One of the things that I have found most rewarding about having this whacky lifestyle is getting involved in local charities. There is always some good cause or another to support and over the years I have been on the committees of many fundraising groups.
Around the world, there are different levels of need and as you would expect, the poorer the country the more basic the need. In the Philippines, like most other third world countries, there is very little in the way of social support paid for by the government. In many ways, this has fostered a spirit of greater community understanding because if there is no help from family and community, sufferers are left to their own devices and will simply “go under”. Seeing communities come together in the face of adversity is a lesson to us all.
Conversely, in very developed countries, the state takes on all rolls of support to the point where families almost have the choice as to whether or not to abdicate responsibility for supporting family and community. Now that the developed world is facing burgeoning government debt, a lot of these services are being cut, so people are wondering how on earth they are going to cope with having to take on more responsibility for themselves. With an aging population, growing demand for health and personal care one wonders how much we are going to have to rebalance the support of the state with greater personal and community involvement.
I have seen firsthand the struggles of helpless people in developing countries, and by contrast, the wealth of the benefactors in the United States, pouring money into the arts. Where would the Guggenheim or the Metropolitan museum be with its benefactors? There is a place for both, of that I am in no doubt, but where physically handicapped patients have been chained to beds to stop them falling out, because there is no money for secure cots, it is truly an eye opener and I know where I would rather direct my efforts.
Here in Brazil, there is no shortage of need. There are a lot of very good local charities and no shortage of willing volunteers. Volunteering can take the form of hands on involvement day to day, or to organize and support fund raising activities. There is a place for everyone to apply their talents.
On Saturday I am going to the St Andrew's Ball where we all get to dance Scottish dances, listen to bagpipes and generally have a good time. The following weekend, the British Consul is offering to open his home and, with his wife, hold an evening of Jazz in order to raise money for a children’s charity. It is a great way for us to give back to the communities in which we live, whilst at the same time getting together with friends and dragging our husbands out for a pleasant evening - albeit in the name of charity.
One charity that caught my eye to support is a very simple idea of providing chickens for a local community in the north east of Brazil. 100 chickens plus feed will provide food for the community and once up and running will be self sustaining. What a great idea, based on the premise that if you give a man a meal, he is fed for a day, but teach him to fish and he will never be hungry again.
Each chicken is US$ 7.50 - a very small amount to us westerners but a huge sum for people living on less than US$ 2.00 per day.
I look around Sao Paulo and see the Favelas very close to my neighbourhood. Where I live, there is an oasis of calm, houses hidden by high fences, security cameras and guards. What must the people in the Favelas think when they see the opulence of our lifestyles in comparison to theirs.
I have no idea, but I give thanks and remind my children often that we are so lucky not to be in that position. The things we take totally for granted, primary needs such as shelter, health, hot water and comfort are beyond the greatest expectations for millions of people living beside us.
So I am happy to get involved, give back and do my bit. One chicken at a time.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Bad Hair Day. Thursday September 16, 2010
It is said that a woman’s crowning glory is her hair and all those of us that have suffered a really bad haircut, can empathise. I know because I have suffered my fair share.
One of the hardest challenges of moving so frequently, is finding new doctors, dentists, OBGYN’s etc., but by far the hardest challenge is to find a good hairdresser.
In my experience, word of mouth and recommendations are the best way to go. Okay, if you have a recommendation and you turn out not to like the particular service, it is usually easy to change or vote with your feet and just not go back. But go to a hairdresser and get a lousy cut and you are having a bad hair day for the next 5 or so weeks.
When we lived in Manila, I was very soon recommended a German guy by the name of Manfred. Manfred, I swear, used to put down his scissors to go and take a quick snort of some substance mid cut. But, he knew how to cut hair and that was all he did. No colouring, perms or blow drying for Manfred. He cut hair and boy was he good. And it didn’t matter what you said to him, he had his own ideas about what style was best for you and so he cut that style. Usually he was right. I used to hate going but I loved the result.
In Istanbul and France I found English girls - again word of mouth – that had “portable” hairdressing salons so that was easy – sort of.
I make no apology for the fact that I colour my hair. After all, I am far too young in this day and age to be grey which is certainly what I would be if nature were allowed to take its course. When I was in Paris I went to several salons before I found the English speaking “home service”. My experience there was that there is only bleach. Forget tinting, it is good old peroxide for blonds. With trepidation I let them start, but they were so slow that after a few foils, they were taking out and rinsing the first ones before continuing with the next. Salvation was in the form of the English girl that brought her products from “back home”
In the States, I was recommended a European girl and from the get-go, she had been fabulous. So much so, that in the eight months that I have been here, I have been back to her four times. As a consequence, I have not yet had to find a hairdresser here. But that fateful day is fast approaching. I am due to go back to the States in November and I have an appointment already scheduled but after that - helpppppppp. As a blond, there are not many salons used to dealing with streaked blond hair and with one exception, almost all the blonds I have seen here look like tigers with hideous stripes.
I have had a few recommendations here and sooner or later I am going to have to bite the proverbial bullet and just try them out. But this week I was having my nails done at the local hairdressing salon and watched with disbelief as the main colourist did a client’s hair. She had long, dark hair and wanted blond streaks put though. He piled her hair onto the top of her head and proceeded to take a huge chunk and back comb it to within 2 inches of her scalp. The hair that was left, he then proceeded to paint with dye, working the colour into the hair a bit like a plasterer would mix plaster and water – ugh. Each foil took about 3 or 4 minutes. Now. Given that my fabulous hairdresser in New Jersey could foil my entire head in around 30 minutes, I am in dread that not only is the result going to be awful, the process is going to take forever.
It also has to be said that my dog, a Fox Terrier is also having the same problem. Fox Terriers are not like most dogs, they too have hair that grows and has to be cut as opposed to most other dogs that have fur that sheds.
Tessie, in the States had a fabulous groomer who loved her almost as much as I do and whenever Tessie went for a haircut, would come out looking fabulous amongst canines.
So the first time I took her to the local dog parlour here, they did a great job. Fantastic, I thought, one less thing to worry about.
Since then they have cut her as if she is a Schnauzer, complete with shaggy underbelly and funny beard. The time after that I took a photo of a Fox Terrier and they managed to cut off her eyebrows so she looked more like a sheep than a dog, and this week they did a sort of okay job but when I got her home, I had to put her onto the kitchen counter top and gave her some finishing touches to make her look like a real Fox Terrier.
Seems it is not only the human world that has a “bad hair day”.
One of the hardest challenges of moving so frequently, is finding new doctors, dentists, OBGYN’s etc., but by far the hardest challenge is to find a good hairdresser.
In my experience, word of mouth and recommendations are the best way to go. Okay, if you have a recommendation and you turn out not to like the particular service, it is usually easy to change or vote with your feet and just not go back. But go to a hairdresser and get a lousy cut and you are having a bad hair day for the next 5 or so weeks.
When we lived in Manila, I was very soon recommended a German guy by the name of Manfred. Manfred, I swear, used to put down his scissors to go and take a quick snort of some substance mid cut. But, he knew how to cut hair and that was all he did. No colouring, perms or blow drying for Manfred. He cut hair and boy was he good. And it didn’t matter what you said to him, he had his own ideas about what style was best for you and so he cut that style. Usually he was right. I used to hate going but I loved the result.
In Istanbul and France I found English girls - again word of mouth – that had “portable” hairdressing salons so that was easy – sort of.
I make no apology for the fact that I colour my hair. After all, I am far too young in this day and age to be grey which is certainly what I would be if nature were allowed to take its course. When I was in Paris I went to several salons before I found the English speaking “home service”. My experience there was that there is only bleach. Forget tinting, it is good old peroxide for blonds. With trepidation I let them start, but they were so slow that after a few foils, they were taking out and rinsing the first ones before continuing with the next. Salvation was in the form of the English girl that brought her products from “back home”
In the States, I was recommended a European girl and from the get-go, she had been fabulous. So much so, that in the eight months that I have been here, I have been back to her four times. As a consequence, I have not yet had to find a hairdresser here. But that fateful day is fast approaching. I am due to go back to the States in November and I have an appointment already scheduled but after that - helpppppppp. As a blond, there are not many salons used to dealing with streaked blond hair and with one exception, almost all the blonds I have seen here look like tigers with hideous stripes.
I have had a few recommendations here and sooner or later I am going to have to bite the proverbial bullet and just try them out. But this week I was having my nails done at the local hairdressing salon and watched with disbelief as the main colourist did a client’s hair. She had long, dark hair and wanted blond streaks put though. He piled her hair onto the top of her head and proceeded to take a huge chunk and back comb it to within 2 inches of her scalp. The hair that was left, he then proceeded to paint with dye, working the colour into the hair a bit like a plasterer would mix plaster and water – ugh. Each foil took about 3 or 4 minutes. Now. Given that my fabulous hairdresser in New Jersey could foil my entire head in around 30 minutes, I am in dread that not only is the result going to be awful, the process is going to take forever.
It also has to be said that my dog, a Fox Terrier is also having the same problem. Fox Terriers are not like most dogs, they too have hair that grows and has to be cut as opposed to most other dogs that have fur that sheds.
Tessie, in the States had a fabulous groomer who loved her almost as much as I do and whenever Tessie went for a haircut, would come out looking fabulous amongst canines.
So the first time I took her to the local dog parlour here, they did a great job. Fantastic, I thought, one less thing to worry about.
Since then they have cut her as if she is a Schnauzer, complete with shaggy underbelly and funny beard. The time after that I took a photo of a Fox Terrier and they managed to cut off her eyebrows so she looked more like a sheep than a dog, and this week they did a sort of okay job but when I got her home, I had to put her onto the kitchen counter top and gave her some finishing touches to make her look like a real Fox Terrier.
Seems it is not only the human world that has a “bad hair day”.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Twenty Beds. Wednesday September 8th, 2010
I am currently sitting in the Continental airline’s lounge at Newark with a glass of champagne by my side and promising myself that before I board the plane I will have posted this blog.
I left Brazil on July 27th, more than 6 weeks ago, and I haven’t been home since. Whoever claimed that the jet set life is glamorous is an outright liar, unless of course you have the luxury of private jets, chauffer driven cars (come back Marcelo all is forgiven) and someone to pack and unpack. Well, Marcelo doesn’t count because I left him in Brazil so I have been chief organizer, packer, loader/unloader and driver.
The title of this blog is “twenty beds” and anyone that has done this type of travelling can empathise with me when I say that in the past 6 weeks; this is the number of times I have changed locations to sleep. Imagine packing and unpacking that many times to say nothing of loading and unloading the rental cars – of which I had 5.
Okay, I need to explain. We were always planning to go to the UK this summer for a family wedding, but the weekend after the family wedding, there was another wedding in Belgium and, as we were so close, it seemed madness not to go. I also planned a 50th birthday party for Steve for 80 of our closest family and friends at a place that I had never heard of, let alone visited.
Even the first leg of the journey, ( Sao Paulo to Newark) meant that I could spend 10 hours in the Princeton area and managed to fill the time with trips to the hairdressers, doctors, Motor Vehicle to get a new driving license, Barnes and Noble to pick up summer reading, have passport photographs taken for the children’s new passports, visited the bank to sort out a credit card for my college bound son and finally a trip to a friend’s house to drop 3 bags that we need State side but not in the UK. I was exhausted before I took the next leg of the trip from the USA to the UK.
As soon as I landed, I picked up a rental car and headed to see an old friend who was only in town that day. It would have been easier to give into the jet lag and not bother, but here is the nub of expat living. It has to be the one that goes away to make the effort to stay in touch with everyone “back home”. No one ever knows when we are going to be around, so unless we are the ones to make the effort, it is all too easy to fall into the “out of sight, out of mind” mentality.
So although it has been an exhausting trip, getting our son into University, our daughter back to boarding school, visiting 2 colleges for our daughter, 10 days in Maine, trips to Boston on the way there and back, 2 trips to Washington DC and a few days in Princeton I feel a huge sense of achievement for having planned and expedited the whole thing with only very minor glitches.
I managed a game of bridge, the first for several months, more coffees, afternoon teas; lunches and dinners than are good for my waistline but I actually enjoyed every minute of it. We attended a gallery opening in Philadelphia, managed to melt the plastic on my credit card with all the shoppping and survived with only two suitcases of clothes. Thank you to everyone that helped plan all of the above – I loved seeing all of you and am only sorry that I didn’t get to see everyone.
That said, by the end of last week my 15 year old daughter and I were constantly saying “I can’t wait for next Wednesday”. Even Steve admitted to me that “he is ready for me to come home”. I think 4 weeks of fending for himself is more than enough.
Tomorrow I will hit the ground running to pick up my life in Brazil. There is a committee meeting of the charity I am helping out with, but I think I will be too late for that. But Steve has arranged Bridge for Thursday evening; we have a reception for Friday evening and dinner on Saturday with friends. Oh and a concert on Sunday afternoon. I will walk the dog, tackle the laundry and hit the supermarket.
I have to say, for all the exhaustion I plead, I wouldn’t change a minute of it.
I left Brazil on July 27th, more than 6 weeks ago, and I haven’t been home since. Whoever claimed that the jet set life is glamorous is an outright liar, unless of course you have the luxury of private jets, chauffer driven cars (come back Marcelo all is forgiven) and someone to pack and unpack. Well, Marcelo doesn’t count because I left him in Brazil so I have been chief organizer, packer, loader/unloader and driver.
The title of this blog is “twenty beds” and anyone that has done this type of travelling can empathise with me when I say that in the past 6 weeks; this is the number of times I have changed locations to sleep. Imagine packing and unpacking that many times to say nothing of loading and unloading the rental cars – of which I had 5.
Okay, I need to explain. We were always planning to go to the UK this summer for a family wedding, but the weekend after the family wedding, there was another wedding in Belgium and, as we were so close, it seemed madness not to go. I also planned a 50th birthday party for Steve for 80 of our closest family and friends at a place that I had never heard of, let alone visited.
Even the first leg of the journey, ( Sao Paulo to Newark) meant that I could spend 10 hours in the Princeton area and managed to fill the time with trips to the hairdressers, doctors, Motor Vehicle to get a new driving license, Barnes and Noble to pick up summer reading, have passport photographs taken for the children’s new passports, visited the bank to sort out a credit card for my college bound son and finally a trip to a friend’s house to drop 3 bags that we need State side but not in the UK. I was exhausted before I took the next leg of the trip from the USA to the UK.
As soon as I landed, I picked up a rental car and headed to see an old friend who was only in town that day. It would have been easier to give into the jet lag and not bother, but here is the nub of expat living. It has to be the one that goes away to make the effort to stay in touch with everyone “back home”. No one ever knows when we are going to be around, so unless we are the ones to make the effort, it is all too easy to fall into the “out of sight, out of mind” mentality.
So although it has been an exhausting trip, getting our son into University, our daughter back to boarding school, visiting 2 colleges for our daughter, 10 days in Maine, trips to Boston on the way there and back, 2 trips to Washington DC and a few days in Princeton I feel a huge sense of achievement for having planned and expedited the whole thing with only very minor glitches.
I managed a game of bridge, the first for several months, more coffees, afternoon teas; lunches and dinners than are good for my waistline but I actually enjoyed every minute of it. We attended a gallery opening in Philadelphia, managed to melt the plastic on my credit card with all the shoppping and survived with only two suitcases of clothes. Thank you to everyone that helped plan all of the above – I loved seeing all of you and am only sorry that I didn’t get to see everyone.
That said, by the end of last week my 15 year old daughter and I were constantly saying “I can’t wait for next Wednesday”. Even Steve admitted to me that “he is ready for me to come home”. I think 4 weeks of fending for himself is more than enough.
Tomorrow I will hit the ground running to pick up my life in Brazil. There is a committee meeting of the charity I am helping out with, but I think I will be too late for that. But Steve has arranged Bridge for Thursday evening; we have a reception for Friday evening and dinner on Saturday with friends. Oh and a concert on Sunday afternoon. I will walk the dog, tackle the laundry and hit the supermarket.
I have to say, for all the exhaustion I plead, I wouldn’t change a minute of it.
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