The 'journey' or the destination?

About 16 years ago I was feeling bored and unfulfilled with my life (I know, you’re shocked... me, a malcontent?!) so joined an overseas volunteer program and went to work in the wilds of Africa. Well, actually it was the capital city of the south-east African country of Mozambique.


Before I went I participated in a number of training sessions and briefings. We were told that things worked differently in developing countries: corruption could be rife and seen as the norm; and people had to struggle for necessities so their values and expectations may be quite different to our own.


Very importantly we were told that the working environment ‘could’ also be quite different. In our jobs here in Australia, we’re used to moving and working at breakneck speed. It’s all about achieving and outcomes. In the developing world - we were told – things can move slowly; there are competing priorities; and EVERYTHING is harder, and we should prepare for that. Our placements may well be more about the journey than the destination. So they said.


At that time I was working in community development, but studying for my Master of Business Administration to move out of the social/community sector. I’d had my ‘fill’ of that world and an overly-strong focus on ‘process’ to (I believed) the detriment of deliverables. I was tired of an all-talk and no-action world.


So, as I listened to the well-meaning, though experienced cross-cultural trainers I KNEW that I wasn’t going to be one of those people whose two years overseas achieved sweet fuck-all, but who learned a lot about themselves and the world. Nope. No siree.


Of course I arrived in Africa to discover that I was one in a long line of expats to work with the women’s non-government organisation to which I was attached. It was my first foray into international development and a useful lesson for me. The organisation itself had HUGE potential. The women (activists) working around the country (and being paid in beans, oil and rice from the World Food Program) had their hearts in the right places. But in central office, the women I worked with were paid fairly well (in comparison to others). Their focus was on getting more money to do the things they were already doing, rather than identify new needs or commence programs not in existence, such as those to address domestic violence. Essentially I was the tokenistic expatriate who was their ticket into the international and UN donor systems.


My colleagues didn’t spend a lot of time at work. They had a myriad of other commitments and everything took time. Each payday they disappeared for half a day to do their banking and an appointment anywhere took a day or two. Although I enjoyed the visits to the women’s groups around the country, meeting others working there and learning about what they did, I spent A LOT of time clock-watching. My working days dragged. I was bored silly, and worried I was de-skilling.


But... I loved it there. I loved the people and the place but I yearned for a job that would be more fulfilling. In the end I finished up my two-year placement just over 6 months early because another opportunity popped up. But I remember going to the same training sessions for my next placement (which was Cambodia). This time I joined in when the trainers talked about the work often being more about the ‘life’ we spent there, rather than our contribution to work outputs. Although I hate to admit it – and despite my fear of sounding like some wanky reality television show contestant – it was (at the time) very much about the journey rather than the destination.



In the years that I have passed, however, I have again become more cynical and pragmatic. I spent many more years in international development, but in a different context where I had opportunities to leverage more change.


And now, as a project manager and someone who’s managed a lot of reporting, for me it’s again more about the end products - the deliverables.


I’ve been thinking about this today having overheard a conversation on the train this morning. I blame the fact that I left my iPhone at home and having nothing to occupy my hands or mind during the 30 minute commute. As a result I looked out of the window (in a zen-like trance) and eavesdropped on those around me.


The conversation centred around this person’s child – who hadn’t finished some project they’d spent the weekend on. The mother claimed that the child had learnt a lot through the process... so believed that the teacher shouldn’t punish them for not completing the piece of work.


But like I said, I coordinate a lot of reporting nowadays and, frankly, I don’t want to hear about processes. I want to know what’s been achieved. Sure, sometimes the journey itself is important, but learning something along the way isn’t much good if you don’t actually achieve what you set out to do.


We learn a lot about ourselves when we go through change. I'm participating in a weight loss program at the moment. Each time I go on a diet, try to eat healthily, exercise, or challenge my behaviour and thinking in some way, I learn something new about myself. That in itself is a good thing. And it’s great that the very process of dieting and eating healthily gives us tools and resources to better-manage everything that is thrown at us. But... I want (and need) to get to the end point. I want to reach my goal.

Emerson says that “Life is a journey, not a destination...” That’s true. But if we don’t know where we are going; how will we know if and when we get there?

Toddlers, teens, tiaras and tantrums - Part two

Pageant day dawned and I was relieved not to have a hangover - thank god I didn't open the bottle of red wine in the mini bar after polishing off the champagne! I was feasting on my room service breakfast when my sister-in-law and niece arrived and greeted them warmly with bacon and egg breath. The Divine Miss Em already looked stunning, in a dress that I apparently paid for compliments of some birthday cash, though it wasn't one of the three outfits to later grace the Pageant stage.

The beautifully divine Miss Em

Her hair was mostly done and her mother set about doing her makeup while I continued to munch my way through my bacon and eggs. I'd already had a bit of a run-down on the day's program. The three categories were: beauty, which involved wearing something pretty and sparkly. For the toddlers this usually reflects the short sequinned cutesy outfits which typify pageants. As the girls get older the dresses get longer and a bit less sparkly. The hair is always well-coiffed and hairpieces are often added to provide extra pizazz. Or something.


Given the outbook theme, the second outfit was 'western' in nature. I found it interesting that all of the costumes very much reflected the US cowboy scene, with no akubras, drizabones or wifebeater singlets in sight. Whereas in the beauty segment the girls walk in a poised manner across the stage, the other sections seem to allow a bit of personality to seep through with all contestants preparing routines to music. And - thank god my niece was a bit inventive and went for Will Smith's Wild Wild West - cos if I'd had to listen to Cotton Eye Joe or Boot Scootin' Baby one more time I may have had to asphyxiate myself with hairspray fumes.


Finally there was the outfit of choice. My niece had gone with a dress worn by her grandmother 50yrs ago, boofy hair and a song from Hairspray. I mentioned before that she can dance. Well, it serves her well in pageants and she got a big cheer after that performance in particular.


I was expecting it to be a bit more like TV's Toddlers & Tiaras, but perhaps US pageants aren't like that either. I know it may shock you, but possibly, just possibly, the reality TV show is a bit less 'real' than it espouses to be. Just possibly.


Like the US show though, the event was held in a room at a hotel, with a tiny stage up the front and rows of chairs behind the judges. The organiser hails from the US (or possibly Canada - I mean, who can tell?) though wasn't quite as OTT as some of the organisers and emcees I've seen on television. What surprised me most were the low numbers. There were only 13 competitors across the four age groups. The organiser though, is slightly between a rock and a hard place. With pageants having SUCH a bad name here at the moment, it's not a case of 'any publicity being good publicity' so promotion is minimal.


But I wasn't disappointed. There were toddlers. Four littlies competed in the 0 - 3 year age group. Despite their lack of professionalism (hmph, amateurs!) they were almost the most entertaining. One little one refused to leave the stage. Another performed like a trooper and was particularly expert in blowing kisses. One was a baby who slept through one of the sections (the mother carrying her on stage....) and the final girl was the spitting image of the US pageant-Queen Eden Wood.


There were tears. Of course. Though not because of anything pageant-related. One of the littlest ones just screamed and cried a lot. Bizarrely she won a lot of prizes in her age-group. Perhaps it was a case of 'the squeaky wheel'....


Before we arrived I asked my niece if I had to 'woo-hoo' cos I'm not much of a 'woo-hooer'! But I'd seen that on television. The chubby mothers or fathers who cheer and 'woo-hoo' their kids. I think the Divine Miss Em merely rolled her eyes at me. I also kidded that I would leap about behind the judges demonstrating what she should be doing and pointing to my mouth as a reminder to smile. That drew another look of derision. Possibly because she holds dozens of dances in her head at any one time and doesn't need prompts. Or possibly because I can't actually dance.


Some of the mothers did prance about though, reminding their daughters of their routines. I have to admit that's the only time I cringed a little.... some of the mothers being a bit overly engaged in the whole thing. Who are they doing this for again?





My niece was stellar. Absolutely beautiful and her choreographed routines were great. She's a good little actress so played her characters with exaggerated ease. The judging was a bit of a surprise, though of course it must be SO subjective and I MAY be biased. Just maybe. The Devine Miss Em narrowly missed out (by only 4 points we believe) on another Grand Supreme title, instead winning Miss Teen Queen. She was a bit disappointed, but stoically talked about looking at her performances and what she should do differently in future.


Pageants have had a lot press here recently. Frankly I think anything that involves too many women is prone to bitchiness. Netball used to be the same. But yesterday I didn't see fake tans or toddlers dressed inappropriately. The mothers had all done their daughters' makeup and hair and none looked like they were heading for trouble. And everyone won SOMETHING. In fact, I've never seen so many tiaras and sashes in my life.


The whole thing was over by lunchtime and with a sigh of relief the mothers and families packed up their gear to get back to their lives. My niece and sister-in-law were remaining in town for ballet eisteddfods, but I had a finale party to attend for my weight loss program. Attending the pageant had meant I'd skipped a group training session (though as about 800 were there I suspect I wasn't missed), but I was super excited about meeting participants on my program from across the country. I'd been communicating with many of them via Facebook, Twitter and program Forums for the entire 12 week round and keen to see them face-to-face.


So I began the trip back to my hometown.


I bet you've been wondering about the tantrums. Yes? Sadly it wasn't a two or three year old toddler throwing tantrums, but rather a 43 year old woman. Me. Yes me! I'd already had a meltdown about the hotel room on Friday night and proceded to have two more during the three and a half hour logistical nightmare it took me to travel the 100km home.


I decided to catch a bus to the train station so waited for about 20 minutes at a bus stop near my hotel. I was about to give up and get a taxi when the bus arrived. Having paid my fare I settled back looking forward to getting onto the train and heading home. But then in response to my query the driver explained that the bus I was on takes a roundabout route to the train station and it would take about an hour to travel the few kilometres. WTF?


So I alighted to catch a taxi instead. Trains departed half-hourly and I had 20 minutes until the next one. Finally a taxi arrived and the driver told me we'd EASILY make it to the train in 15 minutes. About 20 minutes and $40 later we arrived at the train station just as the train was leaving. FUCK! Not only had I wasted the money on the taxi, but now I had to sit at a cold windy train station for 30 minutes until the next train. I was furious. I called my mother.... as you do when you are in a foul mood. And if you are me. Between sobs I told her that I was now going to be much later getting back to my place and wouldn't have enough time to prepare for the finale party that night. She attempted to calm me down - which almost worked, though I suspect it was the idea of railway station staff seeing a grown woman cry which did the trick. "I'm not going to the finale party," I told my mother. She - as mothers do - told me not to be silly and reminded me I'd regret not going. "It's all just too much," I sooked to her. It sounds ridiculous even to me. And.... sure I knew that it wasn't really the 30 minute delay which worried me. It was just EVERYTHING. Not knowing what to do about my place and the stress of the past few weeks. I just felt incredibly overwhelmed.

Finally I got on the train and we were on our way. I knew it was an hour trip and was relieved that I'd make a connecting train and be home a couple of hours before I had to dress and go out again. Except... there was a delay. So I missed the connecting train. Just. Again I was going to have another 30 minute wait. But this time I was closer to home, so I decided I'd go and catch a taxi. With my new taxi company iPhone App I searched for the nearest taxi rank. Bloody useless piece of shit! It suggested that the nearest rank (in my capital city) was in another town hundreds of kilometres away. WTF?! Again! So I started walking assuming I'd hail a cab. Taxi after taxi (some empty, some carrying passengers) passed me and NOT ONE stopped. I lugged my bags for over 20 minutes before contemplating whether I could return to the train station to get the train I initially decided not to wait for. Feeling a tad overwhelmed yet again I ended up standing on this busy road with tears running down my face. Shameful, I know. I had no idea where the nearest rank was and had no location to give a cab company if I called them. Just when I was about to throw myself down onto the bitumen pavement and sob, a driver stopped. I suspect my hysterical and effusive thanks scared the shit out of him. But... finally I was home.


Feeling even more exhausted than I thought possible, and not having eaten since breakfast, I realised I only had about an hour to bathe and prepare for pre-party drinks. So what did I do? I poured myself a glass of champagne and spent 30 of the 60 minutes in the bathtub wondering how the hell my day had gone from the blissful time with family that morning, to tears and tantrums about public transport. Of course the champagne - or the idea of champagne - made everything better, so I dressed, got in YET ANOTHER taxi and went to party with people I barely knew. And I had a ball!

Toddlers, teens, tiaras and tantrums - part one: the backstory

I don't usually post into my diet blog on weekends. You know... one shouldn't work on the Sabbath and all of that. Actually being cheerfully agnostic it's actually more cos I'm lazy and get tired of sitting at a computer on my fat butt more than I should.... but the first reason sounded better.


As it happens, today's post isn't in keeping with the usual theme of that blog, so I figured it's okay. Plus I'm a bit hungover so sitting in front of a computer feels better than moving in general. And... as the post wasn't diet-related and doesn't reveal anything terribly embarrassing about myself I figured I'd post it here as well.

Anyone wanna buy a townhouse?

I've had a pretty interesting week or two. The 12-week weight loss program I was on finished up with last chance exercise sessions, final weigh-ins and measuring. I'd started a 'learn to run' program so was trying to fit that into my working week. I had an interview for a promotion at work; and spent a long long weekend away visiting my parents. I returned this week to play catch-up at work and just in time to attend an auction to sell my house. Because I usually stress about the small stuff, I'd been very zen-like about the house thing. Naturally... because packing for my trip away and getting to the gym was WAY more important.


I'd been horrified to discover I had to attend the auction and (hopefully) watch people bidding on my pride and joy. The notion of being judged or my value measured was a tad daunting. My place was 9th out of 10 being auctioned on Friday morning so I sat patiently watching others mostly not-selling, daunted by the knowledge that only one person was registered to bid on my place. Of course, the bidder in question didn't match my reserve and my house was passed in. I wasn't overly shocked and was mostly okay, but got hammered by my Real Estate Agent and her boss after; double-teaming me to make sure I knew how insane I was; thinking I'd get the price I wanted and why I should just take what was on offer rather than holding out for more.


Cap in hand, I headed back to an important work meeting I'd had to sneak out of to partake in the humiliating-debacle-that-was-the-auction.


I made it through the day and then jumped directly on a train to commute to a nearby coastal town where I was overnighting. My niece was participating in a beauty pageant there and I was thrilled she asked if I wanted to go and watch. I don't travel much any more so the idea of my ocean-view room was appealing and I fantasised all day (including through the humiliating-debacle-that-was-the-auction) about sitting on my verandah imbibing in more champagne than sensible.... as the stress of the day and week slipped away.

My view. Ocean somewhere to the right. Apparently.

But... the 'ocean-view' room that I'd upgraded to was actually on the highway side of the hotel, rather than on the ocean-side. It was true (in daylight) I could see the ocean, but it wasn't what I'd expected (having paid an additional 40% for the aforementioned room). So, I felt deflated and may possibly have had a mini tantrum, spending the first few hours of the evening seething, grumbling and issuing grumpy tweets - until the room service champagne arrived (of course) and I started drinking the comforting elixir.


With nothing on TV and no appealing in-house movies I actually read an entire novel in the large spa-shaped bath as I knocked back my champagne.... interrupting my reverie only to partake in some room service dinner - which, incidentally was delicious.


The hotel I was staying in was hosting the outback-themed pageant so we'd arranged for my sister-in-law and niece to come to my room early the following morning which would be converted into a dressing room for my niece who required three changes of outfits for the competition.


It was to be her second pageant. I suspect it was because of the reputation pageants have (thanks to television show Toddlers & Tiaras and surrounding media) that she kept her participation in her first pageant a secret, only revealing it to a few friends and family after she'd competed. My niece, the Divine Miss Em dances a lot and I suspect that both her beauty and stage presence contribute to her success in pageant world, and she was crowned Grand Supreme in her first competition. For those who think I'm talking about pizza, the Grand Supreme is the highest award you can win and is given to the overall winner across all age groups.


And for those thinking that the Divine Miss Em is a 5yr old toddling about a stage in sequins, a fake tan and false teeth, she's actually (now) 15yrs old, whippet-smart and eminently sensible for a teenager. And her mother though not unsupportive of her desires, was happy for her to enter pageants, providing it involve minimal out-of-pocket costs... so not like the pageant moms you see on US television.


I saw the photographs of her in the first pageant and she looked absolutely stunning. A worthy winner that's for sure. So this pageant, the third of its kind in Australia, was about to be her second and this time she had some experience and knowledge of the world under her belt.


And though I didn't know what to expect I was stoked just to be there and part of it all. And Friday night, having indulged in the champers and the book, I wrapped myself up in the soft bed linen and prepared for the early arrival of my guests and an action-packed morning complete with toddlers, teens and tiaras.

Things you may not know about me....

Some bloggers I follow recently posted lists of ‘things we may not know about them’. Although completely unrelated to the usual theme of this blog, I enjoyed reading their confessions; and - because I know you all find me so interesting - I thought I’d share my own secrets. 


My childhood best friend (and neighbour) and I wrote a book while at primary schoolThe book was called Tania and we wrote alternating chapters. I was unhappy with the ending (she’d taken something out of a Mills and Boon novel which was a bit OTT to a pre-teen like myself) so – in a fit of temper – I ripped the entire thing up. Unbeknown to me my friend, Michelle, got it out of my bin and pasted the pages together (it wasn’t that long obviously), made a cover and presented it to me. Years later I gave it back to her as a gift. I would like to think she still has it. The book, incidentally, was a pre-teen romance type thing. Of course. Much of the novel was spent describing the clothes; and naturally Tania, the novel's namesake wore attractive pantsuits and muted makeup, whereas the school bi-atch (and Tania's rival-in love) wore lime green and purple and too much makeup (which back in the 70s was just not done in polite society)!


My childhood best friend (same one) and I used to stage showsIn our pre-teen years my bestie and I staged a couple of shows for our friends (one of which was captured for posterity on Super 8 film and features a number of us performing plays and dancing for a small audience of friends sitting on plastic chairs in my backyard). I recall another show staged (in our carport) for our mothers. I remember that the latter involved Abba songs as, back then, I had a particular penchant for Tropical Loveland. Although not a natural performer, as a youngster I used to climb onto a large barbeque structure we had in our backyard, using it as a stage. So much so that another neighbour presented me with an old silver non-functioning microphone he found at the local dump (in the days before toy microphones were readily available. Obviously.) By the way, it's important to understand at this point that: I cannot dance; and I cannot sing!


For such a heathen I had a relatively-religious upbringingYou wouldn’t know it now, but my brother and I both attended Sunday School as youngsters. I followed in my mother’s footsteps and even taught there briefly but really only recall getting the kindergarten kids to colour in pictures of Jesus, wise men, donkeys and the like. For his sins (Hee hee!) my brother was briefly an altar boy (and we have the pictures to prove it!). I now class myself as agnostic, but my brother probably would say he’s an atheist. My mother still attends church religiously. (Hee hee! God, I’m on a roll today!)


I loved (loved loved) Barbie dolls.I had a few other dolls (but really only remember one or two of them – including one whose auburn hair grew out of a hole on top of her head when you pushed a button - but was mad for my Barbie dolls. I inherited some from my aunt or someone, but scored them as presents on a regular basis.


My mother, who occasionally made my clothes back then, also made me a heap of clothes for the original dolls. As a result, my collection of Barbie dolls and their wardrobe was impressive!


Better still (given my love for all-things-television) I also had a Steve Austin (Six Million Dollar Man) doll – purchased as a surprise gift after becoming inconsolable when Jamie Sommers (the Bionic Woman) died in the TV show. Little did I know she came back to life (a couple of times) and later had her own TV show. I also later got a Jamie Sommers doll. I loved that you could roll up the skin on their arms or lift the flap in their legs to see their bionic bits. And... just as amazing (and in retrospect, tragic!) I also had a set of Charlie’s Angels dolls, including the three originals from the TV series, and Cheryl Ladd as Farrah Fawcett’s replacement.


I had a ‘thing’ for Rocky Balboa in my early – mid teensI know, I know, WTF was I thinking? I now agree, but at the time I LOVED Rocky. Not Sylvester Stallone of course, as I was possibly in denial that there WAS a Sylvester Stallone, who was significantly older than the teenaged me but by the time Rocky III came out I was besotted. My brother (who was much nicer to me way back then and who lived in a capital city with non-tragic radio stations) actually TAPED a radio ad for the movie when it came out. I listened to the 30 second ad so much at the time I still remember the lines!

Rocky to Adrian: “Nothing is real if you don't believe in who you are."


Mr T (Clubber Lang) to Rocky: "I’m gonna bust you up.”
Rocky to Clubber Lang: “Go for it.”

So there you have it - a few things that (unless you were there at the time) you didn't know about me. Obviously I haven't delved into any childhood traumas (other than the mistaken perception that the Bionic Woman died) or uncovered any deep dark secrets in my past... but I tried to think of tidbits that had previously remained hidden. The more embarrassing secrets (pissing on the stage during a dance performance when I was 5yrs old; or TV commercials I did in high school) will have to wait until another time!

Finding comfort

On Sunday I went to boot camp at the ungodly hour of 7am. WTF was I thinking? Yes, I know. However... the good thing about getting up early to exercise is that it's over and done with before most people are tentatively poking their big toe out from under the doona;  and one has the rest of the day to do important things. Like read the newspaper, have nanna naps and update their blogs. For example.


The thing I most like is that I still get to read the paper while eating breakfast and watching music videos on television, which is a throwback to my younger years - the music videos, not the paper! And last Sunday, it was even more exciting because the local Oz music video show, Video Hits, was hosting a 24 year retrospective. Sometimes the show comprises bands playing at local music festivals and I find that I don't recognise (or even like) any of the music. But Sunday, I got to relive the likes of Sonia Dada "You don't treat me no good no more" (one hit wonder anyone?), Oasis and Wet Wet Wet.


It was the latter that had me reminiscing last week, as the music video for their 1994 hit "Love Is All Around" features clips from Four Weddings and a Funeral, the movie that shot Hugh Grant to stardom. I'm embarrassed to confess to being a Wet Wet Wet fan back in the day and recall I had a bit of a thing for the lead singer - as a gal does when she's in her teens and twenties. But it was the movie that sparked some memories for me.


In early 1995 I went to work and live as a volunteer in Mozambique, in south eastern Africa. My time there was difficult for a myriad of reasons, not the least being that I was alone and half-way across the world. I made some great friends though and they helped me get through the 16-18 months I spent there. Once settled in I frivolously purchased a television video player combo which frankly that helped save my sanity because the nights were long and lonely (and there's only so much Castle lager one can consume!) and television-viewing options only included a very scary local station (which every couple of weeks played an English-speaking movie); an Angolan station; a Portuguese station featuring nonsensical game shows (I recall one where women had to lie under a sheet with their feet poking out and a man had to pick those of his wife/partner); a French channel; and CNN. But for about 20 cents I was able to rent pirated videos of dubious quality. It didn't matter. To me they were heaven.


While visiting South Africa however, I procured two videos and they became my coping mechanisms. Those two romantic comedies, Four Weddings and a Funeral and Sleepless in Seattle became my lifelines. I was like a child capable of watching Toy Story or Dora the Explorer again and again. And I did. Not quite weekly, but almost that regularly.... And from the moment I inserted the video, I felt comforted - wrapped up in a cocoon of familiarity and momentarily at peace. It got to the point that I knew the lines almost by heart, but it didn't matter. They filled me with contentment, but also with hope that I too one day would exist in a world of Hugh Grants or Tom Hanks'. One day a man would become as besotted with me as Hugh was with Andie; and fate would conspire to introduce me to my soul mate as was the case with Meg and Tom.


Over the intervening 15 or so years I have added to my collection of security blankets. The BBC's Pride and Prejudice held first place  for a while. I owned the video but bought the DVD as soon as it was out, because it allowed me to watch the dozen or so scenes I loved so much more efficiently. Then there was Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV series which I discovered when again living overseas. I was a latecomer to Buffy so was able to buy and watch four seasons over a period of weeks. And over ensuing years I have pulled them out to watch my favourite episodes again and again.


More recently (and quite inexplicably) the movie The Jane Austen Bookclub has become a source of comfort. I haven't watched it for a while, but can. Again and again. I adore Maria Bello's Jocelyn and like to think of myself as being similar. Though significantly less good looking of course. And not as wealthy. Oh, and without the dogs. But other than that.... parallel lives!


And most recently there's North and South. If I'm completely honest it could be the presence of (the subject of my affection) Richard Armitage that makes it so rewatchable - akin to Colin Firth's Mr Darcy, but that aside I can contentedly watch it again and again. (But of course I won't admit that for fear of sounding pathetic!)


I don't quite know what it is about these films and television shows and the comfort they offer: the familiarity of the characters I've grown to love (or lust after); or the happy endings and sense of hope? I'm not really sure, but I know I'm now much less scathing of a toddler's ability to watch Finding Nemo hour after hour, day after day in a looping cycle.

WWAMT: What would Aunty Myra think?

It’s an embarrassing thing to admit, but a few years ago I bought a t-shirt (online of course) that said ‘What would Buffy do?’  Don’t get me wrong; I am not embarrassed by my love of the TV series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  In fact, the show’s writing in the early years (in my impressionable mind) is only rivaled by my other faves: West Wing; Deadwood; and Big Bang Theory.  But with the benefit of hindsight, buying a black shirt with orange print dripping across it wasn’t one of my finest moments.  I mean, it’s not up there with ‘dressing like a Trekkie’ but almost as scary.

I’ve always assumed the "What would Buffy do?” quote came from one of the episodes and can almost imagine her Scooby gang colleagues, Willow and Xander wondering exactly that.  But my extensive research (Google again) reveals it to be the name of some spin-off book about the series.

A similar quote appears in The Jane Austen Book Club (What would Jane do?), so it possibly didn’t derive from Buffy and may have originated elsewhere.

My ignorance aside I find myself often struck by a variation on the quote: What would Aunty Myra think?  WWAMT? Meaningless to everyone but me, the words sometimes offer me the jolt I need.

I was stuck twice by these thoughts last weekend and both times it was in response to songs playing on the radio. The first song was Dirty Talk by Wynter Gordon.  I actually downloaded the song from iTunes a little while ago so listen to it regularly.  And although I mentally sing the lyrics on my commute each day, it wasn’t until I was sitting in my car at 6.20am on a Saturday morning that they hit home:

Blindfold, feather bed,

tickle me, slippery,

G spot,nasty pose,

in a video,

love machine, by myself,

climax,hot wax

S&M on the floor, I like it hardcore…

I might have forgotten my shock at the radio station’s choice of programming, until I was again in my car to travel to the grocery store and Kanye West’s Runaway came on:

Let’s have a toast for the douchebags

Let’s have a toast for the assholes

Let’s have a toast for the scumbags

Every one of them that I know

By then it was about 9am. On Saturday morning when parents are usually driving their 10 year old kids to cricket.  Or ballet or football or similar.

Now, I’m no ingénue: in fact I swear like a trooper and am pretty hard to shock.  But occasionally I am jolted to do a bit of a stocktake.  My barometer used to be my 14 year old niece and I would ask myself if what was before me was something that I would want her watching or listening to or reading. But more often than not now, my yardstick is my Aunty Myra.

She was actually my great Aunty Myra, and she died in 1991 aged 91 years old.  That means she was actually almost 70 years old when I was born.  My mother used to tell me that Aunty Myra and her husband were already retired when she met them.  They were always ‘old’ to her.  Which means they were always ‘ancient’ to me.

Aunty Myra was old school.  Not a fuddy duddy and not really prissy.  She grew up on a farm, so was hardly a pretentious girly girl.  But she was most certainly a different generation.  She was older than my grandparents and (unlike them) lived in my hometown.  As a result – I was subjected to (at least) weekly visits until I was old enough for my non-attendance excuses to sound even vaguely convincing.  Her children lived elsewhere and weren’t the most attentive of offspring, so my parents did everything for Myra and her husband. (I should mention that when I returned as a young adult, I willingly visited her in a nursing home before she died - so I'm not all bad - surely.)

I never saw Aunty Myra wear trousers as she considered them improper. She always wore unattractive nylon dresses with a petticoat or singlet and bra strap falling down her arm as her body shrunk before my eyes. She used to bake for my father and made him suet puddings, jam pastries and tripe. She hid money in handkerchiefs and biscuit tins. She liked bingo and used to buy a gold lotto ticket each week. I try to imagine her now, in a world where everything’s online and digital. I’m not sure how my parents will transition from a video recorder to a DVR, let alone someone a whole generation older!

So it is Aunty Myra I think of as I sit watching shows on television (like my faves, Deadwood, or Entourage etc) where the f-word and c-word are dropped liberally and indiscriminately. It is Aunty Myra I think of when I hear swear words thrown about on commercial radio stations; and Aunty Myra I think of when I see music videos with scantily clad gyrating women.

They don’t shock me, but they would sure as hell shock the bejesus out of my Aunty Myra. WWAMT? I wonder at these times.

I tend to assume that television and radio programmers make sensible choices about what they play and when. I’m sure that’s why we have rating classifications. Which is why I was surprised to see Weeds showing on Oz cable television at 3pm during a weekend some time ago, or the Robbie Williams' Come Undone music video showing the aftermath of a party and a woman on the bed with snakes screening as I'm eating my morning toast.

I’m all for free speech, not a big believer in censorship and don’t believe I’m judgmental, but it doesn’t stop me from sometimes wondering: What would Aunty Myra think?

Fizzy black goodness

Okay, can I just start by saying, "I WANT SOME BLOODY DIET COKE!"

OMFG. There I was smugly prancing about as if I could easily wean myself off the 1 - 1.5 litres of Vanilla Diet Coke that I have been consuming daily for a large number of years (before that Lemon Diet Coke and before that, just the basic Diet Coke), but I have come crashing down to earth.

Fortunately work is busy and I haven't had time to focus on the constant headache and sleepiness I am feeling without my usual injection of VDC (as its known amongst us addicts!). After giving up the fizzy black goodness on Sunday I posted my intention on Facebook and got a barrage of emails from old work colleagues in response, as my addiction to the stuff is famous. Or infamous.

It started a long time ago. While at University in the late 1980s my parents used to visit me in the residential halls, bringing a red cross parcel. There would be diet coke, chocolates and homemade biscuits. I recall at one stage, a medical student on my floor deciding that the fizzy black goodness was (in fact) evil and set about rationing my supplies. I think we didn't even last the day before I become obsessed with 'my next fix' and she handed over the carton of cans so I could refocus on my study rather than stalking about outside her dorm room.

I'm not sure that giving up VDC now, at a time when I am commencing (yet another) diet is the right move. But I figured that if I'm going to be cranky and feel deprived. I might as well feel really bloody cranky and really deprived.

I'm not saying I will give it up forever or that I won't drink other diet drinks. (Indeed, last night I savoured a diet lemon, lime and bitters while lolling in the bath reading a trashy magazine.) And I may (on occasions) partake in a diet coke or two, but I figured I might as well try to give my litre plus habit a day the big heave-ho.

The time seems right. I feel motivated. Which is strange. Better to rip that bandaid off quickly rather than edge it off slowly I guess. So, as day two (of a healthier me) progresses I can feel quite righteous because - not only did I go to pilates before work (for the first time in 2 months); and am sticking to my calorie allowance; but I am also kicking my unhealthy addiction to the scary preservatives and chemicals that taste so good in the form of a fizzy black drink.

Sorry, this post is completely irrelevant to this blog and actually comes from another that I write. It was posted on Tuesday and I am much-improved since then (as I did think I may well kill someone!). It's now day 5 and I am feeling much much better.  Quite virtuous for a start (no booze or diet coke will do that for you!) In fact, I feel quite human, almost.

Great expectations

My current hometown of Brisbane in Queensland, Australia, has just experienced record flooding.  And although many lives were not lost in the city itself, many homes and livelihoods have been impacted, some destroyed.

I believe the State and Local Government authorities have been amazing.  Providing regular updates and support during the crisis, and now in its wake mobilizing relief and rehabilitation.  Volunteers are being coordinated, bins scattered about the city for the destruction of perishables and kerbside pick ups arranged for debris and furniture needing to be removed from 20 000 flood-affected properties.  And yet, people are already complaining.  There aren’t enough bins.  Our suburb has received insufficient attention and support. Etcetera.

Record rainfall in Brazil has similarly caused flooding, as well as mudslides.  At least 600 people have been killed.  I’m sure their State and Federal authorities are doing as much as possible, but I can almost guarantee it isn’t as thorough or organized as the efforts of our governments.  I mean I am sure there will be blame games here in Oz about how on earth this could happen in such a prosperous and developed city and country.  Our policies in relation to dams, town planning, building requirements and the sustainability of infrastructure will all be examined.

There’s some adage about ‘the more we have, the more we want’.  But I think that ‘the more we have, the more we expect’ is more accurate.

Although not affected by the flooding in our State I feel nothing but sympathy for those who are.  But if I had been affected I’d like to think I would be grateful that the authorities are doing their best to help and I would try really really hard not to complain.  But perhaps it’s easier for me…. And no, not because I am an incredibly tolerant and generous person; but because my expectations are so very low in the first place.

In the mid 1990s I was in my mid 20s.  I had just paid off my first new car.  I was working in Local Government and commenced studying for an MBA.  I was also wondering if I should be starting to save for my first house.  But it all felt wrong.  It seemed pointless.  So, in an attempt to stave off my own quarter-life crisis and to seek some purpose for my own pathetic little existence I applied to an overseas volunteer program.

The Australian Volunteer Abroad (AVA) Program (like the American Peace Corps, or British VSO program) sends Australians to developing countries to work alongside partners in those countries.  Earning a local wage and living long-ish term in local communities, the program aims to be as beneficial to volunteers as those with whom they are working.

[caption id="attachment_425" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Mozambican village (1995)"][/caption]

I worked as a volunteer in Mozambique and Cambodia.  The African experience was more life-changing as it came first (and was probably more of a shock). I loved Africa.  Until I returned home, I couldn’t imagine coming back here and certainly initially on my return I felt an extreme sense of culture shock and displacement.  Cambodia was different and I was only there for 7 months.  Security was in issue in both places, but while I was in Phnom Penh the post-UN power sharing agreement between the two Prime Ministers disintegrated until there was a coup d'état.  The city was on edge for months before the tanks appeared and fighting started.

In both countries I worked in local organisations and lived in local accommodation (albeit better than many of my work colleagues could afford).  Although I received very little money (in our terms) I still had savings and resources to fall back on and – well, quite frankly, I still had a ticket out of there any time I wanted to use it.

At the turn of the last century (ie.1999 – 2001) I also worked in East Timor.  By then I was with the Commonwealth Government and there on a diplomatic posting.  My lifestyle was quite different to that of a locally-paid volunteer.

In Mozambique’s capital, Maputo, I lived (like most people) in a high-rise building.  I think there was one other expatriate in the building, although he moved out just after I arrived.  No cause and effect there, but rather as a result of his being mugged at gunpoint on entering the building one evening and his suspicion that our building’s ‘guard’ was somehow involved. With two iron doors and a strong timber front door AND six floors off the ground, my own apartment felt quite safe. I had no hot water of course, bit quite often had running water and my electricity supply (as I lived near a large tourist hotel) was fairly consistent.  I had a telephone line although battled with operators who (pre-2000 Olympics) had never heard of Australia were adamant that I really wanted to speak to someone in Austria whenever I attempted to call home… a result of my poor Portuguese as much as geographical ignorance I suspect.

My biggest splurge in the 16 months I spent in Maputo was a TV/video.  Although television itself was limited to CNN, a local station, an Angolan station and Portuguese game shows, pirated videos were available for rent locally for about 20 cents.  I had befriended two other Australian Volunteers in town and, as they had a car, they took me shopping (for groceries, booze and possibly illicit-money changing) while I hosted video evenings.

[caption id="attachment_426" align="alignright" width="199" caption="Power pole on Norodom Blvd Phnom Penh (1997)"][/caption]

In Cambodia I lived above a local family in a little dirt street with no name.  My flat had no telephone and intermittent power.  I paid an exorbitant amount for the little power I did have, because it was the norm for neighbours to somehow tap into my supply and apparently expats paid more anyway.  Water was also in short supply, although it was my poor cleaner (ahem, ‘maid’) who lugged bottles to my flat each day.  Given that she demanded to work daily (even though I didn’t want or need her to), I suspect it gave her something to do.  Without access to transport I walked everywhere and travelling at night was not an option.  Most evenings were spent sitting on my balcony by candlelight listening to my Diskman on batteries recharged before the power went out.

Although I would not even consider comparing my time in these countries to that of my local colleagues and compatriots, it was – by developed country standards – difficult.  Corruption was rife in both countries.  Just when I thought my workmates were accepting me as ‘one of them’, they would hit me up for some money.  Meat was a rarity and I lived on potatoes or rice with sauces.  I spent exorbitant amounts of money on treats.  And pre-internet contact with family and friends was precious and rare. (In Mozambique, the minimum cost for my weekly fax to my parents was USD5.  On one occasion the line dropped out 3 times and the page cost me USD15.)  I expected little.  And was rarely disappointed.

Then I returned home.

Naturally I thought I would return this zen-like more tolerant person and… well, just grateful for anything really.

On some level this has been the case. I find myself more appreciative of what we have (in the developed world and particularly here in Australia) that others don’t; social safety nets and supports, and well-functioning governments (on the whole).  And every time I am frustrated with bus delays I remind myself how excited I was 9-10 years ago to come home to Australia and to our efficient (and well, existent) public transport system.

Several years before travelling overseas I worked in the social sector for Local Government.  People with a disability were (understandably) unhappy that some buildings in our local area were not wheelchair accessible and some existing ramps provided a challenge for their motorized wheelchairs.

A month or so later I was living in Mozambique (like Cambodia) hugely impacted by land mines.  By the time I worked in Cambodia many people had received artificial limbs.  But in Mozambique one of the first people I saw with no legs was slithering along the ground.  It wasn’t an uncommon sight.  If they were lucky they had rubber gloves. And if they were really lucky they had fashioned a skateboard to protect their bodies from the unrelenting surfaces of that country.

Shocking, yes.

[caption id="attachment_428" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Me dancing in a church near Maputo (the man with the rooster is the Minister - and no, it wasn't sacrificed). We'd been there for an AIDS presentation"][/caption]

And, as I said, on one level this has made me more cognizant of what we do have and I am more grateful for our lifestyle.  Unlike many of my compatriots here in Oz, my expectations are generally pretty low.  I can laugh when people complain about our public toilets and I can shrug off the very rare power blackouts.

But I am far from being the more tolerant person I hoped would evolve from my experiences with ‘the less fortunate’.  So, although my expectations of life and others have changed, I did not emerge from my life-changing episodes changed.  As it happens, I am still me. For better or for worse.

Easter eggs and rabbit ears

Easter is again upon us and it is supposed to mean more than chocolate bunnies and public holidays.  But rather than contemplate what was purported to have happened nearly 2000 years ago, I find myself relishing glimpses of life just 30 years ago.

For my family, Christmases were spent either in far-western Queensland or on Fraser Island.  Both of which presented my parents with logistical nightmares in the 1970s: long car trips on dusty dirt roads; or weeks without access to electricity or shops. 

Easters, on the other hand, were spent closer to home.  My Poppie and step-grandmother (Gwen) lived just 30kms away at the (then, and mostly now) sleepy seaside town of Hervey Bay.  Although we often visited on weekends, Easters provided my family with day after day of beachside living as Gwen and Poppie lived right on the Esplanade.  We only had to cross the road and we were on the beach.  Our beach.

In those days it was idyllic.  Waves crashed onto the shore and my brother and I would sit on the rocks or nearby cement steps letting the water crash over us.  On really high tides we could jump off the steps into the frothy surf.  Not fishermen ourselves, we would occasionally accompany Poppie or Gwen across the road to try their luck, or trudge after them through the low mudflats as they used something that looked like a bicycle pump to dredge up yabbies for bait.  Back then the Urangan pier was long and in desperate need of repair, but a landmark nevertheless.  The walk out along the rotting timber beams seemed endless and it was often deserted bar a few wrinkled and roasted fisherman camped out for the day.

We stayed under Gwen and Poppie’s house; an old 1960s timber two-storey home.  A more retro and less elegant version of a Queenslander.  Now in my middle-classed middle-age I would rather be prodded with a hot poker than sleep under there, but at the time it was part of the adventure. The cement floors were adorned by straw mats and linoleum cast-offs from renovating relatives. The uncovered walls and ceiling tastefully festooned by cobwebs and other unmentionables; and old dusty smelly (possibly never-washed) curtains separating the beds.  There were also two old lounge chairs and we would lug our old black and white television with us which required constant adjusting of the rabbit ears to get any reception at all.  A cooktop rested on a bench in the laundry alongside the big concrete tubs and washing machine.  I suspect my mother desperately missed her automatic and iconic whirlpool during those visits when she was forced to use the hand-operated wringer.  Or possibly she just made us wear the same clothes for four days and avoided the contraption completely.

Easter was my favourite of the ‘holidays’.  My birthday received little attention coming just three days after Christmas, and Christmas itself held little allure for me.  Though always happy to unwrap whatever gifts lay under our tree, I didn’t like turkey, Christmas pudding, Christmas cake or mince pies.  So for me, Christmas lunch was just another nice roast dinner.

But Easter was the culmination of my favourite things: chocolate; and the freedom to eat it all day, for any meal, without repercussion or chastisement.  And eat it all day I did.  Easter after Easter.  Year after year. 

My brother was always more temperate than I (and far less prone to obsessions and gluttony), so while I would have finished my goodies by the time we headed back home on Easter Monday, he would eke his out for another week or two.  Purely to torture me, I am sure.

 

My favourite Easter offering was the Red Tulip bunny.  Elegant Rabbits I think they are called today.  They remain my favourite.  In those days everything was Red Tulip.  No Lindt bunnies, or Mars Bar eggs or other hand-made goodies emerging out of a deli rather than Coles or Woolies. 

As a child in the 1970s my Easter haul always included the aforementioned RT bunny, a carton of medium sized (RT) eggs packaged in a clear plastic egg carton (which seemed inspired back then).  Then my mother would split a packet of RT caramello (my favourites) and solid eggs and give my brother and I half each, and finally we would always get the infamous RT Humpty Dumpty.  So ingenious we thought… the way those smarties got inside!  Actually more often than not we also got one of those candy eggs, with the little messages inside.  I hated them but my mother kept buying them year after year.  I don’t recall ever trying to trade mine for chocolate with my brother, though I suspect he would have refused just because… well just because that’s what older brothers do to torture their little sisters.

After I consumed each of my Easter eggs, the next of my beachside rituals would start.   Having carefully removed the foil from my eggs (my brother was – obviously – a far better and more patient paper-removerer than I!) I would put the wrapper through the hand-operated wringer of the washing machine.  Again and again until it was completely flat.

The result was a masterpiece.  The flattened former bunny or humpty dumpty face looked more like something Picasso would offer up than its previous incarnation.  I used to feel such a sense of accomplishment though I have no recollection of what I did with the wrappers after flattening them.  I suspect it was the ceremony of the whole thing that I loved.  Once they were done I probably just threw them away. 

Anyway… that’s what I remember about my Easters-past; back when Gwen and Poppie were still alive; back when waves still crashed on the foreshore and before the sand dunes started eroding. My flattened Easter egg wrappers.  Temperamental rabbit ears.  Our old linoleum lining cement floors.   And washing machine wringers. 

It’s funny the things you remember.

Yes I Can, Can, Can

When I ‘cleansed’ this Blog a few months ago I deleted a lot of old posts which didn’t fit into the Blog’s new theme (simultaneously getting rid of a lot of over-sharing).  I am writing a follow up to this particular post and need to reference it however, so need to stick it back in!

Originally posted 9 April 2009 

I signed on before I really knew what I was getting into. So, it could have been disastrous. In fact, it has actually been quite fun.

At an end-of-year gathering late last year, one of my friends told me about some classes she had been attending. Always one to ferret out the unusual and obscure but very-interesting, KK had just finished a Hula Hoop course. Her enthusiasm for the 10-week program was effusive.

I had been thinking about signing up for something to do during the week. Another of my new year’s resolutions (like this blog) was to do more fun things during the week – so the week is less about work and… well, work.

So, a very-informal dance class seemed the perfect option and I asked KK for the dance school details. The options were overwhelming: as well as hula hooping, the school offered several versions of Hip Hop and Funk; Bellydancing; Bollywood; Tahitian and Polynesian Hula; Tribal Bellydance Fusion; and Burlesque.

As someone who doesn’t much like their body, I decided I should do something to help me feel more sensual and 'in tune' with my body. I recalled doing a one-off belly dancing class years before and the buxom instructor did make us all feel like sexually attractive and desirable women (I must admit though, that this was at a health retreat and we were alcohol, sugar, caffeine deprived!).

I did however, want something a bit more energetic than bellydancing and when I described to KK what I wanted “something kinda like lap dancing, but without the laps,” she suggested that burlesque was the way to go.

The school’s website described burlesque as “Kylie's Showgirl tour fused some Moulin Rouge sassy!”

My mind started to boggle as I imagined it: fishnets and garters, can-canning across the stage, or perhaps Nicole Kidman Moulin Rouge style – a sequined me on a swing – floating above the masses. Or perhaps it would more akin to PCD (or, for those not in the know – or, you know, over 20 – the Pussy Cat Dolls) and we would be gyrating in leather!

Despite all of this, I sent off my money and enrolled in the 10-week course before sanity or apathy could prevail.

I arrived late and stressed to the first lesson, having left work late and gotten lost en-route, only to be confronted by a swarm of 20yr-old skinny, bizarrely dressed women.

I was clad for exercise – leggings and big Nike t-shirt (and with sturdy sports bra for the high impact exercise ahead) so I stood out amongst the leopard print skimpy tops, tulle skirts and ‘shorts-over-ripped-stockings’ look. I was also only one or two present unadorned with tattoos. I almost felt bare. I was already regretting my decision. Amidst this group of sex-kittens (a-la Dita Von Teese), I felt positively frumpy and middle-aged. Of the 15 others, there was one other ‘older’ woman. Needless to say, we were a strange group and I often wondered what others visiting the dance studio, thought of us when they saw us en-masse.

Our instructor, Rose* (a burlesque dancer herself and I suspect, not her real name…) had a seam tattooed down the back of her legs and a large wide tattoo just under her neck, across her shoulder bones. She also had a long black ponytail falling from high on her head, perfect for flicking about when the need dictated.

Rose started the first lesson with the good news – that we would be learning a routine to (…wait for it), perform at the end of term concert. (Be still my beating heart, I thought and decided that I will be ‘sick’ or indisposed in some way.)


Nevertheless, we eventually kicked off. The first lesson set the scene for those following. We began and finished with lengthy stretching sessions – though less for preventing injury and more for… well I am actually not sure, but increasing flexibility I guess. Many of the stretches were the kind that went out of fashion in the 80s, or maybe even the 70s – lots of helicopter arms swivelling to touch our toes and bouncing. We were also required to do the splits – or as close to them as possible. I should have been sensible like the older woman, who did her own alternative stretches rather than Rose's as I often found myself aching in the days following our class, from overstretching as much as anything. (It may, however, interest my myriad of dedicated followers – ahem, I mean, readers – to know that I can actually do the splits frontways but not sideways… just for future reference!)



We did however, manage to fit in about 15-20mins of our routine each week. At this point I should point out that Rose was, and is, actually more of a performer than a teacher. We students and burlesque-novices regularly found ourselves looking at each other in confusion over which foot to start stepping on, as the guileless Rose changed her mind each time.

Nonetheless, she was brimming with enthusiasm and poise (if not coordination) as she put us through our ‘burlesque paces’.

The movements of burlesque are fairly simple. Lots of hip flicks and circles, shimmies and body roles, with a few supposedly-sexy walks thrown in. (On that note and for future reference again - unlike one’s normal walk, a ‘stripper’ or ‘burlesque’ walk involves planting the toe first and crossing the legs as you walk.)

In no way however, was my sports bra tested throughout the 10 weeks. Our energy was focussed on swivells and shakes, not jumping around energetically. Even our can-can involved low, slow kicks.

Any self-consciousness I felt disappeared as we disparate souls giggled and strutted our way through the routine we learnt over the 10-week course.

Only 7 or 8 regulars attended most of the lessons and I would often find myself looking around, wondering what each was expecting to get out of the class. Not there for exercise I suspect, but more for something different, and perhaps because (I read that) burlesque is becoming the activity or exercise du jour!

Term 1 has now finished (and I - sadly - was unable to perform in the concert) and we ‘graduates’ can now move to level 2. I think I might give it a miss though and try something different.

I don’t think I have come away from the course feeling more sensual, but I certainly have the moves if ever the opportunity arrives.

* Name changed to protect the innocent

So you think you wanna dance?

I am no aficionado of dance.  By a long stretch.  Or by any stretch.  I don’t really know what krumping is and though (I think) I know what a pirouette looks like, I have no idea what an arabesque is.

I possibly offended my sister-in-law and niece years ago when I finally admitted that I didn’t enjoy accompanying them to classical ballets.  For me the night was akin to a slow-moving book or movie – where I just wanted those on stage to get on with it.  I admit to a frustration with plodding (though beautiful) prose.  Ballet presented me with the same problem.  Though I could guess at the vague degree of difficulty, it seemed a monotonous and a long-winded way of getting to the point. 

Having said that, I suspect a night of endless hip hop or contemporary dance would be as tedious to me.  Though I accompany my niece to some of her eisteddfods (and I can happily watch my niece dance until the cows come home) where a myriad of styles are often show, my favourite shows are the end-of-year concerts where there is more variety. 

The art of dance itself has garnered more attention and support recently with the advent of TV shows, Dancing with the Stars (which I don’t watch) and So You Think You Can Dance (which I do watch).  Note here I refrained from adding Dance Your Ass Off, as I don’t think it lasted long enough on our screens to count as having any impact on its 17 nation-wide viewers! 

SYTYCD restarts on our TV screens tonight which I discovered yesterday as I watched an old MC Hammer film clip and marveled at the ability of the African-American chicks (in the video) to shake their booties.  This (of course) led to some sort of pondering on genetics and nurture versus nature (I obviously have WAY too much time on my hands!!). 

There is no question, for example, that some cultures include music and dance as part of their everyday lives, and not solely for the purpose of eventually ‘performing’ for an audience as many of we Aussies do. 

In the mid 1990s I went to work in Mozambique (in south-eastern Africa) as a volunteer with a women’s non-government organization.  I recall walking to the shops in my first or second week in the country and being enchanted as I was passed by a convoy of trucks carrying groups of men and women all singing and dancing.  They were in the throes of a wedding – always a huge (and loud) celebration in Mozambique.  I wanted to ring home and share my excitement at what I had been privy to.  

I worked in the head office in Maputo but about a week into my time there, my counterpart and I traveled to the outskirts of town to visit one of the groups we supported. We were greeted by the group at Boane with song and dance.  I was delighted.  It really was the stereotypical Africa that you saw on television.  And, of course I was also eventually dragged up to join the women (after being draped in a capulana – piece of fabric / sarong). 

 

As my time in Mozambique wore on I became more accustomed to the role that singing and dancing played in their culture and lives.  Some of the issues we promoted (family planning, safe sex etc) were translated into songs.  I sat in a church where a priest-of-sorts and his hen (or perhaps it was a rooster?  I couldn’t focus as I was worried it was to be a sacrifice* and wasn’t sure how NOT to react) preached to the masses before one of our Activistas (facilitators) presented a session on AIDs – complete with demonstrating how to put a condom on a fake penis – before we broke into song and dance. 

 

In a place called Xai Xai, I remember some young boys getting up to join the dancing women.  And it took me a while to realise that they weren’t taking the piss out of their elders for doing something that they found ‘uncool’.  They just wanted to join in.

Of course as time went on, I became more inured to what-once-thrilled me (or horrified-me in the case of many Mozambicans with missing limbs as a result of land mines and homeless children sleeping on the footpaths in rags).  I have to admit to occasionally getting frustrated on our visits across the countryside.  I wanted to see other aspects of our work in action.  Did, I wonder, the singing and dancing ensue when I wasn’t there, or was it all for my benefit?  Something in between I suspect.  But there was no question about the fact that music and dance brought such joy to these people facing difficulties once unimaginable to me.  Something I should remind myself of (as I settle down tonight to watch SYTYCD) now that 15 years have passed since I lived amidst such passion and was fortunate enough to share in it for a while.

*Note.  The hen / rooster made it safely through the service though it did run amok at one point.  We (the official party) were however served a meal of chicken and rice after the service, so unless there was something special about it, I was not really sure how long the hen/rooster would last in the overall scheme of things!