NPR; All Things Considered

Hi all,

A couple days ago, I moved into my apartment here in North East D.C. at 4 and V. It's a nice place, a row house with a few roommates. Marc, who works nights at Dominoes, Roland, GW grad student and Trey, a research assistant at the Federal Reserve.

Now: NPR! All Things Considered, (well, mostly opinions!) Orientation was Tuesday. I shall start Monday at 7am sharp. That's 27 minutes before sunrise,and means I'll wake earlier than I've ever consistently woke up in my life. Ideally, I'll bike to work--if I can ever get my bike out of the shop.

Cereal and Beer, Heels and Subway

A few days before I was to leave the country, I got sick with the flu. I called in to work (actually, I realized I didn't even have the school's number, but eventually I found it) saying I would be sick. The assistant answered my call, told me to feel better, and insisted I take medicine or go to the hospital. Medicine, hospital? That's a bit strange.

My supervisor called me an hour later. She asked if I had taken medicine or had gone to hospital. What's with this hospital business? She made it a point to say that they desperately needed me and expected me in later that day.

Reading online, I found that it's quite uncommon for a Korean to miss a day of work or school on account of being ill. So be it. I'll go into school and I'll infect the entire classroom.


Why do all Korean women wear heels? And yes, even on planes or when they know they're going to be walking on dirt all day?

Koreans have funny ways of walking across streets. You will see people calmly walking and then, suddenly, they spot that the crosswalk is green! They sprint! Kids old ladies, doesn't matter. Doesn't matter that the crosswalk may have just turned green either. The run looks more like an incredibly fast paced shuffle, usually because they're carrying bags. Anyways, it's not weird that they run to/across crosswalks. There's just something odd for me about the manner in which they do it.


Seoul's subway is a fascinating aspect of the city. For one, it's huge. Two, it's so big, with 10 subway lines, it even covers other cities, like Suwon, with a population of 1 million. Many of the cars have lcd televisions built into them which display advertisements and the like. Most stations, as well, have some type of lcd technology whereby they accurately depict the location of previous trains. It's pretty cool and efficient as hell.


Cereal and Beer

Cereal is a problem here in Seoul. Why does it cost $5 a box? And why is it all sugary and tasteless? If you like knock off frosted flakes, though, you might be in heaven.

Not to mention milk. It's more than double the price of the U.S.

And beer. There's nothing exciting on this front, with the possible exception that larger grocery chains are carrying more exotic foreign labels—especially in the foreigner districts! Generally, you're likely to find Hite, Hite D (Dry Finish), Cass, Cass Red, OB Golden, OB Max, and Hite Stout. With the exception of Hite Stout, they're all pretty much interchangable. None are particularly bad, it's just that they're all American lager type clones. Hite Stout, is a halfway decent stout, not offensive on the palate.

These will all cost about $1 a bottle.

In the average grocery store, for foreign beers, you're almost guaranteed to find Hoegaarden and Budweiser. I'm not sure why, but these beers are universal. Foreign beers will usually cost at least double the local stuff.

Working Flu

A few days before I was to leave the country, I got sick with the flu. I called in to work (actually, I realized I didn't even have the school's number, but eventually I found it) saying I would be sick. The assistant answered my call, told me to feel better, and insisted I take medicine or go to the hospital. Medicine, hospital? That's a bit strange.

My supervisor called me an hour later. She asked if I had taken medicine or had gone to hospital. What's with this hospital business? She made it a point to say that they desperately needed me and expected me in later that day.

Reading online, I found that it's quite uncommon for a Korean to miss a day of work or school on account of being ill. So be it. I'll go into school and I'll infect the entire classroom.

Minutes of the Secret Council of Fort William 1780

I'm looking at the Secret Council of Fort William's very secret notes from 1780. All hand written, almost indecipherable. Big loopy letters like the declaration of independence.

They come in giant bound volumes, each surrounded by a grey box, which is knotted closed.

Time, Time, Time

Although I'm now in London, I feel as if I should write a bit about life in Seoul. I arrived in South Korea on the 27 of August and departed three weeks later on September 17. For me it was three great weeks to live in Seoul, three bad weeks to work in Seoul. But, more on that later.

Now that I'm out of the country, I feel that I can talk more freely. And I have the energy and will to do so.

Seoul is a city that still shows signs of its recent and ongoing industrialization. Called the miracle on the han river, it's truly and incredible city, massive yet densely populated with. It does a good job of holding all these people and tall apartment buildings dot the often hazy sky—which I'm not sure is pollution or fog, though I suspect it is a mix. The subway runs frequently and quickly, following a neurotic timetable. Indeed, timeliness is godliness in this country. And this neuroticism knows little bounds.

I remember my first week at Evan English School. I had 20 minute classes. 15 of them. Yes, I counted, 15 classes a day. It was utterly exhausting, darting from room to room with a little basket full of a boatload of books, my only instructions being to do “review” with the kids with books they had already finished that I had no time to look over.

Suffice to say, I got very adept at introducing myself to a bunch of kids. Who am I, What's my name, where do I come from. That, and playing games with them. Until, of course, I was instructed by my supervisor that I was no longer permitted to play games with them. Which left me with.... a whole bunch of finished textbooks I had never seen before.

Point of this description is to say that once every 20 minutes were over, if I did not stop my instruction at exactly 20 minutes past once I entered, my supervisor would hurriedly march down the hall, enter the room, and inform me that I was late to the next class! I was late! It was more of an oddity than anything; timeliness taken to a rigid and stressful extreme.

At the British Library in London

I will tell the tale of how I went from London to Korea in a few hours but, for now, I pour over old books at the British Library. I am amazed at the wealth of material here. (I'll also tell more about my scholarship in a bit).

It's incredible how the Cape of Good Hope (Modern South Africa) and British India were so interconnected. The correspondence from Fort William (Modern Calcutta/Kolkata) to London is replete with references to the British Cape of Good Hope. In 1799, the British had just conquered South Africa. So that year marks the first year of their colonial rule there. That's when my study of South African newspapers for my thesis commenced. The Governor of General of Fort William wrote to London of his reception from the governor of the Cape of Good Hope a letter that the new colony "was in great want of proper timber."

The Governor-General of India sent timber as well as rice, which was "very scare and very dear" and other goods to the fledgling colony with his own initiative, separate from London.

Since every boat that went to British India made a stopover in Cape Town, these colonies were intimately connected. South Africa was an eminently strategic acquistion as it straddled all shipping lanes to and from the spice rich East Indies.

A happy and prosperous British India required a happy and prosperous British South Africa.

First Days in Seoul

Hello all!

This is my first post from the bustling, busy-busy city of Seoul. I'll just start off with a quick layout of the first few days here.

I left early in the morning on Friday, the 26th from Bradley Int'l. The school pays the cost of the flight, which is a standard feature of the contract and quite a nice perk. I arrived here in Korea on the 27th at about 3:30 pm Korean Standard Time. I'm thirteen hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time. So, if it is 1pm on the east coast, it's 2am here in Korea. Likewise, if it is 5pm here in Korea, it would be 3am in Missouri.

The flight was uneventful, though I met an American couple who were traveling to the southern Korean city of Cheongju to teach English. The flight over from Chicago O'Hare to Seoul was pretty much composed of entirely Koreans or young Americans, of whom I presume were all going to teach English in Seoul.

My recruiter's—the contractor who helped match me up with an English school here—driver drove me to the hagwon (Hagwon means private English school in Korea). There, I met the director of the school, who doesn't speak English, which is a bit ironic. He showed me the school and then drove me to my apartment. All the directions are in Korean, including addresses. Moreover, street numbers are assigned based on the order in which buildings on the street were built, not one where they are on the road. Even further, this numbering system is often irrelevant since most building don't actually have their building number on them. Imagine the confusion if I were to get lost!

I spent Sunday wandering around the Mok-Dong district of the city, the district where I live and work. I found a few grocery stores, so I know where I'll be doing my shopping.

Monday I began work. The director picked me up at 11:30 and we arrived at work 10 minutes later. I was there until 9. A long day! At the end of the day, I walked home. A short walk, perhaps 15 minutes.

So, I'm just getting settled here and I don't know anyone yet, but hopefully that will change.

Look forward to more blog posts! I'll make them more interesting about adjusting to life here and culture in Seoul. I'll certainly talk more the hagwon (school), too—of which I have a lot to say but want to hold off on because of some rather interesting occurrences that have taken place there.

That's all for now folks!

Nepal and India: A World of Difference

Nepal and India: a world of difference
By aotis
Published on November 04, 2010 5:04 AM · Last updated: November 04, 2010 6:42 AM

Away from the heat, away from the crowds. On our bus ride, the snowy peaks of the Himalayas pierced the gray clouds, rising high above anything imaginable.
We had crossed through the Indian border town of Sunauli, a hot, dusty one-way fare with more than the usual amount of touts and scam artists. Finally we had arrived in Nepal — traveling from Hyderabad — a promised land of personal space, cold and mountains.

If you spend enough time in one culture it seems that actions that once struck you as foreign and idiosyncratic become normal. India, with all its oddities — intense crowds, cows, monkeys, slaughtered animals and men bathing on the same street — had become our reality, our normalcy.

At the Lucknow train station in India we had waited interminably for our nine-hour-late train. We received the usual stares from our Indian ‘groupies’ at the station. If there’s one thing I have learned in India, it is that you can’t fight the system. There’s nothing one can do to make that train arrive on time.

In our boredom at the station we began singing Beatles’ songs, “Amazing Grace” — any song we could think of.

Quickly a crowd grew around us. To these people, we could say we were anyone we wanted. A famous musician, a scientist, John Lennon, Richard Feynman. No one would know.

That moment when we entered Nepal provided an incredible relief. It was at that border crossing that I realized a tremendous difference between the two countries on the sub-continent.

In Nepal we foreigners were not asked the infamous litany of questions that we equate to a game of 20 questions.

Indians are fantastically curious about Western culture. We always get the same exact questions: “From which country?” and “What’s your good name?” Sometimes we’re asked extremely odd questions, such as what we had for breakfast or “Do you feel it with your girlfriend?”

The bizarre personal questions about our relationship statuses or sexual preferences or even sexual advances take you aback. From being asked directly if we want to “fuck,” to having a man grab your crotch, point to his mouth and make sucking noises — it can be tiring, but also extremely entertaining.

While Nepal is in some ways more impoverished than India, the people ask less intrusive questions.

Like anything in India, the types of questions one gets is related to one’s gender. As a man, I frequently get sexual advances (blond hair also helps). Foreign women are usually avoided, perhaps the Indian men are afraid of seeming perverted.

There is such a cultural disconnect here between Americans and many Indians that it often makes in-depth conversations impossible.

I say these things with huge caveats. There is only a small segment of Indian society that we have these interesting interactions with.

It’s strange. The more western the area is in India and the more tourists that visit it, the more cultured and, well, Western, people seem. That is, the longer the British colonized the region, the more culturally accessible people are.

But that logic does not work with Nepal, where the British never colonized but the people are surprisingly normal. In Nepal we’re not asked these personal questions.

For a foreigner, simply being left alone is a tremendous relief.

Nevertheless, problems of poverty and pollution in Nepal remain, and are even exacerbated compared to India.

I remember we passed a street child on the Nepali side of the border. He was lying face down on a wooden plank next to rubbish, in a most unnatural position, covered in dirt and flies — dead and ignored.

Nepal does a good job of covering up these faults. But only in tourist areas is it possible to buy steak dinners at sit-down restaurants on swept, clean streets.

If you can wake up early enough in Kathmandu before other tourists, you can see the homeless on the streets and the kids that have snorted glue.

At the end of our sojourn we crossed back into India through the same dusty, crowded town of Sunauli.

The touts, noticing our confusion as we waded through the bureaucratic mess of Indian immigration, offered to find us an overpriced taxi to the train station. The ringleader insisted on calling me his “Handsome Little Man,” along with some other creepy advances. Yes, I realized that I was back in India.

Oh, India.

You can contact Andrew at aotis@u.rochester.edu

Lake near Melugu

Stranger in a strange land: Hyderabad style

We entered the 1,000 Pillar Temple in Warangal and were blessed. The monk applied the red mark — the Kumkum — to our grimy, dirty, ignorant, American foreheads in this holy place.

Tourists draw attention and stares in the crowded markets of the densely populated city of Hyderabad, India on a sunny afternoon.

There were stares all around us. Piercing, unwavering, persistent. Staring into our eyes. Staring back did nothing.

Videos were shot of us. Photos were taken. Indians approached us, sometimes giddy and nervous, and asked to take photos with us. The next day we appeared in photos and articles for at least two local newspapers.

From the Taj Mahal and the Red Fort of Agra, to the caves of Ajanta and Ellora, to the Ramappa Temple, to the cheesy Ramoji Film studios, to walking down the streets of Hyderabad or Delhi or the Pink City of Jaipur, we stick out.

We, foreigners, are the tourist attraction.

Much of the excitement resides in the rough side of travel. Three hours outside of
Hyderabad, for example, lies the small city of Warangal. The city is at the heart of the Telangana region of the Andhra Pradesh Province, a hotbed of separatist politics for the Telangana minority.

We arrived in the city by train on second sitting class, assaulted by child beggars and the scent of urine and cow dung. Second sitting is the cheapest class, where Indians stand for hours on end. Trains operate with no air conditioning, you have to push through like human sardines to enter or exit. On our ride back our seats were taken by a gaggle of women and children and we did not have the heart to force them out. I spent my three-hour ride standing, engaged in a conversation with an American doctor returning to see his ailing mother and a child who taught me to count to 10 in Telugu.

On another train we missed our stop because we simply could not push our way out of the train car through the throng of closely packed people.

On a third I sat with the train workers who repeatedly attempted to make me write with my right hand. Writing with your left hand can be considered a sign of dirtiness, especially considering Indian caste notions of purity and pollution.

Farther from Warangal is the small town of Melugu, whose existence is reliant on the main road that bisects it. Cows, like in so much of India, idle in the dusty streets.

Here, to host a wealthy foreigner is an honor and a sign of prestige. Indian men offered us a ride on their two motorbikes, fitting four people on each. We soon became best friends and conspicuously said cheers over a “Thums Up” (similar to Coke) at one man’s small cell phone shop so that the whole village could see. We ate at a local restaurant with our hands — the common way to eat. I could not open my eyes under the food’s torrent of spice and heat.

To a foreigner, chaos pervades. Auto rickshaws, cars, motorbikes, bicycles and people form a chaotic and terrifying mess on the roads. There are no street signs and traffic lights are often a suggestion. In India, smell assaults you. The smell of spices and street vendors is mouthwatering. The air is thick and buttery with a myriad of scents. The heat and humidity are oppressive during monsoon season.

Stories of travel, however, can obfuscate the true importance of what you are visiting. There is such history here, it’s impossible to visit everything. Empires have risen and fallen over centuries, while you spend just days visiting their ruins. And, like living anywhere on the globe, you meet a diverse group of people that make the journey special.

You can contact Andrew at andrew.otis@rochester.edu

Warangal and Ramappa Temple

We entered the 1000 Pillared Temple and were blessed. The monk applied the red mark on our foreheads, the KumKum. Us. Grimy, dirty, ignorant, shorts wearing Americans.

We entered temples were photographed. We were given more than the usual stares. The next day we appeared in photos and articles for at least two local papers. We were the tourist attraction.

Three hours outside of the city of Hyderabad lies the small city of Warangal. It has little tourist influence. The city lies at the heart of the Telangana region of the Andhra Pradesh Province, a hotbed of separatist politics for the Telangana minority in the province.

We arrived in the city, assaulted by child beggars and the scent of piss and cow dung, and moved from the train station to our hotel. Rooms booked at R130 per night per person, or 2.5 dollars. No AC, no Western Toilets and the usual myriad of scents wafting up from the alley behind.

There were eight of us that went, a good crowd of Americans, a Thai and a Mexican.

We made an early start to the town of Melugu, a further 75km from Warangal. It is a small town of maybe 5000 people, whose existence is solely reliant on the main road that bisects it. Cows, like elsewhere idle in the streets. Nearby, however, is the Ramappa Temple and the lake that sits 2km away.

Isolated and desolate, the temple sits in a green field with evidence of restoration. Like everywhere in India, we did have some odd company. A insane man, whose name sounded roughly like “Byah,” was our “security guard” until we convinced him that we were going to call the police.

Other Indians we more helpful. A bunch of guys transported us on their motorbikes. It's a treat fitting 4 people on to one small bike. Since we were such a big deal, we had cheers with “thums up” (a drink like coke) at his small cellphone shop. We ate food with our hands a restaurant so spicy that I could not open my eyes.

Higher Education

Higher Education

A flood of students scurry into your classroom, hurried and shushed. It's 11:20, twenty minutes after class's scheduled beginning.

The professor has just walked in.

The students stand up and address the professor as Sir or Madam.

Every day I lose more faith in India's higher education system. The University of Hyderabad is ranked number 1 in India as a postgraduate institution. But contrast this ranking to actual University academics and you get a much different image. In class, Some students have a maturity level similar to high school students. Male and female students frequently sit separate. Students pass notes in class and do not engage the professor. There is little real discussion in class, and this is a graduate level University. Students are receiving their Ph. D and their masters degrees, but often do not seem ready for such critical thinking. I must emphasize that many students are mature and competent and these issues are not the fault of the students, but rather a result of the structure of Higher Education here.

Professors do not help much for education. Here is a line for line quote from my Dalit Politics Professor in a 500 level second year masters course.

“it's a fragmenting, it's a fragmenting, fragmenting, fragmenting if you talk of inequality you can talk of inequality within the dominant class, but a graded graded inequality it's a political social that graded inequality. That graded inequality is the one, secondly. It is not the division of labor. Division of labor is a universal. Division of labor, division of laborers is different, division of laborers is different my friends, it's a very theoretical. So that division of labor. Graded inequality. ...it's a labor that is continues laborers, it is a 'laterlite' situation. It's a compartments, it's a vertical, not a horizontal. It's a very interesting that ambedkar formulation. To get a the caste system annihilation, of caste theory it is a very two thing, the two things are simplistic.“

Not entirely sure what he was getting at with this thought.

In Women's History in India we have started presenting seminar papers. On our first day, three students presented their papers. Each went up to the podium, opened their papers and read. Monotone, droning thick accent. They did not look up once. They did not make eye contact. Atrocious English. After each reading our Professor berated the class for not discussing the paper. I'd be surprised if any of the students would respond, either they were passing notes in class (which happens) or did not undertsand a word, like us.

Critical thinking among the majority of Indian students is lacking. Here Education is frequently based on wrote memorization so students can repeat information and dates back but cannot analyze information and readings. This difference of focus from the western system reflects itself in grading exams and emphasis in class.

Student Protest

Students Protested yesterday Today about the University not giving out Fellowships that were promised--essentially Scholarships for studying here and for the lack of transport to South Campus, a 2km walk to Main Campus.

The Pro-Vice Chancellor came out to meet them, The bald guy, dressed as a Brahman. He acceded to all their demands. The Vice Chancellor convientely left the University that day.

The Protest was led by a cooperation of political bodies on Campus and the Students' Union. They marched through campus attracting students. Consequently, most classes were cancelled.

file:///C:/Users/Otis/Pictures/2010%20India/MVI_3821.AVI

Monsooning

You can tell when the monsoon is coming in. The sky darkens, the air changes its smell. What was once a sunny day is covered with a deep gray overcast as imposing clouds roll in across the horizon.

This is monsoon season, where Hyderabad receives about seven or eight inches of rain, deposited often in the humid, languid afternoons.

The monsoon is a rain that drenches and is unlike any rain in the states. Sweeping bursts of rain, a torrential downpour. Lightening follows, striking the land around you. Sharp bolts pierce the clouds. Their glow flares in the gloomy sky. Reverberations of thunder rocket afterward.

Running out in the monsoon is a wetter experience than anything I've ever been in before. The roads turn into rivers. Feral dogs cross the street in front of you, scampering for shelter. Monkeys hide in tree canopies. All wildlife other than the dogs is out of sight.

The monsoon washes away the filth on the street. Effluent and waste travel to lower elevations.

With the monsoon, like clockwork, the power goes out. Usually for less than thirty minutes, though unusually for hours. Sometimes the newly installed generator kicks in, sometimes not. Usually when the generator does we work, we either have the fan, the internet or the AC working.

Riding an Elephant in Jaipur

The animal's back swayed a lot, so it made video rather difficult to shoot.

Video of Taj Mahal

From some reason the proxy here does not allow uploading photos, but videos seem to work.

Qutb Shahi Tombs

Grey rock domes pierce the low skyline, held up by massive square foundations. Minarets flank each aging tan dome. They are decrepit. Trees grow on their sides as time and weather as stripped all adornment from the buildings.

Shoes from those who enter adorn the ground outside the each building. These are the tombs of the Muslim rulers of Hyderabad in the 15th to the 17th centuries.

Hyderabad has a long history of muslim rule. Prior to the Mughals there existed the Delhi Sultanate in the north of the country. From it spawned the Qutb Shahi rulers of Hyderabad. The remains of their kingdom can be seen today in their splendid tombs. Seven in total on the site, with the last one unfinished—that king was overthrown by the Mughals. Nearby is Golconda Fort, situated on a hilltop, that protected the Hyderbadi state until the Mughals. I plan to go their soon.

The tombs were made to be a heaven on earth. Inside each tomb is a certain eery quiet, and a tomb with Arabic script sheathed in colorful cloth. But each tomb is empty. The true burial place lies below in the substructure of the tomb, designed to keep the king free from disturbance.

You can enter the actual tombs below, hewn from the rock underground, where light does not enter. Even with a candle, you cannot see more than a few feet. It is quite a sight.

Ramoji Film Studios

They are the largest film studios in the world, here in Hyderabad. Ramoji film studios are sprawling and tacky. A certain unreality permeates. Buildings are entirely plaster and fiberglass. Houses are only facades and a set that combines a hospital with an airport as well as a school indicate the extent to which one structure can be used for multiple purposes. There is even a fake hollywood sign to complete the scene. If there is one thing that ties Indians together and is cultural stable, it is a love of film, Bollywood, Tollywood and more.

But this fakeness and tackiness devolves the studios into a cheap trick. It's entertainment, such as a circus with a juggler and two midgets, resembles a park designed for 6 year olds and feels like America at its worst. There's a wild west, a “fundustan” Anyways, a couple of photos I'll post here.

Crossing Small Street in Hyderabad

Taj Mahal and Red Fort

From the Red Fort in Agra you can see the Taj Mahal. It stands alone over a green shrubby distance, shimmering white as heat waves flicker through the sky.

The building grows more impressive as you approach it. Looming, imposing and engulfing you as you approach it.

In July my tour group with AIFS toured through Agra in our hermetically sealed air condition van which provided the perfect excuse for Indians to stare at us through the windows. It is an odd stare that you receive as a foreigner. It is a stare that is not fleeting and is not ashamed. It is a stare out of intense curiosity and little knowledge of Western norms. They do not retract the stare when you stare back.

At one traffic jam a group of monkey handlers brought their monkeys up to our van and demanded payment for the photos we took. My window, which could not lock, was forced open. With cameras it is important to make sure you do not have to pay for what you capture. Many tourists sights, along with having prices for foreigners often 10 times that of Indians charge extra for cameras. Usually, though, you can get away with lying that you do not have a camera.

The fort is almost equally impressive building, used by Mughals to safeguard their empire. Like some things in India the entrance over the moat is marred by the putrid smell of sewage and garbage. As a city, Agra is nothing special. It's only attraction for tourists are its sights. Because this was a planned tour, we felt like real tourists, guided around with little context about the places we visited.

From Agra we traveled to Jaipur, a fascinating city.