This weekend I almost rode a Ferris wheel, checked out the local drive-in movie theatre, and experienced my first Mexican food in India. Let me qualify each of these experiences before going into further detail: the Ferris wheel consisted of 4 flat wooden sections which were rotated by a man pushing them, the maximum height being about 10 ft., the drive-in movie theatre was actually relatively legit, the only drawback being that all the films screened are in Tamil, and the Mexican food tasted like cheap, frozen pizza, was prepared by men in tall chef hats, and upset my stomach.
Let me now situate these experiences within their greater contexts.
The Mexican food scenario was the first to occur. After returning from my three-hour Spanish class Jenn and I decided to try a Mexican food joint we had heard about, in fact the only one we had heard about. I’d heard from a German that the food was decent, but I’m starting to understand that Germans have no bearing on how good ethnic food should taste, at least not once it’s been Americanized—I think it has something to do with having a bland native cuisine with similarly poor preparation of foreign foods. So we hopped in a rickshaw and headed downtown, making sure to keep our expectations as low as possible and, realistically, not even think about how GOOD Mexican food actually tastes. Upon our arrival we were greeted by an African-American midget in a sombrero, a nice reminder of the daily ironies encountered in India. It’s important to understand that if one thinks African-Americans are rare in New Mexico, in Chennai there really might be only 7, and one of them is a midget door man at “Don Pepes”; gives you an idea of how many Mexicans are around. Skipping ahead, and skipping the virgin margaritas, we ordered. Jenn tried to order nachos and tacos, but the waiter told her they were the same thing and she should choose otherwise. No Shit—all Mexican food is the same thing! And at Don Pepes all Mexican food tastes like those Mexican pizzas at Taco Bell without the addictive fast-food flavoring. We also both had minor stomachaches throughout the night, not that unusual of Mexican cuisine, but usually a worthy payoff. Regardless, it was worth the black-midget doorman encounter and the Indian kitchen staff all wearing tall French chef hats, even if none of them had ever tasted Mexican food only seen pictures of it—the presentation was right on.
After a very lazy Sunday morning spent recovering from the food and drinks the night before and reading the newspaper Jenn somehow managed to subscribe us to after riding her bike down some small alleys and talking to various odd men, I don’t really understand it, we headed south on our bikes. When imagining bikes don’t envision road bikes or mountain bikes, but slightly condensed cruiser bikes with slightly harder-than-desirable seats and heavier-than-desirable frames. The whole bike scene here in Chennai isn’t very developed and things like gears and adjustable seats aren’t yet in vogue. On the plus side roadside bike repair and maintenance shops appear about every 200 yards and I can get my tires inflated just around the corner for about 2 cents.
Every time we’ve endeavored to ride our bikes beyond the neighborhood bounds we’ve been rewarded with pleasant, or at least unexpected, surprises. This time around we found a grocery store that carried yogurt with real fruit in it, Dr. Pepper (previously thought to be a lost cause, still searching for tonic water), and other goodies like veggie crackers. Grocery shopping is something I’m still very, very distant from mastering but I’ve improved from days past in which I would check out with two readymade Indian food boil-and-pour packets, a loaf of wheat bread that looked white, and a look like I’d just been put through a room full of funny mirrors. . Basically you have to diversify and simplify and buy things that require significant preparation, or live with people who will cook and just chip in monetarily; I fall somewhere in-between with my main contribution being eggs-and-potatoes breakfast for dinner and lets-get-creative veggie sandwiches.
We did however have a destination in mind today on our ride south—the Beach Drive-In Movie Theatre. After working on a drive-in documentary for six months last year research had led me to believe that drive-ins in other countries were very rare, but Chennai possesses one with real pole speakers and some variety of a concession stand…amazing really. It even has a “seating area” where people who don’t have cars (a very high percentage) can comfortably view the film under the stars. Unfortunately all the films are in Tamil and most likely have plots revolving around predictability and prolonged song-and-dance performances. Either way it made me feel like a little bit of what American used to be…was now in India, and maybe even something worth having made the trip. On the ride home we happened upon a Chinese food restaurant by the side of the road in which each table had it’s own personal gazebo and exclusive waiter and the food was actually really good, so I must amend my prior assertion that no foreign cuisines are prepared to my liking here—Chinese is now attainable. And so is pizza, with the Dominoes and Pizza Hut actually significantly tastier than their counterparts in the US, something to do with the fresh factor here in India.
And lastly, Sunday evening at Elliott’s beach, our neighborhood beach located about twenty-minutes walk from our residence. As far as I can tell during the day the beach is left for the birds and dogs and other creatures that can better tolerate the heat, but at night the people emerge and gather, especially on Sunday night. Elliott’s beach is about ½ km long and maybe 100 m wide. The sand is clean enough to feel comfortable relaxing on, and no one brings a beach towel. There are chip and corn and fish hawkers and a main walk down the beach with tiny Ferris wheel rides and shoot the balloon stands. I took a seat near the ocean to observe young couples and small family groups and just as I was starting to forget where I was various groups of Tamil men broke into fragments of song that lasted for about 20 minutes, which turned out to be quite a pleasant surprise. It’s not often you get a gathering of people who all feel comfortable enough to lay in the sand and sing across the beach with various degrees of decibel and tone.
I almost convinced Jenn to ride the mini-Ferris wheel with me but in our newfound cheapness we decided 10 rupees was too much, which translates to not wanting to spend 25 cents. We get paid in rupees so we might as well spend according to them, right? Plus, there’s always next Sunday. On the walk home I came upon a place that serves Boba tea, you hear Zach? They have Boba here, although my drink came with fruit chunks rather than tapioca, but receiving something resembling what I hoped for was satisfying enough. Strangely, instead of calling it “Boba tea” here they call it “Singapore bubble tea.”
Next weekend we have Monday off due to a government-sponsored statewide strike, which apparently can turn violent if not abided by. And apparently it’s not really a good idea for us to leave the house. The strike has something to do with disturbing an underwater Hindu holy site between India and Sri Lanka and reeks strongly of the convoluted and abstruse religious conflicts one finds in Israel or South Carolina.
24.9.07
You might be a South Indian if:
-You weave your head from side to side to indicate everything and anything having to do with things that will turnout all right, which thus far is everything and anything.
-You consider an outdoor wall to also be a public restroom, especially those walls within close proximity of a bus depot.
-You eat rice by mixing it with sauces and scooping it into your mouth with your right hand at least once a day.
-You get angry with rickshaw drivers not for driving too wildly, but for driving too slowly.
-You know an inordinate amount about yoga even if you don’t practice it, and you snicker at the notion of a “yoga mat.”
-You have a favorite tailor of whom you frequent regularly with fabrics you purchased at your favorite fabric shop.
-You have a mustache, or at least 90% of your male friends do.
-You own a motorcycle, or at least 90% of your male friends do.
-You’re used to ocean water being as warm as bathtub water.
-You receive at least 3 spam text messages a day.
-Anything less than 30 degrees C is comfortably cool.
-Road names mean nothing to you, and you give directions by referring to landmarks and then backseat driving the rest of the way.
-You only know of toilet paper and tissues because of Hollywood.
-Every piece of footwear you own is open-toed.
-You consider an outdoor wall to also be a public restroom, especially those walls within close proximity of a bus depot.
-You eat rice by mixing it with sauces and scooping it into your mouth with your right hand at least once a day.
-You get angry with rickshaw drivers not for driving too wildly, but for driving too slowly.
-You know an inordinate amount about yoga even if you don’t practice it, and you snicker at the notion of a “yoga mat.”
-You have a favorite tailor of whom you frequent regularly with fabrics you purchased at your favorite fabric shop.
-You have a mustache, or at least 90% of your male friends do.
-You own a motorcycle, or at least 90% of your male friends do.
-You’re used to ocean water being as warm as bathtub water.
-You receive at least 3 spam text messages a day.
-Anything less than 30 degrees C is comfortably cool.
-Road names mean nothing to you, and you give directions by referring to landmarks and then backseat driving the rest of the way.
-You only know of toilet paper and tissues because of Hollywood.
-Every piece of footwear you own is open-toed.
18.9.07
First legit tourism
This man sells tender coconuts, which are exactly the same as all coconuts but with an extra word in the name. He chops them open and you drink the juice with a straw and then give it back and he chops it more open and you eat the flesh. Then you throw it on the ground and the goats eat the rest and pretty much everything else that you could think of throwing on the ground, not to mention things like posters glued to walls.
Small children, cricket, cow creatures, less-than-clean sand; this is the coastal Southern India I know. Most of the boats in the picture were donated after all boats (not in the picture) were destroyed by the 2004 tsunami. Very strange to actually stand on the beach where it happened and imagine the water receding and reapproaching as a colossal water-wall.
This was not something tourists were supposed to take pictures of but I liked it more than most of the hyped-up stuff. There were frogs and snakes and fish in this little pond and it was nice to sit and drink a coke and think about how all these creatures could evolve into man eating beasts within the next several generations if people keep providing them with enough toxic trash.
Stone carvings, exactly the picture that one can be expected to take. Mostly it reminds me of how sweaty I was throughout the walk. So sweaty.
Inspiration while riding bicycle
I Left my Heart in the first Rickshaw I saw this Morning
(Sung to the tune of a Frank Sinatra song or a hammer hitting something hard just outside your window, whichever prevails)
Oh India, maybe we can be friends
You’ve lead me to a place with fresh bread
So I can make sandwiches for lunches, yes
Sandwiches for lunches
Veggi Sandwiches of course
You’ve lead me many places down many dusty roads
You’ve shown me I can buy pants and get them tailored
Two shops down, tailored just two shops down
You’ve shown me there’s a Teacher’s Colony
Where I can take a Spanish class, just down the road
Yes, just down the road past the “Coffee Day”
Where young Indians go for casual dating you will find
An American in India taking a Spanish class with nine other Indians, yes nine other Indians and a Costa Rican teacher, what a world what a world
But India, I have so many questions for you
Like why doesn’t Coffee Day open until 10:30
Which is far too late India, don’t you know this
I need to be at work by 10:00 and must have coffee by then
Why can alcohol only be served in hotels with 20+ rooms?
I ask this of you specifically Tamil Nadu, since every state varies in their liquor laws
Yes every state varies because you are so diverse India
And so ancient
Overlapping and contradicting
Do you have plans for the future India?
Will your villages and cities grow together?
Will you help the world survive? Will you lead by example when you become a leader?
Will you become a leader?
Yes we could be friends India
You leave cows by the side of the road for me
And hints about how to find DJs and dance music, which is not really my thing
But it’s interesting, oh always interesting, yes you like it that way don’t you?
But then you rip me off and you know India,
You are not really so cheap anymore
You are growing so rapidly India, how long can the auto rickshaws keep up?
Where will all the drivers go? Where will they nap?
By the side of which road? They can’t ride the subway to work can they? No, they can’t!
But yes we could be friends India
Worthwhile friends take time; I’ve had a few
Your water is so warm, your nights so dark
It’s not easy to get to know you
(Sung to the tune of a Frank Sinatra song or a hammer hitting something hard just outside your window, whichever prevails)
Oh India, maybe we can be friends
You’ve lead me to a place with fresh bread
So I can make sandwiches for lunches, yes
Sandwiches for lunches
Veggi Sandwiches of course
You’ve lead me many places down many dusty roads
You’ve shown me I can buy pants and get them tailored
Two shops down, tailored just two shops down
You’ve shown me there’s a Teacher’s Colony
Where I can take a Spanish class, just down the road
Yes, just down the road past the “Coffee Day”
Where young Indians go for casual dating you will find
An American in India taking a Spanish class with nine other Indians, yes nine other Indians and a Costa Rican teacher, what a world what a world
But India, I have so many questions for you
Like why doesn’t Coffee Day open until 10:30
Which is far too late India, don’t you know this
I need to be at work by 10:00 and must have coffee by then
Why can alcohol only be served in hotels with 20+ rooms?
I ask this of you specifically Tamil Nadu, since every state varies in their liquor laws
Yes every state varies because you are so diverse India
And so ancient
Overlapping and contradicting
Do you have plans for the future India?
Will your villages and cities grow together?
Will you help the world survive? Will you lead by example when you become a leader?
Will you become a leader?
Yes we could be friends India
You leave cows by the side of the road for me
And hints about how to find DJs and dance music, which is not really my thing
But it’s interesting, oh always interesting, yes you like it that way don’t you?
But then you rip me off and you know India,
You are not really so cheap anymore
You are growing so rapidly India, how long can the auto rickshaws keep up?
Where will all the drivers go? Where will they nap?
By the side of which road? They can’t ride the subway to work can they? No, they can’t!
But yes we could be friends India
Worthwhile friends take time; I’ve had a few
Your water is so warm, your nights so dark
It’s not easy to get to know you
13.9.07
LESSON IN LOCAL CULTURE I
In Tamil Nadu, the southern Indian state of which Chennai is the capital the majority of the population speaks the official language of the state, Tamil, which sounds a bit like possessed mumbling. Apparently past Tara interns have attempted to learn Tamil, but for me there is no hope. I might try to learn Spanish instead. There are kids however who grow up in this state of 65 million+ speaking only English—weird proper Indianized British-English don’t forget. Now I speak English, and let me tell you it’s not so easy to interact with your typical Tamilian Naduian using only my native tongue. So these kids, primarily and maybe exclusively of the upper-middle class, basically speak a different language than the rest of the country. They go to English schools and have enough support that they never need to learn the language of the streets. Of course six hours away in Bangalore they speak Telugi and another few hours in the other direction they speak Keralian or something, and in the north it’s Hindi or Bengali amongst others, so blanketing the different cultures under the quilt of English begins to gain some credibility. So all those in favor of globalization give the British some credit.
Under construction
My world in India is still for the most part restricted to Besant Nagar, the southern “suburb” of Chennai that I call home. And by suburb I don’t mean Starbucks (none) or street-lit roads (ummm…some have lights, but somehow a post-apocalyptic darkness descends every night after six). What I do mean is that the roads are smaller and the area feels more like a neighborhood, less like a city. That feeling of small towns being conglomerated into a big city, similar to how Portland feels with the same “suburb” spin of being in India, pervades Chennai; the drivers drive as if they live in a village of 8,000 not a city of 8 million, roads never go from point A to B without hitting the rest of the alphabet first, shops are tiny and infrastructure is erected on a need-to-know basis and none of the surrounding structures need to know. Point being, with most of what I know being in this immediate vicinity, really in this house and at the office (and the fifteen minute walk between them) that’s where the blog topics shall remain. And I hope that doesn’t disappoint anyone, and it shouldn’t, because there’s still plenty of things to write about.
Such as local infrastructure, specifically that of the structure I live in. A little history: last year, when three other Tara interns lived here, the first floor, the floor of this apartment, flooded. The landlady, Udaya, resolved to fix the problem. Udaya’s mother lives upstairs and Udaya and her son have been staying there with her since construction began over three months ago. It’s not safe to construct things in India without constantly watching (…and yelling at) the workers; otherwise they will somehow do things in a less legitimate way than they already are. Also you need to watch your construction materials, or else something like several hundred bricks might disappear during the night, and that night might have been two nights ago. So I wake up most mornings, weekday or end, to the pleasant sounds of hammers hacking or welders whacking or yellers yapping. I leave the house anticipating the daily surprise of what these sounds are working towards; could be an elevated gate, could be a space-age silver truss, could be a tall brick wall, could just be watering the garden. In the long run, anywhere from 2 weeks to eternity, Udaya plans to solve the riddle of the monsoon flooding by elevating the entire yard nearly two feet so the street water won’t run in from the street. As far as I can tell, she managed to consult no one and consider no other plans in reaching this conclusion, and no one is really sure where the idea came from other than deep inside her inner psyche, from which some other pretty strange things have emerged since our acquaintance. By raising the earth our residence will effectively be lowered two more feet below ground. Already being two feet underground I’m not so certain about Udaya’s master plan and am really banking on a poor monsoon season. Monsoon season pretty much corresponds with the thing we call autumn back in the states, so if I want a new pair of goulashes for my birthday then we’ll know which way the water flowed.
Such as local infrastructure, specifically that of the structure I live in. A little history: last year, when three other Tara interns lived here, the first floor, the floor of this apartment, flooded. The landlady, Udaya, resolved to fix the problem. Udaya’s mother lives upstairs and Udaya and her son have been staying there with her since construction began over three months ago. It’s not safe to construct things in India without constantly watching (…and yelling at) the workers; otherwise they will somehow do things in a less legitimate way than they already are. Also you need to watch your construction materials, or else something like several hundred bricks might disappear during the night, and that night might have been two nights ago. So I wake up most mornings, weekday or end, to the pleasant sounds of hammers hacking or welders whacking or yellers yapping. I leave the house anticipating the daily surprise of what these sounds are working towards; could be an elevated gate, could be a space-age silver truss, could be a tall brick wall, could just be watering the garden. In the long run, anywhere from 2 weeks to eternity, Udaya plans to solve the riddle of the monsoon flooding by elevating the entire yard nearly two feet so the street water won’t run in from the street. As far as I can tell, she managed to consult no one and consider no other plans in reaching this conclusion, and no one is really sure where the idea came from other than deep inside her inner psyche, from which some other pretty strange things have emerged since our acquaintance. By raising the earth our residence will effectively be lowered two more feet below ground. Already being two feet underground I’m not so certain about Udaya’s master plan and am really banking on a poor monsoon season. Monsoon season pretty much corresponds with the thing we call autumn back in the states, so if I want a new pair of goulashes for my birthday then we’ll know which way the water flowed.
7.9.07
6.9.07
some pics
http://mcgill.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2151242&l=63f7b&id=13602328
Voila, a link to some pics posted by my housemate, who was gracious enough to provide my lazy nonobservant ass with the link.
Voila, a link to some pics posted by my housemate, who was gracious enough to provide my lazy nonobservant ass with the link.
Tara Books' books
My current employer is best known for their handmade books, of which they’ve handmade some 150,000, or, as they would write in India, 1,50,000 (something to do with lakhs and croors, I don’t really get it). The books range from children’s books to visual arts to fiction to…don’t get me started I’ve spent the last two weeks working on their fall catalog, or, as they would write in India, catalogue. The main Tara office, a six-room house about 15 minutes walk from my 4-room residence, is far removed from the handmade aspects of the company and we follow the typical modern business protocol of vacantly staring at computer screens and getting up to stretch every hour or so as to avoid future muscle dystrophy. So, even after reading the ‘Handmade’ section in last years catalog, I had no first hand experience of the Tara press and no real idea of the process of this “bookmaking”(even though I’m pretty sure I took that class in college…college is so silly) until today.
After a fairly exhilarating drive to the south of Chennai we pulled up to a bright yellow house: the residence of Arumugam (Mr. A to us sloth-tongued Anglos) and his thirteen magical bookmaking elves, or south Indians, whichever fits your fantasy. Mr. A shares a corner of my rounded-triangle-shaped desk in the office, the third round-corner being shared by Shalini, an ambitious 28-year-old who used to write for the Hindu but took a pay cut to come oversee PR at Tara. So Mr. A, his wife and two kids, and thirteen strapping, young bookmakers all live and work within this bright yellow house.
I don’t know about the average first-world person, but when I hear the words handmade, 150,000, and press together I imagine at least some form of machinery present to assist in the process. Well, as I’ve come to expect, my imagination mislead me; these books are entirely handmade. More specifically they are screen printed, color-by-color, page-by-page, book-by-book, day-by-day. Anyone who’s ever seen a handmade Tara book (just me? I doubt my dad even knows the name of the company where I’m working, and I’m certain he doesn’t read this blog—by the way dad I got my first taste of bacterial-stomach infection this weekend, I felt weak immediately after eating some samosas and then had a headache, stomach ache and fever, in that order, only just recovering today.) Right. So, anyone who’s even seen a handmade Tara book knows that they are quite well done, as if every page could be displayed in a gallery, which is in fact becoming a larger part of their business. I may try to get them a show in Santa Fe, anyone know any galleries there? Well these fine pieces of work are made on the roof of a building in south India by thirteen young men who came from the village to find work in the city and ended up finding work, housing and community. Not bad. They even have a television to watch cricket on, which is something I wouldn’t mind doing right now as I try and gauge my digestion capacity.
Also, if anyone talks to Dustin tell him I am gravely disappointed with his neglect of his blog and lack of update since I left San Francisco.
After a fairly exhilarating drive to the south of Chennai we pulled up to a bright yellow house: the residence of Arumugam (Mr. A to us sloth-tongued Anglos) and his thirteen magical bookmaking elves, or south Indians, whichever fits your fantasy. Mr. A shares a corner of my rounded-triangle-shaped desk in the office, the third round-corner being shared by Shalini, an ambitious 28-year-old who used to write for the Hindu but took a pay cut to come oversee PR at Tara. So Mr. A, his wife and two kids, and thirteen strapping, young bookmakers all live and work within this bright yellow house.
I don’t know about the average first-world person, but when I hear the words handmade, 150,000, and press together I imagine at least some form of machinery present to assist in the process. Well, as I’ve come to expect, my imagination mislead me; these books are entirely handmade. More specifically they are screen printed, color-by-color, page-by-page, book-by-book, day-by-day. Anyone who’s ever seen a handmade Tara book (just me? I doubt my dad even knows the name of the company where I’m working, and I’m certain he doesn’t read this blog—by the way dad I got my first taste of bacterial-stomach infection this weekend, I felt weak immediately after eating some samosas and then had a headache, stomach ache and fever, in that order, only just recovering today.) Right. So, anyone who’s even seen a handmade Tara book knows that they are quite well done, as if every page could be displayed in a gallery, which is in fact becoming a larger part of their business. I may try to get them a show in Santa Fe, anyone know any galleries there? Well these fine pieces of work are made on the roof of a building in south India by thirteen young men who came from the village to find work in the city and ended up finding work, housing and community. Not bad. They even have a television to watch cricket on, which is something I wouldn’t mind doing right now as I try and gauge my digestion capacity.
Also, if anyone talks to Dustin tell him I am gravely disappointed with his neglect of his blog and lack of update since I left San Francisco.
3.9.07
Mosquito proof
Aside from a few slits in the window netting the main rooms of our house are mosquito proof. That’s not to say other friendly creatures such as small lizards, similarly small spiders, and much smaller ants don’t find their own ways in. But for the time being I can drift into sleep rather soundly, which I consider to be a good indicator of my comfort level.
Unfortunately the bathrooms have slotted walls and provide no such luxury. These tiny, shutter-less windows provide the ideal entry point for the airborne critter, such as the mosquito. On any given foray into my bathroom I can expect to be greeted by no less than five mosquitoes, no more than fifteen. These are dumb mosquitoes, spoiled by the warm climate, mud-puddled terrain, and billion-plus Indians, so it’s not as if they all swarm to feast on my smooth, milky epidermis. Generally I can swat and blow at them until I’ve completed whatever it is I came into they bathroom to accomplish and can make a quick getaway locking the custom-made door (which includes wood and sheet metal in several different combinations) behind me and forget the whole ordeal until the next time nature or laundry calls. But wouldn’t one rather, if one had such a choice, swing at these mosquitoes with an electrified tennis racket? I think one would.
It’s become my routine to wakeup in the morning, head to the wall outlet to fetch my weapon—a plastic racket with electric wire instead of string netting, enter the fighting grounds (slightly reminiscent of gladiator and the coliseum), brandish the racket several times in preparation and to assert my threat, and then zap away, not satisfied until killing at least four or five of the buggers. For waking up purposes this works miracles, elevating the senses to full alertness as I encounter a genuine “fight or flight” situation, and I can’t very well choose flight every time. The electro-shock noise and ensuing spark that accompany a successful swing are what make the activity truly satisfying, and I’ve actually started to look forward to these morning encounters. Especially since throughout the rest of the day I’m bound to get what’s coming, and what’s been promised all fresh blood in South India—bites, potentially malaria filled, always agitating, mostly on my feet and elbows.
The landlady has all but promised that we’ll get nets on the bathroom windows this week, but judging by the professed rate of construction on our patio and the real-time rate, I’m just hoping for installation sometime before November, the heaviest monsoon month. In the meantime I’ll work on my back swing and hope to someday approach the level of skill and finesse demonstrated by my boss who consistently zaps mosquitoes right in front of my face before I even know they’re there.
Unfortunately the bathrooms have slotted walls and provide no such luxury. These tiny, shutter-less windows provide the ideal entry point for the airborne critter, such as the mosquito. On any given foray into my bathroom I can expect to be greeted by no less than five mosquitoes, no more than fifteen. These are dumb mosquitoes, spoiled by the warm climate, mud-puddled terrain, and billion-plus Indians, so it’s not as if they all swarm to feast on my smooth, milky epidermis. Generally I can swat and blow at them until I’ve completed whatever it is I came into they bathroom to accomplish and can make a quick getaway locking the custom-made door (which includes wood and sheet metal in several different combinations) behind me and forget the whole ordeal until the next time nature or laundry calls. But wouldn’t one rather, if one had such a choice, swing at these mosquitoes with an electrified tennis racket? I think one would.
It’s become my routine to wakeup in the morning, head to the wall outlet to fetch my weapon—a plastic racket with electric wire instead of string netting, enter the fighting grounds (slightly reminiscent of gladiator and the coliseum), brandish the racket several times in preparation and to assert my threat, and then zap away, not satisfied until killing at least four or five of the buggers. For waking up purposes this works miracles, elevating the senses to full alertness as I encounter a genuine “fight or flight” situation, and I can’t very well choose flight every time. The electro-shock noise and ensuing spark that accompany a successful swing are what make the activity truly satisfying, and I’ve actually started to look forward to these morning encounters. Especially since throughout the rest of the day I’m bound to get what’s coming, and what’s been promised all fresh blood in South India—bites, potentially malaria filled, always agitating, mostly on my feet and elbows.
The landlady has all but promised that we’ll get nets on the bathroom windows this week, but judging by the professed rate of construction on our patio and the real-time rate, I’m just hoping for installation sometime before November, the heaviest monsoon month. In the meantime I’ll work on my back swing and hope to someday approach the level of skill and finesse demonstrated by my boss who consistently zaps mosquitoes right in front of my face before I even know they’re there.
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