Hunt for Housing

Searching for housing has been fun. Amusing really. In a hotel for the first three nights, I was keen to find a permanent place, get set up, meet people, unpack my bags, and begin creating a routine. As arranged previously, several paid accommodation rooms were located and appointments made to scout them out.

On the first afternoon we quest. After a couple wrong turns, some confusing directions and many bumps, we get to one house in a fine neighborhood. A small ad in the newspaper directed us there. Up the stairs, we ring a doorbell and hang tight. We wait a little longer and as I go to ring the bell once more, I hear noise inside and decide against it.

His shadow lurches to the door, the bare light bulb behind him illuminating the tufts of white hair escaping from his turban. With each step, the shuffle of slippers. He gets closer, fiddling with his pajama pants as they fall below his hips, a white undershirt hugging his fat middle age torso. This man is a wreck. Like a character out of “One Flew Over the Cookoo’s Nest,” he looks deranged, glassed cockeyed, a few more wrinkles on the left side of his face than on his right, a scraggily beard, and a suspicious look in his eye. Awesome. I really want to stay here. “Come in.” We go in. Perfunctory words are exchanged, how long I am going to be here, my name, he offers me water, the weather, all the while his eyes traitorous of his mind, broadcasting what he hears: “Bla bla bla..”

“You want to see the room.” It is more a statement than a question. I guess, I think to myself but say, “Yes, sir, please, of course.” Those slippers are even more harrowing resonating in the hollows of a hallway with no light. I’ve seen this movie. I am glad I registered with the embassy, they will find my rotted carcass at some point. Lurching, struggling, pushing, the door finally decides to let us in. More tinkering with the drawstring. Lucky me -- he could have been a plumber. We are standing in a room that looks like it’s been underwater for three days. Black mold like wall paper, one cracked window, a bed, and broken dresser strewn about from the crane that dragged it from the ocean floor.

With a sleazy smirk, a slow motion turn, eyebrows aflutter, a touch of used car salesman, “You like?” Are you mad you insane old man? This is a dungeon. I am not picky. I just want a room where my things can be safe, a bed, some water, and a shower, and no looney old men creeping about with their pants falling down. I am super mellow but I am not staying in this opium den.

I nod, “It’s ok.” Then I turn and slowly make for the door as if to redirect our school of fish. Before he can say any more I kindly thank him, refuse to stop at his floor and continue down the steps on our way.
Later that afternoon we go to meet a broker who is set to show us two places. We trade phone calls around lunch time and finally get a hold of him. We are set for 3 p.m. So as not to be late we catch an auto rickshaw around 2:30 and head to a corner. It is not exactly cool but we wait for a while. We wait a while longer, put in a couple of phone calls, and then leave feeling like a divorced tax attorney who has been properly stood up for on an internet dating site rendezvous.

With our ears to the floor and our purebred bloodhound hunting skills guiding us, the next day we go to a house arranged by someone close to the organization. If I have learned anything thus far it is that it is standard protocol to go somewhere and not know exactly where it is, asking for directions along the way. We head in the right direction, ask around and one man finally knows where we are to go. He casually tosses his left arm and chin in ‘that’ direction.’ Again, it is standard practice but this time ‘that’ direction is down a dirt path that appears to go into a thicket. Those ears are so good at wafting hot scents right to our nose. At a loss for options, we go ‘that’ way. Luckily we find the place.

We walk in the door to a warm reception of a young man in a pressed white shirt. After offering us water we sit and cycle through the standard conversation. At the point where one gets to the point, we ask to have a look around. Look. Around. We are sitting in the room, the only room on the first floor, the room he uses like a swiss army knife, a versatile space as capable as opening a bottle of wine or cutting a toenail as it is to being a kitchen, study, or bedroom. There are two beds in the corner, tackling the angle in an L shape. Immediately I wonder if we go head to head, feet to feet or head to feet. Thinking about this man’s feet near my mouth as I try to fall asleep is more unnerving the thought of the water I just drank. Since there’s not much else to see, we kindly thank him for his gracious offer and head out.

This time the recommendation for the room comes from a colleague who works with my host organization often and with great success. Set to examine the house after work, I have a good feeling about this third-time’s-a-charm place. Six creeps around so we head there for a 6:30 appointment. With the help of some merchant navigators we find it without too much fuss. Trying to look like I am not holding bottled water, I wait. Trying to look like he is not with me, my coworker waits. In attempt to diffuse the tension, and because he actually is with me, we go for a walk around the block and quickly realize that the block bleeds into a slum, the pathway peppered with dead dogs, trash, and shitting children. Cozy really. Something the real estate world might call an “up and coming neighborhood,” or “a community with room for growth.” Truly, I am not perturbed by the thought of living in this neighborhood, but do want to know what the house looks like.

Over an hour late, the man staying at the house rushes up panting, sorry, and eager to have a roommate. He has never met me so I am not so sure why he is so keen to invite me in but as soon as we step foot inside the door and he turns on the light I understand. He lives inside of an indoor swimming pool. Brand new, some wires visible and the lot next door still unfinished, this one man lives on a blanket in a white room with white tile floors and a bare light bulb, his only companion his echo because there is nothing – no chairs, beds, rugs, pillows, light fixtures, paintings, yarn, stove, refrigerator, pot, pan – to absorb any sound.

Hosting me is not an easy task and I understand that many hours and dollars have been invested in my placement and the last thing on my mind is to be difficult. Surely I am flexible and am deeply appreciative of all that’s been done for me and is still being done , a personal favor called in to make this a possibility. It must be a massive bed sore, head ache or some sort of tropical infection to host your first Western volunteer for an extended amount of time and find him housing. That said, I don’t want to live in a swimming pool.

By the grace of god I find a place the next day. Delerious with joy I see Nike’s statue on my eyelids, the clouds opening, lightening clapping, drops of joy pouring down. Divine intervention is the only possible explanation for such a blessing. I happen into sharing a flat with four Indian bachelors who are living and studying in Ahmedebad and are stoked to take on another roommate, live with a dude from the U.S. and lower the rent. Not only has my housing been solved, but so too have so many issues around my social life been remedied. The guys I am going to live with are smart, know the city, speak English, have more degrees than a thermometer (just thought of this one, pretty bad huh), and are just chill, sweet guys.

Grinning from ear to ear I leave, set to move into the apartment and my life the next day.