lebanon. In an animated, pleasant way, she tells about driving in to work, during the war, listening to the shelling that was being described on the radio as they drove towards it, while they all yelled, “It’s OK! It’s OK! Just Go!” She follows that up with a story from after the war, told in the same pleasant, almost happy voice, about watching from her porch as a truckload of bombs was removed from the house next door. The truck was having trouble getting up the hill and everyone was watching to see what would happen.

She explains, “It slowly dawned on everyone, ‘What are we doing?! We should get out of here!’ A half an hour later the truck exploded and destroyed the empty building, and my apartment.” She laughs. “After that, I'd had enough. I moved to Canada.”

Dubai Tiger Beat

Ok here's the scoop. I totally, TOTALLY locked eyes with Sheikha Hind, wife of H.H. Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid al Maktoum vice president of the UAE and ruler of Dubai, when she shook my hand. She was soooo beautiful!!! And she had this GORGEOUS ornate jewel-encrusted gown on. I didn't know I was going to get up close - but I did!!

Now I can say I've touched royalty. I won't wash my hand for a week.

In other news, the graduation ceremony was great but kept me up late. The students all were equally decked out and looked absolutely fantastic. By the end of the night I was falling asleep on my feet but maintained a healthy level of enthusiasm (in part via the consumption of six or seven juice boxes) in order to support what was clearly a grand moment for many of them. Smile smile, mabruk mabruk, congratulations, mashallah! your hair! Gorgeous! 

Dubai Celebritology

Our graduation ceremony tomorrow is going to be attended by Sheikha Hind, senior wife of H.H. Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid al Maktoum, ruler of Dubai. Sheikh Mo is below left, Ms. Hind's photo is remarkably hard to come by. On the other hand, Jr. wife Princess Haya of Jordan, right, is quite readily accessible in the media. They just had a baby in 2004. Out of Sheikh Mohammed's first 7 male and 10 female children, one has been named crown prince of Dubai: H.H. Sheikh Hamdan, below right. The ladies love him. How could you not? Just look at that face. In order to go see Hind and the graduates tomorrow, I've been issued a gown. It's just like when I graduated college!! No cap, though. I just hope she speaks in English, otherwise it'll be a wash (for me).

In other celebrity news, I read an article in the paper yesterday (the local paper, mind you), saying that Michael Jackson might be starting a Vegas show. I mean, I guess you've got to pay the bills somehow, but seriously. I hope, for the sake of everything good and true, that this plan doesn't come to fruition. 

Book Review

Alicia here. I just finished reading The Corrections and it was pretty good. I think I'd recommend it to a friend. The story is about a series of characters who are connected in a dysfunctional family and follows the twists and turns of their sometimes tragic lives. One of them is a semi-famous chef, one is a success story/family-man, one of them is a deadbeat fired ex-professor and wannabe screenwriter, one is a dawdling old father and crappy husband quickly descending into an infantile dementia, and one is a sadly pathetic old mother putting up with her husband's nonsense and trying to make up for a life of non-fulfillment by pulling her whole family together for one last Christmas at the homestead as if to prove that maybe life isn't so loveless and forlorn (fat chance). The whole thing is really just a series of tragedies with a few farfetched, humorous episodes and characters interspersed, which I like because it adds contrast and makes the desperate seem that much More desperate.

Apparently, judging by the cover of the book, this was also an Oprah's Book Club Book, which I don't exactly understand. I know that Oprah tries to pick serious literature, but I just can't picture the Oprah audience enjoying something so DEPRESSING. But, she did also pick "A Million Little Pieces", so maybe I'm just totally misjudging the Oprah audience.

Thanks, but no thanks....

Stanley here. You know what the funniest thing about Arabia is? It’s the little differences. I mean they got the same stuff over here that we had over there, but here it’s just a little different. My favorite recently has been the standard inanities that begin a conversation with someone you’re just getting to know. In The States, when the conversation eventually arrives at “So…kids?” and I say “No, thank you.” People just laugh and put you off with something patronizing like, “Oh, you say that now…but wait till you get a little older….” Here it’s a little different. The conversation begins the same, but when I get to the part about not wanting to have kids the reaction varies slightly, usually beginning with an open mouthed look of horror and shock at the very concept of opting out of what would seem to be the only reason to be live, work, or marry. This is usually followed by questions tactfully designed to skirt around the fact that I’ve just admitted a major flaw in my humanity. Maybe there’s some medical problem? So maybe kids are annoying to me? It’s a cultural thing I suppose. I explain to them that it’s unusual, but not all that rare in The States to opt out of child rearing. But I’m thinking of starting to tell people that I want to have as many kids as possible, just to avoid damaging their concept of order in the universe.

Graduation Day

Alicia here. Last night, I celebrated my final working night of the academic year - the last night that I had to stay until 8pm to keep the place open. For the rest of the year, it was going to be smooth sailing - in at 7:45, out at 4:45. Then today, I learned that we're all required to stay late for next week's graduation ceremony.  So, I guess I'm learning never to celebrate too early.

Not that it will be bad, since around here when we say "graduation ceremony", we really mean... Fashion Show!!! It's a women-only event, and it's really lovely and everything to see these young ladies getting to enjoy the culmination of all their hard work and move on to the next phase in life, but the really fun part is going to be the gowns (lets not kid ourselves). They'll be dressed to the nines; and chances are, we'll get some less-than-stringent abaya coverage in order to fully appreciate those gorgeous get-ups.

There are no cell-phones, no cameras, and absolutely no photography or sketching of any kind allowed, so I'll have only my razor-sharp memory to rely on. Recap pending.

I Got 99 Problems But A Visa Ain't One

A here. After all that trouble at the Indian consulate, they delivered our visas in short order directly to my place of employment without a hitch. The visas look like the one to the right. Another very important piece of documentation which I acquired recently is my "Alcoholics" license, which apparently had been sitting at the liquor store for weeks, and I simply failed to answer the phone when they tried to call and let me know.

Stanley and I went down to the MMI the other day to make use of said license, and picked up (against my instincts) a 12-dirham bottle of gin, along with some more Beefeater. "Does it have alcohol in it?" I asked, sceptically surveying the label. Right there on the bottle, 48.5%. I still wondered if it was a joke. A 12-dirham bottle of gin? Later on, during a blind tasting, I discovered that the 12-dirham bottle actually tastes better than Beefeater in a gin & tonic. This won't come as a surprise to some smarty-pants out there, like Emmo, who have always said Beefeater makes a bad G&T.   But moreover, it gave me a healthy high-quality buzz, unlike some other cheap trunk gin I've had in my day. 

This is all a highly important scientific discovery, as my license restricts me to 750 dirhams worth of alcohol per month. If I were to spend that all on Beefeater, I'd be stuck with just 7 bottles. They don't even give you an extra allowance for the months with 31 days. But on the cheap gin? Sheeeeeeit, that's 62 bottles. I could even share with friends, especially in February.

Arabian Review

Alicia here. The academic year is winding down, I'll be leaving the country in a couple of weeks, and the pending shift is scenery is causing me to reflect a bit on how I've changed over the last few months.

I can identify a few things that I never, ever thought I would do, that I have now done:

1. Listen to live recitations of the Quran. 

This is because my car is a hoopty with no CD player and not even a functioning tape player. The cigarette lighter feeds power to an iPod adapter but cuts out every time my hoopty ride rolls over a bump in the sand, so that leaves me with basically two options: Virgin Radio, or the Quran. But I must say, the Quran is highly zen in a traffic jam.

2. Enjoy Nescafe.

Yeah, I said it.  You heard me. This morning, I microwaved a nice hot cup of bottled water, and stirred in some Nescafe GOLD granules with a healthy heap of dehydrated creamer.  Mmm mm good - and timesaving. Now that I'm waiting for Dan-O to drop me off at work in the morning, I don't have time to spend 20 dirhams on a latte and a fruit salad every morning at the campus coffee shop.  Can I still call myself a Northwesterner? If I couch my low-grade coffee-consumption into a Northwest homage every morning (I'll hum Nirvana or something with each sip) can I avoid the special level of hell reserved for product traitors like me?

3. Lose a $40,000 falcon.

I knew when I turned 13 that I was going to be a master of falconry - which is why I convinced my Dad to sell his car and take a credit advance to buy a starter falcon this winter. I knew that I would eventually win the admiration of falconers the world over and be able to compete in tournaments and exhibitions with the Pros. I dedicated myself to constant practice - and when I took my $40,000 falcon out to the desert for the first time, and flung him off of my arm without a string to perform a simple loop-return command, and when he never came back, that's when I knew.... Just kidding. This didn't happen to me! But thinking about how it didn't happen to me gives me a whole new lease on life.

The New Proud Owner of a Seat

Alicia here. That's SAY-OTT, not seat. I had to sit through 5 hours of queues and insurance purchases and emissions testing and whatnot, but hey, that's Dubai. Below is a picture of what the waiting line for the emissions test looked like:

And now I am a car-owner.

Visa Adventure

Alicia here. Yesterday I had Dan drop me on his way to work down on Bank street in Dubai near where all the embassies and consulates are located so that I could visit the Indian consulate and procure entry visas for the two of us for our pending trip. Needing to be at work by 11am, I figured that starting at 8am would give me a nice healthy cushion to get back in time. Wrong, and wrong. 

I was lost for nearly an hour, wandering the same neighborhood back and forth, convinced that I had to have been tripping right over the top of the consulate the whole time. When I finally found it, escaping from the 100 degree heat in exhaustion, I was pleased to find that the consulate provided a ladies' queue, where I was told I would have to wait in a different queue behind 45 men to get my paperwork approved. The point of the ladies' queue? Not sure.

After securing a ticket number at 9am, I discovered that the ATM at the Indian Consulate was in disrepair, which meant I wouldn't be able to pay for our visas. So, it was back out onto the blacktop to truck down to the Sudanese consulate in search of a functional ATM. Although gorgeous, non-crowded, and guarded by a handsome and helpful Sudanese military man, I was disappointed that the Sudanese consulate had no ATM at all. Lucky me, I was able to flag down a taxi outside and convince him to drive me to three different banks until I found one where my ATM card worked, and then take me back to the consulate.... where I saw that the consular ATM had been repaired. No point crying over spilt milk, though, right? I responded calmly and rationally by walking directly to the vending machine and purchasing a Snickers bar and an oversized bottle of water.

At 11am, my number was finally called and I was able to get my paperwork stamped and approved in room 105. Then I was directed to get my paperwork stamped and approved in room 102. Then I was directed to submit and pay for my paperwork in room 101. At 12 noon, after finally having been able to submit my applications for entry permits, it was time to hit the pavement once again to get a taxi back to work.  Being an hour late already, I was not too happy to discover that calling for a taxi wouldn't work (dispatch center: "No taxis are accepting your job...") Accepting? No taxis are accepting? Can't you just assign someone? What if you tell the drivers I'll pay triple? No luck. Wander wander wander. Up to bank street - all the taxis are full. Down to reef street - dead as a horse's toenails. Back around the British Embassy, up Sheikh Zayed road, and through the same neighborhood I had been wandering before 9am. At 1:30, I arrived back at the Indian consulate, delusional and suffering from heat-induced hallucinations. Convinced that I would be doomed to stay at the Indian consulate forever, to live there, to sleep in room 101 with the cranky huddled masses for the rest of my days, I became desperate. And just as I was about to press the gleaming ball point of a fresh metallic blue pen into my jugular, an empty taxi pulled up to the curb in front of me.