So you think YOU’VE got Acronyms?

There are four things that got my attention when reading the local newspapers. Newspapers still have relevance here because our high tech center has, overall, a very low penetration of internet. Of course, in HiTec City, the proportion of smart phones to sacred cows is off the charts, but the fact remains that the bulk of the population just ain’t wired. Thus, The Deccan Chronicle published in Hyderabad has become our paper of choice in the morning. Now Deccan refers to the vast plateau stretching south from about mid-country. The original Sanskrit means “south” but more recent texts than the Sanskrit attributed to Alexander the Great suggests it means “where men wear dirty loincloths and possess fewer teeth than they have children.” That definition comes from the north, of course. Here’s one of my new friends named “Smiley” in Hindi. He’s the groundskeeper for one the landlords whose properties we looked at. We had taken him with us to locate the property as I have pointed out, addresses mean NOTHING!
A new acquaintance of mine here in Hyderabad suggests that India has been given a raw deal from the US State Department. It is the largest democracy in the world. That we knew. It is one of only a few countries that is completely surrounded by its enemies: Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka. He threw in Afghanistan because he believes the tribes are more likely to side with Pakistan than with their friends in the US or UK. He is not alone. The recently leaked secret documents certainly support that contention. He further contends that the relationship that the US has with Pakistanis is indicative of a screwed up foreign policy followed by the US -- point taken. This is supported by articles like: "Osama hired bombers in Pak: Wikileaks". I could only counter that the US is consistent in its foreign policy screw ups. Successive administrations have continued the same type of screwed up policy going back to the cold war. He then drew a parallel between illegal immigration in the US and a similar problem they have with Bangladesh in which India is getting about a million illegal immigrants a year. The US has it much better. Of the thousands coming across the southern border each year, there is only a handful that really hate us and want to do us harm. The bulk of undocumented immigrants to the US are either indifferent or looking for the nearest emergency room. Conversely, the total illegal immigration from Bangladesh hates Indians (it’s that religious thingy). Add to that the Naxals (that’s the nice term for the Maoists) in Bengal who go around killing rural people for kicks. That group gets pissed when the state police and government troops waste one of their people. And the cycle continues. I guess that’s partly symbolized in the cosmic wheel (Dharma Chakra) in the center of the Indian flag which intends to show that there is life in movement and death in stagnation which is very true if you want to talk about tigers or rampaging elephants. The saffron color of the three on the flag stands for courage, sacrifice and the spirit of renunciation; the white, for purity and truth; the green for faith and fertility. The saffron also stands for the exorbitant prices paid among the non-Indians at any shop. Deb bought two tops at one of the craft booths at Shilparamam and, while I didn’t tell her, I saw the guy close up his booth as we were leaving and post a sign saying he was going on holiday for the next two months.
Oh, yeah, the acronyms. Today’s paper was actually light on the front page. A major headline was “Sohrabuddin case: CBI summons Geetha Johri”. Geetha is in trouble; well, kind of in trouble. No one actually seems to be convicted in criminal cases, particularly what we would consider “white collar” crimes. But since no one really wears a “white collar”, most people describe the issue as corruption or bribery. Go figure. Today’s morning news had an anchor absolutely apoplectic in his questioning of the minister of the 2012 Olympic games. It seems that in the haste to get the venues built, short cuts were taken. Inspections were not made. Accusations of corruption and bribery were being flung about. The anchor continued to ramp up his accusations and with each sentence his voice raised an octave, at least! By the end of the interview, the minister was still sitting calmly saying, “Well, I don’t have day to day ability to visit every site. I certainly don’t know about concrete. I must depend on the inspectors.” The anchor was hyperventilating and frothing at the mouth, surrounded by a pack of the feral dogs who must have responded to the pitch in his voice.
Well, the Deccan is just as rabid with the words, but the flowery language they use, almost arcane syntax, takes the edge off what you get on TV. The only way I can describe the writing is if you listen to the voice-overs from the old Pathe propaganda newsreels from the UK in WWII.
Back to the acronyms, HC is high court, but they don’t tell you whether it’s the state high court or the Supreme Court. You have to read the article to determine the context, location, and players. Maybe that’s good. They don’t write like USA Today, that’s for sure. Another headline was “Lobbying begins for TTD chief post. Well the TTD is defined, but does not give you the context of why it is important or why big wigs would be lobbying for the chairmanship other than the position gives them unlimited access to corruption and bribery. But often the article really doesn’t address the headline until you’re well past the page break.
Then, of course, there is the sports section. Recently, the articles have been focused on the sex scandal with the Women’s field hockey team. Their coach was determining field positions and playing time with positions and playing time on an individual basis. But the triumph of the India cricket team over its wobbly start against Sri Lanka in the beginning of the world cup of cricket. But they got their groove and the paper is now providing almost two pages to the cricketers. Now this shouldn’t surprise you because there are three channels on cable that are dedicated to cricket.
But the best part is the classifieds. Now we’re all familiar with the SWF seeks SWF in the Village Voice or local free advertising newspapers in NYC. But these classifieds for matrimony are far more detailed in what they are looking for and what they have to offer. You find some like “29 years old. Handsome, IT degree, MBA, parents retired doctors. Looking for attractive, light skinned, slim well educated woman 18 to 24 and a half years old. Caste no barrier.” Picky, picky, picky! Also, let’s see what “handsome” really means, and if, with IT degree and an MBA means he’s working as a tea boy at a call center. He’s obviously living with mom and dad, so just how much attraction can you get with the potential of a comfortable inheritance.
Well, we’re putting this piece to bed. Let’s see what comes of our new apartment tomorrow.

It was raining. The litter rested upon the rubble.

I started my blog last night but somehow lost the file. So now I begin again. The rain is beating against the window as Monsoon continues to batter Andhra Pradesh. Good for the farmers of the area, but it will hamper the object of this post from migrating. Last night I experienced a very fitful sleep. My night was filled with dreams containing a menagerie of people from my childhood and young adulthood. Their significance came to me in my dreams in the form of a warped musical from 1942. George M. Cohen conducted the spectral orchestra and there I was, singing “I’m a Whackadoodle Dandy”. Yep. All those people who were in my dreams contributed, each in his or her whack way, to my world view. Scary, to say the least.
But enough about me. It’s all about the litter. If you recall the rubble post, I purposefully glossed over the litter part of the story because there’s a certain juxtaposition that centers on the litter itself and the attitudes toward litter. First, litter is ubiquitous. It serves its purpose of sustenance to the feral dogs, sacred cows, Rickie’s entire family, and all the children and women in the shanty towns. I believe I heard a local saying “one person’s litter is another person’s as well”. Or something like that.
But the juxtaposition comes from the legions of women who sweep the streets with bundles of sticks lashed together with rags that probably do duty as tent lashings and dish rags as well. You will see them early in the morning by the side of the road making gentle sweeping motions from the road to the dirt shoulder. I have yet to actually see any litter being moved from the street to side. I believe most of the litters’ movements from their original drop point to where ever you see it are part of a grand design as the litter takes on some cosmic animation. Now one element of the refuse you don't see is cow manure. You can assume that most of the cows wandering the streets are not field broken. However, when dried, the manure becomes an acceptable fuel in the shanty towns. Mmmmm, those dosas really have a unique aroma to them tonight. Come on, tell me, you broke into the water buffalo dung, didn't you? I feel so special.
Now large litter deposits are not unusual as we used to experience in the annual migration of litter from their winter rookeries alongside I-75 and I-94 as the freeways wound their way through Detroit. Each spring, as the blackened winter snows began to melt, you could see the immature litter poking through the disgustingly receding piles. At this initial exposure, the immature litter would not be able to migrate as it was sodden by the melting slurry of water, brake dust, grit, and grime. As the winds of March started flowing from the south, the drying process allowed the litter to begin their trek north before any of the weeds were long enough to capture the slower litter, holding them fast, eventually shredding them into fine pulp on the shards of broken glass. This mat of shredded litter insured that the next generation of roadside weeds were the strongest and ugliest possible. This was another example of the symbiotic relationship and survival of the fittest. I’m surprised a naturalist like David Attenborough never did a series on this process. You can imagine him lying on the steep grade of the overpasses where I-75 and I-94 intersect in the now misnomer of the New Center area. David, in hushed voice, narrates his observations as he watches the strongest, fastest litter beginning to wing their way up the I-75 trench toward the 8 Mile Road border where some litter would stop in Ferndale or turn east on 8 Mile until they would continue north into Warren. Only the strongest litter would continue its journey ever northward where they could be seen by late June in Flint swirling about the weed-choked parking lot of the shuttered Auto World.
I spoke about the attitude toward litter. In the US, we have been working since the early 1960s to stem the tide of litter which was kicked off with the “Keep America Beautiful” campaign featuring Iron Eyes Cody as the “crying Indian”. I find no crying Indians in Hyderabad. In fact, I was shocked that regardless of class, adding to the litter level appears to be within an acceptable dharma for all Indians.
Must stop for now. But remember the name Don. The name was one of the visitors to my dreams last night. Looking back on this particular person, eccentric really doesn’t come close to doing justice to the man.

Toto, Just Where the Heck ARE we?

Now, to be fair, I did selectively choose this shot, but it is indicative of what you see virtually every day in Hyderabad. McDonalds has stores throughout Hyderabad. I’m on the lookout for the opportunity of the photo of a cow standing outside one of their free-standing stores. Baskin Robbins is considered a premium ice cream and has quite a few parlors around town. Subways are close to the number of McDonalds. Today we saw an ad for a local Subway stenciled on a boulder by the side of the road with directions to the store. The Colonel is here big time as well. Chickens have got it rough in India. Of course, there are a lot of protein sources that taste like chicken. Avoid the local food kiosks and stands.
House hunting, part three continued today when Deb got to see our short list which got shorter by one when it was leased on Friday. This picture is from the balcony of one of the apartments we're considering. Right in the center of the picture is Fort Golconda. We went to a villa of one of Deb’s colleagues, an Austrian who’s been transferred from Basel, Switzerland to Hyderabad for a two and a half year assignment. From our brief discussion, he may be wondering what he said to upper management cuz even with a nice three-story villa in a gated community with a driver, cook, and cleaning crew, it’s still the third world. Deb can still sing “I’ll be home for Christmas” and maybe even make it by then. This guy, his wife and little daughter will be hangin’ out with the local expats at their Friday night gatherings for a LONG time. But I’ve often thought about certain places like Fort Mackinac looking across the Straits of Mackinac at da UP, eh. I wondered what a young British Lieutenant in the 1700s might have thought, looking through the fort’s gate on a mid-January morning with the winds cutting through his mantle like an icy knife. Might he have wondered, “What the hell did I do wrong to be posted to this god-forsaken place?” “Did I say something inappropriate to my commanding officer’s wife at the last regimental ball? “ Of course, for a British Lieutenant, his thoughts could just as well be described if he were posted in the Kashmir, or Katmandu, or Khartoum, and on and on. Hegemony is only good for those doing the planning, not the operational guys. For those in the field, it sucks big time. But I digress.
Today we went to the Hyderabad International Auto Show. OK, it’s not Tokyo, or Frankfurt, or Paris. It’s more like the local auto shows that dealer groups put on in the US in places like Peoria or Edison, New Jersey at the New Jersey Convention and Expo Center. The NJ auto show goes on during the same time as the New York auto show at the Javits Center so nobody but Snooki’s relatives and friends would know about it. The Hyderabad auto show is like the New Jersey show.

There was a significant representation of the Deccan Heritage Automobile Association, owners of classic cars, both those of Indian origin and the odd imports. I say “odd” because a right-hand drive 1958 Dodge Kingsway Delux can only be classified as “odd”. Chrysler started exporting in 1932. To keep some semblance of price sanity in countries that levied 100% tariffs, Chrysler rebadged a Plymouth model with the Dodge brand which included adding the Dodge hood ornament and grille and gave it the Kingsway nameplate.
There were also models from the Fiat Classic Club of Hyderabad. Once again, I don’t have to tell you, but this club can be described as BOTH eccentric AND odd without being redundant. There was a 1924 Ford Convertible with right-hand drive. Again, an oddity.
In some of my other posts, you’ve seen street scenes with many motorcycles and various riding configurations such as “small child on handlebars, dad driving, small child, and mom on the very edge of the seat.” It scares the bejeebers out of me every time I see that. Of course, it may be a dharma-karma thingy. Oh, yeah, the motorcycles at the auto show. Suzuki, Yamaha, and Honda as well as brands I’ve not heard of all displayed their crotch rockets. As you can imagine, all the young guys were standing around ogling these models. The show doesn’t have the typical female models you would see at the big shows.

All the women working at the dealerships were either dressed in very poor-fitting grey suits for which they looked terribly uncomfortable or traditional saris and then they blended into crowd. Monsoon has decided to grace Hyderabad over the last couple days, so it has been raining steadily with winds that whip the palm fronds to and fro, making it look just like on the newsreels.
Ford had their vehicles on display that are assembled in Chennai (previously Madras but without the plaid-colored interiors). You can see Ford’s strategy right outside our hotel. All the new vehicles in Novotel’s transportation fleet are Fords. Looks like a rental car volume strategy to me, something I fought against for every new car launch I worked on.

Now as for sound, Indians do love their music, and I’m NOT talkin’ Ravi Shankar. I’m talkin’ Bollywood dance music – Indian Rave stuff. Well, can I tell ya how many sound systems there were? Harman Kardon had their own tricked out cars with sound systems to make anyone cruising on Belle Isle envious. They had the woofers with neon lights synced to pulse with the music. These mini cars must have weighed double with these systems in them.
People were crowding into the display of the Rolls Royce Ghost.
I had to hold the camera above my head to get a shot of the front grille. We were later told that they flew the car in for the show from Mumbai where the only authorized dealer is located. Deb and I were escorted into the Skoda exhibit by the sales people. Indians had told us that Skoda was a German car. I kept saying Skoda is a town in the Czech Republic. Well, sure enough, VW purchased them and quickly started telling folks that it’s a German car (One write up tactfully said “Skoda automotive suffered considerable disruption in production between 1938 and 1945”).
Then we went to the Volvo display. Once again, we were allowed to come in to view the two products on display. We told the salesperson we were previous Volvo owners. He was very open that the management had changed (from Ford to China), but that the heart and soul of Volvo will be produced in Sweden. I’m sure he meant the car itself, but then again, one container ship looks like any other. Sooooo, if the Volvo you just bought for 45 crore or about $120k USD, has its heart and soul in Sweden, but its nuts and bolts in some god-forsaken place in Szechwan province, well, embrace the heart and soul.
As we were concluding our auto show adventure, we were approaching the exit when a man stopped us and asked how we liked the show. He introduced himself as Sunil Talwar and was very proud to say that he had organized this show and ones like it throughout India. He told us he was a dealer in Hyderabad. He was sending his associates all over trying to find a card to give us because he had used them all up during the day of meeting people. (Later when we went back to the hotel, Deb found his dealership profile and Talwar is a BIG TIME dealer with several stores and a franchise for trucks as well as Volvo and Hyundai. So Talwar would be a good guy to know, if you were in the market for a car).
At the very last display of the show, we were looking at an Indian motorcycle, and I do mean the American Indian motorcycle from 1940 with a sidecar. It was a fire engine red color. A man looking at the product asked us “did someone really ride this or was it just for displays like this?” This was our introduction to Vinod Reddy. For the next 20 minutes or so, we talked about a number of issues. We learned he was from a farming community about 100 kilometers north from Hyderabad, but he lives in Secunderabad and has two grandchildren and he went to St. Paul’s school in Hyderabad and his dad had a Norton motorcycle that Vinod rode when he was 15 but his dad sold it 35 years ago, just before he died and Vinod has not ridden since but he has five apartments where he lives and just convinced is daughter and son-in-law to come live in one of the apartments with their two children so Vinod could be close to his grandchildren and he would very much like us to visit he and his family while we are here and would we like to come over tomorrow (Sunday). Gosh, that was almost Faulkner-esque, wasn’t it, but I didn’t want to go on for two pages without a period.


So that was our Indian adventure for the day. Hope you have a great day as well.

Pictures Can’t Describe Some Things

How about them India Cricketers? They were given a proper thrashing in the first test for the T20 World Cup by Sri Lanka. That was big news Tuesday. But maybe they’re getting their groove back. India’s passion for cricket is just one more of those ironies, like Tata buying Jaguar and Land Rover. It’s got to be the historical momentum that came from nearly three-and-one-half centuries of exposure to the British. OK, I’m not counting the Portuguese and French, but it’s obviously the fascination with all things eccentric that gives India a certain charm.
Today was one of those experiences with IST (Indian Stretch Time). We’ve come to the point of several decisions: (1) was a bank account, (2) phones, and (3) housing. We’ve got the phones, we’re working on the housing, and then there’s the bank account. Now you’re all well aware that everything high tech is resident in Hyderabad, Bangalore, Chennai, or the Delhi area. If it’s programmed, it’s here. The graduates from IIT (India Institute of Technology) are supposed to possess telekinetic powers so advanced that they must sign an agreement with the school that they will only use the powers they've acquired for good before they graduate.
But can I tell you -- I walked into ICICI bank today. Her company opened an account for Deb. I say “Deb” only because according to the literature, it will be about two months before I will be able to use the account for any transactions other than deposits. Now I knew this going into the bank, but I was only going to make a deposit. Walking in the door, I thought I had been transported back in time when banks had tellers and “platform” people (the people that do everything that a teller didn't). Back in present time, there was a greeter, and a line of teller stations to the left against the back wall, and a line of people to the right who, it appeared, did something other than teller stuff. A banker approached me and asked if he could help. Good start given my initial visceral reaction to the surroundings. I needed one piece of information and one transaction. Shouldn’t take more than five minutes. "What is the exchange rate?" I asked. The banker left and talked to two of the people who weren’t tellers. Then he walked back into an alcove and was on his cell phone for about five minutes. Alright, adjust the time expectations. No problem. He came back with the good news: their exchange rate was less than the trading rate, but better than the hotel. Again, good start. While the banker was on the phone, I took the opportunity to fill out the administrative stuff for the deposit. He took the deposit slip with the account number on it and walked back to the line of non-tellers again. Words were exchanged. Non-teller typed on her keyboard and then pointed to the screen, shaking her head side to side in a way that I now can discern between “that would be no” from “of course we can do that”. One thing that you must do is put together both sound and motion to interpret the answers you get. The sounds will always be “of course we can do that, no problem”, but combine that with the deliberate side-to-side head motion means “no way can I possibly do this, nor do I want to” as opposed to a motion that looks like performance art of M.C. Escher’s Mobius Strip which could mean “it is possible, but then again, in probability theory, everything is possible”. The banker came back with the deposit slip. “The account is not active and has no money”. OK, I knew the second part of that. The first part kindda startled me. The account was opened two days ago. Do ya think that the people who are relocating several thousand employees, many of them graduates of IIT, from Mumbai to Gachibowli, where their new glistening world headquarters will be located, would be able to input one simple checking account in less than three days? But nooooooooooooooooooooo. “Maybe tomorrow the account will be active”. I thanked the banker, shook his hand, and walked out of the bank laughing. It brought to mind the urban legend of Franz Kafka laughing hardily after he read any of his works. It was all quite existential. I went with it.
Well, on the phone front, I have made some progress. A new SIM card actually works. Feeling embolden by my ability to take what could be a frustrating situation and reaching a sort of transcendental moksa as in the Jain religion, I took my new phone and dialed Deb’s cell. Remember the dueling banjos? The call actually went through. I explained to Deb the bank account status and hung up. I immediately called our driver’s cell which I already had programmed into the phone so he has my cell (very important). I took a call from our realtor and told him to arrange some additional viewings in another apartment community.

The rest of the day has been answering e-mails and taking some time to excercise.
I’ll have more pictures tomorrow. A great good morning to you all.

So, what did you expect?

Just to set the record state, this is not one of the students from the University of Hyderabad. This week has started out with good points and not so good points. Let’s start with the good points. I gave a marketing lecture at the University of Hyderabad on Monday to the incoming MBA class. I don’t have the pictures that were taken, but will share them when they arrive on IST. The campus for the school was deemed too far away for students to come to class only seven years ago. Now, of course, there is construction all around the campus and throngs of students in the various studies darting around in the same traffic patterns on campus as on the streets of the city. So, what do you expect?
I received flowers and a small framed Indian print. I had lunch with the faculty and had a wonderful time. It was a Cinderella story. I got back to the hotel, changed my clothes just in time for my next scheduled appointment with the relocation people. A knock on my door was a message delivered from the desk from the relocation people saying that the appointment was cancelled due to the political strike that was taking place. It wasn’t safe to go out and there was a government threat of a curfew. So, what do you expect?
I did a lot of correspondence yesterday, virtually all of it by e-mail. I have a neat new Samsung smart phone. Deb and I have matching Samsung smart phones. It’s like the “Dueling Banjos” of phones from Deliverance. You know who the backwoods picker is – me! I got a pre-paid card from Vodaphone. Now THERE’s a brand you don’t hear about much in the USA, but every other entrepreneur in Hyderabad is a licensed Vodaphone agent, just like they are licensed to sell the state lottery tickets. Deb got a month-to-month plan. Her phone works. Mine does not. So, what did you expect?
Today started with a little uncertainty. In fact, India is something of a mathematical proof of the uncertainty principle. You can think you know where something is at any one time, but you can’t figure out when the thing is going to be where you want it to be. Conversely, you think you know when something is supposed to be where you want it, but you don’t really know where it is. Heisenberg must have lived in India. Deb’s passport was required for Indian customs to screen the shipment of our stuff. Allied-Lemuir took the passport on Thursday last week as part of the necessary documentation. Well, to keep the story short, customs didn’t give the final OK on the shipment until Saturday, Sunday they weren’t there, and Monday, the agent ostensibly was caught in a traffic jam caused by the strike. Soooo, the passport was to be returned today. It finally got here. We can only guess what state our shipment is in. So, what did you expect?
Oh, yeah, House Hunters Hyderabad. Of anything I am absolutely sure of, you will NOT see an episode of this on HGTV. We started out in Gachibowli. Now this area has been identified as THE place to be in the next 3 years. There is building everywhere. And where there is building there is. . . . RUBBLE, huge piles of rubble. Some entrepreneurs will find something to do with the rubble, but not today. Supposedly we were no more than 10 minutes from Deb’s office, but I swear I couldn’t see over the rubble to know where I was. I’m not going to bore you with the different properties we saw today, but the best one was the Indian version of your grandmother’s 1950’s decorations. But it was relatively clean, had A/C in every room, and water every day. We’re movin’ forward. So, what did you expect?

Rickie, We hardly Knew Ye!

Our second weekend started pretty much as we have become accustom. The power goes out for about 30 seconds once an hour. It always goes out just long enough to reset everything. We worked out at the gym in the hotel. There were a few other people on the cardio machines. But what is now somewhat humorous is that you can tell the “newbies” when the power goes out and they ask “Is this a power outage?” Well, duh, welcome to Hyderabad. Deb and I thought our Rochester home was on a fragile part of the power grid.
Deb had her first experience with a Hyderabadi manicure and pedicure. She was referred to the businesswoman Shashi who has her shop in her gated home in Banjara Hills. We got to learn a lot about her family from her 5 year old granddaughter who was visiting from Canada. Siya was an Indian version of Chatty Cathy. She reminded me of Leigh when she was that age. I ventured across an Indian six lane road to shop at the Indian version of Whole Foods. As I came out of the store, the traffic had picked up. I was watching for the traffic to lighten up when our driver, Ashraf strolled across the road through the traffic and said “come now.” So I must have seemed like a real wimp. But we walked back through the traffic.
We went to see Knight & Day last night. This was a Hyderabad moment. Waiting in line for the “will call” tickets, we noticed people handing their cell phones through the voice hole to the attendant. Well, they were showing him their confirmation e-mails. This one movie-goer was having some problem and kept handing the phone to the attendant and he kept handing it back. This went on for about 10 minutes as the line kept getting longer. We finally got through the ticket process and went through two security processes before we get to the theatre entrance. We got some popcorn and a drink that also came with two samosas. OK, that’s not bad. We found our screen which was still being “cleaned” so we were standing outside the doors chatting with a fellow from Microsoft who was flying back to the States last night and had time to kill before he went to the airport. As we were chatting, one of the security guys came out of the door with a little cage in his hand. And WHO do you think was in the cage? Well, it wasn’t Mickey Mouse, but none other than Rickie Rat! Well, Deb was searching for some place to hide the food and wondered if she had anything to put over her open-toed shoes. Anyway, we still went in and watch the movie, but Deb was a bit skittish for the rest of the time. She did take the time to stand by the poster outside the theatre to show we actually were there.
Today we went to mass at a small church associated with a school in Banjara Hills. We walked through a beggar-lined gate to a courtyard. I handed out some cookie packs to some of the beggars. I had confirmed yesterday that the mass was in English. The mass was celebrated on IST (India Stretch Time) so it started about twenty minutes past 9. Deb and I assumed that the priest intended to start the mass at 9:20, but tells the parishioners 9 so there were fewer stragglers. The choir was made up of students of the school and had reasonable voices. The music was an electric guitar. There was a neon cross in back of the alter. Fortunately it was NOT a neon crucifix.The homily was just about as unintelligible as the Tamil mass the week before, but I got the “hospitality and generosity” which appeared to be the main message. Check. I handed out more cookies to the gauntlet of beggars as we left the courtyard. We got back to the hotel and attended a local shopping event at the convention center. It was the typical aisles of vendor booths. We meandered around. Deb was drawn like a moth to the flame for the bangles and jewelry booths that were peppered among the many clothing booths from Mumbai, Bangalore, and Kolkata as well as locals from Hyderabad. Once again, we were the only Caucasians in the place. This is becoming a trend. From another source, I got a round figure of about 1000 expats working in Hyderabad. That’s about one tenth the numbers in Bangalore. So we don’t even qualify to be considered a club.
We then took a driver from the hotel over to the “local crafts” village called the Shilparamam. Our driver also acted as our tour guide. However, we believe that he got some kind of kick back from some of the vendors who appeared to know him. Hmmmmmm?!? The locals seem to come to the park area of the village just to walk about without the traffic or rubble.
Ooops, scratch that about the rubble. Well, we got out of there about 1500 Rs lighter but we had a good walk about, even with a reasonable grade. The park area has some art work which appeared to me to be rubble on a pedestal.
Then there were some statuary depicting various indigenous populations in the area with cows, elephants, and goats. I can get that outside the gates every day. Well, not the elephant.
Interestingly, there is a mandate for the village to offer training courses for women. Quite a list!
Hope to have some news on the residence search tomorrow.

Rubble, Rubble

One of my favorite David Bowie songs is Rebel Rebel. Its origins come from when he was in the persona of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. Well, while driving through the streets of Jubilee Hills and Banjara Hills, Manhapur, or Gachiboli. Ziggy keeps popping into my head with the words “Rubble Rubble”. I tried to shake it but it just keeps coming as often as the piles of stones, mud, trash, and whatever lies all around us. Not that this is unusual or unique to Hyderabad, but it is a dominant feature during our drives so far. Actually these smaller, more numerous piles are probably more productive for the trash pickers than the enormous trash heaps outside of Mexico City or Sao Paulo, or JoBurg or (the name of your favorite Third World City of more than 20 million goes here) reside. Now THOSE are trash heaps. Some people are born, live, and die on the same dump. Fortunate for me, I was only born and grew up on one. As many know, the dump outside Jerusalem was a Biblical metaphor for hell (Gehenna Dnoora) but then, Revelations was written before Detroit had Kwame Kilpatrick. Bowie, with that far away stare, on a rubble heap -- in that awful stretch leotard -- and the red hair that was a precursor to the mullet – it’s a bad visual.
During the first six months living in our townhouse in Raleigh, we had construction all around us as well, so we had the piles of debris with the perfunctory waste from the Mexican workers’ lunches purchased from the lunch wagon that played “La Cucaracha” over its loudspeaker. At night Deb and I would go out in our alley and shovel the gravel, nails, fish bones, and some undistinguishable, but fragrant stuff into a pile, then call the construction manager to come clean it up. We were is worst nightmare—activist owners.
We admit that New Jersey is not without ITS share of rubble piles. Some may recall The Sopranos episodes where Tony’s waste management firm was remediating asbestos in buildings in Newark and having some “issues” with the New York family not allowing Tony’s crew to dump out on Long Island, the closing scene is a dump truck pulling up to one of the lagoons off the NJT and dumping his load of toxins. Well if you ever take the Dover line of the NJT into New York Penn, you’ll see the same disgusting environments and without much effort identify waterways that have been fouled by multiple thousands of dump trucks of any number of hazardous wastes for decades. If you see Secaucus, you’re where you oughtn’t to be.
Hey Now (Talking Heads)
I want a bicycle, well a tricycle, for my service cart. All you need is the Bruce Willis equivalent of Die Hard character riding one of these carts, loaded with just about any material you can think of. We were behind this one carrying boxes of stuff on the way to the office. On the way to the police station we were behind one that was loaded with bamboo branches. These were probably once passenger rickshaws but everyone I’ve seen thus far is in some commercial purpose. Many of the loads are so heavy that the owners have to get off and push the loads up even slight inclines. I’m not sure I wouldn’t prefer the ox cart we saw on Saturday.
Over the top
This evening, a Jain wedding was taking place in the convention center. A ballroom wouldn’t have been large enough. The hotel manager, Nagarajarao, took Deb and I through it. There were about 2000 guests. The bride was in a sari that probably had about one bar of gold woven into the material. Her attendants were in beautiful saris but not even close to that of the bride. There were alters, a palace, and tents set up in the hall and the ceiling was completely draped with billowing cloud-like sheets. There must have been well over a million flowers everywhere. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. OK, another stock photo, but since we were the only Caucasian wedding crashers in the room, I wasn't going to whip out my camera. Like I said before, I'm losing my edge. It was intimated that in USD, the cost was half a million at least. I thought the Jains avoided worldly possessions? Judging by this, I was way off. Must check my Joseph Campbell books when our shipment is delivered, I may have misread something.

Falling asleep at the keyboard. Night night.

Back again. Just learned yesterday we may be extending our Novotel stay by a couple weeks. Oh boy! I actually thought about this in the context of “Waiting for Godot”. Well, waiting at the Novotel is better than in a ditch. We’re becoming “family”. The wait staff knows us by name. Even the security people who pat us down and wand us every time we enter smile and greet us.

Slumcow Millionaire

I must be losing what little of a photographer’s edge I ever possessed. Not that I ever considered myself to be remotely close to Annie Leibovitz’ mastery of spontaneity when she was on tour with the Stones. When I had two mechanical cameras, I always had one at the ready and one shooting. Note to self: I have to get a digital slide scanner to get rid of the thousands of slides we have in boxes down in the garage. I’ve also got thousands of B&W negatives that I should digitize as well. Oops, losing focus. Now, with the digital camera, point and shoot just takes the connection away. Then again, you also start thinking about how much time you have the power on, so when am I going to have to change batteries? Now photographers using digital cameras carry a power pack the size of a motorcycle battery, but they can shoot Gigs of photos and all with a power-hog flash.
I’m starting today’s post with the one picture of cows by the roadside I took on my way back from my first trip to drop Deb off at her office and I still have a number of activities that are yet to come. To start the day off, I surrendered my passport this morning, which makes me uneasy. I’ve sent a requisite e-mail this afternoon requesting letters of occupancy from the Novotel that I actually obtained from the duty manager yesterday evening. Don't think about it. I’ve been back and forth from Deb’s office two times already and beginning a third in a little over an hour from now.
My last trip back was for a signature on a huge pile of paper with three passport photos clipped to the top sheet. My third trip back will be to pick up Deb. Our driver has been instructed where to go. I thought I heard “old city” which makes me a little nervous, but I might get a chance to give you a shot of the Charminar that I actually took from the window of our car.

I'm BAAAAAaaaaaak!
OK, if you add Humphrey Bogart, Sidney Greenstreet, Claude Rains, Cafe Rick's and put them in this environment, and you have a picture of where we were today. Think of HiTec City as "the burbs". The "Old City" is just that. The city center is about 400 years old with the Charminar at the hub was deemed inadequate for effective commerce nearly 200 years ago, so when you grow the population to about 2 million at the epicenter you've got one continuous flow of humanity.

But the real gem of the adventure, a honest-to-goodness hold-over of the British Raj, was the police compound. And THIS was right out of Casablanca. We met a third-party "facilitator" who helps Novartis foreign nationals get their documents cleared outside the gate of the compound. She quickly led us past a group of men outside the gate to a small cottage where two men were seated at a small table and a group of people were crowded around them. The facilitator motioned to them, one of the men looked up and waved us through a door into the central courtyard. We walked through the uneven ground to another group of buildings with a line of people outside the door. Once again, our facilitator walked right past the line into this old office space that could be right out of a Rudyard Kipling story. There, under a ancient, slowly rotating ceiling fan was another wooden table with one man seated on an old wooden chair. He was leaning back, looking at a young man and woman. A second man was standing next to the table. He was talking to the couple and pointing in the direction from where we just entered. Since they didn't have a letter in their hand, I think that their residency request was temporarily unfulfilled. Another young man was also standing at the desk. From his looks, I picked him to be a northeastern African, possibly Somali. As the young couple left, this man began to speak. The man standing gestured for this young man to hold on. Our facilitator motioned us up to the table. She told us these were our letters. The standing man gestured for Deb to sign. There were three places that required signatures. Then I went through the same process. We were done. The seated man had mumbled maybe five words and gestured a couple times. The standing man turned the pages and pointed to where our signatures needed to go. It took just about three minutes and we were walking out, back through the crowd that just saw us walk in. Now, I'm not a cynical guy, but judging from what we had to go through for our visas in New York, the two men at the desk in the office with the ceiling fan were so accommodating that we don't think it was a coincidence that we were in and out while these other people looked like they had been there for a while. Just imagine Claude Rains taking his casino winnings from the croupier as he was closing Rick's for illegal gambling -- and thanking him. Enough said.
Here are some shots from the markets surrounding the Charminar and a few of the structure itself.

I knew it would happen. It eventually had to. Both Deb and I rinsed our toothbrushes under the faucet in the bathroom. You get a little careless and you could be dealing with the traveler’s dilemma. Fortunately, we’re just at the one-week mark and really are doing well overall. Just need a little more sleep at night and the world will be good.
We hope to get our residency letter tomorrow which will give us the ability to look for a place to stay. The hotel is comfortable, but confining. We’re only about three kilometers from Deb’s office, but as you’ve seen, it takes a while to get there. I’m hoping to rent a bicycle to get around. On Wednesday I go to see a friend of a friend of a friend who has an outsourcing business in Segunderabad for which he would like to increase his US sales. I’ll get to see his operation and talk about what we can do.
Deb and I have been taking walks around the hotel and convention center grounds. It reminds me of the old “The Prisoner” series where you have surroundings that look like you have your freedom, but there are boundaries that you can’t and shouldn’t cross. Yesterday we noted that the complex has its own waste water treatment facility. From the looks of things, the waste water is recycled to use for landscaping and fire protection. Now that’s not unusual as anyone who visits Florida knows that the watering systems are non-chunky waste water.
Well, I have some phone calls to make today and some stuff to get done for Deb. This is a short post.

Beggars' Banquet, Tamil Mass, and Babu

I really wasn’t expecting this much excitement. I didn’t include it in the last post, because of the topics of immediate importance (read: Bum Showers), but during our outing yesterday, we came across one good reason NOT to have traffic lights in Hyderabad – beggars. Here is the beggar carrying an infant around who had been incessantly tapping on our window until she determined we weren’t going to give in and immediately turned around to the car next to us and began tapping on their window. While I didn’t take a photo, we were accosted by a one-handed beggar outside of the Food World, right after we had been accosted by a marketing rep for a skin lightener product who was handing out free samples to Food World patrons who spent a certain amount of money. Like Deb NEEDS a skin lightener! I mean, we could see her when they turned the lights off during a Carlsbad Cavern tour we went on in New Mexico years ago.
We have been advised by locals and expats to buy cookies to take with us when we are out and about as the beggars won’t refuse anything you offer and are therefore obliged to go once you have given them something. These would be great rules for telemarketers as well.
Deb suggested and rightly so that all Christian churches look alike to other religions and could we distinguish between one Hindu temple and another along our drive route or could we tell a Sunni from a Shia or Sufi mosque? This morning we got our 4:45am wake-up call to get ready for our ride to church. We thought we had identified an English mass at 6am at a church (St. Mary’s) in Secunderabad, but when our driver took us to a Methodist church, saying “they have English at 6am”, we opted for the Tamil mass at St Mary’s even though information in the hotel’s brochure said English at 6. OK, the photo of St. Mary's is a stock photo from their website. Come on! It was 6am and pouring rain when we got there. The big Pieta in the courtyard was pretty impressive. The mass really wasn’t pure Tamil. It’s like Tagalog in the Philippines is spoken as “Taglish” which is a mix of English and Tagalog, this was “Tamlish”. The priest’s homily wove in and out of Tamil so you had to listen very closely to catch when he would start making a point in English with his very heavy accent and when he was speaking (and gesticulating) in Tamil. He was making a point which ironically I heard on Friday evening at an expat event. A social worker on Friday observed that any caste higher than a Dalit looks down on the castes below them with some degree of disdain. The priest suggested that one cannot say they are devout in their faith if they do not look out for those less fortunate then themselves, so live the faith through Christian love sic (agape). Interestingly the “sign of peace” (which is a handshake most everywhere), is akin to the Hindu and Buddhist greeting of a slight bow with hands pressed prayerfully together. Kind of like the integration of the Christmas tree and Easter egg.
But the REAL excitement, heralded by a letter from the Novotel management under our door early this morning was that there would be celebrities at the Convention Center and to expect throngs of fans between 10 am and 4 pm today. When we were arriving back from mass, there were people already queuing up outside the security gate. Who, you might ask, would that celebrity be? Why would they be in Hyderabad on a Sunday morning? Well, it was none other than A. R. Rahmon! Wait, YOU don’t recognize him? He’s a dual Oscar winner in 2008! Best musical score for a movie and best theme song. OK, not many people saw Slumdog Millionaire, but this is THE guy. And his fans were here, numbering in the thousands, for the unveiling of a new CD compilation from his latest film starring a local acting legend, S. Ramesh Babu. Babu has been acting for 28 years. He was doing Bollywood films before it was known as Bollywood. He is an action film guy, the Indian version of Sylvester Stallone in the Rambo movies.
Rahmon was in the hotel at a VIP suite. We were told his location by the hotel manager and concierge. We’re well-enough known by the hotel staff that we get some of the inside scoop on what’s happening. They also know we have been taken twice: once for a 450 Rs bottle of Evian water at our first dinner and 2000 Rs for the ride to church this morning. I actually thought the ride was well worth the money as our driver gave us a choice of churches, he drove us around the Hussain Sagar and through part of downtown Hyderabad (but not the old city), giving us virtually unintelligible running commentary like most guides on the NYC Gray Line tours.
But it appears that the crowds were sated by their celebrities' appearances as they go marching back to Hyderabad and all points around.

And so we will disperse as well for today.

Under the Banyan Tree

For any of those who were wondering why they haven’t actually seen me in any pictures, Deb took a couple of me on Saturday as we went walking around the grounds of the hotel and convention center. Here I am under a Banyan tree, you know, the one that the Buddha sat under to find his spiritual center. From the legend, he sat on one side at a time but when the world tipped he moved to another spot until he found his balance. Well, in the case of this particular Banyan tree, if I moved toward the camera, I would be likely to be hit by any number and types of vehicles. If I moved directly back, I would fall into the retaining pond that, from its effluence, told me that I would be in deep doo doo – literally. Off to the left of the photo, an Islamic school marching band was going through drills with all their parents all dressed in their white pajamas looked on. And so, where I was standing was the right place to be.
All righty then, I knew I forgot to tell you something special about our drive to the hotel from the airport the first night. Our driver, who was courteous and competent (great qualities for the job he was doing) asked us if we would like some music as we drove through the rain and gloom. Deb quickly spoke up, “that would be great, we’ll listen to whatever you like” (hoping that would keep him happy and focused on the obstacles ahead, which were many). Well, I know I was shocked when he turned on a station whose first song was a Muzak version of Brittany Spears’ “Oops, I did it again”. Now, this immediately created a flood of memories of the music the Gypsy violinist decided to play when I proposed to Deb in Budapest. He started playing “Somewhere over the rainbow”. I presumed it was the only American music he was familiar with, though I was anticipating a more traditional Hungarian or Romani tune. So you can appreciate my shock, once again, as we travel literally half way around the world to be introduced to the musical tastes of an indigent Hyderabadi -- and it’s a bad rendition of the Pop Tart’s banal second Top 40 hit.
It’s Saturday! Deb and I actually slept through the night, so, aside from it being “hotel, sweet home”, things must be synchronizing with our new time zone. We had a plan for today: exercise, lunch, and then go on a date. We had arranged for our driver, Ashraf, to pick us up and take us to the Cineplex in Banjara Hills, about 10 kilometers away. We had attempted to get an account from Cinemax to buy the tickets on-line, but the registration time was on IST (India Stretch Time) so that we didn’t have the password back before we had to leave. Our thinking: who in India would (1) be going to the cinema in the afternoon, and (2) what self-respecting Indian would prefer to watch an American action film with a fading lead actor when they could choose from about half a dozen Indian action films. Now, Bollywood has one of the largest studios in the world in Hyderabad. The set lots total several square miles and we’re planning a tour eventually. But I digress. “Knight and Day” was sold out. Fortunately our driver was still inching ahead to the parking deck as we started walking back trying to decide what we would do until he showed up. We caught him and after a quick stop at the Food World market, we drove back to the hotel, our date night thwarted.
What I REALLY wanted to talk about today is bum showers. No, this has nothing to do with some of the homeless guys in Penn Station attending to themselves in the NJT restrooms, though that is a story in itself. I’m referring to the personal hygiene regimen for which the Indians believe (1) they invented, and (2) is far superior to the Europeans (which includes the Western Hemisphere) using paper after toileting. Least you think I am suffering from heat stroke from our walk this morning, I offer the article that started our discussion. The editor is in a running argument with contributors, one from Japan, a country that also claims the invention, and a Pakistani who claims the invention was theirs after partition in 1947. The editor also says that the shower is a technological transfer of an ancient Indian practice for which he says was noted by such luminaries as Rudyard Kipling refer to in his writings for the benefit of a newbie coming to the Raj. I admit that I am firmly entrenched in the “European” camp, I have studied this alternative method, which is like a free-style bidet and I still am unclear as to the practical application as a Westerner. This may be one of the few items for which, even if adopted, I will probably not mention again.
I feel much more centered now. We’ll be getting up early tomorrow for our next adventure -- going to mass in the morning. We have a driver scheduled for 5:30am to go approximately 15 kilometers and be there for the 6am English mass. We’ll let you know how THAT goes.