So When You Blow Up I Can Pretend I Was An Integral Part Of The Process

A friend of mine has just released his first book Hi! My Name is Loco and I am a Racist.

I've been following Loco for a while over at his blog, Loco in Yokohama. Through his blog, and our private conversations I've been a privileged witness to the development of the ideas that were to make it into his book.

The book is a memoir of sorts that takes one through the author's experience of black consciousness-raising, nationalism, and militancy in 1970s Brooklyn; military service, interracial romance and corporate bigotry in the 80s and 90s; and the idiosyncracies of Japanese attitudes to race in the 00s. It details the author's struggles with the racism he finds out there in the world and, most powerfully, the author's struggles with the racism he finds in himself.

The raw candour and introspection throughout are the things I like most about the book, and the author. There's a magic to the flow of the narrative that compels you to turn the pages. Each episode in the author's life and their impacts are described vividly, with humour and pathos. There are many gems to choose from but I think the outstanding episodes were those concerning, Aiko - a former lover, taken by cancer - and White Boy Chris. 

At the same time I found the introduction lacking the same kind of power as the main text, and the flow of the narrative breaking down in the transition to snapshots of the author's experiences as a teacher in Japan. However I felt the book ended strongly with an interesting conclusion that works as a nice close to themes opened up in the first chapter. I finished the book both with a smile and a small measure of regret that there wasn't more to read.

Loco. Well done! I know it was a long, hard road, putting together your opus. I hope to see many more.

The book is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble online. Kindle version HERE.

This Is What Happens When You Have Glamorous Friends

I was out with Lunch-meet at a party at UB City that was organised by brewers UB (What a surprise!) in order to celebrate a win by Royal Challengers Bangalore (RCB), the local cricket team. 

I got tanked up on red wine and chatted with one of the cheerleaders (yes, here in India, cricket warrants cheerleading), went to the kitchen and gorged on chicken shish, lamb shabbab, and intermittently cried out “sheep meat!” in between mouthfuls. 

There was a fashion show. Then they put on the cheerleaders. The place was lousy with Bangalore glitterati. Decent music, but a terrible DJ. Great food though! The caterers, Fava, made a spinach and ricotta ravioli that tasted so good it might have had a body in it. 

I found it funny how few guys made an effort to dress up; I was easily one of the best-dressed fellows there and considering the state of my wardrobe that’s really saying something! In contrast, all the women were dressed to the nines, goodness me! There was one lady with the most gorgeous little peepers, high heel, with a platform sole. All black with silver petals. I had to give her the compliment through Lunch-meet. The lady’s boyfriend was looking at me like I’d club him and carry her away if he took his eyes off of me for a mere fraction of a second.

Another Splurge

Because I've felt like eating Italian food. I discovered a decent foreign foods section at a place called Thom's Bakery, where I've seen the largest concentration of non-Indians outside of one of Viren's ex-pat club parties.

I pivked up a few things, but wasn't brave enough to drop the rupees they were asking for a tin of anchovies, I haven't developed enough of a craving for a good penne putanesca... Maybe one day. 

Today I feel like a good aglio olio, with a nice salad and braised chicken breast. Of course, just as I'm getting ready to start cooking there's a bloody power cut!

My Weekend Break

Ah, yes. So it seems in Hampi one can find Indians who stare. Even though I was travelling with a tall, pretty, blonde, Russian lady - my friend, Miss Piggy - damn near all stares were directed at yours truly. 

Piggy

Now, I already anticipated the possibility that the stares were because people couldn't understand why a tall, pretty, blonde would possibly keep company with the likes of me. So I compared the frequency and kinds of stares I got exploring the Hampi ruins alone with those I got exploring the ruins with Miss Piggy. About the same. Absolutely fascinating.

Less maddening than the daggers directed my way by the well-to-do black women in the People's Republic of Cambridge (Mass.) when I'm with a non-black female acquaintance; but also less amusing than being regarded with envious eyes by ex-pats when I go out with Lunch-Meet.

I was also surprised by the ways I observed some Indian tourists treating the ruins. I saw people pulling at statues, and/or climbing on them, littering, and even relieving themselves. As if the attitude was that personal enjoyment is of paramount importance; that it mattered not what was left for other people to enjoy as long as they got theirs.

Update

Our two interns have left so the office is super small and super quiet; consulting dept. is down to little old me and my supervisor again. Hope to get a new victim intern soon.

Still lonely, still missing She on occasion. Not just someone-to-hold-lonely though. I think I actually feel existentially lonely too at times. Missing old friends.

Finally managed to get a well-earned break and traveled to a place called Hampi in northern Karnataka. Absolutely beautiful. Pretty much spent two days in the sun and have a case of sunburn, HA! I burn so rarely that the pain and itching always, always comes as a total surprise.The sunburn hypothesis never even enters my mind until my skin starts peeling en masse like I got hit with a few gamma rays.

In Which I Vent My Spleen

I am at the end of my tether with these fucks at Vodafone. They've been promising me 3G for the past 4 months, and every time I call ir’s been: next month sir, for sure. It’s only had no reception a few times. Most of the time it works fine but the speed is really bloody slow, which means that I can barely use Skype.

I was quite pissed off last weekend, because my sister and several friends finally had the time to get on Skype. And I couldn't even chat to them because the data transfer ground to a halt over Saturday and Sunday. Apparently 3G is coming out tomorrow, but right now I don’t trust anything that comes from Vodafone, and I’m all Sunk-costs biased up, and averse to the fumduckery of other service providers to jump ship. 

It amazes me that they’re allowing their name to be put to the fiasco that is the Indian operation. How is it that in a country that exports thousands of engineers, this company can’t sort reliable connections for people in its so-called Silicon Valley?

Update: 3G has apparently been rolled out and - surprise surprise - I still have no access to it. I fear what might happen if I pay a visit to the local Vodafone office.

Food Therapy

A few days ago I hit a low point in my cultural adjustment. I'd occasional feelings of resent towards the walk to and from work through a miasma of toxic fumes; on filthy streets, playing dodgems with dumped rubbish, cars, auto-rickshaws, motorcycles, dead things (I've seen more bodies than Quincy M.D), and excrement. 

I also hated not being able to cook what I like. So today I went on a splurge and bought some of my ingredients: oyster sauce, soy sauce, chilli bean sauce, and yellow bean sauce. I made some rice, chicken braised in oyster sauce, green beans tossed in chilli bean sauce, and a red and gold omelette. I saved the stock from the chicken, and used it to make a good old red stew - a Nigerian dish - which I've been having with rice.

Apropos of Nothing

My colleagues in the office have been admonishing me to get a maid, and I can understand why. By the time I get round to cleaning on the weekend, my place has picked up more dust than the Event Horizon; and there are a number of mini-beasts relieving themselves in my apartment.

My policy is to leave creatures alone if they aren’t evil/Filthy McNasty/bothering me. Animalia non grata are few: mice, rats, houseflies, drosophila, mosquitoes, Japanese hornets, and giant centipedes (the latter two were shooed out of the house or thrown out with long chopsticks respectively).

The other day, a wasp was ambulating on my living room curtain when lifted its abdomen, and fired a rod of excreta onto the floor. Later a gecko, regarding me with a wary eye, lifted up its tail and released a sticky black globule, which landed with a nasty little soft thud on the cistern of my toilet. It was in the right area I suppose; cheeky son of a bachelor.

Now He's Cooking With Gas

So I finally sorted out my apartment with a gas connection and have begun the process of furnishing my apartment. (Issues in the office meant that I could never feel completely settled and was in a state of just waiting for the other shoe to drop.) I think I’ve got off to a good start with the furnishing. I’m thinking of getting some more pillows and a low table so I’m no longer eating breakfast off of my bed. Baby steps. 

I used my gas appliance for the first time a little while ago, and boy was that an adventure. I thought I’d make a sambhar with aubergines – a light sauce – and eat that with rice. On the way back home however I felt too tired to go to the store and pick up some rice, since I planned to cook the lentils I would use in my rice cooker. I opted instead to pick up a few chappathi from the nearby kitchen. Mistake number one, as it turned out. Shasti called as I began cooking. I asked her for some tips with making the sambhar, and things went downhill from there: 

What kind of Indian are you? You don’t eat sambhar with chappathi! It’s rice or idly! 

?! I’m not Indian at all! 

I’m not Indian either.

You’re cheating. Your parents are Indian, and you cook this shit all the time!

OK. Fine. Do you have tamarind?

… 

Mistake number two. In the end I had the chappathi with lentil sauce, and fried aubergines.

Suitor #12

Her exasperated tone was quite a contrast to the smile she had on her face as she said: “I’m with a friend. Is that OK with you?” 

The thing about Shasti is that she attracts rather a lot of male attention. I swear, some dudes are straight falling on their knees with rings if she so much as flings a kind word in their general direction. 

So we’re chilling one weekend and she gets a phone call, seems some model from Kashmir is blowing up her phone on a regular basis. Shortly after finishing her call with him, and peeps I kid you not, dude’s brother calls to try and get a date. Shasti switches off her phone, turns to me with a sigh and á me dit: I don’t understand, all these men, I turn them down but they keep calling me! 

A Few Novelties

1. Being happy when the power cuts are shorter than an hour. 
2. The realisation that not catching the fragrance of raw sewage between waking up and going to bed means the day has been an extraordinary one. I've also realised I feel the same way about days spent in Shibuya. 
3. Carrying over 20kg of drinking water about 150 meters from the market to my apartment every two weeks or so. 
4. Handwashing again after a more than a decade. It's like riding a bike, you never forget.
5. Trying to come to terms with the fact that cocktails in Bangalore are roughly the same cost as cocktails in Boston. 
6. Cravings for the flesh of animals – Right now I want a beef steak with chimichurri, Wagyu, char siu pork, the fragrant beef belly ramen from the Chinese restaurant I frequented when I worked in Shiba, the pork belly ramen from the restaurant I frequented when I worked in Saitama, the amazing kara-age from a great bar in Hannou city, pig knuckles from a restaurant I visited in Hong Kong, my red-cooked pork belly with cabbage, mum’s pepe (pepper) soup...
7. Getting into Indian politics: Tea Partiers, if you want to see what an actual Socialist looks like, get thee to West Bengal. Or, y’know, there’s always that guy Bernie Sanders.

Good Eatin'

Real talk. I've tended to find Western vegan and vegetarian cuisine a little too easy on the palette (i.e bland). But I gotta tell thee, India's been good to me so far on the vegetarian front, and I'm finding it really easy to not require meat flavours in my meals. This isn't to say that I've gone vegetarian, just that things as they are have facilitated a significant reduction in my consumption of flesh.

I Am Nothing

Goodness me. I had particularly bad episode last night. As I tried to sleep this almost overwhelming sense of hurt and anger engulfed me, in response to what I perceive as the injustices and ill luck that are in large part the cause of hole in my heart.

I'm continuing to lose sleep over someone whose actions impact me in such a way as to make me wonder at times whether they even consider me a human being, and make me feel as though I'm being punished for having the temerity to be born into a certain socio-economic class.

I have to laugh at the absurdity of my emotional state.

Seitei Souther for the win!

Nickles and Dimes

One thing I think I’m noticing is how protective people in Bangalore seem to be of their small notes, especially 10s and 20s. Basically, most items will only require you to pay in the tens of rupees. This means that unless you find a way to break up your bigger notes, you’ll always run out and have the inglorious task of looking round for a kindly soul willing to provide the change you need, or attempting to force some shopkeeper to come to your aid by providing change when you pay for the 20 rupee packet of crisps with a 500 rupee note. It’s a wonderful little dance.

A Taste of Home

I found a Japanese restaurant! I wouldn't be surprised if it's the only Japanese place in the entire city. I was like a kid in a candy store as I perused the menu (how about, "like a fushinsha at a school sports day practice"? - since we're doing the whole Japan thing - ed.)  All the good shit was there. It was like these dastardly fucks knew just what a fellow would miss the most. 

Yes lawd, I dined well. Edamame so nice I had to order it twice, kara-age like my nights out in Dasai-tama, excellent pickled cucumber served with a superb pureed umeboshi, and agedashi tofu, one of my favourites. It was clear that sacrifices had to be made due to Indian infrastructure, and the distance between Bangalore and the sea, which meant the okonomiyaki wasn’t quite my okonomi.

The Swing of Things

Things are super hectic these days as I’ve had a lot on my plate: draft development plans for the two programmes I’m to design and run, analysis of the monitoring and evaluation strategy for a programme of facilitated dialogues and design of new surveys, design of an exercise for use in the facilitation, drafting a letter to peeps at the UN. I love the pace and the energy of my office. My only concern is that I suffer from bouts of extreme loneliness. 

The people I love are all so far away from me.

Job Creation

“The wheels turn slower in India, you’ll have to take the time to get used to this.” – Rahu 

When you have a population of over a billy, how do you keep as much of it as you can in employment? Some will point to India’s vast informal economy. Fools! After nearly two weeks in the country I am supremely qualified to ask that we consider the Indian civil service – To the peeps at the shiyakusho: all is forgiven! 

Every foreigner who will be residing in India for 180 days or longer has to register at their local Foreign Residents Registry Office within 14 days of their arrival. Without a foreigner registry card you can’t do much of anything that requires some kind of contract: bank accounts, phone lines, home internet, and the like. Needless to say that without these it would be very difficult to do my thing. 

My experience of Indian bureaucracy to date has convinced me – for the moment – that the whole thing is one giant middle-class growing perpetunator™. Lawd knows what use there was, apart from the salaries, for the layers that stood between me and my foreigner card.

The Wife

Shasti

I’ve been spending a lot of time with my colleague, another newbie; let’s call her Shasti. We're sharing a service apartment until we find more permanent accommodation. We went for a walkabout the other day, which was fucking hilarious. She wanted to open a bank account and I think we damn near scandalised the whole bank looking like the oddest couple. Me in my shorts and yellow t-shirt, contrasting with my dark brown skin. She in her turquoise salwar kameez. A glowing, youthful face juxtaposed with a significant number of snow-white locks. The looks on people’s faces suggested they were trying to figure out precisely what our relationship was: Sugar mama, wife, illicit lover?

The Streets

The perfume of incense, fragrant oils, herbs and spices. The air thick with half-burnt hydrocarbons, smouldering wood, cooking oil and hot tyres. Sometimes mixed with the sweet stench of rotting fruit and vegetables, and the musky putrefaction of cooked rice. Occasionally the dark odour of sewage. Evokes memories of Lagos.

The pavements, in the less nice places, a monjayaki of refuse from building sites, dumped rubbish, the shit of stray dogs, goats, sheep and cows. In other places, suddenly people/the powers that be know how to collect refuse and clean – memories of London, New York, Atlanta and Philadelphia. “Oh, this is high-life area, madam.”

Indians Don't Stare

Indians don’t stare. I’ve noticed a few older people and young kids give long glances of curiosity, but for the most part – in my experience of a mere 7 days. Yes, I’m a dadburned expert in Indian culture now! – Indians, more precisely Bangaloreans, don’t stare. 

They might be thinking all sorts of shit about darkest Africa when they see me on the street, but so far no one has given me a look like they know all about “my kind”, no woman has given me furtive glances, or cowered in fear at my proximity, no one has crossed the street upon seeing me come towards them, and no one has damn near caused a traffic accident rubbernecking. 

So far it’s been a nice contrast to some parts of Londinium and Japan. I love my Japanese brothers and sisters, but sometimes… 

…

I give it one month before I’m venting about Indians in the same way. Or perhaps not. Maybe here the fumduckery starts at two black men walking down the street.