Gina's Oblong Rib

Life in “India”

Ian — Fri, 02 Mar 2007 18:44:19 +0000

Hello, its “me”, “Ian”.

So far life here is surprisingly similar to life in America. ~~Ian’s~~ I’ve mostly been ~~working~~ eating rice and trying not to get Giardia again. ~~He has~~ I’ve also kept pretty up to date on “~~American~~ Indian Idol”. ~~His~~ My favorite is Sundance Head, beacause what kind of name is that anyway? Anyway, ~~Ian~~ I have to get back to ~~work~~ sitting in the dark, wishing I had electricity.

Try, try, try

Ian — Fri, 23 Feb 2007 19:56:43 +0000

New year. New attempt at a blog. I leave for India again tomorrow and it’s possible that my blog could be just as successful as last year. To keep this from happening I will need you to post what you think I’m doing. I will interject as I can but I cannot guarantee consistent input. I would make me exteremly happy to be able to read what is happening to me. Maybe it would even be fun for you when you get bored. We’ll see.

My new number.

Ian — Sat, 02 Sep 2006 12:03:03 +0000

If you feel like calling or messaging me you can. +1911933235928.

“With the poor crooked scythe and spade.”

Ian — Sat, 02 Sep 2006 11:57:13 +0000

It’s been a month and I am unable to say anything, and suddenly. Everything is not perfect, or maybe as perfect as I’d like it. Today a child is dead and I wasn’t there. No one was allowed to save her. I wasn’t allowed to even be there. I will miss the sending of her body. She had such small hands and such clean teeth. Her tiny life taken takes my tongue and all my lighter thoughts and brightness from the world’s bulb. I am not among those that loved her most, but maybe I was allowed to love her truly, if only once.

A pen or shelter, esp. for a small animal such as a rabbit.

Ian — Tue, 01 Aug 2006 09:09:02 +0000

I tried to get my new Hutch SIM card today but was blocked for four reasons:

1) Passport size photograph.

2) Photocopy of passport with [address].

3. Photocopy of visa.

4. NO [sic] objection letter from the person where staying [sic]. Stating he has no objection of [my name] takes [sic] up the Hutch connection and stating from which country the [customer] is coming [sic] from.

This means I’ll have the same phone number for a while longer. Onc in Daragaon, I’ll get someone to write said letter or just buy a SIM card for me.

Teaching in Nepal

Ian — Tue, 01 Aug 2006 08:57:18 +0000

I met a Nepali guy at the best restaurant ever (Kunga) today and he said he is looking for teachers in Kathmandu Valley to teach english. If you want to here is his information.

Anmol Jyoti S.
English Boarding School
MaliGaon – S. Kalopool
Kathmandu, Nepal
Ph. 4429248/4429249
Mobile: 9841246292
Email: rs_anmol_school_om@hotmail.com

They guy’s name is Nitesh Rai. There are about 180 students from nursery to class 10. It’s a boarding school but there are only five boarders at the moment. It’s a mixed gender school. If you’re interested give him a shout out. You can mention me if you want. He has my information so he may remember me. He’s also going to email me soon so if there is more information I’ll post it.

“Hurry-burri spoils the curry.”

Ian — Tue, 01 Aug 2006 08:47:09 +0000

Words of driving wisdom from the West Bengal department of transportation. The ride to Darjeeling is peppered with numerous maxims all equally insightful. Such as, “Slow has four letters, so does life. Speed has five letters, so does death.” and “Donate blood in a blood bank not on this road.” and the delightfully gender-sensitive, “Stop gossiping. Let him drive.” Please remember this wise counsel and drive accordingly.

Three countries and 6 cities in less than 18 hrs. (Postlude)

Ian — Tue, 01 Aug 2006 08:38:14 +0000

After arriving in Kolkata, I flew out to Bagdogra, taxi-ed to Siliguri, and jeep-ed to Darjeeling (which is where I am as of this writing). I cannot describe the feeling of coming up off the planes and into the mountains. It’s like coming home. The faces faded from Bengali, to Hindi, and finally to Nepali. It seems like it’s been forever and somehow I remember everything. It’s all familiar and welcoming. In the jeep on the way to Darjeeling I met a good friend of a guy who runs a hotel in Rimbick that Mondo and I stayed in a few times last year. In Darjeeling I was recognized by the owner of the hotel I stayed at and by the couple who owns the greatest restaurant ever. (They asked about you, Mondo.) Last night, I slept the best since the 25th, woke up, had a hot shower (first since the 27th), and now I’m here, writing emails and this.

An oasis in the Desert of Insanity (Chapter 4)

Ian — Tue, 01 Aug 2006 08:26:38 +0000

The hotels were not bad at all. There was air conditioning and adjacent bathrooms! After another hour of waiting for room assignments, two of the Japanese guys and I were taken to a room. As I said, awesome. Except there were only two beds. It took another half hour to get a third bed into the room. I wasn’t sure how shuttles were working or how I was going to check-in tomorrow since they had taken my ticket and given me a green token instead, but all was forgotten in the fog of sleep. I awoke in the morning to a knocking at my chamber door. It was a hotel employee waking me up with breakfast. Yes! Toast, eggs, tea. I was then told to wait in the room for the shuttle. I was then told to wait downstairs for the shuttle. So I slowly waited my way towards the airport. The airport was just as I’d left it, in disarray. Still no ticket. And then I heard my name and a guy behind a counter was waving something at me, my ticket! I have no idea how they kept track of it or knew who I was but I was soon on a plane to Kolkata.

Zia Int’l Airport: a burlesque of absurdity (Chapter 3)

Ian — Tue, 01 Aug 2006 08:21:22 +0000

On the ground I find out that the hotel I thought was just the airline lounge was really a hotel. Now normally this is sweet. In Hong Kong last year it was cake. But to watch the kind of logistics it takes to get an airplane of people and their baggage, checked through to their different destinations, passed through customs and passport control, and into hotels through bengali-colored glasses is atomizingly ludicrous. There is one counter and every Bengali rushes the two guys behind it. Every foreigner is left standing at the entrance, all of us aghast at the senselessness. There were two Germans, four Japanese, one Briton, and myself. After two hours of standing around, randomly sending someone into the fray to collect intelligence, and laughing we all got our “hotel tokens”, went to passport control, picked up baggage (depending on who you were, I still think this was arbitrary.), and were shuffled onto a bus which took us to the hotels.