All is Well

Christmas afternoon, while you were all taking your four hour long nana naps after satisfying yourself (READ: stuffing yourself) with delightful delicacies, I was fighting through a crowd of one thousand Indians at Regal Cinema. Christmas Day just happened to be the release day for the most-hyped up Hindi film in years. 3 Idiots broke records and was sold out everywhere when it debuted. Turns out among the crowd of over-excited Indians, there were two Australians who managed to snap up tickets as well.

We'd seen stickers on the back of rick-shaws here saying 'Capacity: 3 Idiots'. We'd seen health insurance advertisements on TV using clips from the movie to promote their products. And we had had many conversations about our favourite actors with many people telling us about how much they love Aamir Khan. I'd also knodded and agreed with their choice – while having no idea who Aamir Khan was. So, when we were struggling home after a hugely satisfying Christmas lunch at the Taj and walked past the Regal Cinema which is across the road from our place, we jumped at the chance to see our first Indian movie and find out more about this infamous Aamir Khan. When we bought our tickets, the man behind the counter said to us, 'Hindi film. No english. No subtitles.' Calmly and cooly we told him this was 'no problem.' And by no problem we meant – very very big problem. Neither of us speaks a word of Hindi. We were enlisting ourselves to sit for three and a bit hours through a film in a language we don't understand?! We made a back-up plan that involved making a run for it at the interval if we were hating it that much.

Returning to Regal Cinema two hours later, we couldn't get within fifty metres of the entrance due to the crowds. And although there was allocated seating, there were a thousand Indians who were pushing towards the entrance like they were fighting to make it onto the fast train at Churchgate station. It was chaos. After going through the metal detectors we made our way into the cinema. It wasn't a carpeted, curtained wall style cinema. It was a theatre. As in get the musical number out. There was a big beautiful stage and a second level 'dress circle' style. The theatre was packed. We'd lucked out on some of the last tickets and so were three rows from the front. And so.. our Indian film debut began.

No two people have ever loved anything more than we loved 3 Idiots. We didn't even get up from our seats at interval as we were too scared it would start again before we were back and we'd miss some. A guy behind us leant over and asked us (first in Hindi, then repeating in English), 'You speak Hindi? You understand?' Obviously the fact that we didn't understand his question gave him the answer he needed. We don't speak Hindi. 'But you laughed the entire time!' Yes. Convulsed with laughter. Laughed so hard we embarrassingly snorted multiple times. And the truth is, in the entire three hours we didn't understand everything. But we understood most of the film. (And when Dani and I swapped stories at the end we'd both interpreted it in the same way – proof that we understood it all if you ask me.) And when we weren't laughing at the sillyness happening on stage, we were laughing at the tough Indian men surrounding us who were squealing with laughter, booing, cheering, clapping and giggling throughout the 3 hours of Hindi crazyness.

Over three hours they went through about twelve different stories. But essentially it was about three guys in college causing chaos, drinking too much and pissing off people. It was fabulous. It was a really positive movie with the catchphrase 'All is Well.' (A little like the Hakuna Matata motto of the Lion King.) Even more fabulous than the song and dance sessions was the infamous Aamir Khan. For a man that all of India is in love with, he wasn't as dashing as I had expected and he's in his forties. But importantly, he doesn't sport the traditional Indian moustache that scares me. And so after three hours of laughing at him, three hours of him singing and three hours of him crying in every second scene, I have to say I have a serious Aamir Khan obsession. Like out of control, giggly school girl crush. So much so that I scan the papers everyday for photos of him. Luckily India is as obsessed with him as I am and so I get my daily fix without fail. He is also on every second advertisement on Indian TV. And Brett Louise is ashamed to say that while walking down the supermarket aisles today a few Aamir Khan endorsed items fell into my shopping basket.

Now have two new loves: Indian movies and Aamir Khan. And I'll be going back for more of both.

All is well.

Christmas Adventures in Mumbai

A sneak peek into how I enjoyed my festive long weekend in Mumbai.

See some photos here.

A Lesson in Corporate Social Responsibility

'There are corporations who don't act with entirely self-interested, profit driven motivations?!'

Swallow your cynical corporate bashing tendencies for just a second. At a slum rehabilitation complex in Andheri in Mumbai, over 100 patients received free medical care due to a generous Indian corporation. The manufacturing company not only helped these 100 patients in this community, but will in fact sponsor the medical team to come back again in three months to continue their treatment and care for the people in the Andheri rehabilitated slums. This same company will also spend over 100,000 rupees every month to send this medical team to 15 different communities every month. They see, on average, over 150 patients in three hours at their visits. I got to spent the morning with Dr Dinesh as he met with over 100 patients and using simple instruments was able to help them with a variety of problems – all for no charge.

The community members presented with many problems. Luckily for me (with my lack of Hindi) most of the diseases and problems were Indian-accented English words. 'Anaemia', 'diabetes' and my (personal favourite) 'sky-high blood pressure'. All easily understandable. What was hard to understand though was the fact that all 100 patients suffered from dietary deficienies that were affecting their lives. They had little energy due to a lack of iron in their diets. Dr Dinesh explained that the group of people living in this rehabilitated slum were from the 'trading class' and that they are all vegetarian and thus had little iron in their diets. I nearly fell off my stool for two reasons. One, an educated, well travelled doctor was still refering to different groups in their classes and castes. Two, due to a lack of education and availability of fresh iron-rich vegetables, these community members were struggling through their daily lives. Three (yes, I remembered another reason I fell off my stool in shock), the doctor checked for anaemia without blood tests or pee samples. He pulled down their lower eyelids and gave me a quick lesson in the corresponding scales of iron deficiency and the colour of your eyes. The doctor was able to diagnose so many problems in the patients without expensive equipment and lengthy waits. This means more people are able to receive the help they need.

In addition to dietary deficiences, the patients were suffering back and joint pain. The women had the worst pain due to the onerous manual labour that they must perform each day. (I have a new appreciation for clothes washing after watching women squatting over scrubbing clothes on the side of the road all day.) The community members were suffering respiratory problems due to working in or living near hazardous industries. One man worked in a paint factory and had to dissolve the paints with harsh chemicals. It is a small workshop with little ventilation. A mask that would cost next to nothing would have helped protect his lungs.

Multiple women also came for medical advice about family planning. One woman was 22 (my age!) and already had two children to care for. Another woman had three daughters and desperately wanted a son. Another woman wasn't ready to have children as her husband wasn't able to get stable work and they couldn't be responsible for a child. These women impressed me as they have obviously been educated and empowered enough to look at their roles as wives and reassess their own priorities.

Dr Dinesh was able to prescribe medication to help treat the community members' ailments. A mobile pharmacy (like an icecream truck full of pharmaceutical fun) accompanies the health clinic and provides medicines (like insulin, panadol, antibiotics) and vitamins to the patients for free. If the patient requires ongoing treatment, they are referred to a free clinic nearby that the manufacturing corporation also financially supports. As the mobile health centre visits every three months and the free clinic is nearby, patients are able to be monitored so that all medical advice is responsibly given out and followed up. One challenge that the mobile pharmacy faces is a struggle to ensure the drugs prescribed to these needy patients (often women) are actually taken by them. I was told of multiple stories of the husbands taking the medication instead for themselves. The doctors have attempted to stop this happening by prescribing a 'child specific', 'woman specific' and 'male specific' drug for the different problems. There is no difference in the drugs, except that the patients believe they are only effective for the prescribed person. Little white lies saving the world!

Another challenge is that patients often sell their medications instead of using them themselves. In an environment where incomes are stretched already, making a little money by selling medications is an attractive proposition. Even if it means that the woman herself will continue having debilitating pain or be stuck in bed with tummy problems. To try and curb this problem, and ensure that people are getting the treatments they require, the mobile pharmacy only gives out four-five days worth of drugs at a time. The patient will need to continue coming back for their medicines and as they are not complete packets they are unable to sell them on the black market. Solutions abound! Just another way they are ensuring that people get the help they need.

What excited me most about the mobile health clinic service, is that it was embraced by the community. It was a service that the women's group in the community had asked my organisation to arrange. As it was a direct need, that the community had directly requested, there was overwhelming support for the clinic. Not only did many people show up to take advantage of the free service, but they also went and spoke to their friends about the importance of check ups. The women's group also ran community education projects to help the slum dwellers make better eating choices to ensure that families have more balanced diets.

Not only is the medical clinic doing incredible work – but to think it's all funded by a company! A company who is breaking the self-interested, profit hungry mould. Who knew?

Playing Dress-ups

Another day, another slum community. And that doesn't imply that I'm over it at all. I am loving it crazy in fact. I am loving meeting beautiful, welcoming people who are keen to share their lives with their odd, loud Australian visitor with a famous cricketer's name. Yes, of course I was named after Brett Lee. Went to visit a different rehabilitated complex today. Similar buildings with the same India smell. Today I was there to take part in the community meeting where they would discuss what welfare requirements could be addressed in the next year. The women's group leads this meeting of the community. Serious investment in the women's empowerment by the organisation I'm working with has led to some serious kick-ass girl power in the poorest parts of Mumbai. Before the meeting, we thought we would drop in on a girl my age. Again, my Hindi failed me and I couldn't pronouce her name. Her name is Indi.. something something. Indi it is. Plus, seeing as she pronouced my name as 'Borat' I don't think she'd mind.

Indi was asleep when we knocked on her door. She was sleeping on the table top in the main living room/bedroom. The apartment was identical to Mrs MK's. But Indi's room that she shared with her family, also doubled as the room she taught sewing classes in. These sewing machines were to die for. One side of the room was lined up with old school singer sewing machines. Drool-worthy. Indi spends her days teaching girls and women how to sew so that they can generate their own incomes as tailors or by making handicrafts. Amongst the sewing machines and a shrine to Ganesh (complete with blinking fairy lights), there was also a hairdressing chair and posters adorning the walls of hip, 1980s hairstyles that American women would have worn. Think Julia Roberts in Pretty Women. Without Hindi I played my usual game of pointing, smiling and laughing.

Indi went to the kitchen and brought back water and peanuts for her guests. Am still a tad uncomfortable with these lovely people with next to nothing want to give you things when you visit them. However, as I have been having withdrawls from my beloved peanut butter, I busied myself de-shelling peanuts at a Guiness Book pace. When I awoke from my peanut frenzy, there was a swarm of young ladies in the room all giggling, plotting and clapping with excitement. Before I knew it I was being motioned towards the hairdressing chair.

So here I am. Surrounded my smiling, excited women. In a chair unable to move. With beautiful Indi above me with a pair of scissors. Was all too excited to play dressups until the scissors came out. If you've seen me in a swimming cap you'd understand why I was worried about the prospect of an extreme haircut. Luckily, in India, long luscious hair is supreme. So I escaped the scissors and instead relaxed for my face massage, make up and hairstyling. Turns out purple lipstick is so in right now. I had my hair braided 'traditional Indian style' although I find it hard to believe that the blue and silver sequined stars that Indi pinned into my hair with sewing pins are overly traditional.

So while loving up my new crazy Indian makeup and hair I didn't see the scissors coming. And I know have a new short fringe bit that keeps flipping onto my face to remind me of the 'traditional Indian hairstyle'. But even that couldn't take away my enjoyment of the hour or so that I played dressups with Indi. There were bridal necklaces, dupattas and noserings to try on. I feel like Indi and I are sisters. Not only does she share my love of peanuts, but once you share a nosering with someone you might as well be blood related.

Such a fun, crazy and unexpected morning.

A Home of Her Own

After spending the day attempting to complete medical registration forms for the 200 people coming to get free medical and eye care in the rehabilitated slum complex (which would have been a tad easier if I spoke even a word of Hindi!) I was invited into the home of one of the leaders of the women's group. Now, being that my Hindi is non-existent and that these women spoke so fast, I didn't catch this lady's name. But I know it started with an M and her surname started with a K. So to me, she was Mrs MK.

Mrs MK is a strong, proud generous grandmother. She's shorter than me. (Am loving that at 5 foot 4 I am taller than most people here.) Mrs MK took us down a long, dark corridor that smelt like India. It smelt like curry and rubbish and incense. We came to an elevator that looked like the ones used in hotels to transfer food and linen to different floors. After four of us squeezed in we closed the wire door and headed up to the sixth floor. I didn't breathe the entire time as I was too scared that the slightest movement would send us plummeting to the ground. 'You ride in this all the time??' 'Would you prefer to walk the six floors?' Good point. Death ride adventure it is.

Mrs MK's door is painted a bright orangey red. Her door has beautiful crafts adorning it. Like everyone in these 'housing commission' style apartments she is proud of her new home and looks after it superbly. I stepped through the door into the living room/bedroom/dining room/baby's nursery and TV room. No, I didn't walk uber quickly throughout the apartment. I literally stepped into one tiny room that served all purposes for the family of six living inside. It was about 3m x 5m. There was a couch. There was a TV. There were beautiful wall hangings covering the walls. There were images of Hindu Gods. There were pot plants. There was a parrot (yes, after four minutes of me being confused by squeeling coming from inside the wall they were delighted to pull the cage out from behind the couch and giggle at me.)

Mrs MK took us on a tour around her home. It was beautiful. Everything had a place and she took great pride in all of her possessions. It was small. We stepped from the living room/bedroom etc etc into the kitchen. One entire wall was covered in racks that contained her saucepans, plates and cups – all in coordinating tin silver. Jamie Oliver would have been impressed with the selection of utensils. Half of them looked like they should be used for some medical procedure but I guess that is the magic of Indian cooking. The room was about 1.5m x 3m. There was a camping stove on top of the bench as there is no gas in the building. From the kitchen we walked across to the laundry/bathroom/closet/storage area. The laundry was a tub in the corner. There was a medicine cabinet and mirror. And a tiny basin.The family kept their few possessions in this room too. It was essentially a glorified hallway closet. There was also a squat toilet through a door. It was so small I thought that if I wedged my hips through the doorway there was a chance I could get stuck in there forever. I passed on the opportunity to use the bathroom and sat cross legged back on the couch.

Mrs MK was keen to tell us all about her life in the complex. Her family had been there for 10 years and had been happy when her former slum home had been demolished and redeveloped into this block of flats. There were 60 families living in Mrs MK's block and there were a total of 5 buildings in the complex. I looked around this tiny space where families lived on top of each other and felt disheartened by the 'solution' that the government had found to the problem of slums in the city. 'Isn't this just moving the problem upwards? Isn't this just putting a prettier (!!) surrounding on the same problems?' Good questions Brett Louise. Very judgemental, rash conclusions though I found out.

Through a translator, Mrs MK told me that her life was 100 times better now that her family lived in this apartment. I choked on the mango juice I was drinking. 100 times better? Mrs MK's entire family of six (including a newborn baby) sleep on the floor of a room that is smaller than my bedroom and this is 100 times better? Mrs MK then explained that now they have access to running water. They have power. They have clean toilets as opposed to lining up for hours to share common toilets. They also have privacy. That have independence. My original hasty conclusions were quashed when I saw how genuinely happy Mrs MK was. She was happy that she had a healthy young grandchild who would now grow up in a safer environment. She was happy that as a building in the complex they have a society set up to ensure all residents are cared for and supported. They have small shops and businesses they run in the complex to earn an income. They also now have a legal home that they own – as opposed to living everyday waiting for the government or land owners to reclaim land.

After cuddling Mrs MK's granddaughter and doting on her daughter's beautiful saree I left to return to the clinic. I walked out of her beautiful home having learned two things.

1. Slum life must be hell.
   
2. Although my initial conclusion that apartment complex was just moving the same problems into a new shaped building were partly true, when coupled with welfare activities and resident empowerment, these actions were literally changing the lives of the families living there. They were free from slum life.

They had a home of their own.

Floor plan for proposed new flats. Shows how tiny these homes are. The one in the plan is far bigger than Mrs MK's.

Indian Opp-shopping

Hmm so have been a tad busy working to write a serious blog (tonight I'll update you all on the slum rehabilitation buildings and Mrs MK I promise!!). But for now I thought I'd just share with you the amusing chaos of an Indian opp-shop.

Bags, upon bags of donated clothes were sold like hotcakes to raise money for the orphanage.

The lady in the blue was like superwoman. She volunteers all her time to help this orphange which is not run by the government so relies entirely on the church's support and from funds she can raise. She's networked away and gets clothes etc sent to her from all over by generous people and organisations.

This is like Camberwell Market meets Glebe Market meets Savers. Love it.

The real Colaba.

I take it back. Colaba isn't all sunshine, lollipops and drunk tourists. In an attempt to walk to the ocean, (in a place surrounded by water who knew it would be so hard?), we cut up through a side street and through the fishing docks. Turns out that although fish come from the ocean, you can't actually access the water from the docks. And although I wouldn't choose to send my worst enemy into the smell we encountered at the docks, I did see a different side of Colaba.

The fishing wharfs are full of incredibly hard-working, strong stomached locals. They must have strong stomachs as they didn't seem to be dry-retching like we did as they walked through the fermenting fish guts sprayed all over the road in the Indian sun. The docks were a total hive of activity. They were out of control! There were typical Indian, bright painted trucks (the ones that have 'Honk please OK' in colourful cursive on the back) who drove up and down couriering loads of fish bits away from the docks. The fishing boats are similarly colourful. They are also incredibly small. Hope they don't get rough seas in the Indian Ocean. The majority of workers were women. Beautiful, saree-clad, hennaed women. Their beautiful cotton outfits trailed behind them through the remaining fluidy bits of fish that (thankfully!) aren't able to be sold.

Our impromptu self-guided tour through Mumbai's prime fishing region helped bolster my commitment to not eat fish while I am in India. Even my recentely discovered love of prawns was quickly extinguished as we wandered through the docks. The reason for my sudden disgust is the lack of equipment, hygiene and safety precautions used in the preparation of fish in India. There was little ice. There were flies. Everywhere. And the beautiful saree-clad, hennaed women shelled mountains of prawns while sitting in circles on the asphalt, in the open air and hot sun. No deal.

But although disgusting – tummy turning repulsiveness! - I loved our adventure into the fishing capital of Colaba. It reminded me again of crazy India. Of people running everywhere. Of beautiful coloured cottons. Of laughing, head-wobbling men who are all too happy to talk with / at you. It also reminded me that the Indian labourers work so hard to make such little money.

YAY for Colaba – the home of my chai man, Mondy's (the new, better version of Leopolds), of German tourists and of hard working, local Indians.

Mumbai Calling

And so I'm back to the velvet underground.

Wait. Scrap that. There's no velvet here. This is India. This isn't the Fleetwood Mac concert I saw the day before being stuck in transit for 26 hours. This is Mumbai. This is anything but velvet. Mumbai is loud, proud and hot. Very hot. Isn't it winter here? Ha. Indian winter. 33 degrees.

Having never been to Mumbai I had no idea what to expect. Arriving at my new home for the next two months I was disappointed to see that there were no beggars on the street outside my apartment. Disappointed? Really Brett?! That's definitely not politically correct. But India is about poverty right? This next three months is about Brett running away to be in her beloved India and to be with the poor right?

Big. Wake. Up. Call.

Shall have to wait until I start work in the slums on Monday to be back to my comfort zone in community among the poor. Learning very quickly that in my Cosmopolitan Colaba home there are more drunk German tourists than beggars. There are more street vendors selling cheap t-shirts and rip-off perfumes than there are limping children. And there has been a severe absence of Slumdog Millionaire-style blinded children. So no immersion in poverty in Colaba. Have decided there are so few beggars because the wealthy Indians driving their Mercedes and Lexuses would probably not take the effort to swerve around the child beggars. They'd probably just continue driving straight at them as they continue to do with me.

So Colaba isn't poverty central. But a few Kingfisher beers later and I'm in love. I love the energy of the street markets. I love the predictable hoards of tourists outside Leopolds. I love even more that they sell cheap photocopied knock-offs of Shantaram in Leopolds. I love that I've already decided I'm too cool for Leopolds and have found my own bar that I shall love for the next two months. Mondy's. I'm personally going to make it bigger and better than Leopolds. I love the chai vendor around the corner who sells the dodgiest looking, but best tasting 6 rupee chai. I love the men walking on the streets selling balloons the size of small children. NO! I do not want a balloon! I love the kitsch fibreglass, fluro Hindu God knock offs that stupid tourists buy. I love that I am one of those stupid tourists who bought an ugly statue. Essentially, I love my new home.

And although having initially being a tad disappointed/snobby with how 'touristy' and 'removed from poverty' Colaba is, I am embracing all she has to offer. My room mate and I are on a mission to make this literally our home for the next two months. We are planning ways to decorate our humble abode. The balcony will be covered in pot plants, beach chairs, a Christmas tree and fairy lights if we have our way. Although where we would find these items is a mystery. We are committed to making best friends with the bartenders, waiters and shop assistants in our favourite 'local' places so we can become regulars.

Colaba is not going to be the same without us when we leave.