Who ya for? Bangalore!

Jerry’s conference is in Bangalore, the IT capital of India, with 10 million residents. It’s the capital of the state of Karnataka and located smack in the middle of southern India. We’re 1400 miles south of New Delhi where we started almost 3 weeks ago.

Bangalore is in the yellow southern state toward the bottom. Renamed Bangaluru but nobody calls it that.

Cyclone Fani struck India’s northeast coast yesterday but had no effect here. The NYT says India “moved a million people out of a cyclone’s path,” with “2.6 million text messages and 43,000 volunteers.” FEMA, take note.

Our first impressions of Bangalore were grim. On the long drive from the airport we passed miles of piles of garbage strewn along the roadsides. There was a string of 6 “Bridal Palaces” advertising fabulous venues to brides-to-be within walled acreage but the 10 feet or so of land between the walls and the highway were filled with trash.

The state legislature is immense and magnificent.

On the first day here we AP’s (accompanying persons) were driven 2 hours in a bus through unattractive areas to tour a culty ashram where transcendental meditation is practiced and taught but my mind wandered too much to tell you about it.

It was a bad first impression.

Three days later we’ve toured some beautiful areas — impressive government buildings, parks and lovely neighborhoods amidst palms and luscious landscaping. As always, the people are warm and welcoming and not just those in the service industry. I would not recommend Bangalore as a “must see” tourist spot, but if you come here you will find lots to enjoy.

Bangalore is very spread out and we’ve been transported as a group to tours and dinners on luxury busses . . . but too many trips for too long, sometimes hours each way. So, we and some friends went rogue today and blew off the Saturday tour to an animal reserve, a Jerry Martin Mackrell first. I told him I now love him even more.

With a precious free day, Jan from Portland, Oregon and I walked around the neighborhoods surrounding the hotel, around 5 miles outside of the town center. It was early enough to have a cool breeze and as we strolled the town came to life, men and women opening fruit stands and shops, eating plates of rice and sauces with their hands outside of food stalls, always smiling and returning our bows of Namaste no matter how reticent they looked at us at first.

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  It’s mango season!

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  Bamboo scaffolding, seen even in tall buildings in Bombay.

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  Not an unusual sight.

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  Shrines are everywhere.

Saturday must be “trash day” because uniformed women were sweeping garbage into enormous piles and men were loading it into “tuk tuks” pulling large containers.

Tuk tuks are green and yellow 3 wheeled super compact vehicles that comprise probably half of the traffic in the towns. They are used privately, to transport merchandise, and as taxis, described as “auto rickshaws.”

Jerry has evolved in these 3 weeks from eating only margerita pizzas for dinner to now happily eating Indian food. He shocked me further by hiring a tuk tuk to take us out today . . . Mr. White Knuckle Traffic Screecher in a tiny tuk tuk in this chaotic traffic that, apparently, we’ve grown used to. We haven’t seen even one fender bender despite drivers that don’t maintain proper lanes and pull in front of each other in a continuous game of “chicken.” It’s amazing they aren’t all dead.

Upon arrival a few days ago our Mackrell goody bag contained a sari for each woman. Yesterday we were treated to a “sari wrapping lesson,” but we could never replicate the process of wrapping and tucking, then folding tons of fabric into accordion pleats for more wrapping and tucking. The outfit starts with a tapestry bra with cap sleeves and no belly coverage, a long skirt you end up not seeing, and the sari itself. Quite warm to wear, and restrictive to move in. But regal and part of the colorful fabric of life everywhere in India, no pun intended.

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  Kristin from Houston

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  Kumi from Japan

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  Beth from Silicon Valley

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  Luzanne from South Africa

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  The Empress of India

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  Jan from Portland, OR

Then we got henna designs on our hands, drawn in a few minutes by an artist squeezing a tiny tube. It starts thick and dark brown and as it dries, flakes off to leave a subdued orange. It will last a week.

We paraded through the Mackrell meeting to great applause then treated ourselves to wine at the rooftop bar. A fine day!

We leave the hotel at 3:45 am tomorrow for our 7am flight. We are taking mementoes back with us, but are also leaving parts of ourselves behind. Specifically, my light weight cardigan sweater in Agra Airport. My prescription reading glasses in Jaipur. My hair clip in Udaipur. Jerry’s slacks in the Bombay hotel room top shelf we forgot to check.

We return enriched from this exotic country of rich and poor and 5 star hotel service. Monday morning I will stumble into our Baltimore kitchen expecting an extensive buffet breakfast with a starter of watermelon juice and mango yogurt with pumpkin seeds. We could be found standing aimlessly at our front door waiting for an air conditioned car with wifi and a guide greeting us, opening our doors and ensuring we have a fascinating experience. And a cool, wet towel and fresh water every time we climb back in.

Be patient with us.

Namaste.

Love, Georgia

PS – Miscellany –

The Brides/Grooms Wanted ad in Sunday’s India Times paper, organized
By Caste, By Language, By Profession, etc. Most of these women have impressive professions — MBA’s, professors, engineers:

Here’s our Bombay guide’s finger after voting. We kept seeing pictures in the paper of groups of celebrities showing one finger like this, and we didn’t understand why. At the polls your finger is marked with an ink made of a “secret formula” that won’t wash off for several weeks:

Our adorable waiter at a restaurant in Bombay . . . translation is “I am your father.”