Expats say the darndest things
Melissa A. Bell -
Monday, April 27, 2009 6:12 PM
This may come as a surprise to people, but I don’t actually like to go out, especially to cocktail parties where I don’t know many people. I always wind up talking to the one person at the entire party who either wants to tell me the entire saga of his blighted love affair that ended ten years ago or the girl who really thinks the guy likes her—right? he does, right?—even though he hasn’t called in a week.
Despite this aversion to public gatherings, I wound up on two consecutive weekends at two expat parties. I started to think that perhaps it wasn’t that I disliked going out—I just hate going to expat parties. Because expats say the darndest things. Especially new kids to town. As an old timer—all of three years now—I saw it fit to write a small primer on what not to say to help all the wayward folks making their way to the balmy shores of India.
(As a small tangent: Have you noticed how many foreigners are flocking here? I know, I know. Everyone says that every year. But in the last couple months alone, I feel this place has been inundated with folks fleeing the recessions at home, no longer searching for the spiritual India, but simply the cold hard successful India.)
My token disclaimer: Of course, I’ve said all these things at one time or another (except for the pajama pants; I wouldn’t be caught dead in those). I’m trying to help you learn from my mistakes and, yes, I am generalizing as a crude attempt at humor. I am sure you are all beautiful, good people. And I believe the cross pollination of ideas that we bring with us and that we take away is invaluable to India and to the countries we return to. But sometimes you act like ninnies.
"Oh my god! You’re from New Jersey! And I’m from California! That means we’re probably going to have so much in common and be best friends forever. I am SO excited to have met you!”
Just because my ancestors and your ancestors moved to a similar country years ago, and then we’ve both decided to move to this country does not mean that we have anything else in common. There is no way you would be friends with me back home—I’m a dork who loves Jane Austen. I’m sorry to say I don’t think I’d be friends with you either—you like going to Urban Pind and talking about football. It's just not going to work.
I love how you greet me so gleefully as we pass each other on the street. I almost feel like I’m running into a long lost friend: “Hello, there!” But then I realize we’ve never met. You’re just amazed to see another white American traipsing through Defense Colony market. Trust me, there are plenty of white Americans in Defense Colony. It’s more embarrassing that we’re both here than anything else; best pretend we just don’t see each other.
"I love my pajama pants.”
Where do you even find those pajama pants? And why do you think that’s the appropriate attire for this country? Have you ever seen a single Indian out of the width and breadth of this country wearing those ridiculous things?
Also, even if everyone in the world was wearing them here, do you realize that you look like MC Hammer in them? They are not flattering! You are a pretty girl wearing parachute pants! It’s just wrong!
"It is so dusty here!”
Or insert “smells so bad”, “so hot”, or “so loud”. Yes, we’ve heard the honking. We know about the certain corners that stand in as urinals. We dust our houses too. We live in a tropical country that has 600 million people below the poverty line. There are going to be smelly street corners and loud traffic noises and dusty, hot days. Get over it.
Okay, it is fine to mention this once or twice. It is 42 degrees outside. And that corner does smell really bad, especially in the 42-degree heat. But if your entire Indian experience can be summed up with the above sentence, you need to go back home.
"Isn’t the poverty just so heart breaking? It’s so hard to pass the street kids every day. I just wish I could be doing more. Could I get another glass of that Rs1,000 wine, please?”
By all means, have that glass of wine. I wouldn’t begrudge a person a drink ever. And by all means, be struck by the need to help others less fortunate than yourself. But simply talking about how sad the situation is does not in fact help anyone. Unless you are spending your entire day slaving away at Mother Teresea’s orphanage, find another topic.
Also, that’s very sweet that you choose certain street kids to give biscuits and water to. But that is not enough. Nor is paying your servants extra. Find a charity. Donate your time. At the very least, give some of your old clothing to Goonj.
"Is Rs3,000 enough to pay the ayah?”
As a friend so brilliantly put it, if you think entrusting your child’s growth, health and happiness to someone for the price of a dinner for one at the Imperial, then by all means.
You’re going to pay a bit extra than locals do. But if you’re earning more than 80 percent of the population, don’t you think you should?
"I just can’t stand how much the men stare here.”
You are eight Norwegian blond women in an ambassador in tube tops and black skirts. It’s not quite the most common sight on the block. Even I’m going to stare at you.
Ah, heck, it’s not the skirt. If you’re in a salwar kameeze, men are gonna stare. So are women. And children. People stare here! It’s a country that loves other people’s business. Get over it. Enjoy it, in fact. People are curious about you. You’re curious about them. Stare back.
"Yes, of course, I bathed my baby in Evian. Just for the first six months. Its immune system is from the mother. I couldn’t take the risk.”
I love how much you care about your child. But, honestly, that is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard a person do. And I will continue to make fun of you for it until your child is old, healthy and gray.
"I have a ton of local friends.”
Your one token Indian friend does not mean that you’re getting to know the country. And Americans with Indian parents definitely do not count as token Indian friends.
And just as a tip, traveling through the city in a pack of ten to fifteen expats will not encourage local friendships to flourish. Delhiites, especially, have friendships that go back to kindergarten. There is no reason for them to try to make friends with an entire herd of strangers. And if you're going to "Expat night" at a bar, seriously? That's not really branching out, folks.
Just to ensure I wouldn’t let my people off easy, I asked my token Indian friend to come up with a few more:
Squeeze the pennies at a bargain shop when the Rs 20 they saved after twenty minute haggle means peanuts to them – perhaps just to get the kick of a bargain. (This is very true, it pisses me off no less when I see dollar-earning people trying to haggle for 20 rupees).
Explain the visiting country’s economic and social situation (or the lack of it) in twenty minutes flat quoting this fabulous book that another expat wrote ten years back.
Pass that smug smile while being ushered in the ‘white only’ lines in hotels and other queues.
Not having the smug smile but instead feel a gentle guilt announcing to the hassled crowd of skins in the queue “Sorry foreign tourists; sorry could you let us pass.”
Back from visiting the tigers in a national park and hearing about the tiger deaths, talking about how sad it is that India is unable to protect its magnificent beasts.
“The palace was beautiful if only they could restrict the number of people coming in everyday it would be so much better an experience.”
They learn to say "chai" and "namaste" and beam when equally irritating Indians find their accent so cute.
“Do you really think I could attend a true Indian wedding when am there?” And once in India, put on the mehndi, do a silly dance, laugh to glory, and later write a blog post on the silliness of it all.
Expats think going to Neemrana is the ultimate Indian experience ever. They come back gushing that they stayed two nights in an Indian village when all they saw of that village was half a kilometer of bumpy stretch through dark tinted glasses of a chilled SUV.
I came here to find myself. This country is so spiritual. Or any variation thereof.
“Reading Amartya Sen made me realize how beautiful this country is really.”
What else we got? And, guys, try to not be TOO mean.