Day 3 - 4

What is going on??  The cars all move in this swelling motion of constant honking, piercing breaking, while emitting an incapacitating level of exhaust.  The people are quirky and friendly, but stare unscrupulously.  The food is plentiful and not as spicy as expected; in fact I have yet to experience anything of substantial hotness (spicy hot, most foods are temp hot).
My senses are in hyper speed.  The constant shift of everything, in the broadest sense of the word, is probably the hardest concept to grasp.  Its not one element that is entirely strange or unintelligible, and I understand that smells change from street to street, although more poignantly in some areas, that cars and sounds are always in flux, and that diversity is everywhere, but the reality of living in it all the time appears to be a near-distant stumbling block in facilitating my internal comfort. 

If that doesn’t make to much sense, how about imagining all five senses being on alert at once.  The squinting eyes of an active construction site, the tingling fingers of too much Chinese food, the fuzzy muted eardrums after a rock concert, the singed nostrils of a public toilet at that rock concert, and the sweaty mouth of digestion all blended together in one bottled container.  Now try to hold that energy for a minute.  Okay, that is the feeling ALL THE TIME.  I already love the people and food.  I will grow to appreciate the environment, but at this point I’m still enjoying that first moment outside when I escape the airtight a/c apartment, take a deep breath, sear my nostrils, and peel my t-shirt from my chest, and remember, “oh, right India.”

We, as in Jeanine, Sarah, and I, all began the day with a great walking tour of the area.  We stopped into some small kiosk-like shops that sell a dribble of American products alongside the fresh and packaged Indian snacks (just in case we crave some m&m’s, cereal, or peanut butter).  We got our pictures take for the visa registration (more on that later), and began to acclimate to the reality of calling these streets home for the next year.  Then it was breakfast time.  Wednesday’s first meal consisted of variations on potato.  We had a variety of potato balls, potato pancakes, potato chunks with veggies and spices, all topped with heaping spoonfuls of chutney (in this case a cilantro and garbanzo bean watery paste).  It was surprisingly good, like most everything else I’ve had, and did the job.  After stumbling out of the pleasant circulated air of the restaurant, we continued our humid tour of the large seaside park, the mayoral complex, and a nice stop for tea/smoothies.  I had a black current smoothie with vanilla ice cream.  See, it’s really not as bad as anyone made it out to be.  Plus, as a westerner I am still amazed at the exchange rate.  It beats the Euro, Pound, and even the Sheckle into currency chutney.

We made our way to the JCC just in time for lunch!  And just our luck, Wednesdays are non-veg days.  Most things in India are vegetarian, expressed through the term veg.  If it contains egg, poultry, fish, or meat it is usually separated from the veg section of a menu by the disclaimer of non-veg.  So, as I was saying, Wednesday’s lunches at the JCC are non-veg.  I had a nice daal (lentil mash) with rice, a vegetable dish, hard boiled egg, and Indian style wheat tortilla, the name of the bread is eluding me at the moment, but give me some slack, it’s been a long few days.  We then met with the directors of the JDC (the NGO I’m working for).  The country director, a charming and warm fellow, explained many of the programs (both Jewish and non-sectarian) the JDC does throughout the country, what Jeanine and I might be participating in, what others are doing in and around the community and all that is Indian Jewry.  We spent time making copies of all the paperwork needed for the registration, of which tens of items are required ranging from proof of residency, tax information, undertaker while in India, and the aforementioned photos.

The JDC and JCC had been on separate floors, but they are in the process of combining office space.  Therefore, the work environment at the moment is filled with saws, hammering, and construction of all kinds. This includes additional dust, wood particles, and gas fumes circulating throughout our work space.  Needless to say, the long hours of concentration, short hours of sleep, utter confusion of India’s ways, itchy eyes, and polluted air all combined to pound in perfect time with hammer into an alarming headache.  I took extra time collating my papers, tuning the office guitar, and trying not to talk or look at anyone until the Bobby McFerrin tune Don’t Worry Be Happy popped into my head and evoked a wry smile.  I began to whistle the tune to the amusement of those near enough to hear.  The power of music is truly amazing.  And with that, I believe it’s time to eat, again.

Jeanine and I met Basil for dinner at the hotel he was staying at.  It happened to be the Parse New Year.  So, they had a buffet!  The sous chef apparently spotted my delight with the wonderful sights and smells of his food.  He demanded my feedback to his work, and gave me his card and personal e-mail in case I ever help while in the city.  Oh, and the food was superb!  However, the joy during this meal was actually not just the food, but getting the master’s perspective on India and the Jewish world we have been thrown into.  Jeanine and I learned just how frustrating things can be, but until we actualize this experience, the two of us seem to be getting along just fine.

The next day: Downtown

Getting into the heart of the city was quite a rush.  For the first time, it seemed like I was going into the India of my imagination. The places I read about in the novel Shantaram were coming to life.  The Causeway, main shopping walking district, was a great area I look forward to going back to, but it was mostly a tourist attraction and not opened until 10-ish.  We stopped for a quick breakfast, and made our way to the F.R.R.O. government office for the visa registration.  The stories from Sarah regarding the need to register stem from the detainment of former JSC (Jewish Service Corps) volunteers.  We thank you British for your lovely obsession for bureaucracy.   Jeanine and I finally found the right room on the right floor in the right building in this government complex and proceeded to stand in the wrong line (which happened to be on the right) in this steamy waiting area packed with people to the point of delirious hilarity.  Unfortunately, when we finally made it to the front of the left and correct line, over an hour later, we were reprimanded for not having the proper company letterhead on one of the documents, and therefore have to come back when we have the proper letterhead.  Most other items in our packet had the JDC letterhead, and this one was signed by the same person as the unapproved page, and was supported by this person’s passport, but we still could not pass into the next room.  All this was just to be admitted into the next waiting room for registration, not to actually become registered.  We were beyond aggravated, but hey, welcome to India, a land of confusion and illogical bureaucracy, yet it all seems to be okay after chai.

We walked around the downtown area a bit more; crossing the most dangerous streets I’ve ever seen.  I am surprised how brave the pedestrians are, in that they seem to not pay any attention to the traffic at all, exemplified by the distracted man that walked into me with an open hand directly in my crotch.  He paused, without moving, smiled with the patented Indian head bobble, and continued down the main road of almost certain death.  I normally would have reacted to such abuse, but at that moment I was caught like a deer in the garbage truck’s headlights.  Like frogger, I eluded oncoming traffic to catch up with my companions, and was instantly distracted by the array of vendors, colors, and smells of the Crawford Market.

To head back into Mahim, the area of the city where we will live and work, we decided to brave the train system.  The 6 rupee ticket (~10-15 cents) for the second class car is a fantastic deal.  However, due to the hoards of crowds, male and female cars are separate.  I found myself a nice seat in my car, and began the 30 minute journey back to work.  The spacious car quickly filled at the first stop, and before long I was shoved into the side of the car between a wall and a sleeping boy.  The Muslim child was asleep against his father, until he was propped upright and slowly fell the other way softly landing on my shoulder.  The cramped quarters were at first nothing I haven’t experienced during rush hour on the NYC subway, but apparently, this was a light load heading the opposite direction from the rush into the city.  The sleeping child provided me with some protection from another sweaty traveler rubbing shoulders, as well as granted me with many smiles and head wiggles from the surrounding voyagers and the pleased father that his shoulder was free to hold his bags of tubing.  I have no idea why, but thought these were memorable details.  Speaking of which, it was from the train that I witnessed true talent.  A small lady, and I mean smaller than Aunt Denise, was balencing a bundle in a woven basket taller than her on her head, while holding a full and heavy looking bag in each hand.  This is commonplace in India, and not the talent.  Her sari was perfectly tucked and wrapped, and she strolled quite elegantly.  Then she turned towards the train, coughed up some throat phlegm, and hawked out this beautiful loogey into the middle of the tracks.  Ah, the things you see when you open your eyes to the streets.  I have also seen a tiny girl no taller than 2.5 feet smack a large snarling dog with a bamboo stick and stare right back.  I was quite impressed.  It seems child safety takes on a different persona here.  For instance, it means the child sits up front on the motorcycle, right in Dad’s pelvic crevice, while the additional four passengers, again on a motorbike, sit or sidesaddle behind (all without helmets or regard for their appendages).

Again, we arrived back at the JCC in time for lunch; a wonderful spread of daal, rice, and a lentil veg dish, with the Chapati bread (tortilla thing).  The rest of the afternoon was spent creating a game for the Gan Katan, lit. Little garden, which is the Sunday morning class taught by the JSC at the JCC (starting to get the acronyms?) for 5-11 year-olds.  We decided to make an acrostic quiz using our names as the acrostic answer.  They don’t know our names yet, and we thought making a game where the clues are all educationally based on the Torah can fulfill multiple roles.  Plus we get to give them all candy for playing, and I like that.

Around 4:30, the director of the JCC, as opposed to the country or JDC, sat Jeanine and me down for a long discussion and introduction into the roles as facilitators and educators.  She went through the many programs in place, such as the Jewish Youth Pioneers, or JYP (15-28 year-olds), the JYP Juniors for the 12-14 year-olds, the Tanakh class for adults, the various annual events, and other JCC initiatives.  She continued by opening the forum into more of a dialogue where we elaborated on our resumes and backgrounds, and shared our ideas.  All in all, we learned a lot, and realized just how direct the service is that we’ll be accountable for.  We are, in part, responsible for the Jewish connection of this community for the year.  This is more than enough for a Rabbi to tackle, much less a wandering juggling jester such as myself.  The jet lag is beginning to fade, but the long days and heat are still taking their toll.  So, around 7 we were heading out of the office for an evening in Bandra.

After a confusing cab ride, a quick errand, and another flash of Indian male discomfort, this time by a rickshaw driver blowing me a kiss, we found ourselves in a nice little café, which serves the only bagels in the city.  Usually Jeanine and I would avoid such western hotspots, but we were meeting a few fellow NGO Mumbai workers.  We had a nice meal, great conversation, and a few laughs before it was time for the return trip home.  The rickshaws aren’t allowed south of Bandra, which is north of Mahim and the rest of Mumbai, so we found a happy cabbie and headed for bed.  Thus far it’s been mostly fun and little work, and I’m excited to celebrate my first Shabbat in India.  I’m excited to see what the Jewish community is really all about here, and how 2000 years in a Diaspora can change the traditions I’m used to.  Good night for now, but here’s a little Israeli-Indian song to enjoy…http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9tdhhuPEjQ4