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My swim to Palolem

SarahAlderson

January 31, 2010

It’s because I’m English and from nowhere comes a surge of national pride. I cannot let the side down. And that is the reason that I find myself diving off a boat a mile from shore. Into open water where I most definitely cannot see to the bottom. I want to add here that I’ve never had a surge of national anything before, least of all pride.

And it isn’t the thought of the fathoms below filled with fins and tentacles that gets me moving, a sort of sideways breaststroke towards the beach, or the fact that the boat is now about a hundred metres away so I’m stranded and drifting slowly to Madagascar, it’s the sound of jet skiis that makes me think of Kirsty McColl. Blood in the water will attract sharks. Even though I’ve been reassured there are none in these parts of the Indian Ocean.

I have a theory that I’ll be safe from sharks so long as I always make sure that there is someone fatter than me further out in the water so I look over my shoulder at the boat and factor in where the swiss yoga couple are, and where the Venezuelan film maker, the Italian, the Indian swarmi and his partner are and then I up my pace till I have pushed past all of them.

No matter how fast I seem to be swimming however the shore doesn’t seem to be getting any nearer. At some point I am thinking I might just have to drown. Then I look up and I see a sign on the beach. It says, I shit you not, ‘Pub.’ I can hear celestial voices singing ‘Swing low sweet chariot.’

You can take the English girl out of the pub but you can’t take the pub out of the English girl. I swallow several pints of salt water just laughing.

I stagger to the shore feeling victorious. I have conquered my fear of deep dark water, sharks and jet skiis, and in doing so I have found a part of myself I never even knew existed.

so if you look to the far left and spot in the distance some palm trees, that's where I swam to. be impressed. be very impressed.

if you look to the far far left you'll see the beach. that's where I swam to. from just here. be impressed.

Yoga vs Hammock, Tofu vs Beer

SarahAlderson

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January 26, 2010

I’m struggling to write this post for two reasons. One – I don’t want to appear like I’m gloating and smug. Ok only one reason, you know me well enough now to know that I don’t really care if I look smug. The real reason I’m struggling is because I’m so relaxed that it is taking a superhuman effort to lift my fingers the three milimeters necessary to get them off the keyboard and to then press them down. There’s a mosquito munching at my leg and I can’t even move to swat it. My brain is so mush it is practically dribbling. If a coconut fell out of the tree above me and conked me on the head I doubt it would register.

Goa is so chilled it’s like it’s absorbed all the weed smoked and exhaled into the atmosphere over the last 40 years and is thoroughly and completely monged. Whited out.

That’s just this particular stretch of beach though. When we took a tuktuk yesterday to Palolem I thought maybe we’d detoured to Faliraki. It was vile. We went running to the nearest taxi driver and threw our rupees at him like he was Charon and we needed a boatride out of hell.

There are five of us staying here together. An Indian Canadian guy, a beautiful French girl, an amazing African American writer, Pooja and me. We are joking that Pooja is Anglina frickin Jolie collecting a smorgasbord of rainbow people around her. She I think is wondering in that case where Brad Pitt is.

So we’ve established this is heaven. A monged out utterly lovely version of heaven. There is only one thing that depresses me about being here. The amount of perfect yoga bodies on the beach. They should make me want to sprint to the nearest ashram and get into dog pose for the next decade until I too look like that but all they’re actually making me do is crawl into the nearest hammock and order another beer and a chocolate brownie. From Arun our waiter. Who I just have to wave my hand at and who comes running. Husbands don’t do that. I spy a gap in the market.

I made it to Harmonic today – an eco-retreat on the hill looking out over the ocean. The hill part had been putting me off until now. I looked at the yoga class list and then booked in for a massage. Which could go part way to explaining my catatonic state now. And the lack of yoga body.

Learning to fit in

SarahAlderson

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January 23, 2010

‘They think you’re easy.’

Huh. Ok. I wish Pooja had told me that that’s what Indian men think of Anglo Saxon women before bringing me to this dayglo ballroom where there are 453 Indian men in Armani suits and one Anglo Saxon woman. That one anglo saxon woman – in case you’re wondering – that’s me.

I scan the room. There are 13 chandeliers, a band that reminds me of the wedding singer, 453 Indian men in Armani suits (or thereabouts), about 30 women in traditional Indian dress. And me (not in Indian dress. In Topshop dress).

‘Where is the bar?’ I ask Pooja.

When I ask for my drink the barman looks at me confused. I ask again. He frowns. Pooja leans forward and says ‘vodka and watermelon juice’ (when in Rome).

‘But that’s what I said.’

‘He doesn’t understand you.’

‘But I’m speaking English.’ If I annunciated any more I’d sound like the Queen. My accent is so clipped it’s practically buzzcut.

‘Yeah, not to him. Your accent is funny.’

I ponder this. If pooja wasn’t with me the only way I could get a bloody vodka would be to talk in such a way that I’d get arrested and charged with racism if I did it in the UK. Or pilloried like Jade.

With one double measure vodka down and one in my hand I feel much better about this situation. To be fair Pooj wasn’t talking about me per se when she said they thought I was easy. She was talking about the general perception of European women. But I’m feeling distinctly uneasy. Ironically.

I think momentarily about stepping onto the dance floor and doing a Pulp Fiction-esque dance. It would be really funny. Perhaps only to me though. Perhaps not to the security guards. And wouldn’t do much to dispel Indian stereotypes of European women.

In the taxi I ask Pooja to teach me some Hindi.

Meera Naam Sarah Hai

She waggles her head. I copy. She bends over double laughing.

‘What? What’s so funny?’

It looks like I’m having a fit. She gets me to practice. I waggle again. Even the driver is laughing at me in the rear view mirror.

‘So I can’t speak bloody English without having the piss taken out of me and now I can’t speak bloody Hindi either.’

I keep practising the head wiggle. We get to Leopolds. It’s a disappointment.

Done the tattoo parlour. Next stop a wax.

SarahAlderson

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January 21, 2010

I just had a bikini wax. It involved a butter knife, wax so hot I assume they climbed the nearest volcano and dipped their wax tub in a flowing lava bed to warm it up and two women. All behind a shower curtain. You want to hear about the rest of my day?

I staggered like a drunk who’s just popped 10 vicodin out of bed at 10.45 this morning. I’m getting better. Yesterday was early afternoon. Day before that late afternoon. I hopped in a rickshaw, the driver didn’t have a clue where anything was – Mt. Mary’s steps – no. John Baptist Road? – no. Domino’s Pizza (running out of landmarks) -no. It became clear they don’t do the Knowledge in India. Eventually we made it. I thought about asking for a discount for the time he spent getting lost then realised that wrangling over 3p was ungenerous of me.

Then I was piled in another rickshaw, sandwiched between two people I’ve just met who work for Ashoka. When you’re sandwiched in a rickshaw it’s like being the spam in a sandwich where you have taken both palms and flattened the bread down. But in this instance it’s actually quite comforting because it’s like having air bags on both sides. I love the way they drive. It’s insane. I used to think that if you learnt to drive in South East London you could drive anywhere – including Baghdad but now I’m rethinking that. I wouldn’t drive in Mumbai if you told me that Alex Skarsgard and Javier Bardem were going to be at the end of the road waiting for me. Or a pot of gold. No way. It’s mental. The rules seem to be thus:

– There is no side to drive on – you drive on whichever the hell side of the road you like

– If you are a rickshaw driver you OWN the road

– You have to beep your horn the entire journey or you lose

– There’s a point system for how many pedestrians you can mow down and the winner gets dinner for two at the Taj

Yet for all the craziness there’s no road rage. If this was London and people were cutting you up, overtaking on the inside, bumping into pedestrians and beeping at you for not running a red there would be blood. The rage would be apoplectic and dangerous and deadly. But here, not so much as a middle finger or a snarl. Just head waggles. I love that.

I was taken to a restaurant that’s like the Indian version of Wimpy. Or the BHS cafe my mum used to take me to when I was a kid. And we chatted about evaluation. I’ve been in Mumbai 48 hours and I’m sitting discussing monitoring and evaluation and youth led social action. That’s me. Dedicated to the cause.

After lunch I go to the waxing place. After that I wish I had popped 10 vicodin.

Getting tattoos in Mumbai

SarahAlderson

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January 19, 2010

I have just been to a tattoo parlour in Mumbai. Not just any old tattoo parlour- ‘Al’s tattoo and cappuccino parlour’. I got a tattoo done. Of a bald eagle on my right shoulder blade with the words ‘don’t worry about a thing’ underneath.

Are you kidding? Of course I didn’t get a tattoo.

An American girl staying with Pooja is getting one though and I thought I would go along with her to check she knew what hepatitis was. Also I have decided that I am going to say ‘yes’ to everything. Except to the question ‘so you want a tattoo too?’

On the way there we walked (really I have found that you don’t walk in Mumbai– you leap, dodge, jump, hop and skitter) past a church which had a big sign outside saying ‘who of you by worrying is going to add a single hour to his life?’ and I liked that even though it was bible speak. However, thinking on it, I’m not sure it’s that sage advice. Worrying about getting a tattoo in Mumbai might not add an hour to your life, but getting a tattoo could very well subtract a few.

We checked where they got the needles from. They told us they come sealed in plastic and are all clean and new. But I’ve seen the bit in Slumdog where they fill up the water bottles from the tap and superglue them shut . Just saying. Then we asked about the measurement for a circle – that’s right a circle – and the tattoo man said ‘so 4 inches by 3 inches’. Now, I’m no mathematician but that would make an oval I think. If I were her I’d be concerned.

I’m approaching 13 hours in Mumbai and I’m not yet sick and I’ve visited a tattoo parlour. So far it’s getting lots of ticks in the yes box. Here are my two favourite things so far: auto rickshaws are like kamikaze bumper cars on an enormous track going head to head with buses and pedestrians and cars but they cost about 20p a ride – a pretty damn exhilarating one at that. Imagine jumping in a black cab to soho and being charged 20p. And here’s the next best thing – Rich and Pooj have a lady who comes in every day, every single day to clean up all their mess and cook them dinner- and all my mess too. I mean. That’s staff. They have a housekeeper. They never have to cook or clean ever again. I want one. I realise that makes me sound like Veruca Salt but I want one.

What else, it’s the middle of the city but the sounds of animals are all around – birds, dogs, mosquitoes (the Avon didn’t seem to repel them). You know that film ‘I am Legend’ where NY turns all Serengeti in three years and Will Smith saves the world for the what? Fifth time? I reckon if everyone in Mumbai overnight became a flesh eating zombie then this city would take about three days to become a jungle.

And finally, it’s HOT. I love it. I was meant to live somewhere hot. Last week I was sitting in 7 layers (2 thermal) inside next to a fire, with a blanket wrapped round me. Now I am sleeping in knickers and a vest under a fan. Let the mosquitos bite me. They can have me. Every inch of me. I would gladly accept a life of itching over a life of hypothermia.

Can I live here? Well, too early to tell. But if I don’t become roadkill in the next few days I’ll let you know.

Eastbourne: Can we live here?

SarahAlderson

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January 11, 2010

‘Right, here’s a question for you,’ I say to John, ‘Eastbourne. Can we live here?’

Admittedly it isn’t on our list but as we are passing through and for want of other amusing conversation in the car, we may as well start here. It’s about ten miles from my dad’s where we’re camping out for the time being seeing how we’re both homeless and unemployed. This afternoon we’ve ventured out through the snowdrifts to see if any of the elderly residents of Eastbourne have survived this apocalyptic new dawn.

No we haven’t. We’re going to see Avatar. In 3d. Finally. And this is the only screen for about fifty miles. It turns out to be showing in what appears to be a chicken shed on an industrial park miles out on the far side of town. Where the only other shop is a JJB Sports. And, to help you picture the kind of place this is so that you can empathise some with our decision making, in the window of JJB Sports there is an enormous poster of Nike tracksuit trousers and underneath the kind of headline that makes me wonder whether it has been written by one of the Murdochian puppets at the Sun it is so panic-mongering. It says ‘2 pairs MAX per customer’.

This is the kind of place where they fear mobs of teenage boys rioting to get their hands on 8 pairs each of Nike tracksuit trousers. One for every day of the week and a special pair for going out pulling in.

So that is one clear strike in the ‘No’ box. Another bold strike for the cinema. The curzon soho it most definitely isn’t.

However, there are two strikes in the Yes box. Houses are cheap. And they come with mock battlements. Which would please Lula. We even pass one painted bright pink. Which would seal the deal for sure – a pink castle, she would think. She would live anywhere, including Guantamo, if it was painted pink.

Also, another strike in the yes box – we drive past a sign welcoming us to the Sunshine Coast, which I thought was somewhere in California, silly me. Maybe we don’t need to relocate to the other side of the world afterall. However, the sign looks like this…

so I revise my thinking and put another strike in the No box.

It has snowed some more by the time we leave the cinema. We turn on the satnav to navigate us through these retirement hinterlands. It does the job so well that within minutes we are through the hinterlands and into the wastelands. We follow her instructions through the police tape and past five abandoned cars. ‘This is a bit like The Road’ I think. Then we get stuck in snow.

John calls the satnav lady a very rude word and rips it from the windscreen. We exit the car. All around is silence. And starlight. And snow. And abandoned cars. Ahhhh. I get it now. These people haven’t gone for a midnight stroll through snowy fields.

I have a good idea. I saw it once in a film. You get branches and put them under the tyres to give you good grip. I start scrabbling about for branches whilst John stares at the 200 meters of snow covered hill ahead of us.

‘I think we will have to reverse down,’ he says.

I abandon my search for tree branches with a little nudge of disappointment. We reverse down, do a 50 point turn to avoid the drifts either side of the lane, then storm it up the other side. We recross the police line feeling like East Berliners who’ve made it to the other side. As I’m putting the cones back in place I realise that only two people from London would follow a satnav over a police line. We aren’t country folk, that much is clear.

I tally the strikes. On the plus side is the pink palace. And the fact that if I want some Nike tracksuit trousers I can buy not one but two pairs and then go next door to watch a film in a chicken shed. But not even that can ressurect Eastbourne from the can we live here ‘No’ pile.

It’s about the byebee Jeesah innit?

SarahAlderson

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January 9, 2010

I was watching Eastenders yesterday and between that and the snow it seems obvious that the reasons are lining up to remind me why we are leaving. Like an image of the Virgin Mary appearing in a potato. An unexpected reminder to keep the faith because our next life is going to be nothing short of celestially amazing.

In real life, I bet half the actors in Eastenders sound like Keira Knightley. Or me. But they have to put on an east end accent. Why do the casting people do this? They could just give the jobs to actors who speak with an east end accent normally. Like my daughter.

Lula says Baby Jeeza like this – byebee Jeesah. That’s baby Jesus to you and me.

The other day she actually said ‘innit.’ (it’s the byebee Jeesah innit).

I’m not dead. But if I was, I’d be spinning in my grave. As it is I spend my day walking around after her correcting her grammar and accent. ‘It’s not Liedee, it’s lady. Lula, it’s not yeah, it’s yes. It’s cake, not Kaike.’

I know this sounds like I am a pushy mother and a snob and I’m going to deny this. At least the former. If I was a pushy mother I wouldn’t be dragging my child off travelling in a tutu but would be ferrying her religiously to ballet lessons, piano classes and Montessori. But I am a snob. I think everyone is a snob. Secretly. But even if you deny that (Can you? Can you really?) you can’t deny that being able to speak like Keira pays dividends. I’m forever being asked to do a reading at weddings. And I used to be able to get paid very good money for doing nothing but saying ‘Good morning’ down the phone. Seriously, that’s all I said, it wasn’t some posh girl sex line for people who like a bit of Jane Seymour (you know who you are). You see – it has its uses talking posh.

So I’m working on thawing out the vowels in alula’s voice and introducing some ‘t’s and am wondering whether it’s worth the effort. ‘It’s not YOUR way – it’s MY way!’ she yells when I correct her. And she’s right really, she can speak any goddam way she pleases, so long as she says please and thank you.

But I am hoping some Australian rubs off on her. Because Summer Bay is way more appealing a place than Albert Square for me to perfect my pushy mother routine.

Things I wish I had known before starting this: part one

SarahAlderson

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January 6, 2010

It’s way, way, way more expensive than you think it’s going to be. Not like when you go to Ikea and can’t understand how a plastic collander, some plants, a shower curtain, two mugs and a hanging storage container has come to £112.56 (£113.55 once John has bought himself a reconstituted hotdog). Nor like Paris these days which is so expensive at first I thought they’d gone back to using Francs. It’s way more expensive even that that. Packing up a life and a house and going away is really, really expensive.

I look back and laugh indulgently at my good self ten months ago making my calculations on the back of an envelope. I looked up and announced to John, ‘so flights, insurance, um, anything else?’ We couldn’t think of anything. We did a rough sum. It looked manageable. Then we thought about where we were going.

‘India – that’s cheap. Cheap cheap cheap. Bali too. Australia we’re staying with people. And America we’ll hire a camper so that will be cheapish.’

We came up with a ball park figure which now I look at it again seems quaint, wishful, pathetic. Like expecting to buy a flat in Zone 1 for £15,000 or a double decker for 17p.

Our first wake up call came courtesy of the estate agents. 8% they said. I thought ‘that’s a bargain’. Until they sent the invoice and I realised they were talking about 8% of the annual rent, not 8% of one month’s. Thieves.

Then there was the gas certificate. £118. Oh and the minor detail of £200 for a new window with a vent when we failed the first gas cert. Like the cat flap wasn’t good enough. Then £60 for an electricity certificate. And £85 to have our house properly cleaned because I couldn’t be bothered. But clearly neither could the peanuts an hour underling that the woman boss with the bluetooth set employed to do it because after forking out the £85 I had to do it myself anyway. Never, ever trust a person who talks to you whilst still wearing their bluetooth headset.

So costs are adding up and it was all panicky and desperate on our last day in the house, and I was trying to work out whether inbetween cleaning behind toilets and inside cupboards I would be able to sneak out and watch Avatar 3D without John finding out. I thought about telling him I was popping out for lightbulbs. Then this guy turned up to take our sofa (another freecycle desperado) – it was the last piece of furniture, we needed it out of the house and freecycling it seemed the easiest option. It’s not even a bad sofa, the baby lula vomit stains are faded and barely noticeable. Anyway, this guy turns up and hums and hars then says, ‘Well the zip is broken I’m not sure my Mrs will want it. She’s quite particular.’

I am standing, hidden at the top of the stairs, and I’m not in the mood for this. I mean, we have an entire house to clear and clean in less than 24 hours and I want to see Avatar.In 3D. I want that sofa outta here. I think about hurtling down the stairs and yelling ‘This is not the MFI bank holiday fecking sale. This is FREECYCLE. WHAT WERE YOU EXPECTING you timewasting eegit.’ (I sound Irish there don’t I? I don’t know why. In my head when I’m angry I sound Irish). I don’t rush down the stairs screaming at him though in an Irish accent, because hidden as I am, I can’t tell how tall / big / tattooed the freecycle joker is. Instead I linger and mouth off silently, hiddenly.

But now it’s new year’s eve and getting late and we will need to find a man with a van to take it away. Luckily one phone call to my mother aka. the Beckenham yellow pages and we are sorted. Need to know the divorce status of the sister of the woman who owns the deli? Need to know what is opening up where Pizza Hut used to be? Need to find a man with a van on NYE? – who you gonna call? My mum.)

But there goes another £30 for a man with a van to take our sofa.

See what I mean about the costs mounting?

In memorium our house

SarahAlderson

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December 31, 2009

We have stacked our bed frame in the garage. The garage is like a giantastic game of tetris and John has played a winning game. It’s like a vacuum inside. All the air has been displaced by furniture. You can’t breathe if you go in there – there’s no oxygen. It’s like space. So I hope next door’s cat got out before John slammed the door down. Or we’ll go in there and find it stuck to the ceiling like a fly trapped on flypaper.

But the bed – we are sleeping our final night, the final night of 2009, on a mattress on the floor of our bedroom. This creates a crazy visual disturbance for my brain because I’m expecting to swing my legs over the edge and hop down (shuttup I’m short) but now I’m only 3 inches from the floor. The first time I did this I fell backwards with head spin. It’s cheaper than getting drunk I guess. Not that that has stopped me.

So this is our last night in the house. The place where I’ve lived since I was 17. Though back then it was just my dad and me. I’ve lived almost half my life here and it feels more than a little weird to be leaving. It holds a lot of memories – and still a lot of crap – entombed now in the loft until we have a new address to send it to. In memorium, I’m trying to aggragate my top memories of living here:

Bringing Lula home from the hospital. (Ahhhh it’s a baby – WTF do we do with it).
John moving in (and moving into the study where he lived 24/7 trying to finish his Masters dissertation).
That Christmas with all sets of parents (yeah, that was a good idea.)
That crazy tenant with the porn obsession who never left his room (In case you happen to read this we keep being sent your porn brochures – is that what they’re called? – please could you let them know your change of address? They have entertained us – especially the last one with the b&w pictures of mannacled 50 year old grandmothers from Newcastle showcasing the Kama Sutra but we’re not sure the new tennants will like).
That other crazy tenant who had a psychotic episode in the living room (If you’re reading this, and yes, you know who you are, you’re CRAZY. I only didn’t tell you at the time because I didn’t have a lock on my bedroom door).
The time Lula fell down the stairs (crash bang wallop).
The time I fell off a chair on top of Lula (sorry sorry sorry).
The residents association meetings (yeah, not really).
The time John told me he was ‘just hot’ and one thing led to another and we ended up with a baby and married and packing up a house. Life’s funny huh?

Surprisingly I have no top memories of the last 6 months, probably because it’s been hellish. Want some advice? Think long and hard before deciding to pack up your lives. Actually don’t think. Because if you think about it, you won’t do it. Just do it. Rich keeps telling us that it’ll all be worth it like he’s some poster child for L’Oreal.

In the hope that he’s right and it will be worth it, we just toasted the new year with champagne in the last of our unpacked tea cups. We toasted to 2010 – a year of ‘outrageous potential’ (quoting John’s wedding vow). Here’s to the new year. Hope yours is as exciting as ours.

Can we live here: With a Vengeance

SarahAlderson

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December 27, 2009

‘We’re never going to make it!’

‘Yes we are.’

‘No! We’re not. We’re never going to make it!’

Can you guess what film it is yet? Here’s a clue… It’s not Annie – though funnily enough those words are exactly what the orphan kids say when they’re on their way to Daddy Warbucks’ mansion. I know this because it was on the tele yesterday and I took the opportunity to initiate Lula into the recession beating anthem ‘The sun’ll come out tomorrow’.

Here’s another clue – it’s not Die Hard.

That’s right, you guessed it – it’s not a film. That’s John and I talking. As in hubbie John, not John McClane.

I know, I know, you thought maybe it was Mary Jane to Peter Parker, or it could have been the guy who dies in Touching the Void to the one who doesn’t. But no, those words are in actual fact exchanged between John and I.

We’re discussing the reality that we have only three days to vacate our house and it’s still packed to the rafters with stuff. Namely 3000 records.

Just so you’re clear on who’s who in this screenplay, I’m the one yelling that we’re never going to make it. John’s the John McClane cooler than ice white-vest wearing (anti)-hero looking the alien-led armaggedon in the eye and facing it down with comic one liners (though so far no ‘yippeekayay mother fucker’s).

I am momentarily struck by quite how much of my life is influenced, directed even, by the media I have consumed. And, as you can tell if you are a frequent reader (or if not, just from the first paragraph of this post), my media consumption is not elitist.

As there’s nothing I can do to erase thirty years of bad movies from my inner scriptwriter’s reference library I decide to give in and embrace my inner actress.

‘We’re never going to make it!’ I yell again, channelling a mixture of Marissa from the OC and the Home secretary from Spooks who also used those lines on Wednesday night when Ros failed to rescue him from a room with a ticking bomb.

John asks why I’m freaking out so much.

It gives me pause for thought. There’s a possibility I realise that there is no alien led invasion about to happen and I’m overstating the direness of the straits thanks to my overstimulated imagination. This is not Star Trek. Or Harry Potter. But truthfully, now I’ve started and am in character I feel it is necessary to see it through.

‘Just look!’ I say, ‘Just look at all the crap there still is to move. We’re never going to do it!’ I think about grabbing John by his jacket collar and shaking him for extra effect like Alexis Carrington Colby would do, but he isn’t wearing a shirt so I settle for shouting even louder, ‘We have 3 days. Do you hear me? Three days!’

‘True Dat’ John says.

‘We are not characters from the Wire, John,’ I say in my most patronising voice.