Modest Expectations – Going Around with the Dog

Treacherous implies readiness to betray trust or confidence. perfidious adds to faithless the implication of an incapacity for fidelity or reliability.

One must admire in one way the gall of Qantas. Presumably with the spiv who walked Gall Way home set the tone. Qantas want the customers to pay for the compensation for the bastardry committed by itself on the same customers. Higher prices, projected introduction of a true cattle class confined to strap hanging on aircraft. Who knows what further pain would Joyce have inflicted on us for years, as he looted the airline.

His successors seem not to have learnt.

No, you miserable sods, reduce the dividend to those shareholders, who have basked in your bastardry, earning gross financial returns generated by this unmitigated bastardry, engineered by the little Irish-Australian now skulking in some mansion, perhaps in the aptly-named Dublin suburb of Goatstown. Funnily enough, he does not want return to face the music – the Moonflit Concerto being a favourite piece of his.

I have confined myself to so few uses of “bastardry”! There seems to be no corresponding word for it in Gaelic.

Nothing has changed because the government we voted for has allowed them to develop a complete monopoly. Time to nationalise this disreputable embarrassment which fell twelve places in the rankings from 5 to 17 this year. But then Virgin Airlines fell from 43 to 46. This coming year, watch the free fall continue. 

Brat is a Brat is a Brat

There is an acquaintance of ours, a former teacher who decided to volunteer at a local school as a teacher’s aide.She was faced with a brat, a common manifestation of the male growing up. She went to encourage him to behave, by calmly admonishing and telling him, “c’mon, do some work.”

To which this man-child responded “Step back. You are making me feel unsafe”.

This sense of entitlement in one so young!

Oh, for National Service.

But then who am I to talk! A life speckled with entitlement. Nevertheless, from experience, if you keep saying that Ponsonby Minor, I assure you that you will soon learn the meaning of “unsafe”.

Olive Oil 

Homer called it liquid gold. To Hippocrates it was “the great healer”. These days olive oil is used to sauté vegetables or dress salads—but it is once again becoming a luxury. In September prices reached their highest level since records began, rising by 117% year-on-year according to the International Monetary Fund. Olive oil is seventeen times as valuable as crude oil weight for weight; in 2019 it was seven times cheaper. Why has the price shot up? – The Economist 13 December 2023.

The price has shot up because the crops have failed in Europe, or rather, not lived up to expectations. There is the matter of climate change and even though Australia does not rank in the top ten olive producers, our crops do not seem to have the same problems as Europe is experiencing. We should not get too smug, because Australia is the seventh biggest importer of olive oil in the world. The Mediterranean diet certainly has a hold here. Australia has come a long way since my first experience of the rancid oil that Spain used to dump here.

Spain produces about 40 to 50 per cent of the world’s olive oil, and together with other major producers, Italy and Greece have experienced extreme drought and heat, even beyond the tolerance of this tree which grows prolifically, as I thought, in less arable land enjoying the climate, “baking summers and mild winters”.

The impact of Xylella fastidiosa

Compounding the crisis, as reported in the Economist, in Italy, Xylella fastidiosa, a bacterium, has ravaged trees. The disease, which is spread by insects, is thought to have been introduced by an ornamental plant from Costa Rica in 2008. It has since killed an estimated 21 million trees. The bacterium is transmitted exclusively by xylem sap-feeding insects such as  grass sharpshooters and spittlebugs. These are unknown in Australia – at present.

Other factors contributing to the shortages, beside the overall increased costs, has been that Turkey has kept its whole production to itself, thus exporting nothing.

In our household we only use Australian grown olive oil, and because I worked there for many years, we almost always use Cobram olive oil, grown in the Murray Valley not far from the township of Cobram. My wife used to buy the extra virgin olive oil in the 3 litre cans, but now buys it by the 750ml bottle, since she is more likely to be able to buy it on “special” in the bottle.

The point that I recently made in the blog is that we planted a tree outside the front gate. Sometimes we were able to harvest it before some thief would strip the tree. One year we harvested five kilograms, but olive trees have minds of their own, and sulk if you don’t look after them, and they do grow old as ours has, given it will be 40 years old this coming year.

But I have always thought, and talked about it often, if we, brown fingers can grow an olive producing tree, why can’t the local council convert the whole street into an olive grove and at harvest time, close the street off and have an Olive Harvest Festival.  From there it would be up to us to arrange for our batch of olive oil to be produced. After all, this would be a start, and who knows!

Perhaps even Popeye would come.

Ian Taylor

You normally casually flip through the school magazine, scan the uplifting editorials, look at the photographs of smiling success, glance at the obituaries, and bin what some may think is an absurdly expensive magazine of gloss and colour.

Prof Ian Taylor

Then there was this article on Ian Taylor, who was in my year of Medicine at the University of Melbourne. When we enrolled in Medicine, it was the only medical course available in Victoria. Moreover, the University of Melbourne was then the only university in Victoria.

From my year 12 at school, including Taylor and myself, about 20 went into Medicine, which was about ten per cent of the first year. There were many very smart fellows and women, although our year had about 25 per cent women. It was 1958 after all.

In my opinion, and I have voiced it privately, Ian Taylor has made the greatest positive contribution of any student in my year of Medicine. I would go further and say that he was among the greatest Australians of his generation. A nomination for a Nobel Prize has been mooted.

Why? The article puts it clearly and simply. His work on being able to transplant whole segments of the skin, subcutaneous tissue, muscle and bone where there was a common blood supply was revolutionary. It enabled the operations where a flap was needed when there had been loss of tissue because of cancer surgery or extensive trauma to have a shortened time of recovery. Nevertheless, I feel that anything further I write about his many skills would be an inadequate acknowledgement of this great man.

“Benny” Rank scrubs up at the Heidelberg Military Hospital

But then Melbourne was the place to be if you wanted to become a plastic surgeon. This was because of the presence of “Benny” Rank. Sir Benjamin Rank, as he was to become, was the doyen of plastic surgeons, having earned his reputation during WWII. His appointment to the Royal Melbourne Hospital (later at a specially designed unit at the Preston & Northcote Community Hospital {PANCH}) enabled him to establish a facility whereby a succession of highly skilled plastic surgeons, such as Taylor, was trained. They were also a group of innovative surgeons.

Rank did not suffer fools, co-wrote a definitive text on hand surgery and emerged from WWII as the father of plastic and reconstructive surgery in Australia, in particular Melbourne. It was Rank who inspired Taylor. We were in many ways a very lucky generation of doctors, who were taught by men and women (although women doctors were thin on the ground). There were some very impressive nurses whom we came in contact with who all saw war service. One of the distinguishing features about this group was their teaching prowess, with us gaining the benefit of their experience. Yet I can’t remember any of them talking about the War, even though many of them had been prisoners of war of the Japanese in Changi.

From my point of view, I have benefited from the skill of these trained surgeons. I sustained a car accident in 1981 where my chin sustained an implosion injury, and this injury required multiple operations. I ‘ve also had multiple skin cancers removed, including on face and ears. My current plastic surgeon was trained by Ian Taylor. He is highly skilled and before commencing practice, Nick Houseman obtained a Doctor of Medicine at the University of Melbourne – then a higher degree – gained by defining a particular vascular supply to a part of the body, being the first to do it. He was supervised by Taylor in this research endeavour.

The problem is that the reputation of plastic surgery has been compromised by a bunch of doctors who essentially dabble in cosmetic procedures without the training. Belatedly, as usual, AHPRA have now recognised that cosmetic surgery has been full of not only untrained incompetent medical practitioners, who have done a course set out on the back of a cereal packet, but also the fraudulent. All this dross should have been wiped off the medical map long ago.

Under the then current law, anyone with a basic medical degree or a GP or dermatologist could call themselves a cosmetic surgeon, even though not registered specialist surgeons, who receive eight to 12 years of postgraduate surgical training, unlike this mob with “cereal packet diplomas”.

For exposing this malfeasance, Mark Ashton, a prominent plastic surgeon was raided by unspecified “health department officials” following a spurious anonymous smear.

The problem with AHPRA is that it is about as tough as a bowl of cucumber soup. It tries to be palatable for everybody; but we shall see its ability in tackling the resulting recommendations from the Review.

This country is privileged to have high standards of plastic and reconstructive surgery, as epitomised by Ian Taylor.  The article written in the school magazine should be amplified and used to reinforce the need for the imposition of strict standards and to expose the backdoor influencers who would want to water down any of the conditions imposed by the reputable plastic and reconstructive surgeons.


We have spent many Christmases outside Australia. I have mentioned some of them, where the Christmases were more traditional.

The most different Christmas away from the holly and the ivy and decorated Christmas tree was when we were staying in Little Governor’s camp in the Masai Mara.

The highlight of Christmas morning was a visit to a Maasai village, and because there had been substantial rain, the ground was a swill of mud and animal excrement.  The tall slender Maasai women performed their traditional dancing  but with the women ululating.

Christmas cheer as they offered us their bead jewellery, at a price.

And then it was over. Maybe when I hear the processional hymn “Once in Royal David’s City”, who knows whether this applied to the Maasai village as much as anywhere else more conventionally Biblical, given how happy and joyous was the atmosphere engendered by these remarkable dancing women.


I have been to Argentina several times, but every time it has been when the country has been relatively stable, and not under the rule of the military.

In the late 80s, the Argentinian national airline started offering trips between Australia via New Zealand to Buenos Aires. I was lucky to be offered a trip there on one of the early flights, in exchange for a few articles that I would write for the medical press.

In those days, you could not reliably fly between Sydney and Buenos Aires without stopping. Returning to make the ocean crossing, one first had to fly south to Ushuaia, located between the Beagle Channel, glaciers and eternally snow-capped peaks on Tierra del Fuego, to take account of the prevailing Westerly winds.

In those days the Chilean airline flew as far as French Polynesia in clapped out Boeing 707s. Anyway, it was the time of Pinochet and I would have nothing to do with anything Chilean while he was in power.  Today Lan Chile flies to Australia, the planes are relatively new, and there is the added attraction of being able to visit Easter Island. I have visited Chile on several occasions since Pinochet’s demise, but not Easter Island.

To me, Patagonia is as synonymous with Argentina as the tango and Evita Peron. It is one of the places where Charles Darwin explored, temporarily leaving the “Beagle”, where he received some of those intense insights which led him to the Origin of the Species. Disappointingly, tango was a tawdry tourist show in San Telmo, near the centre of Buenos Aires, and Peron was the tomb of Evita in the extraordinary cemetery at Recoleta, where I felt that de Chirico may be round the corner of the next street of mausoleums, painting. To gawk at the dance or at the Peron bier was tourist grist, but the drive from the airport at Bariloche was not quite what the tourist expected.


Bariloche is approached from the windswept Patagonian plain. You come in through the shacks of the Chilean Indian refugees. Perhaps “refugees” is too harsh a word since Bariloche lies near the Chilean border and there were few jobs at home in Chile for these Indians. It is somewhat ironic that the only Indians in Argentina are of Chilean stock.

It confirms what our companion murmurs when we see a black man singing on the Florida, one of the main streets in Buenos Aires. He is probably Uruguayan. Argentinian history’s heritage is exclusively on the European white side.

There is a mass of undistinguished light industrial factories, and then suddenly the lake can be seen and there is Bariloche – a German mountain village, complete with excellent chocolate, fine porcelain, and a hotel called Edelweiss, our room with a balcony lined with flowerboxes and overlooking the lake – Nahuel Huapi.

Arrayan (bambi) trees

Across the lake was an island where one finds the arrayan trees -the so-called bambi trees because of their cinnamon-coloured trunks, dappled like the Disney fawn, Bambi. Hence these trees create groves of magical trees, which brings out for a moment that sense of wonderment I once had as a child.

Even though we arrive in mid-summer, the nights are cool enough to enjoy both raclette and fondue – and it is evident that there is also a strong German Swiss influence in this resort.

Some of the brochures say the town reminds one of Bavaria – there, predominantly German settlers had settled from the last part of the 19th century onwards.  And that word “onwards” had dark connotations.

It is reputed to be one of the places where prominent Nazis fled to avoid the retribution. It is alleged that the mastermind for this movement was a Vatican bishop, an Austrian named Alois Hudal.  He was reputed to have gained from President Peron around 5,000 Argentinian visas, which he used in his ratlines to enable these war criminals to flee to Argentina, where they fashioned themselves as in the main German settlers. It was here that the Israelis apprehended Adolph Eichmann, took him back to Israel for trial and subsequent execution.

Bariloche is where we took our first look at the Andes. We hire a car and driver to make the trip to Mount Tronador, where one of its peaks is in Chile and one in Argentina. We can see the peak this day, free from the clouds which often cloak it. We fumble around on the moraine at the end of the glacier and climb the rocks beside a mountain stream which cascades from the side of the mountain, but we do not make any serious endeavour to climb onto the glacier or attempt to follow the stream to its source. Yet the trip has taken away that uncomfortable feeling of a village, which we might have been sharing with war criminals.

We would never know because we left Bariloche soon after.

Mouse Whisper 

According to the Energy Information Association (EIA), Venezuela, with 304 billion barrels of oil reserves, is in first place, followed by Saudi Arabia (259 billion), Iran (209 billion), Canada (170 billion) and Iraq (145 billion). By comparison, the United States has proven crude oil reserves of 44 billion barrels, that puts the country in 10th place.

And Venezuela wants to invade Guyana next door to get more oil reserves. We need another war around the globe like we need a cerebral gulch.

Yet Guyana only has reserves of eleven billion barrels.

Maduro, the proliferately spending Venezuelan President apparently has not heard of the Micawber Principle. “Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen pounds nineteen and six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery.”

Modest Expectations – We Fielded Our Cricket Team from 2002 Onwards

Matildas. Adulation. Well deserved. The question is what now? Coming fourth is not new. After all, the team finished fourth at the Tokyo Olympics, being beaten by USA for the bronze medal. That event did not elicit the same adulation as has occurred. Sam Kerr, arguably the best player in the world, is a key reason for the adulation. We see very little of her in the flesh; moreover, she missed the early games through injury, but during the whole time on the field she was double-teamed. Her goal nevertheless gave us a glimpse of her ability.

However, there is a need to get perspective. How many sporting teams receive an enduring memory by finishing fourth?

After all, the Hockeyroos almost owned the hockey podium a decade or two ago, and still remain second seeded. Then there is the Women’s cricket team and the Diamonds netball team; currently both top seeded – both world champions. Where are their statues?

The basketball Opals have slipped since Lauren Jackson, the best basketballer in the World, retired and Liz Cambage went walkabout.  The first decade of this century was Opal time – three Olympic silver medals and a World Cup gold in 2006. Yet they retain 3rd seeding in the World.

Our women’s water polo team briefly flashed the world winning the Gold Medal at the Sydney Games.

So, the potential for disappointment and then blaming exists; unreal expectations with poor allocation of funding (see sports rorts), especially when there is a statue to remind the nation of the could-have-beens.

Spain has shown the way to gold by being Under 17 and Under 20 women’s football champions. They set the nations which appear to use brutality as a major tactic on their heels. This is illustrated by the so-called Lionesses. It is time that when a player deliberately steps on the foot of the opposition player then they should be immediately red carded.

Happy Matilda Day!

I have expressed my view of a Matilda Day. The naming of the team Matilda was a stroke of genius as the name can embrace all women’s sports in a way that the names Hockeyroos and Diamonds cannot. As demonstrated this past month, Australia has demonstrated a yearning for uncomplicated, dedicated women epitomised by this team.

The Matildas have shown themselves to be an ideal for young children, and part of this is hero-worship, and wishing to emulate their achievements.  Sam Kerr, in proposing her academy for aspirant children footballers demonstrates her ongoing tangible commitment without any unnecessary hype, just shows her quality.

The fact that the women are free to disclose their sexual preferences is an advantage as it strips away the humbug, which has infested this nation. We are applauding honesty, grace and the fortitude of Australian women – not a bunch of football players who just happened to finish fourth in some ephemeral sporting event, where previous women’s sporting teams have gone before.

David has Left the Building

David Unaipon

In July 2019, in this blog I wrote about David Unaipon, the Man on the $50 note. I have a copy of his Native Legends from which I quoted in that blog.  There was a letter interleaved in the booklet, in flawless copperplate, which read (sic):

February 15th 1930

Dr Angus Johnson

Dear Sir

Last week I had an Aboriginal named D. Unaipon staying at my hotel at Mount Pleasant and he told me he was searching for skulls for you. I should esteem as a favor (sic) if you would let me know if that was correct as he went away and never paid his board.

Thanking you in anticipation

Yours Truly

H. Clendinnen
Talinga Hotel
Mt Pleasant

I think I must have Dr Johnson’s copy since the inside covers are plastered with newspaper cuttings mostly related to David Unaipon, but among them, there is pasted a cartoon of Johnson as Medical Officer of Health for Adelaide City Council. It is ironic that David Unaipon made part of his income wandering the Murray River banks picking up Aboriginal skulls.

This letter, as a request for payment, in reality is a reflection about Unaipon’s source of income, although it is ignored by commentators. Why? It does nothing to help to airbrush an occurrence which is unpalatable to a later generation that is calling for repatriation of the remains, blaming their removal on insensitive whitefellas. I have kept an article reprinted from the Observer in 2009, when the Ngarrindjeri-born clown, Major Sumner, says he’s been repatriating his people’s remains from all over the world for decades and has returned people to the country of his father (Ngarrindjeri) and now his mother (Kaurna). Major Sumner stands out with his curious body painting, kangaroo bone through nose and emu feather crown. I would like to know where the ochre pot he uses for his distinctly coloured lines is located.  As for the clown role, that is seen in very many civilisations as a serious foil testing reality.

I am not sure about Major Sumner, who is variously labelled as being an OAM, AM and AO. I always am wary of creeping self–aggrandisement, when it appears that there is only proof of OAM. Such a confusion of post-nominals is in itself trivial but inflated curricula vitae always make me suspicious.

Major Sumner

Major Sumner is reported as saying “It’s draining and it takes it out of you. But it makes you feel good that you’re doing it. What really got me was we were sitting down there and then you will get one of the old people’s remains – and we are not just talking about old people. These are little children. Little babies. Their remains.

“Why did they die – how did they die? They’d never seen life yet … we don’t know why. But it makes you feel very, very sad for them – for their spirit. It affects me because I’ve got a lot of grandchildren and I’d hate that to happen to my grandchildren.”

I wonder what David Unaipon would have replied to this jumble, given that reference is made to him in The Conquest of the Narrindjeri, David Jenkins’ book. This book was given to us by Henry Rankin OAM, a major elder in the Raukkan Community, just before Christmas 2000.

In this book, there is a generally positive view of David Unaipon and his creativity. For instance, he was issued with nineteen patents across his life, none which were proceeded with because of lack of finance. Even the invention of the mechanical sheep shears which appears on $50 note was a matter of dispute, where he seems to have been initially “dudded”. But then that was the story of Unaipon’s life. He was “always short of a quid”.  Sound familiar?

Incidentally in this book, there is no mention of his skull retrieval activities. The Aboriginal airbrush is brought out to smooth over the sand, and leave history to recollection, a selective process. The lesson is that we must always own up to the trail of detritus we leave, even if the climate changes.

Death in The Family

I left the Australian Medical Association (AMA) in 1984 after five years working there. One area I had an interest in was the AMA/ACHS Peer Resource Centre. When I had joined the staff of the AMA, the then President of the AMA, Lionel Wilson had drawn me aside and asked if I would become the AMA expert on peer review and all the accompanying catechism, which surrounded the challenge for the medical profession to improve and maintain the quality of health care.

I was leaving the AMA, and my going-away present was an olive tree which I named after a colleague of mine. His first name was Brian, and at the presentation of the olive tree, it was thus labelled. Brian was a small tree in a pot when he was presented to me.  As he grew, the pots got bigger. Nevertheless, Brian was decorative but at no stage did he produce any olives. He just sat stoically by the back door, where he probably could have done with some sun.

However, he remained a dwarf until on my wife’s birthday back in 1987, when we moved into our new house. This was a fateful day for Brian. He was then planted on the grass verge outside the house.  From there, freed from the constraints of the pot, he flourished. He quickly passed through adolescence to become a full grown tree. His branches spread outwards so inter alia they were vulnerable to cars parking next to him, damaging him. To compensate, he would have a prune from time to time.

Then the olives began to arrive annually, and we harvested up to five kgs. The first harvest was not properly processed, despite following a plan of changing the water while increasing the brining. Some of our subsequent harvests were taken but since Brian was in the street, we had no grounds to object.

When first picked from trees like Brian, olives are very bitter and have an astringent flavour. This is mostly due to the oleuropein in the olives. Oleuropein is a bitter compound that likely helps protect the olives while growing. The passing parade of school students learnt an early lesson about olives, picked them on the way to or from school, which was just around the corner and spitting them out.


Having witnessed a nun in a monastery in Cyprus sitting and quietly smashing the olives and then putting them straight into brine; and indicating that was all one had to do, induced us to do the same. The rationale was this accelerated the process of removing the astringency. It worked and for several seasons we had olives by the bottle.

Then Brian started producing fewer and fewer olives, and then there were hardly any, and these were only on the unreachable top. Then the understory of branches lost their leaves and became a wickerwork of dead branches. Brian has recently undergone surgery but whether he survives will become clearer in the next few weeks. But the prognosis at best is guarded.

Free Assange. He has Cost Too Much

Imagine, for a moment, that the government of Cuba was demanding the extradition of an Australian publisher in the United Kingdom for exposing Cuban military crimes. Imagine that these crimes had included a 2007 massacre by helicopter-borne Cuban soldiers of a dozen Iraqi civilians, among them two journalists for the Reuters news agency.

Now imagine that, if extradited from the UK to Cuba, the Australian publisher would face up to 175 years in a maximum-security prison, simply for having done what media professionals are ostensibly supposed to do: report reality.

Finally, imagine the reaction of the United States to such Cuban conduct, which would invariably consist of impassioned squawking about human rights and democracy and a call for the universal vilification of Cuba.

-Belén Fernández, Al Jazeera

I have never really had much time for Julian Assange and his posturings. He briefly disclosed some American so-called secrets, the importance of which has been vastly exaggerated since the disclosure seems to have had minimal effect on Pax Americana. Still, far, far worse, he embarrassed several American bureaucrats, and that is of course a capital crime. The problem is some of the vindictive protagonists are those who posture as ovine liberals rather than as true lupine authoritarians.

Assange on the balcony

Assange portrayed himself as the detached intellectual, a Saviour of the Human Race, a man of Destiny calling Nations to account. Well, that did not happen. He holed himself in the Ecuadorian Embassy in London and standing on its cuckoo clock balcony, from which he declaimed about his unwarranted need for asylum before, like the cuckoo he went back inside and the door snapped shut.

Then the Ecuadorian Government changed, and Assange was back on the streets, where he was arrested, and put in gaol. The legal process grinds on as the Americans are not at this minute inclined to drop all charges. And of course, our politicians, expert in lingual coriophilia do not raise their heads from their appointed task on their RNR trips to Washington to play golf.

But, for God’s sake, keeping Assange in custody serves no purpose apart from satisfying this vindictiveness of a few American bureaucrats. The Poms have connived to ensure Assange is still held in custody. Why?  Presumably there is a hulk on the River Thames in order for Senator Wong to seek a sentence for him to be transported for Life to New Holland rather than being executed in a Federal American prison.

Fortunately, it seems that Caroline Kennedy has become the equivalent of “best friend” to Assange and hopefully her influence will get the US government to drop all charges while saving face. Presumably the Prime Minister is on tap for a display of Assange contriteness and a compendium of “thank yous”. After I would suggest Assange slip into a more mundane role in progressing his obvious concern for a better world. Smelling the flowers would help him.

The comment by the Al Jazeera journalist comment is masterly and very relevant.

Time to send Julian home!

Bring Back the Parasol

I grew up in southern India but have lived in the United States since I arrived to attend college in Wisconsin at age 17. There are endless public health stories to be told in India, so I go back once a year and try to report as much as I can. I speak four Indian languages, which is a real advantage when interviewing non-experts. 

The above quote legitimises the following timely musings of Apoorva Mandavilli in the NYT. She was socialised as a child and teenager in Southern India. I have edited (rather than paraphrased) her article, but I believe I have retained its essence. Some of her statements are contestable, but in the editing, I believe I have not censored any of her views.  Personally, I am captivated by Kerala, but I have never lived through monsoon driven flooding, which might change this idyllic view.

As I hurried to an appointment one recent afternoon in New York City, the harsh sun seemed to set my skin and hair on fire. Sweat pooled under my sunglasses, and my T-shirt and shorts stuck to my damp skin. I should have been used to the heat. I grew up in southern India, where the temperature routinely sweeps past 100 degrees Fahrenheit. But I had abandoned all the tricks and strategies I had used then.

To begin with, I was walking outside at about 3 pm (in New York). In India, I rarely ventured out between 11 a.m. and 4 p.m., or if I did I was fully equipped to face the sun. I usually carried an umbrella, much as women in Victorian England carried parasols, to shield my head and face. And I wore salwar kameez, a tunic and loose fitting bottoms made of thin, gauzy cotton.

It turns out that these methods, employed all over South Asia, are rooted in solid science, even though I didn’t realise it then. As climate change sends temperatures soaring around the world, people who are not used to coping with heat could stand to adopt a few strategies from regions that have faced hot weather for generations.

In New York I only ever carry an umbrella when it’s rainy, and rarely wear a hat except at the beach. But in a situation where you’re out in the direct sun, having something to protect you from that direct sun radiation is important. Hence the parasol.

Likewise, wearing little clothing to stay cool (or cultivate a tan) exposes you to dangerous solar radiation. A better option is to cover up with breathable layers.

People in hot regions dress in thin, loose fitting clothes, in light colours that reflect the sun’s rays and facilitate the evaporation of sweat, rather than trap the heat as darker colours do. Clothes made of thin cotton, linen or bamboo are the most breathable, and synthetic fabrics, like polyester and nylon, the least breathable.

Having that sweat evaporate is important to cool your body when you’re moving or exercising.

Cool, damp cloths can accomplish the same goal. In northern India, men often wrap a wet scarf or towel around their neck or their head,

The neck is replete with blood vessels, which widen at high temperatures. The dilated vessels carry more hot blood from the core of the body to the skin, where heat dissipates into the air. In fact, when people turn up in emergency rooms with a heat illness, doctors often pack the neck area with ice and cold towels to rapidly lower their body temperature.

Sweating is the body’s natural cooling mechanism, but the moisture lost must be promptly replaced. That can be accomplished by drinking water, eating watery vegetables and fruit like cucumbers, watermelon and mangoes, or soups. People in the tropics often eat hot soups, to cool off by sweating.

Everybody knows hydration, but what we miss is that hydration doesn’t necessarily mean only drinking water.  Water should be combined with electrolytes.

When I was growing up in India, bottled water was not as ubiquitous as it is today. Coconuts, heaped high in roadside stalls, offered an inexpensive, safe and delicious alternative. Vendors use a small machete to slice open the top of the coconut. When I’d had my fill of the cool, sweet water, I would break the coconut open and eat its moist white meat.

Doctors generally warn against drinking alcohol in the heat because it is a diuretic and can lead to dehydration. If you do drink, margaritas make a good option because the salt on the rim can replenish sodium lost to sweat,

The best way to protect yourself from the sun is to avoid it as much as possible. In various cultures, that means scheduling work for the hours when the daylight is less intense. Many people in southern India, and especially those who toil outside, begin their workday around 4 a.m. and work until no later than noon. The afternoon often includes a nap. Work then resumes at 4 or 5 p.m. for a few more hours.

Yet, the routine is now less common than it was in his childhood, he said, as Western rhythms and office life have taken over Indian cities.

Few Indian households have air conditioning; traditional homes manage to stay cool using other techniques.

One key approach is to open windows early in the day and close them before it begins to warm up. Heavy, dark curtains block light and heat from entering the house, and ceiling fans circulate the cool air trapped inside. My family home had curtains made of khus, a native Indian grass, which we sprayed with water every couple of hours. The curtains transform hot gusts into cool, fragrant breezes.

Many traditional Indian homes have verandas, high ceilings and walls of mud that keep the interior cool. New Orleans, is famous for its shotgun houses — linear buildings in which a bullet shot through the front door can in theory exit through the back door without hitting anything on the way — that allow the air to flow freely. Because heat rises, high ceilings and ceiling fans also keep the living spaces cool.

Some of these older strategies may have become useless — for example, early mornings are frequently so warm now that even waking up at 4 a.m. may not always offer a comfortable start to the day.

Climate change’s rapid pace demands solutions that can keep houses and bodies cool even when the mercury keeps rising.

We are no longer adjusting to one hot day or a couple of hot days, we’re looking at week upon weeks of having to deal with this. This is the cultural shift that people must make in their heads.

Mouse Whisper

Our ringtail possum. Every evening from early autumn about nine or ten in the evening, we would see her unblinking eyes peering through the dining room window as she climbed down the outside bars over the windows from her nest. I wrote about her in my 26 May Whisper.

But she has vanished – gone – who knows where. I miss her visits every evening – her quizzical look as if what she saw in the house confounded her.

I’ll miss her.