Computer Class

Today my coworker, Priya, took me to visit one of our community hubs hidden down an unpaved alley in a town whose name is 15 letters long. Up a steep and narrow flight of stairs is a room with 20 or so computers. A few boys and an instructor sit around them working away on an outdated version of Photoshop. Graphic design is one of the classes offered at no charge to the boys and girls in the area with the hope that they can find real work after graduation. This is part of Oasis’ holistic approach to community healing. They understand that human trafficking is only part of the problem, a symptom really, and if they are going to help a city it will take radical change on every level. 
 

The boys look and stare as I close the door behind me. I’m partially used to the staring, having been what feels like the only white skinned, green eye’d person in India for two weeks, but it never fails to make me self conscious. Later in the afternoon when we go to Coffee Day for lunch (their Starbucks equivalent) we wait in line to order and three feet away a man’s eyes are locked on me. I try hard not to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but eventually I’m forced to turn away to let out a bemused grin. It’s a stare that knows you don’t belong. It’s not meant to be aggressive, but the typical Indian resting expression is not exactly welcoming. One tourist online dubbed it ‘The Indian Murder Stare’ and it’s easy to see why. But it always switches to a big grin after introductions are made, usually followed by a hundred questions about your family.

One of the boys looks up and says something that sounds like ‘Sweet aim’.

The instructor tells me he’s asking what my name is.

Daniel, I say.

Instantly the other boys turn in their chairs and with excited smiles start introducing themselves. Despite repeating them out loud, the names instantly vaporize in my mind, each too foreign to attach to anything familiar. 

One of the younger boys in the Microsoft Office class can’t wait to show off a Powerpoint presentation he’s made on different types of dinosaurs. His hand rests on the mouse clicking through each slide but his face watches mine waiting to see…something. What I think? Approval maybe? I don’t know, but I keep saying, “Cool, very cool” as images of Raptors and T-Rexes slide, flash and dissolve on the Lenovo monitor. And I mean it-the nine year old in me always loves a good dinosaur slideshow. We spend a few hours with the kids and I help Priya write a proposal to expand several hubs. 

On the way back our rickshaw comes to a stop at one of the rare stoplights in Bangalore. They’re so uncommon that an alarm sounds before the lights change to warn the more brake-adverse motorists. A few lanes away a sweating, young girl no older than twelve walks from car to car offering trinkets for sale. Priya points her out to me. 

“She’s one of the trafficked girls we’re trying to rescue.”

I ask how she knows her. 

“I take this route every week. I’ve talked to her at this stoplight several times. I told her we can help her, but she refuses to give me any information about herself. She’s scared, you can tell. Her handlers are probably watching.”

My brain jams up as it tries to find something to say, so I just watch her as she pushes a box of tissues towards a rolled-up window. My thoughts are white noise. This is the first time I’ve come face to face with what I’ve flown 9000 miles to write about and I can’t get a word out. A loud ringing suddenly fills the streets, rousing cars and jerking me back from reality. The lights change and our rickshaw lurches forward to rejoin the river of traffic.

Spicy

Stop the iPhone Vs Android debate so we can all agree that my new Spice phone is the coolest. 

It has a game where a snail pushes blocks around and I don't want to brag but I got stuck on the third level and gave up.

Mornings

My first few days here have started fairly early.

I wake up at 6 a.m. because India wakes up at 6 a.m. Every morning the city comes alive like a thousand babies being born. Noise and chaos of every sort saturating the air. Engines rev and horns blast. Voices call out in multiple dialects and trains shake the windows. Despite being on the fourth floor it sounds like all of Bangalore is right outside.

And yet, strangely, it’s not annoying. It's exciting in a ‘I can't wait to get down there and join the cacophony’ sort of way. It’s a constant reminder that every second you stay in bed you’re missing something worth seeing. 

And the mornings here offer so much to see.

On a nearby roof top a man wearing only a towel surveys his surroundings, standing amidst his family’s shirts and saris as they dance on a clothesline. The wind is cool. Steam lifts itself out of his cup of chai. 

In the backyard of a neighboring building an old woman sits on the floor fanning flames beneath a giant, covered pot, smoke pouring out and up towards me. Chickens loiter around her and single rooster cries out to no one in particular. 

Waiting to cross the road, I see a woman pass by on a Honda moped, her 11 year old daughter in front with her small hands stretched out towards the handlebars. The mother secretly helps keep control, smiling proudly as the young girl learns to navigate the dangerous and uncaring white-water traffic.

 

Children run up behind me and Ada, repeating a single word in Hindi, putting their right hand to their mouth. The same motion every time. They’re asking for money for food, but the reality is more grim. The gangs who own these children put them into the streets to bring in an extra income. Instead we give them Oreos or gum drops, like a tragic twist on Halloween.

A tragic twist on a childhood

Ada’s friend takes us into town. I ask her if she’s scared to drive in India. “No,” she says calmly while simultaneously avoiding a head-on collision with an auto rickshaw whose driver has cut into our lane to avoid a pothole in his. “If you learn to drive in Bangalore, you can drive anywhere.”

A crowd gathers around an impromptu fruit market where a man prepares a pile of coconuts for sale, hacking off their outer shell with a massive, curved blade. The sound of the steel slamming against wood barely makes it into our car before we speed out of reach. 

I could go on and on like this. It’s incredible.

Home Away From Home

How did the rest of my first day go? It ended with me riding with Ada's father on the back of his motorcycle at night to get Chinese food. And he got the helmet. Anyways I didn’t die, so on with the post. 

Here’s the place I’ll call home for the next couple months. It’s a cozy little place. About half of the square footage is made up of the patio which has this amazing view of the neighborhood where I live. It’s called Cooke Town so if I get Taken or Taken 2 you can start looking for me there. 

Click on for the grand tour.

Upon Landing

After 20 hours of flying, an over-rated Tom Hanks movie (looking at you Captain Philips) and a surprisingly good in-flight meal, I finally step off the plane into Bangalore, India. The customs officer wave me through and I get the first stamp in my shiny, old passport.


 

I find Ada (my contact for Oasis India) and her friend outside of the airport holding a sign with my name written on it in bright crayon, each letter a different color. They are both friendly and brush aside my apologies for making them wake up at five in the morning. They were happy to, they assure me. 

We walk up to a waiting taxi and as the driver loads my bags Ada’s friend offers me the front seat. I accept and open the door on the right-hand side to find a steering wheel. I quickly sort out that the steering wheel is not out of place--I am. Five minutes out of the airport and I manage to look like a tourist. Sorry everyone.

But the girls laugh and tell me it’s best to let a professional do the driving.

And they’re right. Driving in India is utter chaos. It’s a ballet of insanity. Every man for himself. Don’t touch the brakes unless you’re within at least an inch of committing vehicular manslaughter. I suspect there is some order to it, but my ignorant eyes, brought up elsewhere, can find no trace. 

On the roads there are lines painted to designate lanes, but for the most part they go unnoticed by drivers and wandering cows alike. If there’s enough space between two cars, hit the gas and speed through it. Remember that shoulders are acceptable lane choices and pedestrians who wander too far from the curb do so at their own risk. If a car is in your way, blast your horn and drive towards it as if to say, “My car is about to be where your car is now and you have three seconds to decide what you would like to do with that information”.

A rough translation. 

At one point we pull up to an intersection where six roads converge. It’s no man’s land. There are no lights, no signs and the right-of-way goes to the driver with the least fear. We only narrowly avoid a head on collision with a motorcycle, though looking around our taxi you wouldn’t know it. The unfazed expressions of my new friends let me know that this is not uncommon and that my loud gasp was wholly unnecessary. 

It was before dawn when the taxi left the airport, but as we drive further into the city, the sun begins rising and India is unveiled to me piece by piece. And it’s a good thing too; India all at once can be a lot to take in. Woman walking with various goods balanced on their head, leprosy-stricken beggars reaching out to early commuters, friends sipping chai on the side of the road, the half-built or half-destroyed (I can’t tell) buildings, the packs of stray dogs and aimless cattle, the beautiful, sprawling architecture, the sporadic burning trash heaps. Each new sight is perceived for a second before being pushed aside by another. Words like sad, beautiful and fascinating rush through my mind trying to label each one, but it’s no use, there’s just too many.

I am overwhelmed and my first day here has only just begun.