The Day I Met a Bug the Size of a Small Bird

It’s not an exaggeration. The woman who ran upstairs after I screamed bloody murder can attest to that. He flew in while I was taking a shower (and by shower I mean pouring handfuls of cold water on me from a bucket on the bathroom floor). It was not a terribly pleasant way to start the day.

Soon afterwards we were whisked off to a “Fashion Show” at the college where the costume design students showcased the year’s work. Upon arrival we were told that we were the guests of honor and while at first we were flattered we would soon realize what that entailed. When we found ourselves on stage handing out plastic plaques and candy bars to every single one of the participants and were told not to smile with our mouths open during the numerous pictures, the novelty of the title quickly faded. It was more awkward than one would imagine but luckily the familiar music put us at ease. The sound track for the evening included the likes of 50 Cent screaming “Mothafuckas will shoot ya” into an unsuspecting crowd, a techno remix of the Titanic theme song, and of course plenty of Michael Jackson to go around. I found it hard to keep a straight face when the 7-year-olds sporting the rainbow-themed collection were parading around on stage to Gasolina.

The festivities did not end there. The fashion show was followed by the Microbiology department’s dance performance. Sadly, I am not making that up. I have attempted to suppress the memory so all I can say is that it resembled a middle-school talent show being reenacted by unjustly confident 20-year-olds. The skill level did not seem to perturb the attentive audience in the least, who were packed into the make-shift auditorium as if Amitabh Bhachchan himself had ascended on stage. This phenomenon was later explained by our exposure to Indian television where their version of “So you Think you Can Dance” would make even Svetlana Filipson cringe (for those of you who don’t know she suffers from chronic offtempoitis).

Three painful hours later we found ourselves in a pucker-level 9.2 car ride (I will devote a blog that delves into the horrors of Asian driving at a later date) to the nearest town, where surprisingly the National Woman’s Boxing Tournament was taking place. It must have been rather disappointing for these athletes to be invited to participate in this prestigious event only to find out that they were getting a free trip to a place that can only be described as a moderate assemblage of houses/businesses in rural South India. A damn shame for them, but it made for an enjoyable experience for two American transplants. As the athletes were being housed at my Grandfather’s college we were given VIP seats and were escorted on stage to bless the fighters as well as pose for photo opps. So all in all it was just your average day in a third world country.