Settling down in Goa

The kids and I have been in Goa about four months now. We live in the capital, Panaji, or Panjim as it was known until recently. It was a pretty rushed move. A two month long bout of coughing ended with me being diagnosed with emphysema (what I'd previously thought of as the "60 year old chain smoker disease") and suddenly Bombay with all it's dust and smog wasn't such a great place to be. Goa on the other hand offered virtually pollution free sea breezes, beaches and cheap beer (you know, to help cope with the bad lungs). Unfortunately because of his job, Ryan couldn't move with us, but Panjim is still accessible enough to Bombay for him to be here every weekend. Which with his long work hours and commute, was about as much as we saw him anyway. With the added bonus that he no longer had to eat my cooking.
The hardest part about moving, (apart from forgoing torturing Ryan with my food), was leaving the primary school where I was teaching and my little gang of stray dogs which I fed and looked after. Mainly the dogs, if I'm honest. I'm pretty sure the kids still get fed on a daily basis. My only consolation was that the strays had been there long before I was and no doubt would survive long after I was gone. I would of course also miss my friends, but there would be trips back to Bombay for us and hopefully down to Goa for them so we would catch up.
The move itself went pretty smoothly. Jolie the dog did not enjoy the plane ride in her cage, despite the copious amounts of sedatives the vet provided us with. She arrived safely though. We carried some of the essentials down on the plane, and then later Ryan and I had a very nice 12 hour drive down with the rest of our stuff. We've chosen to rent a furnished house so we didn't have to bring to much. Mostly books and toys and a few more books.
Now, after four months, we're nicely in the swing of our more relaxed life. Things do not move fast in Goa. They take your request, think about it, have a siesta then maybe a few fried prawns and couple of Kingfisher beers, chat to some neighbours, perhaps a short stroll, and make a decision to act sometime in the next couple of weeks. If they get around to it. Getting connected to the internet, for example, took three months. Getting my daughter's uniform from the school about four.
Aiyana now goes to the "Sunshine Worldwide School" which is the most awesome  name for a school ever. Sadly their uniforms aren't tie-dye and 'tambourine' is not a class they offer. However she does go there in the "Sweet Baby Jesus" bus so that almost makes up for it. Also their bright red and yellow uniforms proclaim "I am the sunshine" with a big smiley face so really, how can I argue with that? Poor Adam on the other hand goes to the very seriously named Navyug Niketan around the corner. He'll be changing to Aiyana's school next year.
The part of Panjim we live in is called "Caranzalem" and has a nice village-y feel. There's a beach just across the road, which isn't great for swimming, but pretty good for walking the dog. The kids go up the road to Tae Kwan Do classes three times a week and to the nearby park on the other days. We live in a row house in a little compound with a swimming pool, which only us and the rather hirsute guy from two doors down ever swim in. Our landlords Julia and Eudaldo are a very sweet elderly couple who ride their scooter up from Margao in the south about once a month to see how we're doing. Their last tenants were casino workers who ran off without paying rent so I think we're looking pretty good to them. So far.

Since we've been here, I haven't coughed once.

Paris - Day Deux

The Louvre. Awesome.

Paris - Day Une

There's really nothing like catching a long distance train at 6.30am. Or 7.30 if it happens to be late due to a faulty signal. It's a bit exciting, like being a kid again going on holidays. Although, since Ryan and I were off to Paris, I was already feeling pretty excited. I mean, Cannes is nice and all but Paris! They had, you know, monuments and cafes and people in quirkily mismatched clothes and stuff!

The fast train was very comfortable and five hours seemed to go by pretty quickly as we watched the mostly rural landscape flash past. A very green country France. And I love how they build their houses to be exactly like the ones you see on postcards. Even the cows were cute. But finally we pulled into Gare de Lyon, which is a station so well organised, even Ryan and my combined powers of misdirection failed to get us lost. On the way to our hotel in the taxi we passed the Notre Dame cathedral, which is of course famous for being in that Disney cartoon. Awesome.

I won't go on and on about how beautiful Paris is because, you've all seen the movies right? It was a pretty amazing feeling to finally be there though. When we passed the Louvre I have to admit my eyes got a little teary, but then I wound the window up and they were fine. It was really windy. Also rainy. But the big black clouds just added to the drama of the scenery.

Our hotel was tucked away in a side street in what seemed to be the 'Japanese Restaurant' section of Paris. The online site describes it as a "charming ancient property...located in a 17th century building, which in the past was famous painter Toulouse-Lautrec's townhouse." Why Monsieur Lautrec needed a house with 20 identical rooms I'm not sure, but it's very nice. We were greeted at reception by Gerry, who shook his head sadly when we said we'd come from Cannes. "People say Cannes is nice. I went to Cannes. It was nothing. Nothing!" Gerry, like pretty much every French person we encountered, was helpful and friendly and advised us on the sights we should in Paris see and how to get there.

Having dumped our bags in the rooms we headed out for some sightseeing. With only two days in Paris, one of them to be devoted to the Louvre, we were only a pretty tight schedule. This is about the point where I discovered the walking shoes I had brought for our explorations were actually not so great for walking in. Fortunately I'd also brought flip-flops, and really don't the streets of Paris just cry out flip-flops? No I didn't think so either but they were comfy.

We walked down (or up, I told you directions are not our thing) along the river Seine towards the Eiffel Tower, which Gerry had assured us was about half an hour away. Who knew 'half an hour' in Paris corresponds so well to the Mumbai 'half an hour?' So, about an hour and a half later we were at the tower. Or close enough. I'm not one of these people who needs to touch monuments, or climb them. We saw it, we judged it pretty damn good, we moved on. Next we strolled, maybe hobbled is a better word, to the Arc de Triomphe. Also very nice. Also felt no need to climb up it. By then it was evening so we stumbled our way back to the hotel via the Champs Elysees to have a look at where rich people might do their shopping. Lovely.

One thing I really liked about Paris was it seems to be made for walking. The footpaths are wider than the roads to accommodate all the pedestrians. As opposed to some cities where there footpaths are wide enough only to accommodate the illegal stalls and the pedestrians walk on the road. Yes Mumbai I'm looking at you. Maybe this is because Paris has quite a lot of people who walk to work where as Mumbai only has about a bazillion. Sorry. One of my small issues. Also, public toilets, but I'll move on.

We got back to our room exhausted and hungry and went out again shortly afterwards for our first meal in Paris. Which was Vietnamese. I should explain, Ryan is not such a fan of French food. "What's with all the darn bread?" and "not more darn cheese" being two of his common exclamations at meal times. Of course people who know Ryan will know "darn" wasn't really the word he used. To be fair, we did get a lot of bread. Even sandwiches seemed to come with a side order of dinner buns. I like bread though, and cheese and any kind of combination of the two. Ryan on the other hand was longing for something a little spicier hence the Vietnamese. Which turned out to be delicious by the way. And it did come with bread.

Cannes Days 6 and 7

Started off day 6 in a seminar about the difficulties faced by women in advertising. None apparently. That seemed to be the conclusion of the four woman panel including Martha Stewart. So, 45 minutes on there being no glass ceiling for women, and if there was it was probably women's fault. Alrighty then. Anyway the audience were pretty much all there just to hold their seats for the next speaker, Robert Redford.

The thing I like about Redford, apart from the whole talent thing, is that he actually looks his age. He has lots of wrinkles. People think women look bad when they've been over botoxed, but honestly, there is nothing creepier than a waxy faced old man. Let there be wrinkles I say. The talk was mainly focused on Redford's Sundance foundation, but did include a funny story about how he'd travelled through Europe as an impoverished actor and slept under the jetty in front of the very swank Carlton hotel in Cannes. At the time he wondered what it would be like to be one of the lucky few in tuxedos he could hear laughing and sipping champagne above him. Sixteen years later he knew.

More talks on Day 7. Most of them entertaining and educational. TV writers Aaron Sorkin (who also wrote The Social Network) and David Simon (creator of The Wire) were the highlight, although Edward de Bono was also as brilliant as you would imagine. And of course that evening the awards Ryan had been judging, cyber, were presented. Saw some truly amazing work. I was happy to see the Old Spice campaign get gold. If you haven't seen this you're missing out. You can go here: http://www.canneslions.com/work/cyber/ for a look. I also recommend the other winning sites. The humans can be quite clever sometimes.

Cannes Day 5

Today was a very good day, which is surprising since it started off with a seminar. But it’s different if the speaker is someone as interesting and engaging as Malcolm Gladwell. I have absolutely nothing snarky or to say about him. Not even his hair. Anyone who can keep an audience of jaded ad people enthralled throughout an account of the Arab-Israeli war is pretty damn amazing in my opinion. I admit I haven’t read his books, ‘Blink’ or ‘The Tipping Point,’ but I certainly will now.

Heard lots of inspiring talks today. No really. Much of it about how ‘social media’ and technology are changing the face of not just advertising, but pretty much everything. And if yesterday’s talks about leveraging causes for brands left me feeling a little cynical, todays made me optimistic about the future. People are finding new ways to mobilise themselves and speak up for the things they want, whether it’s more stripes on their running shoes or reducing our carbon footprint. And even I can’t find anything bad about that. Okay maybe the stripes. Stripes are stupid.

Then I went to the seminar about marketing Johnny Walker in Africa, to people who can’t afford mobile phones. Ah well.

That evening the cyber jury (weren’t they villains in Dr. Who?) and their companions were invited to a dinner hosted by internet magazine Fast Company. After my last wardrobe faux pas (see that, that’s French) I made sure I wasn’t going to be caught out again. I wore a long black evening dress with my highest spikiest heels. Naturally I came down to find the other women in casual wear, some even in jeans. Seriously I think they’re all doing it on purpose.

It didn’t really matter what we were wearing though because the only thing anyone was looking at a few moments later was the amazing view from the hotel rooftop where the dinner was held. And when it was announced that co-founder of the Huffington Post and Buzzfeed, Jonah Peretti (the geeks know what I’m talking about) and comedienne Susan from ‘Curb Your Enthusiam’ were going to be speaking things got even better.

Susan was hilarious, poking fun at the French, which I guess is too easy and Jonah gave some interesting insights into the online behavior of the average Facebook user. Yes that’s right, they’re onto you. All in all, my most enjoyable day yet.

Cannes Day 4

The seminars started today, which means a jump in number of the festival attendees. Cannes is suddenly full of people in shorts and flip-flops with plastic badges around their necks. The badges have become a way to start conversations and meet people from all around the world. Friendships are forged with the lines “where are you from?” and “which agency?” Which is why I of course quickly whip my badge off as soon as I’m out of the Palais. Talk to strangers? Meh, I can do that online.

Went to a seminar called “Culture Clubbing” which sadly turned out not to be about Boy George. There was a whole section on Lady Gaga, so that was interesting in a scary kind of way. Much like her music. Note to conference speakers though, starting off with statements like “I like to think of myself as a troublemaker” will only lead people to think of you as a wanker.

Next up, “Friends with Benefits.” Are these people trying to disappoint me with their titles? This turned out to be a seminar on how consumers no longer take note of all the crap dished out in tv commercials so advertisers need to learn smarter ways of dishing out the crap. Like on Facebook, for example. And how aligning yourself with a social cause will make people inclined to get all mushy about your brand and suspend their scepticism long enough to buy your personal hygiene product. It's all about "relationships." Apparently. That was the gist of it, but of course delivered in a much more lively and entertaining fashion. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Oh and Nick Jonas was one of the speakers. As in one of the Jonas Brothers. Nick Jonas! Wow! I had to really restrain myself from jumping up, running onstage, grabbing him and asking “WHY ARE YOU FAMOUS?” He seemed like a nice kid though.

That was two hours of seminars which I thought was a pretty good effort for one day. So back to the room to rest up for dinner, where we met up with an ex-workfriend of mine Carolyn from my Sydney advertising days – almost a decade ago. She’s still gorgeous and bubbly and now living in New York. That’s the thing about advertising, it can be a bit of a dodgy industry sometimes but there are so many lovely people in it.

Cannes Day 3

Registration Day. Ryan is under the impression that having travelled several thousand miles to the Cannes Advertising Festival (sorry, the "Festival of Creativity"), I might want to actually attend some of the events. Seven years of marriage, two kids and sometimes it’s like we just met. Anyway Reiko, still unable to shake me off, and I wandered up to the registration booth in the Palais de Festivals to get our passes. These large plastic cards are basically photo id that you wear around your neck, prominently displaying your passport photo to anyone you meet. I assume it’s part of the entertainment.

There was a bit of a hitch with Reiko’s pass. Apparently another Reiko had registered, also from Japan. So you can see the confusion. Wonder what happened when they got their fifth Michael from the U.S. It’s the Festival of Creativity after all, not the Festival of Very Efficient Organisation.

Having sorted out this issue, with the help of about six Festival volunteers, we picked up our goody bags. There were no lollies inside, only leaflets. Basically it is a bag of spam. And a couple of magazines. And a t-shirt. And a bottle of water. Except the lady at the counter looked at my pass and said, rather rudely I thought, that I wasn’t entitled to water. There’s a shortage I guess. The bags themselves are labeled “made of Bangladeshi jute,” so that’s nice.

Speaking of rudeness, I have to say that the French people I’ve encountered so far are among the least rude people I have ever met (water lady was English). The service everywhere has been better than most Sydney restaurants, both the snooty and un-snooty kind. And it’s not just the people who are paid to be nice that are pleasant. People say hello (or bonjour) when you share a lift, pass in the hallway, glance in their general direction. And if you’re a woman they stand aside to let you enter first, and hold the door for you. Quite a change from Bombay. Maybe it’s just Cannes, will let you know what it’s like when we get to Paris.

Another thing I love about it here is the beverages. When you ask for coffee at breakfast you don’t get a cup, you get a ten cup pot. To yourself. Probably to help you get over the bottle of wine you had at dinner. To yourself.

After collecting my unflatteringly adorned Festival Pass I went off for a bit of shopping. Needed to get a Father’s Day present for Ryan. And more importantly, stuff for me. The streets are getting more and more crowded as people arrive for the festival. I notice I bump into people a lot which I have put down to people here swerving to the right rather than the left to pass you, which is the opposite to home. Also, it could be the bottle of wine I had with dinner.

When Ryan got back from judging we made our way to the infamous Gutter Bar, known as the hangout of rowdy advertising types. There weren’t any there at that time, being too early, but we had a very nice dinner. And a bottle of wine. After which we went for a stroll along the seaside boulevard. Promenade? Foothpath. The lights of Cannes are beautiful at night and we could’ve strolled for hours. Except I had to pee. Damn wine.

Note to my sis in law Shevaun: I am keeping a keen eye out for cute French boys for you. There was a group of rather strapping shirtless construction workers on the lawn of the hotel at breakfast, and I looked them over thoroughly for suitability. I don’t want you to settle though so I’ll keep looking. No need to thank me.

Cannes Day 2

Day 2. Well actually Day 3, but I couldn’t get onto the net yesterday to blog. So here’s a quick roundup.Accosted the wife of one of the other judges yesterday at breakfast and before she could say “I’d rather eat my own liver” I’d planned for us to meet up and explore some of Cannes together. Our first stop was an 11^th century watchtower up on a hill with an eclectic museum next to it. It had a fascinating history. I can’t remember it of course but I recommend Wikipedia. Anyway the view from the tower, once you climbed the 3.2 billion stairs, was spectacular up and down the coast. Which is why my camera chose this precise moment to run out of battery. I’ll describe it instead: blue sea, yachts, some buildings, some hills. There you go.

Next Reiko, my reluctant companion, and I came back down the hill for a lovely pizza lunch. Not Pizza Hut sadly, but still very good, especially with a couple of glasses of the house wine. It’s great being in a place where the house wine is always French. Having refueled we set off to explore the shops off the Cannes beach road. Not the front row of expensive designers – I’m scared to even look in the windows in case it’s automatically charged to my credit card – but the cheaper shops behind them. Reiko needed to find a dress for the Festival closing party and I needed to frustrate some shoe salespeople with my stubby little child-feet.

Both missions accomplished it was back to the hotel for a little nap before Ryan came back from judging. In the evening we stood on our balcony and watched a fashion show in the grounds of the next hotel, fancy sports cars lined up outside. The announcements were made in French and Russian, which tells you where a lot of the money is in Cannes. We ended the day at the hotel’s restaurant, a nice deck facing the sea. The food was delicious the wine more-ish and the people watching excellent.

Here are some pics I've taken so far.

Cannes Day 1

When I worked in advertising we used to get pretty excited about the Cannes Gold Lion awards. Not excited like drinks night excited, but still, pretty enthusiastic. I never thought I'd actually get to go to the awards in person. I planned on going to Cannes for the film festival one day, but I kind of figured it would be as Keanu Reeve's date or something. You know, when he won Best Actor. Anyway, I guess the date part worked out - I'm accompanying my hubs Ryan who is judging at the awards this year. Judging the cyber ads to be specific. Ha! And he needs me to work the printer at home. He is so going to make me delete that.

The flight to Cannes from Bombay was pretty uneventful. Two hours to Dubai, three hours in Dubai and then six hours on to Nice. I slept on and off most of the way, mostly because the best in-flight movie option featured Jennifer Aniston. Ryan and I were pretty exhausted by the time we got to Nice but I was happy to see our customs officer had a French beard. We must really be in France! The awards organisers had a very nice car pick us up at the airport and bring us to our hotel in Cannes. We're at the 'Palais Stephanie,' which I hear is much nicer than the 'Palais Karen' or the 'Palais Rhonda.' I've never stayed in a palais before so I'm excited. Plus, we get to sleep under a giant poster of Carey Grant kissing Grace Kelly. And it's not cheesy at all because it's in black and white.

While I was packing for Cannes I'd asked Ryan, who'd been here before, what kind of clothes I'd need. "Oh," he said "everyone dresses casual. No one dresses up." Yeah. Right. In my world "casual" means pajama bottoms with a clean t-shirt. Over here it means a light linen suit. When people talk about how stylish the French are, I thought they meant the cool French people. Not the average Jean on the street. Turns out, even the average Jean here looks like they're from an ad for expensive coffee. I had a beggar (a beggar! In Cannes! Who knew?) come up to me wearing nicer shoes than the ones I wore for my wedding. On second thoughts, maybe he was trying to give me money. I don't know. He was speaking French. Unfortunately my French is limited to asking for directions to the disco and claiming 'that airplane is for me, me, me, me, me.' Not terribly useful. I've never needed a disco.

Our first few hours in Cannes were spent frantically trying to contact home. It seemed our mobile 'roaming' was limited to receiving international spam messages. We couldn't get through to anyone and the kids wouldn't be able to get through to us. Ryan seemed to think this was a bad thing. By the time it was all worked out we only had a few minutes to get to the welcoming dinner planned for all the judges and their 'companions.' (Thats, me, a companion. Trusty, loyal, occasionally shedding hair on the sofa.) Thank goodness the dinner was 'smart casual.' As I stepped out of the lift in my jeans and collared t-shirt (that's the 'smart' bit) I couldn't help but notice every single other woman was in some kind of black shiny cocktail dress and spiky heeled shoes. And most of them weren't even French. Not awkward at all really.

The dinner was fun. Ryan met up with the other judges and I drank a lot of champagne. I think I spoke to a few other spouses. I can't really remember. And I can't ask them because they're not returning my calls. Odd. So today I've been pretty much on my own. Like Scarlett Johanssen in Lost in Translation without actually being anything like Scarlett Johanssen. Went for a few walks along the boulevard, took a few photos, found the cutest little cafe with an authentic French menu and ate next door at McDonalds. Oh yeah, I'm that kind of tourist. I wonder if there's a Pizza Hut around here somewhere. Will check it out tomorrow.

Moving Books

In my whole life up until now, the longest I have ever lived in the same place is six years. We lived in Kuantan, a coastal town in Malaysia for those years when I was in primary school, and I have just reached the same milestone here in Bombay. Which I guess makes Bombay as much my hometown as anywhere. Although if I had to choose one for sentimental reasons it would be Cooma in the Australian Snowy Mountains where I did most of my growing up. Physically at least.

Even during those longer periods of residence in the same town or city, I have always moved house at least once. We were renters while I was growing up, and this is the first time in my life I have lived in a house which didn't belong to landlords. It's kind of a strange concept to get used to. "What do you mean we can't move house? The toilet leaks!"

I'm starting to learn, finally, the possible benefits of not being a vagabond. Being able to hold onto my book collection being one of them. I'm not talking about an impressive library of leather-bound rarities. My books are mostly paperbacks, and while there are a few loved classics, many belong to the fantasy/SF genre. Of course the higher proportion of these may be because they always seem to come in trilogies - or series (so far I'm up to book 10 in the Malazan Book of the Fallen). So throwing out a single book often means sending two or more with it for company.

There's really no logical reason for me to be so attached to my books. Most of them I'll never read again. There are so many wonderful new books published all the time that there's little incentive to re-read anything. But occasionally I do. In between new books for example. When I find myself with nothing I haven't read in the house and no way to get to a bookstore quickly. That's when I discover some new meaning in 'Lord of the Rings' (shut up) or remind myself what it is Richard Dawkins is saying again. And then there are times when I'll just be in the mood for one of Haruki Murakami's short stories or a passage from 'Moby Dick' (nobody told me that book was so funny). And where would I be if I couldn't find them?

My mother, who had to move us from rented house to rented house, always managed to take our entire book collection with us. One of my earlier memories includes unpacking boxes of encyclopedias, and that wonderful papery smell of old books. Mum would no sooner have left one of her Asimovs or Bradburys behind than the family pet. Actually we did have to leave the family pets behind when we moved from Malaysia to Australia, but the books came.

So I guess when it comes down to it, what shelves full of books mean to me isn't just hours of entertainment and education. They mean home. They mean coming back to familiar characters and places no matter how unfamiliar actual surroundings. Seeing those spines and titles neatly lined up (or in my case in a chaotic jumble) gives me the sense of comfort some people get from artwork, or an old family sofa. So if a future move means I have to cull something, I guess it'll be my wardrobe. And maybe the 'childcare' books. Never read those anyway.

Holi Holiday

Yesterday the kids and I, along with the rest of Bombay, celebrated the Hindu festival of Holi. Like all good Indian festivals, Holi is a mixture of craziness, camaraderie, spirituality and the very real possibility that someone will lose an eye.

I've been told Holi celebrates the beginning of summer. The festivities involve dousing your friends, family, or complete strangers with coloured powder and water. It is not a good day to wear your best white linen. (Actually, since all Bombay seasons seem to be a variation of summer I'm not sure what the party is for. No doubt there are other significances. I'll check.)

On Holi it's as though Bombay becomes a giant paint-ball arena. On the streets, gangs of boys roam armed with their packets of powder dyes and military grade water pistols, ready to strike at passerbys, the more unsuspecting the better. Usually in high spirits from either 'bhang' a drink brewed from cannabis, or ordinary alcohol, these gangs can get rowdy and are best avoided at all costs. Especially if you are on a motorbike and things like visibility and balance are important to you.

Most people in the city celebrate in big groups, either at parties or within their apartment complexes, known here as 'colonies'. Last year our colony went all out and erected a huge rain shower in the car park under the trees. Food was laid on and grandparents, parents and kids alike ran amok with their super-soakers. The atmosphere was that of a huge wet, colourful carnival. The teenagers particularly seem to enjoy playing Holi, perhaps because it's the one time of year they can make physical contact with someone of the opposite sex without raising eyebrows.

This year, with city-wide water shortages, there was no rainshower but still no lack of coloured water in the water pistols. Some things are sacred after all.

Recently there has been a drive to make Holi more environment and health friendly. The coloured powders sold on the streets have been reported to contain all varieties of toxic substances. Every year you hear of at least one person going blind or having a severe skin reaction from 'playing Holi' with dodgy dyes.

My kids were told by their teacher to brew up dyes made from vegetables and edible spices - helped by mummy of course. Nice idea teacher. We bought non-toxic dyes at the supermarket.

As usual Holi ended with everyone in the shower scrubbing away at patches of blue, red and orange, with varied success. Sometimes it can take a couple of days to get the dye off completely. My kids went to school this morning with bright pink splotches on their scalps. Not to worry, I'm sure they won't be the only ones.

(Ok. I've looked into the mythology behind Holi and there is more to it. But there's a burning woman involved. Again. Damn it. What is with Indian mythology and burning women? Anyway, I'm just going to stick with the summer explanation.)

A Great Help

For a few years now I have belonged to an expat Mother's Group. They hold playgroup meetings once a week, although now my kids are in school my involvement is mainly restricted to the internet. Every day my inbox is full of questions like 'Where do I buy quality diapers?' 'Can anyone recommend a good pediatrician?' and 'Is it normal for baby poo to be green?' (Yes to that last one in case you were wondering). But overall the single most posted request on my Mothers Group message board is 'Looking for a good maid.'

For many expats, unless they come from very wealthy and/or Asian backgrounds, having a maid is a new experience. One they very quickly become accustomed to. In the beginning of course, having someone in your house doing your domestic work may feel a little strange. You're basically allowing a stranger into the most private areas of your life, the place where normally only your closest family would see you.

I've seen quite a few women resist the idea when they first arrive. This generally changes around the birth of their first child. Suddenly the independent privacy loving modern woman who couldn't bear having a cleaner in their homes for even a couple of hours a day is begging for help to find full-time live-in staff. "No references? Not a problem! Can you start this afternoon?" And when I say staff, I mean at least three people. A well-off family in Bombay generally employs a minimum of a cleaner, a cook and a driver. Add to this a nanny and a general household maid and the 'help' can easily outnumber the 'family.'

To the locals, having a maid is no big deal. To the expat it is a wonderful, sometimes slightly guilty, novelty. They agonize about how much to pay, when to give holidays, what bonuses to present and fair working hours. And so they should. On the other hand, experienced maids to expats know exactly how to exploit their employers awkwardness. If she or he plays her cards right, a nanny or driver can earn twice the amount of an office worker, for a good deal less hours work.

In our not so well-off house we employ a full time nanny and a part-time cleaner. My husband and I drive ourselves and I do the cooking - although the nanny often cooks for the kids because they're much more likely to eat her food than mummy's (daddy doesn't have a choice). Just having these two people is such a wonderful blessing though. I can shop in peace, we don't have to live with my incredibly shoddy housekeeping and hubs and I can enjoy the occasional movie together. I'm even looking to start work soon, knowing my kids are in capable hands after school.

My maid Jaya seems to enjoy her job. Jaya doesn't speak English, and I don't speak Hindi but we both understand a good bit of those languages, so somehow it works. She certainly knows how to keep me in line and is often much kinder to and more patient with my kids than I am. When I say I would be lost without her it isn't much of an exaggeration. I am of course, very aware that she would do quite well without me as good house help are very much in demand. Unlike perhaps messy and culinarily challenged housewives.

(Culinarily is a word, thank you, I looked it up).

Bodhgaya

Yesterday while I was surfing YouTube for chickens dancing to techno it occurred to me that maybe I could make better use of my time. The kids are in school now and I'm lucky enough to have a reliable nanny to help with their care so it could be time to get back to work. Specifically teaching. Something I may or may not be paid for. But no one pays me to laugh at digital chickens anyway.

My teaching so far has all been voluntary. Government teachers in this country are only one step up from voluntary anyway so that's no big deal. I started out teaching at a small school in Nepal which was great - until the royal family was massacred and things became, well, unstable. I then moved to Bihar, which is pretty much unstable all the time, so no nasty surprises there.

People in Bombay don't believe me when I say I loved Bihar. Or at least my little patch of it. I lived and taught in the town of Bodhgaya. There is a tree in Bodhgaya, or at least the descendant of a tree, under which the Buddha is said to have gained enlightenment. As a result it is a bit of a hub for Buddhist pilgrims from all over the world, during the cooler months anyway. During the summer it was mostly just another small rural town, with an unusually high number of monks.

The school I taught at in Bodhgaya was run by a Tibetan Buddhist foundation. I'm a bit hazy on my Tibetan Buddhism - too many deities and ceremonies for my feeble brain to remember - but essentially it encourages the virtue of compassion, in this case expressed by building a free school for underprivileged children. The school was run by an Australian headmistress and employed Indian teachers on their staff. Occasionally they also took volunteers, like me, mostly to teach English.

How to describe my students? Most of them lived in impoverished households where alcoholism, abuse and neglect were common. By fifth standard at least three of my girl students were already married. The stories I heard about their lives and things which had happened to them haunt me to this day. And yet, for all that, they were such a joy to be around. They came to school smiling and greeted their teachers cheerful enthusiasm. It was infectious, and addictive. I came to love teaching in Bodhgaya.

Of course there were many challenges working within the children's environment. It couldn't be assumed that even things like basic nutrition were being provided in our pupils' homes. This especially affected the girls, as poor families often diverted most of their meagre resources towards their sons, leaving their female children with only the scraps. Girl students who did poorly at school were commonly malnourished. To combat this the school provided two meals a day to all students, and this made an enormous change to the kids performance. It's funny what we take for granted.

I don't know how much we improved the children's prospects. At the end of the day, most of the boys will no doubt end up eking out a living as vegetable sellers or rickshaw drivers like their fathers - if they were lucky enough to have stable employment. Girls would end up married with children at a young age. Cultural and religious pressures had far more influence than we ever would. But it's a start, and hopefully things will change for the better as each generation is better and better educated. I'm one of those people who thinks education really is the only way to change the world. And at least for their schooling years the kids had a safe place, where they could play and learn and maybe expand their horizons a little.

Whatever the impact on the children of our school, teaching there made a huge impact on me. I will never forget the optimism and hunger to learn of my students, or the kindness and humour of my fellow teachers, who put up with my strange foreign ways. Or the day we put on a concert attended by Richard Gere, where I made a complete fool of myself singing (oh god!) 'It's a Small World.' Hm. Now. Where did I save that dancing chicken?

Wild But Good

Last night we took the kids to the movies. Normally, this is something I suffer through rather than enjoy. Kind of like children's birthday parties. Or getting my teeth fixed. But this particular movie happened to be an adaptation of one of my favourite kid's books 'Where The Wild Things Are' by Maurice Sendak, a beloved classic in many households including my own. So for once I was looking forward to the film as much as my own little 'wild things.'

I confess I had some doubts about the director Spike Jonze's adaptation. Many books are altered beyond recognition for the screen. Things need to be 'racier' these days to hold short attention spans. Colours must be extra bright and the dialogue snappy enough to keep jaded mum and dad amused while the kids chuckle at the overtly slapstick comedy. The effect is like eating your way through an entire chocolate mudcake, good in the beginning but sickly by a quarter way through. I needn't have worried.

For starters, unlike most made-for-children movies these days 'Where the Wild Things Are' isn't animated. There's not even a lot of CGI. The 'wild things' are good old-fashioned puppets - remember those? - and this adds to the whimsical charm the movie shares with Sendak's book. As does the wonderful soundtrack by Karen O., all drums and yowls, exactly as you would expect for this free-wheeling adventure.

Max Records, the actor who plays 'Max,' is a real life boy who portrays the character's conflicting emotions in a completely believable way. He's a lead character you really feel with, and for. The voices of the Wild Things are also well done, Jonze opting for regular adult voices over the expected cartoony tones, further humanizing the otherwise surreal story.

From it's opening with the lonely Max desperately seeking companionship, to the tearful reunion of Max and his mother at the end, this isn't a simple happy fairy-tale. Having said that, neither is so overly complex that even my four and six year olds didn't enjoy it. It can be appreciated on many levels depending on the age of the viewer. And it manages to do that without resorting to either smart-arsed adult humour or juvenile flashiness.

In the end, Where the Wild Things Are stays true to the spirit of the book albeit with enough added story elements to fill a 110 minute long movie. No doubt many will find the pace too slow and the action to scarce for their liking, but for them there's always another Disney movie on the way.

Bombay Driving

Like most Aussies, the first thing I wanted to do after my sixteenth birthday was get my driving license. I managed to pass the written test and get my 'L'plates easily enough, following which a friend of my mother's offered to teach me to drive. One of the advantages of growing up in the country meant there were lots of empty spaces to practise in, and for my first driving lesson we chose a treeless pasture. Well, not completely treeless. There was one tree. A single, solitary tree in acres of grassland. I hit it. In mum's car. And my driving lessons pretty much ended there.

For the next 20 or so years I made do with public transport. Since I spent most of this time in Sydney, where buses and trains are cheap and reliable, it wasn't really a problem. I never even thought about trying for my driving license again.
Then I moved to Bombay. Or to be exact, the outskirts of Bombay. Most Bombay residents who can afford it have drivers, such are the stresses and dangers of the roads. However our location made it difficult to find someone who was both experienced and didn't charge exorbitant rates. I did most of my traveling around in auto-rickshaws, which are basically three wheeler motorbikes in a thin metal casing which offers about as much protection as a sheet of aluminium foil. Great for short distances. Scary on the highway I do most of my traveling on. And so my husband Ryan decided, with two small kids to ferry around, I needed to learn to drive.

I signed up with a local driving school, and they applied for my 'learners permit' for me. No need to memorise any road rule booklets here. A week later, permit in hand, I was ready for my first lesson. The car I learnt in, belonging to the school, was a severely dented hatchback, with a cracked windscreen and missing side mirrors. Obviously it had seen a fair bit of action in its lifetime. My instructor spoke no English, so my Ryan volunteered to sit in the back and translate. The roads we learnt on were some of the busiest in Bombay, and the first time I pulled out the car it was straight into heavy traffic. Probably the only reason we survived was that the instructor had a duplicate set of controls. The downside of this being that I was never sure when I was driving, and when he was. I'm guessing it was almost always him. He didn't seem particularly suicidal.

Ryan's backseat translation lasted for about a week, after which frayed nerves got the better of him and he decided I'd better go on my own. By this time the instructor had pretty much finished telling me anything apart from 'left' 'right' and 'STOPSTOPSTOPSTOP!' anyway. Traffic rules were never really mentioned. There were a few basic 'guidelines' but pretty much anything was okay as long as I could get away with it. That is, as long as I wasn't caught by a cop or caused a major traffic pile up. The only violations the cops are really interested in are ignoring traffic signals, blatantly chatting on mobile phones and not wearing seatbelts, all of which they can extract instant 'fines' for.

When I'd done the required number of driving hours it was time to take the licensing test. The driving school took a group of students, including myself, out to what looked like an abandoned factory in a crumbling industrial area. The 'factory' turned out to be the local Roads and Transport office. I presented an official with my documents including my Indian Permanent Resident's card, known as a PIO. He looked puzzled. I may have been the first foreigner he'd seen applying for an Indian license. 'Is this the correct document?'he asked me. 'I guess so' I said. Satisfied with that, he stamped my application form and I was ready to take my test.

After years of wondering how many Bombay drivers ever got licenses, all suddenly became clear. Accompanied by the examiner I had to drive about four meters, make a u-turn, and pull over. That was it. The examiner turned to me. 'Your driving not good' he said 'but okay you can pass.' One week later, I had my drivers license. A few months later Ryan bought me a car, automatic to reduce my chances of causing an accident, and stuck a red duct tape 'L' on the back window. I was officially a Mumbai driver. My first spin in the new car with Ryan I hit the front gate to our building. Ryan will no longer be a passenger when I'm driving.

So far I have been driving for 9 months. My arms no longer ache from gripping the steering wheel for dear life. I navigate my way around buses, autos, motorbikes, trucks and other cars the way I imagine someone might weave through an asteroid field. Strangely I've come to enjoy the challenge. Although many Mumbai drivers clearly hold their lives cheaply, I am full of admiration for the majority, who not only squeeze through the tightest spots with ease but almost have a sixth sense for upcoming obstacles.

An Accidental Dog

When you live close to, and frequently use, a highway you get used to seeing accidents. Overturned trucks, smashed up cars, firemen hosing down the road (euw). A motorcycle once hit the taxi I was in, going into a 180° spin before landing on top of its two, unhelmeted riders. They got up and walked off to a chorus of honking from angry commuters with no patience for road blocking collisions. Needless to say, it is not unusual to also see the animal victims of speeding vehicles lying beside the highway. Most of them either mangled and bloody or bloated up in the hot Mumbai sun.

Four days ago I was on my way to the shops when I spotted one such victim. Although going past at some speed, I did notice there was neither blood nor bloating on this dog, lying up against the highway divider. As I sped away the thought struck me that the unfortunately animal might not be dead. To be completely honest I kind of hoped it was.
But dammit, now there was doubt in my mind. What if the dog was alive and like every other commuter that must have passed it that day, I left it there to die a slow painful death.

Several meters up the road I made a u-turn to check on the dog. I miscalculated and passed the little furry brown pile before I had a chance to slow down, but I did see it raise it’s head. Not dead then. Silent curses. Okay, now I really felt obligated to do something, images of all my past dogs flitting through my mind – what if it had been Muffy? U-turning again, I pulled up alongside the dog, which I could now see was small, female, and had no external injuries. As gently as I could I lifted her and put her on the backseat of the car. The poor thing tried weakly to bite me, but didn’t really have the strength.

Now what? I called my sister-in-law, who used to volunteer at the Bombay SPCA to ask if there were any animal shelters in my area that could take an injured stray. No, she said, I would have to take it to the BSPCA hospital in Parel, about an hour away. With an injured dog now lying on my backseat I really didn’t have a choice.

The BSPCA hospital is on a wooded piece of land in the middle of a busy business district, where it has been for the last 130 years. With limited funds and resources, they treat about 10000 injured animals a year. Dogs, cats, pigs, goats, cows, even pigeons, none are turned away. After signing a form declaring the dog I picked up as a stray, and making a voluntary donation, my little passenger was seen too almost immediately. She was scheduled for an x-ray the next morning and given her own little ‘cubicle’ to stay in. The BSPCA staff was kind and reassuring.

Since then I’ve been back a few times to check on the little doggy. She is recuperating, the hospital estimates it will take at least 2 weeks for her injuries to heal, and she is much more responsive than when I first brought her in. She wags her tail and drags herself towards me in a way both heartwarming and heart-wrenching when I speak to her. I don’t know yet what I’ll do with her when she’s completely healed. Normally the BSPCA return strays to where they were found once they’re recovered. With millions of stray dogs and a minimal budget there’s really not much else they can do. The Indian ‘pariah’ dog, the breed of most strays, can live up to 15 years when looked after. The average for strays is five.

And so one act of conscience leads to another as I canvas everyone I know in the city to try and find a home for a sweet dog, to save her from the dangerous life of the streets. I know I’ll be doing both her and her new owner a favour as pariahs make wonderful pets, not prone to the allergies and genetic frailties of imported breeds. Fingers crossed this story has a happy ending.

Parents Are Always Wrong

While at a restaurant the other day, I took my 3 year old son to the bathroom to make pee-pee. My son, as usual, refused to walk in a straight line by my side instead choosing a bizarre backwards waddle that he found much more entertaining. Until he waddled into a wall. Although he didn’t really hurt himself, my son is never one to miss out on an opportunity to create a scene for an audience. While hurriedly maneuvering my wailing progeny out the door I couldn’t help but notice the glares of disapproval aimed at me, Careless Mother, coming from the other diners. You could see their mouths moving in silent ‘tsk, tsks’ as they paused in their lunches to behold my poor obviously neglected child.

This mass disapproval is something all parents will have experienced at some time or another. Because if there’s one thing every man and his boozy childless bachelor friend knows, it’s the correct way other people’s children should be raised. Something that the actual parents of the children will never get right. Oh, we may buy up all the ‘Happy Healthy Toddler’ and ‘Teach Your Child With Love’ books but really, you can no more follow their instructions than those on a ‘self-assemble’ bunk bed. Or anything that comes with an allen key. It’s just not possible.

People who have not birthed your particular offspring, however, do not have this handicap. They may have been complete dunces with their own children, they may not have children at all, but either way, they are experts at yours. And they don’t mind letting you know it. “Oh” says the nice old lady, shaking her head in disapproval at my t-shirted daughter “She needs a sweater. She will get cold.” The “and will probably end up hospitalized with pneumonia” is left unspoken. It is in fact 25°C out but still, you can never be too careful. Or rather, a less irresponsible parent wouldn’t.

Of course, for the absolute apex of scrutiny and disapproval by strangers, a parent with small children need only take their kids to the local supermarket. Supermarkets are to kids what rave parties are to young adults. A chance to behave with wild abandon and ingest things not generally allowed. All children know instinctively that this is the place where parents are at their most vulnerable, that is – in public. This is the time to wail “I WANT A LOLLYPOP” or “NOT THAT ONE I WANT THE CHOCOLATE ONE” because really, what are mummy and daddy going to do about it?

If the parent has read up on their helpful parenting guides, he/she will calmly explain that although he/she understands that Timmy wants the chocolate bar, he/she can’t give it to Timmy because it is bad for him. To which Timmy will reply with a high-pitched squealing sure to have fellow shoppers covering their ears while their eyes shoot daggers in your direction. Another useful book suggestion involves removing the child from the supermarket. And let me tell you, nothing invites judgment like dragging a limp, screaming toddler, who may or may not be screeching “OW YOU’RE HURTING ME! STOP! OUCH OUCH OUCH!” down a supermarket aisle.

So you give in and buy the sugary lump with added sugar (‘contains artificial colours and flavours’), an act described by many experts as ‘the easy way out.’ Which it is. Which is exactly why you do it. Shame on you.