Accidental Tourist

WARNING: Anyone out there with a weak constitution should not read this email. It contains graphic scenes of emotional outpouring from an intermittently homesick Aussie grappling with the London mid-winter blues. It is recommended that anybody who may be offended by any such self-indulgent behaviour cease reading and delete this email now.

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I had the pleasure of spending last weekend in Paris. It was the first time I’d had the delight of being in France. I can happily say that I had a great time. After spending years looking forward to having the chance to experience French culture and cuisine my first taste didn’t let me down. I can say that one weekend is nowhere near enough. I’m looking forward to having the chance to go back there for longer and even live there for a while if I can make it happen.

Once thing I did realise while I was there was how much of a romance I’ve always had in my own mind with France. For years I’ve always had a great interest in going there and experiencing the culture for myself. And, as I said, even after all these years of building it up the country didn’t disappoint.

At one point while I was sitting by the Seine in St Germain savouring a coffee (I’ve been living on English coffee for the last 6 months so it was exciting for me to drink decent coffee again) it occurred to me where this romance came from. I had a sudden flash back to a Wodonga High School French classroom with Mrs Morgan up the front struggling to control a bunch of petulant 13-14 year-old kids while trying to instil in them an understanding of the world outside their small country town. By trying to teach them how to count from 1-10 in a foreign language she was trying to broaden their horizons and let them know that there is a whole world out there to be explored. By starting a French Club and organising lunch time activities like playing Bocce or cooking crepes she was encouraging them to escape their local confines and go out there and see the world for themselves.

I can gratefully say now that I’m one of the ones who she managed to reach and make a difference to. I might not have appreciated it at the time when I was being sent to time-out for acting the fool (I can unfortunately say that Mrs Morgan was the only teacher who ever had the misfortune of having to kick me out of a classroom), but when I look back now I realise that she successfully managed to plant the seeds of thought in my adolescent mind. Although nowadays about the only French I can speak is 1-10 or ‘Do you speak English?’, I went to France wanting nothing more then to see for myself this exotic culture I had always heard so much about.

Nowadays it seems like a world away when I look back with fondness on those days when I wondered why the hell would I ever need to speak French. I look back and wish if only I had paid more attention and let a little bit more sink in I could have been conversing with these strangers in their own language, rather then having them look down on me because I kept asking them to speak in English.

I look back now from London to a time and place that is not only an age but also half a world away and wish that I had the chance to go back and say thank you to Mrs Morgan for the effort she made. It may have taken years to come about but now that I’m out experiencing it for myself I realise that I do have an appreciation for the world outside the small country town of Wodonga and how lucky I am to have it.

The other thing I’m only starting to appreciate now is the small country town I will always think of as home. The more of the world I see the more I realise just what I left behind and how lucky I am for having such humble beginnings. My appreciation for the world may have started in a small town, but I’m starting to gain my appreciation of my small town from the world.

Hi All

It’s been a while for some but here’s a bit of story from a recent trip to India where I was lucky enough to be sent to do some research for work (which is still in London for anyone who is wondering).

Enjoy
Ben

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The frenetic intensity of the pounding four man percussion band would have done any London dance club proud. For over five hours their hectic drum beating fuelled the feverish dancing and celebrations as my adopted family paraded their Ganesha mandel through the streets of Mumbai before ceremoniously immersing him in the ocean as part of their Ganapati festival celebrations.

The festival celebrates the birthday of Ganesha, the elephant-headed son of Shiva and Parvati, who is widely worshipped as the supreme god of wisdom, prosperity and good fortune by Hindis. The main ritual of the celebrations involves a family inviting into their home a Ganesha mandel (an ornately decorated plaster of Paris statue of Ganesha) and taking care of him for several days before parading him to the seaside where he is immersed in water and asked to return again next year. I was fortunate enough to be invited into a family’s celebrations by a local girl, Shifali, who I met on my travels.

The worshipping and celebrations started in the family’s small, two bedroom flat with a series of prayers and offerings (of which I timidly partook after much persuasion from the family), which had been ongoing for the previous three days they had welcomed Ganesha into their home. With much candle waving and incense burning the Ganesha mandel was ceremoniously carried out on the street where he was carefully placed onto a waiting wooden cart and surrounded by flower garnishings and food offerings.

Once the cart and Ganesha were ready the band begun the procession by starting its frenetic rhythmic beat on their drums. Matching the band’s vigour, the men of the group led the way down the street with their frenzied dancing (myself included whether I liked it or not), quickly working up a sweat in the oppressive humidity of the monsoon season. The women followed close behind pushing the cart and taking care of the Ganesha mandel ensuring that he came to no harm during his lengthy journey to the seaside.

Slowly, at a pace in contrast to the beating drums, the procession danced its way down the partially tarmaced and potholed streets. We started in the sparse dilapidated housing blocks on the outskirts of town, situated in fields littered with rubble, rubbish, makeshift tarpaulin shacks and fetid pools of water left by the monsoon rains. As we made our way into the nearby town the muddy streets became crowded with people, buses and motorised rickshaws, all trying to force their way through the somehow flowing chaos of day to day life on Indian city streets.

From time to time the band would have to stop as we had to negotiate a particularly rough patch of road. As the group guided Ganesha’s wooden cart over the potholes the silence would be filled with repeated calls of “Ganapati Bupta!”, to which the crowd would respond “Moria!”, a chant I’m told is roughly equivalent to Hallelujah – Praise the Lord.

In town, our procession was watched from shop fronts or through grated windows above by a sea of faces curious of the sound but knowing of its source. Although we caused a major traffic jam, nobody minded. Most onlookers were happy to watch the celebrations and enjoy the spectacle of our, at times, convulsive dancing.

From time to time we passed other groups of celebrators returning from the seaside where they had immersed their Ganesha mandel in the water. These groups were clearly marked by their pink tinted appearance created by the red dye powder used to both mark faces and throw in the air as part of the celebrations.

As day slowly became night the fairy lights decorating the streets took over, masking the poor condition of the streets and adding to the festive atmosphere. As we came closer to the seaside more and more groups of celebrators started coming together on the streets, until the normal street traffic was replaced by only dancing processions.

After hours had disappeared unnoticed to the dancing we reached the seafront to be confronted by a mass of people patiently waiting their turn to reach the water. Once final prayers and wishes had been whispered into his ear, the son of our family carefully carried Ganesha to the waiting crew of a boat. The crew then took him, along with dozens of other mandels, a short distance from the shore where, with a prayer, they ceremoniously immersed him into the water, bringing an end to the celebrations for this year.

Although I started the day a stranger invited in to their home by their daughter, after a few hours of dancing with them in the street I was considered a member of the family that they didn’t want to leave. I began the afternoon quietly sitting in the family lounge room as a stranger, watching a tradition completely foreign and unknown to me, trying to overcome the barriers thrown up by language and culture. In the end language became no barrier as it was lost amongst the intense thumping of the drums. Instead communication became based on the cross cultural language of dancing and shared smiles. Despite barely being able to conduct a conversation with many of them, by the time I left to fly home to London I had developed an intimacy and bond with the family far stronger then any that the spoken word could create.

A short video of the procession:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HhEtfegThh0

The usual photos of the day:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/bc_melbourne/sets/72157594481098613/

More info about the festival itself if you’re interested:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ganesh_Chaturthi

Australia day in London is a strange thing.

When catching the last tube home last night after being at an Aussie BBQ (even in the cold) it was impossible not to know that it was Australia day. It seemed like every one of the 200 000 odd Aussies living in London were on the last trains home. They were clearly marked by cheeks covered in Oz flag stickers, heads covered in Fosters branded Akubra hats and flags being waved or worn as capes. Even those who didn’t make the effort to dress up were still somehow clearly recognisable.

My whole trip home was full of drunken conversations with random Aussies. You’d take one look at each other, recognise a fellow Aussie and spark up a drunken conversation – usually starting with “Happy Australia day”. When have you ever wished somebody a “Happy Australia day”? I don’t remember ever having done it at home. Yesterday it was happy Australia day’s all round.

Australia day in London takes on an increased significance, particularly for those fresh off the boat. To most people back home Australia day generally just means a day off and as good a reason as any to have a BBQ and a few beers in the sun. But to those people who are still experiencing the new found pride in their national identity that comes from living outside your own culture for the first time, Australia day is a perfect chance to say to all those foreigners around you that I am Australian and I’m proud of it. Most people are happy to say it loudly too - who has ever painted their face just to go to the pub in Australia ?

I’ve been to the “Australian cultural Mecca ” that is the Shepherds Bush Walkabout on Australia day. I’ve been drunk on snake bites and sung along (loudly) to Cold Chisel and Men at Work. I may well have had to be somewhat drunk to do it, but I did have a damn good time and revelled in the chance to be patriotic with like minded countrymen all enjoying our new found bond that comes from living on foreign soil.

Debates around when it is and isn’t appropriate wave a flag seem to have become a permanent feature in all the papers back home. Here is London wearing the flag draped around your shoulders isn’t about being racist or protagonist, it’s just about being proud of who you are.