Thumbs Up for Thums Up

When I travel, I love to try local snacks and beverages, not only from my deeply-rooted love for junk food, but also because I feel like you get a good sense of a place by eating and drinking what regular people have when they're not trying to impress anyone.

My cousin's husband introduced us to kvas, an eastern European drink traditionally made from fermented rye bread. It was like a combination of beer and hard cider: a little sweet and fizzy, but with a yeasty taste. Definitely unlike anything I've ever had before, but in a good way. It's on my list of things to buy from a street vendor if I'm ever lucky enough to visit Ukraine.

Of course, I also love regional variations of store brand soft drinks in the U.S. While visiting friends in Atlanta, we made a point of visiting the local QT (QuikTrip) gas station/convenience store, which has the largest selection of fountain beverages I have ever seen. I recommend the Rooster Booster energy drink.

In Italy, it was the tiny black cans of Oran Soda from the vending machine at American University of Rome. It was a cross between regular orange soda and pulpy orange juice, made by the Campari company. On Mondays, I had six straight hours of class (Masterpieces of Italian Opera to Roman History to an accelerated Italian language course) and I usually managed to scrounge 40 Euro cents so I could slurp down a can of it, usually with a baggie of cookies or a granola bar, to get me through the rest of the day.

While in London, I marveled at the different flavors of Pringles chips at the grocery store, which included Curry and Paprika. Yorkie bars were also fun, if a bit misogynistic ("It's Not for Girls!).

Yes. Not for handbags. But delicious!

 And everywhere in Europe, I bought Kinder eggs. They're just thin hollow chocolate eggs wrapped in foil, and the chocolate isn't anything special. But inside the chocolate egg is a plastic egg holding a toy surprise--things like puzzles, character figures, or vehicles. Once, I even got a green Dumpster like the one in front of our Rome apartment, complete with moving arms controlled by a rubber band. I bought a Kinder egg nearly every time I went to the grocery store in Rome, and I still have the toys. I saw a gigantic Kinder display in the Amsterdam airport, and I promised myself I would buy a few on the way home.

India gave us a few opportunities to try local snacks, since there were street vendors and small stores everywhere, and our hotel room included a "mini bar." This meant that every night when we came back to the room, we could pop the top off a slightly chilled bottle of either Sprite or an Indian cola called Thums Up. I had seen the billboards and bus signs for Thums Up: the slogan was "Taste the Thunder!" and the ads exclusively featured men. A visit to the company website (it's a Coca-Cola product) shows that this is intentional, as the company claims "Thums Up is known for its strong, fizzy taste and its confident, mature and uniquely masculine attitude. This brand clearly seeks to separate the men from the boys."

It's burning his esophagus with its awesomeness!

I don't care that I'm not the target demographic for Thums Up. I was eager to try it. On a first sip, it tastes like a normal cola: sweet, syrupy, fizzy. It's not quite the same flavor as Coke or Pepsi, but it's close. The aftertaste is where I concede that there is definitely something masculine about Thums Up, because it tastes like chemicals. Specifically, it tastes a little like licking aluminum siding (that must be the "thunder" the ads mentioned). It made me think of the smell of ozone, and testing batteries on my tongue, things that were routinely part of my childhood because my older brother liked to take mechanical things apart and build new contraptions out of them, often harassing me along the way. Thums Up seems like the kind of thing Tim would drink. It wasn't exactly a Tesla coil in the mouth, but I can see where they were going with it.

And you know what? I grew to like it. I actually looked forward to getting back to the room at night, because the housekeeping staff would have restocked the mini bar. There's just something about cracking open a cool glass bottle of lightning-flavored soda after a long day of shooting video and taking photos.

Production: Day 2

Our first day in Hyderabad was guaranteed to be a long one, because we had to do 95% of our remaining India preproduction by the time we went to sleep that night.

Since the Green Park is a hotel meant primarily for businessmen, a breakfast buffet was included. I know a buffet isn't the best way to taste local cuisine, but I saw it as a great compromise between blindly ordering from a menu (not knowing what to expect when the server brought the food) and chickening out with Western food. Plus, buffets allow for sampling, which greatly decreases the risk and embarrassment of Unpleasant First Bite Face (and since we were eating with Rob, I was a little more aware of this). I scooped small, neat piles of rice and vegetable dishes, like upma and bisi bele bath onto my plate, along with corn and mutton idly.

A van was sent to pick us up at the hotel and take the three of us to the Andhra Pradesh Productivity Council's Hyderabad headquarters, which also house the CMU Information Centre and some computer companies. We had to take all of our equipment with us, but by this time we were reasonably comfortable lugging everything around. Of course, as soon as we approached the van, the driver wordlessly took everything out of our hands to load it into the back. He didn't make eye contact, and didn't even look up when I thanked him. It's unnerving to be served like that, and I don't think I can fully explain how every new instance of it made me so uncomfortable.

Each time we sat down in a vehicle, we had a new experience of what it was like to get around India. The drivers that had been arranged for us seemed to fit into a hierarchy based on the level of terror induced by the ride. Our driver this morning was the same we had the previous night on the trip from the airport, so the ride was relatively smooth and stops were gentle. At the time, of course, it felt like he was weaving crazily and stopping just short of ramming us into idling cars. The traffic in Hyderabad was jam-packed, and we saw how motorcycles and scooters were preferable to larger vehicles. On some roads, they made up 2/3 of the traffic, and even when the lights were red, motorcycles jockeyed for a slightly closer position. They were like buzzing insects, constantly moving. Some intersections had traffic police stationed in kiosks to monitor violations, but we had to wonder how they would be able to catch someone in that kind of traffic (as it turns out, cameras and e-tickets). Pursuit would be nearly impossible.

Upon arriving at the APPC building, we were greeted and given bouquets of roses again. Then we were given a tour of the place, which served as our first round of location scouting so we could get all of the shots we needed (especially the India shots that were supposed to look like somewhere other than the CMUIC). The building was five or six stories tall (the top two floors were unfinished) with one or two companies on each floor. The main floor, where the APPC is located, has one large office with a few smaller offices and alcoves with desks in them for some of the staff. The rest of the employees worked at rows of desks with computers on them. We were introduced to every single person working there--about 25-30 in all.

Have you ever been introduced to thirty people, one at a time? It's an odd experience. There was little hope that we'd remember even a fraction of the names we were told, but it was helpful for them to see us so they wouldn't wonder what we were doing in their building for the rest of the week. They were gracious and welcoming, even though Aaron and I were just two white people with some camera equipment, suddenly standing in an office building in India.

Next we sat down with two of the APPC's administrators to talk about the Council's mission and goals, which was one of the most interesting conversations I've ever had because we learned so much about India in general and the state of Andhra Pradesh in particular. Much of what the APPC does is linked to economic and entrepreneurial development, but there's a huge focus on the development of human resources, especially in terms of education. Call me a nerd, but I can listen to people discuss education all day long, especially over cookies and Fanta orange.

In our discussions of Andhra Pradesh and Hyderabad, we were told that the region has excellent (and very spicy) food. We had lunch at a restaurant called Southern Spice, and the name alone had me panicking a little. Here we go, I thought. A spicy meal in India is going to make me cry, and that's going to be really embarrassing. Even though the menus are printed in English, our companions spoke English, and the waitstaff seemed to have a good command of English, ordering was tricky because most items were labeled with a name and a very simple explanation that didn't reveal much about what was actually in the food. Spice was never mentioned. Ingredients remained a mystery.

For the picky and non-adventurous, it was a gamble. Rob asked about some fish on the menu. "What's the sauce like?" he asked. "Is it spicy?"

"Not too spicy," our waiter said. Unfortunately, that was his default answer. Rob asked them to make the fish without any sauce on it. The waiter nodded.

Aaron and I were a little more conflicted in our ordering, as Aaron is both slightly picky and not-too-adventurous. He was also still quite concerned about getting sick. I had stupidly adopted a "NOTHING CAN HURT ME!" attitude, but that didn't help me understand what any of the menu items were. We asked the waiters a lot of questions. We struggled with the unclear answers. In the end, we settled on Chinese food, which seems to be quite popular in India.

When our food came, Rob let us try his fish, which was in a mildly spicy sauce. We shared our chicken, which was in a red, burn-your-lips-off spicy sauce that made Rob cry a little. I thought he must be exaggerating, but the initial bite coated my tongue in a blanket of hot. Unlike other spicy food I've suffered through, however, this wasn't about pain--it was just heat, and it faded rather quickly. In fact, the sauce would have been delicious, had it not also been chock-full of cilantro leaves. Oh, the soap-tasting humanity. I filled up on vegetarian soup and chicken fried rice instead.

The rest of the afternoon was spent at the CMUIC for preproduction. We rearranged the furniture and displayed the CMU paraphernalia Rob had brought with him, including some banners, pennants, and a new clock. A light kit had been rented for us, so we blocked out our shots and figured out how to make the best use of the room's two windows, the fluorescent fixtures and the diffused incandescents in the kit lights. Since Rob had to meet with some students regarding CMU's graduate programs, we were shuffled over to Dr. Reddi's office to finalize our shot list and make a list of the props we'd need to buy that night so we could shoot the next day.

And then Aaron had an unfortunate post-meal incident I cannot discuss. I will only say that we were prepared.

As the afternoon wore on into the evening, Rob and Vinay (the CMUIC advisor) were ready to take us shopping for props. Our task was to transform the slightly bland and mildly industrial CMUIC into a prospective student's living room, where she would discuss her education options with her parents. We had a couch, two chairs, and a glass coffee table to work with, so we set out to the mall with a list that included curtains, a rug, a vase, a lamp, and some throw pillows.

The mall was like a very large department store, spanning several floors of the building and divided into merchandise categories. We had to go through security scanners to enter the building (with, once again, a separate curtained-off area for women). In a country that constantly challenges the senses, the mall was another form of sensory overload: the displays were bright and crammed with merchandise; the music was loud, pulsating; salespeople wove their way into the crowds; and the colors were exaggeratedly bright. It was like the vision of consumerism I'd first noticed growing up in the late 1980s and early 1990s had been reanimated, but with a foreign flavor. There was so much there, screaming to be purchased, and crowds of people with that adrenaline-infused, slightly glassy stare of want glinting in their eyes.

We were here on business, though, so I couldn't let myself get distracted by every fascinating detail. I couldn't buy anything for myself (or for others--I so badly wanted to find the perfect turquoise sari for Allison Joseph). And even though we had a list, a set of directives guiding us through the towering displays and labyrinthine halls of stuff, it took us forever to find the right items. We had to try to make an office look like a home, but we also had to think about the way these props would photograph. We had to think about matching color and pattern but also textures, reflectivity, saturation, the scale of the pattern in relation to other elements. It's definitely not how we normally think about furnishings.

Somewhere between one store and the next, I had developed a strange rash on my arm. It was a little red, a little bumpy, and a little itchy--and unlike any contact dermatitis I had ever had. It was only on one arm, so I went to the restroom to wash it and (maybe) prevent it from spreading. All I needed was to wake up in the morning with my left arm red, swollen to twice its normal size, and completely unusable. We finished up at the mall and had the driver take us to a pharmacy, since I had somehow neglected to pack any kind of Benadryl in my gigantic toiletry/first-aid kit.

The pharmacy was marked with a green plus sign, like the ones I had grown accustomed to (but had never visited) in Rome. It was tiny, with most merchandise behind the counter and two pharmacy clerks there to help. I was very grateful to have Vinay with us, since the pharmacist spoke Telugu and I didn't recognize the brands on the shelves. I held up my arm to show the pharmacist, and he gave me a tube of something called Fourderm. It was a white cream and smelled vaguely medicinal (I still can't figure out what it reminds me of), but it didn't contain hydrocortisone. I paid my rupees and fervently hoped I wouldn't have a bad reaction to the cream, since my skin does not act like other people's skin. In fact, my skin sometimes decides to react to things that were once safe, like laundry detergent and certain fabrics. I can only imagine what my immune system was going through.

By this time, it had been dark for hours and I was ready to be in a quiet place, alone. But first we had to go back to the CMUIC to set up the props for the living room scene, and we managed to do that in about 20 minutes. I think we were all ready to go back to the hotel, to come up for air. None of us had even eaten dinner, because we had all been so busy working on the video project (and Rob and Vinay had meetings with students).

At least the work was getting done.

One Day in Mumbai

When you only have half a day in Mumbai, what do you do with it? Aaron and I weren't sure how to answer that question, as it seemed like no matter what we chose, we would be missing out on so much. You can live in a huge city for months, or years, and not experience everything you would like to, so how can you really get anything out of half a day? We were determined to try.

Although we had enjoyed the hotel's breakfast buffet the previous morning, our second breakfast in India consisted of Aldi toaster pastries, canned chicken, and raisins. It was cheap, fast, easy, and there was less of a chance we would be paying for it later in the form of traveler's diarrhea, which would have been even more unpleasant to deal with while walking around the city.

We repeated the previous day's going-out routine: slathering on sunscreen and mosquito repellent, wearing long sleeves and pants, brushing our teeth with bottled water. Since the hotel provided free bottled water, we each loaded Aaron's backpack with a few big bottles, as well as some snacks. We packed everything else, checked our luggage at the bell desk, and checked out of our room so that we could walk around the city without having to worry about coming back before the checkout time. Our plan was to meet Rob in the lobby around 2:00 so we could take a taxi to the airport together, with plenty of time to eat at the airport before catching our flight to Hyderabad.

With one tripod, both camera bodies and all of our lenses, we headed out of the hotel alone for the first time. It was a little overwhelming to have the freedom to wander where we wished, but it was also overwhelming because we felt very exposed. I had learned the previous day that no matter where I was, people would stare at me. I'm not comfortable being an object of curiosity, so I tended to make eye contact and smile a lot. It disarmed people, and made me feel less nervous about being in India (it turned into a game later in Hyderabad).

I knew I was staring at people, though. Everything was absolutely fascinating to me, from the way people dressed to the way they spoke down to the way they walked and interacted with each other. People were reserved, modest, yet very affectionate. It felt like everyone regarded the people near them as family in the larger sense. The people were absolutely beautiful to me, and not just in terms of physical appearance: they radiated this sense of good, even though we were obviously strangers.

We walked around the barricade and plaza surrounding the Gateway, where there were quite a few items for sale.

This was a common sight: men selling chai from a thermos, poured into tiny paper cups.

Several people sold fresh fruit and vegetables. To the right of the chai man, there was a guy selling plastic packs of strawberries that smelled amazing. This kid sold peeled cucumbers, using the leaves and a bowl of water to keep them cool.

The balloon vendors were relatively aggressive, and they were everywhere. The smell of the latex was a little overwhelming at times. And what would you do with these? The only think I can think of of is hit people with them.

This guy roasted peanuts, dispensing them in rolled paper cones. Some vendors had trays balanced on their heads.




















There was a line of waiting taxis, with drivers ready to take tourists on city tours. We kept using the excuse that we were leaving in a few hours and didn't have time, which was unfortunately true. It was important to us that we saw some of the city, but we couldn't risk getting into a cab with someone who may not understand that we needed to get back to the hotel at a certain time so we could meet Rob and catch our flight to Hyderabad. I've only taken taxis in big cities a few times, and it was usually to get to/from an airport, and those rides showed me that not only is it hard to see a city from a taxi window, it's also nearly impossible to have an accurate sense of how long it will take.

So we just started walking down a street until we found a huge intersection. Aaron set up his tripod to take video, and I took photos of anything passing by. It might be weird, but watching traffic was one of the most enjoyable parts of being in India, because everything about it was different from home.

For at least an hour, we set up shop at this intersection. There were quite a few corners, and a median with a statue from which we had a good view of multiple angles of the roundabout. Oh, how I wanted to go to that art museum! The nerd in me groaned at the idea of being so close to it but not being able to go.

 

And look at that architecture!

I was fascinated by the flow of traffic: how every vehicle and pedestrian occupied his or her own space, and all of it flowed in one controlled motion, seemingly choreographed. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. The traffic in Rome is the closest analogue, but the Italians whizzing by on motorini were somehow more insistent. Staccato. Frenzied. A bit reckless. Indians exhibited what I think of as "traffic trust," knowing everyone would get where they were trying to go eventually, and that cooperation would help them along.

When the lights changed, it was exhilarating to watch everyone move, and navigate the laneless intersections without colliding. The key is the way Indian drivers use their horns more than their mirrors and turn signals combined. And yes, those cars are coming right at me. I was on the very edge of the sidewalk, crouched low and shaking a little in anticipation.

I loved how open and friendly people were--especially the young. Our equipment was a way into a conversation, and we tried to be as polite as possible because we felt like these people were giving us the gift of a tiny slice of their lives, captured digitally.

These kids were great. The one in the middle was obviously the leader in the situation, and he asked to have us take their pictures with our cameras and with their cell phones. But even truck, bus, and cab drivers waved or even stopped for us.

And these boys were heartbreakingly adorable. They kept stopping in the street because they wanted us to take their pictures so badly.

And as they walked away, you can see how much they cared for each other, helping each other cross at least four lanes of traffic, not at a crosswalk, to get to the center of the roundabout and on with their day. (I really, really love that lens for portraits. So nice.)

I loved taking pictures of everyone who would let us, but at times, it felt exploitative. Sure, I wanted to document our trip, and be able to show my family and friends what we had done and seen while in India, but I didn't want to feel like I was taking advantage of the people whose photos I was taking. By composing the shots, choosing what to show and what to ignore, I was passing a sort of judgment on them--however much I didn't want to do that, it was unavoidable.

Then two men stopped my heart dead in my chest. They were lugging a cart with huge water barrels. They were drenched with sweat. They were doing more work than seemed humanly possible. And the second man was not only drenched in sweat--he was missing an arm.

I felt so incredibly conflicted. Do I take the photo? How could I not take the photo? Would they feel like I was robbing them of their dignity? Did I need to explain to them that by taking the photos, I was trying to capture life in Mumbai just as it was that January day?

The man at the front of the cart answered my questions for me when he stopped, smiled, and then posed for me. He wanted his picture taken. I still felt incredibly conflicted, but also so grateful to him.

I thanked them several times, and they went on their way.

We were continually amazed at how people were able to move large quantities of goods on vehicles seemingly too small for the tasks at hand, or with far fewer people than simple physics should necessitate. By the time we saw two men carrying a full-grown goat between them on a motorcycle in Hyderabad, we were almost used to it.

Every man I saw reminded me of my dad's work ethic, and his penchant for "build your own" trailers. He'd do fine in India.

After seeing this, how can I honestly say I have ever worked a day in my life? I know it's all relative, but I felt sick inside at just how hard people worked, and here I was, taking pictures on a street corner. I was being paid to take those pictures. I was "working."

We eventually moved from the roundabout down a side street.Though we could have easily asked for directions, we didn't want to get too far from the hotel because we didn't know where we would be "safe." We weren't too concerned for our safety, to be honest--it was more an issue of being able to keep track of each other and our equipment, since we still had a lot of shooting to do in Hyderabad and we absolutely could not afford to lose a camera, a bag, a tripod, or anything else.

The side street we chose was home to the Leopold Cafe, which was popular with tourists but also among the sites attacked by terrorists in 2008. This street also had some rather aggressive vendors, one of whom followed me for a block and a half in the hopes that I would buy a book of his postcards because I showed the slightest amount of interest. I did end up bargaining for a refrigerator magnet depicting the Taj and Gateway of India. Although the picture on the magnet is incorrect, I think it adds to the charm. What do you expect for 50 rupees?

I have a sensitive nose as it is, and India allowed me to play Toucan Sam's "Follow Your Nose" game like a professional. Delicious food smells came out of nowhere, carried from open doorways and windows or from atop the heads of street vendors.

Samosa Man! I wanted to follow him down the block. Imagine a cartoon-like white tendril of delicious aroma beckoning to me with come-hither fingers, and me following him down the street, balanced and moving forward on my rapidly-tapping toes, eyes closed in sheer ecstasy at each whiff. Yes. That's what it was like. It smelled so good.




We kept walking, stopping to take photos and look at wares arranged on tables. Eventually, we turned left again, back towards the Taj. I didn't really want to go back, so I dawdled, taking Aaron down side streets and stopping as often as possible, despite my growling stomach and aching feet. There was so much more to see.

And that's when I met Ganesh. While Aaron was taking photos, I ended up in the center of the street with two teenage boys. We started a conversation about why we were in India, and why we were taking pictures. Then Ganesh showed me just how ugly tourists are: he offered to show me the slums, just like in Slumdog Millionaire, which is apparently what all the white tourists want to see when they visit Mumbai. It made me so angry and uncomfortable that that's what tourists expect, and ask for--to take a taxi to the slums and then go back to their expensive hotels where they can wash away all traces of the lives they have just exploited.

 I didn't say this to Ganesh. I thanked him but politely declined, explaining that we would be leaving Mumbai later that day and were happy to walk around a little on our own, to see what we could. We were less than a block from the Taj, so he may have figured we were staying there (and thus had money).

Then he asked me to buy him some rice from a nearby stand. I am not a hard-hearted person, and I honestly wanted to buy him that rice. I could afford it. I could have bought rice for everyone standing on that street for the cost of a dinner for two at Denny's back home. I struggled to say no to him, explaining that if I bought it for him and his friend, I would want to buy it for everyone, and I couldn't do that because my husband would be angry with me. I felt like an absolute moron, and I struggled not to cry in front of him, because I felt that guilty. How do you say now to a soft-spoken, polite boy who speaks impeccable English and is blind in one eye? How do you say no to a boy who, truthfully or not, calls himself Ganesh, and whose namesake is the Remover of Obstacles?

When it was clear that I wasn't going to buy them food, Ganesh and his friend walked away. I felt terrible, until I saw Ganesh pull a wad of bills out of his back pocket and buy himself some rice. Not that it means he couldn't have used some help.

On that side street, we photographed a man I later dubbed the only sour man in all of Mumbai:

 I didn't try to smile at him.













The rest of that street, however, was so pleasant. It felt like a microcosm for what India was for us.

The shabby but pleasant.

The constant motion and endless urban growth. The city was so completely alive.

 

And the juxtapositions of delicate, beautiful, expensive things with the old, gritty, rough realities of Mumbai.

There was a dead rat on the sidewalk directly below the dress on the right. It was like what a pretentious art student would assemble to make a statement, except it was just there.

Outside the hotel, I managed to buy a book of postcards from a vendor. I was glad I did, because I didn't have much of a chance to buy them in Hyderabad. (Now, I promise, I did write all 12 postcards--I just have no idea if they were actually sent, because I was unable to buy stamps in Hyderabad and had to leave them with the man who took us to the airport to fly back home.)

I wish I had another word to describe how I felt about going back to the Taj, but conflicted is the one that remains lodged in my brain. I welcomed the air conditioned lobby, the comfortable couches, the privacy of our 4th floor room. I was happy to be able to wash my face and breathe clean air (when I blew my nose, my snot was black.) I also felt extremely ashamed at my behavior: for having taken photographs, for having bargained for already inexpensive souvenirs, for having denied beggars, for having said no to Ganesh.

While we waited for Rob in the lobby, I couldn't sit still. I walked around the hotel a bit, looking around at the pool, the shops, the restaurants. I stood in front of the window of a jewelry shop, looking at earrings and necklaces I certainly couldn't afford. The price tags were tactfully turned facedown. There was a store that sold nothing but pashmina scarves; another with silk ties. I lingered too long in front of yet another jewelry store, causing the proprietor to get up from his stool and abandon his newspaper to approach the door. I was in the hotel, I was white, so that meant I had money to spend on luxury goods. Obviously. The assumptions hurt, and were ill-fitting. Seeing my tired face reflected back at me, studded with the glitter of gemstones in the shape of peacocks and elephants, I couldn't tell if I belonged inside the hotel or outside of it.

Home Sweet Hotel

After our trip to Elephanta Island, we had a small chunk of free time to do with what we wished. As excited as we were to see Mumbai, we were even more excited to get better acquainted with our expensive hotel room. While Biplab headed out to a phone store to get help with repairing the damage from the puddle encounter and Rob walked around Mumbai to get souvenirs, we dragged ourselves into the elevator and instantly slumped against the walls.

While we were gone, the bed had been made and dressed up with throw pillows:

Somehow, this is one of the only pictures we managed to take of our hotel room. I guess we were too busy thinking about video production to bother documenting what the room was like. I promptly messed up the bed by collapsing, fully clothed, into the center of it. Aaron downloaded pictures and footage from the cameras onto his laptop and made the first of his video-diary entries (which he did not manage to keep up with over the course of the trip because by the end of each day we were just too tired). We were supposed to have about 45 minutes, so it wasn't long enough to take a real nap and feel rested.

For as upscale as the hotel is, our room was relatively plain. It was nice. It was clean. But, for the most part, the room wasn't overly spectacular, for which I was grateful. I always feel uncomfortable in fancy places, like I'm underdressed, outclassed, and clearly an outsider who will be commanded to leave once someone in power notices I'm there. Thankfully, our room didn't make me feel this way because we were staying in the Tower wing rather than the Palace wing. Our main indulgence was that we had a sea-view room rather than a city-view room.

No joke, this hotel is a fancy-pants place for rich tourists, politicians, celebrities, royalty, and anyone else who expects luxury. The Obamas stayed here. Oprah stayed here. John Lennon stayed here. And I understand why they stayed at the Taj, how if you're going to stay in Mumbai, this hotel is unquestionably the place to stay.

But the whole time we were there, I felt very conflicted about staying in such a lavish hotel. I didn't fully belong there, but I also didn't really want to belong there. I won't deny that I've been fortunate in my life, and have benefited from a position of privilege (especially concerning race, educational opportunities, and employment). I'd like to think, however, that even with my inborn and acquired privilege, I have managed not to take it completely for granted or devolve into an entitled, ungrateful wench (well, I hope so, anyway). I'm not great at being grateful, but I try.

That first day, I was grateful for the quiet of our room. Clean sheets. Bottled water. Privacy, if I thought I wanted or needed it. Distance--not only from the restless clamor of the city, but also from my life back home, from everything familiar, from the petty things I think about on a day to day basis. I was also grateful that I was having this experience at all, and that I was lucky enough to be sharing it with Aaron.

Physiological needs did make themselves more apparent in India, though, and we both realized that it had been almost 12 hours since our last real meal (we had eaten trail mix bars sometime between the Gateway and the rooftop shoots). We were supposed to have dinner with Rob and Biplab when they returned from their shopping. We went back to the lobby to wait for them. And we waited. One hour passed, then two. Ordinarily, this is the kind of situation we would have been peeved about back home. Feeling very hungry and sleep deprived, and then having to wait longer than expected for other people to show up so we could finally eat? Somehow, the situation didn't really even matter to us. We felt the hunger, we felt tired, but we also were content to have a comfortable place to sit.

Rob came through the revolving doors, without Biplab, explaining that the damaged phone was proving more difficult to fix than anticipated. In fact, the phone was currently in pieces at a nearby shop, being meticulously dried and inspected, so Biplab had said for us to go ahead without him. We asked the front desk for a recommendation regarding the restaurants in the hotel, specifying that we were looking for options other than Indian food (Rob's stipulation) and that it couldn't be too expensive or formal (a concern for all of us). We were told to go to the Sea Lounge, one of the casual-dining restaurants that serves high tea and some American/European food.

I wanted to experience everything I could while in India. But after the long day we had, I didn't feel too guilty ordering a safe, boring chicken BLT burger and fries. Aaron and Rob both ordered fish and chips. We sat in a quiet, air conditioned restaurant staffed by impeccably uniformed wait staff. We were three Americans waiting for a friend to join us. We could have been anywhere in the world, really.

Biplab couldn't stay for dinner because he planned to stay at his sister's home that night, and it was a two-hour ride from our hotel, even though it was somewhere in Mumbai. I had the terrible realization that this would quite possibly be the last time I would see Biplab in person. We had only known him for a day, but it had been so much less stressful and also enlightening because he was so knowledgeable, articulate, and open to answering all of my questions about India.

By the time our food arrived, Biplab had left and I was practically slapping myself to stay awake so as to avoid one of those embarassing "I literally fell asleep face-down in my plate of food" moments we've all had as small children (and most of our parents have the pictures to prove it). Rob told us he planned to go back to Elephanta Island so he could visit the caves; we decided that we'd spend the day walking around Mumbai, since this would be our only chance to see any of the city before flying to Hyderabad in the evening.

I was also ready to get closer to India itself: to see the traffic, talk to strangers, see what we could. I needed to get out of the hotel and walk down the street because I needed some grit--I didn't want to remember Mumbai just as it was inside the Taj because that isn't the Mumbai most Indians see or experience. I needed to feel more than just safe and comfortable. I knew India would teach me about wealth, privilege, class, race, culture, and power. It was up to me not to flinch.

Elephanta Island

One of the few tourist excursions we had planned for our India trip was a visit to Elephanta Island, a historical site on an island in the Mumbai harbor. The caves were used as temples and have carvings depicting Hindu gods; the island itself is named for a gigantic basalt elephant statue (which is now in a museum). Although we were still officially working, and hoping to get some interesting video and photos to use in the project, it was also a chance to have some fun.

We were about to buy tickets from one of the ferry companies with a booth near the Gateway, and found out that the caves are closed on Mondays. Rob had been there before, and assured us there would still be plenty to see, so we paid the fare. Indian tourist attractions have a pricing structure based on nationality, with foreigners paying about five times more than locals for admission to historical sites. It was still quite inexpensive for all of us. I kind of like that locals have to pay less, because it makes these sites more accessible to the general population.

Since the island is about six miles out into the harbor, we had an hour-long boat ride. Photography is not allowed on the boats (by order of the Indian navy), so we didn't take pictures or video on the ride because we are serious rule-followers. Of course, that didn't stop Indians from using their cell phones--especially when a group of seagulls flew alongside the boat, eating the chips some kids threw to them.

Tourist Ferry Boats

Even though I knew to expect to see pollution and garbage in the water, it shocked me when boat passengers threw their empty water and soda bottles, chip bags, and snack wrappers overboard.  It was like a reflex, completely automatic. There was an empty, unused trash can on the boat.

We disembarked onto a small concrete ledge, walked up some steps and were on the pier leading to the island itself. This was the closest we were going to get to the great outdoors on the entire trip, since we were planning to spend the rest of our time in Hyderabad (the 4th most populous city in India). Rob and Biplab stopped to buy cold drinks from a booth on the pier, and then we started the long walk to the stairs leading to the archeological park.

Rob: "You don't have any Mountain Dew? Okay, Coke."

We could have taken the train instead of walking, but we weren't really tired at this point and we wanted to be able to take pictures.  The train reminded us of Deer Acres back home.

 We were greeted by very friendly stray dogs, which tested my willpower regarding my self-imposed "Don't Pet Anything" rule. I think animals seek me out because they can tell that I would take them home with me if I could, and at the very least I will pet them and share my food. The only exception to my benevolence? Snakes. Good thing I didn't see any on the island.

The island has year-round residents, many of whom make their living in part by getting visitors to buy merchandise from their stands. The vendors here sold snacks, hats, clothing, jewelry, statues, toys and a lot of other souvenir items. Everything was reasonably priced, though the quality of items varied widely from one booth to the next. I was completely enchanted, though. I absolutely love buying things from street vendors. I've always been attracted to yard sales, flea markets, thrift stores, etc. because you never really know what's going to be there, and if you don't like the prices you can move on to the next booth.

After this first vendor-gauntlet, we came to a paved area that was a little more open than the previous paths, and I nearly had a heart attack of joy because I saw cows, goats, dogs, and monkeys on the loose and mingling with the crowd. Giving me access to animals is like giving Red Bull to a kid with ADHD--terrifying, slightly dangerous, but hilarious. I wanted to play fetch with the dogs.

I wanted to stare into the rectangular pupils of the goats.

I wanted to pet the cows.













I wanted to high-five the monkeys. All of this, ALL AT ONCE. I know, I am a child. But I've never seen monkeys in the wild, and this was the closest we would get to having an Indiana Jones moment in India.

The sign the monkey is sitting on explains that the island finally got electricity in May of 1989, which helped us maintain a little perspective regarding the infrastructure of India, especially in relation to its population. I was consistently, acutely aware of the differences between India and the U.S., and I have to say that I have great respect for so many aspects of everyday life in India.

I had been warned by various sources that the main crime I had to be concerned about in India was pickpocketing in crowded tourist areas. These monkeys were actually the closest experience we had with petty theft. They were everywhere along the path, jumping from one ledge or building to the next like little acrobats.

I was mostly afraid they would leap onto my back after a trip across one of the tarp ropes. I also didn't know if they would have any interest in the camera.

We watched monkeys snatch drink bottles from people. Some were unsuspecting, but others were willing participants in the monkey-thefts. Biplab's lemonade was only half-empty when it was snatched from him.

And this little guy was guarding his roasted field corn, because there were bigger, badder monkeys nearby. He's sitting on some chairs with long bamboo poles attached to them, which are used to carry tourists up to the caves (for a fee).

This was the monkey-in-chief, apparently. I was slightly afraid of him, because he looked downright menacing when he was picking his teeth and glaring at me. He also swung into the trees above my head and landed on the ledge right next to my elbow in a matter of seconds.

Since it was heading into the late afternoon, many of the booths along the stairway were already closed for the day. And had we known this would be one of our only opportunities to buy inexpensive souvenirs in Mumbai, we probably would have looked more carefully and thoughtfully at what was available. It's hard to think of these things when you're suppressing jetlag. And when you have a long, steep climb to make.

Although some of the stalls sold cheap plastic junk, there were some with handmade items, like this jewelry stand.

Even though the caves and most of the vendors were closed, I still enjoyed trekking up to the top of the hill. Every experience in India was like a gift, and I felt like there was no room for griping or feeling ungrateful, no matter the circumstances. The idea of being there at all was incredible, and I kept reminding myself that since this wasn't a vacation, I had to be content with the moments I had that were vacationish.

Those stairs to the top of the hill seemed to go on forever. They also became progressively steep, which proved challenging for our exhausted  (and out of shape) bodies. Finally, we made it all the way up to look at a closed gate. Rob thought we would at least be able to go into the area near the caves, but everything at the top was closed.

We were thirsty, and a bit sweaty. I paused near the gate to look at the crows convened in the trees above me, and was promptly shat on. Rob followed some men down a trail, only to find that it ended abruptly at a trash-filled ravine, and people were pissing over the edge of it. I could have been annoyed with all of this, but then I turned around and peered through a gap in the foliage to see how far we had come:

Going back down the hill was certainly easier, especially since we decided to buy cold bottles of Sprite and stop in at one of the more established shops to look at carved statues. Although I love haggling and bargaining, I was a little out of practice, so Biplab helped me negotiate with the shopkeeper. I ended up getting an ebony wood elephant for several hundred rupees less than the asking price. Knowing that it had a long journey, the shopkeeper wrapped it in several layers of newspaper and some bubble wrap.

We didn't buy anything else at the shop, although we were sorely tempted by this:

I was under the impression that heat, sunlight, and humidity were bad for film, but what do I know? I didn't check the expiration dates.

When we got to the bottom of the hill, Biplab insisted we take the train to shorten the walk. He was met with no resistance from us, since our calves were beginning to ache from our extended Stairmaster session. We crammed ourselves into the remaining seats at the back of the train. It was an extremely uncomfortable ride, but definitely worth the 5 rupees.

On the ferry ride back to the mainland, we half-slept and enjoyed the slight breeze. We watched the sun start to sink. A submarine surfaced and made its way to port. And then, as we were about to get off the boat, Biplab reached for his phone and couldn't find it. We looked around, and realized we were sitting right above a grate that vented the engine compartment. The phone had slipped out of his hands and fallen below decks, into a puddle. Sigh.

At least the elephant is happy living in my china cabinet.