5-31-06 (Weds)

The Day-to-Day.

Some of you have written wanting to know how life is different in India. I don't know. It depends on how much money you have, if you are Hindu or Muslim or “Other,” if you are male or female, if you are Indian or foreign, where you live, etc. All I can describe is the not-much-money-for-an-American-but-a-large-amount-for-a-lot-but-not-all-people-here, “Other,” female, foreign, mobile perspective.

So I'll start with food.

Rock and I have yet to cook for ourselves. In Chennai, we have been living in one of the IFMR's hostel (read: dorm) rooms. We each have our own twin-sized bed (I feel like my abuelo and abuela), we have A/C and fans, and we have a private bathroom that is not luxurious but does the trick. We bathe using buckets of warm water because the shower, which is on the opposite wall from the flushing toilet, does not really work. We have it pretty well. We will only be there until Saturday, at which point we are moving into our flat, at which point we may or may not cook.

The cafeteria in the dorm is clean, and while there is not a huge amount of variety in the food, I really like it. A typical meal: steamed rice, any one to three of probably five different toppings, tomatoes (which I want desperately to eat but which I fear), curd, a variety of Indian bread, and water.

Four days out of the week, I am in Hyderabad in a hotel. While I am in Hyderabad, Rock is jetting around India meeting with people from the ICICI Bank to set up his research. Last week he was in Mumbai (Bombay), this week he is in Delhi. We'll meet up in Chennai on Friday night. We both dislike being apart so much of the week, but it is a necessary evil for the short term.

Back to food: eating out when I am traveling is when it gets interesting. I don't venture very far from the hotel to eat. Last week I was in a nicer hotel. I mostly ate Indian food, but there was the option for other types of food. I ordered a burger one night and thought of Tony. In the land of Holy Cows, it wasn't a real burger, of course – it had a veggie patty and it tasted okay. (My experience of India so far is that it is my vegetarian sister-in-law Missy's dream come true. You have to really go out of your way to eat any kind of meat, even chicken.)

This week, the hotel is not quite as nice, although still a 3-star. I thought it was almost nicer than last week's until I tried to shower. The nicely tiled shower doesn't work and the warm water wasn't working, so I resorted to a bucket bath with cold water.

The restaurants in the building are... suspect. But I don't know where else to go. My general concern as the overly-hygienic-American-that-I-am is cleanliness. The place I ate at yesterday (what I call the “main floor” restaurant) seemed at least mid-scale and was certainly pricey, relatively speaking. It was okay until I thought I saw a large rodent descend from one of the booth seats. Not sure if I was just seeing things (maybe the Larium is finally getting to me) but that just ruined it for me. So today I went to what I call the “basement” restaurant.

It is different. There is no menu. You sit down, pay 30 rupees (about 75 cents), and they bring you the meal for the day. I was a bit suspicious when I first sat down. The place didn't look super clean. But I thought, this is where the “average Joe” Indian comes to eat, I can get off of my high horse and eat here. I started getting a little nervous when I didn't see that many “average Joes” around. There weren't that many patrons. The waiter came to help me and spoke no English. He seemed glad that I was there, and I felt glad to be there giving them business. I tried not to notice that his outfit was rather dirty and then that all of the rest of the waiters' outfits were also rather dirty. I paid the 30 Rupees and thought maybe it would be okay.

My-friend-the-waiter returned with a huge platter full of food. He used his hands to pick up my Indian-style bread and put it on a separate plate (both of them, a big no-no in India since the left hand is known to be reserved for bathroom duty in a land where toilet paper is seldom used). He put down silverware for me to use, wiping it off with his right thumb before placing it before me. And he was off. I looked down at my food. Similar fare to the cafeteria food. I looked at my silverware. Still wet, despite his efforts to dry it. And I just couldn't do it. I left as fast as I could, motioning to an incoming customer that he could have my food. I felt awful. I was about five feet out of the door when the waiter called after me in the doorway. I motioned that he could have the food and kept walking, and I felt awful. Bad bad bad, wasting food and making that waiter feel bad. Arrogant American. He was so friendly. He probably even got the silverware especially for me, since most Indians don't use it. I couldn't use it, couldn't eat it. The thought of days of diarrhea was enough to take away my appetite and make me live up to negative American stereotypes.

I went back to the “main floor” restaurant. This time, I noticed that the tablecloths were a bit dirty, something not easily detectable in the dimly lit room. But the waiters were cleanly dressed, the silverware was clean and dry, there was bottled water available, and I had eaten there last night and not gotten too sick. I ate my overpriced meal and noticed that there were no other women in the restaurant. All men. I don't remember seeing any women last night either, and wonder if I missed the “Men Only” sign somewhere. Dumb American. Many of the hotel's guests are Muslim—most of the women I've seen wear black and have their hair covered and some wear the burka, and I wonder if that has anything to do with it. I don't know enough about local Muslim beliefs and practices to know for sure. Ignorant American.

That is not my typical food experience, but perhaps more interesting than most.