Looking Scruffy Is Selfish

Initially, I assumed leaving Perth and stepping into a new world in Paris would equal utter anonymity….allowing me to behave and dress however I wanted. The idea that not knowing anyone meant I could dress badly whenever I chose to, or taking the Metro, hungover, at 5am, would be a treat, because who would judge an innocent teen after a night out on the town? This concept soon became a consequence, as I soon understood that: “Looking scruffy is selfish!”

Take wearing track-pants for example. What an atrocity! Sundays were made for wearing trackies and flip-flops, and burying your head in the closest English Breakfast you can find. Initially I assumed people were just staring at my unbrushed hair, hungover head and zombie eyes, which I could cope with. It wasn't actually until I learnt the word for track-pants in French “Pantalons de jogging” that I realised passer-byers were not disgusted by my state of health, but rather my state of fashion. I recognised these “pantalons de jogging” were an item of clothing not even worn by people jogging...because looking scruffy is selfish. If I dress like a slob, I'm letting down the whole city.

Coming to terms with the emphasis on appearances is tough. For me it's normal to have good days and bad days, and besides, dressing down has its advantage: it makes you look extra good when you decide to dress up. But try telling that to a Frenchman. Rigorous self-maintenance is imbued from birth. 

Growing up, your parents will tell you that you need at least “one good outfit” for special occasions, and the rest of your wardrobe can be casual. This concept was not easily accepted by my French girl-friends. For them, it's the opposite: “One bad outfit.” (I’m yet to witness one of these departing from a wardrobe.)

In my defence, I have grown up with three brothers and a very natural mother, so I was in no way prepared for the make-up wearing, sexy, stylish Frenchies. “What even is a gee-string?” A family friend in Perth said to my mum: “Paris will be good for her, will teach her how to be a lady, away from those brothers of hers.” C'mon now! Admittedly, my style has changed. In Paris there is no such edginess. The French don't dress to make political statements like in London. They are not ones for irony or innovation when it comes to fashion. Unlike in Perth, they don't want to stand out for looking alternative or different. Even the Grannies here kill it. I'll never forget the time I helped a woman, who looked about 100, onto the bus next to my school. She was rocking customised, gold New Balance trainers.

The phrase “less is more” has never been more apt. The distance you will go in Paris with a pair of fitted jeans, a white t-shirt, leather jacket and sneakers is quite uplifting. So, you want to avoid comments like “Tess shorts arrrr for tourists! If it's ot you wear ze cotton pants” from a teacher at my university. My response was showing her Google’s photo definition of a “bogan,” which nearly gave her a heart attack. The key to a healthy mindset is trying not to care. Easier said than done! I'm not Effy from “Skins.”

However, a quality of my French friends that I really have come to love, is that if you have shit in your teeth or any unsightly defect, they will tell you straight up. At first I thought it was uncalled for, when I had a French friend actually tell me my feet needed a pedicure because my soles were not well maintained. Of course in my head I was all “Well ex-squeeze me! But you did not grow up walking on burning bitumen to get to a sandy beach? Do you even know what bitumen is? Bit(ch?)”

Instead I sucked it up and replied calmly “I'll be sure to get myself a Ped-o-Egg” Mind you, feet were a very sensitive topic at the time. Since leaving Australia, having feet that could live harmoniously and bare, without any form of coverage, was something I missed the most about home.

Another personal favourite is my new French acquaintance who remarked “Tu as un bouton la.” (“You have a pimple there”) Really? No, really? Well gee, thanks, I didn't notice the untamed beast that has haunted me in the mirror every time I go to brush my teeth. I needed you: the random person I've had casual drinks with several times, to whisper it in my ear as though my face has committed a crime so bad I ought to stay in next time!

When it comes to fashion your individualism will undoubtably be affected because inevitably a Parisian will pick you up on it. But like Paris, the mindset of Parisians really grows on you. You start to accept that you’re not in Australia, and instead of pining over cultural clashes, you embrace the fact that your French friends won't hesitate to tell you if you put on weight or look like crap. That's their twisted way of telling you they care. What you see is what you get, unlike in Australia, where girls prefer to mention such flaws behind your back rather than to your face. After a year in Paris, the abruptness and honesty of the French becomes an endearing quality.

Table for two, minus "The One"

It's that time of year again. That special day where the single gets fatter, the romantic get lamer and Tinder* gets 100,000 new accounts. So if your Valentine's Day plans are already made, and they involve expensive Champagne, stuffed toys of any kind or heart shaped chocolate boxes (or you have your period) then stop reading. There's nothing here for you. But if you've already listened to “I don't need a man to make me feel good” by the Pussycat Dolls at least once this week and you’re on holiday with your parents wearing a knitted sweater, channelling Bridget Jones, please continue. Or, if you're a guy and your only pick-up line is “If you were a transformer, you'd be Optimus Fine,” well,  ’nuff said.

Let's be realistic, if you're single on this “jour d'amour” you're probably only interested in drowning your sorrows, finding a one night stand on Tinder and hoping by this time next year you have an actual relationship.

This love fest goes back centuries, but it has only gotten high tech in recent years. Are you single and ready to mingle this year but you don't have an iPhone? Then let's be honest - you're screwed. Because in this modern age, if a guy approaches you randomly on the street and asks you out, you'd be led to assume he's desperate and weird. Yet the same guy (who's still desperate and weird) sends you a “hey :)” on Tinder and he's in. So this Valentine's Day, accept defeat and get techno.

The beauty of online apps is that they really are for everyone. Even for the ugly, there are ways around it. Upload a hot photo of yourself (before your last breakup) ask to meet your date in a dark bar and tell them you'll arrive after drinks with friends (A.K.A please arrive equally as drunk so you get the impression I'm Megan Fox when really I'm Susan Boyle.)

If you're in Australia you probably shouldn't worry so much, people are more forgiving. Yet in Paris, first impressions are everything, so here are a few tips for you Aussie Battlers who have decided to give up the summer and make your way over to European winter.

If you're in France, remember, a “soirée” is not a party, don't be fooled. For us Australians the idea of a party conjures up images of a large rowdy crowd, loud music, copious amounts of alcohol, and drunken hookups with whoever our beer goggles bump us into. A country where girls can put their 'rig'* on display wearing next to nothing will actually give them a good reputation. Being objectified as a “rig”, “bird”, “Martin” or the pedophiles of 2014's favourite, a “Jartin” (juvie martin.)

Yet when you're in Paris, however, don't make the mistake of getting absolutely wasted, putting on your tiny ass shorts and not worrying about having to make small talk because everyone else is equally as drunk. Because in France a “soirée” will confront you with a small group of people, sitting in a circle sharing a bottle of wine. Whether your sober or not, you will wish you had prepared palm cards with topics being education, politics and what the new conceptual and hype places are for the pretentious youth.

Now generally foreign girls will have no trouble getting a date with a French guy, and in my recent experiences they have been, as the stereotype states, 'lovey', needy, clingy and well annoying. Obviously I had to actually go on a few dates to gain experiences so that my articles would have some factual basis/proof. So I will share what I've observed so far. Point being: Girls, if you're in Paris on Valentine’s Day you'll have no trouble getting a date. Boys however, French girls are harder to please.

So the other week I went on an actual date. (lol) So for the purpose of this article we'll call him George. For our date, George and I met ,funnily enough, at an Irish pub in The Marais. Not sure whether or not he was trying to prove he was cultured or could handle a pint (which I later found out he couldn't...) but there we were. His English was shit (no surprise) so we spoke in French the entire time. He arrived late of course wearing a suit but it was actually kind of a turn off because he was no Harvey Specter. I remarked “Oh you work in an office?” he replied “No I don't work, I study at La Sorbonne. Suits aren't compulsory but I like to look sophisticated.” An awkward silence followed, as I looked down at myself wearing jeans, New Balance trainers and a t-shirt.

The football was on. English blokes surrounded us, making jokes only I understood, followed by raucous laughter that clearly made George feel uncomfortable. He was out of his league. At that moment I really wished he just took me to some wanky French bistro so that he looked, well, more... normal. I think after that he felt the need to prove himself. So the second and third rounds of pints were ordered and of course again paid for by George, followed by a bottle of wine. Then something I wasn't prepared for happened. George was utterly wasted. Why was it awkward? Because I wasn't. He could barely walk. He looked retarded when he spoke and even the English soccer hooligans asked me “Is your boyfriend alright love?” (HE'S NOT MY BOYFRIEND F**CK!)

The next morning he attempted to send me a text in English, which read: “Hey cuttie wanto hung out some day?” followed by a text message at 4:00am in the morning saying “Je pense à toi” - I'm thinking of you”...(So anyone reading this if he sounds like your kind of man, I can slip you his real name and number)

So girls if you're alone this Valentine's Day accept that date with George because drowning your sorrows for free is always better than staying at home and watching 16 Candles, hoping that Jake Ryan will drive by in his red convertible. Guys not getting any at the soiree? Then best try your luck at a nightclub. If French girls moral compasses' are too high and they still won't have a bar of your uncouth banter, well lads there's always Café OZ.  

Happy Valentines Day. NAHT.

INDEX for anyone that isn't Australian or old that read this.
*Rig – Slang for Body “A good rig”

* Martin – Attractive girl “What a martin”
* Bird – Female “Fit bird”

* Tinder – A dating application. Google it.

Moving to Paris...

When I told my friends and family I was spontaneously moving to Paris, the jealousy and questions I was attacked with, were overwhelming. Of course, naturally, I went along with the facade for the first month, that everything here is just perfect. But actually come and live in Paris as a student and you will realise it is not always la crème de la crème. Being 18 and having just spent the last five months in India acquiescing to my inner hippie, arriving empty handed after accepting a last minute offer to study - the complete opposite of what I intended in Paris - was a bit of a change. Not to mention the fact that Ryan Air disallowed my rucksack. Thus, I arrived with nothing but my laptop, a tube of Vegemite my mother packed me and a shalwar kameez (traditional Indian dress) which was not going to gain me any points in the style department over here. Luckily I remained optimistic and ignored those who told me I was mental and it was time to come home. "You're too young" they said. Well – Sorry, Grandma, but apparently my older Brother, Cam, has already replaced me as the favourite grandchild, by taking up my role of watching Pride and Prejudice and ordering Chinese on alternate Friday nights. I have had a few incidents that have made me momentarily ask myself “Was this the right decision?” Yet due to my dignity and a family that tell me I am too erratic and make decisions too quickly, I silenced the objections. I made sure that every time we Skyped I was in high spirits, even if my pot of Nutella was hiding below the camera.

After nearly 2 months of living here, I have finally sorted my life out. However my first month here was a bit of a nightmare! I've never had to look for accommodation before, let alone by myself, via only French speaking websites. So it all came down to luck, which, sadly, I had little of. If five months of volunteering in India couldn't give me any good Karma, then I don't know what will. Arriving homeless, with no belongings, two weeks before the start of my course, was (for total lack of a cooler phrase) the biggest YOLO of my entire life. "Mum, Dad! It's fine. I'll be alright, I speak good enough French to get around, I'll find something." Well, apparently my good enough French didn't really prepare me to receive emails from creepy old French men saying you can live with me for free but you will have to be my slave. Now as much as I was amused by the terribly written novel Fifty Shades of Grey I was in no way prepared for that to become my reality… Well.. I got back on the horse (despite not being a gymnast) and continued to find somewhere to live. Now, unfortunately Paris really is quite small. One super touristy nice street can turn into a dodgy street within 500 metres. Eg. The first place I properly went to visit was in the 10th arrondissement, so I thought it would be okay? Ha ha ha… My landlord, Salah, was missing maybe 85% of his teeth but…"Hey, don't judge a book by its cover!” It's all about the apartment. Ahhh, the glory of photoshop. It's possible they were taken ten years ago when he first started to rent the apartment out, but this place bore absolutely no resemblance to what once was. The fact that he hadn't seen Step Brothers also made it hard for us to become friends, as when I awkwardly said "So much room for activities," after a long awkward silence he remarked in his French accent "Errrrr, no, errr, not really"

The barriers of humour have definitely been my biggest challenge here. None of them have ever watched Step Brothers or Anchor Man and they certainly don't get my sarcasm. Now I know it was always going to be a problem for me but Perth really does own another language altogether. One that is definitely not translatable into French. What makes French even harder is that one single word can be changed into four or more different abbreviations, completely reversed and shortened and it's called Verlan, it's similar to the concept of “pig latin” where they reverse the word and change the order of the syllables. It's the kind of thing you don't learn at school and it makes up at least 70% of the youths slang vocabulary. For example (for lack of a polite word) se défoncer (to get wasted or high). This word in Paris becomes foncedé I am défoncer -> Je suis foncedé. Now having friends who live in the south of France makes it even more difficult for me because their verlan is completely different to that of Paris and if spoken here you can look super lame (which has sadly happened to me) So in the south this same word changes from défoncer to fed, déf becomes fed. "Je suis fed" Seriously just say the real word. Another simple example crazy in french is Fou which becomes Ouf…Why?

After weeks of trying to find something, finally I found accommodation that I knew would be temporary because it was in the Ghetto (no joke,) a suburb of Paris called Bobigny. I was overstaying my welcome at my French friend’s place, so I decided to take the risk, instead of staying too long. To create a visual for you - and yes the overused "I'm not racist but" - I was in Africa. ("If you're from Africa then why are you white?" Literally how people looked at me) I knew about the immigrant problems in France, which are a very touchy subject, but living amongst it is something completely different! For example, the time I got punched by a GUY leaving the metro...that was when I knew it was time to get out of there. 'What doesn't kill you makes you stronger?' No I was feeling pretty weak and defeated. I was also getting sick of dressing down in fear of getting mugged… and bored of my Bobigny playlist, feat. Fifty Cent and Ja Rule...

This is an example of how I dressed in Bobigny

Luckily Bobigny is now just a “been there- done that” part of my life. I have finally found my own apartment in the 18^th, near Sacre Coeur, so I can finally relax and explore Pariiiii and enjoy La Vie Parisienne...

xx 

HOLI 2013 - DHARAMSHALA/MCLEOD GANJ

Little sneak peak of my Holi experience this year with an awesome bunch of travellers I met!


AND CLICK HERE FOR MY INDIA VIDEO, A COLLABORATION OF MY WHOLE EXPERIENCE 

 https://vimeo.com/72476405

 

The last of India - Overdue

Now before coming to India I assumed all clothing items brought would get worn out and ruined, thus for the most part I brought old, unattractive and modest clothing. Little did I know in the village it's all about the dress! Most people would assume beauty and compliments about appearance are generally derived from the standard of one's facial and hair maintenance and of course their figure. Yet here with the villagers it appears to be somewhat the opposite. Beauty and ones attractiveness is mostly defined by their dress. So much so that if you wear something new to school you get pinched, literally. ("New Pinch, New Pinch"). The conservative and sexually inhibiting hindu culture doesn't allow for much bodily contact so perhaps it's their way of getting a cheeky grab. 

Today I wore a long skirt for the first time as it's starting to heat up. The skirt wasn't even new I'd had it for a while, but my fellow staff had never seen me wear it so of course the pinching began. Note to self wear old and dilapidated clothing if you want to get through the day without being attacked by people pinching you left, right and centre. The power of clothing really is quite overwhelming, you could be completely wrecked and looking terrible but if you are wearing a new piece of clothing or something nice you will receive a hundred compliments. I must say though I wish I did bring a few more items of clothing as wearing the same couple of outfits everyday is getting rather boring and not to mention the amount of holes all of my clothing has endured. I've even had to borrow some of my host-dads (74)  cardigans, which lets just say are a bit matured. The amount of cow dung here also doesn't help the cause. The amount of times I have unwillingly stepped in cow feces is outlandish. You would think the pungent smell and freshly brewed heat rings would be a dead give away but no no not at all. Upon my arrival four months ago it was too cold to pick up such scents and trust me there are higher priorities such as not getting run over by a truck or getting as far afield as possible from seedy Indian men who gawk invasively. My poor converse and new balance sneakers have already been victim to such fecal matter. Only my offensive hiking boots are left, that only a mother would find appealing due to their pragmatic nature. 

Now of course there is the traditional Indian clothing that I could exhibit such as the Shalwar Kameez (long top thing/pants/scarf) It really is the most comfortable collaboration. I actually have had a few lazy days where I would just wear one to bed and wake up and go straight to school because it was too cold to change in the morning. However I prefer not to wear traditional clothing when I can avoid it because if you think receiving a small pinch for wearing something new is a pain well lets just say I might as well get rugby tackled to the ground for the attention an outsider gets given when wearing traditional clothing. Now that brings me to the Sari. I really don't know how they manage to look so elegant and graceful when wrapped up in metres of fabric like a tinned sardine. Of course I'm naturally tall and unbalanced but walking in a Sari is no romantic walk on the beach. In fact I would describe it more as a penguin waddling in the desert. Fortunately many Indian women have come up with a little cheat, the 'kitten heel.' Wearing a small heel makes it easier to walk in a Sari. Well great as if I need any more height. So there I am already a metre taller than those surrounding me, wearing flip-flops under my Sari and refusing to greet people if it means having to step forward, in fear of greeting them with a head but. 

Now cow dung aside, farm life has many perks! It is currently the start of the Summer fruit season. Living in an orchard is amazing! Fresh fruit galore. The house is filled with a new fruit by the week! This week its been cherries and lychee's and not just a few, buckets and buckets full. Literally had so many cherries we experimented with cherry pie, jam, purée, we just needed to get rid of some. Apples, plums, peaches and pears are also becoming very visible on the trees in the orchards it's epic. Not to mention mangoes! Crates and crates of mangoes flowing in, each mango is 6 rupees here which is 15cents Aussie, illegal! Home-made butter, milk and cream on a daily basis is also another major upside. Today I felt like I should get amongst it as it's often hard to lend a hand when there are so many staff here who know exactly what they're doing. Yet I persevered and drove around on the tractor with Pratabu, which probably wasn't the best idea whilst in white clothes...

I originally was going to finish my volunteering on the 15th of June however I decided to stay here with my host family until the 30th to help with the annual school function on the 29th. Winta my partner left last Thursday, however I am very lucky to have my host mums awesome grand-daughter Dheera, who's moved in to help with the function. Dheera is currently studying Theatre so we have been having a lot of fun together working on each piece for the concert. We are in charge of 3rd class who are performing Rold Dahl's Crocky-Wock The Crocodile poem, 4th Class whom we have taught the famous "You're The One That I Want" musical number from Grease, 5th Class who will perform Thriller dance by Michael Jackson that Winta choreographed before leaving and 6+7 are performing a short play 'Free the Sunbird'. We are also taking the kindergarten kids who are doing The Twist (dance) by Chubby Checkers which is hilarious and pretty much consists of Dheera and I side stage getting way too into leading the cheesy dance moves. I have officially stopped all my original classes as of last week so now everyday starts later at 11pm and consists merely of rehearsals as the concert is Saturday week! Weekends are spent socialising in Manali and organising final costumes/props. 

Only two weeks left in India before continuing my travels in Europe and I can honestly say no part of me is ready to leave! Not one for even the slightest bit of emotional or cheesy publications but I have literally had the best 4 and a half months of my life here! Living in the mountains with some new life long friends. My host family, I honestly feel like I have known them for years! Especially the grand-kids of similar ages, Dhruv, Dheera, Raghu and cousin Tara who have been awesome and have become some of my best friends! and of course little Jai and Ryan from Mumbai! Getting to know my host parents lovely daughters Piya and Jaya has also been amazing! Aswell as all the staff on the farm and students/teachers at T.I.S. Another person who made the trip unforgettable is Uncle Bob from Derbyshire, for his wisdom and support throughout my stay! But last but not least the three people who I lived with and made my entire stay extremely memorable were Bala, Jimmy and Winta. I can already picture myself on the bus back to Delhi listening to Fix You by Coldplay, eating blocks of chocolate and sobbing on some random Indians shoulder. Whoever you are I apologise in advance. 

 Tractor with Pratapu

 Fellow Teachers

 My wonderful host parents Jimmy and Bala and my volunteer partner Winta

Closest friend in India Dheera! (my host parents granddaughter)

 Favourite Aunty on the farm Jaiwanti, always looked after me!

An Indian 18th

The Monday before my birthday was shaping up to be a bit of a fail. All our other volunteer friends in the area were either going to be away or working. Dhruv (Host-mums grandson) was leaving for college the day of, and the rest of the family members were apparently going on a last minute trek. So at the start of the week I was in fear of having my first legal drink alone or with friends over Skype…great. Yet India didn't even allow that possibility either because apparently the legal drinking age here is 25…So I continued to remain pessimistic for the duration of the week. Friday came, and after school things started getting seriously suspicious. I noticed the maids were baking cakes which I hadn't seen them do since my arrival 4 months ago and my host mum said that perhaps I should go  "have a rest" it had been a long day…hmmm.  All hope however was again exacerbated when I was told by one of the six year-old grandchildren, Ryan that the cake was for Dhruv's surprise going away party to be held that night, so it's a bit unlucky your birthdays tomorrow…Thanks. 

Dhruv, Dheera, Raghu and some friends from South Africa finally arrived and I was pretty much in my pyjamas and ready for bed after a long week of what I thought were disappointments. I was then called down stairs at 11:30pm for 'Dhruv's farewell Party'. What I wasn't prepared for was the fail of a surprise soon to come. At 11:45pm after a couple of beers I remarked that it was only 15 minutes until my first 'legal' drink. Everyone awkwardly laughed and then pretended they had forgot my birthday which I believed…awkward. Then at 12pm everyone screamed surprise we didn't forget…hahhahha what a royal fail! Everyone lost it laughing and I think it's one of those things that you really had to be there to understand that because it was such a fail it was hysterically amusing. It all turned out rather wonderfully despite it's start, as we were blessed with a full-moon and warm air. We all sat outside on a big picnic rug and Dheera entertained us with her crazy Fire Poi which was awesome! 

As the beer slowly started to run out and our ears became more sensitive to the small speakers disguised by outside sounds, we decided to bring it inside for a better sound system and some cheap local birthday shots. A few more shots later, some terrible tone deaf singing and the standard deep drunken conversations about religion and the meaning of life we called it a night. Yet the sun was already well on it's way at about 5am so it wasn't much of a beauty sleep. I'm glad the weirdness stayed minimal as on Dhruv's birthday we were drinking out of antique goblets at a royal family members house (don't ask) , made pea sandwiches? and performed Uptown Girls a little too eagerly…

 So as you now know in India they like to bring in the birthday at mid-night as opposed to celebrating the night of. Pros you get to have your first drink at mid-night whoo… Cons you wake up after two hours of sleep, hungover, looking like you've aged significantly more than one year, for the rest of the family consisting of grand-parents and young grand-kids who were not apart of the previous nights antics eagerly waiting to greet you as you walk down the stairs. Now the downside of having young grand-children in the house means that sleeping in on your birthday is definitely not an option. In fact walking down the stairs was not even an option. I was forced to mattress surf down an almost vertical antique staircase still in my unflattering pyjamas...I definitely wasn't feeling like a legal adult at all. Then there they all were,  half the room was filled with hungover zombies and half was filled with cheerful chums ready to sing Happy Birthday. It was a pretty amazingly diverse group of people. 9 members from three generations of my Anglo-Indian host family, two new South-African friends Kate and Mike, Winta my volunteer partner and of course Uncle Bob aka David Attenborough (an old English friend of my host Dad). Due to Bob's presence Happy Birthday was soon followed by "Why was she born so beautiful why was she born at all, because she had no say in it her parents did it all" So I felt right at home. The day was mainly spent catching up on sleep, skyping dedicated family and friends and eating cake that was actually for me SORRY DOOV.  Dhruv then left that afternoon at what we thought was a 4:30 send off. 2 hours later roadside we finally hailed down the bus.

Now if you've ever met Uncle Bob, you'll know he loves to talk! If you thought I was chatty then times this by ten. He is a life-long mountaineer who refers to himself in his english accented Hindi as Pahari Sahib (Mountain man). He has spent his whole life climbing the Himalayas and many other peaks around the world. He is like a super chatty, friendly David Attenborough (in fact he is actually friends with David and they have a we hate Bear-Grillz club!! anyway getting off track that's another story) So due to Uncle Bobs love of story-telling my birthday dinner (as well as every other dinner since his arrival) turned into a story marathon about his good old trekking days. It lasted for so long I started to zone out however, I do recall some rather amusing lines such as "That reminds me about the time I lived in a cave" and "We were so high up the mountains his eye-balls froze" Love your work Bob! After it finally wound up we were so tired we decided to have a slumber party and watched the worlds worst horror film…Note to self don't let Dheera choose! If I had to sum it up in a minute it would involve two people getting stabbed for no apparent reason by some randoms in masks and then the credits rolled so really it was more of a comedy.

All in all it was a wonderfully unique and enjoyable birthday spent with some seriously awesome people! Also noteworthy I would like to thank all of you who have donated so far to my Birthday wish donation pool. So far I have raised $1873.50 (aussie dollars) with your help for the lovely villagers of the Kullu Valley who needed some support in the areas of education, health and clothing/toys etc. 

xx

 Jimmy, Dheera

 Dheera, Dhruv

 Waiting to farewell Dhruv

An Indian wedding after party...

Here on the farm we are blessed to have many lovely staff members (local villagers). They have taught me all the Hindi I know and how to make the worlds best chai! I have formed a close bond with them, despite the language barrier and massive cultural differences. 'Morning beti! chai chahiye? (morning child, do you want chai?) greets me every morning as I walk into the kitchen. They within themselves are like a family, all working together everyday under the same roof. The youngest maid 'Tara-Mani' aka 'Choti' (which means small) is just 17 and works the hardest! Despite how hard they work and how tired they get there is always a smile and a hug waiting for us after school. The level of respect here is astonishing. Anyone very senior to you no matter your youth is shown upper-most respect. Traditionally, youth show respect to their elders by touching their feet as if to take their blessing. Anyone younger than you that is a child is referred to as beta/beti (child) as opposed to saying their name. Anyone slightly older than you is Didi (for sister) or Bhaiya (for brother). Those a lot older than you are always uncle and aunty. Your grandparents from your Mothers side are Nana/Nani and from your Fathers Dada/Dadi.
The list basically goes on to cover every possible family member and their exact relation which is very handy. Perhaps they can't be bothered learning the names of their 200 extended family members, fair enough! I am not complaining, learning Indian names has definitely been the biggest challenge since arriving. My maturity levels were tested the most when meeting an elder man who's name was Shithead (I'm guessing a very ancient Hindi name, sounds more acceptable with an Indian accent where the th is pronounced a little different) but still…My first reaction was Sorry? Now I've actually gotten used to it considering I have four students in one of my classes with shit in their names. Parikshit, Akshit, Harshit and a girl Harshita and they are legends. Every name has a meaning which for the most part is endearing when the names have nice meanings such as Khushi - Happiness and Asha - Hope . However it can also have the opposite effect. I met a guy called Dipaka which literally means Lamp… and someone called Sajal which translates to 'moist'…hmmm maybe for a pet fish :/ 

Anyway back to the actual point of this post. Being buddies with the staff has advantages! Jaiwanti Aunty the most lovely person you will ever meet, such an all rounder! I once spent half an hour trying to teach her how to pronounce the word milk which they pronounce millllllek. It was like the cool-whip episode in family guy she just couldn't get it! Last Saturday I was lucky enough to be invited along to one of her extended family members wedding after parties. Winta was sick so I took my friend Angus along for a local experience. Now the villagers definitely do it best. There is no doubt family comes first for these people, as the crowds of villagers poured in, struggling to fit inside the walls. They actually had to rotate people in and out to eat. The first room was filled with the Uncles (senior men of the party) having a smoke and drinking their rice beer, followed by the younger girls giggling in room two, too shy to pop down stairs and check out the young lads taking up most of the back-yard. Then there were the Aunties killing it in the kitchen making the sweet chai and last but not least the V.I.P room where the bride and groom perched with their closest family/friends. No surprise Angus and I were placed in this room as we were the 'Special guests' aka Only white people…If you wanto be famous for simply being white than come to India. Simply being white can actually be a bit of a lose lose situation especially at local village parties. At this one birthday party I was given double the amount of food to everyone else. If you say no it's rude but if you say yes it's awkward because then the entire party watch you eat a second round whilst they just sit there plates empty.

At local feasts however everyone is very much equal. At this wedding for example and a few Puja's (prayer ceremonies) I've attended everyone sits in long rows on simple pieces of thin cloth outside cross-legged. Everyone is given a paper plate and then it begins…Men with big pots cover every row with about five different dishes. First comes the rice, and there is definitely no shortage! Then the dal, then various vegetable dishes, chapati, curry and sometimes meat depending on the people. Then the sweet rice. Now, lose concentration for five seconds and you will look down to find your plate has been refilled three times. These men with pots are quick and overly hospitable so keep staring at your plate for the duration of the meal to give them the 'that's enough' hand signal and you should be fine. Golden rule number one and basically the only rule you must wait until every single person has finished and then everyone stands up, folds their paper plates in unison and walks off back to the party inside. Now originally ( thought great I am a fast eater I will be forever…But then I remembered I have to eat with my hands. Now challenge number one for me is the fact that I'm a leftie…so just to be on the safe side I learnt to eat with my right hand. It's not an issue up here you won't get in trouble for being a leftie but I quickly got sick of "oh you're a leftie? Yep she's a leftie!" so challenge accepted I changed hands. After I finally crossed that hurdle the next challenge which I still haven't mastered is picking up soggy rice! or basically anything covered in liquid is a massive struggle with ones bare hand and apparently having it all over your hands, past your finger tips is impolite. eek. To top it off I have half the party staring at me because I'm usually the only white person so they are probably confused about how I cracked an invite. So yes this definitely slowed the pace of my eating/tripled possible self-consciousness. Saying no to food in general here is also not an option. Even learning the Hindi for no thanks I've had enough won't get you out of it. 

Now the family I live with here on the farm are very well educated and have British heritage. They don't follow this arranged marriage system or many other traditional Indian prototypes which makes life easier for us. The villagers however, are very isolated and not very well educated so they still follow these old traditions for the most part. This marriage however wasn't arranged, but how young they were! The bride Mamta was only 20 years old and the Groom who's name I can't pronounce, let alone spell was merely 22! She was wearing the most beautiful red sari embodied with intricate silver trimmings. Definitely put me even more off traditional white wedding dresses! Not that I plan on getting married anytime soon but all the colours and flamboyant designs definitely made the idea a bit more appealing for the future. She wore a necklace around her neck that was quickly filled up with 10 rupee notes by the guests as a sign of good luck. Dhruv tells me it is also used as Indian style bling...interesting. Shame 10 rupees is only 20 cents I don't think I would want twenty cent pieces stuck over neck on my wedding day, little heavy. But oh how did she rock those ten rupee notes! I like to think my 20 cent contribution helped them out in some way… 

After food came dance. We thought were being told that we were going to watch some traditional dance so we eagerly head inside to the main room, full of people! How lost in translation we were…Little did we know we had actually been told that they they wanted us to perform some of our traditional dance for the bride and groom...The whole room that was filled with standing bodies suddenly became quiet and every single person was sitting staring at Angus and I who were standing in the centre of the room…Talk about put on the spot. Then they started the music and that's when we realised what they wanted from us. Uh oh. What is traditional Australian dance anyway? Primary school definitely did not prepare me for this situation. I don't think Cotton-eyed Joe, The Macarena or The Dosey-doe count as traditional…shit.  Now I can't dance and Angus is quite the shy one so we were screwed. I shouldn't have turned down that pungent local rice beer dammit. Luckily we had a scape-goat, the third member of our "White People's Party" that I didn't mention earlier, Alan. Alan is a 56 year old Scottish man that came to stay at the farm for the weekend, to help at the school. He is one of those super happy, cheerful and enthusiastic types, a lovable dag! He wears those shoes that look like toe socks.  Anyway out of nowhere he saved the day, good old Alan. Whipping out energetic dance moves left right and centre, he even tried to get some of the 80 year old aunties involved, who wouldn't have a bar of it. If you can't picture him and his dancing even remotely then this will give you an idea. For some reason it reminds me of him, skip intro...  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dm7yAWpX1Mc . Oh Alan you will be missed. 

 Angus, Jaiwanti and her grandson.

Alan and Angus 

 Eating traditional style