The Kenyans are Coming!

I write to you from almost midway through the Mumbai marathon, panting amidst a sea of Indians on a road to nowhere. It is 8:15 AM, the sun is illuminating the bumpy road, and I am on my 9th or 10th kilometer when I hear a helicopter cutting through the air. I look up in between breaths and it seems to be coming straight at me. The cameras are on me, and I'm thinking I'm going to be on Indian CNN tonight. Then I hear insistent honking behind me, and a guy on a megaphone is screaming at me to get out of the way. A double decker bus goes streaming past, and it is followed by an SUV carrying photographers. Behind them are two motorcyclists speeding along carrying guys who are sitting backwards and adamantly yelling at me and my fellow half marathoners. Their wildly waving arms violently express the need for us to move out of the way!

Ten seconds later, there are footsteps, methodical and light. A tightly packed crew is suddenly at my side. I turn my head to see an army of eighteen Kenyan marathoners go gliding by. What's left is a saucy display of short shorts and tight butts. They appear to be doing a 100 meter sprint; it's effortless. I look around at my fellow runners and we express admiration for their strength and speed and agility, amidst a sea of well-meaning expletives. It was truly amazing.

It was not nearly as amazing, when the race leaders passed me yet again, as I was in my last 500 meters. By this point, I was hobbling, and had given up all hope of pulling out a valiant sprint to the finish. Once again, I was told to get out of the road, because the Kenyans are coming! I, and the 85 year old man that was setting my pace, made our way to the curb to let them have their space. Good thing we did. We enabled three Kenyans to finish in the top three. Two Ethiopians followed quickly behind, then another five Kenyans.

Needless to say, I did not win the race. SpongeBob SquarePants and I crossed the finish line at the same time. He couldn't see out of his costume, and had two people holding his hands. I won't reveal my time...but, this should give you an idea: I got passed, not once, but twice by the Kenyans.

Unfortunately, the photographer I hired (my special male friend) turned out to be a better cheerleader and race-day driver. The camera refused to cooperate as I went, ahem, sprinting past. Please accept the other attached photo as a memory and symbol of the resilience and strength expressed by many people during the race--this man ran the marathon without shoes.

In all seriousness, running the race was an incredible opportunity to witness the humanity in Mumbai. People from all walks of life--from the slums, from high rise apartments--came out of their homes to watch and cheer us on. The most surreal moment occurred when two furry sheep galloped down the road as if they were running to the finish. I have no idea where they were going. Perhaps, like me, they were spurred on by the beat of the Bollywood music playing on the loud speakers.

I ran the race on behalf of an NGO based in Mumbai called Apnalaya. They support women and children living on top of a landfill/dump in Shivaji Nagar. To learn more about Apnalaya, go to www.apnalaya.org.

Diagnosis and Cure

For the past three weeks, I’ve been having a dull, heavy feeling in my forehead. It starts from the moment my blue eyes flick open, and it continues on and off over the course of the day. This heaviness is occasionally accompanied by dizziness. I end up at my desk at 4 PM with my hand on my forehead, trying to rub it out.

I have an explanation. Fluorescent lighting. Those white tube lights so loved by Indians (no doubt, they’re cheaper), when coupled with relentless ceiling fans, create a subtle, strobe light effect. When you’re trying to write a proposal, a strobe light is, well, irritating.



So, I went to the doctor after work yesterday. His name is Dr. M, and he is the uncle of a friend. Dr. M’s waiting room was empty, so I saw him immediately. Let me be frank. The man is quite odd. He is verging on 75, and seems to have not yet discovered the notion of personal grooming. There is hair growing out of every part of his head. It’s sprouting from his ear rims, the inside of his ears, and coming out of his nose. It’s colonizing his cheeks, having thoroughly exhausted the space on his sideburns. His eyebrows are a hanging garden of salt and pepper vines. To be honest, I’m not sure how he can hear or breathe.

He has a quaky voice that manages to run deep and high in the course of a single word (like the old voiceover on the Smucker's jam commercials…"With a name like Smucker’s it Has to be Good"), and his hearing is not excellent. But, he’s sweet, and like a grandparent that you listen to selectively, he supplies bits of “wisdom” amidst a slew of words that pass the time.

Other Indian doctors I’ve been to make and prescribe their own yellow and pink pills like they’re playing out their own version of Valley of the Dolls. Comparatively, Dr. M seems quite innocent, after you get past the face shrubbery.


So, I sat down on Dr. M’s examination table and told him about my ailments. He flashed a standard yellow flashlight in my eyes and told me to follow the shine, and he asked about my eating habits. He took my pulse and blood pressure. Then he inquired about the amount of time I spend in front of the computer. About 10 or so hours, I estimated. Say what? Problem solved for Dr. M.

Diagnosis revealed: You have brain fag, he said. Pardon? Brain fag. It comes from eye fag, and now it’s turned into brain fag.

Pretty sure that Dr. M doesn’t know about the other meanings of the word fag, so I heard him out. Apparently, my brain is tired. Which explains why I couldn’t remember how to spell budget the other day. My eyes are sore from looking at the computer—which means that I definitely shouldn’t be writing about this little episode right now on this computer (shame on you for contributing to my woes). The “eye fag” pain is being transferred to my frontal cortex, which is causing brain fag.

I didn’t have the courage to ask Dr. M why he was using the word fag…because he launched into something about fantasizing in order to fix it.

You need to fantasize more, he said. Do you meditate? I nodded. Well, do that, and lay down and fantasize more. Awkward, no, coming from a grandfather figure? Nod, smile, right right.

The Japanese do it, he said. And they have one of the healthiest aging populations on the planet. They meditate and do crosswords. It’s good to stimulate the brain that way.

He prescribed a pill and a tonic, more fantasizing, and less computer time—only 2 hours a day. Bloody unlikely, I thought.

All this wisdom and cure cost for $6, only.

I have arrived

I went to the National Gallery of Modern Art (NGMA) last week to see their painting exhibit. At museums and monuments throughout India, fees are levied based on whether you are an Indian or a foreigner. The foreigner price is usually at least 5 times that of the Indian price. I wouldn't mind if I was truly a tourist--I think that those from developed countries can usually afford to pay more than locals in a developing countries, and a few extra rupees shouldn't be an issue. But, I work for an Indian company and get paid in Indian rupees. It doesn't seem right for me to have to pay a foreigner's rate, when after a year living here, I hardly feel foreign.

So, when I walked up to the man at the little desk at the NGMA, he says, "For you," pointing to my Indian friend, "it's ten rupees." "You," pointing at me, "it's 150." What?! I was ready for a fight.

"Look," I said, "I work for an Indian company and live here." "I get paid in Indian rupees." "I am..." I started to lay out my defense line by line. I've tried this tactic before at the Prince of Wales Museum (now known by the impossibly long Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya, which is such a mouthful that most people still call it POW) across the street, and it fell on deaf ears.

The NGMA ticket collector asked to see my identification. I had left it in the car which was several blocks away. I started up my defense again. "Really, I work here. I make rupees and spend rupees, just like you. I shouldn't have to pay the higher rate." He gave me a reluctant look. He looked around. And nodding his head side to side, said, "Ok, ten then."

Insert angels smiling down from above. Miraculous. I felt like I'd arrived. I felt like I was an Indian! As I toured around the museum I smiled at other foreigners smugly.

I know it may not seem like a big deal for those of you reading from outside of India. But, for a person who has been living here for awhile, and contributing to the economy and the community for years, I feel justified in wanting to be acknowledged in some way--as not just another passerby, visitor, tourist, foreigner, outsider.

My crusade has only begun. Next stop: the Taj Mahal.

I'm scheduled to go in two weeks. The Taj is not only the pinnacle of Indian beauty and architecture, it is a glowing example of the fees levied on those from the Western world. Twenty rupees for Indians. A whopping 970 for foreigners!

Will let you know how my argument goes there.