I've been warmly welcomed at BAU, by the colleagues I've begun working with and with whom I hope to work closely in the future, as well as by the Vice Chancellor, Director of Research, and many other senior academics. Staff and students I don't know have been very friendly and, while I've been out of my comfort zone, I have felt very safe and accepted. I noticed a few unusual-to-me things worth writing about:
We ran a training course in the week following Republic Day; it was held in a seminar room in a building which was being repainted. Instead of ladders the workers used tripods, of bamboo stalks bound together, with additional rails for standing on. They seemed very secure, and allowed three men to work in a similar area at the same time.
I was generally well looked after by the guesthouse staff, and they dealt very patiently with my lack of Hindi and limited knowledge of basic Indian customs, such as meal times. However I did find my triple-knock-morning-chai routine between 0630 and 0700 a bit challenging: I never liked to turn down chai in case I couldn't get it back. It wasn't that I didn't want the chai, I just would have preferred it an hour or so later. I also realised, after a few days, that I appeared to have the only key to my room: no one entered it or cleaned it unless I was there. This wasn't a great problem (I'm not that messy and happy to make my own bed) but I'm still not sure if I should have been handing my key over each morning for the room to be turned out. Most mornings there just didn't seem to be anyone to hand the key over to as I was leaving.
More challenging was the staff's decision to change my sheets, and mop my floors, at 0730 on Sunday morning (I really feel this contravenes, or should, some International Convention on the Rights of Paying Guests, to which all countries with hotels should be signatories). I indicated, fairly strongly, that I didn't want this to happen (at least, not until later) but was overruled by the two guys who appeared with bedlinen and a broom: again, I didn't want to be too pushy as I did want fresh linen. With great attention to detail and in no particular hurry they changed my bottom (flat) sheet and pillowcases; while they were busy with other things I borrowed the flat sheet of another linen set they'd left in the room, to use as a top sheet. Unfortunately they realised their loss soon after leaving my room (just as I'd got back into bed) so I had to confess I'd taken it. They seemed surprised that anyone would want a top sheet (this is a much higher cultural barrier for me than dhal at every meal): they wouldn't let me keep the second sheet but eventually they found a tablecloth (quite a large one) which I was allowed to use. Every night for the rest of my stay, as I tucked the bobbled fringe under my chin, I mused on the strange bed customs in India.
I had thought I'd agreed a reasonable price for the room but it turned out, on checking out, that the price was actually an order of magnitude greater than I'd expected. The misunderstanding caused by a lack of common language was a shame but not a big deal: being expected to pay Delhi prices for a room with at-best-intermittent hot water, no internet, no top sheet, one elderly towel, and various other minor inconveniences not found in even three-star hotels still sticks in my throat. The room actually got more expensive the longer I stayed there: the price per night doubled from night six onwards. This means the room is too expensive at its current rate to be a feasible long-term option for me: if I can't find a way to get a cheaper room rate I may have to re think my plans for future work. I will find a way forward but it is a shame to have to go back to the drawing board when I'd begun to think my plans were getting sorted.
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