One great rip-off adventure

Part of the package of being in India or most developing countries is getting ripped off. And it doesn't help when you are timid like me.

As a foreigner in a developing country like India, rickshaw drivers and street vendors see you as dollar signs. You'd hand in the amount of money asked from you even though you know you're paying way beyond what is worth. But uncertainty holds you back, and at the insistence and goods already dumped and tied in a plastic bag, you feel compulsed to finish this whole process of buying. And the frowning and cursing and display of anger that comes with arguing price isn't very pleasant . Reluctantly you'd hand in the money, and then you hate yourself for not at least bargaining. Sometimes with the cordial manner and smiling face, you're never too sure. Until you see a lower price for the same good in an upper-class supermarket.

The feeling of being cheated, taken advantage of for being unfamiliar to your surroundings and reliant on people who know better. Unpleasant, utterly frustrating. Yet being as meek as a lamb who can only stutter a few baas while the wolf bares its sharp fangs at you, you can only scorn yourself for being so weak and helpless, unable to fend for yourself even if you know you are being robbed right in your face.

Being more well-off than these people, giving a few cents extra wouldn't strip you into poverty. So rather than beating yourself hard for that few cents, why not just shrug it off and take it as generosity on your part?

The annoying thing is, if only matters of principles are that easy.

It's painful not so much because of the few negligible extra cents or the fact of being taken advantage of, but the act of dishonesty and unscrupulousness that I'm perpetuating by giving in to the rip off. With this, they become more sure of themselves to find victims in other foreigners. But the worst thing would be the unfairness to sellers or rickshaw drivers with integrity. By giving in to rip offs, honest sellers and drivers would not have the incentive to maintain their values. Seeing their counterparts earn manifolds while they earn little just for the sake of sticking to principles isn't too encouraging. Charging by the actual price to foreigners would connote dumbness and naivety. In a poverty stricken place, finding a good honest heart is akin to finding gems.

"Metre. Metre" is what my colleagues and I always chant the first thing we approach the rickshaw driver. Some would speed off when the destination isn't worth following the metre. Some would sway their heads sideways to mutter a price to these foreigners who they have the inkling are not fresh out of the plane. We walk off until we find one that agrees to go by the metre.

It hasn't always been so difficult. There was the old thin softspoken driver who safely delivered us to our doorstep with the rate on the metre card. There was the driver that remained patient throughout the crazy peak hour traffic and went by the metre despite many frustrated exchange of horns in the battle of honking. There was the young driver who surprised us by saying 'Metre' as we were scouring in the middle of the night for a reasonable set price rickshaw ride from the train station to our home - a first time for my friend who has always had to pay more for a late night drive.

Toughness. That's what I have to cultivate. Don't be afraid to walk off when the price isn't right. Don't be afraid to put on the face of the fierce-looking Hindu gods.

Come on girl, for the sake of humanity and betterment of the world, put on some fangs and start biting.

Some pictures.

Love the sight of cows.

Healthy, clean looking sacred (?) cows on the steps toward Parvati Hill temple, a Hindu temple built in the 1700s during the Peshwa dynasty.

Brightly clad female students adding colours to the old and drab temple grounds.

Took this mural for its childlike depiction of the Hindu Lord Kartikeya...and also the fact that it's in English...

To view more pictures visit my Facebook! :)

This student who thought we were from China (student:"are you from China?" mom out of laziness to explain: "yes") wanted a picture with my mom while I volunteered myself in.

It was exam period and there were students studying in corners of the temple. ..to seek higher help I guess. Else it's the cool, serene atmosphere.

An Indian Chinese restaurant. The menu is quite chinese: fried wantons, spring rolls, hakka noodles, yangchou fried rice....and some

with added Indian elements: Szechuan paneers, Manchurian fried rice (where does that come from??). The decor is cliched-ly Chinese: red, chinese horoscopes, chinese paintings, chinese lanterns, chinese paper-cutting...you name it.

Toot goes the Rickshaw

Perpetual sounds of honking provides rhythm to flying dusts, launched into the air by the grazing of car tyres, autorickshaws, worn-out bikes, motorcars and pedestrians against the unpaved roads. Honking, roars of engines, and roadside chatters form a cacophony that greets the outsider every she goes. Stretches of shops, schools, offices, houses lined along the roads, looking run-down and unkempt, paint peeling off the walls and fading with its day-long exposure to the sun, thick with dusts. Slums lie along parts of the road, little rows of tiny huts inhabited by sari-clad mothers with babies, and dusty children sitting on the footpath, giving a wave to the visitor who stares curiously at them, forgetting all forms of civilised manners, wondering if she is seeing herself a feature of what the media and the world have always addressed about India - street children. She waves back. Not far ahead billboards, vivid advertisements, fancy modern shopping malls, hotels, multinational petrol kiosks flash their newness. Uniformed security guards unproficient in giving directions (in English, to be fair) stands outside buildings and malls, sophisticated ladies walk confidently about in expensive-looking sunglasses, clad in traditional dresses. Next to her, autorickshaws drive about in frenzy, snaking through Toyotas and lorris, honking at whatever objects that get in their way; while bicyclists pedal right next to them, leisurely in their own pace .

In smaller streets, cows stroll lazily by the roads, oblivious to the irritated motorists trying to squeeze past one another in narrow streets; little feral goats frolic about, scavenging by the roadside stalls, nibbling on food strewn on the ground, infested with flies, as well as finding food in little plants inbetween cracks of the shop walls. Right next to the road workers stand by the food shop, feasting on delicious-looking Indian food while their eyes dart about the scene around them, which at the moment rests curiously on the two fairer-skinned foreigners finding their ways around the uneven pavement, carefully trying to avoid stepping on cow dung, litters and spits dotted along the way. In main streets students in uniforms walk abreast on their way to school (or back?), girls in pigtails, blue chiffons and dark blue pinafores, knee-high socks; boys playing by the roadside, stopping while the two odd-looking yellow skinned ladies walk past them. Sellers push their carts at the side of the traffic, displaying their wares: clothes, fruits, older ladies walk in saris, carrying baskets of vegetables; occasionally the sidewalk is obstructed by a roadside stall, selling snacks that looks delightfully appetising to the foreign looker, but too afraid for her fragile stomach.

Three hours southwest of Mumbai, the cultural capital of Maharashtra, 'Oxford of the East'. This is Pune for me and my mom's first couple of days. A city nonchalant about its run-down, dusty state, and chaotic traffic, but proud of itself. Roadside litters, skinny stray dogs with swollen suckling nipples, dirty beggars, unscrupulous rickshaw drivers...

Unsightly it may be, poverty it may suggest, developing country it may exemplify. But we see poor only when we are used to the rich, we feel unsightly and uncivilised because we are too used to beauty and order. But if we don't and judgements don't exist, perhaps these does not matter. Perhaps these can be charm in its own right. As long as people are content and have no self-judgement of their own state as we interpret, life is interesting and fascinating.

Kacang putih (mixed nuts)...ah! The good old days in primary school

Cycle Society...the neighbourhood where I live

Our flat on the 2nd floor

The autorickshaw

kacang putih!!! Oh, those were the days in primary school