Boobs, boobs everywhere

Ok. Here I am, past the barbed wire fence, in the country where the tagline is simply - Venezuela: The Adventure. (But let's not have tooooooo much adventure, ok?)


In my first few days here (half of them without my luggage) I have been discovering that 1) everyone hates, hates, and really, really hates Chavez, 2) a full tank of gas is ONE DOLLAR, 3) traffic is an abomination (see 2) 4) the McD's drive thru is the "auto mac" and 5) the children drink beer-flavored soda instead of milk.

Yes, the last one is kind of interesting... apparently there is a shortage of milk so my lovely client (think Budweiser + Coke + Kraft in one company) markets "Maltin" the beer flavored drink that's nutritious as milk and adored by children everywhere. This is pretty incredible marketing by a beer company if you ask me. Get em young, get em for life.

The other truly AMAZING aspect (or dual aspects?) is boob size. Seriously now, I have never seen more silicon in one place (or on one woman) than in Venezuela. Oh yes, more than Scottsdale, L.A., NYC, and other famous boobalicious destinations, Venezuela really has the market covered. Er... or perhaps more 'uncovered' as the case may be. Cleavage is not something racy to be saved for late night cocktail lounges -- oh no -- bring it all out, way out, all the time. At the office, at the airport, at the grocery store. It seems completely acceptable to -just barely- cover these strangely evenly tan lobes, firmly uplifting plunging v-necks. Truly admirable (that they can lift their head... or even their upper body).

Buenas breastas.

the adventure continues

Ok, yes, my blog is back (by popular demand). Why? Because America is a crazy, crazy place all its own. But let me be specific -- it may come as a shock, but "America" in fact includes 35 countries only one of which is the "United States of."

So I am setting off on a new adventure in America, both north and south (more to come!). And starting in the north, let me say -- the stereotypes are REAL folks. I've recently been struck with just how real they are -- I went to a wedding where the bride served microwave snacks for rehearsal dinner and then walked down the aisle to the-artist-formerly-known-as Prince, in white sunglasses, chewing gum. It was really, really fantastic in all the wrong ways. I loved it.

I went to Boulder, Colorado, where I witnessed 'off-roading' and mechanical bull riding -- sports I've discovered are indeed reserved for the 'west virginians' of the Rockies (if you can't keep it in your pants, keep it in the family!). These are not actors, but real live Americans. In Houston, I complement the American modern art (Rothko)... Before heading back in NYC, where I discover bowling leagues are real, as are secret bars you access through a phone booth at the back of a hot dog stand. I'm serious. LCD Soundsystem:
"WE ARE NORTH AMERICANS!!"
"New York, I love you, but you're bringing me down."

India: Why?

Back home, I've realized that while you followed my adventures -- tigers, elephants, burning bodies -- many of you struggled to understand why, exactly, did I go to India?

Being a 'consultant' I often have to defend that I am in fact 'doing' something.... in this case, my client was Oxfam, a charity working to alleviate poverty.

In India, 2/3rds the population are farmers, of whom 80% live in extreme poverty - earning a whooping ONE DOLLAR FIFTY CENTS A DAY. Now, thinking that India has 1 Billion people (seemingly all crammed into Delhi), when you do the math... well shit, that comes to 1B x 66% X 80% -- 600,000,000 people. Emm, that's like twice the size of the United States. What can I do to help them?

Talking with the farmers I quickly learned: help find buyers. India's marketplace is quickly changing. "Modern retail" has entered India -- the equivalent of super-walmarts and targetlands are growing 50% a year in a country where tiny bodegas were the only 'stores' before.

We wanted to help poor farmers sell their goods within these new markets in an equitable way . We partnered with a new company that had just started buying directly from small farmers. As we studied their business, we found that simple changes, like including women in trainings and communicating specifics on crops needed, could help the farmers make a better living -- and improve business at the same time. Oxfam and the company are now working together to make some of these changes.

It was at lot of blood, sweat and tears and, honestly, I cannot see much direct impact of my work. But if the company can even make a few incremental improvements, the effect could ripple out to the 1 million poor farmers it works with. Although unsatisfyingly indirect, I can only hope I am helping far, far more people, even if in a small way.

Ahh, the bleeding heart power of capitalism.

This is the world on drugs

I have never considered myself a feminist, having struggled to equate privileged women whining about getting paid less and feeling uncomfortable in math class with moving things forward. Haven't the girls of my generation been given access to the same opportunities as the boys?

But during my adventures I have discovered a very different reality and it is really, really disturbing.

Upon my arrival, there was news of a 19-year old Saudi woman who was kidnapped at knifepoint and gang-raped by seven men (twice each) who also beat her, took pictures and threatened to kill her. When she went to court, the judge awarded her 90 lashes for consorting with men other than her husband!!!! She appealed the decision and the next judge upped it to 200 lashes and 6 months in jail. This is the world on drugs. www.news.com.au/story/0,23599,21332543-2,00.html


During my trip to Thailand last month, I came to look into the sad, glassy eyes of the girls of the Karen tribe (near Chiang Mai). This clan from Burma traditionally puts heavy coils of brass around the necks of young girls starting at age 5. Each year, they lengthen the coil until they are 21 or so, stretching out their necks into a freakishly long, thin, fragile appendages.

The custom has been disappearing... however, now thanks to tourists, these girls are taken from their mountain tribe to live in a fake village where stupid people (like me) can pay $15 US dollars to come and photograph the freaks, revile at the pictures of their bared black and blue necks and feel "cultured." I asked her - does it hurt? She bent her entire body to me (unable to freely move her head), with the top coil cutting into her chin, and said "sometimes." I feel sick, knowing this girl will never forget that she is different and deformed, the freakshow that warrants a photo. She has become a prisoner, never be able to enter a larger society. This is the world on drugs.

Continuing onto Indonesia, which is largely muslim - I become well acquainted with the very symbol of squashed identity - the burka. This head to toe covering may (or may not) leave a slit for the eyes. The more fortunate women only wear head scarves (which has GOT to be hot in the equatorial climate).

I ask my friend - why the burkas, why the head scarves? "Ana," he says, "because hair is beautiful and they need to protect themselves from men's lustful eyes." OK, OK... so the "answer" that has been adopted by the societies of millions and millions is that women need obscure themselves and live behind a mask because the men can't keep it in their pants?!?! This is logic??? This is the world on drugs!

In India, many rural women are married at age 15 and not allowed out of the house. She cannot go to the market, she cannot visit her friends. Her only job, according to one farmer, is "look good for me." During another interview, I learned a man is more likely to get insurance for his cow than his wife. Afterall, the cow is of real value. The wife is replaceable. Yes, this is the world on drugs.

In Jodhpur, I met Rehka, a woman my age with three children and ambition as strong as mine; though she’s not allowed to leave the house (as a wife) and has never even seen the fort that overlooks her city, bringing tourists from around the world. I asked her to come with us; she declined, smiling, saying she is sure she will go soon, but instead taught me how to make chai and Indian potato sandwiches.

I've come to believe, to truly understand now, that around the world, women are simply and completely objects to be owned. The thought that a woman is an independently thinking human who is as valuable of a man is laughable to most of the world. The "She" of billions and billions is entrapped within a gridlocked system that ensures her bonds are tight. She is property, shunned and veiled, condemned for her beauty, a prisoner in her homes. Modern slavery.

THIS IS THE WORLD ON DRUGS

(Dedicateed to Jody and Babs, the strongest women I know)

Answers in the palm of your hand

The astrologist told me of personality, career, love. Strangely, it was a very curt, impersonal interchange, within an office stacked with papers… nope, no sitar playing, no incense or crystal balls. Just like a visit to the accountant.

As for my personality – for those of you that know me, he was fairly accurate, and for those of you who don’t, well, let’s just say you must experience to understand!

For work and love, he was unsettlingly precise about dates. He brought out a magnifying glass, ruler, compass, and proceeded to chart my course along the lines of my right hand, making small dots at fateful intervals in the creases of my palm.

According to my dealt hand, I have four career changes ahead of me (next one in 2 yrs) and also a “very bad period” (mid-life crisis?) between 46-50. But of course no clues about what the hell I might actually do with myself, thanks.

But it’s the question of love (em, could you define that for me please?) that makes me hate astrologers and all their preconceived notions about MY life. So apparently I have “the chance” for love at age 22, 28, 30 ½, 34, and 37 ½... (then I stopped listening).

Ok, now. Let’s think about this. If you meet your love at age 22, what about the people you’re destined to meet at 28, 30 ½, etc? Are they just affairs? Are they missed chances? And has to prod me… who was my love at 22? (‘I don’t think there was anyone special at 22,’ I say. ‘Think, think... ' he says, 'There WAS someone’.) So who did I overlook at 22? I think back hard -- was it the one who disappeared to Montana when I ended it? The player from PR? The free spirit in my pottery class? My adorable, but ever so slightly stupid, roommate? Really? Love? Hmmm, I just don’t think so.

And then he says to me – ‘You are 28 now? Do you know who your “chance” is? Is it over?’ Well, I must have seemed just a little taken aback… have I already somehow missed my one and only chance for love for the next two and a half years?! What crap! Yes, I realize that when you’re a ambitious, irreverent girl (who’s maybe just a little needy... or crazy), meeting a match doesn’t happen everyday, but still. I think I’ve recovered from his questioning, when he looks at me very sternly and tells me ,“Well, you need to find out.”

No, what I need to do is stop wasting money on someone telling me that it’s all pre-ordained. This life is mine.

Where is 'real' India?

After 2 months, I thought that I had a pretty good handle on what was India… a colorful place where nothing makes sense. Disorganized and chaotic, a striking contrast of very new, very fast with inflexible traditions and rituals. Life is lived publically in the street -- cooking fires, shaving, wild and stray animals, all types of excrement, and of course, a sweetshop nearly every block. And a lot of unpalatable food that makes you ill (like this morning - Valerie is being SOOO demanding!).

But I found myself in downtown Mumbai, strolling down a promenade along the waterfront, where beautiful colonial buildings touch long parks filled with cricket players and joggers lined by European-style cafes and I have to ask myself, “what? Is this India too?” Oh yes, a ferris wheel on the beach operated by six young men, manually turning it... Ah yes… it’s definitely India afterall.

Next, I happened to journey to Kolkata (Calcutta) again to discover another side of India; somewhere more organized than Delhi, but not as new world as Mumbai. A place where the Raj (the British rule in India) has left its mark, its kiss of order and a planned city.

How about Uttarranchal? Its a northern province of India, close to Nepal, where Himalayan mountain roads crisscross the peaks, taking hours upon hours to reach ANYWHERE. Where it is freezing cold and somehow the people survive without central heating and few fireplaces.

Or perhaps Jodhpur? A periwinkle blue painted city that still retains its desert “real India” flavor, with open doors and open hearts. A quiet place where the problems of the rest of the country (begging, pollution, trash heaps) have not infiltrated the backstreets.

Or Goa, a stretch of breezy sand and open water, palm trees, and western everything? The one place in India where the people are catholic, the women wear skirts to their knees (scandalous!) and you find more superbly fit westerners doing yoga on the beach than probably anywhere on earth.

But, I think I might settle on Varanasi as “real India”… where pilgrims come from all over to bathe in the holy Ganges (polluted beyond recognition), where the dead are ritualistically burned atop sandalwood funeral pyres by sons who shave their heads, and where the dreadlocked Hari Krishna from the developed world come to convert the tourists.

In Varanasi I placed a candle on the Ganges, watched it float away, and made a quiet wish to open myself, feel passion, be fully alive, and most importantly, not be afraid… of real India and what I might find here, come what may.

Begging a Moral Question

As you might appreciate, you certainly need a way to just handle some of the more distressing features of India. For me, the most significant is the industrialized begging.

Putting emotions into boxes, I've begun to compartmentalize the major stylistic categories:

-- Annoyance begging :: being following for blocks on end by a child tugging at your clothes

-- Deformity/open wound begging :: grossing you out until you cough up $

-- Transvestite begging :: threatening to kiss you with his sticky red lips

-- Car window begging :: children dodging lanes of traffic at the sight of blonde hair

-- Elderly begging :: I'm old, give me $

-- Mother / malnourished infant begging :: give me $ for milk (how about for condoms?)

-- Opportunistic begging :: I don't normally ask for $, but you seem likely to have some

-- Photographic begging :: These looks ain't free, but just about (10 Rupees = 25cents)

-- "Selling-me-stupid-shit-I-don't-want" begging :: What the hell am I going to do with a 5 foot long penis shaped balloon? (NO COMMENTS!)

No doubt I've been struggling with my response to these queries, and its seems no matter what I do I'm left feeling guilty and mean. I learned that a lot of the begging is organized by the mafia-equivalent ... then I hear (awful, awful) stories of children maimed as infants. I don't want to give the money that creates the market for begging -- but then, is it really the fault of this small, dirty, malnourished child??? Of course not.

For the first few months I'm just so taken aback, feeling that I don't even know how to act, that I end up ignoring them, shooing them away, saying leave me alone. Then they shift to the annoyance begging tactics in any case, so it doesn't really work.

But recently I've changed my approach, with great success: stop and talk to them. Its amazing to the shift in attitude, a smile spreading across their faces, when you just stop, look them in the eyes, acknowledge they are a valuable person, and just start paying attention. Really, the children suddenly look at you and blush, shy to tell you their names, how old they are, how they got those open wounds.

And, I have found they're plenty of things I can give them to help, other than money. Toothbrushes, ballpoint pens, sandwiches (no, not candy... I don't think they get to the dentist twice a year). And to my surprise, the children take the food and feed their little brother and sister first, and share with the others. Nothing has been more rewarding.

Oh yes, now I can take comfort knowing I'm saving the world, one freshly brushed, starving child at a time.