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.

Hyderabad 1/5