Just another week in India

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.