how far?

Expats in Bangalore don’t measure distance in kilometers or miles like we do at home. Here, everything is measured in the Indian currency of rupees. For example when asking my friend the other day how far it is to UB City, she answered 25 rupees. It’s actually the best way of explaining distances to someone since it gives you an idea of how much you will have to argue with the rickshaw driver. Time on the other hand is a crappy way of measuring since a stretch that at two o’clock took fifteen minutes very well could end up taking almost an hour at 7pm.

I love the way that expats in this city has created almost their own language for communicating. It’s a mixture of English, Hindi and all the other languages your friends are speaking combined with made up words and body language. Very soon I realized that a few words in Hindi or Kannada put inbetween the English ones would take me much further than pure English and taking a rickshaw now after five months here almost always spontaniously includes words of tikke (okay), accha (good), yeshtu (how much) and bas (stop here).

I’m spending my last few hours in Bangalore sitting in Carlos’ room thinking about the things I will miss. And being a part of this amazing little community of people from all over the world is definately what I will miss the most. I’m off to the Himalayas, leaving behind an experience I will always keep close to heart and friends that I will keep for life.

death by chocolate

It’s been a long week. A good week. It started on Friday with an early birthday celebration that went on til four in the morning which is a rarity in a city where all night clubs close at 11.30. Saturday was brunch at the Mediterranean restaurant in UB City. Despite half of us being to hung over to think about anything else than coca cola and pizza it turned out great and my sweet heart Jaimy even arranged a death by chocolate birthday cake made in heaven.

After waking up at eight in the morning feeling way better than I deserved after Saturday night’s adventures my neighbors and I headed  for a French Sunday brunch with real coffee and baguettes. In the evening, Jaimy and I took the night bus to the Indian east coast the state of Tamil Nadu. We spend three days in Pondicherry and Mahabalipuram in a kind of heat that I’ve never felt before, sweting like pigs, walking along the beach, renting bicycles, eating tons of sea food and getting Ayurvedic massages with hot oils (which is a blog post for it self but for sensitive readers I’ll skip he description of that).

Detta bildspel kräver JavaScript.

Now I’m back in Bangalore spending my final two days packing and trying to sort my future life out. Friday night Mikael and I leave to Darjeeling and the Himalayas. With happiness, excitement and a tear in the corner of my eye. I have had the time of my life.

dear Swedish Migration Board

Instead of applying for jobs I watch old episodes of Friends, followed by Dexter and even Family Guy – even though I don’t even like the latter. I boil coffee. I take a shower. I make lunch. I start packing. I do everything but writing application letters. Every word is a struggle, every sentence feels fake. Is it because I don’t want to quit being a student or because I haven’t found a job that I really want?

I feel like a horse wearing blinders to keep them on the one pre-decided path that they are on. I know what I want but it’s making me blind for other options. There is only one job that I want and I will get there, sooner or later. It would just be so much easier if I could bump in to a Migration board official and get head hunted by mind reading instead of having to apply for thirty different jobs for the same employer. Can’t they see that I was born for this?

Ma’am, I can see through your eyes that you are absolutely made for this job, no need for application letters or interviews, just start working tomorrow.

cultural disobedience

Usually I am of the opinion that when in a country that is not your own, you should behave according to the culture and customs of that country. Hence, when I go to office I wear traditional Indian clothes, salwar kameez, which is long pants, a tunic that goes over your butt and a shawl (dupatta) to cover the outline of your boobs through the tunic. In the beginning, the  dupatta was my worst enemy. It was wrapped wrongly, it kept falling down or I just felt ridiculous wearing it but now, five months later, I usually never leave home without it. It makes a great cover-up of my hair when walking around in the polluted air that makes you dirty, it works perfect as mouth cover for hindering pollution to be inhaled while in a rickshaw and it also works just fine for wiping off your hands :) Today however when I stuck my head out on the balcony and felt the seven hundred eighty eleven degree heat that was on the outside of my air conditioned room, I did not feel like wrapping my self up in three layers of fabric just to get to the grocery store. I miss wearing mini shorts and tube tops.

So, going against my own moral, I put on a tank top to my three quarter jeans and skipped the shawl and hence showing off way more skin than appropriate (read: normal in the Western world) in this country. With my iPod plugged in to my ears and staring down the street instead of up in people’s faces I headed out. A guy on a motorcycle almost got into an accident from turning around three times to stare at my boobs and I got some comments shouted after me but all in all I survived. After all, if staring at a white girl in a tank top is the closest to what the men on my street will come to getting any today, they can go ahead and stare.

Did you know that most people in India have never seen themselves (!) or their husband/wife completely naked? (yes, they shower with shorts on and then they swap shorts under a towel wrapped around their hips)

salwar kameez vs mini shorts 0-1

laziness is created by doing nothing

Since I haven’t written anything in a while again I could tell you about all the things that have happened since Hugo was born (I think that was the last post). I could tell you about how I quit my job two weeks two early last Friday or about the amazing two day birthday dress-up party Olaia, Asil and I had or about my fabulous day spent by the swimming pool yesterday. Or I could tell you that today I’m going to art galleries and museums all day to be a tourist in my own city for the first time since I got here (it’s about time, I leave in ten days). But no, instead I’m going to write a complete nonsense blog post about the thing that is on my mind about half of my awaken time right now. MANGOES.

Since the mango season started a few weeks ago I made a promise to myself to eat one (at least, yesterday it was two) mango a day until I leave. If you haven’t been to Asia, you haven’t eaten mangoes. The light yellow super expensive mango look-a-likes we get in Sweden (that doesn’t taste anything like real mango) is not even comparable to the deliciously bright orange juicy ones that right now in Bangalore comes for less than a USD a kilo. Isn’t that insane? After out weekend guest Ryan from Chicago left last Monday he also left behind an entire bag of ready to eat mangoes and Aunnie and I are now completely going crazy trying to finish them off before they go bad. It’s mango for breakfast, lunch and after dinner dessert and sometimes also as in-between meals snack, and I love it.

Okay, okay, a little peek at the costumes from Saturday;

one baby two babies three people that i love

I want to go home now.