"Back yard" vacation

My folks were always great at planning vacations that led us to our own 'backyard'. 

Not our literal backyard. But our 'country of resident' backyard. 

Like living in Los Angeles and going to Disneyland for the day...

In other words, a vacation that is more fun than just a day trip, but still isn't very far away.

A side-trip that all your visitors/company takes based on your advice. 

In this case, living just miles from the Taj Mahal. 

And finally remembering to go see it. 

Quite the vacation!

We waited.

Growing up overseas scars you for life. You know your life is different than your cousins have, back in Cleveland or Fullerton or Omaha or Seattle. Once you live overseas a few year, you diffuse into the movement that doesn't fit in Ohio or California or Nebraska or Washington. You are just plain different. 

And what is even more different is that all your friends are different, too.

You can go through 14 best friends in one single year. They'd come, they'd friend you, they'd move on. You'd stay. Summers were the worse - many friends were sent back to the USA for summers with grandparents or aunts and uncles. Then come the first day of school in the Fall, you'd recognize that not everyone came 'home' from the USA. Some of your friends stayed gone.

My family's mean of communications to the USA was the old trusty aerogram. An aerogram is a pre-stamped envelope and writing paper, all in one.  The letter writer could write until the 'writing paper' was used up. Then one would fold along the dotted lines of paper - and if folded correctly, the envelope was exposed. My mom, Elsa, would buy aerograms in bulk. Anytime we were in the vicinity of an international hotel, Elsa would stop the taxi, run in and buy buy buy. Twenty aerograms would last her about two weeks.

But, if a family emergency happened back in the USA, my dad would receive a teletype at work. He'd carry it home carefully, holding the vellum paper in his outstretched hands to Elsa. "Here, this came today." It would always be bad news. "Sister leg amputated. She survives." "Sam in wreck. Broke neck."

Elsa would read these and then narrow her eyes. "Hoop, one of these days, I am going home."

And Hoop (my dad) would look down at the floor in helplessness. I'd die inside.

Finally THE telegram arrived. "Daddy dying. Cancer." Daddy was my grandpa, Elsa's father. She always called him 'Daddy.'

Elsa held true to her threat. That night she grabbed my brother, Iilya, and me, and we flew out  of the country. We flew for hours, changing planes in Tehran, in Beirut, in Paris, in London, in Belfast, and finally in Boston. We grabbed whatever flights were heading 'homeward', regardless of the misdirection it took us. 

Hoop stayed behind. For months, I was 'fatherless'. I hated it.

"I am not going back to that God-forbidden place unless 'he' comes to get me. I am not going back on my own." Elsa proclaimed this to every relative who mourned with her, every passerby who shook her hand or hugged her at the graveside. "I am not going back unless 'he' comes...".

We waited. We'd never be like our cousins.

My friend, the biology watcher

Shibani and I met the last week of 5th grade. Within 5 days of our first encounter, school was over and  we were both off to separate summer vacations. The first day of 6th grade, I spotted Shibani in my classroom, and we smiled. Miss O'Cleary, our teacher, had designed a seating chart for all of us 6th graders; she sat us in a cluster of four desks turned inward. Shibani and I were lucky that day - we were the two girls in our cluster. 

Shibani's parent were of the upper class of India's population. Shibi's mom worked for the U.S. Embassy - she was some kind of attache to an attache to the US Ambassador. Shibi's dad was something, but it was her mom who had a presence in Shibi's life. Shibi was a serious science kind of whiz who spoke English with a clipped British accent. Her first language, of course, was Hindi.

Shibani was my best friend during each school year. But during the summers, we never saw or heard from each other. She went to wherever her home was, I went to whatever direction my parents pointed me. Come the first day of school... Shibani and I would find each other and our conversations would begin anew.

In 8th grade, our whole class participated in a Learning Fair on the last day of school. Shibi and I were in the "Learning English" class of the fair. We each had to read a book of our choice, prepare a booth that reflected or advertised our book, and then 'man' our booth and answer questions about our book (if anyone bothered to ask). Shibi immediately picked "The Lives of a Cell: Notes of a Biology Watcher" by Lewis Thomas. No one doubted that was a perfect pick for Shibi. My own library was full of Leon Uris books, but our teacher thought that "Mila 18" was a bit out of our league. I settled on" The Diary of Anne Frank".

Shibi and I worked on our posters together. We practiced our book 'previews' out loud to each other, and together we collected visual aides for our displays.  Shibi found a child's microscope, some slides, a petri dish, tweezers, and some stinky cotton balls. She built a scientist's paradise in her little booth. I was envious. My little booth had a blank diary and a pen... and poster that mistakenly advertised "The Dairy of Anne Frank". 

The Learning Fair started that last Thursday at 10 a.m. Teachers brought their students to our room, and we invited them into our booths to listen to our spiel. A few parents even attended the Fair, but neither Shibani nor I had mothers who attended. 

When the day ended, Shibani's microscope and slides were fingered, smeared and messy. My 'dairy' sign still reflected its err in spelling (I just knew I should have reported on Mila-18!).  We packed up our booths, threw away our posters, and waved a 'see you in August!' goodbye.

Within a week, my family moved. And Shibani? She never went back to that school either. Turns out the US Embassy took over the school. They converted "our" school to an 'embassy' school - only American embassy children or American children of U.S. Foundations or religious organizations were allowed to attend. Shibani wasn't American. She was not allowed back in. I was American, but my dad didn't work for the right 'company'. I wouldn't have been allowed back in, either. (My mother assures me that I would have attended a highly rated international boarding school in Kuala Lumpur.)

I wonder where Shibani went. I hope she is a doctor or mad lab scientist in Switzerland or Australia. I hope her education didn't end after 8th grade. I hope she is strong. And I hope she knows I still think of her. 

(The above photo was taken during 8th grade. I never got a yearbook that year, but I did find that the Embassy School website has posted all our yearbooks online. I hunted for Shibani's photo - and found her. But she isn't in the 9th grade yearbook, or the 10th... or the 11th... I'd like to think someday I will find the real her.)

Someone to watch over you

If lives were perfect, we would all have someone to ALWAYS watch over us. But life isn't perfect, and at times in our lives, we have to fend for ourselves. We have to be our own guardian.

Growing up, my ideal life would allow me to be both Jess and Violet, the sisters in the book series "The Boxcar Children". Jess was the older sister, and she kept everyone in order. Violet, the younger sister, was sensitive, shy, and loved dogs. I thought if my parents were smart, they would have named me "Jessolet". 

So, my parents didn't know. But they were pretty smart anyway. My parents always took care of us, and they always made sure a guardian was assigned to us as we traveled. When we moved to Argentina, I was 5. Our guardians were expatriates who happened to be old family friends, Mr & Mrs. G. The G's had lived in Pasadena before they moved to Argentina, and they knew my grandparents in Temple City. The G's had plans to return to Pasadena when Mr. G retired. He did just that when I was 8 years old. 

So my parents hunted for a new guardian for us kids. Hmmm... how about asking the school principal? Which is exactly what my Dad did. Before long, the principal, Mr. Hal, was our new guardian. Life sucked.

Why HIM? 

Turned out Mr. Hal was originally from Newport Beach. He had played basketball at UCLA (a strong point in my dad's eyes). And Mr. Hal knew my Temple City grandparents, too.Sometimes the world is just too small.

Sigh. 

Nothing could happen at school that my parents didn't learn too much about it. They would receive a phone call and a first hand report from Mr. H. 

Mr. H. made the call when my brother Illya had stink bombs in his book bag. My parents got the call before Illya could even show the little bombs off. Weeks later, did they know Illya had a pack of cigarettes in his blazer? Mr. H knew. He had them confiscated before brother could even remove the cellophane wrapper and open the pack - and my parents got the call. 

Then we moved. HURRAH!! Mr. Hal and his guardian/spy techniques were gone.

Our family eventually landed in India. There was no doubt in our parents eyes that we needed a guardian, someone to watch over us if something happened to the folks. It had to be someone who would make sure Illya and I would be returned to family in the USA if need be. Someone who would comfort us, protect us, calm us, guard us. Someone who would be our guardians out of love, not out of  some financial motive.

Dad hunted and hunted. Most of their friends had different nationalities, different morals, different ideas on how to raise kids. Then they met Mr. and Mrs. Rae. Mrs. Rae was a registered nurse - she could comfort and calm us and look after our needs. Mr. Rae was a somber, serious guy who worked at the Canadian Embassy. He would know the right procedures if we had to leave without our parents. 

Swell. Illya and I both liked the Raes. They would stay with us whenever our parents traveled. They were clueless about children/teenagers and completely trusted us. But Mr. Rae knew a lot about basketball. He was a licensed basketball official and could tell us great stories of international games he officiated. He even became our high school's basketball coach. 

He took our international school's team all over the world to play. The team got into countries we thought were totally off limits - to Nepal, western Laos, Thailand along the Cambodian border, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and the elusive area of Kashmir. One winter break, the team flew to Australia and played all through Indonesia and Malaysia. Mr. Rae was so cool!!! He was our hero!

And then the summer came when everyone was reassigned - my dad to another country, Mr. Rae to Taiwan. I thought I'd never see Mr. Rae again.

One evening, years later, my folks and I were watching the Summer Olympics on TV. We spotted Mr. Rae at the games. He was officiating an Olympic basketball game! 

My mom spoke up."You kids were never to know what Mr. Rae really did. He was a Canadian spy. He probably still is. Rae isn't his real name. All the trips your school's basketball team took? They were planned as cover for Mr. Rae to do some intelligence work. He probably is spying right now, while officiating the game. He's a spy."

Swell. A spy. Someone to watch over you. 

I am still surprised when I think of the Raes - or whatever their names are. My dad picked a real winner for guardians. Real spies.

Finding our selfish identity again

"The lift vans are here!!! The lift vans are here!!"  

My brother Iilya yelled this from the front yard. The lift vans were finally here... After 10 months of borrowing from everyone, we were getting our own identities back.

The lift vans held our furniture, our clothes, our books. Everything a child finds 'familiar' was packed away in those vans. After 10 months of moving around, going to 4 different schools, wearing cousins' clothing, living in strange houses, our own lives were returning to us.

Our lift vans left from our home in Argentina in December. They arrived at our flat in Delhi in September. Two of the months were spent in 'customs' in Bombay. Four of the months were spent being transported by water-buffalo cart from Bombay to Delhi.

How do they move the vans? One step at a time, along dirt roads and paved roads. Where do they stop to eat? Where do the men and the oxen sleep at night? How can this be the 20th century? I wondered all this and worried for the water buffaloes and for the men.

But once the vans were unloaded, I selfishly crawled back into my identity. My books were back... my troll dolls were mine again! My desk, with the lamp attached to the back and curved to the front, was all mine. The drawers could once again be filled with my pens and notebooks. Even my leather Argentine bookbag was unpacked. MINE!

At night I worried for the men and the beasts. I still do...

(all photos enlarge for better viewing)

You are so charming...

"Oh boy, is Dad gonna be mad. 

There is a mongoose in the front yard."

My brother, Iilya, had just relayed the news we all hated. A mongoose in the front yard meant cobras were nesting in the bushes.
Yeah, cobras. In the front yard. Life in India was different,
As cute as a Riki Tiki Tavi was, he was bad news. 

"I'm not telling Dad!" I knew my father's wrath unfurled when snakes were involved.

So, Iilya left Dad a note. It simply said 

"मंगूस"

The next morning, the snake charmers arrived. 

They wasted no time getting to work.

The word was that if you didn't pay the charmers "enough", they'd leave a snake or two behind.
My dad gave Iilya LOTS of rupees to give to the charmers - just to make sure every snake was charmed.

And Iilya wandered back across the street to the neighbors to hang out for another day.

He disappeared at 6 p.m.

Our neighborhood market

When we lived in India, we had a 'servant' - a cook. It wasn't a luxury we wanted - it was a custom expected of 'westerners'. Okay, 'easterners', too. We lived in a less than luxurious flat and our upstairs neighbors were embassy personnel for the East German embassy. Since they had a cook, too, I figured 'easterners' were under the same umbrella as us.

I know India has changed (improved) a lot since we lived there, so what I remember and write about is the India I knew/know. I am lucky enough to have lived in different cultures and countries,  and I have learned from them all.

We had electricity in our flat, but we were constantly bothered by 'brown outs' or hours of low voltage. We could only use so much power at a time, and we all knew our limits. If the1959 Westinghouse refrigerator cycled on, you ran and turned off the1967 General Electric window air conditioner. If the bedroom window air conditioner was on, the living room window unit had to be turned off. At night, if you turned your bedside lamp on, all the other lights would dim. But we had electricity, and it was glorious.

We had water parts of the day. 6 a.m. until 10 a.m., you could wash, rinse, and flush. From 10 a.m. until 4 p.m., don't even try. At 4, the water came back on until 10 p.m., when it was shut off for the night. The water came in two levels - inside water, suitable for most things (but NOT drinking), and outdoor water which usually contained toxins, waste and smells. We boiled the indoor water for 25 minutes before storing it in a big pot in the kitchen, ready for drinking. But we had water, and it was luxurious.

Grocery stores weren't. Such shopping was best left to the cook, who could negotiate prices and who knew the good (trusted) vendors from the bad. You don't want me describing what bad vendors would do to food...

Our cook was named Barua. He was from East Pakistan (Bangladesh) and he moved to India to find good work. Being Muslim, he was able to find a job as a cook among European or American families, as he would cook meat or fowl. Of course, he had to find it first.

So everyday, Barua would meet with my mother and he'd suggest a dinner. He'd verify how many for dinner, what time it should be ready, and if any special requests were in mind. Mom always went with Barua's suggestions - no fresh fruit during the monsoons, no fresh meats at all, no dairy products from May until October.

Everyday Mom would count out the money Barua thought he'd need to bring home 'the bacon'. He'd jump on his black three speed bike and ride to whatever marketplace might have the products he had suggested to the Memsahib. He'd be gone an hour or two, and return with all kinds of 'groceries' hanging from his handlebars or tied around his waist.

And magically, a decent dinner would appear at the appointed hour. Needless to say, we ate a lot of macaroni and cheese, spaghetti in butter, chapatis with curry, and dishes made with Campbell's tomato soup.

The 'american' sounding foods were just that - Mom would buy boxes or cans of foods from friends/families with import privileges. Once she scored several jars of sweet gherkin pickles and even more of Jiffy peanut butter. I crossed the line when I dropped one of her pickle jars on the marble floor.... Mom looked at me with fire in her eyes. How could I drop and break 'her' pickle jar?? And suddenly a jar of peanut butter sailed by me, hitting the front door and shattering its contents on the door's glass. That was how we treasured our special treats.

But Barua could take just a few odd ingredients, perform some kind of magic on them, and produce an acceptable dinner. We cherished Barua and his kindness, his sweet face.

At 7 p.m. each evening, he'd hop on his black bike and ride off to wherever he spent the night. Next morning, promptly at 6 a.m., he'd return to start coffee and toast. Each day, the same routine for him and for us.

Two years passed on quickly. Barua learned to make birthday cakes for our special days. He'd ask Mom to spell our names so he could write it on the cake in the sickly sweet icing that was so common there. He learned our holidays and created a feast for each. When Mom acquired a canned ham one year, he saved it for Easter Sunday and served it with spaghetti. When my brother came home with a box of Potato Buds, we ate mashed potatoes as our main course. Occasionally we'd have fresh eggs from some wild bird we'd never ask about...

One day Barua approached Mom with a problem. He was needed by his family back in Bangladesh. He needed to leave us. His brother had been killed in an uprising.

Mom cried. Barua cried. I cried.

He planned to ride his bike northeastward. He didn't how he'd do it, for sure. But he needed to go. He had parents, wife, children, all who needed him there. All he knew was that his brother had been murdered by insurgents, and he was needed. It all made horrible sense.

He left that night at 6 p.m. He was going to start his journey right away. Mom gave him a bit of money to help along on his journey. Barua insisted he'd be in more danger if he had 'too many rupees' so he declined much carrying cash. He was afraid he already was a moving target, and he didn't want to be noticed any more than he had to be.

He promised when he got to his village near Comilla, he'd get word back to us. He assured Mom that there was a good network of communications among the other 'western' cooks, and  he'd have no trouble getting word to us.

I never heard from him or about him. I never gave up thinking he arrived safely and that his family rejoiced in his presence.

But years later, Mom suggested that Barua never got to the Bangladesh border. Daniel, our 'new' cook claimed to know. Mom didn't want to hear, so she shushed Daniel before he could speak. If you don't know, you can't doubt. If your heart says he made it, you are wise to believe it.

Barua, you were never a servant. You were a gem, a serious little man who did more for us than we could ever do for you. And I never look at an iced birthday cake without thinking of you... you wanted it to be so right, all the while I wanted life to be right for you.

It has all but disappeared from my mind

But nothing in India is identifiable, the mere asking of a question 

causes it to disappear or to merge in something else.

E. M. Forster

A camel herder, near our house.

A trip into town - Old Delhi.

Being hungry enough to resolve it

Never argue at the dinner table, 

for the one who is NOT hungry 
always gets the best of the argument.
  -Voltaire 

 

My dad was a negotiator. Negotiating is what he did for his living - and his hobby. All around the world he went and negotiated. 

Sometimes, hunger strikes were involved.

  I don't know how this hunger strike was resolved.

I know no one died. 

And I do know my dad negotiated his heart out.