gabs this weekend
I’ve been inspired to blog these bits by a diligent friend who is pegging away at her long overdue travelogue.
Waking up in a motel must always feel very seedy. Notwithstanding that I shared the bed with a (platonic) female friend, nursing a nothing-much hangover from some homemade bloody mary, and my married couple friends with their superactive 2 year old were right across the hallway, I woke up in the over air-conditioned room feeling slightly sleazy. There had been a dirty movie last night, after all. And dim lights, while we sat and picked everyone’s love life (and my lack of one) apart in spurts between chasing baby. (They agree that if all single and eligible men keep irritating me as much as they seem to do now, I don't have much hope of finding that crazy heady whooshy romance that all heroines must do. Cobwebs and stale cake, here we come. Oh well, there's always Frasier.) Somehow none of us were too interested in the alcohol, even though everyone had made appropriate noises when I discovered the P12 drink in the supermarket, ‘carrot, tomato and celery with a hint of spinach’, that tasted ‘just like a virgin mary!’ I’d even splurged on a Tabasco sauce for P35, expensive even by Botswanian weird inflated Pula standards. Pula = 7 Rs. and in spite of my current state of disguised unemployment, no one offered to chip in! I promptly took revenge in liberally bitterifying and chillifying everyone’s BM with excess Tabasco. I’m petty that way.
Oh, we were in the motel because 2 sets of parents had a free voucher left over from the annual membership perks of the big hotel complex that the motel was part of. Since Gaborone doesn’t offer us that much in terms of Friday night entertainment, we chose to live in a B grade movie for the evening. It was fun too, really. The highlight of my evening was finding an ‘ice machine’ just 2 doors away from our rooms. They are really fascinating pieces of equipment, with perfectly formed ice tinkling into the chill receptacle, like when you win at the slot machine in a casino. In spite of all my alleged globetrotting, I hadn’t met one before, and my bumpkin soul was much warmed at making the acquaintance.
Saturday was more cultural. We were invited, en familie, to a 14 year old Bharatnatyam student’s ‘Aringetram’. This is like graduation (for students of this particular south Indian dance form). And it’s about as important and as expensive as a wedding for parents of people who really take their natyam seriously. This particular kid’s extended family had descended from India, UK, USA etc, to watch this, her first solo public performance. Well, the kid was pretty awesome. Nervous at first but then really getting into the rhythm of things as her 3 hours went on. Pulled off all manner of tough poses and jumps gracefully (for the most part) one after another. the show was divided into a series of narratives that she would enact through dance. These are standard dances, with pre choreographed steps that all Bharatnatyam dancers learn, same as Odissi, and other classical Indian dance forms as far as I know. There were a few creative bits too, new dances devised by dancer and Guru to songs, some new and fusiony, based on the same essential dance rhythms or taals. Annnyway, the story I liked best was the tale of ‘Dasavtar’, the ten avtars of Shiv, where he came to earth in different animal and human forms to suit the circumstances and save the day in general. It was pretty charming, and brought back memories of my collection of ‘Amar Chitra Katha’ books. These were tales from Hindu mythology in comic form for kids. They were a huge part of my childhood and much of my understanding of things came from these somehow. Like how milk had to be churned to make butter and how tortoises had really thick shells, and how there were good people and bad people and innocent bystanders. Of course this also had a downside as my mum had a hard time explaining how lord Krishna was not blue, but dark. He should have been coloured brown then, I still maintain, but whatever.
So I was really enjoying the dance performance lost in my own thoughts, as I am wont to do at any public event where I’m not the ‘performer’, and feeling a fresh happiness at being Indian and also Hindu. I rejoiced at having the early knowledge and joy of learning all the mythical characters, people, animals, gods, mountains, all the Stories, all the values illustrated so prettily in these simple, clever tales – I honestly had a proud colourful culture moment.
It didn’t last. I’m gonna rush through this because I hate it and I’m sick of this sort of thing etc. the guest speaker and the vote of thanks, and all the various neccessary speeches at any Indian ‘function’, the innumerable calls for donation to temples, just brought me back to the reality of expatriate evangelical Hinduism. The whole thing turned propagandist on me in one second, unexpectedly at the very end, when somehow all the speeches were about how much the particular guru whose shishya was graduating today had contributed to the glorification of (ha) colourful Indian HINDU culture in Botswana, how she was a key proponent of Art of Living (which I have nothing against except the not so underlying religious bias) and a major disciple of Sathya Sai Baba, and worst of all the Akshardham movement (also known as the swamis who don’t let women into their temples when they’re around as women may seduce them, the poor horny lads, and cause them to lose their divine focus in life). So at the end of the evening, I’d seen some good indian dancing, worn a lovely black sari, been good and gracious to all aunties and uncles, and left with a treacherously firang feeling of how the Indians with their religious fanaticism really scare me.
Sunday has been about trying to persuade my dogs not to bite me when I try to do some loosening up exercises from my theatre days. While I do look crazy doing the arms flailing jumps, it’s no excuse for them to pull me down to earth using their (sharp) teeth on my (tender) ankles.
Until next time then…
Waking up in a motel must always feel very seedy. Notwithstanding that I shared the bed with a (platonic) female friend, nursing a nothing-much hangover from some homemade bloody mary, and my married couple friends with their superactive 2 year old were right across the hallway, I woke up in the over air-conditioned room feeling slightly sleazy. There had been a dirty movie last night, after all. And dim lights, while we sat and picked everyone’s love life (and my lack of one) apart in spurts between chasing baby. (They agree that if all single and eligible men keep irritating me as much as they seem to do now, I don't have much hope of finding that crazy heady whooshy romance that all heroines must do. Cobwebs and stale cake, here we come. Oh well, there's always Frasier.) Somehow none of us were too interested in the alcohol, even though everyone had made appropriate noises when I discovered the P12 drink in the supermarket, ‘carrot, tomato and celery with a hint of spinach’, that tasted ‘just like a virgin mary!’ I’d even splurged on a Tabasco sauce for P35, expensive even by Botswanian weird inflated Pula standards. Pula = 7 Rs. and in spite of my current state of disguised unemployment, no one offered to chip in! I promptly took revenge in liberally bitterifying and chillifying everyone’s BM with excess Tabasco. I’m petty that way.
Oh, we were in the motel because 2 sets of parents had a free voucher left over from the annual membership perks of the big hotel complex that the motel was part of. Since Gaborone doesn’t offer us that much in terms of Friday night entertainment, we chose to live in a B grade movie for the evening. It was fun too, really. The highlight of my evening was finding an ‘ice machine’ just 2 doors away from our rooms. They are really fascinating pieces of equipment, with perfectly formed ice tinkling into the chill receptacle, like when you win at the slot machine in a casino. In spite of all my alleged globetrotting, I hadn’t met one before, and my bumpkin soul was much warmed at making the acquaintance.
Saturday was more cultural. We were invited, en familie, to a 14 year old Bharatnatyam student’s ‘Aringetram’. This is like graduation (for students of this particular south Indian dance form). And it’s about as important and as expensive as a wedding for parents of people who really take their natyam seriously. This particular kid’s extended family had descended from India, UK, USA etc, to watch this, her first solo public performance. Well, the kid was pretty awesome. Nervous at first but then really getting into the rhythm of things as her 3 hours went on. Pulled off all manner of tough poses and jumps gracefully (for the most part) one after another. the show was divided into a series of narratives that she would enact through dance. These are standard dances, with pre choreographed steps that all Bharatnatyam dancers learn, same as Odissi, and other classical Indian dance forms as far as I know. There were a few creative bits too, new dances devised by dancer and Guru to songs, some new and fusiony, based on the same essential dance rhythms or taals. Annnyway, the story I liked best was the tale of ‘Dasavtar’, the ten avtars of Shiv, where he came to earth in different animal and human forms to suit the circumstances and save the day in general. It was pretty charming, and brought back memories of my collection of ‘Amar Chitra Katha’ books. These were tales from Hindu mythology in comic form for kids. They were a huge part of my childhood and much of my understanding of things came from these somehow. Like how milk had to be churned to make butter and how tortoises had really thick shells, and how there were good people and bad people and innocent bystanders. Of course this also had a downside as my mum had a hard time explaining how lord Krishna was not blue, but dark. He should have been coloured brown then, I still maintain, but whatever.
So I was really enjoying the dance performance lost in my own thoughts, as I am wont to do at any public event where I’m not the ‘performer’, and feeling a fresh happiness at being Indian and also Hindu. I rejoiced at having the early knowledge and joy of learning all the mythical characters, people, animals, gods, mountains, all the Stories, all the values illustrated so prettily in these simple, clever tales – I honestly had a proud colourful culture moment.
It didn’t last. I’m gonna rush through this because I hate it and I’m sick of this sort of thing etc. the guest speaker and the vote of thanks, and all the various neccessary speeches at any Indian ‘function’, the innumerable calls for donation to temples, just brought me back to the reality of expatriate evangelical Hinduism. The whole thing turned propagandist on me in one second, unexpectedly at the very end, when somehow all the speeches were about how much the particular guru whose shishya was graduating today had contributed to the glorification of (ha) colourful Indian HINDU culture in Botswana, how she was a key proponent of Art of Living (which I have nothing against except the not so underlying religious bias) and a major disciple of Sathya Sai Baba, and worst of all the Akshardham movement (also known as the swamis who don’t let women into their temples when they’re around as women may seduce them, the poor horny lads, and cause them to lose their divine focus in life). So at the end of the evening, I’d seen some good indian dancing, worn a lovely black sari, been good and gracious to all aunties and uncles, and left with a treacherously firang feeling of how the Indians with their religious fanaticism really scare me.
Sunday has been about trying to persuade my dogs not to bite me when I try to do some loosening up exercises from my theatre days. While I do look crazy doing the arms flailing jumps, it’s no excuse for them to pull me down to earth using their (sharp) teeth on my (tender) ankles.
Until next time then…
Comments
Tchah!
J.A.P.
:)