India actually isn't much like China at all!

I've been hitting the road in the spirit of truly comparative political science, going to last week to see my good friend and fellow field worker, Charlotte. I spent 8 days in Beijing. And now I can report back on all those "India versus China" comparisons one sees in The Economist, FT, and other papers. The outlines of the comparison that I had in mind going in: China is richer, but it's got an autocratic and corrupt system of government. India is poorer, but it's corrupt system of government is a democracy, so it might pull through in the end. (e.g. Thomas Friedman aka "that hack who has his own NYT colum despite the fact that he somehow thinks it is legitimate research to extract a whole theory of the Arab world out of happening to notice Chinese phone card salespeople" wrote on this point in 2005).

Still, even though I knew that these many journalistic comparisons all point out that China is the richer place (GDP/capita of about $7800 versus $3800 in India), I guess I still kind of thought that the presence of all these comparative pieces meant that the two countries were be more, well, comparable.

Now that I've been there, I'm amazed. Beijing is so fancy!!! There are so many skyscrapers and fancy malls. But it wasn't the private opulence that really struck me, but the lack of dump-like-ness that was so very un-Indian. We drove and walked over at least a fair portion of the city and I didn't see any shanty towns and only one beggar. The buildings are toasty warm , despite the snow outside, because of decent utilities. The roads have no potholes but do have sidewalks. And not just sidewalks but sidewalks with markings to aid blind people is recognizing they are coming to a curb. There isn't trash in huge piles anywhere. The buses are really clean and shiny. The cabs are all reasonably new cars and ALL of them use the meter instead of haggling for the price.

Of course, Beijing is also a showpiece city, especially with the Olympics coming up. The government no doubt threw a lot of homeless people out and maybe even razed housing to put up skyscrapers. And there are huge disparities between the city and the countryside. But even comparing oranges and oranges, India looks pretty bad. I live in India's capital and I've been to Mumbai, Kolkata, and Bangalore -- these are the cities that are getting India's new Chanel outlets, but they don't look like Beijing. And, frankly, India's government couldn't decide to raze the shanty towns of Delhi because of an up-coming international sporting event: doing so would create too much open space.

This is part of what makes political science so tricky. China scholars say their country is really corrupt. India scholars say their country is really corrupt. Scholars of both countries lament that the government is dependent on this corruption for stability so that even when the state wants to do something well, it often fails. But China's roads are SO much better. So, are China scholars just deluded about what actually constitutes "a lot" of corruption, sort of like when people in Florida wear sweaters because it is sixty degrees and, therefore, "cold"? Or is China somehow differently corrupt, in a way that makes its roads come out better?

Also, how do we figure out how important this "India is a democracy and China isn't" part of the comparison actually is? Particularly because both countries have a big gap between the laws on the books and what the judiciary actually does: so how much do the laws matter for the comparison? India is a lot more internally violent, though one can probably argue that China is more repressive. But both India and China get very, very bad marks from Amnesty International and keep parts of their country off-limits to foreigners, so how to know which country is likely to have more problems in future with internal stability?

I really want some of my China scholar friends to come here and tell me whether India looks like it is on track to be like China. China's GDP/capita is higher than India's. So maybe India is like China ten or fifteen years ago? Or maybe India is, as my boyfriend suggested, like "Bolivia if no one took care of it"? These options imply very different futures for my Indian friends.

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Stay tuned for more on "India versus China: Is this Comparison Really Worth Making?" series. Because I'm out of time now but I still have to explain my whole theory of how China's Olympic mascots reveal the reasons for differential success in population control between the two countries.

The tragic decorating consequences of the fad for English language signage

There is construction going on around my apartment and so I’ve been going to coffee shops to write quite a bit. Over the weekend, I wanted to break out of my Barista rut and chose to go to Brown Sugar, the other coffee shop that is less than ten minutes walk away. I really dislike Brown Sugar and wouldn’t have gone at all if it weren’t for the fact that they have milkshakes. My problem with the place is with the décor and becoming totally fascinated with what this décor looks like from the point of view of Delhi young people.

Let me pause to say Brown Sugar is extremely popular with the young, upper middle class Indians in my neighborhood. Big co-ed groups of them come in, wearing jeans and knit tops.

My immediate cultural reference point for “Brown Sugar” is the song by the Rolling Stones, which I always thought was supposed to be a (shocking in its day) ode to the joys of sex with black women. But my friend Ed tells me brown sugar is also heroin. Anyhow, parts of the Brown Sugar coffee shop make me think that the owners, too, associate the phrase with drugs. The sign outside actually says “Brown Sugar: Get Yourself Addicted.” And then, inside, there is a bead curtain as you walk in and the windows are flanked with about two dozen large, colored glass bongs. (I wonder if kids still call them that.) The coffee shop does offer hookas, so smoking is sort of an appropriate note to strike. But I don’t see why they just don’t display hookas. The marijuana theme continues, see below, but there is definitely no heroin chic going on anywhere.

But on the wall to the right is an indication that the owners might have the African-American and Brown Sugar connection in mind after all. There are framed covers of American LPs and these are a celebration of 70s disco and promiscuous black people. There are two albums by Boney M. (“Night Flight to Venus” and “Take the Heat off Me”) that are representative of the motif: check these out at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boney_M. (This article is interesting in its own right since this group seems to have been the German – West Indies musical ancestor of Milli Vanilli.)

Two points: first, this doesn’t work with the marijuana references. It’s a drugs-music mis-pairing here. They need some Woodstock and Grateful Dead posters. Second, why is there also a framed LP of The Sound of Music?

The mismatched cultural references continue. The actual music on the stereo is US maudlin pop. With an occasional bit of classic rock, like a Zeppelin medley. There are a fair number of those raunchy dance tunes by black girl groups (like that “don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me” ditty) but nothing that would qualify as hip-hop. Nor any disco. There is a lot of playing of boy bands and also those male solo artists who are essentially one man boy bands and, yet, the reduction in personnel in no way decreases their loathsomeness.

Then there are the tabletops, which are shallow wooden boxes topped with glass. And in each is a sort of diorama of still more mismatched cultural references. There are tables with seashells, rocks, marbles, trinkets. The other day, I sat at the sand and marijuana diorama. The table top contained regular sand, several stash boxes, and various pipes—again, "stash boxes" were what these items were called back when I was a young person. Busy being not cool enough to get invited to the house parties that actually had drugs at them. So I may be dating myself here.

All of the tables also contain (and the wall opposite the LPs is covered in) signs, buttons, stickers, cards, plaques, and magnets with various quips on them. The kind of quips you see on t-shirts sold on the boardwalk at Atlantic City, on greeting cards at the dollar store, and the coffee mugs at gas stations. Central subjects being beer, food/dieting, sex, money, aging, and gender roles. The sorts of quips that make you feel degraded just reading them. Some in the middle age despair genre: “Some people call it a six-pack, I call it a support group.” “When I die, bury me at the golf course so my husband will visit me 5 times a week.” “Thou shall not weigh more than thy refrigerator.” Some in the unreformed male chauvinist vein: “All women are bimbos, some just make better trophies.” Others in that phoney “Oh, snap!” vein of girl power: “Coffee – chocolate – men: some things are better rich.”

I feel a need to defend my country from this décor. True, each one of the horrendous errors in taste that makes-up Brown Sugar has been committed by an American. But no one American could commit all these errors in taste!

Every time I’m in there I get to wondering what this looks like if you are Indian. For one thing, I really have no idea what portion of the puns and sexual innuendos the average customer picks up on. Nor am I clear on which items seem funny or glamorous versus shocking or weird. What portion of the references and messages implied by this decor are intentional and which are just the unfortunate by-product of a decorating scheme that calls for putting up anything related to people who speak English?

I don’t know what I find most disturbing. To think that maybe these Indian teens think this is what America is really like and will grow ever more convinced that we are an immoral, petty, and soulessly commercial people? To contemplate the possibility that these are the parts of American culture that actually do appeal to these kids most -- that somehow they have seized on the very tackiest part of every popular sub-culture? Or that the steady training of Brown Sugar and like outlets might actually lead them to like this crappy decor? No matter what, I see nothing good that can come of that place. I believe it should be firmly stamped out, much like the opium dens that "Brown Sugar" may or may not be referring to.

The ugliness continues

I am sorry I have not up-dated my blog in a bit. My steady sweetie was in town during Thanksgiving week and after he left there was an extensive agenda of pining and self-pity that needed my urgent attention.

I am afraid I have more bad news about India. I went back to the Taj Mahal last week—Thanksgiving Day, actually—and Albert was once again denied admission. I had thought the first time might have been an isolated incident of prejudice but, apparently, the fear and loathing of cuteness has struck deep into the Indian national consciousness. In fact, I had a small stuffed dog key chain in my backpack as well (his name is Norman) and he was also denied admission to the Taj. Totally unreasonable. Norman is maybe 2 inches high. What could he contain? And it’s not like they can’t give him a good squeeze and tell that he’s all stuffed with fluff.

So here Albert and Norman are. Looking at the Taj from across the river, barbed wire cruelly obscuring their view and symbolizing their ghetto-ization in Indian society.

As was noted by Nora earlier this fall, the cutest people in the world are the Japanese. And, so, in honor of a society that understands the importance of plush animals, the rest of this post will be in haiku.

Oh India. Why
are you so very uncute?
Penguin haters all.

Maybe all the air
pollution drags cute moods down.
The sky IS yellow.

Seriously, they
need to do something pronto.
The air is all smoke.

An Agra street kid
asked “which country” [are you from]?
I said the US.

And he replied with
“Me: India.” Cute because
was there any doubt?

When I ask “where from?”
most answer like I am nuts.
“What does it look like?”

No one says that. But
they do seem to imply it.
What is the reason?

Whites ask no questions?
That I wouldn’t know their town?
Or, why would I care?

It is a very
asymmetric way to chat.
Not this little kid.

Of course I would care!
He’s from India: I should
definitely know.

Haiku is the best
type of poetry of all.
Rhyming is too hard.

Do not write to tell
me I counted the lines wrong.
Syllables are tricky.

The Solution to all India's Problems

Okay, I admit my invention for saving the roads of the third world was half-baked, but this time I am really on to something.

One of the questions I ask myself from time to time is whether India is going to make it. I mean, there is all this enthusiasm about India’s economy and its future as the call-center-and-biotech capital of the world. But India is still incredibly poor and all its public services are a mess: the roads, the telephone lines, the schools, the courts, all of it—and not just in the red tape sense. In the “does not exist as all because all the money was stolen” sense.

So I always wonder if India is going to get stuck at some point because of its miserably bad government. I wonder if India’s future looks a lot like Nigeria at worst or Mexico at best. There are some pretty rich people, there are quality corporations, and there is international investment. But people are poor in some many senses—they have no money, no access to health care or education, no protection from violence, no meaningful rights, and no reason to believe their children’s lives will be any different from their own.

I think India’s problems are manageable. I mean, India is lucky: it is a stable democracy, the government has quite a lot of money and a good credit rating; the military doesn’t want to run the country; and it currently faces no severe internal or external threats.

But India has NO rule of law. Say there is a murder. There are rules on the books about how that murder should be investigated, prosecuted, and punished. But the chances that things will unfold accordingly are, roughly, zero. If the victim is not very important, the investigation will be little more than perfunctory. If the investigation happens, it will be this sort of civil-rights-violation-bonanza of warrant-less searches and confessions under torture. In the event the murderer is identified, the police can be bribed to forget the whole thing. And, even if the murderer is identified and booked, the wait until any sort of trial can be years—decades for less-serious crimes. Civil cases are backlogged by, roughly, a human lifespan. The judiciary is under-staffed and judges are constantly being bribed not to do anything, witnesses get killed, evidence gets “lost.” It’s just disgusting.

The solution wouldn’t be so hard if politicians wanted to do something about it. India’s Central Bureau of Investigations and its highest judiciary are very good—the staff is paid a decent amount and is protected from being transferred, harassed, or killed. So, they do their jobs.

One thing that might help would be real public pressure on politicians to shape up. I think people lack a clear idea of what the alternative would look like. Citizens aren’t that enthusiastic about getting the police and the judiciary more involved in maintaining a decent society because they have no image of those institutions as anything but a bunch of crooks.

So, my idea is: Indian Law and Order!

No, I’m serious. India has no prosecutor dramas, in television or film. It has cops-and-robbers movies. But these are invariably about the gray area between the two. Mafia dons with hearts of gold and such.

What India needs is a show full of high-minded and righteous police and prosecutors. Who confront, in each episode, a “ripped from the headlines” story of brutality and corruption. But then they resolve it in the way it could be settled in a world of high-minded and righteous.

The show would begin with a parental yet passionate voice that would inform the viewers that in the criminal justice system they are represented by two separate, yet equally important, groups: the police who investigate crime and the courts who prosecute the offenders. Then the viewers would watch as the honorable, diligent, and muscular policeman used carefully collected physical evidence and legally obtained confessions to break the case. Then the incorruptible, clever, and shapely prosecutor would see that the dastardly criminal was locked away for ever. This would all take about 60 minutes (minus time for commercials) and the victim’s family would be crying gratefully as the judge announced the verdict. (No jury trials in India). The victim’s family would be mostly cameos by beautiful film stars and cricket players.

Also, in true Law and Order style, either the original or the spin-offs would be on would be on one or more channels at all hours of night and day.

I know this idea might sound trivial, but the idea comes from a study that shows that both male and female respondents' expressed belief in the acceptability of domestic violence went down in rural India as TV came into the area. The investigators believe that is because Indian soap operas show less patriarchal families. Maybe the respondents just learned from the TV that they should self-censor. But, still, changing people's minds about what's normal/cool/tasteful/upper-class is a real change.

Be Careful What You Wish For

Wouldn’t you know it? I go to the protest safely, get back to Darjeeling City, have lunch, and get food poisoning. Just like Ghising, blind to where the true danger lies…

Also, I should never have made fun of India’s effete strike culture. Now Kolkata is on strike in earnest, and I’m stuck here for the next forty-eight hours. And I mean stuck here. At my hotel and its immediate environs. No vehicles today.

By the way, I have figured out why the change from Calcutta to Kolkata bothers me so much more than Benares nee Varanasi or Mumbai nee Bombay. It’s because English words just don’t begin with “ko.” I think koala and kohlrabi are the only two words in common circulation that start with “ko.” And those are hardly your good ol’ Aryan or Romance language nouns.

And no common English word begins with “kol.” I don’t have any idea how to tackle pronouncing that. I realize the intent is to revive indigenous traditions, but the whole point of a transliteration is to communicate how to say a word to people who don’t read your alphabet. And those people, even the kohlrabi and koala lovers among them, don’t know how to pronounce “kol.”

It doesn’t help that everyone says “Cal-cut-ahh.” I don’t know if that is because “Kolkata” is pronounced “Cal-cut-ahh” or because the name change hasn’t really caught on. I need some of those little cartoon speech bubbles.

Indian Idol Really Does Explain Everything!

So, I went to the gherao and all was fine. PowerPoint-friendly pictures obtained.

There was a little change in plans overnight, actually. The GLF decided that they would do two days of gherao now, then take a break for Diwali, then finish up after that. The break for Diwali is, so say the leaders, in deference to the tourist industry. (Lousy backpacking foreigners. Messing with my field work.) This further illustrates my point about Indian civil disobedience lacking a sense of urgency. By the way, if you do not know what Diwali is you may want to refer to the episode of The Office that explicates the holiday in full.

The sit-in part of the gherao never really happened. The plan was to march from the city center to the headquarters of the district and blockade that. But the police had three successive roadblocks (complete with batons, riot shields, tear gas, and assault rifles. Singing: “one of these things is not like the others...”) several hundred meters away from the marchers’ target. I arrived at the roadblocks about 30 minutes before the procession did and was waved through, and was able to watch what happened from further up the road. For awhile the police were chatting with me and asking how their guns compared to those of US cops (I made something up) but then a supervisor shooed me pretty far away. But I still had an okay view.

As it turned out, there was nothing for the police to worry about this time. The protest got to the blockade, the leaders made some speeches, and then the group turned around and went to a different meeting point where more speeches were made. Then they dispersed, although the whole thing is supposed to repeat tomorrow.

This gherao, by the way, was even less like a proper sit-in than the semester during my college years when a bunch of students camped in front of the president’s office demanding that no sweatshops be involved in the manufacture of the school’s paraphernalia. Similar to recent events in Myanmar, after a few weeks the Yale junta rolled out its ruthless strategy for breaking the resolve of the valiant protesters: mid-term exams. And that was that.

On the other hand, judged by the standards of a political rally rather than as a gherao, the GLF effort was thoroughly respectable. Lots of call-and-answer chanting, sign boards, flags, the whole works.

My sister asked why they are protesting if they want the same thing their current leader does. (For those of you waiting with bated breathe for my dissertation, be warned that there are several spoilers below). The deal is that Subash Ghising, the man who led the GNLF’s drive for a state in the 1980s, has dominated politics for twenty years now, has been putting off elections for the post he controls for about seven years, and was for a long time beyond criticism because of his role as head of the Darjeeling movement. Sort of the Yasser Arafat of Darjeeling. Sans head scarf.

These new protests are basically being organized by politicians who want to oust Ghising. It is interesting that they cannot just protest against him on the grounds that he is not particularly skilled as an administrator, a crook, and a murderer, and instead they protest for statehood. I think one part of it is that a separate state is genuinely popular and by taking a more extreme position than Ghising (statehood now versus eventually) they are hoping to win away part of his luster as father of the movement. And then there is the fact that most of these politicians were in Ghising’s party up until a few weeks ago. And are mostly incompetents, crooks, and murderers themselves.

These politicians didn’t suddenly see the error of their ways – they saw an opportunity to capitalize on Ghising’s all-time low in popularity. And, here’s the amazing part: this actually IS because of Indian Idol!!!! Simon Cowell should be so depressed at the irrelevance of his show by comparison with the Indian version!! Kelly Clarkson notwithstanding, I don’t think American Idol has a single social movement to its credit.

To be more specific, Ghising has lost the hearts of the Darjeeling folk for his failure to support Darjeeling’s recent Indian Idol champion, Prashant Tamang.

You see, Ghising was out of the country during most of the competition. By contrast: You remember runner-up Amit Paul of Shillong? The Chief Minister THERE donated a bunch of money to the phone companies so that his constituents could text in their votes for Amit for free. Politicians elsewhere made a big show of selling their assets to sponsor free SMS-ing or gave cars, land, houses and so forth to the local contender. Indian Idol is serious business: 370 million votes were cast this time around. And Ghising just totally dropped the ball.

The irony of someone surviving seven years of postponing elections and then falling on the sword of a musical talent search is amazing, don’t you think? I guess we know what would revive public interest in Indian politics, though: more ensemble dance numbers.

POLL! Important Fieldwork Dilemma!

Okay, quick, I need advice. A moment of fieldwork glory (or at least good pictures for PowerPoint presentations) is within reach. But I'm a wee bit uncertain as to whether it is a good idea to pursue it.

(Mom: don't read any more of this post. It will only make you worried.)

Tomorrow there is a gherao here in Darjeeling by the Gorkha League. Now, who, you ask, are they? To answer that question requires a journey back to 1985. (Which you may recognize as the year "We are the World" spent four weeks at number one on the Hot 100 Billboard.) That year a group called the Gorkha National Liberation Front (GNLF) started getting all feisty about wanting their own state, Darjeeling, rather than being a part of West Bengal. Actually, in a country less insanely violent than India, it probably would have been pretty alarming. Because the GNLF had little gangs of young men who would go around and collect "donations" and would get into fights with representatives of the ruling political party.

This being India, it was only a little alarming. There are plenty more unemployed young men where those came from, but these sorts of things can be bad for the tea barons. So the GNLF didn't win a new state with their agitation, but they got an autonomous district.

Fastforward, and now there is this new political party, the Gorkha League, that is taking back up the cause of having a Darjeeling state. Tomorrow, they are going to begin a 15-day gherao at the headquarters of the Darjeeling autonomous district. A gherao is like a sit-in, except that it is announced in advance. And you announce your quit date in advance. That way, there is no danger that your resolve will been seen to crack, as it might in an indefinite sit-in.

By the way, Indians have a way with this kind of face-saving civil disobedience. When I was in Kolkatta last week, for instance, the Communist Party called a one-day general strike but announced an exemption for the IT sector. The disappointment of the IT comrades at being excluded from the day of solidarity was probably not too severe, however. Because, you see, computer companies tend not to be hot-beds of anti-capitalist activism. So it was kind of the equivalent of not inviting the Prom Queen out -- you aren't fooling anybody into thinking you wouldn't be rejected if you tried.

To get back to the point: it is kind of possible that these Gorkha League sit-inners will get into a scuffle with the GNLF folks at some point. And one of my goals for this dissertation about violence is that I will never actually have to observe any of it.

I think I will go and have a look, see how freely alcohol is flowing and whether there are any women at all there (a good barometer of what the intention of the gathering is), and then go away with a few PowerPoint-friendly pictures if things look ominous. But, what is your advice: take the poll below, please!!! And feel free to add comments. I value your collective wisdom on this point.

Guwahati, the capital of the state of Assam

Guwahati means "areca nut market," which is a literal, commerce-oriented name for a city that serves its economic function well enough, but doesn't have a lot of charm to spare.


Below is a picture of the Brahmaputra, the enormous river that led people to settle in Assam long ago. It really looks more like a lake, it is so massive.


There is supposedly a temple to Shiva in the middle of the river and a temple for Sati, one of the incarnations of his wife Parvati, on the far shore. But I couldn't see either from where I was. "Sati" is also the name of the custom of widow burning, in reference to a myth about Sati self-immolating in rage after her father insulted her new husband, Shiva. (Although, in her father's defence, how many people really hope their daughter will bring the destroyer of the universe home for dinner?) Shiva, in his grief over Sati's death, walked around India carrying her ashen corpse, and there is a temple every place a bit of her is supposed to have fallen. Assam's temple is where, well, Sati's girl parts fell.

How is it I feel both somewhat abashed about being too risque here, what with my exposed ankles, and also like I am constantly being exposed as a total prude, what with my squeamishness about a religion making reference to charred genitals?

Anyhow, the only really interesting tourist spot in Guwahati was Nehru park, which featured some typically patriotic things, such as this column bearing the symbol of India:


And a garden with bronze statues posed as if performing various traditional North East Indian dances:


And a colorful statue of a dragon, perhaps out of some local folktale...


About a dragon fighting a Tyrannosaurus Rex...


Even as both of them are being stalked by some sort of zombie bear...


Or ape, or maybe even a dog. And this zombie has a really impressive set of dentures.

The insanity of the very car sick

Not everyone knows this about me, but I am an extremely accomplished inventor. Well, except that I never actually implement any of my innovations. But in the past I have invented an electronic Christmas registry service that malls should promote to parents of teenagers; a Tim Gunn Advisor Doll, inspirational tool for budding artists and graduate students alike; and a children’s party clothing/Halloween outfit/school play costume service that would run on the model of Netflix. My newest invention was inspired by the Shillong-to-Guwahati road, which I took yesterday, arriving in Guwahati. Where I still am now, as a stop-over point on my way to Kolkata/Calcutta.

The asphalt on that road is in truly dreadful repair. There are potholes that have appeared where the previous, underlying pox were not sufficiently filled in, so that the sides of the pothole reveal four or five different layers of asphalt that were laid down over time, like the stripes of sediment revealed by as a river cuts a canyon through millions of years of rock. There are new, sharply defined craters in the road, and others that have eroded into gently sloped lakebeds. There are places where the many divots in the road have spread out to meet each other, so that the whole of the road becomes an undulating asphalt surface. And there is a nice layer of gravel and dislodged road bits over everything, making the flat we got about 15 minutes outside of Guwahati all but inevitable. And, keep in mind: this is in a place where temperatures do not even fluctuate that widely.

Of course, this is not a particularly unique situation, within India, or the world. I am sure some of you who study other parts of the developing world are rolling your eyes, wondering what I am complaining about since this road was, apparently, at least paved at some point. And you are thinking of the faint footpaths that serve as the channels for moving humans—uphill both ways in the monsoon—in the places you have traveled. Thus: the need for my invention.

We all know that the state of the world’s roads is not the result of technology. Humans know how to build good roads. The problem is corruption in the process of building the roads. In many countries, being Minister of Roads is way better than some dead end job like running the Ministry of State. Huge amounts of graft go into making roads: the bribes that go into convincing the government to fund new roads; the bribes that pass in terms of who gets the contracts associated with that funding; and—most critical for the quality of those roads—the pocketing of most of those funds, so that all that gets laid down is a wee thin layer of gravel and tar that comes up several kilometers short of the span it was supposed to cover and begins to get torn up even as the construction workers drive home to enjoy a day’s half-assed job.

My idea: the government should mandate that roads be made out of some sort of lattice of cobblestones, except not cobblestones but something like cement hexagons. And the cement hexagons will all be made at only a few plants, where the government could monitor that the thickness of the hexagons was sufficient. (Maybe even foreign plants, if the economies of scale dictate this, but that could cause domestic outcry). This would be in contrast to making roads from gravel and tar, which can be manufactured in lots of places, making it more difficult monitoring whether the materials are well made, and whether the contractors are actually buying all they should be. So, when the Guwahati contractor orders the hexagons, it is easy to check that he took delivery of as many as he said he would, and to count the number of the blocks that are going into the road, as opposed to only being able to check on the thickness of the asphalt only after it has already been laid and only by cutting a little hole in the road. The contractor could steal hexagons and sell them on the black market, I suppose, or try to file some of the cement off the hexagons before he laid them down, but that would be, hopefully, more effort than it was worth. And it would definitely be less efficient an opportunity for corruption than walking into the gravel pit, ordering too little gravel, and giving the gravel man a small bribe to alter the invoice.

My idea is no panacea, of course, but what I figure is that it would at least help matters if it were harder to cut corners on the materials that go into the road. In some ways, I am just moving the opportunities for corruption around and up the chain, but I think I am also making them fewer in number. Also, moving corruption opportunities up the chain means, on the upside, that the central government has an incentive to implement the Hexagon Program, even if they are a bunch of louts themselves. Maybe the idea is net bad, though, since there is more money to be made at each point in the production chain (with just a few plants in operation) and thus bigger incentives for corruption. Probably, there would need to be a pilot study, perhaps in someplace like Zambia, which, one of my advisors informs me, only has two paved roads. Good to start small.

The scheme has other downsides, too. The gravel and tar people would now be selling to the hexagon-makers, who might be able to pay them low rates since they could not sell as widely. And, perhaps most troubling, I have no idea if this idea for road construction is technically feasible or remotely affordable. In fact, I am not even completely sure I have accurately described the components of asphalt under the status quo. (I could look on Wikipedia, but the connection here isn’t very fast). Still, I think maybe some engineering types can take my idea and figure out those details. I think it would also be good if they could make either the hexagons or the material holding them together act as a carbon sink, so that the road would be absorbing CO2 even as the drivers were producing it. So someone should really get on all of this.

So, economists, engineers, and development agencies of the world: I offer you another of my brilliant inventions. Free of charge. It is the least we creative geniuses can do.

Shillong Boy Amit: singing sensation? Or potential instrumental variable?

Some pictures from the Khasi Hills of Meghalaya and Shillong, the capital of the state

The British had their regional colonial capital in Shillong - they, like me, were apparently completely enchanted by the brisk temperatures, overcast skies, and frequent drizzle. For people from England or Michigan, moist, cold weather is like a return to the womb. The British also thought Meghalaya looked a lot like Scotland, which I guess it does, in the vague sort of way that penne-is-to-Pad-Thai. But they proceeded to build a lot of exposed timber, "ye olde country shoppe" style buildings, like the church above.

In other important Shillong news, Amit Paul, runner-up on Indian Idol is a native of this fair city. And, oddly enough, the place I am going next, Darjeeling, is home to the winner of Indian Idol! Is, perhaps, Indian Idol success an important predictor of political mobilization for one's own state???? Or vice-versa???? Afterall, Indian Idol is based on the community working together to text message their local son to greatness. I just know there is amazing social science waiting to be done here. My advisor once used familiarity with Abba songs in a paper, so I think there is even a precedent.

And, then, I was Al Gore's Official Representative in India

Back in Delhi, one of my interviewees, learning that I was planning to travel to Shillong, invited me to attend the 2nd People's Parliament of Meghalaya. It was billed as a sort of grassroots , alternative to partisan democracy, khum-bye-yah sort of event. To protest official corruption, deplore party divisions, and celebrate the wisdom of the people.

And, of course, I jumped at the chance. I mean, this is comparative political science bread'n'butter - the kind of firsthand political observation (and blurred, not terribly informative pictures) that I can trot out for years to come in order to demonstrate that I have the kind of deep cultural insight that can only be gained in The Field. (I mean, the internet cafe I am currently sitting in has a sign reading "No Porn Sites Please or Else" and featuring a clip art picture of someone pointing a gun at a kitten with its paws in the air. You just can't get that kind of "WTF?" moment out of a book.)

And, in fact, the People's Parliament was a huge success for gleaning comparativist cred, and I will devote a whole post to describing it later. But it also served as a chance for me to venture once again into the realm of American public diplomacy.

You see, the People's Parliament had bestowed this session's International Award on ex-Vice President of the United States, Al Gore for his work on climate change. They invited Al Gore to come and collect the award but, apparently, his schedule did not allow for it. They also invited the US Consulate to send a representative to receive the honor on his behalf. Not such a far-fetched request, since someone from the Calcutta office attended the first People's Parliament. (By the way, no other embassy sent an actual person instead of just a little message, so one point in the State Department's favor, anyhow.) But, here's the thing: the woman from the consulate arrives on the morning of the Parliament, and she will not accept the award!!

Does anyone who studies American politics know if this is normal? Is it expected that a Republican administration wouldn't accept an honor bestowed on a Democrat? Or was the snub specific to Al Gore, what with the continued bad feelings around the popular vote, Florida, chads, and the whole works? Or was it because the award was about combating climate change, a trend the present administration is hell-bent on accelerating?

That final hypothesis, in my mind, is supported by the consulate's message to the Parliament (read aloud during the ceremonies) which congratulated the people of Meghalaya on their success in preserving 79 sacred forests in their state but failed to mention the rally's statements on climate change. No doubt, the consulate's enthusiasm for conserving the sacred forests would have been damped if someone had mentioned that you aren't allowed to hunt or even ride your ATV in those hallowed woods.

So, again, I'm giving the US thoroughly middling marks for public diplomacy. Seems like a pretty shameful slight of the organizers. Although, it occurs to me that I would not accept an award on George W's behalf. But the mere thought of him makes the tears of rage well in my eyes. No one could hate Al Gore that way. His turn on Saturday Night Live was just too lovable.

Be that as it may, they had to give the award to someone. And that someone was... me. My qualification for that job being that I am a US citizen. In fact, I have even been to Tennessee. And so I was photographed receiving Mr. Gore's award from a Khasi syiem and will appear in the local papers as emissary of Al Gore in India. (Although, I highly doubt my name will be spelled correctly, so perhaps that will minimize any potential legal ramifications associated with impersonating a major public figure). The inconvenient truth in all of this being that I have never even seen Al Gore in person nor is my existence known to him. In fact, I wasn't even that enthusiastic about my vote for him in 2000. But nonetheless, I was Al Gore for the day.

I hope I will run into Rumsfeld sometime next year at Stanford, so that I can look at him with the haughty disdain of one who outranked him in the Presidential succession.

Off to Cloud City

Hello on October 2nd, birthday of the Mahatma Gandhi! If you are Indian, admire non-violent resistance, or just generally feel Winston Churchill is over-rated, then consider taking the day off.

Tomorrow I am going to leave Delhi for the start of a six week jaunt through two places that have had movements seeking their own states. First, I am heading to Meghalaya ("abode of the clouds") which holds the first and second place world records for most rain ever recorded in one miserably damp place in a year. Meghalaya used to be part of Assam (as in "Assam tea") but it successfully filed for divorce. Second, I will go to Darjeeling, as in "Darjeeling tea". Then I will go to Kolkata (formerly, Calcutta), which is the capital of the state Darjeeling just can't seem to quit.

Meghalaya has a population of two million people, and it is quite a ways off the beaten track for most Indians. Like, quick: what's the third largest city in South Dakota? Because Aberdeen and Meghalaya have roughly the same degree of public visibility in their respective nation's consciousness. Meghalaya people often compare themselves to Native American areas, in that they were in India before the in-migrations/conquests of people speaking languages derived from Sanskrit. It is the Sanskrit-ites, with their many-limbed gods, high respect for cows, and elaborate caste system, that define a lot of what we think of as Indian. In short: in Meghalaya, they eat beef. I only hope they are in the practice of turning some of that cow flesh into something akin to a hamburger.

I don't really know what the odds are of that. Frankly, I have no idea what to expect in terms of how this will compare to Delhi and other parts of India I have seen. The area is definitely going to be a lot less developed and there will be fewer outsiders running around. So I will be saying good-bye to my all-day electricity and I don't know what to expect in terms of running water. On the other hand, the British let missionaries come into animist Meghalaya but barred them from Hindu areas. So, in some respects, westernization is supposedly high in Meghalaya: lots of speaking of English, lots of Christianity.

Oh, by the way, I am staying at the Presbyterian church's guest house. I anticipate having much to report.

If you're reading this, perhaps you, too, are procrastinating

With the pace of my interviews slowing, I really need to be committing my thoughts to writing. So my goal for the coming week is to lay the story of each of my four areas of study out in words. But, as always when I am faced with writing, it is excruciatingly difficult to start doing it. It just requires so much concentration. You have to think really carefully about the sentence you are turning out while holding back the paralyzing sense of overload that will set in if you let yourself consider about how many caveats and layers and asides are going to need to be written and tied into this section in order to finally make your argument. Of course, as I write this from the air-conditioned comfort of Barista coffee shop, I can see a group of men squatting in the sun, using small hammers to split bricks into smaller pieces of rubble, and then tossing these aside so they can be mixed with cement in order to resurface some of the road outside. So I’m aware of how small these complaints are. And, yet, threatening myself with a life of brick-splitting is totally ineffective as a means to ending procrastination and inducing a start to writing my case studies. I mean, seriously, how could I be a brick splitter? I can’t even do a pull-up.

So I thought I would share some of what I’ve been doing to put off writing. I don’t flatter myself that this is that interesting, but it is all I have been doing lately. You’ll notice, first, how much I owe to the internet and, second, how field work is allowing me to spend more quality time thinking about American pop culture. I still don’t know the Hindi past tense but, by God, I know what’s new this year on FOX. You wouldn’t think somebody could become more provincial by moving to India, but the thought of a tired sit-com trying to pass Kelsey Grammer off as a ladies' man... well, it just feels like home.

Checking on Intra-India Airfares.
Time successfully diverted from writing case studies: 15 minutes.
Tangible benefits: Some. I am planning to leave for Meghalaya—one of my little areas that wanted to be a state—next week, and I do need to take a plane there. But I was ultimately too confused by the website to buy a ticket, so the benefits cannot be called high. Does anyone know what a “check” fare is? It is an economy class seat, but I am wary of ordering it in case it means something like “once you get to the airport, we’ll check if we have a seat available.”

Re-doing my website, www.stanford.edu/~blacina.
Time diverted: 10 hours.
Tangible benefits: Highly questionable. I was foiled in my idea for using my pictures as more creative design elements, and proved too lazy to try to add a discussion of my dissertation to the site, and thus it was not much improved. Also, this was a complete non-priority, as I don’t use my professional website in any professional way, except for when I can’t find my CV on my hard drive and so I download it instead.

Figuring out commute times between Stanford and San Francisco on public transportation.
Time diverted: 45 minutes.
Tangible benefits: None. I have done this at least half-a-dozen times now. Yet it is like I keep compulsively looking for some wormhole that will allow me to both live in San Francisco and make it to Stanford without sacrificing two to three hours per day. When I get bored of looking for places where the Caltrain takes advantage of rips in the space-time continuum, I sometimes switch to looking for a smart phone or ultra-portable laptop that would allow me to use my commute time to great effect. These can be pricey, though, so perhaps I will look into whether the North Koreans are selling any warp cores.

Listening to the Books on CD that I copied from the Menlo Park public library before I left.
Time diverted: Many, many hours.
Tangible benefits: High enough to ward off guilt. My current book-on-CD is on listening to and understanding opera, which I think will be good for me because I enjoy operas but my mind often wanders during them. Example: last year, my sister Merideth and I took this special trip to go see the LA Opera and I fell asleep during Tannhauser. But, in my defence, that was by Wagner, so whole civilizations had risen and crumbled back into dust in the time it took for the opera to finish.

Searching internet to determine what kind of bird the Road Runner, nemesis of Wile E. Coyote, is supposed to represent.
Time diverted: 5 minutes.
Tangible benefits: Nil. The answer, to save you the trouble, is that there is actually a bird called a "roadrunner" (Geococcyx californianus and, also, it's smaller cousin the Geococcyx volex) and it really does live in deserts. And can run at speeds of up to 15 miles per hour or more!

Reading all available blog commentary on latest episode of Top Chef: Season 3, which determined the finalists who will travel to Aspen thanks to the Glad family of products.
Time diverted: 3 hours.
Tangible benefits: Low. I know no other Top Chef fans here to spend time debating the show with. And I suspect my heart will be crushed by the eventual loss of chef-testant Casey and a resultant third-straight male Top Chef. On the other hand, I learned what sous vide means. If I ever cook something sous vide, then I can upgrade these “Tangible Benefits” to medium.

Eating Doritos, which are miraculously every bit as delicious in their Indian guise as they are when made in the United States.
Time diverted: None, really. I surfed the internet while eating them, so there was no additional loss of time due to the Doritos, except maybe the moments it took to open the bag.
Tangible benefits: Negative. My arteries were making small, unheeded cries of distress with every chip, and my fingers turned to that characteristic orange.

Looking through the Neiman Marcus website for a suit that I can buy, bring back to Delhi, and have an Indian tailor copy in several other colors and weights of fabric, turning me into a well-dressed professional for decades to come.
Time diverted: 4 hours.
Tangible benefits: Possible, if I actually go through with the suit-making plan and I am happy with the results and I get a job outside of Californiawhere suit-wearing will be required. Also, the website allows you to browse by fashion designer in a pretty efficient way and that was kind of fun. And it increased my enthusiasm for the upcoming season of Project Runway.

Cleaning Albert.
Time diverted: 10 minutes.
Tangible benefits: High for me. I think his fur looks much whiter now. Very low for him—I don’t think he enjoyed the vigorous toweling off that is so important after you moisten a stuffed animal, so that you don’t want to ruin the nice, plush feel of the fur.

Signing up for Stanford Commute Club.
Time diverted: 10 minutes.
Tangible benefits: ~$250! However, I am wondering if it is unethical to claim the benefits this year. I checked most of the boxes without compulsion (Registered student? Yes. Will not have a parking permit? Yes.), but wasn’t sure about the “will commute to Stanford” box. How often do I have to commute to make it okay to take the university’s money? I mean, I’ll be on campus a couple of times this year. Then again, if people don’t sign up for the program, the University might cancel it, thinking that the incentive to not drive to campus isn’t working. And that would be bad. So I’m really just doing my part, right?

It is only with a serious investment in procrastination that one can come up with thin rationalizations like that.

Fool me twice...

You will not believe this: it happened AGAIN!

I can accept that anyone could interview the wrong person once. Probably even Barbara Walters has made this mistake at some point. But to do it twice. In the same week???? What in the name of all that is good is the matter with me????

I can hardly bear to go into this, but the gist is that there is a think tank in Delhi, with a gentleman on staff whom I would like to speak with. Retired general, used to work in some of the places I’m researching, terribly germane to my topic. But, unbeknownst to me prior to this afternoon, this think tank also enjoys the affiliation of an economist, whose name differs from that of the ex-serviceman in question only in that the vowel in the economist’s last name is “ai” and the vowel in the good soldier’s last name is “ay.”

You see where this is going? Not so long ago, I called up the think tank, asked the secretary to connect me to Mr. “ay”, went through my song and dance about wanting to meet up, set an appointment, and congratulated myself on another interview landed, not realizing I had been connected to Mr. “ai.” Granted, there were clues. I could have said “General” instead of “Mister” and perhaps that would have clarified things for the secretary—but I wasn’t sure if ex-generals still use that title. (Am trying to think of references to Colin Powell and am unable to pinpoint whether “General” is used.) I should have been tipped off by the jolly “I’m more of an economist myself, but I’ll be happy to talk to you.” I just sort of figured the good general had development issues nearest to his heart. I mean, he was never a politician, so maybe that was what he meant, right?

Fortunately, I figured this gaff out before the interview began—I saw the name on the door, felt my tummy travel to my toes, blinked several times, and then realized what had happened. And, again by the grace of the universe, Mr. “ai” has some regional economic interests, so there was the thinnest layer of plausibility about me seeking out his advice. And he happily recommended multiple works on federalism I might peruse. We both could have used the thirty minutes in a more productive fashion, but no serious harm was done.

Except to my confidence as a field worker. I don’t know if I am unfit for interactions with real people, or unfit to schedule my own time, or pathologically bad with names, or what. Realistically, I know I am a bit careless about names/dates/places/details in general. (I blame my high school history teacher, who taught me for 3 straight years and was very into learning concepts instead of facts. Damn holistic education.) But, right now, instead of being full of resolve to improve myself in this respect, I just feel ridiculous.

I think in all my future accidental interviews I will try to take more detailed notes. Then maybe by the time I’m done I’ll have enough for a whole parallel dissertation about “people whose names are quite similar to the names of people who are important to the study of Indian federalism.” Kind of a linguistics/anthropology hybrid study.

Off to drown my sorrows in bottled water…

Not what I meant to do

I just set my new personal low for stunningly botched fieldwork. I am still, frankly, reeling.

As you know, I’ve been interviewing members of the Indian parliament lately. This has been going pretty well and has had the nice side-effect of quadrupling my consumption of very sweet and milky tea and various sorts of biscuits. In fact, I was considering myself practically a Girl Friday as of a few days ago. The interviews are fairly formal and they usually cannot be too long—one to one-and-a-half hours. And I try to write fairly narrow questions about specific junctures in the person’s life because I’ve found my “big think” queries don’t really go anywhere. And I’m mostly just hoping the respondent will drop one or two political factoids that will be helpful to me as they give me what is otherwise a fairly well-rehearsed line. (I will mention that it is entirely by design that I am doing rather cerebral interviews with not-particularly-representative Indians, as opposed to, say, trying to go into the Indian countryside to get an accurate sense of the life of the man on the street. The notion that I could possibly do the latter has always seemed ridiculous to me. Let’s face it: I am the sort of person who knows the names of many kinds of cheese and no professional basketball players. In short, I’m not even good at understanding real life in my own society, how would I understand it in India?)

I have, of course, wondered how honest my respondents are being. I definitely wonder if the people who seem sincere are merely the most accomplished liars, and I have similar questions about the respondents who seem dim or persistently confused in their facts. It is particularly difficult to square the people I interview with the rather nasty deeds ascribed to Indian politicians in general and/or to the respondent in particular. And questions in that vein are hard to phrase in a delicate manner: “so, tell me about the time you broke with your coalition partners and restarted a civil war…” or “How’d you get so good at bombing trains?”

My interview today, for example, raised just such a delicate issue, in this case because the politician I was going to talk to—let’s call him Mr. Morgan Thomas Mitchell from constituency X (Stanford Human Subjects would be so pleased with me)—had both his legs blown off when an insurgent group he once had ties to tried to assassinate him. I prepared for this interview earlier this week because I thought I was going to get in to see him on Wednesday. But when I got there I instead spoke to a secretary who found out what I was doing and then told me to go to the MP’s residence on Sunday. This actually put me in a pretty good mood, because if this Mr. Mitchell was important enough to have a secretary who screened his appointments (unlike the usual MP taking his own calls), well, who knows what fascinating political facts he’d have for me?

Interview day arrived, and I made my way to the house maintained by Mr. Mitchell’s state to be used as a residence for politicians and official guests. Let me note that part of the reason the corruption of my respondents is always a little hard to gauge is that they live in pretty modest circumstances. I mean, again with the upholstery ecosystem that could, at any moment, support the emergence of vertebrates. The whole place, like so many buildings in India, somehow managed to look simultaneously like it is still under-construction and falling apart from old age, and had the eerie-bombed out feeling of, well, a place where there are no signs of life other than men who are either repaving or destroying the driveway and a group of people who do not seem to have anything in particular to do except sit on the very dirty couches, waiting for the power to come back on so that the single fan will begin to make the dust stir again.

The same secretary I had seen on Wednesday showed me to a somewhat nicer room and sat down to take a phone call. I assured him that I knew I was a bit early and that I was happy to wait, and I pulled out my newspaper. Then the secretary said, “Well, shall we start?” And I wonder to myself, “Is he going to do the interview for the MP? Is he the MP? And, how can that be? He is most clearly not a double amputee. Is it possible that this is some kind of a con job, that I’ve been lured into an interview with an impostor? And who would try to impersonate someone in a wheelchair without attending to that small detail?” (Keep in mind, constituency X is in one of the scarier places I study and perhaps this is all some kidnapping set-up). I was, in short, totally flustered. In the best case scenario, where this guy is the MP, I have, first of all, been talking about “Mr. Mitchell” consistently over two meetings now, so it’s not like he won’t know I was mixed up and, second, I know nothing about this man. The guy I prepared to interview was not only legless, the political career that led his opponents to hire his estranged rebel supporters to attempt to blow him into his next incarnation was pretty distinctive—even in a pretty violent place like India. And, given my chosen interview style, I do not really have any all-purpose questions prepared. But, then again, I’m not completely sure that this man isn’t Mr. Mitchell because, after all, maybe the reports of the extent of the damage to his limbs were exaggerated or maybe I’d somehow become mixed up about that detail. In short, I had nothing.

The interview never really recovered. After an excruciating hour or so, I stumbled back through the Sarajevo-by-way-of-Haiti state house, and into the Delhi sunlight. I rode home in a daze, wondering with almost an idle curiosity what had just happened.

I am sure that someday I will find this hilarious, but the answer to the question turns out to be that there are two high-profile Parliamentarians in constituency X with rather similar names. One is Morgan Thomas Mitchell and the other is Thomas Morgan Mitchell. In fact, they are in the same political party. And, naturally, in newspaper articles there are often references to Mr. Mitchell, the honorable member from X, and it can be a bit hazy who the referent is. And, well, Mr. Thomas Morgan Mitchell is, it seems, still in his home state recovering from the rather nasty attempt on his life, while Mr. Morgan Thomas Mitchell and I just enjoyed some sweet tea, Ritz crackers, and not terribly high-quality discussion of Indian federalism.

Whoops.

Another day in India, another notice from my bank that my account is going to be frozen...

Perhaps I should not have relied so heavily on the globalization of financial markets. But, on balance, I think it is still probably easier to periodically have no money in India than to open a bank account here. It's what the locals do, anyhow.

I have started my interviewing of Indian MPs. This is surprisingly easy to schedule because MPs all have not only their home phone numbers but their mobile phone numbers on the Parliamentary website. Second, they mostly answer their own phone, and always their mobile. Third, their secretaries are happy to give you other numbers you might try—say, if they are out of town—even before you have done your whole “bright young thing from Stanford” talk. Fourth, although they do go to legislative sessions, time constraints still seem largely soft. I get a lot of “Okay, do you want to come over now?” To which the answer is, “Well, no. You see, I was actually making this call not only unshowered and still in my pajamas but without having finished an interview script because I thought I would be begging your secretary for a date three weeks from now.” I don’t know whether to admire the accessibility of India’s political class, thank the dissertation gods, or to just ask the guy on the other end of the line “isn’t there something else you could be doing right now?”

When I’m not pursuing that, I’m still going to the National Archives. Next week, though, I’m going to try to get into the Parliamentary Library because I have about finished with what is really useful here. I only hope the library staff spends more time at the office than the MPs do.

…

Of the many dualisms India presents, one of the most interesting to me is the middle class’s enthusiasm for both imported technologies and a revivalist Indian folklore. The first is the kind of gung-ho materialism mixed with enthusiasm for scientific innovation that I associate with 1950s America. It’s the desire for home appliances, SUVs, slimming programs, and nuclear weapons. It is the enormous popularity of coffee shops despite the fact that most Indians—raised, as they are, on chai sweeter than liquefied CareBears—appear to dislike coffee and so almost the whole menu of such a café has to be devoted to ice cream drinks (YUM!). Yet all of that exists in parallel with an anxiety that local culture is being diluted and a resultant maudlin nostalgia for a potpourri of Hindu folkways. It has a certain vapid quality, incorporating only what is most convenient from the past, but no more so the chubby Pilgrim & Indian decorations of Thanksgiving.

Exhibit 1: Indian QVC has a special program devoted to the sale of household gods and goddesses (“This exquisite, individually numbered bronze Kali can be yours for not Rs. 2500, not Rs. 2000 but Rs. 1449. Now, we only have a few left…”) but, to avoid blasphemy, a very reputable-looking guru opens and closes each episode with a blessing, and makes short, edifying explanations of the spiritual import of the various items for sale. I should admit that by reputable-looking I mean old, with a long beard, and a yellowish-orange dot of something on his forehead. Whatever, I’m not a religious studies scholar.

Exhibit 2: Last week was Little Lord Krishna’s birthday and, to celebrate, a new cartoon about his childhood adventures was aired, in which he looked remarkably like a bright blue addition to the animated Gummi Bears clan. I have no idea if he had unusual powers of bouncing. I suspect not, as I seem to remember that the gummy berries so essential to bouncing elixir grew in deciduous forests.

Exhibit 3: This week I had a RiteBite Smart nutrition bar, which not only has PowerBar-esque packaging, it contains Shankhpushpi (“Over the centuries, this herb found in the northern plains of India is believed to help improve memory.” Though, since I’ll be lucky to live one century I’m not quite sure Shankhpushpi is going to work for me.); Brahmi, an herb to improve the intellect; and Ashvagandha, a root extract that will increase one’s sense of well-being. Makes that Vitamin Water you’re drinking seem pretty lame-o, doesn’t it?

Correction: I unfairly maligned Bank of America and I apologize. My latest email was a fake, I learned when I called in. Not only was Bank of America not trying to cut me off, this is evidence that their concern was, in fact, warranted.
I think there is a dissertation to be written about how Nigeria can possibly be so poor when the country has such a verifiably an enterprising people.

"Political Science and Beyond!"

My post this week is from the Department of Unexcusable Self-Pity. Because (a) my tummy hurts and (b) all my political science friends are at APSA this weekend and I’m stuck here in stupid ol’ India.

For the uninitiated, APSA is the American Political Science Association and when I say “at” APSA, it isn’t that everyone is on a tour of some august institution where the Association has, for example, a museum of famous political scientists through the ages. (Which is not to say such a thing shouldn’t exist, complete with gift shop. Imagine a Sam Huntington plush doll! It could even make inflammatory racial claims, totally uninformed by empirical investigation, when you pressed its belly!) No, what I mean to say is that all my political science friends are at the Annual Meeting of APSA, being held this year in Chicago.

Surely you can see the delights this affords? The aggregated awkwardness of hundreds of people who, out of all the options afforded by their greater than average intelligence, thought long and hard about where they would be most likely to succeed and chose the one career path upon which social skills have no bearing whatsoever.

The Meeting is also titled—and I wish I were making this up—“Political Science and Beyond.” Now, setting aside that the cultural reference this brings most strongly to mind is the catchphrase from a children’s film about talking action figurines, exactly what does “beyond” refer to? I mean, political science is not the most readily-applied degree. What beyond political science are we qualified to do? Is APSA going to expand into selling face cream? From now on, will they publish Perspectives on Politics and 1001 Gardening tips for faculty housing?

Examining the meeting statement, however, I see that “beyond” refers to the conveners’ aim “to embrace the extraordinary potential of linking political scientists with researchers, teachers, and scholars from other disciplines.” If they have specific examples in mind they are not letting on. The meeting statement refers only to the “cognate disciplines” which—seeing as how we are a “social science”—must mean anything informing us about “societies” or “science.” Which is, hmmm, let’s see, everything. That IS extraordinary potential!

One hypothesis is that the meeting theme has no significance whatsoever - the theme has to cover everything in political science, so it always ends up being vague. A second hypothesis is that the theme might be code for “Sure, what you do doesn’t really look like what I think political science is, but I'm still totally interested in [insert academic discipline].” Because, in the past, there was a lot of ink and maybe even a little blood spilled over what disciplines political science should emulate.

The back story, briefly: Fifteen or so years ago [correction: about 7 years ago. NB - correction strengthens plausibility of hypothesis] , a group of political scientists dubbed themselves the “Perestroikans” and attempted to split/take-over APSA in order to resist what was then a trend toward a style of political science more closely aligned with economics and psychology than with anthropology and cultural studies. A cause which, obviously, was of a moral and historical significance such that it could only be compared to the dismantling of the most extensive police state humanity has ever known.

Perestroikans—for reasons that mostly have to do with the kind of tenure battles that form the background of such happy tales as To the Lighthouse and Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?—largely lost. But this was no Tienanmen Square-style repression of such brutal force as to banish the movement from view. Rather, this was the tenuous and blundering occupation of Tibet, plagued with continued guerrilla violence. Thus, APSA, like a well-meaning and perhaps naive team of Norwegian peacemakers, watches uneasily over its oft-quarrelsome flock, appealing to mutual tolerance.

And to think that, budding conflict scholar which I claim to be, I am not there to gather data!

Further notes of correction: Perestroika began with an anonymous email circulated in 2000 (By the way, the phrase "FAILED Africanist" is a reference to my advisor) & its history is described here & here.
Perestroikans also self-style their movement "Glasnost," again revealing an admirable ability to give a detached assessment of the scope and import of the issue at hand, and have a sister movement with the even more tasteless name "Post-Autistic Economics."

Truly, hell hath no fury like an academic scorned by the more visible journals in his discipline.

Note on the Admittedly Less Exotic Local Fauna: Rakhi, the Indian festival of brothers and sisters, was August 28^th. The gist is that a sister ties a red piece of thread around her brother’s wrist, and then he gives her a present. Perhaps, for example, the gift of happiness, the gift of an i-Pod. (See picture)

The odd role of rakhi is that young women will “tie rakhi” on young men they think of as brothers in addition to their biological male siblings—the obvious candidates for this being cousins. But once a girl has tied rakhi on a guy, the incest taboo is sort of extended to that relationship. So, it can be a way to discourage a suitor – make him a brother and suddenly he has to defend your honor instead of continuing his attempts to sully it. There is even a TV show about it. It’s called something like Rakhi Sahib and the main character is the sort of typical “nice guy” who always ends up being the shoulder his female friends cry on instead of the one they date. Except, in this case, his crushes always tie the Rakhi on him.

Note on Life Imitating Art: Major R.A.M. Major was the last Political Officer to His Majesty’s Government in India to serve in Khasi State. But, obviously, his true accomplishment was to have the startlingly silly name “Major Major,” a la Catch-22.

I is for India

Do you remember the times in Sesame Street when a muppet would sound out a word? Often the syllables of the word were themselves puppets and they would move gradually together as the furry monster progressed from “hah ta” to “haht” to “hot,” by which point the letters had joined and, possibly, done something to illustrate their meaning, such as glowing with warmth, to continue the “hot” example. In my declining Sesame Street years I wasn’t that fond of these shorts. You see, big all-day-at-school kid that I was, I’d moved on to whole-word, as opposed to phonetic, mastery of most of your three letter words. (With the obvious exceptions of all those three letter words you learn only once you start doing crosswords, like “emu” and “ort.”) But now sounding out words is my new favorite travel game and it makes my rickshaw commutes to the National Archives seem almost short.

I like to sound out Hindi words because, although my vocabulary is fleetingly small, I do know the alphabet. I am sort of proud of that because the non-familiarity of the characters makes it feels like I’ve mastered some super secret code. Super secret meaning, in this case, that it is just the 500 million or so of us who know it. What makes sounding out particularly enjoyable is that so many words in Hindi—especially the sort of words that make it onto signs, like “metro” and “gate”—are transliterations of English words. So I’ll be going along, sounding out words that mean nothing to me and then there are these great epiphany moments when a word pops out of the sounds. Example: I’ll be reading along “dah-lee-poh-le-s” and, ureka!, that’s “Delhi police.”

For illustration, I include here the two kinds of signs I can read. Albert is Vanna White-ing the first type, which is a sign that is actually in English. It says “A Block.” Which is right next door to where I live, on B block. The second type of sign I can read, like the road sign here, contains Hindi proper nouns. Everything on the line in English is reproduced phonetically in Hindi, including “Captain.”

It is very interesting to notice what gets transliterated versus translated. For example, if you are standing on the Metro platform in Delhi, enjoying the deliciously well air-conditioned feel of the place, a sign on the wall tells you, in Hindi characters, to stay behind the “peelee” line, using the Hindi word for yellow. But the train you are about to board is called the “bahloo” line, transliterating “blue” instead of using “neelee,” the Hindi word for blue.

So, that’s what I’m doing for fun these days! Field work is an endless party, I tell you.

Random note: I have moved on from digestive biscuits to Bounty chocolate bars. I’ve had them before but I had forgotten how vastly superior they are to Mounds bars, which use the same basic coconut-wrapped-in-chocolate concept. This is because, first of all, the Bounty candy bar is slightly salty, which creates a nice counterpoint to all that sticky sweetness. And, second, they are quite a bit fatter. Possibly, if I had paid more attention to learning the metric system in middle school I would already have known 1 bounty > 1 mound.

Random note 2: I think that anyplace that is in the tropics and does not have reliable AC should avoid upholstered furniture. It can’t be washed without encouraging what is already a latent tendency to mold and, as a result, becomes extremely dusty and grim-covered. In fact, I think the most important question for most home purchases in this climate is “will I be able to prevent this object from supporting its own ecosystem?”

Random note 3: I have a cockroach living in my bathroom. I’ve known this for about a week but I was content to peacefully coexist since (a) he only came out at night and ran for cover whenever I turned on the light and (b) I don’t like hunting cockroaches because there is the possibility that, in its panic, your prey will do something gross like skitter across your feet. I also don’t like dealing with their distressingly large carcasses. However, yesterday the roach ran into the cupboard beneath the sink and I shut him in there. I now wonder if that wasn’t a cruel thing to do as stomping on him would have been a quicker end. But he won’t necessarily be starving, since that cupboard was hardly an antiseptic environment. And, also, I think the only way to really kill a cockroach is with basilisk venom or fiend fire, so he’s probably just really mad at me and especially likely to do something upsettingly disgusting if I let him out.