The Easter weekend gardening, getting it ready for winter is a New Zealand tradition but I have never actually done any planting during the long weekend before, my usual procrastination gripping me until mid-autumn. Not this weekend, not today. Having a backyard in my new place is a boon and I wanted to take full advantage of that. So I went to the plant shop and bought the garden Nah.
The Wellington weather is radically different from Auckland’s relative warmth. This city is windy, cold and damp. That means the flora varies too. The winter frost means nothing edible will grow above the ground. Except greens like spinach, silverbeet, salad leaves etc and all sorts of roots. Also, this year’s drought has stopped the good citizens of Wellington from watering their gardens to make up for the dry summer. One has to be innovative in reusing water.
I love gardening. It is like meditation. I talk to my plants. And to grow my own food is such a basic activity, I bond with Mother Earth and this land of which I am made, of which we all are. So there I was, planting and replanting my preciouses.
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I ran out of soil so could not plant the baby carrot seeds but I covered my tulsi with dried leaves so the moisture stays in and she needs less water. Also plan to make mulch from the dried leaves in the yard and pondering whether to get a mini earthworm farm or a compost suitable for urban gardening.
A month and two days actually. I am now a Wellingtonian, ex Aucklander, loving my job so much it would need to be duplicated for me to move to any other place. Not so sure about Wellington the city though. This is a charming, quaint little place. Almost like a Himalayan hill station that the British might have replicated in the Antipodes by the Pacific Ocean. They even named one suburb Khandallah, like there used to be in the Western Ghats between Bombay and Poona, before the national highway made it a fragmented remnant of pre-globalised India. Then there is the architecture, almost colonial yet not grand enough. As if building such abodes and edifices was too offensive to the sensibilities of the retired servants of the Raj; as if one day they were going to return ‘home’ and so constructed half heartedly half way dwellings susceptible to the cold and wind. So you see the structures built on stilts, the grass growing underneath, winter seeping through the cracks in the flooring and along way above the road, most adverse to urban development. Some might say that is good. Why does Wellington need to be more urban than it is, reflecting the parochial mentality of its old Scottish inhabitants, if I may stereotype and generalise. This is the capital of Aotearoa New Zealand. The seat of government and associated bodies. Yet to get to the airport one has to drive through town rather than take a motorway that bypasses downtown traffic. Surely there is severe need of urban development like an electrical jolt?
In my last post, one week old in Wellington I sought Asian grocery stores and an eyebrow threader. I found both. In the concentrated pocket of refugee settlements, new migrants and cafe culture gentrification of Newtown there is Pari Beauty. Mostly frequented by other ethnics and Pakeha women who want threaded eyebrows for NZD7 a pop. Salons are a great place to gather information. There as I sat getting my nails done, another customer discussed Indian grocery stores and Hindu temples. I’d just done my Asian grocery shopping that afternoon around Jackson St in Petone, Lower Hutt. It had reminded me of Ponsonby Rd, Auckland, without the snooty air. I’d shopped at one Indian store and then discovered another and then I’d gone quite nuts in the Asian store Davis Trading Company. As if in a lolly shop I’d bought the Chinese sauces, the Thai curry pastes, dry shrimp, ginseng, bamboo and other delights like an apothecary concocting medicinally nutritious winter foods. So I’d done my shopping and this Indian customer waiting for her eyebrows to be done at the salon informs me that the other Indian grocery store was better because the one where I had shopped stored foods close to expiry date and does not have that much variety. Now I know. Also that there are no mithai shops in Wellington! Not that I indulge often but where there is a South Asian community there have to be sweetmeats ja? In spite of cardiovascular disease and diabetes?
In my last post I also complained about the lack of diversity. I take that back. Somewhat. Wellington may not be as densely diverse as Auckland but I have spotted young Indian families, Korean schoolboys, gorgeous Middle Eastern women, the sporadic funky Africans, lots of Paficic Islanders and many, many Maori. I guess it is only because they make an incomplete kaleidoscope in a largely white, lethargic city?
My work keeps my busy and I love my doctor’s job. In my other avatar I delight in the arts and world cinema this city offers but my global self is afraid of being blunted. Wellington is like living in a bubble that seems immune to the world’s pace of change or how this existence might be affected. The entrepreneurial spirit, so essential for growth, is missing. I am assuming that when an outsider, a migrant or a refugee comes here they lower their expectations and live like the locals. The only Oporto store that opened in Wellington last month created ripples! While I am not a supporter of fast food chains their presence is an indication of the local economy. Or maybe someone will discover hidden JRR Tolkein novels for Peter Jackson to make into movies and keep this city afloat? Perhaps I’ll start something, shit stirrer that I am…
One week in a new city and I am finding my way around. Of course now I know the way to work, the short cuts to avoid steep roads and long waits at the lights on the morning commute to the motorway. It takes me between 20-25 minutes to get to work even with the minor jams on Tinakori Road. To an ex-Aucklander that is the time I would take to go from one end of the Ponsonby Road to the other at 40K during the morning peak traffic hours whether by car or on the Link Bus. This drive to Porirua is a piece of cake. So that is sorted.
After a week of unpacking and starting work it was time to go into the city and hang around, understand the bus routes and browse the shops. Wellington has some quirky fashion stores ranging from designer clothes to second hand, recycled, hand made everything. Wellingtonians dress more laid back than Aucklanders but what was obviously missing was the Asian influence. None of the kawaii, or the East Asian style Western clothes that Gwen Stefani tries so hard to copy for her fashion line Harajuku Lovers. Not even the East Asians on Cuba St. had that look. I guess I’d have to travel regularly to Auckland to get my fill.
But what one needs when settling in a new town is the Asian grocery stores. Where do I get my rice, my papads, the pickles, the savouries, the lentils? Will they be the same as in Auckland? Will I find packets of instant dosa and dhokla mix? Oh and where do I get my eyebrows threaded? Definitely not in the gora peoples’ beauty salons! Not at $20 a pop; not when I can get them done for $10 max.
Wellington is not as diverse as Auckland and I am probably going to have to travel further from home to get Asian groceries or my eyebrows trimmed. I do not even have any Indian female friends in Wellington and no point asking the guys. So it is going to be the trial and error technique. More grist for a blob post I suppose.
One of my aims every year is to write regularly on this blog. Anything from serious political issues to flippant, fashion-y things. Books, movies, gardening, tramps and travels. Food. Sharing other interesting blogs I follow. And all that. For me it is always self indulgence and the need to improve my writing; to be analytical and a touch self-deprecatory. It never ceases to amaze me that people read this blog, some even follow it. I am touched and very grateful.
These last two years, especially the last few months have been an exercise in maintaining my self-belief and carrying on with life, pushing and willing to get things done, things over which I had not control but could question the methodology of how others did it. I can reiterate that all the above and a lot of visualisation of what you want (with the right motives) does work and the power of the human mind, the potential of it just blows me away.
Which is how I am going to re-don a past avatar, that of a doctor, in Wellington, the ‘coolest little capital‘ in the world. Not that I wished to go there, no, that was the Universe. The rest of it is of my making. So I start work as a GP next week, in Porirua, a city/suburb of Wellington after eleven years of being away from it. It is the kind of doctoring I know I would like. Low socio-economic area, many refugee, Maori and Pacific Island patients and several challenges. That apart, living in Wellington, after eleven years in Auckland, should be exciting. It means new friends, new networks, new things to do and a new house to live in. It also means very cold winters, damp homes and sharp winds blowing from the Antarctic.
I know I’ll have lots to write about and I hope to (a) be very regular, perhaps fortnightly and (b) evolve myself as a writer. So wish me luck.
I was going to right an end-of-the-year rant about my pet peeves within my smug little existence, trying to detach myself from the rape-protest drama in Delhi. Horrible, brutal crime, I told myself but I now live in New Zealand so should not be worried with what happens back home. I am safe here, I can wear what I like, do what I want, go out at any time of the night. I live alone, am independent, no one judges me. Sweet as. I was wrong. So, so wrong. This innocent young girl’s death has made me angry. Mad, stomping angry.
The last time I went to India, in 2010, men stared at my breasts as I walked the streets. Fully clothed in my khadi salwar-kurtas, not making eye contact with any unknown males, I used to go about my work with men still coming up right in front of me, their eyes on my breasts. Then there was the time when a male bus passenger rubbed his penis against my shoulder as I sat in a crowded bus. He went on even as I slouched further into my seat contemplating whether to yell at him and make some noise or just let it go. That was my default setting. Like so many Indian women who grow up in India. Make yourself as inconspicuous as possible and even if you have to protest, think about it first because everyone, even other women, will turn around and tell you it is your fault. I mustered all my courage to yell at him and while he backed off slightly he yelled at me to ask what he had done. The implication being that I was just a mad woman to shout at him to stand straight and not lean against me; it is a crowded bus. How could I have asked him to keep his penis to himself and not on my shoulder? Is there a Hindi or Marathi word that a decent woman can use in public to describe the organ? If I’d spoken in English then I would have immediately been ‘modern’, further implying deterioration of my morality. Now I am in New Zealand. No catcalls from Indian men gathered at the end of each street, no one rubbing against me, groping me or staring at my breasts. In reset mode. Procrastinating any reaction to a young, innocent girl brutally raped, keeping it out my mindspace. Then she died. A life full of hope snuffed out. So I got mad, stomping angry. Mostly at myself. Somewhere in the comfort of reset mode compassion and empathy for my sisters was deleted. Besides, my intellectual snobbery stopped me from engaging in any discourse against the death sentence and stoning that the many Indians were calling out for. But now I want to plunge into it.
So I’ll start by arguing against the death sentence and stoning that so many Indians are demanding for the rapists. Stop; think. Did these six men just drop from the sky or are they a part of the Indian society? Where did they get their attitude towards women and violence? Or the idea that they could get away with such a brutal crime; that the police might not do anything? Indian governments of all ideologies have sanctioned rape in the name of suppressing rebellion and uprisings. When did middle class India last check the human rights record of the Indian Army against Kashmiri and North-Eastern women? Or the police raping tribal women in the Red Corridor? Or was it okay to use rape as a weapon for the safety of the rest of the Indians? The Culture Of Impunity and disrespect for women is not an aberration but ‘normal’ behaviour. So who deserves the death sentence? Indian soldiers? Indian police? Fathers that rape their daughters? Husbands that rape their wives? Brothers that rape their sisters? Politicians? Or we the people? For turning a blind eye?
Now let’s look at the prominent women who reacted to the rape.
Stoic Sonia-ji remained silent as per usual. Only to come make an appearance on television reading from the teleprompter. Fake much?
Then there was Sushma-ji. The keeper of the virtue of us Hindu women said if the girl survives then she will be like the living dead. Not, (read subtext if you can through her boring lecture) because she had lost her intestines but because she was raped and would have no honour left. Sushma-ji may I remind you that once upon a time you wanted all advertisements for sanitary napkins removed from television because they were a bad influence on us innocent Indian women. Perhaps we should have stayed at home five days a month and continued using old sarees to soak up our menstrual discharge? This way we would have been safer ya?
And finally Jaya-ji. The distress is genuine but to believe that because we worship so many goddesses Indian men actually respect women in real life? Oh Jaya-ji, you are so naive. Only in our Bollywood films and only after we’ve had an item number in skimpy clothes and the man has tamed her and ‘saved her’ will the heroine find redemption in treating him like god. Only then will he respect her in return.
Overall the larger issue of the treatment of women remained unaddressed. What is it that makes Indian society treat Indian women shabbily? Here is one explanation. This is the story not just of one child who died after rape but many more who die before they are born, many who suffer because of insufficient dowry, domestic abuse, sexual abuse and abuse from institutions that are meant to protect them. Women like us and those not like us. This is the story of everyone’s attitude towards women as victims of sexual assault. Lawyer Flavia Agnes tells among other tales how the doctors examining a rape victim in Bangalore were more interested in the elasticity of her vagina than finding forensic evidence.
As India moves towards more economic liberalisation, with good or bad effect, society is bound to change and with that the Indian democracy. Which means we have to let go of the old absolutes of culture, tradition and religion that kept us rigid and inflexible; not reject them but adapt them.
For that to happen there has to be a revolution with a new leader. Not Narendra Modi, not Rahul Gandhi, not Anna Hazare, not Arvind Kejriwal and not Kiran Bedi. Not any of the right or left wing politicians but the people. The people will throw up their new leader. Before that will arise Kali, once again from the people, the power of the people, especially of the women. Because it is the women who will destroy the men who worship her then rape her before giving birth to him and nurturing him again.
If you believe the rumours, sex appeal's Idris Elba -- half Sierra Leonean, half Ghanaian, fully a Londoner -- will be the next James Bond, although Daniel Craig may clench and mumble his way through a couple more before that happens. If it does, Elba would be taking over at a very interesting moment for the Bond franchise, apparently now entering full-on…
While I procrastinate over my next post. (On cultural festivals organised by Auckland City-no it is not a repeat of my Diwali/Lantern Festival rants but an analysis and some questions as always), here is a fun post from one of my favourite blogs. I really enjoyed Skyfall but Idris Alba as James Bond should be cool. Like revisiting Shaft but with post-colonial discourse on the decline of empire instead of blaxploitation in the face of white elite, never mind Barack in the White House. :-)
Meanwhile here is Isaac Hayes's theme track for Shaft. Enjoy!
I see from my stats that I get a lot of hits on an old blog Good Hair; Fair Skin; Feminism Or What so here is a an article on hair extensions that might interest readers. The hair extension industry grew in Europe in spite of the recession. Not that much colouring, cutting and blow drying but lots of hair extensions.
The Hair Trade’s Dirty Secret is interesting because it talks not only about the range of hair extensions offered (or that it is normalised now and no longer confined to the celebrity domain) but most importantly how customers don’t care which human head their extension comes from. Or that ‘fakeness’ has come to define female beauty.
If in his documentary Chris Rock bemoans about how the hair-products-for-African-Americans-industry is dominated by Asians he does not really touch upon the deep rooted poverty or economic difficulties of those women whose hair it is. Except for a quick trip to India and Tirupati, to see how devotees offer their hair to god, there is nothing about their exploitation. Would hair from a poor Indian woman’s head make an African-American female feel uncomfortable or does she just want to have hair like Kim Kardashian? No sisterhood of suffering here? Of course a feature length documentary is not enough to cover such complex issues.
I have thick, long, wavy hair, as I mentioned in the old post. Some years ago I cut it all off and donated it to a wig maker who made wigs for cancer stricken women.
My hair, as much as I could fit in the photo.
I could never offer it ‘god’ even though my hair is a source of joy and vanity and hence worthy of sacrifice (what would god do with it anyway?). So really it is the same old story of tax free temple authorities, in cahoots with middle-men and exporters who make the profits even as the end user does not care about the source of this thing of beauty. Capitalism as we know.
This will go on of course because humans are vulnerable and tools in the hands of priests with their direct links to god so the devout will offer their hair for the very rich and the wannabes in the Western world to look and feel beautiful. Unless it becomes a fashionable and lucrative industry to protest against it. Like cruelty against animals.
That would make an interesting story. Can’t wait for some Western do-gooder-feminists to take on the Hindu priest brigade at Tirupati.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PA9w3eVGJS8
Bleeding, splintering, RGB pixels paint repeated images of handshakes and embraces -- filmed off a television screen, or from existing filmed material -- until they expand to a short panorama of the China-Africa Summit held in Beijing in 2006. Rapturously applauding, celebratory faces of powerful men, presidents and heads of state are seen, to a bellowing accompaniment: "...We, the leaders of China and Africa have gathered in Beijing to renew our friendship.
This is one of my favourite blogs. Always taking me into territories and discourses I sort of know but never really care to dissect. Just because...I'm lazy. And this film here seems to tell an interesting story of colonisation, neoliberalism and further exploitation within Africa by a country/power everyone is afraid of. I know from listening to stories told to me by a very bright young Ethiopian man who recently visited Ethiopia for the first time in his 23 years (his family came to New Zealand as 'refugees', a term I don't like to use) of how the Indians and Chinese are appropriating land in and around Addis Ababa and exploiting the locals. A new kind of non-white racism and capitalism. Read on. Hopefully I shall get to watch the documentary too.
I am not a foodie. I don’t get excited by the idea of eating out or by food itself but I like to cook. Cooking is equal to meditation. Especially when I am in my own kitchen with no mother, … Continue reading →
Nah.
