Scribbly Katia

This blog is moving!

2011-04-25T10:10:00.001+05:30

Accessing my blogger account has become almost impossible. First time I manage to get in in the past five days, and I don't even have all the features available. So, I created a new blog on WordPress. Please, join me there. The background and title of the blog might be different, but the content will still be about the things I'm passionate about : writing, our uprooted and globe-trotting life, expat issues, multicultural themes, bridging the world, traveling, mothering two TCKs - not necessarily in that order...

Here is the link : www.katianovetsaintlot.wordpress.com

It make take a few days to go live, as I'm still playing/struggling around with the new format.

Thank you to all who read my posts, and offered their comments, over the past four years. I hope to see you over at the new blog.

On feeling far, far, far from Holi.

2011-03-20T14:19:00.003+05:30

Today is Holi, in India, or rather for Hindus all over the world. If not for Facebook, and the friends from /in India whom I'm in touch with via this social media tool, the day would have gone without my having the slightest notion that a mere 45 minutes (lucky birds) away from where I live, people are happily throwing colored powders at each other, and by the end of the day, millions of men, women, and children in India, young and old, rich and poor, will look as if they all plunged into a gigantic tub of multicolored paints.

Here I am, and my older daughter is the one
drenched in paint, on the left.
Holi 2010

As I sat at the diplomatic warehouse where expatriates buy their liquor (unlawful in Bangladesh), waiting for the clerk there to enter the items in his computer, I noticed pictures of Hindu gods under the glass top of his desk. Dare I ask him whether he's Hindu ? He might have been siting at someone else's desk. But then, I saw a red thread wrapped around his wrist.
"Is this your desk?" I finally asked.
"Yes," he answered, looking up at me, clearly puzzled by my question.
"Are you Hindu?"
This time, he seemed astonished. "Yes, I am."
I gave him my brightest smile. "Happy Holi."
There was a long silence. "How do you know about Holi?" he asked after a few seconds. I'd had time to sign my cheque.
When I told him, he relaxed, visibly, and told me that they celebrated Holi yesterday, at some open area close to the airport. But his hair had no trace of colors, nor did his skin. Quite different from India, where you see people with purple, bright pink or green hair or patches of skin for up to two weeks, afterward.

My younger daughter with one of her friends - Holi 2010

Still, I felt happy to have connected with someone who knows about Holi. On the way back, I was caught in the usual traffic, and I was trying to think of ways we could celebrate Holi with the girls. But where? I don't imagine our landlord or the people working in our building, all Muslims, would like it if we started throwing colored powders at each other, my daughters and I, in the narrow patch of grass in front of our building. I was thinking I could welcome them each with powders in my hands, and spread some on their faces when they walk in, this afternoon. Or maybe we could hold a Holi session locked in a bathroom. Mm...

For a crash course in playing Holi, or just a walk down memory lane, here is the link to my post, last year.

HAPPY HOLI EVERYONE, whether you're in India or not...

Have bicycle, will ride it in the streets of Dhaka

2011-02-28T09:16:00.001+05:30

So, I was a blogger gone mute, these past few months. I'd like to think I'm slowly extricating myself from this dark spell, and one way to do that is to shed my own bit of spotlight over an event I participated in, this past Friday.

Yes, it involved bicycles. And women. And a movement launched by an active and passionate young Bangladeshi woman.

AROHI:Pedaling the path to empowerment.

Arohi means "rider" in Bengali, but the Sanskrit root "Aarohana" means ascendance. And the goal of this young initiative is to give women more mobility by encouraging them to use bicycles as their means of transportation.

The objective of this first ride through the Dhanmondi neighborhood was to get a feel about how women on wheels are perceived, in Dhaka.

Dhaka is plagued with one of the worst traffic situations I have ever encountered. Lagos, Nigeria, was pretty bad, too, but Dhaka will really stretch anyone's patience to its extreme limits. Spending fifteen, twenty minutes in a spot, without moving an inch, is routine. And of course, it's not exactly safe. To give you an idea, our car got into an accident, only today. An auto-rickshaw towing another auto-rickshaw, the driver totally heedless of the fact that the machine attached to his was going right and left, bumped into our car, parked on the side of the street, of course tried to continue without stopping, and the second auto caught our fender and tore it from our vehicle. Routine.

Encouraging people to use bicycles would seem like a great idea, and a good way to reduce the number of cars circulating, but also, maybe, to reduce the number of buses. I will have to write a post about the buses that transport people, in this city. There again, I had never see anything like that. Not in India. Not in Nigeria. Nowhere in my travels. It would also give women more independence. It's certainly an ambitious goal.

We started the ride in a quiet area, but the itinerary took us along some busy avenues, and across some chaotic intersections. We had to deal with the traffic, and that included swarms of rickshaws coming at us from every which way. At some stage, I thought I'd lost the group. I was stuck behind several rickshaws, with no way through. Thankfully, one of the riders in our group was wearing a bright red scarf, and I was able to spot it, and follow it from afar - and eventually, to catch up.

I could give you some funny details about how a fellow rider suddenly caught up with me and said : "it looks like you have a flat tire." And indeed, the rear tire was flat. Thankfully, it was not punctured. Or how I realized, after a few uncomfortable minutes, that I had taken my daughter's bicycle instead of mine (they are the exact same model, but of course my daughter being smaller, the seat was lower). As the organizers had thought of involving a mechanic, the tire and seat situations were promptly resolved.

We had a car riding along with us, several photographers, and even a young woman in a rickshaw carrying her two-weeks-old daughter in a baby sling - the little darling slept peacefully through the whole ride, I may add.

Below are some pictures that may give an idea of the kind of bedlam we found ourselves in. Add the noise, the pollution, the frequent stops to allow the whole group to remain together (not an easy feat). This was no peaceful ride in the countryside. But I enjoyed it. And I hope to do it again.

One year since the earthquake in Haiti

2011-01-12T11:03:00.000+05:30

Almost three months since my last post. I'm almost through with a deadline, and I know I must again carve the time to keep my blog alive, but the main reason I'm writing today is that it is the first anniversary of the earthquake in Haiti. One year, already.

My husband spent again almost three weeks there in December, called again by UNICEF to help curb the terrible cholera outbreak that's claimed some 3500 lives, so far. And my niece, yesterday, posted a bleak, heartbreaking status on her Facebook page, lamenting the fact that nothing has really been done in the past year. It's easy to be engulfed by feelings of despair when it comes to the reality of the situation, there. And she, a child of 13, is smack in the middle of it. She saw one of her school friends die of cholera, in class, a few weeks back.

There are many articles in the press, today, some lashing out at the UN, others trying to look for the positive and shreds of hope in the middle of all the misery. Yes, it seems that very little was done. Yes, people are still living in horrendous conditions, under tents or tarpaulins. Yes, indeed, where is all the money that came pouring out in the days and weeks that followed the earthquake ? What happened to all the promises made by so many governments across the world ? And I'm not even going to mention the political crisis with the recent disastrous presidential elections.

And yet, there are also countless stories of uplifting displays of courage. The work of Doctors Without Borders (Médecins Sans Frontières) since the earthquake, and during the ongoing cholera crisis - to point out only one - is nothing short of heroic. Everywhere, people are doing little or big things, helping out.

http://www2.marketwire.com/mw/frame_mw?attachid=1477497

In the mist of all the press, good and bad, today, I would like to highlight a statement by the UNICEF head executive, Tony Lake, published in the Miami Herald, and an uplifting story printed in the New York Times. The Marché en fer rising again from the rubble and singing its freshly-painted bright colors in the sky of Port-au-Prince could be such a symbol of hope for a new Haiti...

And where do you think my children have lived all their young years?

2010-10-20T17:01:00.005+05:30

Never would it occur to me to carry anything on my head. It doesn't matter that I have also lived the past ten years (and counting) between Nigeria, India and now Bangladesh, where this is the normal way of carrying most anything. But for them, it is the most natural thing to do.

Buying plants

2010-10-17T16:01:00.002+05:30

We entered our apartment one week after our shipment was scheduled to be delivered, and five weeks after we left the neighboring country of India. Almost one month later, and we're still camping. As it turns out, the ship with our container did make it to the local port, but the person in charge of all the paperwork was much too busy drinking to have the time and/or clarity of mind to do this work. For the past three weeks, he's been telling us all sorts of tales about why the delivery of the container was delayed, when in fact, he hadn't even begun to work on the process. This, by the way, in a Muslim country where alcohol is forbidden. We are now told that it will be delivered next Thursday, but by now, I carefully avoid thinking about it too much as it only makes things worse. If it comes, great. If it doesn't come, we'll go on camping out and try to be reasonably gracious about it ... Hm ! In the meantime, we do our best to try and fill out the empty space so it feels a little less like a transition hall, and more like a home. I bought some cushions. This week-end, we went in search of plants.

There are several nurseries along the road, not far from where we live, and no sooner had we stopped that men approached us eagerly. Except that one of them was not a man at all, but a young 10 year old boy. At first, I thought he was the son of one of the sellers. But he seemed so earnest, he was so fast to run into the masses of plants to lift them out - including some pretty heavy ones -and show them to us, that I started to wonder. As it turned out, he works there all day, is paid 1500 Bangladesh Thaka per month for his work (that's about 21 US Dollars) and goes to school in the evenings.

When he saw my camera, he took a pose, and said: "camera action !"

In the meantime, a crowd of people had gathered on the road and the sidewalk. Some were rickshaw wallahs hoping we might need their services. The rest were just watching us, passing the time, always curious to observe foreigners as they go about their lives.

As it turned out, two of these rickshaw men were right to have waited patiently, because they carried each a big plant for us, after carefully tying them to the sides of the rickshaw with a piece of cloth (not sure if I would call it an orna, which is is the equivalent of the Indian dupatta.)

Our car looked like a jungle, but at least, now, we have a few heart-warming touches of green in the apartment.

The Virtual Tour for Kelly Starling Lyon's "One Million Men and Me"

2010-10-12T13:00:00.037+05:30

A few weeks back, Kelly Starling Lyons sent me an email asking if I would like to participate in her virtual tour on the occasion of the 15th anniversary of the Million Man March (October 16) - which was the inspiration for her picture book, One Million Men and Me. I was thrilled, of course. Not only do I like Kelly and her writing, this also falls perfectly into my continuing commitment to bridge the world.

We had to overcome a few challenges : first, I needed to get the book, and as I'm told that postal services cannot be trusted, here, it meant asking a friend at UNICEF headquarters in New York to send it by the pouch, and hope it would get here on time... Which it did. But when I opened the envelope, the book inside was wet and quite damaged. I had to very slowly peel off the pages glued together and set them under the fan to dry (my hair dryer is in the container, with the rest of our personal effects). The bottom of many of Peter Ambush's expressive illustrations had suffered, but at least, the text was complete.

I had also hoped to involve the library at the American International School of Dhaka, but it proved impossible - this I found out only a few days before my post was due. In the end, I invited our daughters' new friends, and we read the book together in our empty, very echoing apartment.

The group was composed of girls aged 6 to 10, all from mixed backgrounds (France, Haiti, Indonesia and the US), and kids who've all already lived in at least two countries, spanning several continents. We talked about the beautiful illustration on the cover, and the Million Man March. After I read the book, we looked at pictures of the March on the Internet, and also discussed the March on Washington for Freedom and Jobs, on August 28, 1963, the civil rights struggle, and Martin Luther King Junior's historical speech. It was the perfect end to an extremely gloomy, rainy day in Dhaka, Bangladesh.

When I asked the girls what they had preferred in the book, they all mentioned the illustration with the African princess. One of them also said : "the first page, when the cousin said that no girls can go, but her daddy took her anyway." And she nodded, as if to say : there.

One Million Men and Me takes us back to that magical day, allowing us to experience it through the eyes of young Nia. We feel her pride, and we feel her joy, as she shares this very special moment with her father. She will never forget it, and nor will all the girls who read the book, I bet.

Thank you, Kelly, for this opportunity to discover and share your (and Peter Ambush) very touching book about not only the day when "Black men made history," but also the beauty and importance of the special bond between father and daughter (two daddies attended the reading, by the way, and my husband took the pictures.)

Anyone who posts a comment, here, or on Kelly's Facebook page or her blog, will be entered in a drawing for one of three prizes - One Million Men and Me T-shirt, tote bag or signed poster. Kelly will announce the winners on the March anniversary, October 16.

And how do children get to school and back home?

2010-10-09T17:09:00.000+05:30

I am told that the government of Bangladesh has devised a plan to enroll the numerous local children in schools : there are classes from 7 am until 12 noon, and then from 12 until 5 PM. This means that at 12, every school day, the streets fill with boys and girls in uniforms, some heading home, others about to start their school day.

And how do they commute ?

New wall.

2010-10-03T16:54:00.005+05:30

I found the cable to download the pictures from my camera at the bottom of one of the bags I had not yet emptied. I can now show you our new wall.

When they first came to measure it, I asked if it was necessary to protect the floor. They just smiled, and said no. It was true.

First, they drew the the main lines on the wall, with pencils: the trees, the branches, a few animals.

Then, they started painting, using only small jars of paint and very thin brushes. See how the wrist supports the hand that paints, so the lines are even?

The young boy who was with them is the son of the man, above, and they assured me that he was 16 years old, even though he does not look a day older than 12.

And here is the wall.

I love looking at all the details, like these ladies drying a sari...

So, today, I grumble and whine.

2010-10-01T17:09:00.022+05:30

Well, I can't download the pictures of my beautiful new wall from my camera, because somewhere between the hotel, the many bags, and the move to the new empty apartment, I seem to have lost or displaced the necessary cable. And so, today, I will rant.

My husband is in India. He had to go back there for some final debriefing. They have a big country meeting, and he will see his colleagues from Hyderabad, and those from Delhi and all over India, some of whom have become good friends.

Last night, at the dinner table, my daughters commented on the fact that it was not fair that he could go to India ; they also wanted to go, see their friends, familiar faces and places.

Brace yourselves, for here come the grumbling and whining. I know this is a new adventure, bla bla bla. I'm the first one to constantly clamor that we are so very lucky to have this kind of life - traveling the world, living in different countries, discovering and sampling new cultures, forever broadening our horizons.

But you know what? Some days, it's bloody difficulty. Especially at the beginning. Or rather, after the very beginning.

When we are no longer in the hotel, and having to learn the daily ways of our new host country.

When I discover that in order for me to do any kind of shopping, I basically need to give up half a day, and out of that half day, a good two hours (sometimes more) will be spent in the car, fighting maddening traffic jams.

When I start the day thinking that I need to work, but after an hour or two seating in the very uncomfortable forty-seventh-hand couch that we bought with the option of reselling it again as soon as we receive our personal effects, my back hurts like hell, and now, what do I do? The apartment is empty. Go out? Where? To get stuck in more traffic? And anyway, kids will be back in an hour or so, which means I don't even have time to go anywhere.

When I miss my friends back in Hyderabad.

And where is my husband, who is the person whom we are trailing? In India, working, yes, but he gets to see familiar faces, and to go back to a place that feels familiar, because that's where our home was for the past few years. Even at work, here, in Bangladesh, he's met up with colleagues, friends he already knew from New York, or elsewhere, people he's worked with before. He doesn't get to start all over in quite the same way.

Do we, expat, trailing spouses and children get any credit for this? We should.

Decorating our house with local art.

2010-09-30T17:15:00.001+05:30

When I first arrived, an expat who's been living here for a while gave me a list of shops where I could find... this, and that. One drew my attention immediately because my friend mentioned that it had many local handicrafts. I think it's one of the first shops I visited, in fact. Here is what I saw as I went up the stairs of that small building.

The pictures were taken with my phone, and there wasn't much light, so they're not very good. Still, it gives an idea.

Inside the shop, which does, indeed, carry very pretty things made locally (name of the shop is JATRA which is a popular form of Bengali theatre) there was more of this beautiful art.

I bought a few pretty cups painted with the same kind of art, and as I was paying, found out that it is possible to hire the artists. It's just a matter of making an appointment, and giving your address. They then come to your home, office, school, whatever, and transform a boring wall into something brimming with life.

Three different styles are available, and the price is calculated according to how many square feet are painted.

As I type this post, I have three artists (two adults and one young boy whose age I wonder about) working right inside the apartment.

Before and After pictures to come in another post.

A visit to the slum

2010-09-24T05:26:00.002+05:30

So, the title is bizarre. Are slums something to be visited ? Of course not. But this particular slum is located on the banks of the lake, just across the river from our hotel, and the stark contrast between our life, and the lives of the people and children living a few meters from us seems even more glaring when you have it under your nose on a daily basis.

Of course, we are used to the blue tents that pop up on all the constructions sites, in India, tents where entire families live for the duration of the work, until they move to another construction site. And of course, I am forever trying to highlight how lucky we are compared to all those who have nothing, or next to nothing. My children listen to me with that expression on their faces that's part baffled, part all-knowing-bored, so that I never quite know what they understand, and wether they even listen to me.

So when a few weeks ago (yes, we'd been here a week, or so) I received an email from a person involved with an NGO helping this particular slum, and inviting all who wanted to come and bring paper, crayons, pencils so they could organize a drawing contest, I thought this would be an opportunity to get a little closer and allow our daughters to maybe understand better what I mean with all this clumsy/sententious talk. Especially as we had seen these same children on the lake below, fetching rags and what not from the water aboard their little rafts.

I cannot say it was a success. The children were hot, bothered and maybe even a little scared by the intense proximity, the smells, etc, and they ended up leaving with their father, who knows all there is to know about slums, while I stayed a while longer, interacting with the children, and having a blast taking pictures, and showing them.

Bangles, conveniently hanging from the ceiling/roof.

At some stage, I was stuck in one room/shack with something like twelve kids. Each child had a piece of paper, and there were bags with crayons on the bed, but nobody dared touch them. We waited a bit, and as nothing happened, I suggested they take the bag of crayons, open it, and start their drawing. They were so eager to begin.

All the children in that little room drew a house, local fruits..., and the national flag !

Shopping in a new country

2010-09-18T17:40:00.007+05:30

The last update on my Facebook page goes : I miss Q Mart !!! Q Mart is the supermarket where we found pretty much everything we needed in terms of foods, cleaning supplies, etc, during our six years in India. It was our regular supermarket. I know. How more pathetic can it get, right? And yet...

When we arrived in Hyderabad, Q Mart was on the second floor of an ugly, small building, a little place crowded with dusty, overflowing shelves. But then, it moved across the street, and became this shiny, two floors, luminous supermarket where we found new surprises almost every week.

Adios India. Hello Bangladesh. On my first day alone, the driver took me to the places where expats do their grocery shopping. I looked around, was not overly impressed, but as we were staying at the hotel, and I was in my newcomer-eyes-wide-open-honeymoon phase, I didn't look too closely. There didn't seem to be much in terms of cheese, apart from the same old imported Cheddar, and some canned brie or camembert from Denmark, but, oh well. We'd survive.

Then, a couple of days ago, I realized that if we are to camp out in our almost empty apartment, we need cleaning supplies in order to scrub the place properly before, and once we move in. And so, here I am back at the supermarket, standing in the aisle, looking at bottles of pink, blue, green and yellow liquids with labels written in an alphabet I can't read, wondering how I will know which one is the floor cleaner, and where are the brushes, and I don't see the dishwashing sponges, and everything looks so foreign I feel a big lump in my throat. Of course, it's not a big deal. I, the seasoned expat who's been there, done that, know that, and because I know it, I breath deeply and go in search of a basket. I can't find one, but they have small carts, the type that children love to push in supermarkets.

I take it back to the aisle, return to the row of shelves, grab a bottle at random, and unscrew the tap to smell the content. Well, yes, if I'm not going to know what I'm using, at least, it's got to smell good! A few people stare at me, probably wondering why I'm spending so much time in that aisle, and what on earth am I doing, anyway, sniffing all these bottles? I start filling the small cart, and each time I touch it, some sticky stuff remains on my fingers. I wipe it on my pants, thinking I will empty the jar of antibacterial gel as soon as I reach the car. Finally, I walk to the cashier, and honestly, I'm not feeling so hot, and that's when I see a separate shelf carrying the pink bottles of Lysol that I used in India ! I take one and feel like kissing it. It's like I just got reunited with a long lost friend.

Of course, I still have to find buckets, and a broom, and a mop...

I ended up visiting a couple more shops before I got everything I needed, and you understand, now, why I say that I miss Q Mart? Who wants to spend more than two hours shopping for cleaning supplies? Then again, once I know my way around a little better, I won't waste all that time, and by then, I'll know that I'm home - meaning a place where I've lived long enough to know where to find the barest necessities.

Another kind of exploration

2010-09-16T15:38:00.001+05:30

So, we are still waiting for shipment to arrive, still waiting for apartment to be cleaned, repainted, etc, but this may well happen before said shipment reaches us, and after a month at the hotel, the overall feeling is that time has come to move in already. Which means camping out for a couple of weeks, or so... We can do that, right?

And so, the wheels start spinning in my little, overcrowded head. What does a family of four need, absolutely, in order to camp out in a big, empty apartment for a few weeks?

- Mattresses. Fortunately, one of our new friends, here, offered to lend them to us. Check.
- Sheets, linen, pillows, towels. I brought them in one of our suitcases. Check.

- Plates, glasses, cutlery. As luck would have it, Bengladesh is a big exporter of all types of chinaware. So, this morning, I entered one of the dozens of shops you see all over town, and bought a set of Pierre Cardin plates (can't take the French out of me, entirely, ever, it seems, but what can I say? The plates were cute.) And some bowls. And glasses. All we need is forks, spoons, knives, a couple of pans, and we're all set. Check.

- We also need a table and four chairs. I can't possibly ask the kids to eat (although I bet they'd love the idea) or do their homework on the floor. And if they can, I'm the one who will not spend three weeks working on my translation (due in December, clock is ticking) while sitting on a tile floor. There again, no issue. Another new friend (do I need to emphasize the importance of quickly establishing a network of expat friends when moving to a new country?) sent me to this market (picture left). It's on the second floor, she said. What she didn't tell me was that I would find a maze of hundreds of shops selling pretty much everything under the sun, and some more. As it turns out, we can buy a table and four chairs, and already agree on a reselling price, so that in two or three weeks times, when our shipment arrives, we can bring them back to the same shop, and get a slightly lower price for them. A bit like renting. Isn't that marvelously convenient?

Next on my list of necessities: cleaning supplies. This will be another post.

First exploration of Dhaka

2010-09-13T16:02:00.001+05:30

Three and half weeks into the school year, and the kids have their first school break (8 days) for the long Muslim festival, Eid-ul-Fitre. It celebrates the end of the holy fasting month of Ramadan. The last days before Eid, we saw what it supposed to be the worst in terms of traffic, in Dhaka. Or so we're told. We also saw the city empty itself as entire families returned to their villages. And so, the last few days were quite peaceful, and we took advantage of that to take a cruise along the Dhaleswari river (more about that in another post) and to go and visit the old Dhaka. So far, I had not seen much, except for the Gulshan area, the Baridhara embassy zone, a busy street in Banini, and the airport road.

Old Dhaka reminded us somewhat of Charminar, in Hyderabad. Small streets, cables running everywhere, and I mean, everywhere...

Cables, cables, and more cables. And to think that it works.

and all of a sudden, the remnants of what must have been a beautiful old house,

or a small mosque.

We also went to see the docks where a long line of ferries waited for the passengers they would transport back to their villages, and we watched all the action there. People coming and going, loading or unloading boats, carrying bundles or boxes on their heads, repairing sandals, selling pan, etc.

On basic social skills, and finding them lacking.

2010-09-09T19:54:00.005+05:30

One of the obvious consequences of moving to a new place is that you meet new people, you create a whole network of acquaintances - some of which may eventually morph into friendships. This means going up to people you don't know, or maybe you saw them somewhere but have not been formally introduced, but in either cases, the simple fact that they look foreign - like you - means that you can, and often will, strike instant conversations with them.

This is a rather personal statement, but I never realized until now how socially handicapped I am. Or no, let me rephrase this. I was somewhat aware of the fact that my social skills are rather poor. I grew up in a small family unit, with parents who did not entertain at all. Our holidays were spent with my uncle and aunt who'd come from Spain to find work and a better life, and never had children. They spent their twenty + years in Paris with their heart still in Spain, saving money for the moment they could return to Spain, which is exactly what they did at the first given opportunity. Our vacations were mostly spent in Spain, with another aunt, a couple of cousins, and that's it. We didn't have friends over, and I may have gone to two birthday parties in all the years I spent in school. Then, as destiny would have it (but then, I probably pushed that destiny), I have spent the majority of my professional life working from home, and having limited day to day contact with the outside world. Yes, I travelled extensively. But with a backpack on, always on the move. And yes, I forged great, long lasting friendships along the way. I am not a misanthrope. Just a bit of a loner - definitely not a social animal (even though I married one.)

Anyway, to make a long story short, one of my resolutions with this new move is to try and be more social. I know I will always need a lot of silence, lots of time alone. This is who I am, and there is no changing that. But I also know that I sometimes suffer from being too isolated, and this is compounded by the fact that my work requires me to be at home, writing. I need to find a balance between the translating, the writing, and the need to get out a bit, see people, exercise, join in some social activity.

And where am I going with all this heart pouring? Well, I had a belated epiphany, yesterday. If I am to meet my new resolution, I'll need to be extremely focused, mindful, and most of all, I need to learn a few skills. How can a woman approaching fifty, someone who's lived in seven countries and counting, who speaks three languages fluently and can fend for herself in a few others, find it so difficult to juggle meeting and talking to two different, unknown people at the same time? How is it that this person can find herself in a group, and feel her mind literally freeze?

I was discussing this with my husband, yesterday, after we met a lady at one of the clubs in town (I will have to write a post about the club culture in Dhaka, by the way). She knew the couple we were sitting with, and joined us, and started talking with me, but did not acknowledge my husband. He thought she was being superior, maybe even racist. And I just know, deep in my bones, that she was shy, and not very skilled at meeting several people at once. Just a few hours before, I had made exactly the same mistake. I saw a lady that I ran into a few days ago, said hello and thanked her because she had given me the phone number of a taylor; I asked for her name, which I didn't know, but forgot to tell her mine, and totally ignored the lady who was sitting with her. I shudder in retrospect and wish I could turn the clock, but the fact is, I did not introduce myself to her, nor did I include her in the small conversation. Why? I forgot. I mean, I never even thought about it. It is as if the mere act of walking up to someone I don't know to strike up a conversation demands so much energy from me, I loose all ability to do anything else. If that makes any sense. And I'm writing this in case someone else out there suffers from the same kind of mental paralysis, and they happen to read this some day. I want them to know they are not alone.

That said, I firmly believe that we can all improve ourselves up until our very last breath. I also believe that once clearly aware of a problem, the work is half done. So, I hereby pronounce myself ready to dedicate myself to improving my social skills... Insh'Allah, as they say here.

Unconsciously looking for something familiar... and finding it.

2010-09-05T08:52:00.001+05:30

We signed our lease contract yesterday. It's official, we are no longer homeless. Of course, the apartment is yet to be emptied of its content, but the previous tenant has left, and it's a matter of days, two weeks at the most, before we move into our new home. Let us not dwell on the fact that our shipment has yet to leave Mumbai, and we may well have to camp out until our effects reach us. At least, we have a place.

The apartment on the floor below, identical, just slightly darker, was also rented at the same time, and we took the opportunity that workers were cleaning, painting, and polishing the floors to go and take measurements for curtains, blinds, and such. I took lots of pictures so I can start thinking about how I want to organize and decorate it, and I was standing on the balcony, looking at the small, narrow patch of green below when a thought struck me. For the third time, we will have a traveler's tree in our front garden. The two last times, in Nigeria, and in India, we lived in a private house, but what were the odds that we'd have a traveler's tree in an apartment building?

Call me crazy, but I consider it a sign of continuity. This is not, after all, just some old tropical tree. It's called a traveler's tree because its stem can be cut and offer water to the thirsty traveler. In our case, and as I admired our new companion (above), I started thinking that the traveler's tree is there to give us a sense of continuity, something familiar and comfortable to look at. And it's beautiful, too.

Robin Pascoe Online Lecture Series

2010-09-03T00:10:00.000+05:30

It seems fitting that one of my first posts from our new country should be about Expat Expert Robin Pascoe, and the subject of expatriation.

Those who read my blog know that I'm a great fan of Robin. I was lucky to meet her when she toured India (link to interview) and loved her no-nonsense, practical, humorous and yet very empathetic approach to all the issues that expats encounter when moving and living abroad. Her whole philosophy comes down to a simple evidence : It is a privilege to live abroad. But it doesn't mean that there are no challenges, and these challenges need to be acknowledged and feelings about them need to be expressed. Without ever losing sight of the fact that is is a privilege to be living abroad. Et la boucle est bouclée, as we say in French. The cycle is complete.

Robin is now launching an online lecture series on her website. This is the next best thing after being able to attend her lectures live - which may no longer be an option, as I think she's decided to slow down on all the traveling. Besides, you can access it anytime from the comfort of your own home. It is an excellent introduction to her books, and the many themes and issues developed in them (marriage, identity problems, third culture kids, global nomads and the challenges they face, how we can best help them, repatriation, etc.) And the video medium offers the added bonus of seeing and hearing Robin talk about the things she knows so well, with that voice, and particular brand of wit that I like so much.

New country, new background, and first impressions.

2010-08-23T09:20:00.007+05:30

The last two weeks were spent mostly in the Unicef car, fighting the grueling Dhaka traffic, and visiting big, empty spaces while trying to picture our furniture, and our lives in them. The process was rendered even more difficult by the fact that I fell madly in love with an apartment endowed with the most spectacular view (see picture), but, alas! one unredeemable flaw : they are building two apartment complexes on the next plot, and the construction will most likely last two years... Bye, bye, beautiful view ! Thing is, everything I saw after that felt like "yeah, bof !" But I've now come back to my senses, and settled for an apartment without a fantastic view, but offering other precious commodities : location, a minimum of greenery, space, generator backing, etc. We hope to move in by mid-September. Our shipment is due to arrive a few days later, same for the car. So, all in all, we hope to return to a regular routine by the end of September, and I'll then be able to go back to work, writing, blogging, etc. It will not be a moment too soon. All in all, we've been living out of our suitcases for almost three months, now.

My first impressions of Dhaka? It is interesting to be living in a predominantly Muslim country. In Nigeria, we were in the South-Eastern part, which is heavily Christian. As for Hyderabad, it used to be a state ruled by the Nizams, and the old city remains Muslim, but the vast majority of people are Hindus.

We arrived in Bangladesh during Ramadan, and right now, we're told that everything is geared up toward the upcoming Eid Festival - shops have shorter hours, and at the same time, businesses are open on days when they're usually closed (Fridays) because this is the time when people shop madly to give presents for Eid. Everything is a little slow because people are fasting. The other day, as we came out of one apartment, we saw a gathering of men seating on mats on the floor around small piles of food. It was all the building maintenance people, the drivers, etc, breaking the fast together - that first meal is called Iftar. We are also told that even though the poverty in Bangladesh is crushing, the begging at the moment is worse than usual, because of Ramadan. This is the time when people are supposed to give to the poor. Finally, the traffic is like nothing I've ever experienced before (except maybe Lagos, when we happened to go there). Hyderabad was bad at certain hours of the day, but overall, one got around. And it will get worse, as children are out of school at the moment. I'm not looking forward to that.

That's it for today. More to come, as we slowly settle in.

Bye Bye, India

2010-08-18T12:28:00.000+05:30

This is the last picture I took, on the way to the airport, on August 15. Six years almost to the day after I landed in India for the first time (we arrived on August 18, 2004.)

As you drive, you suddenly come upon all these statues waving at you. Perfect, right?

More to come, as I slowly settle into our new life in Bangladesh and also find my way back to this blog, which I have neglected lately.

Out of The Way! Out of The Way! Blog Tour

2010-06-26T15:57:00.003+05:30

I'm so happy to host two very talented artists, Uma Krishnaswami the author, and Uma Krishnaswamy the illustrator, on the occasion of the blog tour for the release of their delightful picture book Out of the Way! Out of the Way, published by Tulika Books.

The book charmingly weaves together the stories of a tree and of a village road growing, and growing around each other, each making room for the other.

It was translated into eight Indian languages, and I was lucky to receive a copy in English, and another in Hindi. So, I thought I'd involve my daughter and her class. Look at them chanting "Out of the Way, Out of the Way," first in English, and then in Hindi.

(Special thanks to Miss Nuwaira and Miss Diya, and M. Chalasani, Principal of Indus International School of Hyderabad, for allowing the PP2 class to participate in the blog tour.)

The Motherhood Muse Blog Tour : A Challenge to Change the World

2010-04-29T23:31:00.001+05:30

As mentioned yesterday, I'm hosting The Motherhood Muse, today, on the occasion of their blog tour.
I will pick a person's comment at random, and the lucky winner will receive one free subscription to the 2010 issues of the Motherhood Muse.

A Challenge to Change the World

Throughout my life I've been challenged to change the world, to make it a better place. The sister and brother living on the streets of Tijuana, begging me when I was seven years old to buy Chicle. The sea animals dying under the weight of oil from the 1989 Exxon Valdez oil spill. The Costa Rican boy running barefoot on sharp stones in the street to a home without electricity or hot water in the mountains as I walked along in my college
hiking boots. The Japanese grandmother picking up trash and passing me up the path on the way to the top of Mt. Fuji just a couple of years before I became a mother. And my two daughters, who babble at the cowbirds gobbling the birdseed outside and hug tree trunks while I unload groceries from the car.

Each person, every moment has spoken to me and inspires me to try harder to preserve our world (its nature, the cultures, the languages). We must cross borders, share what makes our cultures so diverse and our families so similar, and explore the land under our toes to make the world a better place.

The Motherhood Muse literary magazine aims to take on this challenge by publishing literature and art (in a digital, green format) to help individuals develop a more meaningful relationship with nature. We feature writing that explores the connections between motherhood, nature, childhood and cultures. Our writers come from every corner of the earth and so do our readers.

We often hear the phrase "Think global. Act local." As a mother I often connect with nature on a personal level but think about how this connection unites all mothers. My own footsteps into nature may be of a local realm, but as I write about motherhood and nature I find a deeper connection across the globe with all mothers.

We'd love to receive your thoughts in writing on how you connect with nature, cultures, and languages and what this means for you and women around the world. Please share your ideas in the comments and submit your writing to our magazine!

Thank you Katia for hosting us here today!

Kimberly Zook, Editor-in-Chief
The Motherhood Muse

You're welcome, Kimberly. Good luck on this new and praise-worthy adventure...

Catching up

2010-04-28T21:56:00.015+05:30

Life is funny. When I have too much to do, I still find time to do more. But as soon as my schedule becomes lighter, I catch myself doing less. I still haven't figured that one out.

Of course, the fact that I've been fighting a pretty bad throat, and then chest infection hasn't helped.

Anyway, May is around the corner, the heat in Hyderabad is now reaching its peak, and I'm busy trying to finish a first draft of what I hope will turn out to be my first completed "shitty first draft" of a novel, in true Anne Lamott fashion. If - no, scratch that - WHEN I type the words THE END on the manuscript, I intend to treat myself to something very special (haven't decided what yet, but I'll have to.) In the meantime, I'm now about to reach the crisis point somewhere around the third quarter of the novel.

My weekly posts on Haiti have also suffered from my being ill, but I have another problem. I'm running out of pictures.

My husband came back a few days ago, so exhausted he cannot even read a short story to his younger daughter without falling asleep in the middle on the book. Quite unfazed, the little one just let him sleep, and came to me with her book, so I could finish it, coughing or no coughing. She's not one to let exhaustion or illness get in the way of hearing a good story. My coughing so much allowed us to introduce a new ritual, though. I now read her one or two bedtime stories, and she reads me one so I can rest my voice - or what's left of it, these days. It is such a joy to see her slowly overcoming her shyness of words unknown and becoming more and more confident about her ability to decipher them.

Tomorrow, I'm hosting The Motherhood Muse, a digital literary magazine that comes out four times a year and publishes literature on motherhood, nature, children, cultures and more.

Kimberly Zook, Founding Editor and Publisher came across my blog, and sent me an email, asking if I'd like to participate in their blog tour to promote their second issue. I was immediately drawn to their mission statement of encouraging mother writers to rediscover and reconnect with nature through their bodies, minds and souls, but I knew for sure I wanted to participate when I read Kimberly's profile. Someone who lived "in a hut in a Costa Rican forest for a few years and journeyed through the back country in many places on Earth?"

So, please come back tomorrow so you can read about "A Challenge to Change the World." I will pick a person among those who leave a comment and the lucky winner will receive one free subscription to the 2010 issues of The Motherhood Muse.

Varanasi : So Long

2010-04-18T19:18:00.002+05:30

Just a few more pictures out of the 478 I took, in six days. Just because...

Varanasi : And the Muck

2010-04-16T19:07:00.000+05:30

All right, I cannot write a series of posts about Varanasi and turn a blind eye (and plugged nose) to the muck that one encounters while ambling through its maze of lanes and bylanes. Here you are, basking in the beauty of a towering old palace when the stench of urine suddenly overwhelms you. Or you follow a narrow street, suddenly spot a small temple, and almost walk into a pile of shit still fragrant and warm.

That's India, but more so than anywhere else, I felt, it is Varanasi.

Varanasi : Hidden Temple

2010-04-14T19:55:00.001+05:30

On the last afternoon, we were looking for a place to have lunch and spotted what looked like a pretty outdoor restaurant inside what must have been an old haveli at some point in time. We hopped off our rickshaw and went in. The restaurant was pretty, but the food was more than average, and I suspect it's what I ate there that was responsible for my not feeling well, the following day. Should have stuck to the street side stalls selling chaat. Anyway, inside that open area was the most beautiful little temple, built apparently by some maharajah who still comes to visit once a year. Look at that beauty.

Varanasi : Autorickshaw ride

2010-04-11T20:22:00.001+05:30

Taking an auto-rickshaw in India is often an adventure in and of itself. I also knew that people share autos all the time, simply to make the ride cheaper for everyone. But I had never had people jump into an auto while I was riding in it.

So, here am I, watching the busy street scene in Varanasi from the inside of my naturally ventilated auto, sipping water from my bottle because it's so hot, when suddenly, even as the auto is moving, two policemen jump in, one on each side of the driver, and sit there as if it's the most natural thing to do. And I guess it is, because when my friend asked the auto driver why he let them do that, he just shrugged, and said something like : "what can I possibly do ?"

Now, my friend, who is not the type to sit quietly while people abuse a situation (as we say in French, she does not have her tongue in her pocket) is asking them - in Hindi, of course - what they're doing here, and could they not ask for permission to use our rickshaw, when a policewoman jumps in at the back, half her body bent so she can fit in the low space. This time, my friend argues vehemently, and refuses to move to allow this lady to squeeze in and sit with us. In the end, she jumped out again, saying that my friend was making her life too difficult.

The two policemen got off at a crossing, maybe five minutes later, without even a thank you. Then again, maybe they didn't feel welcome.

Varanasi : Morning rituals along the Ganga

2010-04-10T20:54:00.004+05:30

The absolute highlight of my visit to Varanasi was the morning boat ride on the Ganga, right after sunrise.

The light was sublime, the air carried a lovely fresh breeze, and being on the river, with the sound of the oar parting the water as we glided along the ghats watching the morning rituals, was magic. As soon as it was over, I wanted to do it again. Unfortunately, I was not feeling well the following morning (and last), and could not renew the experience. No matter, I took dozens of pictures, and the images are still vivid in my mind.

Here we see a man mediating against a backdrop of collapsed temples half immersed in the water.
Our boat-wallah had an explanation about this : a pandit was meditating on this ghat and asked to move so a temple could be built. When he wouldn't, he was forced to. Furious, he declared that no temple would ever stand straight on these steps. (It is a very similar story to the story of the Mehrangarh Fort, in Jodhpur, as reported here.) My traveling guides simply mention that the elaborate structures of that temple were so heavy that they collapsed. That ghat is eerily beautiful.

A family taking a dip, and waving happily.

Below, pandits performing a puja on a little platform complete with umbrella, on the water.

Varanasi : Offering to the Ganga

2010-04-09T19:01:00.007+05:30

During our evening boat ride, we bought diyas to this little girl I mentioned before, and offered them to the Ganga.

I bought four of these little recycled paper cups filled with petals that the girl probably picked up from some seller at the end of the day, or who knows where as they looked extremely tired. Each had a wick and some wax in the middle. One for each member of my family. You are supposed to have a thought, or wish, as you do this.

My friend is a widow with two grown-up sons, and she also offered four diyas to the Ganga. Interestingly, the first one capsized almost immediately.

As she looked at my little diyas moving with the current, she commented on the first one moving much faster than the others, and said : "Here goes Michel, way ahead of everyone else." I started looking at this little group of diyas. She was right. One kept on moving ahead, two were very close together, and one seemed to hover on the side, not too close, but not too far either. I like to think that it was my diya, and the others were my daughters.

Varanasi : Buying Sarees

2010-04-08T21:22:00.003+05:30

So far, my experience buying sarees had been limited to going thrice to some of the big shops in Hyderabad. You go in, sit on a chair in front of a long table, and a salesman gets sarees out one after the other.

In Varanasi, thanks to my friend and her numerous connexions all over India, I discovered a new way of shopping for sarees.

First, you take off your shoes and enter a big room where the whole floor is covered with white mattresses. You sit against bolster cushions, drink chai or sweet-and-salt lime water, and a man brings saree after saree after saree until the mattresses around you have beautiful piles shimmering with bright colored silks.

The salesman will even model the saree for you, as seen below.

And yes, I brought two home... Souvenirs, you know.

Varanasi : People

2010-04-07T20:16:00.002+05:30

One of the highlights of Varanasi was the warmth of its people. I had read in some guides that tourists get pestered a lot, and having experienced that in other places in India, I expected to have to say, and repeat, and repeat again a lot of "no, thank you." Well it didn't happen, even when I went off on my own along the ghats or in the lanes of Varanasi. I was greeted by a lot of "Namaste" and that was about it.

Above are two ladies sitting outside their home, chatting, and watching the world go by.

Below, is a family having lunch.

Young people having fun in the water.

After a few days on the ghats, you start recognizing faces. We kept seeing this girl. Here she's selling us diyas to offer to the Ganga.

And finally, one of our rickshaw wallahs.

My Tuesday picture of Haiti : Man at Work

2010-04-06T20:26:00.007+05:30

Twelve weeks today since the earthquake. Almost three months.

I hear that reconstruction has begun in parts of the capital Port au Prince. New little houses, probably prefabricated, are replacing rubbles here and there, and my sister in law, whom I mentioned in my post about Canapé Vert, here, reports that they're now living in the middle of a construction site : the school has been demolished, and so has the chapel, which was the only thing left standing after the quake, but I imagine no longer safe.

My husband is on his way back to India, after two months of working seven days a week, often 14 to 16 hours a day, in the difficult conditions that prevail in Haiti at the moment, and the only phone conversations we've had lately have been spoiled by our arguments, because I happen to harbor the ridiculous notion that after such an effort, he ought be given at least a week off. But it seems that I'm being unreasonable. Go figure...

Here he is, working away.

Varanasi : Lassi, Chaat

2010-04-05T19:18:00.006+05:30

As mentioned in the first post of this Varanasi series, one of the things that made this trip so different for me was that I didn't have to be as careful as I usually am when traveling with the children (and my extremely hygiene-conscious husband.) I won't say I didn't experience some trepidation as I sampled some of the Indian staples sold in the street, because I did. But oh well !

Our breakfast, each morning, was lassi, which is a yogurt based drink. One on the first day, two on the following, because it was so incredibly yummy. Eating it out of the little clay pots is not easy, but it's part of the fun.

Of course, I then realized that the clay pots cannot be recycled, which is why you see piles of broken earthware in so many places. Better than plastic, I suppose.

Another new experience was eating Chaat. I'd had some here in Hyderabad, before, but in a mall. Now, I realize that the dish on the picture may not look like much, but trust me : it was absolutely delicious, and for someone who's been living in Andhra Pradesh, known to have one of the hottest food in India, pleasantly mild !

Varanasi : Daily Evening Aarti to the Ganga

2010-04-04T19:01:00.002+05:30

Hindus in India worship the river Ganga as a goddess. Every evening in Varanasi, aarti is performed at the Dashashwamedh ghat. We watched it twice, once from the ghat, the second time from the waterside, in a boat.

It is a beautiful, resonant, and majestic spectacle with a very precise choreography involving rituals performed by several priests, to the sound of bells, drums, cymbals, and Sanskrit mantras.

The rituals begin with the priests blowing in a conch ; they then hold incense sticks in their right hands and perform intricate gestures, while the left hand constantly plays a bell ; the incense is then replaced by a large camphor lamp, and finally a pyramid of little flames, as seen above. The river is also worshiped with flower petals.

Varanasi

2010-04-02T19:38:00.000+05:30

I just returned from a 6 days trip to Varanasi, often referred to as the holiest city in India, or the City of Lights. It was a great experience in so many ways. I traveled with an Indian lady, someone I met briefly at a wedding, in Hyderabad, two years ago, and then saw again, once, in Delhi where she was my guide in the lanes of the old city. In other words, we were virtual strangers to each other. Six days later, I feel that I've made a new friend.

Of course, it was extremely different from traveling with my husband and children, a bunch of foreigners staying in hotels usually ranging from very nice to luxurious, and eating breakfast and dinner in them too, as it is so much easier to be on the spot at the beginning and the end of a touring day: kids can eat familiar and safe food, and have their bath before we tuck them in at night.

Both my friend and I were adamant about staying on the ghats, as opposed to the Cantonment where the nicest hotels are. This means that what you pay for is basically the view. Careful research on the internet and trusted guides like the Lonely Planet yielded only half a dozen suitable places, and the preferred ones were full. We ended up at the Sita Guest House, on Rana Ghat, and the experience reminded me of my old backpacking days, when I toured South East Asia on a 5 dollars a day budget. But the place was clean, and when the electricity worked (Varanasi has power cuts everyday from 1 to 3 PM, and most of the time from 4 to 5 PM, with a few surprises thrown in) we even had A/C - most necessary, as the average temperature during our stay was 100 degrees F. and up (39 Celsius).

My friend Sangeeta, who is the type of person who makes friends the second she arrives somewhere (funny, as my husband is like that ; I'm much more reserved by nature) met a young pandit who offered to take us to the main temples in town. Contrary to me, whose agenda was basically to visit this famous city, look, look, make notes, and soak in the atmosphere, Sangeeta had a carefully planned program that included visits to a list of temples, and buying sarees (Vanarasi is known as one of the best places in India for sarees). I'm glad to report that we both more than fulfilled our expectations.

Here are a few pictures. More posts to come...

The arrival. After almost six years in India, I've grown accustomed to the fact that the country is the second most populated in the world. But Varanasi is something else. Even my friend was stunned by the swarms of people, vehicles (cars, cycle-rickshaws, auto-rickshaws, old tongas pulled by buffaloes, bicycles) and animals (cows, more buffaloes, horses, goats, dogs) filling the streets and lanes of what feels basically like an overgrown village.

My first glimpse of the river Ganga.

My Tuesday picture of Haiti : Combing Hair

2010-03-30T22:12:00.013+05:30

Eleven weeks since the earthquake, and almost two months since my husband left to go and help with the relief effort, there.

He recently had to go to the Dominican Republic to participate in a conference, in preparation for the big one to be held at the United Nations in New York, tomorrow. While there, his camera was stolen inside his bag, in the UNICEF office - in other words, a place that only UNICEF staff are likely to have access to. To say that he was upset and disgusted it to put it mildly. Luckily, I had asked him to email me some of his pictures, and he had, on that same day. Unfortunately, connexions being slow, he was only able to email a handful. Still, here are two of these pictures, the first one taken in Haiti, the second in the Dominican Republic. Two countries and two people sharing an island.

Everyone has been praising the amazing outpouring of help coming from the DR since day one... and counting. Amazing in light of the bloody history between the two countries. Scenes like this, and the generous response to the January 12 earthquake, make it possible to remember that, in spite of the bad blood, and in spite of the fact that one country is much better off than the other, Haiti and the DR share a lot more than a border.

The beauty of our expat life

2010-03-25T14:11:00.001+05:30

On Tuesday night, our daughters' school had their annual stage production, and it was such a joy to see these children partake in a celebration that honored diverse cultures.

The children were awesome, their costumes absolutely stunning, and as I watched my daughter sing a song in Hindi, then play a piano piece from American composer William Gillock, and finally perform an Indian folk dance, I thought about how lucky our Third Culture Kids are to be able to sample the world in this way.

Of course, being an expat has its downsides and heartbreaks, and it's always good, and even necessary to be aware of them, but the breadth of these children's experiences and exposure is something that needs to be celebrated as well. Today's post is an expression of gratitude for the richness of our very colorful life.

Very blurry picture above, because it's not a picture, but a short movie. Unfortunately, I have not been able to upload it. Not quite the tech wizard, me...

Haiti : 10 Weeks

2010-03-23T20:52:00.002+05:30

And this is the official We are The World video. One, because I don't think I can ever get tired of listening to that song. Two, because it features images of Haiti.

Haiti : We Are the World, 25 for Haiti

2010-03-20T11:38:00.000+05:30

Insane week, here, which means I had no time for my weekly post on Haiti on Tuesday (nine weeks since the January 12 earthquake.) But I just came across this video. Enjoy...

Our Life in India : Beating the Hyderabadi heat.

2010-03-12T18:21:00.005+05:30

The Qutb Shahi Tombs of Hyderabad were built during the reign of each one of the seven monarchs of the dynasty, and are surrounded by gardens that must have been magnificent in the old times. We'd been there a few years back, and I was pleased to see, this time, that there is a lot of work being done to restore them to - hopefully - their original splendor.

But this is not the point of this post. As we wandered about the gardens, I came across a stepwell that I had somehow missed, the first time (wonder how, as I love baolis. There is a beautiful one a the Mehrauli Archaeological park, in Delhi.)

Got it ?

Except that, sign notwithstanding, it is getting very HOT, now, in Hyderabad.

As I walked closer to the step, I saw a crowd watching down, and heard deep splashing sounds like when something heavy hits water.

Sure enough : Young men were diving in? Now, this may not be entirely obvious in the picture, but trust me when I tell you that the water was not exactly clean.

But what really impressed me was that these young men who jumped from a height of 15 to 20 meters seemed to pop back through the surface incredibly fast.

They had a technique, it seems. Sorry if this sounds a little duh, but my own limited experience in diving has always been that the higher the point of jumping, the deeper you go.

I watched these young men, and noticed that they bent their bodies in the air, and that seemed to break the momentum and allow them to resurface really quickly. Feeling very refreshed, I'm sure.

So, that was our slice of Indian life for Sunday.

My Tuesday picture of Haiti : Fishing Boats

2010-03-09T21:23:00.002+05:30

Eight weeks since the earthquake...

... and Sean Penn, who was Bill Maher's guest, on his show, mentioned how Haiti is no longer mentioned in the news (as many people had predicted.)

He also spoke about the rains that have started, and what that means for the hundreds of thousands of Haitian people who live in refugee camps : diseases, floods, etc.

Happy Holi !

2010-03-04T20:13:00.000+05:30

Holi, the festival of colors, marks the end of winter, and is celebrated by throwing colored water and powders at everyone. This year, it was on Monday March 1, and as I type these words, I look at my still very purple fingers, and remember the jolly good time we had.

Here is how to celebrate Holi in 3 easy steps...

1/ To begin, search the town for natural colored powders (an organic store is a good bet.) They come in five colors only : red, blue, green, orange and yellow, while the synthetic ones come in bright pink, purple, etc, and are sold everywhere in the streets. But careful, as some can be toxic.

(I bought a few extra boxes for next year, in case we end up in a place where they don't know about Holi...)

2/ Before you leave home, do cover yourself in oil. Do not forget your hair!

3/ Finally, get several buckets, and fill them with water. If you really mean business, purchase a few water guns (some of those actually looked like really mean war machines, only in plastic.)

Ready ?

Here we go... And whenever you drench someone in water or throw colored powder at them, don't forget to scream HAPPY HOLI !

P.S: Afterwards, spend two hours in the shower scrubbing, scrubbing, and scrubbing until your skin is raw, and watch all the colors rushing down the drain... Discard ruined clothes. Spend a week walking around with green and pink streaks in your hair and exchange knowing smiles with people whose whole neck or side of the face is still bright pink... Who cares? It was FUN !

My Tuesday picture of Haiti : Peristyle Vodou

2010-03-02T21:02:00.007+05:30

The last time we were in Haiti, we spent some time in the southern city of Jacmel, as seen in previous posts. One afternoon, coming back from the beach, I spotted this sign on the side of the road, and immediately asked my husband to stop and turn around.

Anyone interested in Haiti knows that Vodou is omnipresent. Yet, it is also very secret, and shrouded in mystery. One routinely hears drums rumbling through the night and voices singing as a Vodou ceremony is performed somewhere in the vicinity. This is something I still hope I can witness some day, so I couldn't possibly pass by that sign openly advertising a Vodou temple without trying to find it. I was curious to see not only what it looked like, but mostly to feel the energy, there.

Except that the sign must have been for the initiates. We spent over an hour driving around, asking everyone we saw (and I don't mean me, the "blan" as Haitians call all foreigners - whether they are white or black, by the way - but my very Haitian and Creole-speaking husband.) People either sent us down roads leading nowhere, or stared blankly and shrugged, as if they'd never heard of a Vodou peristyle in the area.

Needless to say, we never found it. We had to leave Jacmel soon after that, so we didn't have time to further investigate. But I often think about it. Next time...

Seven weeks since the earthquake.

Body language

2010-02-24T21:24:00.005+05:30

OK, let's start this post with a confession - and believe you me, I'm not proud of that : I have not learned to speak Hindi (or Telugu, or Urdu, or Sanskrit). I have some excuses, I suppose. Never did we imagine we'd end up spending six years in India, and counting. Also, when we first arrived, I had a six-weeks old baby, so on top of all the adjustments of the first year's culture shock, not to mention work, and writing, I was kind of busy with the little one, and with the big one, who also had to adjust to living in a new country, going to a new school, etc, AND having a new, very noisy, and demanding little person in the family. Plus, which one of the above-mentioned languages to learn ?

Of course, after all this time, I've actually integrated a lot of everyday words into my vocabulary. I no longer ask for flour, I ask for maida. I don't use a broom, I use a jhaadu, etc. But I'll be honest : that's about it.

One thing I've learned, though, is the South Indian body language. So much so that before going home, last summer, I imagined my friends and family would laugh themselves silly just looking at me.

One of the things that strike foreigners when they arrive in this part of the world is the way people use their head. Nodding to say "yes," and head-shaking to say "no" is pretty universal. But Indians have invented a third way, with the head wobbling from right to left, the right ear going a bit closer to the right shoulder, and then the left ear closer to the left shoulder, to be repeated once or twice. What does it mean? Well, it depends. Basically, that the person agrees with you. But, you see, as it is considered rude to say "no" in India, people have come up with the solution of not saying "no" or "maybe" or "highly unlikely, but who knows? " without officially saying "yes." Brilliant, right ?

Yesterday, I parked the car to go to an ATM machine, but as I went up the steps to the small room next to the bank, I saw that the metal shutter was halfway down. I looked at the security guard sitting on a chair outside the door and rotated my hand from right to left, palm open, fingers spread, as if to say "not open?" The man said "Close," and we both wobbled our heads, secure in the fact that even though we do not speak a common language, we understood each other perfectly. If you see me going to the shops, or talking to people (locals or expats) in India, you'll see me doing the head-wobbling thing, and lots of hand gestures. But the funny thing is, as soon as I land in another country, or deal with people who have nothing to do with India, the head-wobbling, and hand-rotating stop, and I go back to my boring pre-India body language. I guess it's a similar process to the one that made my children know, practically from the moment they could speak a few words, that I, their father, or the family in France or Haiti were to be spoken to in French, and everyone else around in English.

Here is a short video to illustrate the Yes or No head-wobbling dilemma that foreigners encounter when they first arrive in India. And just to put that poor guy's mind at rest : the young man is saying "yes," but that doesn't mean it will not turn out to have been a "no" all along.

My Tuesday picture of Haiti : Smile

2010-02-23T21:05:00.002+05:30

This picture was taken on a beach outside of Jacmel. This young boy was walking around in the July heat with that Christmas hat on. I don't know where he'd found it, but he was obviously very pleased with it.

One thing we don't read much about in the news about Haiti is how its people are gifted with an indomitable sense of humor, and a profound joy for life.

A friend who is a doctor, and loves photography, took the picture below and posted it on his Facebook wall, a couple of days ago. (Merci, Jean-Robert.) It's the entrance of the camp that now covers the grounds of the Institution Saint Louis de Gonzague (where my husband did all his schooling.) in Port au Prince. "Welcome to Las Vegas," indeed.

Six weeks since the earthquake in Haiti, and the rains have come. Basic survival needs like water, food, shelter, medical care, sanitation and waste management continue to be at the forefront of the relief effort. But I also worry about the trauma suffered by so many people, especially children and teenagers. This organization Operation Safe (here) seems to have found a way to deal with that issue. I particularly liked the page on their website titled Eight Specific Ways to Pray for Haiti, (with a link to an update posted three weeks later), and the clear, practical, and informed way in which they approach the problems at hand.

Our Life in India : Seeking Enlightenment in the Land of Spirituality

2010-02-20T16:36:00.003+05:30

I'm not a religious person. Neither am I guru groupie material ! I was born and grew up in the land of Descartes, who said, among other things : "I think, therefore I am." In other words, rational thinking is everything, forget about God! I distanced myself from my Catholic upbringing (my mother is Spanish: need I say more?) as soon as I was able to articulate my own opinion (as opposed to going with the flow of the education I had received) and declared myself an atheist. I didn't know any alternative at the time, and being an atheist seemed the closest match to my state of mind.

Then, I travelled throughout South East Asia, and met someone who told me about the Buddhist Silent Meditation retreat at Suan Mokkh. It starts on the first day of each month, which happened to be the following day, and what do you know, I jumped in a bus, and soon found myself sitting on a tiny cushion listening to Thai Buddhist monks mumbling in barely understandable English. Complete silence was the rule, we ate two vegetarian meals a day, and spent the rest of the time meditating (sitting, standing, walking, chanting meditation.) Only, I could not meditate, and sitting cross-legged on that hard floor for hours on end was sheer torture. I couldn't sleep on the concrete bed of my tiny, Spartan (mm, Spartan or Buddhist?) cell, not to mention the throngs of mosquitoes buzzing around my mosquito net, and the tiny insects that passed through and landed on my face, my mouth... Agh! I lasted 5 days out of the 10, only because I found the talks each morning incredibly profound and thought provoking. So much so that I copied them in my traveling journal. So, when the talk on the sixth morning failed to inspire me, I went back to my cell, packed my bag, and hitch-hiked to Surathani, where I got into a ferry to Koh Samui to do a diving course.

Over the years, the Buddha's teachings always stayed with me, though. I love Buddha. And then, I went to live in New York, where I discovered the New Age movement. Suddenly, it dawned on me that organized religion and spirituality are not the same thing. I didn't need to practice a particular religion to feel a connexion with a Higher Power. Wow! That was a major breakthrough for me.

Fast-forward. For the past few years, we have lived in India, and witnessed, recorded, and sometimes partaken in Hindu celebrations. I'm continuously reading and learning about all the Hindu festivals and the many gods in the Hindu pantheon. And all the while, I have continued my own personal journey. So, when a local friend called to tell me about a meditation workshop happening in Hyderabad, I decided to give it a try, even though it meant being away from home and the kids for four entire days, including a week-end, from 9 am until 9 pm.

And ???

Well, I remain French in the sense that I cannot totally surrender, ever, to... anything or anyone, including a guru, however brilliant and inspiring he may be. That said, anyone who has the opportunity of listening and/or participating in a workshop with Paramahansa Nithyananda (Nithya means eternal in Sanskrit, and Ananda means bliss) should just drop everything else, and DO it ! (Be prepared to waste some time ; this workshop lasted 12/13 hours each day, but it could have easily been made shorter by at least 3 or 4 hours on practically every day, time that we wasted waiting for people to be all seated, coming back from extensively long lunch breaks, napping, having tea breaks, or waiting for Swamiji to read all the questions dropped in a box, even though many of them were the same. Also, be prepared to overlook some of the statistics that he comes up with, as I didn't always find them very convincing. Finally, go there with a sincerely open mind. It is a leap of faith, and going with a mind set on criticizing, and finding fault will most certainly result in a total waste of money and time.)

Swamiji (the Hindu honorific title that everyone uses when talking about him or addressing him) is intensely bright - good thing for an enlightened Master, I know, but I, the writer, am having a hard time finding the right word to describe his acute intelligence, his clarity, and his gift for coming up with striking metaphors. Not only that, but he has a unique way of blending a decidedly traditional approach with a most modern mindset. He's very straightforward, in a way that is rarely seen or heard in India.

Examples: during one of the Q and A sessions, he told us that when a man comes to him during darshan (a blessing ceremony) asking for his blessing so his wife gives birth to a boy, he tells him to "get lost." He will give his blessing to someone who wants a child, not someone who wants a boy. Also, traditionally, women are banned from entering temples when they're menstruating. He doesn't believe in that. His take is that such rule may have been created to allow women to rest during those days when they are easily tired. He also feels that "tolerance" about other religions is not enough : there should be "mutual respect" between people of all faiths. Etc, etc.

One metaphor has stayed with me. He used it on the last day, as he explained to us the need to "un-clutch," or let go. In Northern India, they use a very simple device to catch birds. A rope is tied in the middle of a stick, and both ends of the rope attached to the branches of a tree. When a bird perches on one side of the stick, its weight makes it flip, and the bird finds itself head down. It seems that the bird then freezes. Because it is in a destabilizing position, a situation unknown to him, he clings to the stick for dear life, forgetting that it can simply fly away. The hunter only needs to come, and catches the bird. Whenever our comfort zone is disturbed, whenever we feel threatened, or unsure, we all tend to grip onto things, thoughts, people. That's our mind playing tricks on us, and telling us that if we let go, we will fall - like that bird. We don't realize that we only need to un-clutch, and we'll be able to fly.

A lot of what he says is common sense, based on the Vedic Culture. His meditation techniques are quite powerful, and he has a radiating presence. We were told repeatedly that he has healing powers. I wouldn't know about that. (My take would be, rather, that he has a way of helping people connect with their own positive energies so that they heal themselves, or rather, they stop destroying themselves.) But I did have my own intense experience with him, during the first darshan, and I have to admit that his reaction (our interaction lasted but one minute - there were 900 hundred people in that hall) had a strong impact on me. He made me think, he made me laugh, and he made me cry. He also managed to make me sit on a cotton mattress for hours on end, and even to meditate for more than one hour at a time!

Overall, a great experience !

Below are the few pictures that I took when I first arrived. Good thing, because after that, we were requested to not take any more photographs.

All the shoes left outside. I did worry about my sandals disappearing. The conference hall was inside a huge compound called Shilparamam and open to the public. I'm pleased to report that I always found them exactly where I'd left them.

Below: The conference hall. This was still early, so it's not full.

The workshop kit :
- An eye band used to cover our eyes during meditation. I confess that I peeked underneath from time to time. Come on !
- Two notebooks that were used to record all our engraved memories (physical, mental, and emotional pains, desires, guilt, etc.) On the last day, we ripped these pages and threw them away, along with an offering of flowers and some seeds which name I've forgotten. All these pages were supposed to be burned at the ashram, later. I would have liked to be able to throw them myself into the fire, but I can understand that it was not the most practical thing to organize.

Nithyanandam !

My Tuesday picture of Haiti : Canapé Vert

2010-02-16T16:56:00.021+05:30

Canapé Vert is a neighborhood of Port au Prince, and this picture taken by my husband in the summer of 2008 shows how people built a slum on the side of the hill.

I searched the Internet, and found this picture of Canapé Vert taken after the earthquake, here. Rubbles and piles of concrete. More rubbles, and more piles of concrete. One of my sisters-in-law lives at the top at that hill, in a Catholic community. Their compound was destroyed almost completely (it seems that only the small chapelle did not suffer any damage.) They have been living outside for the past four weeks, along with some 3000 people.

A friend of mine in New York, told me how their community has been organizing charity events to raise money to send to a priest who opened a school in Port au Prince, a few years back. My immediate concern was : please, tell them to not start building a concrete school with that money. Building with concrete in areas susceptible to earthquakes (and studies clearly indicate that there will be more) will only mean more deaths - provided that the Haitian people, after what they just went through, accept to actually enter and live in concrete buildings. My husband tells me that people have taken to sleeping in the streets. Rich or poor, when the sun sets, people take out mattresses and settle down in the streets for the night.

So, forget about concrete. It is possible to use bamboo to build houses and schools and basically anything : bamboo resists better to earthquakes, and it is environmentally friendly. When he left India, my husband had already gotten in touch with a company that built houses and schools in the Andaman islands, after the earthquake in 2002, and they said they could provide 10 000 schools within the next six months. Let's see if this gets implemented. Of course, this also means planting more and more bamboos in Haiti. It will take time. But it would also help with the deforestation problem (as seen here.)

In the meantime, people need food, water, shelter and medical care... Many of the refugee camps have no management, no help coming their way (and that includes the camp in Canapé Vert). So many people are working seven days a week, there, in really difficult conditions, but the magnitude of what needs to be done is such...

... and it's now been five weeks since the earthquake.

Our Life in India : A visit to the Sri Chilkuru Balaji Temple...

2010-02-14T16:22:00.001+05:30

... also called The Visa Temple, because it seems that people who go there and pray Balaji with their open eyes see their wish of getting a visa granted... In which case you are to return to the temple to thank Balaji, and walk around 108 times (why 108 times, I do not know and was unable to find out.)

Outside the temple, these young men sold us pretty cloth bags (no plastic, which is good, and too rare) containing two coconuts and two flower garlands, for 34 Rupees each (a little less than a dollar, at the current exchange rate.)

We then went in, and broke our first coconut.

You have to hit it hard against the edge of a long concrete sink and one half of the coconut usually falls on the other side, and you keep the second half. Of course, I got coconut water all over my clothes... Some people drink the water left in their half of the coconut. I ask my friend if there was a significance, but she just laughed and said : "No, they must be thirsty."

Once inside the temple, you see throngs of people walking around and around. Many carry a small piece of paper containing a grid of numbers, and each time they complete a tour, they either check the number on their paper, or punch a hole in it.

I always feel a bit awkward visiting places of worship as a "tourist," however interested, sincere, and respectful I may be. There is a discrepancy between the people around me, and my wide-eyed self, camera at the ready, looking everywhere, trying to make sense of what I see, asking questions (when I can), noticing things that amuse, puzzle or impress me.

When I came out, my first thought was that I would like to come back, so I can renew this experience in a different way. I would no longer be distracted by everything around me, and may then be able to experience the moment in a more meaningful way.

Anyway, one of the things I noticed, as I walked around and around (we did not do it 108 times, by the way. This will be in case my wish comes true) were the signs.

This last sign is interesting. In Sanskrit, the word "darshan" means "the sight", "the vision." In other words : do not close your eyes while you are looking. Of course, there is a deeper meaning to this. The Balaji God in this temple has a peculiarity: His eyes are open. Usually, people tend to close their eyes while praying or wishing for something. So, here, we are asked to keep our eyes open.

We went inside the small temple, left one of the flower garlands as an offering to the God, and a priest marked our foreheads with kumkuma (red powder) and recited something after we told him the names of the members of our family. I did look at the eyes of the God, but it all went very fast, and I was trying to make sure I did everything the way I was supposed to, so it's all a bit blurry, now.

We then broke our second coconut in the second temple, this one to the God Krishna, and our friend told us to sit and reflect. Here we are, afterwards.

Finally, we took a tour of the small market outside the temple with its usual choice of bangles, little trinkets, bindis, devotional images, CDs, and statues - notice the rows of laughing Buddhas - etc, etc.

Many Black Girls Still Say White Dolls Are Prettier

2010-02-12T11:09:00.000+05:30

Almost two years ago, I wrote a post, here, about Kiri Davis' high school project, A Girl Like Me, which recreated the ground-breaking experiment conducted in the fifties by psychologist Kenneth B. Clark. The test was conducted again in 2009, and it seems there is a little progress, at least where boys are concerned. But the majority of girls continues, sadly, to thing that pretty is white...

In GMA Test Many Black Girls Still Say White Dolls Are Prettier - Dolls - Jezebel - Watch more Videos at Vodpod.

Thanks to Lee and Low Books's blog for bringing that new experiment to our attention.

My Haiti Picture for today : Tap-Tap

2010-02-09T16:06:00.003+05:30

The tap-tap is the most commonly used means of public transportation in Haiti. It could be a bus or a pick-up truck, they operate on a fixed route, and depart only when full. When you've reached your destination, you tap whatever surface available (ceiling, or side wall) to let the driver know that you want to get off.

To add a cheerful and artistic touch, their owners usually decorate them with bright paintings. Here, we see the Haitian flag on the right, but also the American flag on the left. They often carry religious slogans or sayings. "L'Eternel est ma Lumière" says this one, which means : The Eternal is my Light.

I always say that no-one can pretend they have really visited a country if they never used at least one of the public transportations available. Moving from air-conditioned taxi to air-conditioned bus full of other tourists is no way to visit a country. One needs to travel with the locals. Yes, it's not always comfortable, but the experience is always interesting, and sometimes really fun. I remember one such trip in Northern Vietnam ; I was sitting next to an old gentleman who spent the entire trip telling me the most extraordinary jokes and stories in impeccable French.

During my first two trips to Haiti, I regularly hopped on tap-taps to take me around. And I'll never forget a tap-tap ride from the northern city of Cap-Haïtien to the village of Moustique, with so many people crowded on the benches of the pick-up truck as well as in the space meant for the legs in the middle that I actually had several kids sitting on my lap. Everyone was cheerful, and laughter bounced around - sometimes probably at my expense, as my Creole was extremely basic. No matter. It remains one of my most vivid memories of Haiti.

Four weeks since the earthquake.

Follow up on my Skype visit at Bradenton Prep, in Dubai.

2010-02-05T17:44:00.009+05:30

One of the beauties of being published is the feedback we receive from the children who read us. Yes, we write because we don't really have a choice. Writers write the way they breathe - sometimes easily, sometimes with some difficulty, but it's not something they can live without. And yes, we dream, hope, and work very hard so our writing can be published. And when it happens, it's an amazing high. But the best part is still to come : the children's reactions, their questions, thoughts, comments, and praise. As a follow-up on my visit to Bradenton Prep Academy, in Dubai, the teachers asked the 4th and 5th graders to write me a short letter. I discovered them in my mailbox this morning. What a treat !

A few excerpts about the virtual visit :

"I liked the skype interview. I thought it was cool. I liked the book a lot it was one of the best books I have ever read. I liked how you replied to all of my class mate's."

"I really enjoyed the Skype interview!! It was very cool the way we got to see the original illustrations for Amadi's snowman. I really enjoyed the way you told us how it started and why you wrote it. I had a great time listening to all the interesting questions and all your answers. I also noticed during the interview that you have seemed to live in a lot of places. I also really enjoyed the book Amadi's Snowman."

"It was great to see you on skype the other day. I enjoyed listening to the story of Amadi and the snowman. It is very important to be able to read and write and this book reminds us about how lucky we are because we have lots of schools in dubai. [...]"

"Thanks for your time and information during our skype interview! It was very interesting and I learned a lot about an authors' work. I hope I will be able to write a book myself in the future."

"I loved the Skype talk that we had a couple of days ago, it was fun. I really liked the part in Amadis Snowman where Amadi finds out that his mum has the book. That was probably my favourite part. I liked the way you only put one sentence at the end of the book. I thought that is was a really good book to read and it was great and very interesting to meet an author on skype."

And a couple more - because I can't resist sharing some comments and showing the little graphics that accompany them :

"I really loved your book in so many ways. I loved the man that sells the books. Why? I love the way he says get out of here now! You had so much description. I love how a boy wants to do something new because most boys say no I don't want to read or reading is boring. But this boy wants to read, he's not like the other boys. I love how he's all around signs he can't read. Why does he want to be a businessman? You have to know how to read to be a businessman. I love how his mom encouraged Amadi to want to read. I just have one more thing to ask you. Is this how you started to read like Amadi? If not how did you start? Did you go to school? Did you go to a book store and you saw a cool book?

p.s. YOUR BOOK IS AWESOME"

"I loved the book. I think it was great! My favorite part was the end cause it was fun to read a page that has ony one sentence. My favorite charachter is Amadi. You must like writing right? your book was awsome!!!!"

"I really enjoyed your book! It inspired me to think that reading gets you into stuff.

I mean, you learn spelling from reading,but also you learn reading from knowing how to spell words!"

Thanks again to the 4th and 5th Graders at Bradenton Prep, and their teachers. I will never forget my first school visit in Dubai - even though I never set foot there.

Keep reading !!!

My Haiti picture for today : Tropical Flowers

2010-02-02T16:48:00.000+05:30

Three weeks since the earthquake.

My husband is leaving for Haiti, tomorrow, to help with the UNICEF relief effort there. He's been asked to come with a tent, Swiss army knife, flashlight, sleeping bag and antibiotics. One of his colleagues who's been there for almost two weeks has been sleeping in a car. Not that they're complaining.

I know he's been on pins and needles ever since the news of the earthquake reached us, waiting, waiting, waiting for the call to go. Our 5 and half years old daughter told him : "Two months is too long. You come back after one month, OK?" And then, she added : "So, I'll see you on Wednesday?" Time is still a hazy, confusing notion for her, but I know that she will find the time very, very long indeed - as we all will. Her dad often travels, but he's never been gone for so long.

This week's picture was taken in my mother-in-law's garden in Fermathe, and I'm posting it for my husband who loves flowers. It's called Heliconia Pendula. Aren't they beautiful?

Virtual School Visit in Dubai, UAE

2010-01-28T16:53:00.004+05:30

In August 2006, I went to my first SCBWI conference, in Los Angeles, and met a young woman who lives in Dubai. She had asked a question about multicultural stories at one of the sessions, and I zoomed in on her afterwards. Funny, as this is rather untypical of me. We exchanged email addresses, and later on, found ourselves attending one of Uma Krishnaswami's online workshops. We've always kept in touch, since, and a few weeks back, Maha sent me an email saying that she had just read Amadi's Snowman with her 4th grade class. I was thrilled, of course. Another stop for Amadi's global travels. I asked her if she would like me to do a Skype author visit ? Maya responded with a resounding YES! She set up a Skype connexion at her school, and we both did some research. Elizabeth Dulemba offers great information on her website, and I also visited the Skype An Author Network. Once we had figured out the time difference between Dubai and India (only 1 hour and half), we did a Skype test a couple of days before. We were ready!

Here is an account and some pictures of my first virtual visit -- at the Bradenton Preparatory Academy in Dubai, January 27, 2010.

Hyderabad, India, 10:28 AM : My desk is ready. Computer is on. Skype is on. And I have my big writer's file, the dummy and the book close by.

At 10:29 AM, I call the school's number, and almost immediately, the children at Bradenton Prep appear on my screen. Out of curiosity, I checked the distance between Hyderabad, India, and Dubai, UAE. It is 1588 miles (2555 km), but thanks to Skype, I had the whole class with me, in my office, and they had me, right in their classroom in Dubai.

I worried about technical or connexion glitches, but there were none. The children did have to get up and stand closer to the class computer for me to hear their questions clearly, but other than that, no frozen image, no loss of sound or noises that force us to stop or call again.

And here is what it looked like on the other side:

Thank you to the 20 pupils for their interesting questions and comments. And special thanks to their teachers, Maha Shehadeh (who is also the author of a picture book titled Raya's Globe, published by Jerboa, and about to be translated into Arabic) and Kingsley Griffin for making it happen, and sending me the pictures. It was FUN !

Amadi around the World

2010-01-27T10:03:00.002+05:30

Amadi's Snowman continues his travels around the world and I'm thrilled to take you to Dubai, UAE, today. Here are pictures of M. Griffin reading the book to the 4th and 5th graders at the Bradenton Preparatory Academy. I'll soon post of a report of my first Skype Author Visit with these two classes. I can't wait...

My Tuesday picture of Haiti : Jacmel's heritage.

2010-01-26T17:26:00.048+05:30

Two weeks since the earthquake hit Haiti. The death toll has topped 150 000 in the Port au Prince area alone. I have not seen any numbers regarding smaller places like Leogane or Jacmel. I will continue to write a post about Haiti, or simply publish a picture, each Tuesday - a small gesture that symbolizes my hope that the world does not forget about the tragedy, there, as it often happens, once news starts getting a bit old.

This beautiful house stood just across the street from a similar (in style) that my sister in law rented in Old Jacmel (it is now a pile of rubble). It is a hotel (I wondered about using the past or the present tense, but having seen some pictures of old houses still standing, I'll stick to the present) with quaint rooms, and a decidedly Haitian flair. The perfect boutique hotel ; nothing luxurious, very simple, in fact, yet comfortable. Most of all, every inch of the place oozes charm and character, which is my chosen criteria when looking for a place to stay. I'd rather have character, history, and less comfort, than luxury in a place with no soul.

Everyone is talking about the reconstruction effort in Haïti. As the days turn into weeks, and hope to find more survivors dwindle and die, I have one wish. Please, please, try and rebuild Haiti with structures and houses that can resist earthquakes, of course, but while doing it, remember the country's beautiful architectural heritage and style.

The gorgeous iron-wrought stairs inside the hotel.

Haiti : Short movie from Ciné Institut in Jacmel

2010-01-23T16:48:00.000+05:30

After the Earthquake: A Compilation of Ciné Institute Coverage from Ciné Institute on Vimeo.

Haiti's Picture of the Day : Playing Cards

2010-01-22T17:07:00.001+05:30

This picture was taken in the cemetery of Jacmel. I had gotten it into my head that we had to visit it (maybe after reading Edwige Danticat's After the Dance), but we took a longer route starting from the beach, and when we reached it, the sun was already low in the sky. This was during our last visit to Haiti, in July 2008. We went in, anyway...

The place was quiet, beautiful, and mysterious, an abundant vegetation growing over the tombs and climbing the walls of the family vaults.

A group of men was playing cards, maybe "bézigue," which is a card game that my husband has tried to teach me, quite unsuccessfully. They were using a tomb as their table. See the second man on the left ? He has a wooden cloth peg pinched on the top of his nose, which means he had lost the last game. The next player to loose will inherit the cloth peg.

Our Life in India : A Motorcycle Pooja

2010-01-21T17:07:00.000+05:30

A little while ago, we had the privilege of taking part in a pooja, thanks to our friends who recently bought a motorcycle.

A car or a motorcycle (or any type of machine, in fact) pooja, is a Hindu ritual that involves blessing said machine, and basically asking God for its protection.

So, we went to the colorful temple dedicated to the Goddess, Durga.

First, we had to buy the offerings.

Of course, we attracted our share of attention.

Coconuts, flower garlands, incense sticks, lemons, betel leaves...

On the side, was the barbers' shop.

Some Hindu rituals involve shaving the head - do you see the hair next to the green bucket?

The mobile phone is very useful to pass the time, in between clients (below).

The tools of the trade

This gentleman is checking his beautiful mustache in a mirror

(my husband took this fantastic picture, and I was warned to give due credit to the artist, so there.)

Time to go inside the temple. We took off our shoes, and washed our feet, although I'm not sure how useful that was, as we had to walk barefoot to the entrance of the temple, a good fifty meters away.

As cameras are not allowed inside the temple, we could not document that part of the ritual. We saluted the Goddess, inside, and were given holy water by a priest, out of a small, deep and round silver spoon. I saw other people bring the water to their mouth and forehead, before they sprinkled it on their head. I did the same (careful not to drink it, though) and ended up with water all over my clothes.
Our friend Torsten broke a coconut, and out we went. We'd bought some red cotton string (Kalava in Sanskrit) and tied them up to each other's wrists.

Unfortunately, the red cotton gives color - as I soon realized when red stains appeared all over my kids' clothes. I still have mine, though, and a red ring on my skin, underneath, although it's fading away.

It was then time to prepare the motorcycle.

Finally, all the motorcycles were ready for the priest's blessing.

The priest asked our friend's name and recited some mantras while drawing sacred symbols on the motorcycle with the powder and paste he carried in the containers below : most likely turmeric, and sandalwood paste. If I'm mistaken, please, don't sue - just let me know, and correct me. :)

Then, Torsten had to make three circles, clockwise, with a coconut, and break it on the ground, before sprinkling the tire with its water.

Our neighbors were doing a car puja, and they broke a pumpkin.

Here is the blessed motorcycle.

Torsten could now ride it, and his first guest was our daughter.

Thanks to my husband and Kathrine for letting me use some of their pictures. And thanks to our friends for allowing us to partake in this lovely ceremony.

The Spirit of Haiti

2010-01-20T10:32:00.001+05:30

Excerpt from a message sent by my sister-in-law, in Jacmel, to her family and friends, via Facebook (as an aside, someone, some day, ought to write a thesis or something on the extraordinary role of Facebook, during this tragedy) :

"Early by 5:00 am every morning, for two hours there are like 500 - 600 people on the streets singing religious songs, dancing and blessing God for being alive. It is like a parade, the local way of healing their pain, it is vey impressive. A real therapy for these victims which have lost everything except their Faith. "

My Haiti Picture for today : Avocados

2010-01-18T21:53:00.004+05:30

Avocados and other fruits for sale along the road from Jacmel to Port-au-Prince.
Avocados are a staple of the Haitian diet, and it's no wonder, because they are beautiful over there. After almost six years in India, where avocados tend to rot from the inside out, mysteriously going from being too hard to being just good for the rubbish, we often dream of the "avoca bè", as it is called in Créole - "bè" pronounced with an open "a" like the beginning of the word "area" - meaning butter. One can just imagine the knife slicing effortlessly through the pale flesh, as it would through butter.

Haïti is special.

2010-01-16T21:00:00.007+05:30

As a writer, it is little wonder that I first fell in love with Haiti through its literature. Jacques Stephen Alexis and his "Romancero aux Etoiles" just rocked my world. The language was luscious, musical, and magic. I had discovered the "réalisme merveilleux." As an interesting aside, I searched the Internet to link to a wikipedia article in English about "magic realism", and found zero mention of Haitian writers. Latin American authors like Alejo Carpentier, who coined the term "real maravilloso", and Gabriel Garcia Marquez and his "Hundred Years of Solitude," as well as Isabel Allende or Jose Luis Borges are all there, as they should be. But not one Haitian author. Why ?

Having recently moved to New York, I didn't quite know how to find other works by Haitian authors, in French, but a friend found several books for me (that friend is Haitian, and has since become my husband) : "Général Compère Soleil" (translated into English as "General Sun, My Brother"), "L'espace d'un cillement..." And then, Jacques Roumain and his "Gouverneurs de la Rosée." (Masters of the Dew.")

These were the years 1994 and 1995 : Aristide had just been restored as President, with the help of the Clinton administration. I started reading about Haiti's history, equally astounded and ashamed that during all my school years in France I had never heard anything about Haiti. Why ? This little country which shared the island of Hispaniola with the Dominican Republic had once been the richest French colony, "The Pearl of The Antilles," and they had kicked us out of there, too. Is that the reason French children don't see it mentioned in their history books ?

The history of the Haitian Revolution is extraordinary (Madison Smartt Bell has written a beautiful trilogy of historical novels about it : "All Souls Rising," "Master of The Crossroads," and "The Stone that The Builder Refused."

Haiti was the first independent nation in Latin America ! It was the second independent nation in the New World after the United States of America ! It was the first nation in the world to gain its independence from colonial rule through a successful slave rebellion, on January 1, 1804 !

Unfortunately, this remarkable victory was followed by a history fraught with struggle, turmoil, coups d'état, and more abuse from countries like France - in the way of debts supposed to repay for the loss of profits from the slave trade (as if the Haitian people had not already paid enough with their work and their blood during the atrocious colonial rule) - the Dominican Republic - with its 1937 massacre of Haitian emigrants. (read Edwige Danticat's beautiful novel, The Farming of Bones) - but most of all, the US - with its occupation of Haiti from 1915 until 1934, or its shady involvement in coups from people they supported. You can find out more about the role of the U.S. in Haiti's history in Naom Chomsky's paper "The Tragedy of Haiti" or this more recent article published in the San Francisco BayView about "How the U.S. impoverished Haiti." Another bone-chilling perspective on the way the U.S. deals with Haitians can be found in Edwige Danticat's haunting memoir, "Brother, I'm Dying," where she describes the inhuman treatment that, to this day, befalls Haitian people seeking asylum in Florida. For years, Cubans have only had to set foot on US soil to be welcomed as political refugees. But if you're Haitian, you get sent to the Chrome detention center ! Why?

I couldn't stop reading about Haiti. Books about the Duvalier dictatorship. About Jean-Bertrand Aristide, and how this charismatic priest carried so much hope at the time. And more novels from Haitian authors : René Dépestre, Emile Ollivier, Louis Philippe d'Alembert, Marie-Vieux Chauvet... And then, as of 1996, Edwige Danticat...

In October 1997, I went to Haiti for the first time with Dr Belenky, his wife, renowned developmental psychologist and author Mary Belenky, and a group of volunteers. In the span of three weeks, I lived and experienced more things than anyone does in a whole lifetime : I rode tap-taps and spent time with children in an orphanage ; I travelled to Cap Haitien, slept on the concrete floor of an empty house in the little village of Moustique, and visited la Citadelle, le Palais Sans-Souci, and Cap Haitien ; I walked the dusty streets of Port au Prince, and travelled by bus to the beautiful town of Jacmel and its black sand beach (of which I brought some back.) Incidentally, I also finished a translation, and because I walked past dark with my laptop, I was held at gun point, twice in a few days. But even that could not spoil my experience.

Haiti is so much more than the "poorest country in the Western hemisphere," which is what one reads, usually in the first paragraph, whenever there is a piece of news about Haiti.

Haiti is a vibrant country with an extraordinary cultural heritage. Music that makes you want to sing, and dance. Literature that transports you, as mentioned above. And, last but not least, there is Haitian art : painting, sculpture, vodoo flags. (The picture below was taken in a street of Petionville, a suburb of Port-au-Prince. I always marvel at the talent of Haitians for visual arts. Give some paint, a brush and a canvas to almost any Haitian, and they will create something beautiful.)

Haitian people are joyful, and dignified. They are beautiful, spiritual, strong, resilient and resourceful. The country, in spite of erosion, hardship, and abject poverty, is gorgeous, its potential, enormous. Just ask the Americans who go on Caribbean cruises and stop at Labadie, a beach in the north of the country. More often that not, the tourists spend a day of leisure there, enjoying the white sand, the crystal clear water, and eating lobster, and they have no idea that they are in Haiti. Nor are they told that a few kilometers away stands the amazing Citadelle Laferrière, a world heritage site, the ruins of the Palais Sans-Souci, and the interesting city of Cap-Haïtien.

Recently, Bill Clinton was appointed as the UN Special Envoy for Haiti. Security had improved, and things were looking up. The country was still poor, there was still a staggering amount of work to do, but there was also a renewed feeling of hope - something that had not been experienced in years. And suddenly, a 7.0 magnitude earthquake strikes !!?? It is tempting to look up at the sky and, again, cry : WHY?

But it doesn't resolve anything. In the midst of all the devastation - and because I'm sitting far away, safe, and well fed, and feeling hopelessly useless, I'm very much aware of that - I want to try and search for ways and reasons to think positively.

Clinton wrote an essay in The Time about how to better direct the efforts, and his words do reflect the kind of hope that all people concerned with Haiti and its people can cling to, I think. The earthquake hit Port au Prince and areas around it all the way to the picturesque town of Jacmel, but the rest of the country is as usual. If only the people who move to PAP in hopes to find a job and a better life decide to go back home, now that there is nothing much left in the capital city, and the efforts to develop the north, with its amazing touristic potential, can be focused on and sustained, might all that suffering turn out to not have been totally in vain ? Both my husband and I were thinking aloud, yesterday, and he said : maybe they should build a new capital elsewhere, somewhere there is nothing, like in the center of the country. From scratch. It would decentralize the whole government, help develop areas which are empty and unused, decongest Port au Prince... Well, these are thoughts...

The tremendous outpouring of sympathy and good will is comforting ; as is Obama's strong decisions to send massive help. Both Clintons are very attached to Haiti. Let us hope that all the money and help coming from all over the world doesn't dwindle in a week or two, once the news starts getting old. The efforts need to be sustained in the long term. Maybe, then, a stronger Haiti can raise from it own ashes, and the world would finally get to see what all those who've spent time there already know. Haiti is very, very special.

To prove it, I'll be posting pictures that we have taken during our times there, over the years. Pictures that will show something different from what most people see when they're shown Haiti on TV. The Haiti that we love. And I'll continue to do that for a while, in the hope that the situation will not be forgotten again in a few weeks or even months...

A little cove just outside of Jacmel, in the South East region of Haiti.

Bassin Bleu, in the hills above Jacmel. You have to hike a little to reach this pretty waterfall, and local guides take you there. The place is pristine, empty, and the water crystal clear (and cold!). It's magic.

Books for Children and Young Adults set in Haiti

2010-01-15T15:37:00.004+05:30

As I work on a post about Haiti, its beauty, and what the country and its people mean to me, I'd like to direct you to Mitali Perkins' blog, where she compiled a list of books for children and Young Adults set in Haiti. I particularly like "Tap Tap" and "Painted Dreams," by Karen Lynn Williams. And Edwige Danticat's "Behind The Mountains" is a touching novel.

As I mentioned in Mitali's comment section, I find it interesting that the last picture book set in Haiti was published five years ago. For almost a year, now, I've been trying to find a publisher for a picture book manuscript set in Haiti. The title (tentative, as always) is "The Pulse of Papa's Land," and it is the story of a child from the Haitian diaspora who travels to Haiti with her father for the first time. I have received very nice rejection mentioning the music of the text and what not, but rejections nevertheless. I know, the economic situation, etc, etc. It is still out there, anyway. I have not given up...

That story had been lurking around in my mind for a few years. It was more like images, really. My mother in law's garden, in Fermathe. The Citadelle. My father in law's boundless energy, and his contagious joy in the small pleasures of life. A pick-up truck bouncing up a dirt mountain road. A drum beating in the night.

When I came back home after our last trip in Haiti in the summer of 2008, the story just poured out of me. I worked at it for several months, wrote half a dozen drafts, and finally, in May 2009, I felt it was ready. It has since gone through two more revisions, and I'm now pretty confident about it (and believe me when I say that this is not my usual state of mind - I'm more like your average pathologically anxious female Woody Allen - if only I were half as funny.) But the feedback has always been very positive, and most of all, I truly poured my heart out with this story. It touches themes that resonate deeply within me : the longing and confusion that come with wanting to belong and feeling foreign at the same time, the mysterious ways in which one person's culture and heritage can be a part of their soul fabric without them even knowing about it, and the special relationship between a father and his daughter. And it allowed me to write about the beauty of Haiti and its people, as opposed to the dry comments one finds in the press about the "most impoverished nation in the Western Hemisphere." I so long to see books that celebrate this country's spirit and resilience, its joyful people and its rich and vibrant culture.

It is not enough to find the Galette des Rois !

2010-01-11T13:09:00.009+05:30

A while back, I mentioned (here) how interesting, fun, but also challenging it is to include cultural ways and habits that our children pick up in our host country into our family culture. Today, I want to share how living in another culture also means having to let go of some of the rituals we, as parents, grew up with. In this instance, la Galette des Rois.

On January 6, day of the Epiphany, the Magi (Rois Mages, in French - los Reyes Magos, in Spanish) visit Jesus, and the three Kings are traditionally added to the Nativity scene. (for those who have not read my essay "A Wish for 2010," in TigerPapers, you can find it here, and it will explain how the Hindu God, Ganesh, and Buddha, came to watch over baby Jesus, in the picture below.)

Following a tradition that goes back to the Middle Ages, the Epiphany is celebrated with a special cake : la galette des rois (the Kings' cake). And for years (ever since I left France) I've been grumbling, usually right after I've eaten the last bit of the bûche de Noël, (if we had one, and if we didn't, right after I spent a couple of weeks grumbling about not being able to eat bûche - see picture above) about missing the galette and the lovely ritual associated with it.

The galette des rois is a puff pastry dessert filled with frangipane, which contains a trinket called "la fève", usually a china figurine that can represent anything from a car to a cartoon character. We ask the youngest child in the family to hide under the table, and to say the name of the guest to which each slice will be given. The person who finds "la fève" becomes the King or the Queen, and is given a golden paper crown.

Of course, I could have learned to bake a galette des rois (per my good friend Valérie, in New York, whose success is such, she actually got her own article in the New York Times Sunday edition if you please) and thus not only managed to maintain this lovely tradition in our family, but also saved my husband a lot of mumbling about how much I missed it. Thing is, the less time I spend in a kitchen, the better for everyone (OK, that's an exaggeration; truth is, I hate cooking) so we simply managed our lives without the galette.

But this year, I found out that I could get the much-coveted and dreamed about dessert at one of the fancy hotel's pastry shop, in Hyderabad. Oh, immeasurable joy !

I invited two couples of friends and their children to come on Saturday 9th, so they could discover, and partake in this French tradition. But the Epiphany being on January 6, which this year was a Wednesday, I soon devised a plan that would allow me to indulge not once, but twice : we would first introduce our daughters to the ritual as a family, on Wednesday, and then, we would do it again with our friends on Saturday. It was perfect. (By the way, the only time I ate galette in the past ten years was the last time we spent our Christmas holidays in France, when our oldest daughter was 18 months old. She does not remember any of it, but being the youngest child, she was the one supposed to hide under the table. Only, she burst into tears because she could not understand why anyone would want to send her UNDER the table, when the lovely looking dessert was sitting ON it. Retrospectively, I wonder if I shouldn't have taken this as an omen, and not a good one.)

So : First galette is ordered for Wednesday, and on said day, I rush to pick up our youngest one from a play-date, and drive to said fancy hotel, manage to get lost on the way (it opened recently in an area with lots of construction going on, and forget about address), and the kids are tired, overexcited, and being at their monkey worst. Why is it that children always know how to pick up the worst times to misbehave, like when Mom is in a rush, and driving in the Indian chaotic traffic, I'll never know. (And those who live or know India, pick up the pleonasm in the previous sentence, please?) But by the time we reach home, I'm a human bomb about to explode. Definitely not in an Epiphany kind of spirit, if you see what I mean.

To make a long story short, both children managed to make said human bomb explode, and when it did, the result was that they were sent to bed without dessert. Yep, that's how witchy-mean I can get. My husband and I shared the galette - I was so angry, by then, there was no way I was going to wait until the following day to taste the much-fantasied-about dessert. Of course, we could not eat the whole cake, and neither of us got the "fève." We thought it was just as well, as one of the children would get it the following day. Only, when they finally sat to eat it, on Thursday afternoon, the older one tried one bite, did something funny with her mouth, and said : "Mom, I don't like it." And the younger one took one look, poked her finger in the crust, and declared : "I don't want it."

End of story ? Almost there.

As it turns out, the galette did not even have a fève !!! So, the way I see it, it was a good thing that I was so greedy, or I would have waited until Saturday when all our friends were here, and we would have all looked and looked and looked for a lucky charm that was never there in the first place. Our friends did come, but we ended up eating delicious Thai chicken satay and ice-cream. I suppose I can now forget about the tradition of the galette. At least until my children learn to like frangipane.

The Ivory Coast comes to Hyderabad

2010-01-09T09:19:00.004+05:30

Last night, thanks to the Alliance Française of Hyderabad (its current director, Frederic Dard has really done a remarkable job for the local cultural landscape over the past three years), we had the privilege and immense joy of attending a concert by Ivorian singer Dobet Gnahoré. It happened outside, on the lawns of the Taj Banjara hotel, and it was PACKED !

I didn't know Dobet Gnahoré, which gives a measure of our disconnection, here, as I used to follow the African music scene pretty closely while in New York. No matter, now, I know her, we bought her CD, and I bet she will have a great career. She has a powerful, resonant voice and an incredible presence on the stage (something that her CD does not justice to, actually.) She not only sings, she plays various percussion instruments, and she dances !

There is a popular saying in French : "La musique adoucit les moeurs," which could be translated into "music soothes the soul." I also found this quote from William Congreve : "music hath charms to soothe the savage breast." But music is also a fabulous tool to build bridges across cultures, and this was clearly evident, last night. The crowd counted its share of expats (Francophones, mostly, and quite a few Ivorian students, too - it was quite moving to witness their obvious joy and pride in having their country fellow and sister represent their culture so beautifully) but the majority was Indian, and they danced, and clapped, and sang - even in Wolof ! at some stage - quite happily. One little girl who might have been 5 or 6 actually jumped on the stage and danced and danced and seemed totally transported by the drum.

Dobet's band is composed of a Togolese drummer, and two guitarists and back-up singers who come from Mauritius and France. She sang in several African languages, including Wolof and Bambara, and I found somewhere that she defines her approach as "defiantly diverse, musically and linguistically." Definitely my kind of artist.

Author Katherine Paterson becomes Children's Literature new ambassador in the US.

2010-01-08T08:41:00.002+05:30

I just have to share excerpts from Katherine Paterson's speech, found in the last issue of Publisher's Weekly.

Paterson’s ambassadorial platform is "“read for your life.” With books, she said, kids (and adults) use their “powers of intellect imagination” and experience “delight.” Stories also teach children about people from other religions, races, and countries, said Paterson, who spent the first three years of her life living in China with her missionary parents. “Books help us make friends who are different from ourselves.”

It bothered Paterson when she heard a librarian say she didn’t buy any Virginia Hamilton books because no black children attended her school. “That’s the very reason you should be buying Virginia Hamilton’s books,” she said. “Because your kids don’t have an opportunity to have friends who are African-American, they should be making those friends in books. Same thing with religion.” Jimmy Carter said becoming friends with Anwar Sadat was the most important thing that happened to him as president, she added. “Neither was trying to convert the other. I love the fact that we might be able to do that in this country—that we might be able to learn to understand each other.... The more we know about each other, the better.”"

Being expats does not mean we're entitled to act like jerks !

2010-01-07T12:47:00.006+05:30

Something happened, recently, that shook the whole expat community, here - and the Indian, and the NRI communities, too. I first wrote this as a way to reflect (I process my thoughts much better that way), not meaning to publish it, but one of the themes of this blog IS the expatriate life, and why not report the ugly things, as well? Life is not always perfect, after all. So, here goes my own little opinion piece...

In the five and half years that we've lived in Hyderabad, I can say that I have not witnessed any overtly prejudiced or grossly inappropriate behavior from any member of the expat community. Of course, some people do NOT like it, here, and they mumble and grumble the whole time, cannot wait to leave, and usually do as soon as they possibly can, sometimes earlier. It is also true that I do not spend as much time with the expat community as others do. I work, I write, and then the kids come home, which makes it difficult for me to have a busy social life (not to mention that I'm not the most sociable person to begin with.) Still, rumors travel fast, and you always end up knowing a lot of what goes on. So, I was quite astonished when I heard about an incident that happened over New Year's Eve.

Here is what I know : after an evening of fun and much drinking, a few expat men and women decided to go skinny dipping into the swimming pool of their gated community compound. They took off all their clothes and off into the night they went, walking merrily toward the pool. Several Indian members of that gated community saw them, and went after them, some quite angry, and told them to get dressed at once. The expats didn't like it, started arguing, the police was called, and in the end, one of the expats punched an Indian man in the face, money was thrown in the face of the policemen, the few expat men and women involved lost it completely, and insults were hurled back and forth.

Excuse me ???

Such behavior (and I'm talking about the gallivanting in the nude, here, which is what started this distressing chain of incidents) would be unacceptable in pretty much all the countries in the world, but we happen to be in India, where nudity is simply NOT tolerated.

Whether this is hypocrite behavior, and possibly a left-over of the Victorian British colonial rule, does nothing to change the fact that only Indian people can decide whether they want to change their social and cultural rules of conduct - or not - inside their own country. It certainly isn't something that expats (in other words, GUESTS) should take upon themselves to publicly mock, or upset.

As mentioned in a previous post, children in Kindergarten quickly learn that a naked bottom is "shame shame shame." Parents do not appear naked in front of their children. It just isn't done, period. And I know this because my 9-year-old daughter seems to have interesting conversations with her classmates where it transpires that they have never seen their parents naked. Fine. Now, as an expat, what I do inside my home is obviously my business. I do tell my children all the time that there is nothing shameful about a naked body. And they do indeed see me and their father in all states of undress, not because we do it on purpose, but rather because we rarely seem to think of locking or even closing bathroom doors. But we're very aware of the fact that this is not the usual way to behave in India.

Anyone going to a beach, here, will see women dip their feet in the water, maybe even their legs, still wearing their saris or their salwar kameez. When we first arrived, I could not find swimming costumes at Lifestyle, which was the most modern, and at the time basically the only department store in town. The year after, we started seeing a few one piece costumes, usually with attached skirts. And even in Goa, I've seen women wear those suits with cycling shorts.

How anyone in their right mind would conceive to leave their house stark naked, on a night when most people (including children) were up late, celebrating, and walk across a compound to go take a dip in a pool open to all the members of a large gated community is something that defies my understanding. But what comes after is even worse : verbal abuse, insults, physical violence, resistance to the police, etc, etc.

One person who was quite actively involved in the whole thing is going back home (they might have left already, that's how fast it all happened afterwards), and was commenting on their Facebook wall about wanting "to go back to a country where people abide by the rule of law." Thing is, in their country, no one would ever go walking in the street start naked, because the cops would pick them up and lock them in a jail in a matter of minutes. Neither would these people dream of hurling insults to said policemen, of throwing money to their faces, and insulting their neighbors. So what rule of law are they referring to, here ? Why do some expats feel that by coming to another country, they're entitled to special treatment ?

It's interesting to hear the comments, and the shock wave that's been rippling through the whole expat community.

For me, the bottom line remains unchanged. It doesn't really matter where these people are from. One can find insensitive, arrogant, and prejudiced idiots in all the countries of the world. What's sad, in my opinion, is that these people did not understand how they have/had a duty toward, one, the country they represent, and two, the expatriate community as a whole ! As expats, we have a responsibility to behave decently and to show respect for our host country ; just because we are far from home, doesn't mean we can behave in ways that we wouldn't dream of adopting in our own countries ; just because most expats find themselves enjoying perks like maids, drivers, huge houses with marble floors, etc (things they could never have back home), doesn't mean they suddenly become superior citizens with special entitlements. Cultural sensitivity is an absolute must. Whether we agree or not with some of the ways of the country we're living in, it is our duty and responsibility to show an open mind, and most of all, to behave properly and respect the rules and sensitivities or our host country. Because each time an expatriate behaves badly, they not only show themselves under a most unflattering light, they also somehow tarnish the image of all the other members of the community. And that is unacceptable.

Warm Wishes for a Luminous New Year !

2010-01-04T15:14:00.007+05:30

2009 is gone, and we're entering a new decade (although purists will say that the decade does not actually start until 2011.) Hard to believe that ten years have passed since the 2000 New Year's Eve world celebrations. At the time, I sat watching television, pregnant with my first daughter, and feeling the beginning of the terrible nausea that was going to keep me in bed for two months. I could only eat smoked salmon, pickles and Japanese dumplings, which was better than the nuts, apples and sparkling water that would soon constitute my diet. End of digression.

We just returned from a marvelous trip to Thaïland. I had spent quite a bit of time there, in 1993, and loved it. I loved it even more, this time.

The country is beautiful, and so are its people.

The food is out-of-this-world delicious, and you can eat pretty much anywhere without worrying about getting sick.

We went snorkeling, sharing the warm, crystal clear water with colorful fish.

We saw many, many Buddhas (and those who know me, know that I can never see too many Buddhas.)

I had dozens of fish nibble at my feet in the cold and gorgeous Erawan waterfalls, in the province of Kanchanaburi, and was told it's excellent for the skin. It took me a few minutes to get used to the feeling, but once I did, I could have spent the whole afternoon, there.

We visited the fabulous Grand Palace, had foot massages in Bangkok, and shopped at the famous Week-End market.

We spent Christmas Eve on the beach, in Koh Samui, and were treated to a traditional Thai dance show.

Later, we launched paper lanterns in the sky, per a tradition we were told is observed by Thais to celebrate the new year. It was a lovely sight, all these silk paper lanterns flying in the sky, their reflection floating above the water below.

All in all, it was over too soon, as holidays are wont to be, but we now have the memories and the pictures.

Happy New Year to all, all over the world !

My Global Bookshelf : A Broad Abroad, (The Expat Wife's Guide to Successful Living Abroad), by Robin Pascoe

2009-12-14T12:33:00.002+05:30

According to Expat Expert Robin Pascoe, the trailing spouse is “the ultimate portable wife, and probably a mother too. [...] She is also the last person anybody really thinks about until all the clean underwear runs out.”

And she would know. As the trailing spouse of a Canadian diplomat, the author lived in Bangkok (where she gave birth to their first child), Taipei, Beijing, and Seoul, with re-entries in Canada in between, and a final move to Vancouver, British Columbia, all in a span of 15 years.

In this revised and updated edition of the book that first came out in 1992, Robin Pascoe shares her extensive experience, along with the lessons learned (often the hard way) with the reader, taking us through all the stages of a move abroad, from the preparations and research about the host country, the arrival and the various stages of culture shock all the way to the return home.

Chapters have telling titles like “Pre-Moving Day Jitters,” Making the Cultural Transition,” “Maids and Madams,” and “Home Leave to Hell,” with short, but always informative entries like “Why Did I Come?”, The Absent Husband,” “Your Children and Household Help,” “Doctor Disasters,” etc.

On the cover of the book, Robin sits in what looks like a huge box attached to a bicycle, an open packing box on the pavement next to her, in a street of Amsterdam. She’s ready to go. As all trailing spouses usually are, carrying so many conflicting emotions, along with their passports, and whatever belongings they’ve chosen to take across the world.

Robin’s talent lies in her ability to express feelings in a way that is at once honest, sensible and witty. She says it the way it is, which is what I love about her, and most likely what appeals to the enormous following she’s created over her years of writing and talking about expatriation. The chapter where she tackles the very sensitive issue of culture shock is a must-read for anyone even remotely concerned with expatriation.

A Broad Abroad is an essential book for any expat's wife (and if you have children, Raising Global Nomads by the same author - interview, here - is another indispensable book to have and read, over and over again). Whether you’re new to the “job” or old-timers, you will not only find practical and useful everyday advices, but also, and here comes Robin Pascoe's invaluable gift to us, the kind of empathy that we all so desperately need while facing the turmoils and challenges that go hand in hand with the joys and beauty of living the expatriate life - a voice that says: Don't you worry. I've been there, I've done that, and I am telling you: you're NOT crazy.

December is here !

2009-12-03T10:23:00.000+05:30

And this calls for a small update, after a longish silent.

Days continue to be too short to allow me to do all that I need to do in a way that would feel comfortable (translation still due - even though I do now see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel - one more day to go with the outline class, kids taking turns not having school or falling sick, and the usual parade of mundane things such as : preparing meals, cajoling - or not cajoling at all - my older daughter into doing her homework, bath time, night time, all before I can sit again in front of the computer to go back to translating, writing, or trying to wrap my mind around the outlining process ; this last bit calls for a blog post, actually, and one more thing to add on my list of things to do. ) I've had to decline participating in the last two Bollywood dance classes, even though I'm sooo looking forward to doing this. My only recreation is the little time I spend on Facebook. Yeah, exactly, no comment !

Anyway, in the middle of it all, I had the pleasure of being asked to write an essay for the December issue of Paper Tigers which focuses on Religious Diversity in Relation to End-of-Year Celebrations. The title is A Wish for 2010. Do check the Paper Tigers website if you don't already know it. It's a great multicultural resource with a wealth of informations, reviews, interviews, etc...

Doctors without borders

2009-11-16T17:57:00.002+05:30

One of the "perks" of living in developing countries is the vast array of exotic diseases you can catch : malaria, dengue, chikungunya, and a few more. My older daughter got the malaria while we lived in Nigeria. Actually, only a few months before we were due to leave for good, she got so ill we almost had to be medically evacuated. It was the malaria, but the medicines we'd given her (bought in a hospital) were probably fake, and of course, the malaria kept coming back, and each time, she got weaker, her immune system was shot, until finally we gave her a last course of medicine and that one worked. It lasted eight weeks. Poor thing. The way malaria hits some people and spares others is a real mystery. I didn't get it. My child did, and yet, I was probably one of the strictest mothers in our area, making always sure she was back inside before sundown. Some people spend years in endemic areas, and don't get it. Others spend a few days, and they're not so lucky.

When our little one was 18 months, we went to Sri Lanka, and she got the dengue fever there. Now, whenever she has a fever, I'm a mess, because I'm always afraid it might be another dengue. There is no treatment for the dengue fever. And it can kill.

Well, this time, she got the chikungunya. Poor thing woke up on a Monday complaining of pain in her knees. She had no fever then. I took her to the hospital but the doctor didn't think it was serious. That night, the fever began, and she complained of pain in her hands as well. I took her again to the doctor, the following morning, and was told not to worry, and prescribed Paracetamol. That same evening, the fever climbed to almost 102, her cheeks looked like an erupting volcano, and I had to rush her to the emergency room, where they drew some blood to check for dengue or else. It was not dengue, as the platelet count did not go down. More likely it was chikungunya. The good news ? While adults can suffer from terrible joint pains for months afterwards, children recover in a matter of days.

Well, as if I hadn't spent enough time visiting hospitals and doctors, I then came down with a pretty bad throat infection. All this to say that my whole carefully planned schedule for the month of November had gone out the window, and I was prone to mumble and grumble a lot.

But then, last Monday afternoon, I get a phone call from an unknown doctor who tells me about a foreign person who's come to Hyderabad so her 2-year old child can have an open-heart surgery. They were given my number by someone at the local Alliance Française, and wonder if I could help them, as the lady does not speak any English, only French. I say of course. As it turns out, she's not French at all, but Haitian !

It's a rather complicated, but beautiful story, and it ends well. The child was born with a hole in her heart, and while she was being followed by a doctor in Haiti, the parents knew she'd need surgery, eventually. In the US, the closest place for them to go, such an operation costs 40 000 Dollars. Not the kind of money they can easily get ahold of. Then, one day, the mother spots a flyer mentioning an association that helps children with medical problems. To cut the story short, one of the American doctors involved in this association, who's been going to Haiti several times a year to give his time and expertise, works with an Indian doctor originally from Hyderabad, who happens to have gone to medical school with yet another doctor who just opened an hospital in India where they perform the kind of surgery that can save children like this little Haitian girl. For a fraction of what it would cost in the US, needless to say, even if you add the cost of flying the two doctors, the mother and the child all the way to Hyderabad ! And so, this is how this woman and her child landed in Hyderabad, and how we got involved. The surgery went well, and I've seen the little girl, and she's fine and expected to travel back to Haiti with her mother on Wednesday.

Isn't that a beautiful story ? I spent several hours in this hospital room, waiting with the mother and these two doctors, talking about everything under the sun (Haiti, of course, but also health care in the US, life in India, and even the Ramayana and the Mahabharata !) What a relief it was to see the anguish leave the face of that mother, when a nurse finally came in to say that the surgery had gone well.

I have since been trying to catch up with my work, and I do try to mumble and grumble a little less. Let's see how long it lasts...

CROCUS Festival : Around the World in 7 Days

2009-10-24T17:46:00.001+05:30

Yesterday, began a week-long festival at The Saffron Tree blog. CROCUS stands for a Celebration of Reading Other Culturally Unique Stories, and there will be reviews of books from all over the world, and interviews (among which one from yours truly).

The Saffron Tree participated in Amadi's Snowman's blog tour, last year, and I'm excited and honored that they decided to include us in their CROCUS festival.

Check their blog. They post reviews of very good, interesting, and culturally diverse books for children.

And while I'm shamelessly touting my own horn, I might as well mention that I gave another interview, but in French, a couple of weeks ago. Of course, I couldn't mention it here because of this little big problem with my Internet connexion. My Francophone friends and family members who grumble about having to read in English for my sake will be happy to be able to sail through that interview. Check out the blog of an incredibly productive, multilingual fellow writer, and crosscultural global nomad, Jo Ann von Haff, Ladybirdisms.

Diwali !

2009-10-22T16:05:00.004+05:30

My experience of Diwali has gone through its own little process ever since we first arrived in India, five years ago. I must say that UNICEF basically parachutes its staff and their family in their duty station without so much as a booklet about the local customs (I'm not even asking for cultural training, here), so you're basically to fend for yourself, and that's what we do, learning by trial and error.

When my husband first arrived in Hyderabad, in May 2004, he spent a month trying to find a house. Without success. Most gated communities which have since sprung out were not built yet, and all he could find were monsters of houses, some complete with ball rooms, three or four floors, ridiculous layouts (kitchen miles away from the dining room), or houses that were more the type of things we were looking for, only, the owner wanted us to keep his furniture, and we didn't want that. So, when I landed in August, with our 4-year old, and six-weeks old baby, we settled into a hotel room, where we ended up spending two months, until we moved into what is still our house, on October 16. As an aside, this is the longest I've spent in the same house in thirty years !

One of my prerequisites, when looking for a house, is light. I need lots and lots and lots of it. And one of the things that I loved when we visited our house was that it has huge windows everywhere. Light comes pouring in from practically every angle. Of course, it's a nightmare, in the summer heat, but I wasn't thinking about that. And anyway, I'd rather be hot than live in the dark.

So, we move into our brand new house (the reason it took so long was that it was still being built), and of course, there are NO curtains anywhere, no blinds, no nothing. The first thing we did was order curtains rods, buy fabric and have curtains made. As the taylor actually comes to your house with his little sewing machine, that was done quite fast. But we didn't want curtains in the living-room. We wanted blinds made of wood or bambou. The guy who came to take the measurements promised they would be ready in two weeks, and, well, these two weeks turned out to be two months.

Now, here I am, in my very pretty, still very empty house that feels somehow like a glass house, especially when it's dark. The nanny and the housekeeper have left. I'm giving dinner to the children. My little one is three and half months by then. She's holding her head, but not sitting yet. It is quiet out there - much more than it is, nowadays. My husband is at work.

Suddenly, I hear shooting and explosions. And I don't mean a lonely shot or a single explosion. No. I mean Beyrouth ! The sounds surround me and go staccato all over the place, and I don't know where they come from, what it is, and what the hell is going on, except that it feels like what I imagine the middle of a war zone must be like. So, I grab my two kids, run up the stairs to the Master bedroom where I can quickly draw the curtains, and we sit on the bed. Baby is in my arms, crying. Kora is scared. And I'm so totally freaked out, I'm going out of my mind.

Happy Diwali !!!

Now, I hadn't been living in a vacuum, and I knew that the Festival of Lights was coming. But no one had told me that the lights come with a deafening accompaniement of firecrackers, fireworks, and what not. We found our rooftop carpeted with all the junk left by the various firecrakers and fireworks the following day. I mean, buckets and buckets of the stuff. And it went on for a whole week.

This is a story I like to tell, now, but I wasn't laughing that night. So, when time came for Diwali, the following year, we decided to go and visit Kerala, which is a mainly Christian state, and where Diwali is celebrated here and there, but in a nice, low-key fashion.

In 2006, we went to a beach resort just outside of Mammalapuram, in Tamil Nadu, and visited Pondicherry, and again, it was a lovely, reasonably quiet Diwali.

In 2007, we escaped to ICRISAT, an enormous campus outside of town, where we rented a small flat, and enjoyed another peaceful Diwali. And finally, last year, I was either preparing the blog tour for Amadi's Snowman or smack in the middle of it, and it is a proof of the kind of timewarp I was living in that I cannot tell when or how Diwali happened, and what on earth we did, and I don't find anything in our photo files. What I do remember, though, is that I decided that we needed to buy diyas to take with us, because I was sure that I'd want to celebrate the Festival of Lights once I was no longer in India. I might not have actively partaken in the celebrations, but I already felt it had become a part of my life.

Well, as it turned out, we are still here. Also, our children are growing. Both of them go to school, and they made their own clay diyas (oil lamp as seen in the pictures), heard about the victorious return of Rama to his kingdom, etc, etc. On the morning of Diwali, they were both very secretive. We didn't hear them. And when they finally emerged, they were both wearing an identical salwar kameez, they had flowers in their hair, and bindis on their forehead. And the older, when she saw that I was wearing Western clothes, frowned, and said : "Today is Diwali, you should wear Indian ethnic clothes to show respect." Oups ! I was made to go and "at the very least" get a bindi. And my husband and I were also told that we had to buy something new ; whatever, clothes, bangles, earings, something !

In the evening, I took out our diyas, and we set them on the steps outside our house. We lit a few fire crackers (not too many, because these things are just sooo bad for the environment, not too mention earsplitting noisy), and, well, this was our best Diwali, so far.

A lizard comes knocking.

2009-10-20T12:24:00.021+05:30

It is 11 am on a school holiday, and I'm helping my daughter with her French lesson. We're sitting at the dining table, minding our own business, when we hear a rattling sound coming from the French windows that open onto a small grassy terrasse. My daughter turns, jumps, and cries : "Mom, look, there is an animal ! Look!"

Gloups. Those who know me, know that I'm not into animals as a rule. The only pets I've allowed into our household are fishes in a tank. They're pretty, silent, and don't require too much work. I might have relented and gotten a cat (I always loved their elegance and their independent streak,) but my husband is allergic. End of story. Of course, I don't mention the geckos that grace our walls. I've grown totally used to having those around. They don't bother me, and I don't bother them. They're actually very useful as they eat insects. But that's as far as it goes.

So here I am, wondering - somewhat anxiously - what to expect. I mean, we have stray dogs, the occasional neighborhood cat, plenty of frogs, a rooster who crows at the most unlikely hours, a bird who adopted the outside staircase that leads to our rooftop, and regularly comes to hatch her eggs (half her babies get ripped apart by the monkeys, in spite of our efforts to protect them), and plenty of snakes, I hear, although I've so far managed to avoid seeing them. And of course, outside the gate, we have the buffaloes, the camels, the goats, the occasional sacred cow, and a few years back, we even had a black panther roaming the streets.

Well, this time, it's a three-feet monitor lizard !

We saw one on a road in Sri Lanka, so I know what it is. And even though I'm terrified of reptiles (I can't even look at a picture of a snake or a crocodile in a dictionary) that one does look pretty harmless. My daughter, of course, is jumping up and down, excited, and yet a bit grossed out, too. It is really quite bizarre.

Anyway, we look at it for a minute, take pictures, and I say, cool as a cucumber : "OK, it's just walking around. Let it be, and let's get back to work."

We sit down at the table, but a few minutes later, we hear that rattling sound again. Our friend is back. And it does look like it is trying to get in. I mean, look at that, right ?

We see it go around the terrasse a couple of times, and it becomes obvious that the poor thing is trapped. What to do ? The security guard calls the neighbor's mahi who shows up a few minutes later with a huge stick. Not at all what I have in mind. I somehow locate the phone number of the Friends of Snakes Club, call them, and, surprise ! a guy answers who not only speaks English, but tells me they'll be there in 30 mns. Ok, this is India, and I'm not holding my breath, but I've done what I could.

We try to get back to work, but it's hard. After a while of silence, we wonder where the lizard went. It is no longer on the terrasse. Maybe these guys will show up for nothing. We look for the lizard all over the place, and find it on the side of the house, crawling on the wall that goes down to the room where we hang our laundry to dry. Well, maybe it did find its way out. Then, the guys from the Friends of Snakes Society DO show up. On a motorcycle. I wonder how they will take that lizard to release it in the forest, but wait, we'll find out...

Now, the poor lizard, who's not the brightest on the block, honestly, has managed to walk into a drain pipe that's no more than three and half inches in diameter. How, I don't know. But it's stuck. See the guy holding its tail ? He's pulling, pulling, but the lizard is not moving.

They want me to break the opening of the drain pipe. No kidding ! Of course, I refuse. Come on. I'm not going to break the house for a lizard with no sense of orientation, and stupid enough to go stick itself into a hole twice too small to fit it.

So, our guys open a trap, and these HUGE coackroaches start coming out. Now can you see the scene ? I'm standing outside, shouting, so are my two girls, and then I'm running to the kitchen to get the spray to kill these BEASTS, all the time yelling to them to CLOSE THE TRAP RIGHT NOW !

Now, while I'm gone, don't ask me how, these guys actually get the lizard out. I mean, look at its
belly. It's HUGE.

So, now, the rescuers ask for a pillow cover. No plastic bag. Our friend wouldn't be able to breathe nicely.

I find a large hotel laundry bag, and they're happy.

See? Who needs a big car, if you can carry your wandering lizard (or snake) in a pillow case ?

Well, that's it, Folks ! End of this new episode in the ongoing series : Our Incredible Life in India !

Unplugged...

2009-10-19T12:21:00.002+05:30

Against my will, needless to say. Thirteen days without Internet. And I still don't know why. I called, and called, and called. Got different stories, according to the person I managed to get a hold of (not many, and not often.) First, it was the weather. Then, it was the construction work going on in the area around our house. Then, it was a power problem. But then I was told that they were updating their system... ? No one ever called or even sent an sms to let me know why, or how, or when, or what the heck. And this morning, I tried, without much hope, and... it works !!! I still don't know why, or how, or what... A lot of people here pay two service providers to avoid this type of problems. I must say this is the longest I've had to go without Internet, in the five years we've been here. Still, I was starting to fume.

To come : a post about the unexpected visit of a three feet monitor lizard at our house. Good to be back !

Dandiyas, decorated cars, and a clay doll toilet.

2009-09-29T22:35:00.018+05:30

It rains, and rains, and rains in Hyderabad. And here are a few tidbits from the last few days...

On Saturday, we finally attended a Dandiya dance ! I say finally because I’ve wanted to do this ever since I saw that scene in the movie “Bride and Prejudice,” with beautiful Aishwarya Rai.

The Dandiya dance is usually held during the Navaratri festival, a 9-night long festival (Navara means 9, ratri means night in Sanskrit) which ends with Dushera, the immersion of statues of the Goddess Durga, and the burning of ten-headed effigies of Ravana (picture) who abducted Sita, Lord Rama’s wife, and took her to Sri Lanka, where Rama finally rescued her and killed Ravana. It is the festival of the Victory of Good over Evil.

Once more, I was reminded how I never feel so alive as when I’m, either dancing, or partaking in some celebration that allows me a glimpse into another culture. So, I was doubly blessed, on Saturday. What a sight it was to see all these Indian ladies, young and not so young, dressed in beautiful saris and glittering gagras, dancing round and round with their dandiyas (decorated bamboo sticks) !

Where there is dance, there I am, ready to fumble until I manage to understand and reproduce a number of steps, so I’m happy to report that I had an absolute ball ! It was funny, also, to notice the similarities between some of the rhythms, and those of the Senegalese Sabar dancing I used to do, while living in New York.

And this afternoon, as I stood at a crossing, a few minutes walk from my house, waiting for the bus that brings my children back from their new school, I couldn’t help but smile - fondly - as I saw all the cars, motorcycles and bicycles all decorated with flower garlands. This is also part of the Navarathri festival : a pooja where all manners of tools and implements used in the everyday life are worshiped.

The bus usually brings stories along with my children, as they adjust to their new school : it is also an international school, but Indian-run. They have several campuses across India, and the one they opened in Hyderabad, a year ago, is nothing short of beautiful. Their philosophy is sound, they offer lots of sports and extracurricular activities, and they’re academically much stronger than the previous school (the reason we decided to shift our children, in spite of the heartache of having them leave their friends - thankfully, a bunch of kids shifted, too, so that they both have friends from their previous class with them).

Sometimes, the stories are funny, and other times, they make me cringe. Today, my older daughter shared her disappointment at seeing the teacher of the clay pottery class destroy what she’d spent an entire period working on : a toilet for her Playmobils. Apparently, and even though the teacher had given them all latitude to do anything they wished, she found that making a toilet was “nonsense.” Knowing the sanitation situation in India, and the stigma attached to anything related to a toilet (let’s not forget that to this day, among the Hindus, cleaning a toilet is something that only those from the lowest castes are expected to do) I suppose I could say that such strong, knee-jerk reaction is understandable. That is the culturally aware approach. Then, there is the mother’s approach, who really balks at the thought that a teacher could destroy a child’s work, something to which she dedicated time and energy - and knowing my daughter, I bet it was a very pretty toilet because she’s quite the artist, and really has an eye for detail. I mean, come on, what’s so wrong about creating a little doll toilet out of clay?

Robin Pascoe's A Broad Abroad's Book Trailer

2009-09-16T09:17:00.004+05:30

I'm waiting for Robin Pascoe's last book to travel the maze of the Indian Post Office all the way to my hands. In the meantime, we can watch the trailer. Don't you just LOVE that cover ?

TCKID, hacker attack, and the need to back up

2009-09-15T09:10:00.005+05:30

I can't remember how I came across the TCKID community. A grassroots project started by a young TCK, Brice Royer, and strongly supported by Ruth E. Van Reken, co-author with David Pollock of Third Culture Kids : The Experience of Growing Up Among Worlds, they count 21 000 members, and 13 local groups from Singapore to NYC. They have (had, actually, but read on) a website, and Brice Royer filmed several You Tube videos where he shares his experience about growing up a Third Culture Kid.

Of course, I immediately subscribed. Then, today, I received an email saying that the website was shut down, following a hacker attack on Wordpress. Read about that, here.

As an aside, it suddenly downed on me that blogs can disappear, and if I didn't back mine up, well, who is to know what could happen? Do YOU back up your blog ? That thought had never even occurred to me, but I'm glad it's done, now. (and easy to do, too. Go to the help section, and follow the instructions. Of course, I downloaded a whole lot of undecipherable lingo, but I suppose that's normal.)

Anyway, any expat reading this can check the TCKID community, and answer their call for help if they want to. I know I'd like my children to be able to count on this kind of support, as they grow up. Follow this link, if you want to find out more.

Khalil Gibran said it so well...

2009-09-14T11:48:00.001+05:30

My recent post on raising Third Culture Kids across diverse cultures, here, reminded me of Khalil Gibran's inspiring and oh! so humbling poem : "On Children." Thought I'd post it here, for easy reference.

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

A beautiful picture to celebrate the blog's new background

2009-09-11T11:19:00.003+05:30

Well, considering it's been a while since my last move (five years in the same house, this had not happened to me since I was a child) and I'm feeling seriously fidgety, I've been trying to think of ways to bring a little change into my life. I first moved the furniture around my office. And now, I've also changed my blog's background.

Finally, here comes a picture of Isabella, in California. It's been a while since I posted a pic of a child reading "Amadi's Snowman." Isn't she adorable ? Thank you, Isabella. I'm so happy you enjoyed the book. And thanks, Tina, for sending me the photo.

I'm not my children, and my children will not be me (thank Goodness for them)

2009-09-10T11:02:00.027+05:30

There is an interesting article from Kerrie Wiseman in the Expat Women Newsletter, this month, about the kind of conflicting feelings parents may experience as they watch their children grow up and integrate the ways of a culture different from their own. I can certainly relate to that !

Now, I will not dwell on the numerous and well documented positives of growing up a Third Culture Kid. Nor do I need to stress, again, the fact that I strive on being an expat (not saying it's not an arduous and lonely road to travel a lot of the time, just that I seem to strive on that road - or maybe I've followed it for so long, I can't even remember how to branch onto another one, but that would be the subject for another post). I do believe it would be very hard for me to have to return permanently to my birth country after spending half my life all over the place. I was never such a good French to begin with, anyway. My Spanish half was always a part of me that I nurtured and felt very proud of, even though it set me apart from most everyone else. And yet, I can be sooo very French at times (as I realized again this summer while visiting my newly expatriated brother in Madrid ; even as I basked in the feelings of familiarity, I also experienced some culture shock of my own, to my astonishment). So, not only do I truly love some aspects of the French culture, I confess that I would like to see my children embrace them.

Kerrie Wiseman mentions very accurately that in the excitement of preparing for an expatriation, a person does not, for one minute, imagine all the implications that this new adventure will have. We can all plan. We can think ahead. But we can never imagine how living in a culture different from our own will end up moulding our children. And yet, it is inevitable. The exposure to different ways of living, experiencing and doing things will have an impact on them.

I try to prepare myself for that eventuality. I do tell myself regularly that this comes with the whole package. There are always two sides to a coin, etc.

Of course, that's the rational, logical part of my brain talking. We could also call it wishful thinking. Because the other more emotional and spontaneous part of that same brain will sometimes make me act in ways that have my hair stand on end... retrospectively :

"Don't eat with your hands, only pigs eat like that." I won't even comment on the absurdity of such statement. I mean, since when do pigs eat with their "hands" ??? But yes, I confess that these words have escaped my mouth a couple of times, only to leave me sweating, wondering how I could utter such enormity after years of living in two different countries where eating with the right hand is just the norm, and not considered pig behavior at all, Madame ! My only excuse is that I heard these words as I was growing up, because in Europe, eating with your hand was and still is labelled pig behavior. And the first mother or father who does not sometimes catch themselves uttering sentences that make them feel as if their own parents just spoke through their mouth can just throw the first stone at me.

Or, I'll find myself giving philosophical lectures to my bewildered children :

A few months after we arrived in India, I once heard my not quite 5-year old say in a sing-song voice, as I was changing her baby sister : "Shame, shame, shame !" "What do you mean, shame ?" I asked. She proceeded to explain that at school, whenever a kid showed a naked butt (going to the bathroom, or such, these were Kindergarten children) someone would laugh at them and sing "Shame, shame, shame." Imagine me going out of my way to explain that NO BODY PART IS SHAMEFUL. We were all made the same, with arms and legs, and a head, and a nose, and a mouth, and YES, a butt, too, and that butt is mightily useful, so where is the shame, I ask you ? Right. As if all that ranting wasn't going to fly miles over my 4-year-old's head. And yet, I've also learned that kids living in between cultures do learn to act a certain way here, and another, there. Basic survival, most likely. So, who is to know for sure whether my discourse might have an impact in the long run ? I can only do what feels right at any given time, and hope for the best.

One last example, to follow the writing rule of three :

The French in me, who tends to like understated elegance, also finds it hard, sometimes, to remain silent when she sees the way her two kids just LOVE piling up colors, and glitter, and bangles, and anklets, and bindis, and beads on them until they can barely move (the way an Indian bride, however gorgeous, looks with all the jewelry and heavy saris).

These are obvious (and in the last case rather innocuous) ways in which our children will be influenced by another culture, but there are others, more insidious.

What to think, for instance, of the fact that both my daughters have now lived in places where women are constantly diminished and treated with utmost disdain - when not unbearable violence ? Or, what to think of the fact that Bolly and Tollywood movie posters lining the streets of Hyderabad always show men in macho situations, wielding weapons, guns, knives, sabers, and their women counterparts are either threatened, or looking all teary and suitably helpless ?

Should I voice my disapproval, as in the shame-shame case ? Or should I wait for the subject to come up naturally ? How does one broach such big subjects with children, in a way that will impact them, but without being too forceful ? What is the right age to do it ? There again, I can only rely on my gut instinct, and learn by trial.

I could also mention how they use the word "maid" in a way that I can never get used to (not to mention that I barely ever use that word myself). It's not that they're scornful or rude. But their assumption is clearly that a maid is someone you go to when you need something done that you'd rather not do yourself. Like picking up your toys. And it honestly doesn't matter that Mom has repeatedly asked her house help (or nanny when we had one) to NOT be at the beck and call of the little tyrants. If Mom turns her back, the children know they can get away with basically anything. Not to mention that there are "maids" at school, too, and the way that some local children treat them is not lost on our kids.

And on and on. I remember hearing an expat with roots in two West-African countries tell me that after a few years in New York, they had decided to take their children (who where entering their teenage years) back home. I'm always careful not to throw all African countries in the same pot, but in this case, home WAS Africa to these people, because they felt that the values they trusted and wanted their children to grow up with could only be found back on the continent. Said children have now gone on to have extremely successful international careers, by the way.

A lot of expatriates decide to go home when their children become teenagers. Because it's hard to move them around - they become vocal, and friendships being so important to them, they understandably don't want to be changing places every two or three years. Do their parents also feel that at such an important stage of their lives, their children ought to be in a place that will instill the kind of cultural values that they themselves are attached to (as in the case of our friends, above) ? What to do when the parents do not have the choice ? Or, as in our family, when the parents themselves are culturally mixed ? I have a few years left to ponder that question.

In the meantime, I try to prepare myself for the fact that my children will turn out to be their own selves. This is an evidence that all parents struggle with at one time or another, but the parents of Third Culture Kids have that extra dimension to deal with : our children will grow up to become their own person according to their talents, their personality, AND the way their diverse cultural experiences shaped their ways of thinking, and behaving, too.

So, what do we do when we see our children embrace ways that don't quite resonate with us ?

I, for one, try to make a distinction between knee-jerk reactions caused by simple habit or taste (as in my example about understated vs. over-the-top fashion taste) and core issues that may impact negatively my children's sense of themselves and their own value.

In the last case, my approach will continue to be a mixture of explaining, lecturing, and generally throwing my weight around in every way that will help me make my point - with a lot of fumbling in between.

When dealing with simple cultural differences like eating habits, there is what is done outside, and what we do at home. Indians often use their fingers to eat, and we, at home, eat with a fork and a knife. But I'm also aware of the need for me to broaden my comfort zone so as to include my children's experience as much as I possibly can. What if one of my daughters were to become a fashion designer or an artist whose creations would wear the stamp and influence of her years in India ? Guess where Mom would be sitting, clapping and bursting with pride ? First row, of course, understated chic clothes and all.

I may need to gather a collection of mantras about letting go (it always comes down to that, doesn't it? This should be integrated into every curriculum across the world : a course on the art of letting go) to help with said broadening of my own comfort zone (a never-ending endeavor for serial expats like me.)

I have also pasted a quote by Harry Truman where I can see it often : " I have found the best way to give advice to your children is to find out what they want and then advise them to do it." This is a perfect example of a profoundly sound advice - if only it weren't so difficult to follow. So, I harbor the secret hope that by having the words around me, their full meaning will slowly penetrate my entire self until the day I wake up and discover I'm now able to implement its message.

Just don't hold your breath.

Baffled !

2009-09-07T15:14:00.004+05:30

Well, this is yet another departure from my usual posts, but I just have to share how baffled I am, these days, whenever I read about the number of people who have reportedly died of shock (?), or by committing suicide, after the helicopter crash that costs its life to Andhra Pradesh's recently reelected Chief Minister, Y.S. Reddy. 122 people, according to some newspapers. But why ? What does this achieve ? M. Reddy's son had to come on TV and beg people not to commit suicide anymore.

Life seems to have so little value, in India. People commit suicide for the most absurd (to me, at least) reasons : children commit suicide because they received a bad grade, or failed an exam, parents commit suicide because their child had a bad grade or failed an exam, a mother will commit suicide because her daughter or son decided to marry someone who doesn't meet the family's approval, etc, etc. Now, some of the reasons here may be explained. Maybe. Upholding the family's honor is paramount, here (as in other societies, after all.) You don't want to face the shame. It's just too hard to have to live with it. Okay, fine.

But to commit suicide or go into cardiac arrest because a political leader died suddenly ? Nope, I don't get it.

Amadi gets his own podcast review

2009-09-03T08:49:00.004+05:30

What a nice surprise - and a new experience for me, also... hearing people talk about the book, explain why they like it, only I can't see them. Listen to Andrea Ross and Mark Blevis at Just One More Book as they talk about Amadi's Snowman.

Thank you, Andrea and Mark.

A trip to "the necessary", anyone?

2009-08-27T10:41:00.004+05:30

This is a bit of a departure from my usual themes, but I've began working on a new translation, and came across a word I'd never seen used as a noun before. The necessary.

You'll find a whole lot of interesting information about it, here. But I really liked the little study I found here. I never knew that the word "loo" used by my British friends (God forbid anyone should say "toilet") actually came from the French. And the reason why is hilarious. Of course, after visiting a few medieval castles over the summer, and hearing about the habits of the time, I can't say I'm surprised that the servants would throw the content of the bedpans out of the windows with a simple warning : "regardez l'eau." And of course, all the stories about our kings' habits have entertained French children for the longest time (maybe also children in other countries, but I have no experience, there.)

I also found it interesting that the Esperanto language uses a word so similar to the American word I'm trying to translate as accurately as possible. Necesejo.

But I'm paid to translate into French, not into Esperanto, and so I may have to settle for Le Petit Coin - if it was good enough for Molière, it's good enough for me, too - even though I'm not entirely satisfied. "Petit coin" (little corner) has something cute about it that doesn't match the more down to earth, austere feeling of the word "necessary."

So, was that an interesting entry, or what?

"First Draft Blues!"

2009-08-25T10:30:00.007+05:30

Being back home with the kids back at school doesn't only mean that I have more time for myself, but also that I get to sit in my office, instead of the dining table in the middle of the living room, and also that I can catch up on blog reading - a bit. Just stumbled upon this post, today, and found it so relevant to what I'm going through, now, and so often, that I just have to share. Go visit Heather Vogel Frederick's blog, Set sail for adventure. There are some gems, there.

I particularly like Jo Knowles' contribution. He must be one of those writers who don't outline: "Writing a first draft is like trying to assemble a giant jigsaw puzzle without getting to look at the picture first."

Another favorite, from Rukhsana Khan: "Writing a first draft is like stepping off a cliff and hoping the story will catch you."