It’s been just another week here in the land of infinite source material for my blog. No wonder so many screenplay writers and novelists come to this country for inspiration. As my life becomes increasingly rutinized, the pace of stories and experiences worth sharing has anything but slowed down. My recent haircut and trip to the city market made the cut for this week’s blog post.
I know that getting a haircut in a foreign country where a language barrier exists can be problematic. I experienced this in Italy (think Euro-mullet) a few years back and had read another AIF fellow’s barbershop woes last year when I was applying for the fellowship. Armed with this knowledge, I prepared for the situation by purchasing hair clippers so that I could sport the classic traveler’s shaved head look. Still, after less than three months, I decided I’ve gotten comfortable enough here to complete this basic grooming task without major problems. Oh how wrong I was.
Everything seemed to be going well at first. Sure the lights went out a few times when the barber was cleaning around the edges with a straight razor, but that wasn’t enough of a problem to spoil the otherwise hygienic and well-executed trim. Problems began when he combed my hair in a very poindexterish style. In motioning to the man that I wanted to sport the “messy look” instead of the “nerdy look,” he understood that I wanted a head massage. He began by pouring a liter of coconut oil all over my scalp and neck, to which I laughingly screamed out “I don’t think white people’s hair needs this much oil.” Clearly not understanding, he began the most vigorous head massage that’s ever been given. For ten minutes he shook, prodded, and smacked my head, much to my brain’s discomfort. I opened my eyes to see that I had essentially gotten what I had asked for—The messy, and very, very greasy look.
As I recovered from the mild concussion, the manager came over to see if I was satisfied and tried to up-sell me on some additional services—mainly a “lady massage” which would occur in the back room. I gracefully declined, and jetted out of the “salon,” careful not to let my regular vegetable vendor see me in fear that he would no longer respect me for visiting the local whore house (Yes, this is the same vegetable vendor who gives me discounts because he assumes that I am a Christian.)
The outcome of the “salon” experience: a thorough dusting of my clippers in preparation for next month’s trim.
A few short days after my haircut I ventured off with some friends to Bangalore’s City Market. I’ve gone there twice now and both times been completely overwhelmed and awed by the sights and sounds. This outing was no exception.
Not long after arriving, we stumbled across a hilarious and noisy procession of young men celebrating something. As background, it’s pretty common in India for a random truck to drive down the road holding up traffic as 30 or more occupants spill out of the sides in song and dance. Drums, fireworks, and screaming are all part of the routine for these makeshift celebrations. What’s not so common however, is having someone lay down a row of firecrackers about 20 ft. long and probably 2000 blasts strong. Even more uncommon is to have two unsuspecting cows tied to a wall nearby. I’d like to think of this as the Indian version of cow tipping. They essentially freaked out and started kicking their legs and shaking their heads. It was sad, but hysterical.
In stark contrast to the jovial procession of youth out to scare livestock was the grotesque and frightening tattoo shop. I know that American’s have high standards when it comes to hygiene, but what I saw was nothing less than a public health nightmare. The City Market in general is one of the dirtiest places I’ve been in India (which says a lot). Hundreds of thousands of people, most of which appear and sound as if they have TB or worse, roam the tiny streets. Piles of old and rotting vegetables are up to your ears and animal feces are literally everywhere…you get the picture. In the midst of this, set up on the sidewalk in front of the only public restroom in the entire market, was a tattoo stand. Without cleaning the needles, and using a car battery for power, the “artist” gave tattoos (and I’m sure hepatitis or worse) to anyone who was interested. It was truly upsetting to see people line up for this, completely unaware of the risks. I watched for a few minutes, continued on my way, and added tattoo safety awareness to the growing list of things that need to be worked on in this country.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
Reaching the World's Richest and Poorest
Most of you know microfinance mainly as a buzz word that gets some media cover
age every now and then-- basically the soup d’jour of the development field. The beauty of this “trend” however, is that it actually makes a difference in people’s lives. On top of that, it can succeed largely independent of donor funding and is relatively free of abuse by corrupt governments (all traits that lack in many other poverty reduction mechanisms).
Harnessing the international attention on microfinance is a major component of my job. Right now microfinance is at the forefront of everyone’s mind. With everyone from celebrities, to royalty, to western governments supporting microfinance, I’m trying to capture a bit of their attention and hopefully motivate people to take a more hands on role as investors, employees, volunteers, etc. Building up our website, interaction with media, monthly newsletters, and brochures are all critical to setting my NGO apart, in what is increasingly becoming a crowded space.
As important as it is to engage the world’s elite and attract them to microfinance, there is another audience that must not be forgotten—the customers. What microfinance institutions need to focus equally (or more) on is communicating to the poor, illiterate, extre
mely busy and hardworking women that drive their business.
With all of the money pouring into MFIs around the world, there is a lot of pressure to produce big results quickly. But in an effort to scale up rapidly, attention must be paid to ensuring that customers are moving along at the same speed. Offering products that meet the needs of the poor is only useful to them if they understand the benefits (and risks).
Which brings me to another major focus at work: communicating our p
roducts to our customers and staff. It’s challenging, but the pay off can be big—both personally and for the company. I’m getting to spend time working with incredible and inspiring entrepreuners to understand how they think and learn. If I’m able to effectively improve the way that we communicate our products to our customers, sales go up. That means more people helped and a step closer to sustainability for the company.
I’ve attached to this post a few photographs of customers that I’ve taken (mostly related to our health services). In future posts I’ll share some of their stories.
age every now and then-- basically the soup d’jour of the development field. The beauty of this “trend” however, is that it actually makes a difference in people’s lives. On top of that, it can succeed largely independent of donor funding and is relatively free of abuse by corrupt governments (all traits that lack in many other poverty reduction mechanisms).
Harnessing the international attention on microfinance is a major component of my job. Right now microfinance is at the forefront of everyone’s mind. With everyone from celebrities, to royalty, to western governments supporting microfinance, I’m trying to capture a bit of their attention and hopefully motivate people to take a more hands on role as investors, employees, volunteers, etc. Building up our website, interaction with media, monthly newsletters, and brochures are all critical to setting my NGO apart, in what is increasingly becoming a crowded space.As important as it is to engage the world’s elite and attract them to microfinance, there is another audience that must not be forgotten—the customers. What microfinance institutions need to focus equally (or more) on is communicating to the poor, illiterate, extre
mely busy and hardworking women that drive their business.With all of the money pouring into MFIs around the world, there is a lot of pressure to produce big results quickly. But in an effort to scale up rapidly, attention must be paid to ensuring that customers are moving along at the same speed. Offering products that meet the needs of the poor is only useful to them if they understand the benefits (and risks).
Which brings me to another major focus at work: communicating our p
roducts to our customers and staff. It’s challenging, but the pay off can be big—both personally and for the company. I’m getting to spend time working with incredible and inspiring entrepreuners to understand how they think and learn. If I’m able to effectively improve the way that we communicate our products to our customers, sales go up. That means more people helped and a step closer to sustainability for the company.I’ve attached to this post a few photographs of customers that I’ve taken (mostly related to our health services). In future posts I’ll share some of their stories.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Tea, Jazz, Slums and Livestock: Making Sense of My Surroundings
At least one time everyday the following thought goes through my head: “I can’t believe this is my life.” This happens at completely random moments (when sitting in autos, when walking through a market, when visiting microfinance customers in the slums, or while having a cup of tea), but always requires a moment to mentally remove myself from my surroundings and make sense of what is going on.
So exactly where do I fit into this environment? That seems to be in a state of constant flux-- both with respect to each new person that I meet here, and my self-perception that changes each new day that I live here. To the vegetable stall owner who learned about where I work, I’m the American defying the stereotype of being power hungry and lacking compassion to help others. To the auto driver I’m the rich American who can afford to pay double or triple the normal fare. To the expat or professional contact I’m the young idealist willing to take a little career risk. And to my maid…well, I have no idea how she perceives me since we don’t speak the same language (but damn she can cook and clean!).
That leaves my constantly evolving understanding of self. I go from defying my American government and culture one minute, to clinging onto anything that reminds me of America the next. When people ask my religion I feel slightly ashamed that I don’t identify myself with any religion in a country where people’s lives are defined by it. And how is it that I rationalize ignoring a small child begging for money, when such a small amount to me means so much to her?
All of this leaves me wondering how I ended up making a life for myself in such an unlikely place and why this has been something that I’ve wanted to do for so long. I didn’t really imagine that I would be spending my commute to work trudging through ankle deep mud and dodging various forms of livestock’s excrement. Likewise, I didn’t think I would end up spending an evening in a smoky coffee shop listening to a local jazz band’s rendition of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” Yet these are the things that make up my life now. They provide the same stress, enjoyment, laughs, satisfaction, etc. that my old routine back in D.C. did. So as I go through the process of figuring out how I fit in--wondering how my life changed so drastically—I find it easiest to just brush the “wow this is my life” thought aside, and move on as if this is exactly how my life should be right now.
So exactly where do I fit into this environment? That seems to be in a state of constant flux-- both with respect to each new person that I meet here, and my self-perception that changes each new day that I live here. To the vegetable stall owner who learned about where I work, I’m the American defying the stereotype of being power hungry and lacking compassion to help others. To the auto driver I’m the rich American who can afford to pay double or triple the normal fare. To the expat or professional contact I’m the young idealist willing to take a little career risk. And to my maid…well, I have no idea how she perceives me since we don’t speak the same language (but damn she can cook and clean!).
That leaves my constantly evolving understanding of self. I go from defying my American government and culture one minute, to clinging onto anything that reminds me of America the next. When people ask my religion I feel slightly ashamed that I don’t identify myself with any religion in a country where people’s lives are defined by it. And how is it that I rationalize ignoring a small child begging for money, when such a small amount to me means so much to her?
All of this leaves me wondering how I ended up making a life for myself in such an unlikely place and why this has been something that I’ve wanted to do for so long. I didn’t really imagine that I would be spending my commute to work trudging through ankle deep mud and dodging various forms of livestock’s excrement. Likewise, I didn’t think I would end up spending an evening in a smoky coffee shop listening to a local jazz band’s rendition of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” Yet these are the things that make up my life now. They provide the same stress, enjoyment, laughs, satisfaction, etc. that my old routine back in D.C. did. So as I go through the process of figuring out how I fit in--wondering how my life changed so drastically—I find it easiest to just brush the “wow this is my life” thought aside, and move on as if this is exactly how my life should be right now.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Exporting Halloween
My Halloween experience in Bangalore deserves its own post. I had low expectations when it came to celebrating Halloween here, but to my surprise the thriving expat community/my personal ambition brought some life to what would otherwise be a very dead holiday.
This past Saturday my roommate Max and I joined about 75 other expats for an outdoor Halloween party sponsored by a hotel. We managed to convince the security guards at our job to allow us to borrow their uniforms, and arrived at the party decked out from head to toe in Security Guard finery. After exchanging glances with the hotel security staff, we made our way into the party. Surprisingly, people took their costumes quite seriously and covered the entire spectrum, from a group dressed as ABBA, to Captain Jack Sparrow, to bloody prom queens.
Of course, Halloween Day couldn’t go by without taking part in the age-old tradition of carving jack-o-lanterns. As you can imagine, pumpkins aren’t as abundant in India, so Sumit, Diana and I made due with a watermelon. I wonder if this means I’ll be decorating a palm tree this year for Christmas?
This past Saturday my roommate Max and I joined about 75 other expats for an outdoor Halloween party sponsored by a hotel. We managed to convince the security guards at our job to allow us to borrow their uniforms, and arrived at the party decked out from head to toe in Security Guard finery. After exchanging glances with the hotel security staff, we made our way into the party. Surprisingly, people took their costumes quite seriously and covered the entire spectrum, from a group dressed as ABBA, to Captain Jack Sparrow, to bloody prom queens.
Of course, Halloween Day couldn’t go by without taking part in the age-old tradition of carving jack-o-lanterns. As you can imagine, pumpkins aren’t as abundant in India, so Sumit, Diana and I made due with a watermelon. I wonder if this means I’ll be decorating a palm tree this year for Christmas?
Merry Dasara
Two weekends ago, I took my first Saturday off since being in India to get together with several other fellows (Sumit, Diana, Vanitha, Menaka, and Nafessa) to go to Mysore and take part in the Dasara festivities. The non-Bangalorians arrived via overnight train early on Friday morning and enjoyed the day taking part in all of the conveniences that a city has to offer (mainly shopping). After work I jetted off to meet them for some dinner at “The Only Place,” a nice 
outdoor restaurant that serves purely western food. I had a chicken sandwich, fries, and a salad (that’s right, a salad), plus mac-n-cheese and garlic bread was shared for starters. IT WAS FANTASTIC! (As a side note, my roommate and I have placed an order for a 20lb. turkey from The Only Place, to be delivered November 21. We are planning a full Thanksgiving feast.) After dinner we had some wine and desserts to celebrate Vanitha’s birthday, and headed out for a few drinks before the bars close at a pathetic 11:30pm.
Early Saturday morning we made our way to the bus station and hopped on the first coach headed to Mysore. Three hours later we arrived and were picked up by Menaka’s cousin Padma, who we would be spending the weekend with. Padma lives with her father and two children in a beautiful and comfortable home. Their sense of hospitality was unlike any I’ve experienced before. It was fantastic, but also different than I was used to, which led to some minor faux pas. In general, it seems that being a good guest in India means really just allowing the host to treat you like royalty. They generally cant do enough to make you feel comfortable, well fed, at home, happy, etc.—and as a guest you have to just sit back and enjoy all they offer. One small example is when it comes to eating. Typically I would assume that clearing my plate is a sign that I’ve enjoyed the meal and am completely satisfied and happy. I learned from the uncle, that in fact, a host wants their guest to leave some food on the plate, to show that you are full and satisfied with the meal.
As far as the Dassara festivities go, it was really a unique experience that reminded me of a combination of Times Square on New Years Eve and Disney World. Mysore’s most famous attraction is a palace that once belonged to the King of the state of Mysore. For Dassara, every inch of the castle is lit up when it gets dark. It’s beautiful, and draws a crowd of hundreds of thousands.
The final day of dassara (there are 10), there is a huge parade of elephants and floats that begins at the palace and goes through town. We thought we were being smart and avoiding the crowd, by watching it towards the end of the route from a side street. We were about as smart as half a million other people, who also decided to watch from the same spot. The elephants and parade were impressive, but I was much more fascinated by the immense crowd and everything that was going on around me.
We also had a chance to stop in at a local temple. I had no idea what I was doing, but just tried to follow the actions of the people around me. Hopefully I wasn’t too offensive.
All in all the weekend provided some much needed time with friends, a healthy dose of family life, and sites that will stick with me for a life
outdoor restaurant that serves purely western food. I had a chicken sandwich, fries, and a salad (that’s right, a salad), plus mac-n-cheese and garlic bread was shared for starters. IT WAS FANTASTIC! (As a side note, my roommate and I have placed an order for a 20lb. turkey from The Only Place, to be delivered November 21. We are planning a full Thanksgiving feast.) After dinner we had some wine and desserts to celebrate Vanitha’s birthday, and headed out for a few drinks before the bars close at a pathetic 11:30pm.Early Saturday morning we made our way to the bus station and hopped on the first coach headed to Mysore. Three hours later we arrived and were picked up by Menaka’s cousin Padma, who we would be spending the weekend with. Padma lives with her father and two children in a beautiful and comfortable home. Their sense of hospitality was unlike any I’ve experienced before. It was fantastic, but also different than I was used to, which led to some minor faux pas. In general, it seems that being a good guest in India means really just allowing the host to treat you like royalty. They generally cant do enough to make you feel comfortable, well fed, at home, happy, etc.—and as a guest you have to just sit back and enjoy all they offer. One small example is when it comes to eating. Typically I would assume that clearing my plate is a sign that I’ve enjoyed the meal and am completely satisfied and happy. I learned from the uncle, that in fact, a host wants their guest to leave some food on the plate, to show that you are full and satisfied with the meal.
As far as the Dassara festivities go, it was really a unique experience that reminded me of a combination of Times Square on New Years Eve and Disney World. Mysore’s most famous attraction is a palace that once belonged to the King of the state of Mysore. For Dassara, every inch of the castle is lit up when it gets dark. It’s beautiful, and draws a crowd of hundreds of thousands.
The final day of dassara (there are 10), there is a huge parade of elephants and floats that begins at the palace and goes through town. We thought we were being smart and avoiding the crowd, by watching it towards the end of the route from a side street. We were about as smart as half a million other people, who also decided to watch from the same spot. The elephants and parade were impressive, but I was much more fascinated by the immense crowd and everything that was going on around me.
We also had a chance to stop in at a local temple. I had no idea what I was doing, but just tried to follow the actions of the people around me. Hopefully I wasn’t too offensive.
All in all the weekend provided some much needed time with friends, a healthy dose of family life, and sites that will stick with me for a life
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