Bangalore - Day 2

At breakfast I read the local Bangalore newspaper and absorb their excitement over India’s National soccer team’s defeat of Syria to win the Nehru cup. There is a section of the paper for schoolchildren that includes puzzles and education. Through text and cartoons they explain “how to multiply large numbers that are close of powers of ten.” For example 1003 x 996. The explanation seems geared to young children and goes completely over my head. It becomes clear why the US is outsourcing technology positions to India.

As I finish breakfast the front desk informs me that my cab has arrived. He is 20 minutes early. I thought Indian’s were notoriously late? “Just a minute.” I don’t want to keep him waiting, so I grab my bag and camera and get into the cab.

We drive into complete gridlock. Lane markings are completely ignored. It appears that the road was designed for 2 lanes, but each row has at least three cars, a rickshaw or two, and bicycles and motorbikes thrown in. It seems impossible that we won’t collide, and yet I don’t notice a single accident.

Eight foot plywood or metal boards are set up as barrier to keep drivers away from road construction where a metro train line is being built. Each section is labeled with a metro logo and construction company insignia. This goes on for miles. While we are driving, I notice that some of the logos have been “touched up” with paint. We come to a stop next to a segment and it is suddenly clear that every sign has been hand-painted. It dawns on me that most of the things around me, from the car license plates and registration marks, to the yellow & black curb striping has been done skillfully by hand. I wonder how much this might cost and consider that with a virtually limitless workforce, almost anything can be done. Innovation and technology are not required.

At the side of the road I notice a handful of cows tied to one of the barrier walls. Most of the walls are marked “Post no Bills” and a few areas say “Do not urinate here.” The later strikes me as funny and unnecessary until I notice a variety of men at other spots stopping to pee. I suppose if it is isn’t marked, it’s ok? I wonder what is expected for the women and I make a mental note when walking to avoid any part s of the sidewalk that look wet.

A few cows wander freely down the sidewalks. Everyone knows that cows are revered in India, and I’ve heard stories of cars driving into crowds of people to avoid hitting a cow. However, the people’s behavior towards these animals appears to be more like indifference than respect. I watch as people maneuver around them with complete apathy, rather the way I might walk by pigeons at home. Perhaps drivers avoid the cows because it would cause more damage to their car than running into people? There are an awful lot of people here.

Watching as a cow picks through rubbish like dogs might in the US, I wonder what is available for the cows eat? There doesn’t seem to be vegetation around and I can’t readily understand how they came to be in the city at all.

We pass a sign advertising apartments that says “It’s spanking new.” I wonder if that is acceptable grammar. I always assumed “spanking” modified “brand” but come to think of it, what does “brand new” mean as opposed to just plain old “new?”

“Do you know the way to the office?” I ask the driver. “Yes sir. Sure Sir.” Comes the reply as a single phrase. “How long will the drive take?” “Yes sir. Sure Sir.” As best I could tell, it means, “I don’t understand your question.”

The office park is modern and packed with large international firms - JP Morgan, Oracle, Nokia. The buildings are tall glass and steel structures that stand in contrast to the corrugated metal huts and shacks just outside the entry gate.

Security requires that I sign into numerous registry books and runs down the list of prohibited items. No personal laptops, no cameras, no cell phones, no iPods, no storage devices or disks. This is going to be a problem. Should I just hand over my entire bag now?

They let me off by cataloging all the items (including serial numbers). The camera has to stay with them. I wonder vaguely if this is some sort of scheme, but since I don’t see a way around it I play along.

The sign on the door states that official office hours are 11:00am to 7:30pm with lunch from 1:00pm to 2:00pm. It is not clear if the late start time is standard for India or a result of supporting projects in Europe and the US.

Inside is a maze of office cubicles, each one packed with someone on headset and a computer screen. It looks exactly as I expected an Indian call center might. A group of young men in matching short-sleeve button down shirts scuttle around the office cleaning tables, refilling coffee supplies, and sweeping. I rack my brain to remember the name of that position from “Slumdog Millionaire.” It doesn’t come to me. I also can’t figure out how old they are. I didn’t realize that all Bangalore offices to have “office boys” as they are referred to by the staff.

People have a habit of shaking their heads slightly in a vague “no” type gesture while responding with “yes sir.” The effect is to turn all yes’s into slight disapproval. Them: “You want coffee with milk or no milk sir?” Me: “Yes, milk please.” Them (shaking head and slightly frowning): “Yes sir.” Me: “I mean, no thank you.” Them: (still shaking head with a slight frown): “Yes sir.”

A quick internet search reveals that this bobble-head gesture is well documented and observed, and though most people confess that it is somewhat infectious, no one seems to know the origin.

I find myself wondering if I am supposed to address them with “Sir” as well. “Thank you Sir?” Feels like I am mocking them so I decide against it.

Between meetings I discuss international travel and living abroad with one of the Indian nationals. “What did you think of Sydney, Australia?,” he asks me. “I loved it. It felt a lot like San Francisco to me.” “Yes, it is very much like Bangalore,” he tells me. What? Like Bangalore? How could that be? San Francisco is nothing like Bangalore. I suppose we all search for familiarity in places we visit. When I consider it, Sydney does have flowering trees that look similar to some of the flowering trees here. That’s about it.

I feel a few rumbles in my stomach and a moment of dread that I am in for a nasty bought of traveler’s diarrhea. I certainly had enough warnings before the trip. It was the milk in the coffee, wasn’t it? It was the coffee? The glass that I’ve been pouring bottled water into gets washed in regular tap water, doesn’t it? I am suddenly nervous about putting anything in my mouth. I figure I can make it the rest of the trip on bottled water and tea biscuits.

The rest of the afternoon is thankfully uneventful.

There is an exercise room at the office that looks long neglected and empty. The lights are off and I’ve seen no indication that anyone here thinks about it. Given the sugar that is an ever present addition to the coffee, buffets, deserts, and a complete lack of exercise, I can’t see how I will avoid gaining 10 pounds on my trip. It is easy to see why diabetes is a rapidly growing problem in the country.

As we leave the office for the evening, Amit’s driver pulls his SUV around to the door. “This is Lincoln.” comes the brief introduction between phrases on his cell conference call. “I am quite interested in hearing more about that. Hey, let’s grab some beers. So tell me more about your background.” continues Amit. Lincoln figures out that the “beers” comment was intended for him and we head out from the office park.

We double-park and Lincoln jumps out at a local bar. He returns in a few minute and hands Amit and I each a can of beer. “Cheers.” I consider if drinking in a car is legal in India. Like most things, it doesn’t seem to matter.

We drive past a man on a bicycle carrying two enormous plastic bags. His bicycle, like most of the others, has a protective metal cover over the chain, is thoroughly rusted, and looks like it was manufactured in the 1940s. I wonder if all the bikes come from one source and how someone might acquire one. They seem about two sizes too big for the riders, as if the previous generations were giants who passed down their bikes to their children. No one on the bicycles is wearing a helmet – but nearly all the motorbike riders have them on. I wonder if there is a difference.

Driving from the office to the hotel at rush hour the traffic produces a symphony of car horn beeps and bells – each car announcing its path and alerting a never ending line of pedestrians and bicyclists. At times it seems drivers are honking not to warn anyone, but rather because it is their turn.

Amit’s apartment is neat with a small balcony terrace. A number of his friends have gathered for the evening and we order food for delivery. I check the fridge for water or soda but only find beer and a few Tupperware containers of food. “Amit, do you cook?” I ask. “No, the maid makes dinner each day. There are a few perks to India – the driver, the house maid.” I take another beer. The discussion on the patio turns to drinking and I share my “insights” on Kingfisher beer. No one thinks the link to Budweiser is interesting. The food arrives and I am amused that a part is a large order of tandoori chicken legs – seems about the same as ordering wings at home.

Around 11:30 I figure I better get to bed so I ask Amit about ordering a cab. “One minute… Lincoln will take you.” He pulls out his cell phone and tells me that the driver will be waiting at the bottom of the elevator. I start wondering where Lincoln lives and if he is on-call 24 hours a day.