Castaway

Being in Angola reminds me of the movie Castaway. I am not alone and not lost in a remote island. However, sometimes it feels that way. I work six days a week from dawn till dusk. After day’s work I do not wish for anything other than a little food for survival and some sleep. I really do not prefer to see the expats again in the staff house after spending all day in the office with them. Generally their life style is different from mine. Some love to drink for hours, some smoke like a chimney and keep coughing, some whine about all the things wrong at office, at the house, and so on. Some do not have any physical activity and are not in good shape. Many of them are here in Angola only for that extra money. Some of them act like grown up kids, yet it’s their life and they despise any advice even it’s for their safety. Quite a few are divorcees.

I hardly watch TV. I wanted to see a soccer match (African Futeball) to break the routine, but was advised against it because of potential trouble. There is trouble in the northern border with Congo. A bus carrying the Togo team was shot at. We closed office early one day because of the game between Nigeria and Egypt (fierce rivalry and past history of trouble) as per intelligence report. On Sundays I practically stay in my room. This is my day to unwind, fix breakfast, go for a run, cook, take a nap, skype with my family (only connection to the rest of the world), and possibly read or make an attempt to write reflecting on my experiences. What I find is that suddenly I can not even pencil in my thoughts. I think I have lost it all. So, I pass time listening to music and when it stops I start it all over. I do not mark on the wall like Tom Hanks in the movie to keep track of days. However, I wonder if this place will be able to beat my spirit. I am not a quitter and until then I must wait in this lonely place.

A glimpse of India through my Window

I just returned from India after spending two extremely hectic weeks making lots of wonderful memories with relatives and friends, seeing my name sake – the mighty Brahmaputra, riding an elephant in the Kaziranga National Park (KNP) and over indulging in great meals cooked with lots of love.

However, on a different note, things have definitely changed in India. I am not sure if the good offsets the bad. The economy appears to be catered for 25 - 30% of India’s new middle class (by Indian standard, poverty line is defined at INR 300.00/month, i.e. less than a US$ 0.25/day and 300 million people are below this line. However, by World Bank definition of poverty at US$1/day/ person, 750 million (75%) Indian people are below poverty line.). A vast majority have practically nothing.

Insatiable needs of the middle class have created concrete jungles and a sea of automobiles. There are more tall buildings, highways, malls, blue jeans, cargo pants, McDonalds, cell phones, satellite dish, and so on. They are cutting down beautiful hills and trees to make room for the new rich. Land is becoming like gold and the poor is being squeezed out to the streets or the slums. There is horrendous traffic at standstill pace with trucks, sedans, rickshaws, three-wheelers, bicycles, cows, dogs, goats, pedestrians making their own traffic rules. Obviously all of these have resulted in deafening noise, air pollution, dust, etc. Crimes like murder, rape, mugging, car theft are on the rise. I suppose that is the price of so called progress.

There still are snake charmers, fortune tellers, and monkey owners trying to make a living on the streets. There is a silent exodus from rural India to urban jungles caused by the lure of city lights and Bollywood glitter. Once in the city, generally they get trapped with no way out but to accept the harsh reality of the “City of Joy”. The disparity between the “haves” and “have-nots” seems to be widening at an accelerated pace. Construction workers are still not provided proper working conditions like drinking water or portable toilet at job site, safety gears, etc. So, they do their thing on the road side; make their own safety boots of gunny sacks to walk on hot tar to build roads, and carry pebbles in a basket on their head. Life goes on. When you show the slums (“Slum Dog Millionaire”), the “haves” resent it. They do not want to know the truth. They want to live in a cocoon isolated from the Indian reality.