Eating

Eating in India is quite the ordeal. Since I haven't done much else this week I thought I would talk about that which I have done besides read textbooks.

You walk into a roadside stand after being beckoned to by the owner. For lunch I usually like a rice meal. So you say “meals” as he brings you a large banana leaf and glass of water. You pour a little water onto your banana leaf and wipe it down with your right hand—cleaning off any dirt that may still be on the leaf.

The man brings you a large portion of rice—that which a large working man could hold in two hands piled high. Then comes sambar, a sauce that is poured over half the rice. Next he brings a series of things and plops them onto your banana leaf. From left to right there are neat little piles of the following: salt, a pickle (which is not the pickle you're thinking of it's a lime, mango, or coconut that has been pickled with spicy red sauce. I one time made the mistake of trying to eat some of it, let's just say I've never tried it again, we'll talk a little later about what to do with the pickle.), and one or two vegetable dishes. Then a tortilla shaped “chip” called a papadam is placed on your plate usually on your clean rice not covered in sambar.

You proceed to eat. No utensils needed, just the right hand. However, there is an art to South Indian eating. None of this juvenal making a mess of face and plate like a two year old.

There is mixing the perfect amount of sambar and rice. The rice is to be sauced, but not saucy. So you take a portion of the samber soaked rice and your white rice and mix with your fingers massaging rice. Then you make a small ball like gob in your fingers and pick it up and bring it to your lips, so that the tips of your fingers are almost touching your lips. Using your thumb you slide the gob into your mouth and chew quickly so that swallowing can begin and the burning sensation on your tounge can subside.

You repeat this, sometimes throwing in an occasional gob of the vegetables and a taste of the papadam (but I like to save a little for the very end if I have enough self control) If you decide to finish the large portion of rice on your plate more samber is needed. This takes me at least one month in the field before I am able to eat an entire rice meal and ask for more rice.

And no, the meal isn't done with just sambar and rice. With a few large handfuls of clean sambar-free rice on your banana leaf you say confidently “rasam” if you like a spicy end to your meal, then he brings a spicy soup and pours it over the remaining rice. Or if you're like me and need a little cool down from the sambar you say “moore.” He then brings out a white milk substance that tastes a little like plain yogurt. This is where I use the salt and pickle (if you're daring enough). You mix your “moore” with your rice (but don't make gobs like before) then dip your finger in the salt and pickle and then pick up a gob of rice and put in mouth. The effect is a lightly flavored plan yogurt rice which I have come to love.

I however, break from traditional Tamil eating etiquette here. I like mixing the salt with the curd rice and then which is according to Tamil etiquette to some I dab my finger with the pickle juice, wipe the juice on my tongue, and then throw in a gob of curd rice in my mouth. It's a unique, but delicious end to the meal.

You then fold your banana leaf toward you to indicate that you are finished. You take your banana leaf to the trash pile and wash your right hand at the “wash.” In a nicer restaurant this involves a working sink. In the village this involves a large bucket of water with a scoop. You wash your hand as your pour the water with your left hand onto your right hand over a designated wet dirt patch.

You then pay the owner 15 or 17 rupees (it's about 41 rupees to the dollar) and leave to the bakery across the road to drink a cold soda out of a glass bottle before walking 20 minutes back to the village.

I remember adjusting to the food being very difficult the first time, but when I got back I was excited to be eating meals, parota, omlets, poori, and all the spicy sauces that go with it. Yum.

It Feels a Little Like Home

For those who have been interested, sorry I haven't written. I guess I haven't known quite what to write about. I feel such a mix of emotions now that I am here. Here in Chavadi Pudur, a village outside of Coimbatore. I am happy to be here, but at the same time taking bucket showers, washing my own sweaty clothes, dealing with the intervals without power, and sleeping on a thin mat next to five other girls on our cement floor reminds me that most people don't stay in this field study program for more than 4 months.

Yet, eating lunch off a banana leaf with my hand, spending the evening on the veranda chatting with Matthew and Jeeva, and watching the village take a little longer to rise this rainy morning makes this place feel a lot like home.

While I spent the first few days getting everyone settled in—taking people on walks around the village, spending the day showing David Shanti Ashram and the city I have had time to reflect. It's the beginning of 6 months of thinking—thinking about some weird mix of Indian life and culture in comparison to my own, as well as a deep reflection on my self, my past, my future. I come to new ideas, revisit old ideas, settle deeper into some opinions, and begin to question other opinions I always took for granted. The simplicity of life and yet the complication of living in an Eastern world leads to some great think time I don't get in the US.

Coimbatore Fiasco

The group's first travel day. I tried to warn our group that travel days are exhausting, but nothing can quite prepare anyone for those days. We packed up our overly stuffed bags, hauled them to the city train station, waited 10 minutes for a train, walked from Park station to the Central train station amidst an Indian crowd (more people than a fire chief would feel comfortable in one place), once at the station we take a few minutes to find which platform we are to be one, 15 minutes to go until our train leaves with or without us, we hike over to platform 3, find our train car, and finally drop our stuff by our assigned seats. We sit three to a seat made for the siginificantly skinnier Indian people comparing the sweat stains on our backs—my entire back is soaked in sweat. We spend the next 7 hours chatting as much as possible with those around us.

10:30 pm we arrive to Coimbatore—we then haul our bags across the street and check each hotel to hear “full” from each desk clerk. We quickly negotiate a bad price for a taxi to go to the bus station and look there. Again we hear “full” repeated again and again from each hotel. Now we gather under the awning of a hotel calling the expensive hotels in Coimbatore on the pay phone—surely the Residency couldn't be full tonight as well. No, in their good English I hear over the phone that they too are full.

This is when the situtation turns fiasco. Rain. Lots of rain begins to pour. Well, “Welcome to India friends” I think as I look around me to the other students with their large bags stacked in one corner away from the rain. I call Matthew—not what I had hoped I would have do. His voice is warm and welcoming even though it's 11:30 and I've woken him up. The pay phone cuts out.

I don't know quite how to explain this—but a man on a motorcycle who speaks decent English comes to help. He uses his cell phone to call Matthew back and explain the predicament in Tamil. He hands the phone to me and I hear Matthew laugh over the phone as he hears that it is pouring rain. Matthew says to go ahead and get taxis to come to the village. The girls talk with the hotel clerk inside and coordinates two taxis to come take us to the village.

The man on the bike isn't satisfied that we can make it on our own. Like a typical Indian male, he insists on helping even when it's not needed. He asks to meet the “gents” in the group. I go and get them from inside the hotel lobby. He then lectures the two guys in our group about their responsibility to take care of the girls in the group.

An hour later, the taxis arrive. The overly helpful motorcycle man starts haggling a price for the 9 of us. At this point we don't care. We'll pay the extra $10 as long as it will take us to a dry place to sleep. We load up the one taxi with our things with Ty, Jill, and their sleeping toddler, while the rest of us load into the other. The overly helpful man asks just one thing of Ty, a little alcohol. He is surprised to hear that these 9 Americans don't drink—silly Mormons. Poor man his time would have been better used elsewhere.

We arrive to the village by 1:15. David finds that his bed is on the Veranda with grandpa. The girls realize that they are actually going to be spending 2 months on a cememnt floor, while Ty and Jill think about “baby proofing” their room which is full of motorcycle parts, etc. It takes us another hour and a half to settle down and finally get to sleeping. Ty calls it our baptism by fire. That didn't go quite as I had planned, but what does anyway?

What am I doing here again?

I left Arizona with a wierd feeling of emptiness. I had no tearful goodbyes, but they were hard without being ultra dramatic. I will miss my close friends and family. I realized that as I was waiting in the terminal for my plane to take off. I had too much to do these last few weeks to even think about it, but in that terminal and on that plane I had plenty of time to reflect on how much I love my family and friends and will miss them.

My first night in Delhi--I paid too much for a taxi, a room with AC, and a taxi back to the airport, my meal in Chennai, and my internet right now. It feels like every Indian is out to get all my money! What a frustrating feeling. As I was lying on the not-so-comfortable bed trying to sleep through jet lag I thought, "What in the world am I doing here?" I didn't really have much of an answer--running away from making major life decisions, doing something hard so I can become a better and more patient person, and doing research to further an academic career I'm not sure I want to persue. They all seemed pretty pathetic excuses for spending 6-8 months in this country! I hope I can figure out why I am here. Why this country and this time. In the meantime I hope I can find what drew me to India in the first place.