"The Joys of Being Female"

This afternoon as I picked Dumpie up from Kindergarten, I was accosted by a rather stern looking Indian woman.

"I must speak to you" she said curtly, and took me off to one side.

I was perplexed. She hadn't even introduced herself...what did she want?

"At certain times in the month you must NOT walk past that temple."

What temple was she referring to?

She pointed to the tiny brightly coloured structure in the vacant lot separating our house from the Kindergarten. I cut across it twice daily with Dumpie, stepping gingerly over all manner of waste and bits of iron, coconuts, fallen branches, discarded bricks, etc. It's an eyesore, and believe me, I don't much enjoy traversing it (neither does Dumpie as he's always making me carry him lest he trip and fall) but it's a necessary evil as it saves me having to walk ALL the way down to the road and take the long roundabout way there.

(I must interject here and acknowledge that I am doing myself no favours in once again discussing commuting time to schools. Back in London I often got reprimanded for grumbling that Egg's school was a five minute stroll away when I could have easily chosen to send him to the excellent school directly across the street. But never mind...)

But back to the story....

To be fair, when I looked closely at the brightly painted tiny structure she was pointing at, I supposed that yes, I could see that it was indeed a (albeit somewhat hidden) temple.

I was told that every month I must NOT walk past it, for four days or so (she would later change this to five), insisting that I either skirt around the dangerous outside bit (like a demented crab), or better yet - take the long way round.

Wanting to respect her, I sort of mumbled, "So today - and for four days - you would prefer it if I didn't go that way?" I asked hesitantly, still no wiser as to the reason for her request, but assuming it might have something to do with a religious holiday or something...

She shook her head in an annoyed fashion and asked, "Is it your time of the month?"

I beg your pardon! What on earth would compel this complete stranger to ask such an intimate question, to me - a stranger, without even introducing herself?! Not to mention totally sidestepping her original request for me to keep well away from this little temple?

Moments later it all became clear. For reasons still unbeknownst to myself, this woman must have concluded that it was my 'time of the month' (which it most certainly is NOT I hasten to add) and wanted to warn me. (Either that or she has been sneakily watching me drop off and pick-up Dumpie from school everyday and given we've just passed the six week mark, decided it was well within her rights to make her move.)

I was flabbergasted...a touch embarrassed...and therefore muttered some sort of agreement, all the while trying to convey that TODAY I was going to take my usual route home because it was NOT 'my time of the month'.

She appeared placated, and as a parting shot suggested that I stay well away from the temple for five days each month - just to be sure. In a gesture showing that she understood the inconvenience, she admitted that at home, she's not even allowed to sit down on the chairs or sofa during her 'time of the month'.

Goodness gracious.

This odd exchange was rounded off rather nicely when I got home, when Dumpie pointed to my breasts and asked if my nipples had names.

I give up.

"Fraught-opoly"

Egg has become OBSESSED with the game Junior Monopoly. So much so that his teacher has leant him the board game to bring home over Easter holidays. Much to our despair however, he seems unable to handle losing, and has taken to exhibiting mild freak-out behavior when this occurs (which is every time so far).

To add insult to injury, Dumpie appears to have a natural knack for the game (or maybe just 'winning' in general?) despite not having a clue how it's played. Try as he might to appease his older brother by giving him too much money and allowing himself to be cheated out of receiving 'property taxes' when Egg lands on his square...he just can't help winning - despite himself.

By this point in the game, Egg will be mournfully holding out a paltry bill or tow, whilst Dumpie sits quietly beside him, clutching a fat wad of the coloured play money, trying to give an inconsolable Eggie some cash 'for free' but Egg is having none of it. Instead, he sobs, "But it's NOT FAIR! Dumpie ALWAYS wins!"

Dumpie smiles gamely and sits calm as a buddha, legs gently crossed, dirty little toes wiggling to and fro, waiting patiently for his turn to roll the dice and make even more money (sigh).

The game always ends the same way. Eggie loses by not having enough money left to pay Dumpie, and after trying to swipe some notes from the bank, in one brutal, desperate bid to continue the game despite his cheating, he'll throw everything to the floor, tears rolling down his face, kick the board and run sobbing from the room.

Poor angel. Dumpie will then get so upset by Egg's sudden rage and incomprehensible hatred, that he'll start sobbing too, and I'm left with the mess of trying to calm down two runny-nosed, hyperventilating little monsters all the while threatening, "You are NEVER playing this game again! Do you hear me?!"

Until of course, the incessant, relentless, whining and begging from Eggie to play causes me to acquiese or suffer a nervous breakdown. I give in...foolishly...and the whole nightmare starts once again - from the top.

"The New Addition"

Yesterday the husband brought back the latest addition to our household. A gleaming, chrome-glinting beauty of an Enfield.

Speechless, we stood there looking at it, any lingering bits of 'buyers remorse' fluttering away in the warm breeze, as we stood gazing at, what surely must be, the sexiest beast on the road.

Momentarily I forgot about potential road accidents, the hazards involved in driving two-wheeled vehicles around unregulated dirt roads, and the fact that there is but one bike and yet four people in our family.

No, none of this crossed my mind as I surveyed our latest familial accessory.

Nor did I blink an eye when both Eggs and Dumpie begged to be allowed to perch on the black leather seat and make 'vroom vroom' noises. (Perhaps this bike will be responsible for fostering a life long love of the motorcycle and I shall be plagued by 'mother guilt' and 'mother anxiety' for the rest of my days as a result...)

Or maybe this is just a rather stylish and easy way to avail our foursome of the now ripe and luscious mangoes from the nearest market town...

Or the non-winged creature which shall ferry us to even more divine and luxurious weekly massages further afield?...

Do I dare ask the husband to teach me the rudimentary skills necessary to take this formidable baby on the road? (The last time he tried to teach me to ride, it was in New Delhi many years ago, and excitedly gaining speed after only a few seconds, my career as potential kick-ass 'Hell's Angel', tattoo-ridden, cool chick ended the moment a fat young woman crossed the road in front of me, causing me to drive the Enfield into the nearest ditch.)

Oh, who am I kidding? I was born to ride on the back of a bike.

I'll leave the navigating and throttle power to the husband. He may not know how to get the most out of the two-legged female variety, but when it comes to two-wheeler - well he's the king of the road...the only one I'll ride with.

In a weird way, it feels like we've just adopted the newest member of our family. Only it won't poo-poo in public (Dumpie had another 'accident' at Kindergarten today damn it), drain our finances (Egg currently has more money in his allowance jar than I do in my wallet...is that right??) or talk back (good old Dumps is still rather scornfully referring to us as 'Stupid Woman' and 'Stupid Dada' with worryingly reoccurring frequency these days).

Oh yeah - and the best part is that if we decide we don't want it anymore we can sell it on. (Like that's going to happen. I can already see it being shipped across the ocean to join us back in London whenever it is we decide to return. Just imagine the school run...)

"Waxing Lyrical..."

I don't know whether it's because I just saw 'Bright Star' on dvd the other night (loathed the film, but have a soft spot for the 'Romantics'...) or what - but I have the sudden compulsion to write a sonnet, in praise of a girl named "Kemy".

Who is "Kemy" you ask?

Only the provider of the most amazing waxing and threading technique I have ever had the fortune to experience.

For the past two hours (two hours!!) she has painstakingly, and with the methodology of a perfectionist (takes one to know one) rid my body of all extraneous hair. Now, bearing in mind that I am the most un-hirstute person EVER, even I was shocked that she would spend that much time on me. In fact her first words were, "But you HAVE no hair!"

This is true, but nonetheless I wanted to be stripped of even those miniscule bits of down that once sparsely covered my thighs. I wanted to become completely hairless. And now I am.

Not only did she give me the kind of first rate treatment I would imagine would be reserved strictly for princesses in the oil rich Middle East, but she did it in such a painless fashion that it actually felt like a very pleasant massage much of time....

(Those of you reading this, who have ever deemed wearing a bikini necessary, and have thus taken the steps necessary in order to prevent yourself from becoming an object of ridicule, thereby subjecting yourself to the torture that is waxing - will KNOW what an amazing claim this is)

I actually started to nod off at one point, and was so relaxed that I began to drool.

And just when I thought it was over, she pulled out a long piece of white string and began threading me for odd flecks of hair which might have had to audacity to stay put during the rigorous waxing process.

Now although this dedication to precision was very welcome, and quite astounding in itself, I must confess to feeling mildly ill at ease when Kemy began threading my bikini line. Surely I wasn't paying her enough to devote so much time and intensive labour to what is ultimately - let's face it - an undervalued part of my anatomy.

But no, she attacked that area with relish and soon I relaxed and began to think of other areas of my body she might transform into baby soft smooth zones.

Eventually of course we ran out of hair to remove. We both surveyed my clean as a whistle body.

"Is good?" she asked hesitantly.

"Oh yeah. WAY better than in England...way better. You are amazing," I gushed.

I handed over a sum of money equivalent to the size of the tip I gave to the rubbish girl who last waxed me in London the day we flew here. Then I handed over a few more rumpled notes in sheer gratitude.

She was overjoyed and grateful. I was ecstatic.

I love India...

"War Paint"

I looked today at all the cosmetics I brought with me. How ridiculous. Especially as I have now adopted the fresh, bare faced native Indian look with relish. Despite wearing SPF 50 every day, I appear to be slowly changing ethnicity right before the husbands eyes.

Even moisturiser is a bit of a stab in the dark at best, as it's so humid here, that it just slides off my face in tiny beads of perspiration moments after I've slathered it on. And mascara? As if...

Given the amount of times per hour I'm wiping my face, if I was foolish enough to put black khol into the equation I'd look like an African warrior princess.

(Or maybe I do now anyway...especially when heatedly chasing a semi-naked Dumps around the front yard, trying to 'catch him' in order to get him dressed for Kindergarten. The little bugger is fast.)

Speaking of warrior princesses, the other night the husband and I watched 'Avatar' on our little home cinema system (comprised of his Apple laptop and our portable surround sound speakers). It felt like a 3-D interactive movie when a flying cockroach came hurtling through our bedroom window and landed on the bed. I was not amused.

"That's it. Take me back to England right now. I cannot stay in a home with cockroaches."

The husband sighed, disgusted.

"It's just a one-off."

Some warrior princess I am. The sight of a giant cockroach reduced me to a trembling mess. Saying that, as long as I don't see a rat I'll be fine. I don't 'do' rodents. I simply can't abide with them in my abode...

...anymore than I am capable of traveling to exotic places without a bulging cosmetic case of overpriced, unneccessary, yet exceedingly pretty eyeshadows and lip glosses.

"Kung Foo Fighting"

Dumpie has taken lately to giving Dada the occasional 'thwack' across the face, when the husband has had the misfortune to be holding him and scolding him at the same time. It is most embarrassing when said 'thwack' is administered with perfect precision so as to elicit a most satisfactory noise and stun Dada into speechlessness. Given how coordinated our youngest is, he never misses and is accurate to within a millimetre.

"Isn't it funny that you've produced something that is part of you and yet autonomous enough to attack you?" I asked the husband the other day?

He just glared.

Of course Dumpie never smacks me. He does occasionally get his chubby little arms flailing like a windmill and come barreling into me, if I am foolish enough to withhold biscuits from him for example, but given the current Oedipal complex he appears to be stuck in, I am usually the recipient of loving caresses and back rubbing - not 'thwacks'.

The other night we had a friend over for dinner and he barbequed fish on an outside fire. It was a whole grouper bought fresh at the market that morning and Eggs and Dumps stood there entranced watching it blacken, as the flames licked its body.

"Are you going to have some yummy fish Dumps?"

"No."

"Why not baby? It looks delicious".

"No. I no eat fish head. I no want it to talk to me."

Hmmm....he did have a point. The mouth was stretched open as if the fish had died howling.

Egg on the other hand was worried that the fish wasn't dead yet and we were burning it alive.

Either way, neither boy would deign to touch the fish and instead spent dinner jumping on their thin, cheap excuse of a mattress, sword fighting with empty water bottles while our childless film maker friend filmed them with his camera.

He then projected the footage of the monsters in combat, onto the husbands bare chest using his little portable projector. Surreal doesn't even begin to describe it.

"The Writing On The Wall"

"Mama come take picture!" Dumpie grinned, pulling me by the hand into his bedroom and over to the far wall to check out his latest artwork.

My first thought was "Shit" as I realised he'd used cheap indelible Indian bought marker pens to scribble on his newly painted pretty yellow bedroom wall.

My second thought was "Actually, that's quite good. He's drawn the little boy inside the big Mama character and....it's rather clever and profound!"

Then I came to my senses and realised that no, it was really, really bad, and wasn't going to help negotiations with our landlady one. little. bit.

(He hadn't yet pointed out the other two drawings on the other walls - one just a massive black scribble, and the other, an almost life-size drawing of Dada.)

It's just typical that he would have ruined his bedroom wall, which WAS pristine and rather well decorated. He could have at least done it on OUR bedroom walls, which are a two-toned patchwork in greyish-purple (the result when you skimp on that extra coat of base paint). We would have at least gotten a much-needed paint job out of it.

Luckily our landlady is a 'Dumpie-Lover', and totally enthralled with the little squidget. She has two adolescent children and a look in her eye which suggests she might have yearned for a third if her husband hadn't spent all their money constructing this rental house we now live in.

I reckon we send Dumps over there to come clean and explain things. He can also return some of the bamboo sticks he's nicked from their front porch while he's at it. Worryingly they are spear shaped on one end and he holds them aloft while running barefoot through the yard squealing like a little piglet.

Our landlady finds him amusing. It remains to be seen HOW amusing...

"Booze Bottle Alley"

Sometimes the temptation to scandalise is irresistible, though I suspect this one might turn round and bite me in the face one day.

At the urging of the husband, we spent the day at a nearby deserted beach. Some friends of ours also came with us, bringing along their adorable 3 year old daughter.

We got out of the rickshaw, trekked past a restaurant, behind some huts, over a few stone walls, through a football stadium sized mass of emptiness, then emerged past some palm trees onto the most heavenly site...a naked man taking photo's of a naked lady sprawled lavisciously on some big rocks. Very amusing. (It's the first time I've seen the photographer game enough to strip off as well for a saucy shoot - well done I say.)

The sand was fine beige powder, the water the perfect warm temperature, and the blue-green sea so clear you could see the bottom, and soft as a plush carpet underfoot. Even the waves were tailor made for perfection, softly lolling - neither too violent nor too placid.

Beach perfection in other words.

After lunch at the only shack in the vicinity (where nothing on the menu was 'available' except for some rice and beans, and a seemingly limitless supply of bottled Mountain Dew...go figure), I was urged to go and look at the two little ones. They were hidden behind a wall outside the restaurant, sitting amidst a pile of discarded liquor bottles...having the time of their young little lives.

I was torn between amusement, shame, and fear, lest they cut themselves on the bottles. However they seemed content to merely peel off the labels, and so 'amusement' won out and I snapped a picture, giggling quietly so as not to disturb their little game, then left them to it.

It was only later that I regretted this decision when the husband and I heard sporadic smashing sounds and I ran behind the building to find Dumpie, by himself this time, lobbing the heavy glass bottles overhead, onto the adjoining wall, smashing them to smithereens...utterly delighted. Oops.

Oh well. At least we didn't lose them today - something we're getting pretty used to, as they have now morphed into filthy, little, wild beach bunnies who race up and down and in and out of beach shacks with the growing pack of other children whose parents have also scarpered from 'civilised society' in order to raise their children in a 'different' environment...

...an environment where playtime revolves around chucking about some empty whiskey bottles...

"I Fought the Dogs and the Dogs Won..."

I've always thought 'Yoga-Bunnies' to be a somewhat sanctimonious lot. Unfair I know, but I swear, if I see one more 'Yummy Mummy' prancing around the high street in skin tight black tights, showing off her 'Yoga-Butt' to the world...I'll be ill.

Maybe that's why I took to running. As the husband (constantly) likes to point out....I am NOT a team player. Being in a room full of sweaty, groaning, posing, human elastic bands doesn't really do it for me, if you know what i mean.

Running, on the other hand, is a solitary, meditative, invigorating personal challenge - one I've been pursuing for half a year now. And this morning, as I ran, a brilliant idea took shape in my mind.

You know how boring it is to run the same route all the time? Sure, you can zone out and listen to your ipod, but essentially our minds and bodies like a change now and then. So I thought, what if there were 'Runner Obstacle Courses' the size of golf clubs, where the runner took off on a timed run and tried to make it through all sorts of challenges without getting maimed or killed?

There could be 'Alligator Alley' where you jog through knee deep water and hope not to tread on a beast...

Or 'Bird Bedlam' where you run through trees where there are nests and thousands of nasty black crows and dive bombing pigeons to avoid...

And 'Snake Sanctuary' could be the sandy bit where slithery scaled creatures lurk just out of sight an inch or two below the surface...

And no course would be complete without a 'Dogs Dinner' section where you have to pass a pack of wild, feral, beastly dogs who try and bite you as you run.

That's actually what gave me the idea this morning. I got bit (lightly thank god) by that one hated dog - the black/sandy/white mutt who has it in for me.

I watched as an elderly man ran ahead and wasn't bothered at all. Then two rather wide-hipped Scandinavian girls sauntered past, sarongs fluttering in the wind, but nary a growl from the nasty curs.

But as I went calmly jogging past, they all came snarling and surrounded me in seconds, the ringleader viciously trying and succeeding in biting me. Bloody dogs. I was furious.

Now I know why the Indian man I see walking the beach every morning carries a large wooden stick. I thought it was part of his meditative process, as he always looks deep in thought, and walks religiously for 45 min each morning barefoot in his yellow pajamas.

No. It's no bloody mediative process. The poor man is trying to protect himself.

So that's it. Tomorrow I'm going running with the biggest, sharpest stick I can find. I'll just get Dumps on the case. He has stashes of big poles and sticks all over the place.

Even now as I type this I can see the unfolding scenario tomorrow, which will involve a screaming, frothing-at-the-mouth monster (me) trying vainly to fend off a pack of wild beasts, but getting mauled in the process and having to go for needles in my stomach daily for the next two weeks.

And all this in the pursuit of a decent bum.

Maybe those Yoga-Bunnies are onto something after all...

"Indian Trick-onomics"

It is very rare that someone bamboozles me in conversation. I am rather adept at navigating even the most convoluted and puzzling turns communication can take on occasion - but in this instance I had to admit defeat.

The husband and I had just finished our weekly massage from Dr. Jonny and his wife, of Shiva's Beach Hut, South Goa. We had previously been splurging on 1.5 hour massages, but had come to the conclusion that one hour massages would more than suffice from here on in. This was both due to economic sensibilities entering the equation, as well as the fact that we were getting shortchanged on time anyway. Our last massage had been a mere hour and ten minutes. Factor in how jealously we guarded our 'sans kiddies' time for creative endeavors and one hour just seemed to make sense.

How wrong we were.

We booked the one hour massage. We had the one hour massage. And when it came time to pay, the husband, instead of heeding my advice, depositing the exact amount into the outstretched plump hand of Dr. Jonny and bidding a fond farewell (how I would have done it had I been in possession of the wad of cash the husband carries around loosely in his Abercrombie shorts) - made the great mistake of opening a gambit.

husband: "How much do we owe you then Dr. Jonny?"

me: (whispered furitively under my breath...) "Just give him the _____ !"

Dr. Jonny: "Whatever you would like to pay is fine."

husband: "Ok." (hands over too much money) "Just give us back a hundred then."

Dr. Jonny: "Thank you Sir!" (makes no move to hand back anything)

(We all stand awkwardly..waiting...for someone to do or say something...anything)

Me: "Umm...Ok, so if you give us a hundred back, that's okay then?"

Dr. Jonny: (HUGE grin on face, rocking head jauntily back and forth) "That is fine Sir"

Me: (starting to get frustrated) "Ok. So. Last time we paid ____ for 1.5 hours. But today we just had an hour. So we pay ____.....right?"

Dr. Jonny: "Yes. That is fine."

Me: "So can you give us back 100 and then we'll be sorted...yes?"

(Again...the huge grin on Dr. Jonny's face does nothing to distract from the fact that he is in no way, shape or form making any sort of movement to suggest that his hand is going to go back in his pocket and retrieve our change. But I am confused. I can't let it go. I suspect the money is gone, forever, and that's okay. But I simply must know by which logic he is coming up with such random pricing, and am insistent on making him explain himself. The husband merely looks bemused. He too I suspect, is interested in how this one will play out. So I try valiantly one last time...)

Me: "So...you said you'd give us a discount right?"

(The husband chooses this moment to add his two cents worth by mumbling something about how we bring him many customers and are old 'friends' etc..blah, blah, blah...)

Dr. Jonny: "Yes! Indeed! I am also like you. I have family and young childs and you are on a budget. You are not traveling and playing and touring. No, you are like me and you have 'family budget' and it is my duty to give you a special price."

Me: "Thank you. Yes. We appreciate that. So just give us the hundred and you can keep the extra."

Dr. Jonny: "No, no, no, no. You have paid the discount."

Me: "Huh??"

Dr. Jonny: (finally starting to show a trace of exasperation with the insistent 'Westerners' in front of him, wasting his time and keeping him from a much-needed nap)

"You have paid me ______. That is correct for one and one half hour massage."

Me: (incredulous)

"But we didn't HAVE the one hour massage! We had the ONE hour today!"

Dr. Jonny: (looks at his wristwatch. We started at least five minutes late. We have also been engaged in this pointless exchange for at least five minutes. His watch shows that one hour and ten minutes has passed since the massage began.

"You see! Almost one and one half hour. So therefore I give you discount."

Me: (as an aside to husband) "Let's get the heck out of here. I'm hot. This is pointless. I give up."

So we take our leave, unable to have made any sense of the preceding conversation, except to establish the following facts:

1. No matter how long the massage we book is, we shall get it for a duration decided by Dr. Jonny and dependent on such factors as how many phone calls he takes on his mobile during the massage, what time he decides to show up for the massage, and whether he feels that our prone, privileged bodies have been given a sufficient enough rub down.

2. It is in our best interest to ask for the one and a half hour massage, as at least we run the chance of getting an hour and ten minutes. Also, we shall pay practically the same price for a 'one hour' - so we may as well try our luck.

3. It is pretty much a given, that when haggling, if one hands over an amount above and beyond what is the norm - there will be every attempt to justify this new amount to the giver, in order to retain this unexpected but much appreciated bonus windfall. (ie. YOU AIN'T GONNA GET YOUR CHANGE BACK...got it?!)