Saturday 31 December 2011

In the Zone


That’s where I was told I was while in my local bank last week when the computer system was down and pre Christmas nerves were frayed. Agitation all around so I told the waiting queue about my recent tour group’s experience at the GPO in New Delhi just a couple of weeks ago. ‘This wait is nothing’ I began ‘you should try sending a parcel from a certain post office in India”. And so I launched into the story about how one of Australia’s leading embroiderer’s stitching efforts were rejected by the only stitching man on the job that day. It took four hours for six women to send parcels home and after Jane’s immaculate attempt we were not allowed to stitch our own - even after said parcel man’s efforts were also rejected by the weighing man and that came before franking and stamping and final dispatch. ‘Wow’ said the young woman balanced on 10cm heels in the Manly branch of the ANZ ‘you must still be in the zone’. And I am – nothing much can phase me here in the easy haven of Sydney after a few weeks on the subcontinent where twelve women and I travelled from Kachchh to Kolkata by bus, train and plane with auto and cycle rickshaws and the odd camel cart journey thrown in for good measure.

Boarding the flight to Bhuj - luggage came next day!
The last leg of the tour - Khanpur station 80k from Lucknow
and a long night away from Kolkata.

This group of dedicated embroiderers (bar one) stitched their various ways across India – from bold Kambira stitch in a mud hut in the Banni (Kachchh) where the teachers were shrill voiced artisans hell bent on selling their wares which came out from under their skirts as soon as the momentum slowed - to the beautiful running stitch of Kantha  (Kolkata) in a small room surrounded by round, soft voiced Bengali women who plied us with sweet chai and biscuits and demanded nothing in return for their gift of sharing. Between those two delightful extremes came many occasions with other artisans keen to show and share – Rabari, Ahir, Mutwa, Megwhal, Samma, Jat, Sodha and the great skill of the chikankari artisans of Lucknow.

Banni Kambira workshop.
Graced by the presence of 87 year old Ahir artisan Parmaben Balasara
one of the original artisan members of Shrujan, Bhuj.
Alison Snepp, NSW, in her element with Chikankari in Lucknow.
Margaret Light, NSW, follows her Kantha muse in Kolkata.
Jane Nicolas, NSW, captures the lovely running stitch in Kolkata.

Not that the journey was smooth all the way. A flight acquired flu arrived from Sydney with a group member and insidiously worked its way through most of us for the whole month. This made travel even more challenging for all of us at different times. Airlines should include health warnings in their safety demonstrations.

‘Please do not board this aircraft if you show any of the following symptoms (list). Should you experience the slightest tickle or tingle, wheeze or sneeze please contact your nearest flight attendant and ask to be placed in isolation. If the person sitting next to or behind you begins to cough a helmet will automatically drop down over his or her head until the plane lands and all other passengers are safely off the aircraft. Any person caught or reported coughing without an approved mouth cover will be shown the nearest exit. This plane is fully air conditioned and any germs are guaranteed to reach all passengers by touch down.’ And so it goes – the joys of flying in ever more cramped conditions with the attendant lack of fresh air, leg room and a headset that delivers.

Why do we do it? I know that I do it because I love the challenges, the contrasts, the creativity, the dignity and the differences and the sameness of humanity in all its forms.  Coming home for me is always a bit of a crash landing – culture shock in reverse but more of that next time. In the meantime let’s all come through the festive season relatively unscathed and still in pocket. Enjoy family and friends and do not forget strangers. We are off to Hobart on Christmas morning on the first flight to share seafood with son Simon and to rest for a few days - and heaven help anyone who even clears their throat on the plane! 

In case I do not get to a computer beforehand I send you all New Years greetings. Let’s make 2012 a year of compassion, creativity and commitment to all people, other species and the planet that supports us. My only resolution? To stay in the zone! 

Wednesday 2 November 2011

Jigsaws, Juggling and Journeys


Long before India appeared on my horizon I lived for a time in a small rural town perched on a plateau and overlooking mist filled valleys where mythical creatures lurked in still waters and spirits wandered the pathways of the imagination. I was younger then, sharing my time between motherhood and artistry - both requiring similar attributes; patience, attentiveness, creativity, flexibility, love of the subject matter and - making messes and cleaning up again - endlessly! Sometimes I was invited to relief teach in the local primary or high school and once, for a period of six weeks, I wore the mantle of Miss Noelle Webb, infant mistress of mature years and long experience. And I, trained in upper primary school and art education, walked jauntily into her neat classroom with the total bliss of ignorance. Thirty-two five year olds waited outside the room, several faces anxiously pressed up against the glass door and peering at someone who was not Miss Webb while others ran around burning off Weetbix calories and the rest sat on long benches sharing lunchbox secrets. In their own ways they were all waiting for the bell - the sound that rang out over the valley and into the surrounding community with such precision that everyone could set their clocks by it. At exactly nine every weekday morning the clapper hit the sides of the old brass bell ten times, then paused and then hit again another ten. Only certain well-mannered big kids were granted the privilege and the little ones watched in anticipation of their role as bell monitor some time in the indefinite future of childhood. It was deemed the most important task any child at the primary school could perform.

On the last chime the school population would scatter and reform itself into the daily pattern. Pupils from primer four to standard four lined up on the tennis court for assembly and the ‘littlies’ lined up outside their respective classrooms jostling for position and recognition. I smiled, opened the door and let them in. The pattern broke apart and scattered like marbles into corners, under the art table, into the Wendy house and the cloakroom  – chattering, squealing, and clamouring for attention. ‘Please miss. Please miss.’ For the life of me I can’t remember what I did to get their attention but at some point I managed to get most of them onto the mat where they sat cross-legged, already untidy and waiting for my next move. I never did get them all onto the mat at once for just as the last one sat down two or three would unfold and wander off distractedly. I accepted that pattern as the status quo and began the day with the weather chart. I was wrong. The day always begins with roll call, followed by lunch orders and money collection, followed by lessons in sitting up straight and not talking. The weather chart came further down or up the list depending on where one was oriented! In the meantime a child too large for his age managed to get his head stuck in the Wendy house window and mayhem broke loose. The pieces of a jigsaw that were almost in place broke off again and rearranged themselves in new positions mostly not on the mat. I went home that afternoon as soon as the bell sounded, collapsed into bed and fell into a sleep in which I dreamed I was on a tightrope juggling balls that uncannily resembled five year old faces.

And why do I remember this episode in such vivid detail today? Because I am in the final throes of preparing for a journey to India that departs in a few days’ time and when I will be joined by twelve people who have placed their trust in me. Twelve women with high hopes and just a little trepidation for a journey that has been in the planning for more than twelve months. Twelve women who stitch finely and who are on a quest for the gifts which India offers  –history, mythology, artistry, inspiration and ‘otherness’. And for these past twelve months I have juggled their needs with the realities of differences. The pieces of the jigsaw that make the perfect plan have re-arranged themselves several times in the last few days as events changed according to the whims of India; this museum closed on that day Madam; attractions on another and the workshop organised so meticulously months ahead of time is to be rescheduled for reasons beyond my understanding. Then I slide events and times around and rearrange without losing plot, plan or patience and all the while I am juggling a new computer system with getting my camera fixed; preparing materials for a new website with meeting deadlines for next year’s ads; ensuring my travellers get all the information before departure with my own packing; sending a few Christmas cards to aging aunts with booking tickets for a Tasmanian journey in December; making sure my guide is fully informed of changes with ensuring that Mike has all the information in my absence – and as Kilgore Trout once said ‘so it goes’! And as for blogs…? October’s words were sucked into the vacuum that is time.

So this is perhaps why I think only now of an infant classroom of long ago and those eager questioning faces at the window? Every tour has its own set of expectations and will I live up to theirs? Will I do things in the right order? Does weather come before or after daily roll call? Will they all sit on the mat at the same time in some mud hut in nomad’s land? Will I remember to take meal orders? Allow for toilet stops? Will India prove to be too challenging? Will the journey be the end and not the means? Can I buy a jigsaw in the market just in case? And what if? What if?  Today the paperwork is done. I have closed the book - gone to print. The never-ending list of things to do can wait. All I need right now is a good sleep and to dream perchance of twelve balls with smiling and familiar faces as they leave my hands to fly off on their own journeys - safe in the knowledge that someone is there to catch them at the other end.  Did I hear a whisper of mice and (wo)men?






Friday 30 September 2011

Radio Silence


Not at the poles when the aurora dances (as it is right now over New Zealand) but in India’s ionosphere of communication. Something was certainly scrambled in her IT system as I discovered when I tried to connect with my webmail account through the hotel’s Internet Explorer. No amount of coaxing would let me past the warning that Telstra, Australia’s major communications network, was an ‘unsecure site’. Several hours later (at 2am in fact) Firefox had been laboriously downloaded and my first ‘real time blog’ completed via an email to Mike to upload. I hit send – the system timed out, the message disappeared forever into cyberspace and at that point I surrendered to forces far greater than my own. That blog will remain forever as a few scribbled notes in a dog-eared book that waxed on eloquently about arriving into a sultry rain soaked city in the grips of a late monsoon. Due to the after effects of this destructive weather, I did not try to send mail from Bhuj – it was all too sticky, muddy, humid and, as the hotel was (and continues to be) under renovation, I did not dare ask to use the Internet. I simply sent text messages – cheap and easy and done on the run when and wherever! In Mumbai at last sitting in the Star Alliance Lounge waiting for my flight home I found a system that worked, recognised Telstra and allowed me to write several messages. On arriving home I discover that not one has been received.

I did spend a while in this same lounge asking various people using various devices the pros and cons of their particular choices; several said theirs was simply an expensive toy that sometimes worked; others reported that the hassles involved with configuring devices and getting wireless cards in India that would work in most places were not worth the effort, time and cost. Personally, I have never travelled with my laptop – I have enough on my hands managing expensive camera gear in the dust and heat and besides, my simple Nokia cell phone gives me all I need except ‘blogability’!  I well remember the huge efforts of co-traveller Robyn Williams last year as she sat into the small hours writing, downloading images and uploading her Kachchh blog from remote locations – sometimes with success and sometimes without. As much as I would love to blog on the spot, as a tour leader, I do not need an extra task tagged onto already task-laden days. So radio silence rules while I travel until the day the seamless device is waiting to fall into my hands!

It seems to be customary for me to arrive back in Sydney these days with what I term ‘inflight flu’ no doubt due to the effects of traveling under duress, late night flights, city congestion (and therefore contamination) and aircraft with inadequate AC packed with ‘coughers’. The oversized man next to me had been to some beerfest in Munich, had an injured thigh, a hangover and the flu. I, in the window seat, was hard pressed to wake him to get out and each time I moved he accused me of hurting his leg! So much for flying - even Singapore airlines is now without legroom as their ‘pack-em-in’ policy follows on the wings of others. Still – India continues to beckon and fascinate albeit with horror at the rampant development taking place without much, if any, thought to culture, tradition, nature and the future. I saw and heard much from those whom the industrial giants crush daily underfoot on their march towards an ill defined destiny! And all this remains to be said when my thoughts are aligned with better health and a clearer head - I rest  - my case and my body!

Monday 12 September 2011

Parallel Lanes

Parallel Lanes

Last weekend we drove to Newcastle – not to carry coals – that is elsewhere on the planet. This Newcastle, for those of you not familiar with Australian geography, is a city in New South Wales160 km more or less north of our home in Manly. We thought it would be an easy run but our anticipated two and a little bit hour journey took just over three. It was the traffic through the suburbs that slowed us down. Lumbering four-wheel drive vehicles - especially those with trailers attached heading off to the local landfill site with garden and other waste clogged the arterial route to the freeway. Springtime in our part of the world always prompts frenetic bursts of energy as we clear out the winter backlog and make way for new growth or new outdoor furniture - if what we saw on some trailers was destined for the dump! Despite current whinging we are an affluent society. Once on the freeway we were clear to move ahead albeit with some degree of caution on this accident-prone stretch of road. Mike and I tend to amble along in the slow lane staying just under the limit and ignoring would be speedsters who sit impatiently on our tail. We don’t mind taking our time and taking advantage of the break in our usually busy routines to catch up on everyday stuff, to find out about each other’s world and to explore current issues. The two that currently monopolise our media and polarise public opinion (and have done so for several months) are Australia’s proposed solutions to the arrival of ‘boat people’ and its obstinate stance on climate change.

The country remains divided on both. I am embarrassed and ashamed that we lack a humane solution for asylum seekers who risk their lives to reach our unwelcoming shores. On the issue of climate change the government’s solution to reducing our impact on the world’s climate - the introduction of a carbon tax - causes continued and heated debate. The climate change sceptics provide a convenient ‘loophole’ for those who resist change at any cost and public will is weak. So as we drove, fully cognisant of our contribution (bring on the fast rail), we imagined this same stretch of road in a thousand years’ time. It helped to pass the time. Nothing was solved, but given that the climate will change and new ethnic groups will continue to settle in Australia, it was thought provoking to imagine transport systems, urban development, food production, the demographic make up of our population and the ensuing cultural shift in a future way beyond our own lifetimes. I prefer to believe that the human species will still be around and thriving and living in structures that resonate with the land; Mike sees a landscape that ‘grows’ solar and wind energy systems unlike anything engineered today and we both envisage highways without personal vehicles. And well before we had begun to think about health, procreation and learning systems or even intergalactic travel we were in Newcastle. We quickly switched the channel from future to present and went about our business. Later, as we drove into evening with the car pointed towards home, we switched off conversation, switched the channel to Radio National, lapsed into quiet mode and began to listen.

Sometime before leaving the motorway and beginning our descent into Saturday evening urban traffic chaos we caught a large segment of a documentary ‘Northern Lives’ on Radio National’s regular program Awaye. We were captivated as Daniel Browning led us on a journey with the nomadic Sami reindeer herders of Norway on their annual migration across the tundra in search of fodder for the animals with which they coexist. We listened with mounting sadness as we learned of their tenuous future on land that melts under their feet. We listened all the way into our garage and then rushed into the kitchen to hear the last minutes of this remarkable story. I needed to hear it to its end. I had almost forgotten the power of words to set my imagination free, to fill out the sounds with imagery, to roam across white expanses and to wander in my mind through a land where the sun does not quite set for months and the northern lights flicker in a twilight sky. The documentary also took me back to childhood and for the first time in decades I recalled a book my mother bought me that gave me my first glimpse into a world beyond my own backyard. I recall the title ‘Lars and the Reindeer’ - although no amount of Internet searching has yielded it up - but it’s enough to remember a story set in Lapland that made reference to the northern lights, had illustrations of sleighs, reindeer and richly embellished clothing (not a Santa in sight) and which certainly set in place a yearning to see these for myself.

Some things do come to pass. I have witnessed the aurora borealis during years of living in northern British Columbia- standing on crisply frozen ground in below zero temperatures and watching as the lights rippled and dipped in a shifting electromagnetic colour field; I have delved into the world of physics to help me understand the phenomenon but I have not yet been to Lapland to see reindeer herders. I may never do so but I am deeply saddened by the prospect of another culture disappearing through our collective carelessness. The rate of ice melt due to warming is unstoppable; scientists predict that within 20 years there will be none at all thus leaving the Arctic Circle wide open for oil and gas exploration. I am deeply saddened at the plight of indigenous peoples across the planet whose lands are seized for mining, for gas extraction and for industrial development – the Huichol of the Sierra Madres in Mexico whose ancient rites will fail under the destruction of their sacred (ore rich) mountain, the Aboriginal people of the Kimberley region whose land and coast are to become a giant industrial site for the extraction and shipping of gas and for the traditional fisher folk of the Arabian coast in India where mangroves have made way for coal fired power stations.

And do we really believe that we are invincible and that climate change will miraculously turn itself around or miss us completely? That one day CO2 levels will drop of their own accord to those of pre industrial times? I’d like to think that we will all learn to leave the car in the garage; bring on the fast trains; create the technologies we know will slow and eventually reverse the process; use land for food production and leave coal and gas where they belong and, while I remember, that we will also graciously make room for the displaced of the world just as our ancestors made room for themselves in this, their new world. I choose to believe that if we begin in earnest right now future generations might just survive another thousand years and a reindeer herder live to take part in another migration across the tundra.

I have no ready images so I’ll invite you to engage your imagination and fill in the pictures that surround these words.

Footnotes:
1. You can listen on line to the Arctic story on http://www.abc.net.au/rn/awaye/stories/2011/3305617.htm
2. Our trip to Newcastle was to visit the New Fibre Arts Gallery ‘Timeless Textiles’ owned and operated by Anne Kempton. Well worth a visit to admire and enjoy the creativity and ingenuity of local artists who work in the medium of textiles and most of whom display great environmental ethics in their uses of natural materials and plant dyes and creative reuse. Visit Anne at www.timelesstextiles.com.au

Sunday 4 September 2011

Art by any other Name

Ishan Khosla's post 'What's in a Name' (see ishankhosla.wordpress.com) raises a theme that has long been bandied about in the art/design/craft world. When my earlier world in NZ was divided into an arts council and a crafts council it was fraught with the politics of labeling - as if we could be neatly separated into either artists or craftspeople. And as art always seemed to have the upper hand (and more funding) we, who were labeled craftspeople, railed against the divide. In today's world of multitasking, working across platforms, collaborating and changing career paths I am surprised when the issue manages to surface again. But it does and Ishan's experience reflects the changes that are happening as traditional 'artisans' and those who represent them find a new voice in the world of 'art.'

I was recently criticised in my own country for using the word 'artisan'  to describe a traditional Indian weaver because he had made works for an exhibition to hang on the wall. To the critical one’s eye the weaver had transcended a boundary and was therefore making ‘art’. Early on in the process I was careful to ask the weaver how he wished to be described in exhibition documentation and while ‘artisan’ was his choice, he is also a designer, a skilled craftsman and story-teller and, in his own right, an artist. He cannot be neatly 'pigeon holed' because he is each and all of these! In the end is the art/craft or artist/artisan labeling divide purely a question of semantics or is it intellectual power play or yet another form of elitism? Whatever it is, inherent in any labeling system is the danger of class/caste discrimination and perhaps it is worthwhile to remember that there are cultures in which the word 'artist' does not exist. Individuals simply do what they do as their contribution to the social system in which they live.

Off the floor and onto the wall. Rugs by Tejsi Dhana Marwada India 2010
Maybe we would be better off to adopt the labeling system of some indigenous communities (as documented by social anthropologist, the late Ralph Bulmer) - not by a single label or word but by a train of thought that describes a trait or magical power such as that of the Papuan Lories otherwise known locally as ‘birds which men's soul can turn into.’ Far more meaningful than simply Papuan Lories which is a western label after all!  My artist (by her own definition) friend Maria Reichenberg who introduced me to Melanesian naming systems claims that all art is subjective and that something which is subjective by its nature, cannot be classified and any attempts at categorisation will inevitably be ethnocentric and value laden depending on whether it is an institution, university art department, critic or artist making the classification.  And, in remembering the work of the late Ralph Bulmer she suggests, with thanks to him, that we may not recognise different categories of people or the work they produce if we do not value them.

In the end and, given the greater scheme of life, it matters not a whit as long as one has the sensitivity to ask the person concerned how it is they wish to be described (labeled) and to ensure the correct spelling of her or his name! As for me this week, in Melanesian terms I might well be ‘Woman who appears at low tide and collects brightly coloured plastic bottle tops.’ I take the tops home, wash and sort them, make holes in them, arrange them on part of a surfboard found last week and, when the arrangement looks OK to my eye, I tie them to the board with fishing line salvaged from the same beach. But in our world what does that make me? And is it art? Or dare I say it - craft?

Sea pod, Manly Cove, found materials Carole Douglas 2009


While we Remember

The downside of being unwell is the sudden lack of activity, the lull in communication, the interruption to routine and a certain boredom that sets in after a couple of days. The upside is the gift of time – to rest, sleep, reflect and to focus on healing. I did not take the laptop to bed – I took the radio instead and drifted in and out of wakefulness accompanied by news, views and music – a rare privilege for one who thinks in sudden grabs while news, views and music rushes by. One afternoon, in conversation with Petrea King (Quest for life Foundation), ABC’s Richard Glover explored the ways in which death impacts on our emotional state and, in particular, deaths of those removed from our everyday world – the famous, the gifted, the inspirers and those who entertained, provoked and challenged us. The lists are long and include many whom we never knew such as the victims of the Twin Towers attacks or of the Bali bombing and recently, none of us in Australia is without acute sadness for the victims of the recent fire in Brisbane and their grieving community. The discussion prompted me to reflect on a death that is somewhat closer to home and which I have never quite put to rest. I know that after several months it is time to let go and move on and yet before I do so I’d like to share some memories of a wonderful personal friend who also happened to be the friend of so many others from all parts of our planet and from all walks of life. We are - each and every one of us - far, far richer for knowing Ranju.

No animal ever went hungry around Ranju, friend to all animals.

Bhuj 1996
Dust filtering through the rays of a late afternoon sun yields a quality of light like no other. This golden haze epitomises India but never more so than during my first wanderings through a mediaeval town on a late January afternoon. I was lost in a maze of narrow alleys, stone walls hemmed me in on either side and ornately carved wooden gates offered no exit route, they were simply entrances to family compounds. Don’t get me wrong though - I did not mind being without direction - each twist and turn led me into new worlds and into a time before the chaos of modernity. Two wheelers (scooters) were some years away and cars were for the privileged few. The only traffic was by foot, bicycle or by an animal drawn cart – ox, donkey, horse or even camel; cows ambled by nonchalantly chewing their cud - often with a calf alongside and even the appearance of a huge hump backed bull did not bother me – there was something about the quiet gait that quelled any fear; stiff haired pigs bristled through food waste disdained by cows and dogs slumbered fitfully in the territories over which they reigned. Sometimes people spoke to me and I, shy of being so pale and so foreign, did not engage in those days. I sort of nodded, ducked my head and moved on. It was not until I suddenly emerged out of a narrow road and into the bottom of a busy market street that I began to feel new confidence as a bunch of French visitors wandered by showing off some newly acquired brightly coloured cloth. They were the first other foreigners I had encountered and I was relieved to know that I was not the only one in town.

I stopped briefly by a stall that sold richly hued pungent spices and my mouth watered over sweets in another; an absurdly narrow shoe store held me entranced and I fingered a dusty embroidered skirt hanging outside a fabric store. And in this manner I moved slowly, totally entranced by the knowledge that I was really in India, until I was stopped in my tracks by a pair of bright blue doors with the unlikely name ‘Senorita Boutique’ spelled out in bold yellow letters above them and I had a brief flash of geographic confusion. Then I looked into the shop’s deep interior, a small woman stopped stitching at her Singer machine, looked me directly in the eyes, smiled and said crisply ‘Hello. What is your name? What country are you from? Please take chai with me.’ Thus it began - my first meeting with Ranju Mayecha and the beginning of a love affair with people and place and that shows no signs of diminishing!
First encounter with a new friend.
On this, my first, visit Ranju looked out for me and after me. I ate many meals in her small house in Orient Colony and learned about Gujarati cuisine by her side in her humble kitchen with its clay water pots, blue painted cupboard that held treasures, matching blue painted refrigerator and the small shrine at which she performed ‘puja’ on her return from work each day. I liked to stand at the stone bench and ‘pop’ the mustard seeds in hot oil and suck the insides out of fresh green cardamom seeds while she rolled the roti and introduced me to the delights of Shrikant - that heavenly blend of strained curd (yoghurt) and dried fruit, cardamon and other aromatic ingredients! Her chai was bliss and I went home armed with recipes and specially blended spices. Over the next few weeks Ranju advised me where to go, who to meet and never once did she have a bad word about anyone – the worst she ever said when I probed was ‘Sometimes good, sometimes bad – you will be OK.’ When I became ill with food poisoning from a hotel where I stayed (but where I should never have eaten) she came every day to my sick bed with freshly made curd, kichdi (boiled rice and mung dhal) and bananas. Between her kindness and my driver’s watchful eye that oversaw my medication routine and the hotel manager who ensured I was comfortable - I recovered quickly. Kachchh kindness had begun to seep into my bones! Later, Ranju joined me at the desert festival for performances that started at 10pm. She was with me the night that I saw and heard the fabled Kachchhi folksinger Danubai Khana who, at 80 plus, was still belting out numbers about the weight of dowry silver and other gutsy songs. I left Kachchh three weeks later laden with gifts from Ranju and from her sister, Manju whom I had come to know in such a short space of time.

Ranju in the kitchen of  the first apartment after earthquake.
Over the next fifteen years my friendship with Ranju grew. Senorita Boutique was the first place I headed for on arrival in town. Her shop was the hub of Bhuj. Foreigners were drawn to its depths where they rummaged and unearthed all manner of textile treasures, had clothes made overnight from silk, cotton, wool, embroidered, block printed, tie dyed or plain - clothes made to measure, designed by Ranju and stitched by her tailors. I still have the first ‘kurta’ made by her - a ‘mango’ design black and white block print by Ismail with its opening held together by an antique silver fastener - a special gift to me. The dress, now worn and faded, remains the sample from which all others are now made. And not only foreigners came to her store, locals flocked there too for fabric and stitching and gossip and it was a repository of local crafts - of copper bells and lacquer buttons, of Rabari shawls and bandhani scarves, of Afghan coats and silver nose rings – all of it driven by Ranju’s love of beauty and her will to help others. And it was through this same hub that I met an array of wonderful international women – a sisterhood deeply connected to Kachchh and who work for its wellbeing; women such as Andrea Serrahn whose workshop in Bhuj produces clothes for her San Francisco boutique while supporting two tailors and their families; Uta from Germany who raises funds at home to build schools and pay for corrective surgery for disabled children and Liz from England who buys and sells things of great ethnic appeal. These women are just a few of many I have met over the years and always my opening question to Ranju, after greetings, was ‘Who’s in town?’

The 'mango' dress, 1997.
When the earthquake struck Bhuj in 2001 five days before I was due to arrive, Ranju was the first person with whom I tried to make contact. After ten days of constant daily unanswered calls she finally picked up the telephone and in her usual clipped voice said ‘Hello.’ When I cried and said ‘I am so glad you are alive’ she quipped ‘you are pleased? I am very pleased.’ Her unquenchable spirit had survived. The message I posted on a website to say she was alive and well still floats out there in cyberspace along with other relics of those days – the past has found another dimension! Once I had established that Ranju and several other key people were OK and I had some sense of the scale of the disaster, I rescheduled the postponed trip and arrived in early March when I slept (or tried to) in a yellow tent outside Ranju’s house and attempted to come to terms with the scale of devastation. The winding laneways were gone, so too the carved doorways into family compounds - the charm and beauty of a mediaeval town was obliterated in a single violent act of nature. Over the next 6 weeks we talked long into hot dusty nights, we travelled out to the epicentre where we wondered at nature’s forces, we travelled at the break of day in local buses to visit artisans and we planned what to do, what was best to do, what we could do given these harsh times and our own circumstances.

Ranju at the Epicentre, 10k from Lodai, 2001.
Over the next two years Ranju was a guiding light in the complex task of putting together an exhibition (Resurgence) planned for Manly (NSW) in 2003. She helped me to navigate the intricate pathways of local politics and counseled me in ways to deal with factionalism. Best of all she was a sounding board, listening attentively while I sorted out my jumbled thoughts and more often than not made no comment while I made my own sense of the task. At the time I was working with NGOs and individual artisans and there was only so much of a pie to share - you have to understand that these were extreme times calling for extraordinary action. The entire community was traumatised and physically and emotionally challenged by this dreadful event, foreign aid was flowing in and, with survival uppermost, any hint of succour was readily seized. The way to success was strewn with potential risks and I was challenged to handle them impartially. Two years later, when the works for the show were finally completed and had been proudly shown off in Bhuj, it was Ranju who travelled with me in a less than adequate vehicle bound for Ahmedabad and the threat of the terrible Octroi (roadside tax) waiting to seize us at every bend in the ravaged roads! It was a slow, uneventful journey and we giggled most of the way when I told her how I imagined that Octroi was the troll under the bridge of a childhood story and we, including the driver, were the three Billy Goats Gruff. But there were only tolls at the bridges we crossed.

The daunting challenges of rebuilding lives and livelihood.
 In 1993 Ranju came to Sydney. We rallied amongst her friends and raised an airfare to bring her out with the artisans for the exhibition opening and to attend the Fibre Forum textile conference in Mittagong (NSW). She was a guest in our home and I have huge, warm memories of this small woman, always immaculately turned out, in my kitchen cooking alongside my even smaller and just as immaculately turned out 84 year old mother. For several days the kitchen was crowded with friends. Some had travelled from New Zealand especially to see her and Ismail Mohmed Khatri and Ali Mohmed and there were many other well wishers. In a short time she had formed a strong bond with my family and thereafter, when I returned from Bhuj, I carried shirts made by Ranju for my brother Graeme, son Simon and for Mike and always something soft and silky for my mother. But one of the most profound moments during her stay was her sudden observation about my life. One morning while I was cutting herbs in the garden, Ranju looked at me astutely ‘You cook, you clean, you do the washing and ironing, you buy the food, you make things and you work full time in your business. How do you do it?’ she asked. It was a moment of revelation for both of us; me - because I take my roles for granted; Ranju - because she assumed we had it easy and for the first time I saw myself though another lens and had an insight into the chasm that lies between how the lives of western women are commonly perceived in India and how they really are. In all fairness I need to tell you that husband Mike also cooks, cleans, shops, irons his own shirts, gardens and works full time. Ranju also went home with a different perspective on the economics of international trade when she saw for herself how items increase in cost between artisan and eventual buyer and a new level of respect strengthened our alliance. Her trip to Australia somehow found its way onto the Internet in answer to a travel query about Bhuj ‘Oh also in Bhuj’ it reports ‘there is a store called Senorita Boutique - run by a lovely woman in the main bazaar - she makes and has some good stuff. She has been to Sydney - something to do with an exhibition in Manly.’

Me, Ali Mohmed Isha and Ranju at Manly Art Gallery, 2003.



But it is the part that Ranju played in my tour groups which is something that cannot be replaced. She was the welcoming conduit between East and West and made my role so much easier when comfort zones were stretched. She offered her hospitality with generosity, good grace and humour. Imagine twelve or more women crowded into her tiny apartment being fed her famous specialties and leaving filled with good food and emptied of much laughter; imagine twelve or more women crowded into her tiny shop and finding and trying and being fitted and laughing at large western arms not quite making their ways into slim Indian sleeves! She was our touchstone in the market place, nobody ever got (totally) lost between her shop and our connected cell phones; she made outfits for the small and large and transformed many a drab tourist into a colourful traveller; she gave advice and friendship and above all she was always there!

Tour group with Ranju at Classic Complex, 2007.
When Salim called me with the news of Ranju’s sudden death on January 15th, I had a group with me. We were only two days away from Bhuj. I had spoken to her briefly on the telephone when I first arrived - there was no mention of illness and not a hint of anything amiss in her voice. Sadly I did not get to see Ranju Mayecha again. She died of a heart attack after a sudden, brief illness and as is the custom was cremated the following morning. When we arrived the following day Bhuj was in a state of shock - so great was the impact of this small woman’s death that I had to revamp the first few days’ itinerary and while the group went off the following day with guide and bus I attended a simple service at a temple in Bhuj. An inconsolable Andrea from San Francisco, who was in Bhuj working with Ranju at the time, sat near me and during the two or three hours that I sat in quiet reflection I watched the familiar faces of the artisans of Kachchh come and pay tribute to a woman who had played a key role in their lives. When Muslim men attend a Hindu ceremony you know for certain that religion does not interfere in the closeness of community. There are no ‘wakes’ in India; after the ceremony and in the absence of our usual custom (Bhuj is dry) a small group of us went for ice cream at Ranju’s favourite ice cream shop. We walked slowly into the familiar market place, each of us locked quietly into our own grief, when Ali Mohmed Isha broke the silence; in a few succinct words he summed up our feelings ‘Our friend is dead’ he said softly ‘What are we to do now?’ Indeed what are we to do?

All I know is that when I arrive in Bhuj on September 17th I will not be jumping into an auto-rickshaw and heading into ‘Darbargadh’ to a small shop with blue doors called Senorita Boutique and sharing my first taste of Kachchh chai with a small woman called Ranju who was always there. I thank the forces that placed us in each other’s path, gave us the miracle of friendship and inter-cultural insights and allowed us to share part of life’s journey together.

Our friend, Ranju Mayecha, 2010.
Postnote: Andrea and I have discussed making a memorial to Ranju in the market – perhaps a bench overlooking Lake Hamirsar where travellers can rest. We welcome all ideas and suggestions from local and international friends and aim to have it in place on the anniversary of her passing.

Tuesday 23 August 2011

A Chair for all Occasions

I did not leave for Ahmedabad at 8am today as planned, instead I am languishing, drinking thyme tea - as Liane recommends - and generally giving myself the ‘thumbs up’ because I usually travel in the belief that a sniffle will pass, a headache disappear and a surface scratch heal before the flight has landed. This time was somehow different. The broom of lingering winter caught me in its bristles late last week, swept me along wet pavements and left me stranded on an exposed corner at a busy intersection where the pedestrian lights had failed.  I did not have a coat or umbrella – they were hanging on their hallway hooks along with my invincible self. Over the weekend the sniffle morphed into the flu, the headache into a persistent throb and a minor leg wound into a major infection requiring medical intervention. So while waiting the required 30 minutes after the prescribed tablet to eat my soup I sneaked into my office to check mail. Amidst get well messages from Gujarat a Facebook friend request from Papua New Guinea leapt out at me. It came from Vincent and from a time of treasured friendship and travel into rare territories. Time and space collapsed in a rush of memories – not of deserts but of steamy places, incarcerated mercenaries (we arrived one day before the Sandline affair errupted), small islands, vote-seeking politicians, the drama of a rubbish dump that I was sent to investigate and of my tall, pale skinned, red haired husband diving into the waves at Wom beach amidst the quasi-afraid and delighted shrieks of small Papuan children and their onlooking families.

Cruising with Vincent, East Sepik. Photo Mike Sloane 1996
I learned to love Pidgin. Petrol pump sign Wewak. Photo C Douglas 1996
Vincent Sale came into our lives during a crystal clear star-studded night at the Hawkesbury campus of the University of Western Sydney. He was then an agricultural extension student and I was enmeshed in Social Ecology. It was 1994 and we were set to change the world. The Earth Summit in Rio de Janeiro was over by two years; I was completing my Masters degree to carry the new paradigm forward and Vincent planned to revolutionise land management in the country of 'wantok' and the hidden implications of a system of kinship and not too different from our own of mateship. Vincent appeared before me during a social occasion, a small dark man with a huge smile and offered me his outstretched hand.  ‘Hello – I be Vincent – from Wewak in Papua New Guinea.’ I responded in like manner and in that instant a friendship was formed, unbreakable, heartbreaking and breaking the grounds of anything I have known before or since. That is also 'wantok'. From then on Vincent was our friend, our loyal supporter and mentor. He was a regular visitor to Manly, brought his family down to stay more than once and came in splendid gift bearing style to our wedding where, in full voice, he orated the occasion of our first meeting in Manly. Mike and I went to Wewak once and once only and the memories of forays into places of total otherness linger indelibly. I remember markets and 'meres', sweeping bays and bush food, kids and laughter, billums and storyboards, listening to PNG Parliamentary debates spoken in colourful Pidgin, driving over boulder strewn river beds jam packed amonsgt twenty or so others perched on the Landrover's tray and smoking 'brus' rolled into the carefully torn pages of the Sydney Morning Herald (best quality for a smoke). But what remains in uppermost layers of memory are the interpretations of everyday life as magical events - woven and rewoven until they are embedded into local lore. Such is the story of Matiu's chair.

Island village - Kairiru. Photo C Douglas 1996.
Matiu’s Chair
Vincent insisted we visit his family home so early one afternoon we set off in a ‘banana boat’ - an open aluminium 18 footer laden with petrol, food and drink – for the island of Kairiru off the East Sepik coast and two hours across the Bismark Sea - when conditions are right! Matiu with his betel stained gums took the helm with Vincent, Mike, Aaron - Vincent’s youngest boy, baby Alice and myself tucked strategically throughout the craft to maintain some kind of balance. We were late in leaving Wewak and the men were anxious about the turn of tide and wind that could render our journey dangerous in a wave beat. Our personal bodyguard, reformed ‘rascal’, Gary had kept us waiting. He did not make the journey - urgent family matters took precedence. It was a long tough ride across waters that turned against us before we reached the half way point. The island was elusive, its dormant volcanic cone surrounded by jungle and wave-lapped rocky shores hovered just out of reach. We did not land at Victoria Bay and instead went to the lee of the island and beached ingloriously just in front of Matiu’s small village.

So close yet so far the sea pushed us backwards. Photo C Douglas 1996.
A dozen or so family homes lined the grassy knoll above the bay.  Each one stood on coconut trunk piles a metre or so off the ground and each one had a wide veranda, sloping thatched roof, overhanging eaves and the air slipped its cooling way through the lashed coconut slats used for floors and walls. There was not a sign of a nail, pane of glass, or metal roofing in any construction. At the edges of the settlement several houses lay in variously collapsed piles and slowly disintegrating into the land from which they came – sustainability in action. Kids squealed and chickens ran under houses at the sight of these pale strangers disturbing the tranquility. White nappies flapped in the sea breeze and a group of women were already in the cookhouse preparing our food. The only anomaly in this bucolic scene was an oversized, overstuffed, triangular plastic chair with a scalloped back and covered in royal blue and floral patterned vinyl complete with gold piping. This ‘throne’ took up the corner of the veranda just before entering Matiu's house itself. Our host insisted that we take turns in sitting on it and asked if we 'felt' anything before he told us how such an unlikely object came to be in his possession.

Matiu's outrigger. Photo C Douglas 1996.
One morning Matiu was fishing in his small outrigger canoe, several hours off shore and well out of sight of land. The fish were biting and he was just about to turn for home with his catch when he spotted a dark object bobbing on the horizon. It took some time to reach and when he did he discovered a large amorphously shaped package tied up in heavy plastic. He had no idea of the contents but lashed it to his canoe and began the labourious task of towing it home. The sun was slipping from the sky when he finally arrived to an anxious group waiting on the shore. It took several men to heave the heavy mystery package onto land and carry it up on to the grassy knoll where it was solemnly unpacked in view of the entire population of fifty or so. I try to imagine that moment as people, who live without chairs, were confronted with a grand item obviously designed to be sat upon. It finally came to rest on Matiu’s veranda where it became an object of awe, speculation, gossip and imbued with the magic powers of the spirit world as, over the next few months, everybody on the island came to view this gift from the sea and offer their version of how it came to be there.

Matiu's chair - a gift from the sea. Photo C Douglas 1996.
 ‘It is a gift from your parents (deceased)’ said one old aunty ‘They have sent to you so you can sit and watch the sun go down and think of them.’
‘It is a bribe from the government’ a jealous local official informed him – and spread the rumour around the tiny island.
'It is a gift from God for being a good Christian' his god faring neighbour told him with a certain amount of unChristian envy!
‘It belongs to a king of a faraway land’ a bright-eyed schoolboy who attended the local mission stated ‘I have seen such things in books.’
“The pirates stole it and now they will come here to find it’ offered a young man ‘we will have to fight.’
‘The spirits sent it and they will take it away again if you misbehave’ his brother in law told him in jest.
‘If you sit on it you will become rich’ and this version gathered many dimensions from miracle cures, to longevity, to sudden death!

In the end the chair will outlast Matiu and his house and nobody will ever know its true origins and how it came to be bobbing about on the Bismark Sea. We certainly did not 'feel' while anything sitting on it except minor discomfort at its slippery surface. I’d like to return one day to the island - there were many stories yet to hear - but our visit was cut short by Mike’s sudden onset of malaria. We were gone the next day leaving the chair to its new place on a tiny island with its coastline of less than less than 40 km and where people interpret their world through the interchangeable lenses of natural and supernatural realms. Today you can find Kairiru on WWW. and via Google - not via some Unix code which was about the time I first met Vincent. Now it is Facebook that brings friends back to me - another circle closes and a new one opens.

'Puk puk' carved from single log, Wewak. Photo C Douglas 1996.
The postponed India trip is now three weeks away. I hear from good sources that it is raining on the desert, green grass grows before one's eyes, the reservoirs are filled with sweet water and baby crocodiles have appeared in great numbers. Maybe I’ll get to one see a live one yet!






Friday 12 August 2011

Alive in McLuhan Land

A single machine rules my waking life. It (G4 Power Book circa 2004) grinds slowly under the load of seven years’ accumulation of useful and useless information stored over several external drives and all of which I now find impossible to search and/or destroy. I do not have time to obliterate the past. This rolling stone does gather moss. I scrape the occasional clump into one or other data dump but the free space soon attracts more. In short, Geefor and I are no longer compatible - we are off key, off line and off limits. Besides, its operating system (did I say operating?) does not allow me to upgrade applications; mail waits in ‘sending’ mode until I reboot; the spinning rainbow ball sends me into my own tailspin and last night I had to abandon an attempt to book a rail journey on Indian Railway’s efficient site because my search engine has now moved into the crawler lane. I am reminded of my first forays onto the newly named ‘information highway’ when I’d sit up all night nosediving into Unix codes, losing my way completely or ending up at sites still under construction. The gritty sound of the dial up connection to the modem was music to my ears – it signaled waves! The web had me in its rip - I night surfed for months. Later I became attached to a small dog called ‘Fetch’ that dutifully trotted across the bottom of my Mac Plus ($AU8, 500 circa1987) screen retrieving bytes of both useful and useless information. Sometime later a faster model superseded this first machine. It possessed moss gathering capabilities and I bought software that opened vistas into possible worlds. Remember MacWrite? Freehand? PageMaker? Painter? And when matrix was a printing mode? Then Fetch became Gopher and I was thrust back into comic book years. More screens and boxes followed - each one larger, less expensive, yet more time consuming than the previous and the garage became a repository of dead systems. Years slipped by. Today, twenty-five years after I took the bite of my first apple, I hit the button and said ‘yes’ to the super system plus entirely new software packages - because I never did incrementally upgrade from earlier versions. I called a halt at the solid-state drive - liquidity being the main block. I do admit to a certain sense of sadness at the exodus of this old ally and I may even lose the friendly little character that pops up from time to time offering help and waving goodbye without malice when I hit its quit.  But only after I have attended to my e-waste responsibilities will I wipe out Geefor’s memory, farewell a never quite tamed panther and close the lid forever on a screensaver that came from somewhere out of iphoto and which would not be undone! So it goes. It is late again. I am not night surfing just grappling with changeover and already I feel the shadowed presence of another big cat prowling at the edges of sleep!
Cartoon by Carole Douglas, 1994.
I end this lapse into memory with thoughts from a thinker at the height of webmania:
‘Probably the most dramatic thing taking place on the planet right now in terms of future impact on society is the rapid evolution of the internet, the WORLD WIDE WEB (computer information highway that connects 30 million users in 125 countries). Nobody owns, operates or controls it. And it is invisible and does not intrude into ordinary daily life … and so everything appears to be business as usual. But the process of boundary dissolution and information transfer and the spread of egalitarian ideas, and the dissolving of rigid class structures under the influence of technology, this is all proceeding 24 hours a day quite unnoticed by most people. The McLuhanistic revolution has come. You can sit at home and suddenly anywhere in the world is only a local call away and your computer is a librarian robot cutting the way ahead of you through the informational underbrush. It’s empowering people. Whatever your field of interest, you’re no longer without community.’
Terence McKenna, interviewed in Maui Times, 26/9/1994.

I am off to a conducive community in less than two weeks time and while it might be popularly believed that no big cats remain in this part of India a few, who seem to know otherwise, claim that panthers still roam in the wilds beyond Nakhatrana (Kachchh). An elder artisan from a village so remote that the bus travels there only weekly showed me the post to which she tied her kids (goats) at night. She lured me into her tiny mud home and warned me to mind, but not be afraid of, the snake curled on the single rafter as I ducked my head to enter her room. The fat reptile kept intruders at bay and the kids slept safely away from the panther prowling at the edges of their sleep. Amjibaben later showed me its spore when we walked to the edge of the hamlet and I gathered tiny seashells – evidence of Kachchh’s up and down geological past. Her panther features in a quilt she made in memory of the 2001 earthquake where it stalks on the side of death in her tree of life. Panthers aside, there are no other big cats to be found in Kachchh apart from a tiger in a glass case in the Maharoa’s summer palace at the beach. I could not comprehend its size - this huge, majestic beast with glassy gaze staring into its own vanishing point. It was shot in Rajasthan on some pukka trophy hunt and I remember being moved to tears by a creature forever trapped in its own inglorious demise. I now decline to enter the palace and leave others to roam the curious building while I am content to wander the grounds and read the even more curious signs attached here and there.

The Tree of Life and Death by Amjibah Purdisan Sodha for Resurgence, 2001
Amjibahben in her tiny hut, secure from prowling beasts, 2002.
Barefoot, defenseless, silent and hungry I wander the royal gardens of yesteryear. Images Carole Douglas 2004 & 2005
Soon I go to Kachchh - using up some hard earned air points that would expire if I didn’t and taking care of some unfinished business. At least those are today’s reasons for a top up of the kind of ‘otherness’ I need on a fairly regular basis - when I leave computer issues behind, switch off daily demands, switch on a Hindi movie on a long flight and mentally prepare myself to walk into a hot, humid, Ahmedabad night. Friends inform me that rain is elusive this year– monsoon has barely shown its edge and Kuldip asks me to bring rain please because Kachchh has seen even less. Last year in late July it rained for days on end; silver sheets of solid water hung across the highway; shepherds and flocks and herds crowded usually empty roads heading for the brilliant green tips of new grass that appeared almost instantaneously and a man in a red shirt danced in joy alongside our car, his face upturned, his drenched clothes flapping around his whirling body. We drove out to *Bhirenderia just to have chai in the rain with the locals, the truck drivers and soldiers, and to talk about the weather!
Naran was there with his brother - looking for business just as they were 15 years ago; two youths with anxious eyes standing at the roadside with embroidered finery hanging off a fence behind the chai stop. I succumbed to their charms and still own the piece I bought that day. They are grown men now with children of their own and our friendship is solid. We drank hot steamy sweet spicy chai standing under the same flimsy shelter that had withstood the earthquake and talked about the rain in the warmth of this community of friends.

Sufiyan Mohmed Khatri tests the water! Image Monsoon Carole Douglas 2010
Back in Bhuj (district headquarters of Kachchh), school kids hung out of auto rickshaws laughing as passing wheels threw up great streams of the brown water that rose up suddenly in the streets - challenging the drainage system to its limits. In the small block printing village of Ajrakhpur, mud stopped all traffic in and out and conversations were shouted across an expanse of impassable sticky brown clay. In rural villages Embroidery production virtually stopped as women exchanged needles for farming tools - taking advantage of this once-in-a-year (when the gods/goddesses are smiling) opportunity to plant crops. You can’t expect orders to be on time when the rain comes and so unfinished business is an ongoing thread in a material life that frequently unravels - and after fifteen years of coming and going I’ve learned to patch and darn. Stitches in time - more or less!
Bhuj loves rain! Monsoon 2010. Image Carole Douglas 2010.

Conversely, or perversely, we don’t want more rain in Sydney and late last week we celebrated the arrival of unseasonably temperate days as we switched overnight from wet and cold to dry and warm. For those few days however I did not sit in the sun. Instead I attended a **symposium absorbing the stories of a series of speakers from several different countries as they probed many of the issues one encounters or ponders when working with traditional artisans in another culture. In light of ideas expressed I’ll take yet another look at my own processes - at myself and at my own expectations in relation to the expectations of the artisans with whom I work. It’s time to probe a little deeper into the cultural implications - into the whats and hows, ifs and buts from the both sides of the greater story - the sum of the parts - and seek answers that always pose more questions. It is a bottomless ethical well. In the end, I reckon that knowledge only comes from understanding the dynamics of competing and complex systems that are only sometimes compatible and that’s when one grabs the moment. And runs with it. I’d like to build a holographic view of this complex interplay and as I can’t do that on the current machine I’ll wait until a certain other arrives - clean and clear of conflicts and with great empty spaces. Free of moss. Together we will make a fresh start. I will not allow it gather useless information while I am not watching. Between us, we will learn to synchronise our divergent systems - machine and human inextricably linked. We will make our entrance with feline grace and roar down highways of our own making - cursor paused on the brink and just one click away from anywhere we choose to travel and that's just about where I came in!
Connecting to the global brain. ©Carole Douglas 1994.

* Bhirenderia is the last village before the Banni region and lies just before the new permit office. No longer able to get permits for border villages from Bhuj, one now has to wait until 10.00am for the roadside office to open. Hard luck for those travelers with just one day to see the White Rann and the Black Hills and all else in between!

** College of Fine Arts (UNSW) Symposium ‘Collaboration in Experimental Design Research’
5th-6th August 2011