If you are in America and want to talk to me (and don't have GChat, Google Video Chat, Facebook or Skype) get on your international phone or grab an international calling card and call this number:
+011 91 965 2009 362
If you call me, it's free. If I call you, it's rupees out the ass.
NB: The time difference is 10 1/2 hours ahead of Eastern Standard. This means that if it is 7PM your time (New York, Connecticut, Vermont), it's 5:30 AM the next day here. This means that the best times to call me are between 9PM-10:30AM your time. Thank God most of you never sleep.
-Nick
Hyderabad 1/22
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Classes, Monkeys, Monkeys, and OBAMA!!
नमस्कार हैदराबाद से!
Sorry it's been a long time, things have begun to get stressful here. First of all, I've learned that universities not in the States are not run like, well, universities in the States. Classes "started" on "5 Jan" (as they say...India--NOT NYC--is the land of abbrevs), but I'm still working to figure things out. Right now, it looks like these are my classes (if you want to call them that):
Speaking of monkeys, a monkey fell through the roof at Domino's Pizza. I repeat: a monkey fell through the roof at Domino's Pizza...and everyone acted as if it was normal. There was drywall everywhere.
Anyway...OBAMA!! At Mocha, this hookah bar that we LOVE (they have hookas prepared with milk, ice, champagne, lime juice...it's really just great), some plastered Indian guy comes up to us and says "Sorry about eavesdropping, but are you Americans? Yeah? I could tell from your accents. Anyway, my girlfriend Martha is the chair of the Democrats Abroad Ex-Pat Society, and we're throwing an Inaugural Ball at The Grill Room (a really nice lounge in Banjara Hills a.k.a. the Beverly Hills of Hyderabad). Here she is!" So we all paid our Rs. 800 (about $16) for a "Black-tie" night including a CNN live stream, dinner, open bar and "dancing." So what do we do? Buy "super expensive" (Rs. 3000, or about $60), handmade, incredibly ornate साडियाँ (saris, for the girls) and शेरवाणी (sherwanis, for the boys), so we can party in style. But when we get there, we get the "Oh, the college students are here!" look from about 30 45+ embassy workers/adventurous expat divorcées in jeans, some even rocking the (gasp!) MOM JEANS. I know...everywhere you go, right? So we watch the inauguration (which was great) and then surprised the crowd with an intense dance party when a Techno remix of Pink Floyd's "The Wall" came on. I mean, open bar, Obama-shots, Obama-tinis, Obamagranate Margaritas...they were asking for it. I have no regrets--but I'm sure the bus company that took us there and back does.
On a related note, never try to smoke an Indian cigarette, no matter who tells you to. Just trust me. Not. Fun.
Now, I could go into stories about how my friend Jamie woke up with a rat on his face, how we all receive text-message love notes from our new Indian friends, how our friend Tamar was thought to have been kidnapped by Saudi terrorists and ransomed for $1,000,000, how a rickshaw driver got so mad at me that he may or may not have tried to kill me, how I was almost sold into white slavery, &c. &c., but I like to keep it positive, since, after all, we're all perfectly safe (90% of the time) and it's a total blast here. Plus, in about an hour, I'm leaving for the weekend to go to Hampi, a UNESCO World Heritage site on a cool river with tons and tons (like hundreds) of ancient temples. If I survive the 12 hour non-air-conditioned, overnight coachclass train ride there and the 13 hour (AIR CONDITIONED!) overnight bus home, I'll have more great stories to blog about. "How Darjeeling Limited," you say? I mean, I'd be thrilled to find out my mother got surgery to look like Anjelica Huston, moved to India, became a nun and chopped off all her haid, but that's just not in the cards now, is it?
नमस्ते,
Nick
Hyderabad 1/22
Sorry it's been a long time, things have begun to get stressful here. First of all, I've learned that universities not in the States are not run like, well, universities in the States. Classes "started" on "5 Jan" (as they say...India--NOT NYC--is the land of abbrevs), but I'm still working to figure things out. Right now, it looks like these are my classes (if you want to call them that):
- Intermediate Hindi: Taught by this lovely lady named Bhavani--Sophie and Jordan: pictures of the baby are coming after we go to her house for lunch next week, she wanted me to let you guys know. I got a 9.25 out of 15 on the first test...and it was one of the higher grades in the class...rock it.
- Guided Readings in Linguistics and Comp Lit: Poststructuralism and Postcolonialism. Say the words "Thesis Research" and you get what you want.
- Current Issues in Contemporary World Theatre: Hasn't started yet. Don't know why.
- Sexuality and Gender in Contemporary Indian Poetry: taught by Hoshang Merchant, the craziest man I've ever met (who self-references with female pronouns in Hindi, is a cool 275lbs with a footlong beard and even longer white ponytail (think Dumbledore meets Nathan Lane), and may or may not have had a career in drag somewhere in California or Ohio during the late '70s). He enjoys the words "c**t," "f**k," "c**k," and "fairy." He held us 20 minutes after class to tell us that his herpes (which he got from wild, nonconsensual sex in Purdue, Indiana) only breaks out under stress or around his sister. He called me a witch. A WITCH! I felt so Abigail Williams, and I didn't even tell him about the yellow bird I saw in the rafters.
Speaking of monkeys, a monkey fell through the roof at Domino's Pizza. I repeat: a monkey fell through the roof at Domino's Pizza...and everyone acted as if it was normal. There was drywall everywhere.
Anyway...OBAMA!! At Mocha, this hookah bar that we LOVE (they have hookas prepared with milk, ice, champagne, lime juice...it's really just great), some plastered Indian guy comes up to us and says "Sorry about eavesdropping, but are you Americans? Yeah? I could tell from your accents. Anyway, my girlfriend Martha is the chair of the Democrats Abroad Ex-Pat Society, and we're throwing an Inaugural Ball at The Grill Room (a really nice lounge in Banjara Hills a.k.a. the Beverly Hills of Hyderabad). Here she is!" So we all paid our Rs. 800 (about $16) for a "Black-tie" night including a CNN live stream, dinner, open bar and "dancing." So what do we do? Buy "super expensive" (Rs. 3000, or about $60), handmade, incredibly ornate साडियाँ (saris, for the girls) and शेरवाणी (sherwanis, for the boys), so we can party in style. But when we get there, we get the "Oh, the college students are here!" look from about 30 45+ embassy workers/adventurous expat divorcées in jeans, some even rocking the (gasp!) MOM JEANS. I know...everywhere you go, right? So we watch the inauguration (which was great) and then surprised the crowd with an intense dance party when a Techno remix of Pink Floyd's "The Wall" came on. I mean, open bar, Obama-shots, Obama-tinis, Obamagranate Margaritas...they were asking for it. I have no regrets--but I'm sure the bus company that took us there and back does.
On a related note, never try to smoke an Indian cigarette, no matter who tells you to. Just trust me. Not. Fun.
Now, I could go into stories about how my friend Jamie woke up with a rat on his face, how we all receive text-message love notes from our new Indian friends, how our friend Tamar was thought to have been kidnapped by Saudi terrorists and ransomed for $1,000,000, how a rickshaw driver got so mad at me that he may or may not have tried to kill me, how I was almost sold into white slavery, &c. &c., but I like to keep it positive, since, after all, we're all perfectly safe (90% of the time) and it's a total blast here. Plus, in about an hour, I'm leaving for the weekend to go to Hampi, a UNESCO World Heritage site on a cool river with tons and tons (like hundreds) of ancient temples. If I survive the 12 hour non-air-conditioned, overnight coachclass train ride there and the 13 hour (AIR CONDITIONED!) overnight bus home, I'll have more great stories to blog about. "How Darjeeling Limited," you say? I mean, I'd be thrilled to find out my mother got surgery to look like Anjelica Huston, moved to India, became a nun and chopped off all her haid, but that's just not in the cards now, is it?
नमस्ते,
Nick
Hyderabad 1/22
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Photos (almost)!
नमस्ते guys.
Sorry I have been M.I.A. for so long, we've been super busy with the start of classes, going on little trips around the area, &c. I've been trying to figure out how I can best share the photos from the trip so far with all of you, since some of you don't have Facebook, where I've been posting them all. I think the best way is by direct-linking you all to the Facebook album links, and then you can see them there for now. I am trying to find a better photo hosting service, like Picasa or Flickr or Shutterfly, and will (WiFi permitting) get one in the next few days, so you can all comment on them and slideshow them and save them and stuff, but for now, here's what I've got.
Enjoy! Another blog coming soon (so much has happened, I have to edit myself down, which, hey, it's really hard).
"Champagne Wishes and Malaria Dreams"
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2201380&l=2eba7&id=115374
"Hyderabadasses"
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2201458&l=06544&id=115374
"Children (who've never seen cameras) + Cameras (who've never seen children) = This Album"
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2203250&l=cf17c&id=115374
-Nick
Hyderabad 1/18
Sorry I have been M.I.A. for so long, we've been super busy with the start of classes, going on little trips around the area, &c. I've been trying to figure out how I can best share the photos from the trip so far with all of you, since some of you don't have Facebook, where I've been posting them all. I think the best way is by direct-linking you all to the Facebook album links, and then you can see them there for now. I am trying to find a better photo hosting service, like Picasa or Flickr or Shutterfly, and will (WiFi permitting) get one in the next few days, so you can all comment on them and slideshow them and save them and stuff, but for now, here's what I've got.
Enjoy! Another blog coming soon (so much has happened, I have to edit myself down, which, hey, it's really hard).
"Champagne Wishes and Malaria Dreams"
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2201380&l=2eba7&id=115374
"Hyderabadasses"
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2201458&l=06544&id=115374
"Children (who've never seen cameras) + Cameras (who've never seen children) = This Album"
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2203250&l=cf17c&id=115374
-Nick
Hyderabad 1/18
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Let's cut to the chase...
I'm glad you all enjoyed the first post and were left wanting cooch...कूछ...it means more in Hindi. Pervs.
So the deal with the lack of communication is as follows: we have moved from our old dilapidated yet functional hostel to a brand new hostel somewhere like 2km out in the desert called, appropriately, the Tagore International Students House. However, I ENDEARINGLY refer to it as the Indian Gulag. Here, we don't have things that Americans would really appreciate, like hot water, mirrors, toilets that flush the paper, and, alas, the Internet. It should be up in a week, according to a man who sort of bobbles his head back and forth and says "EES CAAAAHMING" (*emily, jay, that was for you), so who knows. The convolution surrounding information transmission in India deserves a closer analysis, not only because of slow speed of everything, but also because of the everpresent, always irritating, and tauntingly uninterpretible "Indian Head Wiggle." Essentially, in a hilarious Geertzy way, my ethnography tells me that it is a sort of active listening thing a la the Derek Jeter Bobble Heads found in cabs. So, pretend you were in the front seat of a cab with some Indian guy next to you driving. You are telling him a story. Both he and Derek do the same Head Bobble...are they both listening? I think so. Do they agree? Disagree? Both? Neither? Beats the hell out of me.
I have been blogging in Word for the last few days, and I'll post them as soon as I can find some wireless. Right now, I'm in the computer lounge of a library that is roughly 3km walking through a desert from my place...pictures coming. Oh, and there are Lori (multiple Lorises) here too. A nice touch of home. In these blogs to come, I tell you all the sweet things I've been doing and the rad people I've met. But to make a long story short, when you're slapped together with a bunch of people and only talk about the CRAZY SHIT your bodies are doing (e.g. polluted black snot, eye pus, puking, the vivid and infamous Malaria Dreams, and, of course, every color, texture, shape, speed, and size of shit imaginable), well--you bond. James Bond.
But one thing has happened to me that I can't leave this desk without writing about: शिल्परमम बज़ार; a.k.a. Shilparamam Bazaar. This is a nightly craft fair where you can buy everything from बंगल (bangals: well, bangal bracelets) to जूते (jute: cool slipper-ish woven leather shoes) to कूरता पजामा (kurta pajama: sweet Indian shin-length linen shirts and pants with a 5' wide waist and, more importantly, a 4' wide crotch). Also, you can sell everything from old belongings to yourself into white slavery. Always fun. So anyway, two friends and I get out of an autorickshaw (if you don't know what this is, google it and see the three-wheeled yellow deathtrap for yourself) to cross the street (read: flirt with death). A nice sari-clad Indian lady who speaks perfect English and is carrying a Louis Vuitton bag (commodity fetishism is DEFINITELY an international capitalism thing more than exclusively American) grabs my friends and helps them cross safely.
But the bitch leaves me behind. All of a sudden, about 7 Indian beggar children between the ages of 4 and 10 (who look like Indian crosses between dirty Muppets and a dirtier Oliver Twist) bum rush me since, hey, I'm white and apparently look like I can show a good time. There were three children with functional importance to the story, but keep in mind that this whole time, there are children slapping my legs, hanging off my arms, screaming, crying, peeing near me, and wreaking general havoc. So, one kid takes advantage of that 4' pajama crotch of mine and decides to distract me by sticking his hand through the back of my legs and essentially (pardonnez mon Francais) attempted to give me the reacharound of a lifetime. While that kid is busy down there, another one is even lower, and literally steals the shoe off my right foot. So I shake the kid off my balls in order to body check the shoe kid, and once I get my trusty Merrel back, a third kid starts beating me over the head with a 2' tall bejewled purple stuffed llama. Then I almost get hit by a woman flying across the street with a baby who just herself got hit by a rickshaw which propelled her toward me uncontrollably. At this point, we make unfortunate eye contact, and instead of helping me, she grabs on too and starts pointing at her kid, then pointing at me and screaming "PAPA!" at the top of her lungs (If I got a dollar everytime that happened...). This is when I scream "नहीं! जाओ!"--"No! Go away! (read: Getthefuckoffofmeandleavemealone!)--and ran faster than I have in at least five years.
But hey...the market was fun.
More coming soon, I swear. And don't hesitate to call either the American phone or my new Indian one (#9652009362, but I think you need both India and Hyderabad codes before that). Just remember the 10.5 hours ahead thing. Because if you wake me up, we know this guy Kalyan. And he's connected.
So the deal with the lack of communication is as follows: we have moved from our old dilapidated yet functional hostel to a brand new hostel somewhere like 2km out in the desert called, appropriately, the Tagore International Students House. However, I ENDEARINGLY refer to it as the Indian Gulag. Here, we don't have things that Americans would really appreciate, like hot water, mirrors, toilets that flush the paper, and, alas, the Internet. It should be up in a week, according to a man who sort of bobbles his head back and forth and says "EES CAAAAHMING" (*emily, jay, that was for you), so who knows. The convolution surrounding information transmission in India deserves a closer analysis, not only because of slow speed of everything, but also because of the everpresent, always irritating, and tauntingly uninterpretible "Indian Head Wiggle." Essentially, in a hilarious Geertzy way, my ethnography tells me that it is a sort of active listening thing a la the Derek Jeter Bobble Heads found in cabs. So, pretend you were in the front seat of a cab with some Indian guy next to you driving. You are telling him a story. Both he and Derek do the same Head Bobble...are they both listening? I think so. Do they agree? Disagree? Both? Neither? Beats the hell out of me.
I have been blogging in Word for the last few days, and I'll post them as soon as I can find some wireless. Right now, I'm in the computer lounge of a library that is roughly 3km walking through a desert from my place...pictures coming. Oh, and there are Lori (multiple Lorises) here too. A nice touch of home. In these blogs to come, I tell you all the sweet things I've been doing and the rad people I've met. But to make a long story short, when you're slapped together with a bunch of people and only talk about the CRAZY SHIT your bodies are doing (e.g. polluted black snot, eye pus, puking, the vivid and infamous Malaria Dreams, and, of course, every color, texture, shape, speed, and size of shit imaginable), well--you bond. James Bond.
But one thing has happened to me that I can't leave this desk without writing about: शिल्परमम बज़ार; a.k.a. Shilparamam Bazaar. This is a nightly craft fair where you can buy everything from बंगल (bangals: well, bangal bracelets) to जूते (jute: cool slipper-ish woven leather shoes) to कूरता पजामा (kurta pajama: sweet Indian shin-length linen shirts and pants with a 5' wide waist and, more importantly, a 4' wide crotch). Also, you can sell everything from old belongings to yourself into white slavery. Always fun. So anyway, two friends and I get out of an autorickshaw (if you don't know what this is, google it and see the three-wheeled yellow deathtrap for yourself) to cross the street (read: flirt with death). A nice sari-clad Indian lady who speaks perfect English and is carrying a Louis Vuitton bag (commodity fetishism is DEFINITELY an international capitalism thing more than exclusively American) grabs my friends and helps them cross safely.
But the bitch leaves me behind. All of a sudden, about 7 Indian beggar children between the ages of 4 and 10 (who look like Indian crosses between dirty Muppets and a dirtier Oliver Twist) bum rush me since, hey, I'm white and apparently look like I can show a good time. There were three children with functional importance to the story, but keep in mind that this whole time, there are children slapping my legs, hanging off my arms, screaming, crying, peeing near me, and wreaking general havoc. So, one kid takes advantage of that 4' pajama crotch of mine and decides to distract me by sticking his hand through the back of my legs and essentially (pardonnez mon Francais) attempted to give me the reacharound of a lifetime. While that kid is busy down there, another one is even lower, and literally steals the shoe off my right foot. So I shake the kid off my balls in order to body check the shoe kid, and once I get my trusty Merrel back, a third kid starts beating me over the head with a 2' tall bejewled purple stuffed llama. Then I almost get hit by a woman flying across the street with a baby who just herself got hit by a rickshaw which propelled her toward me uncontrollably. At this point, we make unfortunate eye contact, and instead of helping me, she grabs on too and starts pointing at her kid, then pointing at me and screaming "PAPA!" at the top of her lungs (If I got a dollar everytime that happened...). This is when I scream "नहीं! जाओ!"--"No! Go away! (read: Getthefuckoffofmeandleavemealone!)--and ran faster than I have in at least five years.
But hey...the market was fun.
More coming soon, I swear. And don't hesitate to call either the American phone or my new Indian one (#9652009362, but I think you need both India and Hyderabad codes before that). Just remember the 10.5 hours ahead thing. Because if you wake me up, we know this guy Kalyan. And he's connected.
Hyderabad 1/5
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