Indian continues to lack traffic laws

Dear English speaking nations,

I am currently sitting in a plastic lawn chair in the converted airport that now comprises the Hyderabad police station, calmly awaiting my death. The unlighted terminal is disturbingly reminiscent of the setting of every video game based horror movie ever created. Anyway, I’ve decided to recap my week to stave off the boredom (we are approaching hour three), and to preserve my memory in the fairly likely instance that I am impaled, bludgeoned, eaten or otherwise maimed by the zombies who I know from watching far too many horror movies are undoubtedly lurking behind every corner.

New Years Eve and New Years day involved a good amount of clown car taxi riding to my doom (I have survived the roads thus far) and unparalleled amounts of unidentifiable but incredibly delicious food that continues to make me sick the next morning. For New Years we wanted to go out early to avoid terrifying Indian New Years traffic, so the house director recommended what I thought would be a humble pub but was actually this insanely fancy open air restaurant with creeping vines, palm trees, flowers, etc. everywhere and a band hanging out in the back playing sitar and table. Then the next night, CIEE had a welcome dinner at literally the fanciest place I have ever seen in my life. I basically felt like a mob boss. They sat us in cushioned armchairs. So India doesn’t seem to do anything halfway. Everything is either depressingly abject poverty, or a ridiculous palace.



CIEE sends us to Wonkaland for New Years

Two days before my alleged first classes (apparently classes started last week but the professors don’t show up until week three, but I’ll get to this baffling social norm a little later), I had my very first rickshaw adventure. For those unfamiliar with an Indian rickshaw, imagine a bright yellow cross between a tricycle and a golf cart with beautiful designs and various Hindu gods decorating it. Now add a monster truck engine and insert it careening down an unpaved road amidst about 12 other vehicles battling for the same lane. We explored Bell Cross, I tried my first street vendor food, and then we headed back via rickshaw. Perhaps a mistake as the rickshaw broke down under a bridge amidst speeding traffic as it was getting dark. Being the ever resourceful and sensible one, I suggested that we get out and push it away from the bridge so as to avoid the truck hurtling by three inches from my face. So the menfolk did that (I’m not allowed to. Stupid X chromosomes), and then the driver fiddled with some wires for a little while as we stood on the side of the road. Then the rickshaw started working again and the driver appeared to forget that he passengers as he started to speed away leaving us on the side of a darkening highway, so we intelligently decided to run after him. The rest of the ride went fairly smoothly.



Three wheeled death machine

This, rather than attempting to attend the two classes that I was supposed to go to, one of which the professor failed to show up for, the other of which allegedly begins the 15^th but actually they changed it to today after I’d already missed it, I took another rickshaw to Lingampally with some of the other girls on the program. Lingampally is known for beautiful fabrics (I’m not going to tell you what “lingam” means. Go ahead. Look it up.) Another rickshaw adventure! As there was not enough space, I got to ride in the back. I do not mean back seat. I actually mean the little blue bench probably Elmer’s glued to the bumper with other rickshaws and motorcyclists inches from my feet in traffic. It was probably the most fun form of transportation ever. Also, we had another 20 minute train stop (these are pretty common) so we got to make friends with the other motorists. A lady and a little kid, both of whom only spoke Telegu (so not even my 6 words in Hindi helped) came and hung out with us for a little while.

Anyway, that about brings us up to date with the police station/zombie terminal. Classes started last week, but none of the professors showed up. I tried to go to 4 of them yesterday, but 3 of them were cancelled/decided to change times without informing the class/have no existing record of the professor teaching it or the department it was listed under/other ridiculous reason. Unfortunately, Indian professors do not believe in email, or providing a syllabus or basic course description, or a room number, and they often fail to show up at class without warning. They also like to change classes so they conflict with your other classes, but not worry. My directors have assured me that just as careening down an unpaved road seated on the little plastic bench of a tricyle-golf-cart-monster truck into oncoming traffic as it blares its little La Cucaracha horn, this is completely normal for India and will sort itself out.