Heather O'Leary

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Heather’s Pest Control Service - Not for the Weak of Heart

So I’ve just crushed a cockroach for the first time in my life. As I was checking my email I saw one scurrying across the desk towards my computer. It appeared to be “teenaged” in terms of colour and size. I immediately said “ummm…bug…bug! BUG!” and the 4 women that share my area turned around. My boss’s boss laughed and said that in India seeing a bug like that is not a big deal. As it crawled towards my folders and printouts I became more alarmed. Risha, a great co-worker who started a few months before me and has taken me under her wing, came over with another girl and they made the cockroach climb onto a file folder. They were bringing the folder away from my desk area and the cockroach fell to the floor. At this point all 5 of us were standing nearby (I was whining “eeewww…eeewww”). When wearing western trousers, the fashion here is to wear open-toed strappy black heels, so when the cockroach fell and my boss’s boss said, “I won’t do anything about it now,” I decided to be brave. It was scurrying under Risha’s desk. I proclaimed that I was the only one with closed-toe shoes, and with that my right foot came down with a pop and crunch. My stomach is turning describing this, but I wanted to be accurate. I also keep imagining what the bottom of my shoe looks like, maybe with little insect legs squirming…eeeeewww! We all let out a gasp. I apologised to Risha that he ended up being squished under her desk, “better dead than alive,” I said. That’s when my boss’s boss told me that the reason she did not squish the cockroach was because they are all vegetarians. So I was gasping out of fright of and disgust from my proximity to the living cockroach, and they out of disbelief of my brash, barbaric act of slaughter. They said that they do employ a pest service, so it’s not as though they are against killing insects all together. But I think another part of their surprise was that bug-killing is certainly not my duty, just as dropping off cleaning is not one of Robin’s. I’m not sure what will happen the next time I see a bug; I’m not looking forward to it.

Heather’s Clothes Visit Asia for the “First” Time – Informative

Presser Service: Our flat is kitty-corner from a presser service. The man who runs it uses his courtyard as a drop-off where people bring their clean laundry to be ironed. From the stairs to my rooftop I can see down into his courtyard. He has a tarp over the tables that he lays his work on, and quite a few mountains of clothes on other tables, incoming bundles and neatly folded outgoing stacks. He has help from a few assistants and employs some delivery boys. It think he also has an apprentice or two in addition to a few family members who act as management. I watch these hard workers scurry in and out of the front gate, under the tarp and over to one of the open spaces to fold the larger pieces. About seven feet from the tarp/main ironing station, they keep a fire burning. I thought, naively, that it may have been there to cook lunch, as there are a lot of street-food stands that roast corn on the cob and other foods over a fire of that size. But then I saw that the coals were used to heat the irons. The top part, by the handle, latches open and shut and the red hot coals can be shovelled inside the iron. I think Tara and I have seen this in Museums…I seem to remember one on the historical streetscape in the Museum of Science and Industry across from the old-fashioned dentist’s office--possibly close to the Museum’s food court and the tasty mini pizzas. Not that I’m comparing India’s ironing technology to “the days of yore,” I commend their energy-saving technique and find it fascinating, and in a city where there are constant power-cuts, this seems to be a very savvy business solution. Anyway, yesterday morning I asked Robin to drop-off two oxfords and a pair of khakis to be pressed for me—total cost 30 cents. (Incidentally, the root word for khaki, means “dust” in Sanskrit, probably referring to the colour my white pair of pants will be by the end of my stay). Robin told me he was scolded by the delivery guy, who now will ring the bell daily for pick-up/drop-off. Heaven forbid we lift a finger. I think that this would be the biggest adjustment for Melody to make if she came here—she’s a true do-it-yourselfer at heart—though she did enjoy the pampering on the cruise. I toyed with the idea of just tossing my clothes over my rooftop and saving the delivery guy the climb upstairs, boy would that be silly. I certainly would cement my neighbourhood reputation as “the strange American girl” that way.
Other Delivery/Clothing Services: It seems that there are delivery people for everything here. Not only can you get McDonalds delivered (gross!), but our trash man rings the bell daily for pickup; groceries, alcohol, wicker furniture (We’ve purchased 2 beautiful chairs for my patio at $4 apiece!), clothing, you name it, can be brought to your doorstep at no extra charge for your purchase/perusal. I think that “Dot Com Guy” could have fared much better here just relying on India’s service-based workforce rather than relying on ordering things from the internet in the US. Anyway, I was not brave enough to give the pressing service any of my white items this time, especially with the fear of ash and soot being pressed in, but since they did a wonderful job on my shirts and pants, they’ll get lots of business from me in the future. I’m planning on having a few pairs of pants replicated for me ($4 for service) and I’m also thinking of having another suit made (the service fee is less than $30, the “real cost” is the fabric, apparently!!! Good thing I have moved to “the land of good fabric,” according to my mom. All they need is measurements and a description of what you want or a picture; or they also can replicate something you bring in eerily well). Sharon Hogan, Mike’s aunt who has been very nice to show me around Delhi, suggests bringing in a Vogue and asking for some high fashion/exorbitant designer work to be replicated for Target-esque prices. Long live couture! If anyone needs/wants anything let me know! The most imaginative thing I can come up with is to have a pair of Venetian jeans made for me (I’m glad Tara and I took pictures of the $200 pants instead of buying them). I wish I had better style so I could take advantage of this and come home with some amazing outfits. Alex, this is right up your alley.
Made in India: Sharon has also tipped me off to a handbag shop where the bags are made for designers in Italy, of all places. I think there are a great deal of skilled labourers here that are overlooked. Even a few Indians have remarked that they have to go all the way to Europe or the US to get good merchandise. After one of Robin’s female friends visited and complemented me on a few items I own, I thought to look in the label to see where they were actually constructed. Most of my GAP clothes were made nearby (comparatively) in Sri Lanka, and other brands come from Bangladesh, Hong Kong and India. So I’ve carefully packed my bag with distinctively American items to “import” to Asia, which as it turns out, is just a homecoming for them after all. So really, the experts who were skilled enough to create most of my favourite pieces are right here on my doorstep. The sky’s the limit!

Heather’s First “Monsoon” – Humour

Last Friday (Jul 7) I was alone in the flat. Robin’s train to the country for interviews left at the crack of dawn and I had the flat to myself all weekend. I was really excited to be a bit lazy and get some quiet reflection time since my first week and a half had been so hectic. The night before, as you may have read in “But even the Romans had plumbing!,” Robin and I had gone on a night-time jog and returned to find we had no water. So there was a lot to get used to, not just new food, and a new language, but what to do when you twist the faucet and nothing comes out. Thursday night, the eve of my tranquil weekend, my air-conditioning went out, so I made do with sleeping over my covers and turning the ceiling fan on the fastest speed. I had a somewhat troubled sleep because I was not used to the noisy fan or the moving air, so at 7:30am I was thrilled when I was woken up by the promising drip-drop of the monsoon rain outside. Everyone has been talking about the monsoon since I’ve arrived, making jealous jabs about the fortune of Mumbai (Bombay) and the overwhelming flooding and cool-temperatures the monsoons have caused there. In my half-asleep state I became quite excited, and it dawned on me that I should open my bedroom door to my rooftop, so the cool air could circulate in and relieve the staleness in my sticky-hot bedroom. I climbed out of bed, and threw open my door, waiting for the refreshing waft of rain-cooled breeze. I had to rub my eyes for a moment. There was not a cloud in sight and the spicy heat of the morning stirred in my nostrils. I was puzzled. I heard water, but I did not see the monsoon. And then it slowly dawned on me, my brain still a little groggy and confused. The drip-drop was not coming from outside my windows, but from inside of my bathroom. I threw open (yet another door), this time with success; I had found the source of the dripping. My sink was spraying everywhere, and the needle-streams of my shower were spurting water all over the floor. I hadn’t shut the faucets last night when we were out of water; again I twisted things the American way, not the British way (see “Heather Goes the Wrong Way”). Holy cats. I think in that moment I was still trying to make sense of the ramifications of the Mumbai-scale flood that descended upon my bathroom. My feet were being lapped by the waves in the two inch-deep puddle of warm water. As in the squirrel story, I thought about how I was going to communicate this with as much speed as possible to the Hindi help in (again) SHORTS. Finally, I snapped to it and (figuratively) rolled up my sleeves, grabbed my toothbrush cup and began to bail out. I used my bathroom mat as a giant spatula, scooping water into the bathtub and I plunged my cup into the deepest parts of the puddle, throwing cupfuls of water in the general direction of the shower. I was making some progress, and the water level was lowering. The maid was due that day, so the build-up of dust (now murky mud) was considerable, and I, in my fervent scooping, had smeared it all over my face and it was dripping down my elbows. At this very moment, the company driver rang the doorbell. On this particular day, they sent the driver whose English comprehension is dismally low and we both rely on communication through pantomime. Clearly, yelling through the door “you’re early” or “just a minute” would not have done the job. So I rummaged through my bag to find my keys to unlock the front door, smearing my fingerprints and dirty elbows everywhere. I finally opened the front door, and the driver was shocked. His generally half-open eyes popped open as the blonde mud-monster before him motioned for 15 more minutes. I then raced back to the bathroom to finish off my scooping job, tossed my mat on the roof to dry, and rinsed off. I put on a fancy suit in hopes of thwarting any office-rumours that I was a part-time mud wrestler. Boy, what a deluge that was. All things aside, I am still looking forward to the real monsoon, which everyone here assures me will be here any day now…just hopefully outside this time.

Robin to Heather: “Is that noise coming from our living room?” – Humour

Yesterday afternoon, after Robin arrived from his weekend interviewing in the country, we took a few hours (Bollywood films are about 3h long) to watch a movie. Earlier that morning I had been sitting out on my rooftop when a cooling rain began. I though it would be best to open up the entire flat to air it out and enjoy the brief relief from the heat. Robin, having been in jam-packed, non-AC busses all weekend really wanted to watch the movie in his room with the AC blasting. Fair enough. About two hours into the film though we heard a high-pitched whistle. It seemed to be a bird. The whistling became louder, so loud in fact, it drowned out the Hindi musical which was set at a high enough volume to hear over the whirring/blowing noises of the AC. Robin and I turned towards each other panic-stricken. It seems as though a bird had flown in. WE had no choice but to try to coax it out before it defiled all the Gandhi’s furniture. To our surprise, when we opened the door prepared to usher out the bird, a screeching chipmunk/squirrel was clinging to the screen of the living room window. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Had we trapped a poor squirrel? All I could think about was the time a squirrel got into Alex Ruzicka’s Evanston house and the torn curtains, the dirty footprints and all the upset. The passport health nurse’s warnings of RABIES came to mind. Quickly, I slammed Robin’s bedroom door. We were both alarmed. The supreme delegator (and wimp) that I am, I told Robin he must bravely traverse the living room to get help. My selling point was that I don’t yet know Hindi and it would be quite unproductive for me to pantomime “there is a wild chipmunk/squirrel reeking havoc on our home,” especially so because I was wearing (gulp) shorts. I was trying to couch my fear of Rabies and the possibility of the furry mammal clinging with his claws to my bare leg, with the language barrier and Indian modesty as my scapegoat. Whether or not Robin saw through my excuses, he courageously made his way to our flat’s front door. At that, the squirrel shrieked a little more, and scurried around on the screen a bit. I was shocked, speechless; Robin nearly paralyzed with fear. Then we took a closer look. The claws were on the inside…meaning…the squirrel wasn’t in our flat, but outside, enjoying the nice cross breeze. What silly geese we are!

Heather to Robin: “But even the Romans had plumbing!” - Informational

Power Outages: So far in our flat the power has only gone out a few times. Lucky for me, most of these occasions have been while I was at work. This does not mean that the whole house goes dim, rather, the both air-conditioners and our outlet-based power stops. This means we’ve never been without light and ceiling fans, but from time to time it’s gotten quite sticky. At the office, I’ve been recording the number of outages each day. There were 11 on my first day, but they’ve since tapered off to 4-5. In this case, the computers are the only things that remain intact, and the lights and everything else drop. I find it a little relaxing to have the lights go out—especially because the sunlight is bright enough to light the whole office. I also think it is nice to have a break in the monotony.
No Water: The water in our flat works on three different systems: H’s bathroom, R’s bathroom and the kitchen. Apparently, our water is stored on top of the house on the “servant’s roof” in a large water tower. Increasingly, one system or another has been failing. I don’t mind this as much as Robin does; I have been drinking bottled water and I don’t sweat as much as he does so I don’t feel too icky if my shower doesn’t work on demand. Last week, however, we went on our first jog, I in “modest” full pants and a tee-shirt despite the 100 degree evening, only to return home, dripping in sweat, without any water to shower in. I thought it was pretty funny. So I took a bucket from the kitchen and gave myself a scrub in my shower anyway. I enjoyed it, but I also thought about how I take the plumbing for granted in the US. It’s crazy how basic needs like this can be so inconsistently served. For a good water story, read “Heather’s First Monsoon.”

Heather Goes the Wrong Way – Informational

One thing that is hard to get used to is looking both ways when crossing the streets. I am used to looking mainly to my left and glancing to my right. It has not been easy to re-program my brain to scrutinize the traffic on the right and then look to the left for any aberrant commuters. (Sometimes the drivers don’t like to go all the way around the direction dividers, which can last for blocks, so they are content with going the wrong way down a street close to the “sidewalk”). I certainly am used to the American way of passing on the right, so that’s where I check for traffic. I’m adjusting. Thankfully I have not had many very-close calls.
Swimming Pool: Robin and I have been to the Siri Fort Sports Complex twice; once we played mini-golf (not the US version which is called “crazy golf,” this version is just a smaller golf course) and swam in the outdoor pool, and the other time we just came for a swim. The first time we were the only ones in the giant pool, but the second time it was filled with people. Lots of Indians don’t know how to swim, even the ones in the upper echelons. Inevitably, the “non-swimmer” section was packed nearly shoulder to shoulder. I am very grateful that I know how to swim (thank you mom and dad). Robin and I decided we’d swim laps in the “swimmer zone.” As you could imagine, Indian traffic etiquette carried over into the pool. People swim as chaotically as they drive. There were no lane dividers and people were swimming lengths and widths, leaving kick-trails like plaid all over the pool. Even trying to navigate around the other swimmers was difficult as there seemed to be no consistency in the speed or direction of their trajectory. To make matters worse, when I tried to pass competent swimmers I was approaching head-on, we’d both shift right, another British-Indian/US traffic discrepancy.
Escalator: We went to the movies last weekend. For about $2 we got “premium” seats in the modern air-conditioned theatre in a suburban mall/theatre complex. This entitled us to centre seats that reclined 45 more degrees with a four foot space between us and the row in front of us. I was a little drowsy after the new-release movie, “Superman Returns,” and I found myself getting on the wrong side of the escalator each time, expecting them to be the same directions as the US. I ran into a few families, whoops. I guess I’m learning my lesson about the inaccuracy of my decidedly American auto-pilot.
Office: Everyday in the office I do a little dance with the custodians, senior management and anyone else who is up from their desks. Despite the chaos in the streets, Indians pass each other in hallways quite consistently, but to my dismay, on the right. I’m getting used to it, but not without a few awkward shuffle-steps here and there.

Heather the Pedestrian - Informational

Sidewalks?!? I should begin by saying that negotiating with traffic is a full-time responsibility. People don’t use sidewalks here, so you’re faced with traffic through an entire walk. Do sidewalks exist? Of course. Each residence has one, but it is generally higher/lower than the neighbours’ and made of different materials. People use them like porches, frequently tying their dogs to their front gate (see wildlife), pulling up a few chairs and sometimes even using them as an office. There is a tailor on my block whose sewing machine is right out on the sidewalk along with all his commissioned work and various tools. His infant son and wife sit on a blanket under a rack of his shirts. It’s the same sidewalk situation with the shoe repair man across the way. So basically, this leaves the pedestrian one option: navigating the liminal space between sidewalk and street. One must negotiate one’s way in and out of many moving cars /auto-rickshaws / rickshaws /2-wheelers /bicycles /dogs /cows /other pedestrians on the edge of the roads (which have no curbs or differentiation to speak of). Luckily, cars here toot their horns as a greeting, to signal intentions, and to signal an imminent risky driving move. So at least in the chaos of motion you can rely on more than one of your five senses to guide you.
Road Conditions: The dust in Delhi permeates all. It is especially noticeable on the roads caked into grooves in the asphalt and in large (3ft) gradual-incline piles here and there. It is a reddish colour. The roads are, as above, mostly asphalt with occasional cement patches, speed bumps and clay sections. One can commute to different colonies (neighbourhoods) on some of the 3-4 “lane” highways, or take the streets that are 2.5-3 car widths wide that are divided by a 1.5 foot high cement refuge for spooked pedestrians. I use the word “lane” very, very loosely. You should picture little red blood platelets that push forward in arteries, bouncing around everywhere. All of the vehicles seem to come inches from collisions as people worm their way to the front of the pack through any small hole in traffic. Robin is very nervous when we drive with his friends, frequently yelling “WATCH OUT!!!” He has never driven a car before, so he does not know that screaming like that is sometimes more of a distraction than a help. But, I do admit, I’m grateful for another pair of eyes scanning the road. I try to pretend that I’m on an amusement park rollercoaster “Ride with Robin’s Friends” and I don’t feel too anxious. The taxi drivers are much smoother with their risk-taking, and despite Indian aversion to seatbelts, I always strap myself in.

Heather the Pedestrian - Informational

Sidewalks?!? I should begin by saying that negotiating with traffic is a full-time responsibility. People don’t use sidewalks here, so you’re faced with traffic through an entire walk. Do sidewalks exist? Of course. Each residence has one, but it is generally higher/lower than the neighbours’ and made of different materials. People use them like porches, frequently tying their dogs to their front gate (see wildlife), pulling up a few chairs and sometimes even using them as an office. There is a tailor on my block whose sewing machine is right out on the sidewalk along with all his commissioned work and various tools. His infant son and wife sit on a blanket under a rack of his shirts. It’s the same sidewalk situation with the shoe repair man across the way. So basically, this leaves the pedestrian one option: navigating the liminal space between sidewalk and street. One must negotiate one’s way in and out of many moving cars /auto-rickshaws / rickshaws /2-wheelers /bicycles /dogs /cows /other pedestrians on the edge of the roads (which have no curbs or differentiation to speak of). Luckily, cars here toot their horns as a greeting, to signal intentions, and to signal an imminent risky driving move. So at least in the chaos of motion you can rely on more than one of your five senses to guide you.
Road Conditions: The dust in Delhi permeates all. It is especially noticeable on the roads caked into grooves in the asphalt and in large (3ft) gradual-incline piles here and there. It is a reddish colour. The roads are, as above, mostly asphalt with occasional cement patches, speed bumps and clay sections. One can commute to different colonies (neighbourhoods) on some of the 3-4 “lane” highways, or take the streets that are 2.5-3 car widths wide that are divided by a 1.5 foot high cement refuge for spooked pedestrians. I use the word “lane” very, very loosely. You should picture little red blood platelets that push forward in arteries, bouncing around everywhere. All of the vehicles seem to come inches from collisions as people worm their way to the front of the pack through any small hole in traffic. Robin is very nervous when we drive with his friends, frequently yelling “WATCH OUT!!!” He has never driven a car before, so he does not know that screaming like that is sometimes more of a distraction than a help. But, I do admit, I’m grateful for another pair of eyes scanning the road. I try to pretend that I’m on an amusement park rollercoaster “Ride with Robin’s Friends” and I don’t feel too anxious. The taxi drivers are much smoother with their risk-taking, and despite Indian aversion to seatbelts, I always strap myself in.

Heather and Wildlife – Informational

I’ve seen a whole lot of animals since I’ve arrived some seem quite familiar and others are quite new. I’ve listed them below:
Street Dogs: Dogs flood the streets, especially after dark. I often step around a napping curled-up dog or two when I’m visiting community centre, the little downtown pocket closest to my flat. Most seem to be the same mix of breeds. They are generally caramel-coloured, larger than a beagle and have pointy noses and ears. From time to time one will tail Robin and I for a few blocks when we are walking home from a restaurant. They are not aggressive, but seem to just want a taste of our doggie bags. Other dogs bark at the ones that slink ten feet behind us, since they cross many others’ territories in hopes of food scraps. People seem to own dogs too. The ones I have met are excitable and have certainly not been through any obedience lessons. Robin likes to pet the ones on leashes, but I firmly avoid it as they usually snarl, jump and bark.
Street Cows: Along with dogs on the street, one can also find cows. I thought that they might be a little more active…wandering through traffic, chewing cud, mooing. But I think that the heat gets to them just as much as it gets to the people. They are bony and some are dust-coloured, otherwise dark blackish-grey. When I think of cows, I think of them in herds. Here, it is quite common to see only one or two laying on the sides of the streets. After seeing the same two together consecutively, I wondered if they were friends or relations. Robin and I are now on cow-patrol trying to test my hypothesis that, like rabbits, some cows become bonded and stick together. We’ll see.
Squirrels: Each morning I hear the chatter of little squirrels that run to-and-fro over the metal grating that lines my windows. Frequently the chasing and clicking noise they make wakes me up (6:30am). They are about six inches long with a six inch tail. Their striped bodies resemble chipmunks’ in size and colour, but their tails are very puffy like squirrels’. They are quite cute and run and jump over the roof-tops and into bougainvillea bushes.
Monkeys? I really thought I’d see more roaming the streets and causing mischief, but really the only ones I’ve seen are on leashes. They are clearly for tourists and they stand next to, or on the shoulder of, their owners at intersections so they can interact with the people stuck in the cars at traffic lights. Thankfully, the closest I’ve been to one is about fifteen feet. I hope it stays that way since Passport Health warned me a great deal about interacting with monkeys.
Birds: I’ve really enjoyed my private rooftop, especially for a little solitary stargazing and bird-watching. So far I have seen four different types of birds. I’ve been looking for an Audubon Society book so I can identify them, but no luck as of late, so you will have to read descriptions instead. I saw a few greyish doves right before the first rain (Jul 9). Their call alerted me to their visit. Following them was a big-beaked black raven-type bird cawing away. I saw another “raven” like this near the Siri Fort swimming pool. Robin and I exited the sports complex and saw one gutting a squirrel on the side of the road. I was moderately grossed out, but more afraid the bird would come hopping over to my flip-flop clad exposed toes! It really made me think back to my Shamanism class with Fogelson and the symbolic significance of the Raven to shamans who were considered experts on peoples’ innards. The third bird-type I’ve seen are pigeons (big surprise). And finally, I saw a very interesting cardinal-like bird whose tall comb and shoulders were black, like the rest of his body except for a few bright feathers near the top of his wing.
Geckoes: These, to my delight, climb all over the walls at the Gandhis’. They are not bright green like in Hawaii, but a greyish-muted green. I see them most when Robin and I came home from dinner at night. My guess is that they come out at night because the temperature is pleasant and the birds are asleep. They are about four inches long, nose to hind, and their tails are thick at the base, but taper to the tip, about four inches also. Two nights ago, though, we found quite a few two-inch babies. They were very sprightly and zipping around the wall as we approached.
Bugs: I have a few little ants that visit me in my room everyday. I think they get a little lost sometimes. They seem to come in from my rooftop door. I don’t have any food in my room, so I really don’t mind them at all. Otherwise, no insect sightings (“touch wood,” as they say here). I certainly expected tropical spiders like the ones in Costa Rica, or maybe even, gulp, a roach or two; so far I’ve been pleasantly surprised. I’m sure I’ll get my share of mosquitoes once the monsoons come; as of now there are a few eighth of an inch cracks around my air-conditioner that let in daylight, and probably thirsty mosquitoes once they hatch. Robin and I will fix this in the next few days.