Literacy Compaign

Triumph! Jeff and I finally bought produce yesterday! We've been subsisting on restaurant food, pasta and Maggi Noodles (basically Indian Top Ramen, which we're very grateful is vegetarian). Last night, we had steamed potatoes and carrots and truly fantastic mango and banana smoothies. Partially because we're cowards and partially because we have legitimate cause, we didn't try approaching our local vegetable and fruit sellers until we had someone who spoke Hindi with us to negotiate prices.

It's a bit strange to live in a place where the idea of a "Farmer's Market" is completely foreign. And by Farmer's Market, I mean usually overpriced, semi-elitist (and delicious and 100% worth supporting) produce, where you're greeted by happy, young vendors at pristine stalls with cutely labeled prices. We live off a major thoroughfare in Patna (amusingly called Boring Road), where there are dozens of surly looking men hovering near their carts piled high with some pretty impressive produce - some of it incredibly delicious looking, and some of it the worse for wear. There are of course no prices anywhere.

Now, let me share one of Jeff's favorite stories. He heard of a past JPAL RA assigned to a different state in India, who had just arrived in her new home city and excitedly went out and bought a small bunch of bananas. The most popular bananas here are about 1/3 the size of those in the U.S. She was very proud of her acquisition and went back to home base, where another RA asked her how much she had spent on them. She told him that she spent 500 rupees. Now, that's the punchline for those of us who have become accustomed to Indian prices. As a frame of reference, the exchange rate to USD hovers around 45:1, which has her tiny little bunch of bananas coming out to over $11. More to the point, when we bought bananas last night, we paid Rs 10. This is what happens when ignorant people are let loose and put at the mercy of enterprising produce vendors.

We were quite reasonably hesitant to initiate negotiations when we were unable to communicate. So we borrowed a Hindi-speaking JPAL staff member who Jeff met in his project in Uttar Pradesh in January/February (and actually hired for JPAL, which he reminds us of frequently, since the guy's quite popular). And it was effortless, with our friend at our side. We'll see how it goes next time.

Given that this posting's title is "Literacy Compaign" (drawn from an official gov't website, of course), I thought I might share two more stories from yesterday to illustrate how incredibly important it is that we learn Hindi as quickly as possible.

First, last night I received a phone call from a number that I didn't recognize at about 11pm. I answered it, and there was a guy on the other end who actually spoke a little English, who I believe apologized for calling the wrong number. Then he remarked that I didn't sound like I was "of India," and I said no, I'm American. And then he repeated a statement probably 5 or 6 times that I was quite sure I didn't understand, until I realized that yes, in fact, he was saying, "do you want to have sex with me?" At which I replied in a very flustered tone, "Gosh no," and hung up.

Now, onto the second "learning Hindi is very important" story: I've been unable to set up my Indian bank account yet at ICICI bank ("eye-see-eye-see-eye," or, as Jeff and I call it, ICICICICICICICI because we think the name is ridiculous). Much to my embarrassment, the reason is that I don't have a standard signature - I basically just write my name in whatever manner comes to mind at that moment, which Jeff thinks is crazy, but has never been an issue before now. Indian banks are apparently much more diligent than American ones, since my application was rejected because my signatures on the form didn't match. Yikes. So the lovely Exec staff at JPAL managed to get a fresh copy of the application form, which they mailed to me in Patna.

On a related note, in case you want to send us a postcard or any other delightful correspondence, here is our address:

Virginia Tice and Jeff McManus

404, Block E, Amar Kunj Apartments

Off Vivekanand Marg

Off Boring Road, Opposite A.N. College

Patna, Bihar 800 0013

India

As you can see, it's a bit ridiculous. The "404" is our apartment number, not the street address, because there aren't street addresses here. By the by, what clinched the deal for us on this apartment is that the local landmark that we use to direct people where to go off of Vivekanand Marg is to, "turn left at the Dog Hospital." Because right around the corner from us, there's a one-stop-shop that sells dog food, toys and accessories, and is also a veterinarian office and a dog training institute. I'm in heaven.

Ok, back to the main story. So I desperately needed this bank application form so that I could begin to get paid, but I was faced with the nerve-racking prospect of trying to get important mail delivered to my place. So we gave the courier my phone number and crossed our fingers. Yesterday, I got a phone call, which I barely understood, but the word "courier" featured prominently. I asked a series of questions, including "Are you at my building," all of which were answered "yes," and so I darted downstairs to try to meet the guy and get my letter.

When I got downstairs, I saw the building manager in front of our building talking to a guy with a wooden cart. Bingo. So I walked up to the guy with the cart and asked "Are you the courier?" He said "yes." It was very clear he spoke no English. I was very excited and asked for my letter. He didn't do anything. Then I looked at the cart and asked, "Is my letter there?" And he said "yes." Then we stared at each other for a few moments. Then I held up my cell phone and pointed at it, asking "Did you call me?" "Yes." Now I was getting frustrated. So I called Jeff and he came downstairs to join us. Jeff, being infinitely more sensible than I am, promptly called one of our friends here who is fluent in English and Hindi, and explained the situation. Then he handed the phone over to the "courier," so we could figure out what was going on. After a few moments on the phone, the man handed Jeff back our phone, and our friend explained that in fact we had been interrogating the garbage collector.

This is the key lesson that I took from this encounter: people say "yes" here, fully understanding the meaning of the English word, and with no intention of adhering to its strict, literal meaning. I believe that "yes" means: "Look at me, I'm being a nice person. Don't you think I'm a nice person?"

So on Sunday, we have our first Hindi session set up with a tutor that we found on the internet. You have no idea how much I hope that he is good.