Plants (that feed) In The City.

Just a real quick blog before I go to bed. There are many things to write about and as usual my resolution for 2010 is to be regular. Whatever. However, this one is to begin a new category I’ve categorised as ‘my urban gardening’. Now that I have moved into an apartment it calls for a change in the way I grow my food. In the last blog I lamented about the lack of composting and the heartache I got after throwing my kitchen scraps in the rubbish bin. Two months and still living through a fabulous summer I have got an eggplant, a chilli plant and a tomato plant. I also got herbs. Rosemary, lemon basil, mint and parsley. The right corner of the planter is

empty because my third attempt at growing coriander failed. (Just started a new experiment today, the results of which I shall know and blog about soon.) For the moment I’ve planted calendula which is medicinal, edible and smells nice.

Yeah so there is great pleasure in seeing Mother Earth give you food. I was thrilled when the first chillies sprouted on the plant. I have seen this many times and I never cease to be amazed. So it was with the tomatoes too.

I used the chillies today when I made a savoury from puffed rice. The tomatoes are not ready yet but boy have they grown. Here is how they look now, the tomato and chilli plants. The white arrows indicate the number of chillies that have grown on it. The eggplant has not yet got ‘fruit’. All I do is to water the plants every morning before it gets too hot. There is no plan to add fertiliser-and anyway the potting mix has fertiliser that will last for six months, by which time it will be winter.

Apart from using the herbs for cooking (lemon basil goes really well with Indian food), I made a pot-pourri from them. It is easy. I dried rosemary, mint and lemon basil leaves, lavender leaves plucked from a hedge on my street and used oolong tea leaves.  All I need is one of those fancy little silk bags in which to bundle them up.

The next step is to begin composting. I had a chat with my neighbours downstairs this morning and they offered me use of their worm farm. Nick opened it up for me-it looks fabulous with the creepie-crawlies, the earthworms and the ‘earthworm poop’ (as little Ryan put it) that comes out from the waste. (In my next blog about urban gardening I will insert the photo.)

None of what I am doing is new or ground breaking but the pleasure of growing one’s own food, or some of the ingredients, in an urban environment; reading and researching about gardening and techniques that allow humans to adapt ‘farming’ to new environments; watching a seed germinate and ultimately give fruit are all activities that bond me and the land. Homo Sapiens tamed wild vegetation for aeons to make food from it and now we have to learn how to take that further through changing landscapes and civilisations as if cultivating an apple tree in the  your flat’s balcony is a normal thing. Why should food and farming be a distant, rural concept?

Moving house; uncluttering my life

It has been a hectic December. Moving house is unsettling. After flatting for six years it was time to move and the adamant, pedantic and particular being that I am, it took me months to find the perfect place.  I am a city girl. Love the bush and the ocean; the sounds of silence, wilderness, living absolutely basic but I am also a ‘culture-vulture’. Cannot do without my films and visiting art galleries or just walking on Karangahape Road. I practically live on Queen Street during the Auckland International  Film Festival going from one theatre to the other and then work in-between! It had to be a city suburb. Easy to drive out of Auckland into the Waitakeres or the West Auckland beaches. Thirty minutes max. Besides, I cannot do ghetto nor do I envisage death by suburbia! Imagine living with inquisitive Indian neighbours! Or somewhere within endless rows of characterless houses enclosed by ‘new development’. Not to say it is all like that…yet… the whole point of living in Auckland or out of India is to be able to be amongst all kinds of peoples and ethnicities and they exist in Auckland. (181  ethnicities in Auckland at last count.) A global existence. Even if that makes me snobbish.

So, moving house.  I despaired at first. There were the usual cold, dark Grey Lynn villas and the hugely expensive Ponsonby flats or places in Kingsland, Mt Albert and even Sandringham. Not all were bad but neither did they call out to me and few lived up to their description in the advertisements. I even went to the local real estate agent to talk about what I wanted. (No, not much to say about real estate agents that has not been said before. They are not answerable to their customers neither do they care because they know that house-hunters don’t have a choice.) Then suddenly there were three apartments available in Herne Bay. I would have never thought there would be apartments in Herne Bay. It is where the terribly posh people live in their seaside mansions. Or atleast that is the reputation. So I went along blindly to  one apartment, the first place I inspected. There were a lot of people there. Couples confabulating with each other as they scrutinised the space. As usual I was the odd one out by myself. Never had to scout for a house before and did not really  know what questions to ask the real estate agent/property manager. Not that I learnt much because the second flat I saw, which I liked, the real estate agent was superficial and distant. It was an experience, that one. I asked to rent the place straightaway and filled out the form. ‘The landlord is away so I’ll let you know in two days’, she said. Ya cool I thought. I waited and waited. The landlord is still away, she told me. It took me while to fathom. The woman was, in typical Pakeha (white) Kiwi fashion, covertly racist. She did not want to tell me perhaps that an Indian would not do. What if the flat stank of curry eh? Otherwise what other reason is there not to give me the flat? It is not like negotiating to buy a house is it? Renting a house in New Zealand is simple and straightforward particularly for residents and citizens. I have never encountered blatant racism especially not in the industry that I work in. You are capable so who cares about the colour of your skin. That place was not to be mine. For a good reason.

My current flat/apartment is a gift from the universe. The first time I saw it, from the end of the driveway, I fell in love with it.  Brick edifice of eight flats built in the sixties/seventies. Four downstairs, four upstairs. A common garden in the front and at the back. The beach across the road and two more on adjacent streets.  Fruit trees and nice neighbours. Perhaps a pain in the winter but perfectly suitable for little hippy me. So I moved in.

And started to unclutter my life. I am a hoarder by nature. Inherited it from my grandmother. I’d hoarded bits and pieces, pots, pans, kettles, computer cords and all kinds of things. I’d need it all one day when I moved or so I thought. But then I’ve come to live the reduce, reuse, recycle motto. The triviality of material possession is an absolute truth that cannot be emphasised enough. I really only had/have my computers, my mobile phone, car, dvd and video player. Being the good Indian girl I had a well-equipped kitchen including my steel thalis, katoris and glasses. The rest of my belongings only tell the story of my life, my journey so far and only I value them. At this moment I sleep on an air mattress and have just bought a faded, velvet green sofa from the Sallies. My dining table is the floor. A kind friend donated the television and I have rented the refrigerator. Of course I have a collection of shoes and some really nice clothes, sarees, bits of jewellery, make up, perfumes…mere requirements for a slightly bourgeois existence, occasionally self-indulgent.

The next step is to stay green. Yeah, yeah planted the herbs, chillies, tomotoes, even egg-plant but what about giving back to Mother Earth what she gives us? In my old flat I composted my kitchen scraps. For six years! When I moved to the new flat I had to explain to the property manager that composting can be done in an urban, apartment environment. My little greenie heart breaks every time I chuck my tea leaves into the rubbish bin rather than into a compost bucket. So now I am thinking Bokashi. One of my ex boyfriends was anal about research, a habit I picked up for better rather than worse. So, next year perhaps, after Googling up as much as I can, going to the green shops and talking to the experts I shall have much knowledge, enough for another blog.

Backpacking 201-Berlin 2

Berlin still carries the burden of the wars and the wall. There is something ancient, sad and yet vibrant about this city. As if it hesitant to come to terms with the past and yet the future is calling. However, to my eye, this future is different for the politicians and different for the artists and other inhabitants.

A German born near Stuttgart, former West Germany,  said to me that Berlin is a poor city but it has culture that is enriching. Yet he prefers to live in Auckland because in Berlin everything is laden with layers of history and meaning which can be an encumbrance. New Zealand is not so ancient.

It has been sometime since I’v been back in Auckland and back to work. Berlin seems far away yet I can’t help thinking about the city and all that I saw and learnt. Particularly with the anniversary of the fall of the Berliner Mauer, the wall. Obviously people in  the West attach a greater significance to it than those of use born and brought up in the developing world. Where was I when the wall fell? In medical school away from Bombay, where television was a luxury…but I vaguely remember watching pictures of the wall coming down and all the hoo-haa about it on a programme called ‘The World This Week’. The wall did not mean anything to us, I bet not one person of my generation in India thought it would change the world. We were more interested in finishing studies and getting on with life-which was not supposed to change at all. We would get our degrees, get work, get married, have children…ho hum, now that I think of it. So I am intrigued when I listen to stories  about people who were affected by the divisions in post war Germany. Quite, quite rivetting.

When in Berlin I went through the entire exhibition of the Friedliche Revolution just outside Alexander Platz, goose pimples on my skin, marvelling at the power of the non-violence of people.  I thought about North Korea, Burma and other regimes, even our democratic India and her tribals being ousted for bauxite mountains…I formed a hypothesis. The Germans were able to resist in a peaceful way because they knew what democracy and freedom meant-they knew how to use the tools within this concept because they were educated, literate people…all the other examples I mentioned are of poor, illiterate people who I believe are deliberately kept so. Those helpless and hungry are unable to fight any battle. Others have to fight their battles and those others come with their own agenda and beliefs…sometimes it is mere PC-ism. One more thing I realised, going through the exhibition, was that the church played an important  role in the peoples’ resistance in DDR. Not a religious role but a support role where the people were offered space to have meetings and run underground papers. I can’t imagine any Hindu priest or temple offering similar support to any resistance movement unless there is the overt and covert Hindutva agenda attached to it.

The Germans I met and made friends with, the Germans I have conversations with, are all wonderfully over analytical and break their history, the wars, the genocide, the wall, communism and everything else to bits before creating a deeply complex picture of who they are. They want you to think of them as stiff upper lipped emotionless sorts who are also humourless. Not true. What I felt and feel instead is that after affecting the world in so many ‘negative’ ways, the Germans are afraid of their own power and thinking and what they can be capable of. They are warm, loving, funny, crazy, creative people. (Ok so call me a Deutsch-o-phile! ) The world will not let them forget what happened, what Germany did, which is interesting because maybe the U.S. and the U.K. and France might want to be reminded about their colonialism and arrogance too. And the Dresden bombings.

So, getting back to my favourite city, it was the first time I ever that I encountered the Roma gypsies. A bizarre experience. I could have been staring at me or another Indian! The first time I saw these dark, skinny women wearing long skirts and pushing prams I thought they were Turks. Germany has a large population of Turkish people. Then I came to know they were gypsy women beggars. Of course, I thought, now I know why they looked so… Indian. The Roma people came out of South Asia…it was fascinating though that a Western country, an economic powerhouse, would have beggars. A friend informed me that they belonged to a begging syndicate and the police were helpless to do anything about it. Hmm. One day at Alexander Platz I heard a gypsy man play the accordion. It was a familiar tune, something I had heard before-many times. Something that was deep in my unconscious…reminding of home or a place I belonged to. Nostalgia stirred and my heart fluttered. How would I know of a tune played by a gypsy man? It haunted me for days, the tune. I’d recorded it while doing a story for my radio show and every time I sat down to edit I found myself listening to the tune. Perhaps it was from a film? Hindi film songs are notorious for appropriating and sampling. The image of Raj Kapoor playing the accordion in one of his films came out of the recesses of my brains…I listened to and watch Raj Kapoor’s songs from his old films onYoutube…it was the refrain from Mera Naam Joker! (listen in at 1.20m)

I do not want to think about the pathways by which this tune could have travelled from the Roma gypsies to an Indian film or even the other way round. Just marvel at it, at how stories, music, food, fashions and traditions might migrate from one part of the globe. At first belong somewhere, then nowhere and then again somewhere.

A trip to Berlin would not complete without a visit to the Stasi Musuem. The dreaded secret police of the DDR. I took the U-Bahn from Frankfurter Allee to Magdalenestrasse. The Stasi museum was in the building where the Stasi originally existed. A structure typical to the Soviet era. It was frightening to see how far political dogma could go into controlling people. The kind of spying that was done, the indoctrination of young people and the attempt at shutting out the world. It brought out for me the other extreme of the spectrum that is America and the media there, the capitalists, the neo-conservatives and fundamentalists doing it in the name of freedom and god.

I have so many memories of Berlin and there is so much more to do and see that I want to go back. Buy me a ticket, get me some work and I’ll pack my bags. Honestly! When I expressed my love for the stadt to a rickshaw driver as she cycled from Potsdamer Platz to Brandenburg Gate she asked, ‘Haff you been here in the vinter?’

But seriously, it is a dream. To work and live in Berlin, to collaborate with the Germans because they make such great cinema, music and art and because my chaotic Indian attitude could fit in very well with German precision. Now I only need to figure out how and when, without actually saying good-bye to New Zealand.

Backpacking 201-Berlin. Part 1

Pardon me while I gush. ‘Coz that is what one does of someone you love and love is blind and I fell in love with Berlin before I visited the stadt. Like an image that I built in my head, a fantasy and a dream. I’d always heard only good things about Berlin.  So knew the place but it turned out even better.

I felt it the moment I landed at Schonefeld Airport. At home. Like I had been here before; like my soul had wandered through and lingered a bit, a lot. This has happened to me once before when I was in Sikkim. A strong sense of deja vu and recognition; an intense feeling of belonging.

Ya so I am weird. I was a monk in my previous life who lived in the Himalayas but have come back to do some unfinished work before I attain nirvana.

To a touristy type or to many Indians Berlin is not on the map of places to visit. Why would anyone want to go to Germany!? For the arty types, fans of Western classical music (not me, I just about know the names of some composers but I do listen and have gone for concerts), for those on their Europe OE, Germany is a must-visit. And Berlin has this reputation of being a place for the creatives. I was not disappointed.

Schlafmeile is owned and run by Kiwi bloke Glenn Stevenson. It came highly recommended by German writer Ingo Petz who has written about Germans in New Zealand and also by a work colleague whose daughter stayed at the hostel. The Aotearoa New Zealand Cafe does the most amazing breakfast and burgers. The staff (or those that work there-they are my friends now) are warm and helpful.  And Glenn is an absolute hardcore Kiwi bloke from Masterton.  Loveable. I stayed in a five bed mixed dorm with room mates ranging from a Swiss girl to two Aussie teachers who worked in London to a Dutch girl and three Dutch guys who wanted to explore the night life in Berlin. Conversations with fellow travellers is an integral part of any backpacking trip and so it was with my room mates as well as those whom I encountered in the kitchen. Americans, Italians, Swiss, English and also Kiwis. The Dutch dudes asked me if the Flight Of The Conchords was really the fourth most famous group in New Zealand. They loved Jemaine and Brett. It was funny to see two Dutch guys grooving to Inner City Pressure on their i-pod and trying to do a Brett McKenzie.

So, Berlin. The first day I reached there was the Long Night Of The Museum. An extended evening that went into the next day 5am, a single ticket and free transport between as many museums as possible. And Berlin is full of them.  I catch a bus full of kindred museum nutters near the Berliner Dom and go the the Museum Of Kommunication and hang out there checking out the Deutsch postal system, the history, the changes and the meaning of communication. To me, post offices and related places are very attractive. The mere act of writing a letter and posting it signifies more than just a system. It is about human engagement and emotion. But more about that in another blog. That long night at the museums I revel in history, tradition and a simple night out.

The DDR museum comes highly recommended by Costa at the hostel.  There is a long queue to get in. Songs from the old communist country play on the PA system and the couple in front of me start dancing. They obviously grew up with that music. Inside is the story of the German Democratic Republic. The lifestyle, the food, the living, television, holidays, school, indoctrination…parents show their kids how they lived under a communist regime. One thing I learnt (among many) is that nudity was sanctioned by The Party, the DDR regime-because there was no money to manufacture swimwear. So summer time at the beach meant going naked. It was and is normal. If you ever see old Germans in skimpy swimwear then it is not ‘fashion’ or a ‘Western’ thing. Highly likely they are Ossies and forcing themselves to be ‘modest’ for the sake of others.

That was my introduction to be Berlin. I spent eight days in Berlin and everyday was an experience to savour. Not enough I can write in one blog. Except to end this one by saying that I got hit upon the most in Berlin. Men stopping me and talking to me, asking for my number, for my email and ‘get to know me’ I liked.  Ich leibe diese stadt even more for that.

Backpacking 201-Paris

The first thing I see in Paris at  Du Nord station is a woman begging. I do not have the energy to notice if she could be East European or a generic looking French woman. I had boarded a train at 5.30am at King’s Cross Station and was too sleepy still. The second thing is what seems like a quarrel or argument between a passenger and those organising taxis for the new arrivals. This tall French African man, who was on my train and in the queue for taxis, suddenly gets out of the line and starts shouting Monsieur, Monsieur as he rushes towards the front of the queue. What followed was beyond my comprehension. Loud voices talking in French. Maybe it was just a normal conversation.  I mean we Indians and the Chinese gesture and talk loudly. Does that entail an argument? The third thing is the taxi ride through the streets of Paris. The shops are not yet open and it looks like Mahim the day after Novena at St Michael’s Church. My taxi driver changes lanes nonchalantly almost banging into a man on a scooter who then confronts him at the lights. C’est le Paree.

YHA offers a special package in Paris.  Two nights, three nights or four; free entry to various museums and a single ticket across all public transport. I have booked three nights at the Cite Des Sciences hostel. I reach the hostel at 9.30 the first morning and am told I cannot take my bag to my dormitory because the cleaners are in. I can only go there after 2pm. Yup in France the cleaning process goes on between 10am-2pm. So I go to the Louvre with two thailis – bags and leave my suitcase at reception.

I cannot add anything to what has already been said about the magnificence of the Louvre. The Mona Lisa is mysterious and myth adds to the mystery. She is just a tad too pale. The sculptures, the paintings, Napoleon’s apartment…it can all get crazy. I did not see it all and I would not recommend seeing it all in one day either.

When in Paris visit the Eiffel Tower. That is taken for granted. One evening I stand in a long line forced to listen to two yakkety American women go on and on about Parisienne women and their elegance. I thought the women in London dressed better than those in Paris. Quirky, individualistic fashion rather than enslaved to haute couture. It is always fascinating to listen to other people talk and on my way down from the top I try to understand what the Italian women are gossiping about. The view from the top of the Eiffel Tower is priceless (or 12 Euro).  My YHA package gives me free entry to Arc de Triomphe and a ride on the Seine.

My hostel is in a suburb called Hoche. It could be a busy suburb in Egypt/Morocco/any North African/Middle Eastern country instead of Paris. Very multicultural and full of different hues of brown skin. This is not the Paris sold to the world. This is the Paris that France has ignored. It is like these people live in France but are not French and the French do not want to acknowledge anything that is ‘not French’, whatever that means. The world is sold the myth of old Paree but that is a lie. On my first evening in Paris I travel to ‘China Town’ of which a Chinese student on the subway has told me about. There is none of buzz of Chintown in London or Melbourne and actually not even on the Paris map. The few ‘Chinese’ restaurants are run by Vietnamese. It takes me a while to figure out why Vietnamese. Because Vietnam was a French colony! D-uh! Back in town a bunch of French-African krumpers and poppers pump up the jam on the street. We never get to see these cultural titbits as ‘French’ do we?

But then I am in Paris because it a romantic city so I am not disappointed when I visit Montmartre. It is quintessential France. Just out of Abbesses station are cobbled streets, beautiful houses, cafes and old American gentlemen playing jazz music. I have a chat with one of the jazz players. Richard Miller plays the cornet and does the vocals for his band. He is a well travelled man and ‘too old to ask you out’, he says to me. Up the hill is the Basilica, the permanent Dali exhibition and streets to wander in. As I finally feel ‘paisa vasool‘ (got my money’s worth) I hear snatches of an old Hindi film song. It is surreal.  ‘Itni Shakti Hume Dena Data‘ from the film Ankush (1986) playing in a French Cafe. Curious, I hang around and have dinner. The French owner/manager downloaded it on his i-pod because he liked the song. We have a conversation about Hindi films and I recommend a few. If there is a place in Paris I want to live then it is Montmartre. I am snobbish that way. No ghettoes for me, thank you.

The Paris subways are different from the London Underground. The trains bounce,  creak and squeak as they turn around bends as if they could derail anytime. The stations are quite beautiful though and have artwork all over them. From the tiles to the paintings…Abbesses station has stunning paintings all round the stairwell. These subways are the place to see the people of Paris, I reckon. All colours except white. There are many Bangladeshis around. The first one I talk to is selling roses to commuters. I ask in English ‘Are you from South Asia?’. He does not understand. So I ask in Hindi, ‘India se hai?‘ He says ‘Haan’, yes. Kidhar se, I ask. Where from? Bangal se, he says. From Bengal.  Something about his accent makes me suspicious. Bangladeshi, I ask. Yes, he says. Imagine a Bangladeshi going bonjour…bonsoir to passers-by. I can’t help but ask the man, legal hai ki illegal? The man glowers indignantly. Legal, he says. (Yeah right, I think.)

I cannot fathom how France considers itself a world power or anything of import on the world or even the European stage. If there is one thing to learn from the French then it is how not to deal with migrants, particularly coloured people. And of course Muslims. Just how Sarkozy is dealing with the hijab/burkha is to be noted. Then the other thing is the work force and labour. I go to the post office one day to get a stamp so I can send a postcard to my father. It takes more than an hour to get one and would have taken longer if I had not done the Indian thing of just breaking the queue. France was almost annihilated in the world wars (if my history is correct), stupidly tried to sink the Rainbow Warrior…Napolean was so long ago…sure there is the storming of the Bastille and concepts like liberty etc. There were Foucault, Lefebvre and other thinkers…but what about the world now? France is a permanent member of the U.N Security Council but cannot deal with its own people who are ‘not French’. It does not gel. I mean no country has got it completely right and democracy comes with problems but they cannot be hidden under the garb of sophisticated ‘Frenchness’ ya? Maybe I am plain stupid and don’t understand complex world issues. Still, I would love to visit France again. Maybe I will see something new?

The Algerian, who runs the internet cafe down the road, and I have interesting conversations in my broken French whenever I go down there. He wants to know where I am from. Je suis Indian, je ne parle pas francais je parle l’anglais. But I am from New Zealand. People get confused. So far on my entire trip, I have been mistaken for a generic South American to Mexican and Maori-only because I said I am from New Zealand. Never Indian.  I don’t mind at all. It reiterates my deepest thoughts to me-that I can live anywhere in the world and do anything I want.  People are people and you are bound to find like-minded souls in this universe. So it will be in Berlin.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abbesses

Backpacking 201-London

My flight from Shanghai to London was via Frankfurt. Michael Field, journalist and very-travelled man advised me that the route went over the Gobi Desert so I should ask for a window seat. And sure enough it was a spectacular sight from many miles high in the air.  Lots of red land rolling on endlessly. The rest of the journey was quiet. There was no in-flight entertainment and the red haired, unshaven Chinese girl next to me refused to talk either in English or in Chinese. She kept drinking the black, sweetened, aerated water available in red cans and then complained of a headache. It was okay though. Pudong airport had been a bit of an ordeal. I thought Indians were bad with standing in line, talking loudly and trying to get to the front. Wrong. There were these hep looking Chinese dames with lots of stuff constantly manoeuvring to get in front of me and I kept blocking them. Then of course my new suitcase was overweight so I had to transfer stuff into my new dotted handbag bought in anticipation of exactly this. After all that, when the bag went through the x-ray machine the women behind them summoned me and a whole lot of other passengers to figure out what the suspicious looking bottles were. Of course one will pack large toiletries in a suitcase ya? Talk about being overzealous! So I preferred the quiet time.

London has a contagious buzz and energy about it.  Non-stop motion and a lot happening at the same time with potential for more. I can see why for some people it is the centre of the universe. Culture and heritage confront you at every corner. Whether it was obtained from colonial plunders or from before is immaterial. It is the preservation of it all that is worthy of respect. The museums and the art galleries are proud institutions that allow much interaction with their customers, the public. It is impossible to see everything even in fifteen days and that was not my plan anyway. An important aspect of this journey/holiday is to figure out my place and space in this world. That of course did not stop me from doing the most touristy thing of visiting Madame Tussauds.  It is a glitzy, kitschy artificial atmosphere not to be taken seriously at all.

I stayed with friends in the City. Marylebone Road. Went running ever so often at Regent´s Park which was just behind the house. Baker Street was the Underground station I prefered to commute from. The same Baker Street where Sherlock Holmes resided. The first day I walked down the street it took me time to realise it was the Baker Street. The eureka moment passed and my cerebrum started eliminating numbers…where did Sherlock live? 55? 66? How could there not be any memorial or a statue…? Then I discovered it. 221B Baker Street that is now home to the Sherlock Holmes museum. Du-h!

So apart from the energy and the unbearable heat in the Underground, the next thing about London that hits you is the multiculturalism. It is everywhere and it is beautiful. It is more than a melting pot or `salad´. It is individuality and collective expression of something new. I guess I cannot express it in a more articulate fashion but for New Zealand to be anywhere at that level it needs to get out of the PC mediocre rut. (But more on that in another blog.) Of course this multiculturalism is not without problems. When you see black kids cycling late at night in Hounslow you can sense something is wrong. Or the amount of discussion on domestic violence means that there is a lot of it hidden too. There are ethnic gangs and other forms of dissatisfaction and disenfrachisement expressed by minorities that one would not want to see in New Zealand. Yet the creative explosion is quite something else. Something New Zealand ´ethnic  sector´ bureaucrats need to take note of and understand.

One day I visited Whitechapel to meet my friend who works at the Royal London Hospital. It was like being on the streets of Crawford Market/Bhendi Bazaar/Masjid in Bombay/Mumbai with the stalls and Bangladeshi readymade dress shops selling salwar kurtas, sarees and prayer clothes. I spotted the Imraan Travel Company And Money Transporter, there were restaurants selling ´Indian´ food and women in full black burkhas wandering around with kids in tow. Yet somewhere in the mix was a biergarten and people of all cultures and ethnicities comfortably hanging out. Brick Lane is very much part of the suburb although I did not visit.  There is a famous art gallery in there too. Once upon a time Whitechapel was a Jewish suburb. There still are quite a few Jewish families living there.  A Kiwi friend, who is actually a Briton of Indian origin, suggested I visit Southall too if only to see how waves of migrants move in and move out and leave remnants of their existence. These remnants are not destroyed but built upon and preserved to tell the story of that place. Apparently there aren´t that many Indians living in Southall anymore but more Africans and people from the middle east. I could not visit Southall.

London Chinatown is bang in the middle of the city. Gerrard St. Of course I passed through. It is a very commercial area and I was pleasantly surpised that it smelled like….well….China. And there was so many Chinese of course. Restaurants that look straight out of Kowloon and typical shops selling Chinese looking things. I discovered a Sikh behind a shop counter. Intigued, I went into the shop to ask him if owned the shop. He did! But I think he was embarrassed by my directness and curiousity and said no more. A Sikh selling little cheong-sams and other Chinese trinkets? It amused me and amazed me for the rest of the day. Imagine that! A business opportunity knows no ethnicity and colour eh? My brother-in-law had Chinese student waiters working in his Indian restaurant in Auckland and that was as far as I saw cross-cultural employment in niche ´culture´ business sectors. I like. I suppose next I could be selling sauerkraut in Berlin ya?

London can get addicting. Particularly the shopping. All Londoners are so well dressed-not fancy designer stuff but just putting together an ensemble that looks attractive and quirky that I am inspired. I am going to make an effort. And all the shopping helped. Perhaps I helped the economy along Oxford St. Topshop is quite the tops too.

I loved London. I shall visit again-for work, to shop and to just be at the centre of the universe.

Backpacking 201. Shanghai addendum

My backpack tore when I reached the hostel. I knew it would give way considering I had filled it to the gills with everything from my hair serum to a dhinchak frock just in case I went clubbing. So my dorm mate helped me buy a bag. In the back alleys of East Nanjing Road, inside a room in a house and a room in that room lies the seller-of-fakes. Or cheaper-than-departmental store fare. They hustle for customers on the street and then you have to follow them furtively-as if the local police don’t know these establishments exist. Thus I bought a new suitcase. Too big and a trifle expensive-I did not bargain hard enough.

Now the backpacking title of this blog is no longer applicable but I’ll continue with it. For the sake of continuity.

Backpacking 201. First stop-Shanghai.

I boarded an Air New Zealand flight on 7/08/09 from Auckland to Shanghai. Exhausted, tired, working until 8pm that night to finish all my tasks and make sure the cash flows in while I am away. My backpack was packed to the gills. Having graduated backpacking 101 on the YHA circuit and on my own in New Zealand it was time to try it overseas in mixed dorms. Shanghai was not originally in the plan but Auckland-London entailed a stopover in Shanghai so on the behest of my dear friend Rebecca ( “You must stay there!”) I re-budgetted and scrimped and saved some more to include it in the itinerary.  Although Professor Paul Spoonley did warn me that ‘Shanghai is not China’.

The Captain Hostel is on the Bund. A long way from Pudong International Airport. The instructions on the website were to take Bus 3 to Longyang Metro station and Line 2 to East Nanjing Road. Easy peezy except for the heat and humidity. I should be used to it. Grew up in Bombay! But. There is much transalation and sign language when I catch  and get off the bus. Ni shuo ying wen ma? (Can you speak English?) and shie shie (thank you) are going to be the two most common sentences I use during my time in Shanghai.  And duo shao qian? (How much?). You can bargain at departmental stores in Shanghai-at least on East Nanjing Road. I almost bought a frock for 150 yuan (cheap as!) until my dorm mate, a South African who teaches English in South Korea haggled with the saleswoman. So I bought the frock for 50 yuan. It took a black man to teach an Indian woman how to bargain , as my dorm mate told me.

Asia is Asia, bloody Asia. It is home-anywhere in bloody Asia. You see the people, you see what they are doing and it is reassuring. An old woman selling mogra by the underground Metro, loads and bundles balanced precariously on bicycles and lots of cycles, people crossing the road arbitrarily, utter disregard for traffic rules,  streetside vendors near railway bridges, pot holes, diversions, half destroyed abodes, labourers, construction everywhere, piles of rubble…dust, rain, heat. Chaos, confusion, humanity. Fast and slow all at once. Ancient and new all at once.

So is Shanghai except that I could not access Facebook or Twitter. And there are police everywhere. Police and what look like private security guards. The Chinese government must be spending tons of money on regimenting the country. There are no beggars in sight-although I caught a homeless man or two on camera. It is glitzy, glittering, wannabe sleek. All kinds of architectural styles sit by each other.  Classical, neo-classical, art deco, modern and even the crazy looking Oriental Pearl Tower. At night the Bund is like out of a scene from a film in Las Vegas with the deliberate spectacle of lights. During the day the structures look a bit more real. Yet. My camera could not capture the bizzare, surreal character of the Bund in Shanghai. A whole lot of Chinese gawp at the edifices too. A kind of reassurance about the enormity/greatness of China and her growing power. I see that at an exhibition at the Oriental Pearl Tower. The story of Shanghai told through waxworks and other life size models. Not much to say about the curating but the sub-text sure was overtly nationalistic. Great China, the sufferings of the past and how-we-overcame-the foreigner etc.  Still, for a two-minute tourist like me it was worth the 35 yuan. And the trip to the other, Pudong side of the Huangpu river, the walk to the tower, lunch at the streetside stalls…wu bo chi niu rou hi zhu rou (I do not eat beef or pork) I said to the stallkeeper, my accent not quite right. This time I saved myself from Hindu hell

For once I did not plan what I will do in which city through my travels. There was no fixed itinerary, no things-to-see…I just wanted to float around and do what I can. So I missed out on the Shanghai museum, the Dali exhibition and the French Quarter. Instead I simply wandered around observing the people and the buildings, the insatiable aspiration for all things consumer, the middle-class prosperity and the carefully hidden poverty. The Pudong side of the Bund is like another film set, like, I don’t know,  Dick Tracy perhaps. Or it could be like Nariman Point/Cuffe Parade in Bombay without the slums or the fishing boats. Of course there is horrible traffic and the masses and even a Hooters in the multinational outlet mix with foreigners (white people) cycling along in the middle of all that. A man, what looked like a Muslim minority (a Uigher?) person, was selling kebabs made on a portable coal barbeque, would not let me take a photo

Public transport in Shanghai is so good that travelling everywhere is easy. The underground Metro is just superb and the Magnet train takes you from Longyang station to Pudong International Airport in 10 minutes.

I can see why the world is wary of China and her increasing power. The government can mobilise people ‘for the country’ very easily. The Shanghai Expo in 2010 is the next thing to showcase China and Haibao the mascot is everywhere. Even the roadside vendors sell little models every few metres on East Nanjing Road. There is a mass recruitment to speak English, from what I gather. How this model of  ‘capitalism within communism’ works and whether it will implode, whether the people of China will know anything better vis-a-vis freedom of expression and human rights, equality, making decisions for the self and the country without any pressure from the government or whether this kind of governance becomes the norm and acceptable to other countries on the anti-Western bandwagon is the subject of another blog. Whatever it is, I shall definetely visit China again. The people are warm and lovely and there is so much more to see. A road or rail trip through rural China is on my wish list now.

My Annual Indulgence

The New Zealand International Film Festival started on 9 July. It is my biggest annual indulgence. I spend time and money watching what I love. Movies. All kinds of movies, from all parts of the world and across genres.  One year I watched thirty-eight films. This year I am being a very good girl and watching only twenty-one.  I have a well-set process by which I go about organising myself around the festival.

1- I get the programme and go through all the films. Mark the ones I want to see. The first wish list usually has fifty to sixty films on it. That is impossible to do-even if I camp out on Queen Street.

2- So I cull the list keeping films that might not come back through theatrical release, are interesting documentaries, big name works that I have to see, the HOMEGROWN section of short films and Asian films. (I love Korean cinema and Japanese animation.)

3- I co-ordinate screening sessions with my ‘free’ time which means I might have to drop a film or two.

4- I buy tickets.

Industry guild members get discounts hence so do I, being a member of the NZ Writers Guild (and Women In Film And Television, NZ).

Have just come back from the HOMEGROWN WORKS ON FILM session. Tonight I will watch TEZA.

Last night I saw John Woo’s RED CLIFF, the international version. Thoroughly enjoyed it. Apart from the blockbusting spectacle (and some corny moments in the script), it was the male star cast that drew me to it. I am a huge fan of Tony Leung. He is always such a pleasure to watch on screen.  A fine actor and a good looking man. Then of course there are the gorgeous Takeshi Kaneshiro and Chang Chen.

So ithas been a good start. Reiterating the magic of movies; why I do what I do; the art and craft of storytelling. Sitting in the dark theatre as the titles come on and reels unroll. The start of my annual indulgence until 25 July 2009. That night I’ll close it THE GOLD RUSH on live music.

The music in my life

To keep it brief-there has been such an outpouring of emotion over Michael Jackson’s death-there is nothing more I can say.

Just that growing up in Bombay, India, in the eighties, MJ was my first exposure to seeing a black American singer on stage. I know the politics and the power structure of that now. Why it is important to have with us the music of Michael Jackson and Prince. It is a reminder of the need for representation and to reiterate your place in the world. Through visibility, music and storytelling. Michael Jackson did what a lot of African American singers before him could not do. Not even Isaac Hayes. Living here in New Zealand I understand that better. Sometimes I wonder if we Indians are ever going to get that kind of music that goes beyond the purity of Lata Mangeshkar. No doubt that Lata is the Nightingale of India and her contribution to popular (and classical) Indian culture is immense but I crave for the complexity and ambiguity that talks about current India. Globalisation, aspiration, poverty, fanaticism and spirituality. I hope it will happen one day-for in my gloom and looking at videos on Youtube that is all I can think of. So in conclusion here is the video of the theme music from SHAFT (Issac Hayes) and MJ doing his version of Ain’t No Sunshine. RIP. Love always.