There's No Walmart in India
By Valerie Victorias

Valerie Victoria is a Professor of English as a Second Language (ESL) and a mother of two sons. They moved to India recently. A recount of her experiences in this land of
diversity.

The Fancy Store and a Culture Quiz.

Like any good mother, and armed with my shopping list, I started out to find my son's school supplies. I began by asking the driver to take me to a store that sold pens, pencils and school supplies.
He said, "Madame, you'll get all those things at the bookstall."
I said, "Fine, just take me there."

We drove down some winding narrow streets near the school, and finally, he stopped at a row of shops and pointed to one that was about as big as my bathroom with a glass counter across the entire four foot entrance and said, "There Madame, you'll get the things there."

I was less than convinced, but I got out and made my way across the busy street to the bookstall. As I approached, I could see that there must be at least a million little things crammed in every corner of that shop. I could not actually get to the items; I could only point and ask. He began to pull things from areas of the little shop that I didn't think had space. He even climbed on one of the side counters and reached inside the ceiling tiles and pulled down items I asked for. Through much trial and error, we ticked-off many of the items on the list. However, he was out of geo boxes and pencils with rubbers attached, but he said I could get them at a "fancy store". There was that word again.

I asked where a "fancy store" was, and he asked where I stayed. I still wasn't ready to tackle the problem of a "fancy store" yet, but I told him I was staying near Kamanhali Main Road. He told me to just ask any person along there and they would be able to tell me. I headed back for the car, deciding to save the "fancy store" until that evening when I could walk to it and hopefully be able to actually go in.

Next, I decided I had better try to get my son's uniforms made and his shoes and socks purchased. I told the driver that I needed to go to a street called "MG" Road for a tailor and fabric for uniforms and to Brigade Road for shoes and socks.

He asked," What is the address, Madame, that you wish to find?"
"Well," I said, "She told me it is a store called the "Jean Machine", and it is in the tallest building on MG Road.
"Very Well, Madame. I know that building," He answered.
He dropped us off and said he would park across the street. No problem, I thought. We went into the building, found the "Jean Machine", told them my son's school, got him measured, and were promised the order would be ready by Thursday. We left the building, and only then did I realize what my international students meant when they said, "All Americans look alike." Across the street was parked a sea of white ambassadors with an equal number of Indian men drivers!

I quickly discovered that finding the correct car and driver was not my most immediate problem. MG Road suddenly looked liked a California freeway that had gone awry at rush hour traffic. Not to mention that there was a three-foot tall divider in the middle and a policeman near a traffic light at the other end of the busy street. Using my good American common sense, I opted to follow the law and headed for the traffic signals and the policeman. As I neared the corner, I began to observe the flow of traffic and what other pedestrians did as the lights changed. THE LIGHTS! There were some green, some arrows and one with little numbers that were going down in count. I suddenly realized that the policeman was using a microphone and amplifier, but it wasn't English that he was speaking.

I almost panicked, and then, I got an idea. I would just go when the other people went, and this would solve my problem. No such luck! My son and I were the only ones going across the street in that direction. The policeman shouted something, all the cars stopped and so we quickly hurried across the street. I still wonder to this day if he didn't shout, "Everybody stop! A crazy American lady and her little boy are trying to cross the street."

Safely on the other side, I was ready to attack my next problem of finding my car and driver. Fortunately, the driver was accustomed to foreigners, so he was standing outside of the car watching for us and waved us into the car. We proceeded on to Brigade Road and the shoe store. We went into what looked like a nice shoe store with all sizes of shoes, but they didn't carry children's shoes. "No problem," he said, as he directed us to another shoe store opposite the toy store, and so on we went. At that shoe store, they finally told me "No problem, children's school shoes are at the "Bata Shoe Store" next to Whimpy's Burgers. We proceeded on realizing that "No problem" is standard for there is a problem here. We arrived at the shoe store, tried on the black leather shoes and the white physical training shoes and asked the man how much they were. He answered and I said ok. We thought he had proceeded to the counter while we continued to look around for socks, but he nor the shoes were at the counter when we got there. We went to look for him and found him shelving the shoes in the back.

I looked at him and said, " What are you doing with the shoes?"
He looked surprised and answered, "I am putting them away, Madame."

"Why are you putting them away?" I quarried. "I wanted them!"
He apologized and took them to the counter, where we paid for them. As we left the store, my son and I looked at each other puzzled, went back over the conversation that had just happened, and we still didn't know what signaled him that we didn't want the shoes. We were so confused that we had forgotten to purchase school socks, but we decided that we had had enough shopping for one day, and I would just see if there was one near our house on my next shopping trip to look for the "fancy store." No problem.

99 Pages of real-life tips and tactics for foreigners wishing to settle down in Bangalore. A must read for anyone visiting the Silicon Valley of India!

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