Bangalore, India.

I'm sitting on my bed reading Ayerveda : Health, Happiness and Longevity, when the cleaning lady knocks on my door. I let her in and we begin our bilingual chit-chat in English and Kannadá (the local language). "Hello," she says. "Namaskara," I reply. Linguistically exhausted, our conversation ends there.

When I moved in, I found out that the cleaning lady is conveniently included in my monthly rent. But there were no cleaning products, so I went out and bought (pay close attention) a mop, broom and dustpan, toilet bowl brush and cleaner, scrub brush, floor/tile cleaner, a broom-size squeegee device and two buckets.

Ah, buckets. India loves buckets. At least twice a week, usually early enough to wake me, the bucket-man comes down my street loudly yelling "Buckets! Buckets!" in Kannadá. He pushes a bicycle that has no less than 100 colorful plastic buckets tied to it in all directions. Sometimes he even has a pushcart that can carry untold numbers of buckets. (These bicycle-riding bucketmen and their monstrous bucket-bikes are also members of the infamous Bangalore traffic). In addition to the cleaning purposes buckets serve in the U.S., buckets here are also used to carry water from the local well, transport a variety of market foods, as a washbasin for laundry, as a sink, a shower and I'm sure a million other things that go on behind closed doors. I am fascinated by the ability that many people here have to carry heavy buckets on their heads. Once I saw a woman carrying a stack of sticks and wood on her head that was half her own height. How did she get them up there? I consider plastic buckets to be quite durable, but apparently there is a never-ending need for new buckets, hence the professional bucketman. (Lately I've started to break out into song whenever I see a bucketman..to the tune of Elton John's Rocketman, of course. Go ahead, try it. "Bucketmaaaaaaaaan.")

The cleaning lady gets to work. From my bed, I have a clear view of the inside of the bathroom, where she starts. My plan was to finish reading the page I was on, and then leave so she could clean in peace. It's a little uncomfortable doing leisure reading while someone is being paid who-knows-how-little to clean my apartment. So I read one more paragraph and glance up just in time to see her put toilet bowl cleaner in my sink. "No big deal," I thought, but I kept watching. Then she put it all over the bathroom floor. "Still, I guess that's OK." Then she began scrubbing the bathroom floor with the toilet bowl brush. Now I was getting nervous. Would the toilet bowl brush be freely passed from the toilet to the sink? And what about the mop? Of course I couldn't say anything to her, quite literally, but also because no one wants to be told how to do their job. Keep in mind; I purchased all these cleaning items from a local store, so I figured they were commonly used. But as I watched her put some floor cleaner into the toilet, I knew that I had been sadly mistaken.

I now realized I was not going to leave my room anytime soon, but I still turned a page once in a while so as to appear fully enthralled in my book. Buckets were used to rinse the floor, and then the squeegee pushed the water to the drain in the corner. (There is no separation of shower and bathroom. All is tile, all is one). She came out into the bedroom and left. Quickly she returned with her own broom. Apparently mine was inferior. Her broom consisted of a bundle of broom-fibers about 2 feet long, tied together at one end with no handle. This meant that she had to get on her hands and knees or a very low squatting position in order to sweep the floor, with a sideways motion. I thought it looked really uncomfortable, but when I saw how quickly and thoroughly she swept the whole room, I had to give her credit. And the dustpan? No need for it. Everything got swept out of my room and magically disappeared.

The second time she came over, I wasn't home. What a mistake that was. Apparently I missed quite a show. You see, my bathroom has no storage area. No counter, no cabinet. Just a sink, a toilet, and a showerhead. So I have taken the lead from the Bucketmaaaaan (sing along now!) and use two buckets to separately hold my cleaning supplies and my shower supplies. Now I guess these are both technically cleaning supplies, but it has never occurred to me use Tilex floor cleaner on skin as sensitive as mine. However, I came home to find that the contents of the two cleaning buckets had been mixed. The Shampoo was in the same bucket as the Tilex and the Lavender Body Wash was in the same bucket as the Toilet Cleaner, etc.

Mr. Clean was mingling with Paul Mitchell!! ( I had always suspected.) I looked around, searching for evidence. Had my entire bathroom been luxuriously treated to an Apricot Facial Scrub? Perhaps. But alas, all the residue had been squeegeed away. Who knows what crimes of cleaning had taken place here. From then on, I have taken to hiding my personal shower supplies in my clothes closet whenever I know she's coming over. She must think I'm insane. But still, every once in a while I think I smell the subtle fragrance of lavender emanating from my toilet. And last week my sink had that special glow that can only come from a thorough exfoliation.

Bucketmaaaaaaaaan,

Manic Tweed

Let's take a moment to discuss my front door in Bangalore. There are seven (7) "locking mechanisms" (LMs) on my front door. I know this comes as no surprise to those of you living in crime-ridden metropolitan areas, but don't dismiss my suburban wonderment so easily. First let me describe these "locks." Try to follow.

Let's start from the top, literally. On the INSIDE (this is important) of the door, LM #1 latches the top of the door to the horizontal part of the doorframe. It is most similar to a bathroom stall lock. The kind that are "L" shaped and slide into a hole then lock down into place. Moving about a third of the way down is LM#2. This is a key-activated dead-bolt. Inside the same mechanism is LM#3. This is a manually activated dead-bolt upon which the key has no effect. Cruising past the door handle, which is nothing more than a metal bar, two-thirds of the way down the door, are LM#4 and LM#5. These are exact replicates of LM#2 and LM#3. In fact, the same key operates #2 and #4. At the bottom of the door (are you still with me?) is LM#6, which is another sliding lock identical to the one on the top of the door. Now, wipe the sweat off your brow and step to the outside of the door. Here, in my bright pink-tiled entry way (and when I say pink-tiled, I mean the entry way walls. They complement the yellow exterior. Yes, I live in fairy-tale colored house. Hold your comments). Back to the door of perpetual knocking. On the outside of the door we find the two keyholes for LM#2 and LM#4. Then we come to the last LM, lucky number 7. I call this one the Golden Rod, not only because of it is gold-colored metal, but also due to the vital role it plays in my life. It also doubles as the door handle. The Golden Rod locks into a hole drilled out of the cement wall. A padlock is required to lock this in place. However, we do not have a padlock. Nevertheless, when the Golden Rod is in place without the lock, it effectively locks the door for anyone unfortunate enough to still be inside. ..>..>

So, if we total the LMs in a different fashion, we find that four locks are only operable from inside the door, two locks are operable from both sides of the door, and one lock is operable only from the outside. Can I even begin to tell you the confusion that reigns in my house when it comes to issues of door security? No amount of security guard training prepared me for this.

I live with 5 college students in something of an Indian fraternity house. (Sigma VishNu? Delta Delta Ganges?). Not all of us have keys to the key-accessible locks (don't question this or the possibility of key duplication). Twice now, our neighbors have heard the distressing call of 2 or 3 of us yelling from our rooftop in 2 or 3 different languages, begging to be let OUT of our house, thanks to the thoughtless use of the Golden Rod by a departing housemate. After all, besides the Golden Rod, it requires a key to shut the front door. This takes time, and as I mentioned, we don't all even have keys. Those of you who are still with me may be saying, "Matt, enough drama, go out the window already." And I would, but all the windows have metal bars on them.

My latest experience with the door was last weekend when I got home late from a dance club (an entirely separate column) to find the door locked from the inside using a variety of the 4 internal locks. After 35 minutes of fruitlessly banging the Golden Rod against the door and throwing pebbles at windows, I discovered a long metal pole and tapped the second-floor window of my housemate, scaring him half to death. He eventually opened the window, saw me, and said, "Matt! What? Can't you sleep?"

The next morning I duct-taped the internal locking mechanisms and declared that we should only use keys. The landlord has since removed the tape, and now our door usually just swings open, none of us wanting to get locked in or out. Or maybe they're just scared of what I'll do next.

 

I've been in Bangalore for less than one month and the most life-changing experience I've had must be the auto-rickshaws. These contraptions are motorbikes, cars and rickshaws all rolled into one terrifying machine, driven by often shoe-less men who seem to welcome death at every opportunity.

It has three wheels. The driver sits on a small seat in front. There is a bench in the back that fits 2 or 3 people. It is totally enclosed in some kind of metal, from the windshield to back behind the passenger area except for the side entry areas. The bench is set back inside and covered. A barrier halfway up separates the passenger from the driver.

The whole thing is probably half the size of a Volkswagen Bug. It reminds me of those amusement park rides that are enclosed-round-things that spin upside-down if you lean and push hard enough. It is started with a crank-like device at the foot of the driver and is then driven like a motorcycle. Sure, it sounds fun, but once you get these things in Indian traffic, the nightmare begins.

Indian traffic only has one rule: He who arrives first, wins. I'm pretty sure if someone could arrive first but dead, he'd still technically beat out anyone arriving alive in second place. By far, the majority of vehicles are motorcycles and mopeds, followed closely by the infamous auto-rickshaws, then cars, buses and trucks. Not to mention the truly suicidal-types who ride pedal-bikes.

There are no lanes, no speed limits, lots of traffic circles and few traffic lights. (Note on the traffic circles.I've never actually seen one, since if I know one is approaching, I usually close my eyes). Plus, thanks to those insane Brits, everything goes on the left side of the road, making it all the more scary for me since my first instinct is to veer right when a huge truck of cucumbers is barreling toward me. Even the middle divider "line", separating oncoming traffic, is merely a suggestion. Inches become incredibly valuable lifesaving units of measurements. And horns? Of course they sound the horns, but who can decipher one horn from the other 4 million horns that are sounding simultaneously? Horns are used as warnings, turn signals, yielding devices, open-rickshaw announcements, "all clears," and a variety of curses I am still learning.

Just when I thought I was getting used to it, open-eyed and all, I became involved in what can only be described as a scene of rickshaw-road-rage, or rick-rage, as I like to call it. My driver was just plain angry at the world, and he let everyone know it. Honking, swearing, swerving in front of cars. We did arrive in record time, but I'm pretty sure we were only on two wheels in that last traffic circle. Which two wheels? I don't want to know.

And then it rained. For a country that can't get enough monsoons, I was thrilled to see that rickshaws have no windshield wipers, except for a long piece of cloth which is flung by the driver from the side until it wipes the windshield "clean". Difficult in anything more than a drizzle. And do I really want my driver flinging rags around while maneuvering through this kind of traffic? (Though I have seen people in the U.S. do the same thing with ice-scrapers and snow-brooms. You know who you are.)

My other rickshaw near death experience (well, aren't they all?) was when I realized that the open sides of the rickshaws are at the exact level of the side-exhaust pipes on large trucks and buses. So when we recently pulled up to a stop light alongside a city bus with a maximum of 2 inches between us, there was the exhaust pipe perfectly positioned. The rickshaw filled with fumes in about 4 seconds. And as if to add one last kick to a dead man, when the light turned green the bus driver floored it, spewing enough fresh fumes into my rickshaw to keep me gasping for the next 3 blocks. Years off my life, I tell you, years off my life.

Theres a geezer in my bathroom. And I think it's HOT.
Yes, its true. At this very moment, while I sit here at work, there is a geezer waiting for me at home in my bathroom, all warmed up. And I wouldnt have it any other way.

I went apartment hunting my first week in India. I had no idea what I was doing. I didnt even know the right questions to ask. In the States, its easy. You ask stuff like, Are the utilities included? Are these walls soundproof? Do you mind if I put mirrors on the ceiling?

But here, the right questions eluded me. I asked things like, What is that? Can you convert that into dollars? Will I have keys to all these locks?
I looked at 3 apartments in the not-so-ritzy neighborhood of Cholanayakanahalli (yes, there are 6 letter As in that word) before it even occurred to me to ask if there was any hot water. Then I thought that maybe I needed to back it up and first ask if there was any water at all. I was leaping over the learning curve.

The next apartment I saw consisted of a few rooms above someones home. As I was looking around, I came across a closed door. Being a curious prospective tenant, I reached to open the door, hoping to maybe find a swimming pool or racquetball court. Yeah. Suddenly the owner of the place said something loud and warning-like in a foreign tongue. But it was too late, and I looked inside to find a half-naked old man sleeping on a mattress that looked as old as he was. Quickly, the translation came from my real estate agent. Thats his grandfather. I closed the door and lightly responded, Oh, does he come with the place?
Silence. Then concerned, hesitant smiles came across their faces. I think maybe they missed my sarcasm and thought I was actually requesting that the old man be included in the rent. Who knows what the crazy American will want next. Ceiling mirrors?

A bit flustered by the possibility of sharing my apartment with an older man, I didnt remember to ask about the water situation until we were outside. In response to my first question concerning any water at all, I got an affirmative answer and a look of disgust for my American arrogance. So I quickly proceeded to my second question, concerning HOT water. Now the tables were turned. The agent ran back into the house to ask the owner. He came out and said, Sorry, theres no Geezer, but you can use The Coil.

Assuming I had misunderstood his accented English, I asked him to repeat himself. Again he said, Theres no Geezer, so youll have to use The Coil.

Silence. Then a concerned, hesitant smile came across my face. Do I dare respond? Of course.so I said, Oh, theres a geezer alright. I saw him. But what about the hot water? (Never mind The Coil). He did not reply. Was I being honest or trying to be funny? Maybe I was just stupid? Neither of us knew for sure.

Ok, now, if youre confused reading this, only imagine my utter helplessness as it was happening in real time. Lets be honest, I had NO IDEA what was going on. My mind raced to find an explanation or anything that explained the link between hot water, geezers and coils. Besides disturbing images of the old man somehow manually heating my bathwater, my mind was blank. So it was time to come clean. I looked him straight in the eyes and confessed. I dont know what the hell youre talking about. Whats a geezer? Whats The Coil?
Im sure by now he was wondering to himself whether his commission was enough compensation for all this extra trouble, but he mercifully explained that geezers and coils are two different ways to heat water. A geezer is a hot water tank. Its named after those huge hot water fountains that shoot out of the ground.
OOOOHHHHHHHHH! A geyser! I exclaimed.
A what? he asked.
A guy-zer. Its how we say geezer.
Oh, he murmured.
He was SO done with me. Unfortunately for him, I was just getting started.

Now, on to The Coil. It sounds so scary, I just had to know more. It turns out The Coil is the economically challenged (we are very P.C. in my field) mans alternative to the geezer. Get this: Its a metal coil connected to a cord, which is then plugged into a wall socket. The ELECTRIFIED METAL COIL is then placed, BY HAND, directly into a bucket of WATER until its sufficiently heated. For safety reasons, its best to use a plastic bucket. Um, can I just pause here for a second and comment on the fact there is actually a safety protocol for how to properly put an electrical metal coil into a bucket of water. That's like having a safety protocol for how to properly run with scissors or how to light your furnace with a firecracker. I think for safety reasons, its best to forget The Coil and take a cold shower! However, as a sensitive foreigner, I kept these comments to myself. Though, as he explained all this, he must have seen the look of horror on my face, because he concluded with, Ill make sure we find you a place with a good geezer.
Agreed, I said, I just cant live without a good geezer, and we continued the search for my future Cholanayakanahalli bachelor pad, geezer included.