Adrian Glynn

If I'm Starting Again

2008-05-04T20:28:00.000-07:00

Back to work, some semblance of normal life hopefully I’ll learn to write for myself again, bigger pages mean bigger ideas I should buy a notebook the size of my room, sleep in the fold of a page, write words with my body language burn thoughts into the page that can be seen from space. Back to life here. Back to tight-fisted purse-clenching watching my foot on the gas to save the gas to save the money, pulling with all my might to make the ends meet. I’m used to it. Doesn’t mean I like it.

People jabber and talk jive non-stop over here so I plug up my ears like I’m building a house with my own two hands. They jitter and titter on about nothing. And me-
“it’s so quiet here”. “boy, it’s sure weird to be home.” “India was good-yeah, it was amazing. So many incredible experiences”. “I definitely wanna go back”.
You forget the meaning of an experience when you continue to go on about it in a meaningless way. I would say.

But these streets are sure bare.

I says to K, I says, I don’t know why people say Vancouver has no character… it definitely has a character, I just don’t know if I like it. Rainy day coffee shops and hybrid crosses between yuppies and hippies in fleeces and lulus skiers and sailors in late-model cars so laaii-id back, so polite, Canada bland and character lite. There’s not a lotta colour here the pallet is blue and gray. Not much I should say when I’m as dry as the rest of these crackers. Broken or fixed. Broken or fixed.
It’s good to be home.
But it’s hard to concentrate. All this jabbering.

* * *

I can’t wait to go back to Bombay someday. It already feels like a clamorous muffle behind me, around the corner.

Echoes for a while, I’m sure.

These echoes are mine but it’s like trying to clutch time by the love-handles. Slippery past. Fish-skin memories.
These experiences sew themselves inside you though, a tailored onion-skin; We grow inwards. Inward-growing onions, skin by skin. Peel by peel.

I hope this’ll be a layer I can taste until my last breath.

India.

It’s not an ending if I’m starting again.
Another circle around the centre, the peel forming.
It’s not an ending if I’m starting again.

That's starting to make some sense now.

The Neighbourhood

2008-04-18T04:11:00.000-07:00

Dear diary, it’s been a while since I called you that. It’s hot in this city, I feel like I need to shower three times a day. I can’t keep up with the shirts. White’s turning gray. I sit in these stuffy cabs, little hot pods trawling through the swarming madness and noise of this traffic. I turn the driver’s meters on myself now, though, to avoid arguments. Click that little flag down outside the car. Tip 10 rupees. That’s water for nearly a week if you live in the slum.

I been down there a few times these last couple days. I didn’t want to sit around, this city needs so much help. This country. I found Dev through some googling and emailing. He runs Down to Earth- a charity organization for slum kids. It’s not big, it’s not old. Dev got a hut built on stilts in the middle of the slum beside the World Trade Center, South Bombay. It’s beside a vacant lot that’s a CEO’s helicopter landing pad and a popular cricket ground for the kids. Open space is precious.

A couple youth that live in this ‘neighbourhood’ are helping Dev out- he wants these kids to build confidence and knowledge, so he facilitates school-type learning as well as recreational; sports and arts. These young guys are helping kids from the different slum areas put on a show- mainly dancing. The kids are out of school now, so they rehearse every day. I’m too late to help out with the show, so I’m teaching the young guys guitar- they’ve always wanted to learn. I bought em a travel guitar which Dev will let them have when they’re ready- he doesn’t believe these kids should accept too many handouts because it breeds dependence which destroys confidence and ambition.

The ‘neighbourhood’ I’ve been shown around twice so far- once by Dev, who spends most his free time there, and once by Sameer, who lives in the middle of it. I don’t like the word slum sometimes- because millions of people in this city call these places home- they make these places Home by the sweat of their brow. But at the same time, ‘neighbourhood’ or ‘village’ conveys the wrong images. The hotel room I’m sitting in right now is more than twice the size of Sameer’s home- he lives there with his mother and father, grandfather, sister and her 2 infants. A neat little kitchen area in the corner occupies about three square feet of floor space, with modest tin dishes hung on the wall. They have been here for longer so they’re lucky enough to have a hut made from cement- newer arrivals have to become architectural artists in the medium of corrugated metal, plastic, jute, bamboo and palm leaves. Down where the mangroves used to be the huts teeter on stilts and the filthy Bombay tide washes underneath their floor as they sleep. These are illegal homes, though. Where Sameer and my other students live is a ‘legal’ slum, and one that’s lucky enough to garner a little government attention. The narrow walkways that used to be a sludgy muck have been crudely paved. Electricity is no longer stolen from the nearest office building but is provided by wires strung at eye-level down the walkways. The toilet is no longer the nearest garbage dump or beach- a three-story tiled shithouse has been erected for the thousands of residents here- 1 rupee per shit. The water is privatized- a man comes around noon everyday in a truck, and doles it out from a black plastic well. Women scramble and cuss in jostling queues with all manner of plastic containers- 20 litres is 2 rupees. Most fill 2 large containers- cooking and drinking water for the whole family for the next 24 hours.

It is a mad little world. Privacy is non-existent. Dogs prowl and are known to bite and the air is thick with flies and dust. Women work in the houses, cleaning, cooking, caring. If the mother is away during the day sweeping floors in the nearby high-rises then the eldest daughter takes care of the chores. This is a mindset Dev is working to change. Almost no girls have joined his activity programs- their parents think it’s a waste of time for them. Even school is a waste of time for the girls. Most of the women here can’t read the names and numbers on the buses they take to work- which are written in Hindi. But Dev is patient. He figures if he can prove the worth of his programs with the boys then more girls may be allowed to join.

I just wish I had more time. Dev say any contact these kids can have with an outsider is good- it opens their eyes to learn little by little of the big world outside their tiny cramped one. And hopefully open minds can look beyond the workaday struggle of their parents and see possibilities of college studies and less mind-numbing, low-paying labour jobs. It’s hard to break out. But Sameer has studied to be a chef at a local college- he hopes to find work in one of the bigger hotels.

I don’t get sad when I walk around the slums. I see poverty like I’ve never seen before and people living in ways I didn’t think people could live. I see people surviving and kids being kids, which they’ll do wherever they are. I mostly look around and see so much that needs to be done and wish I had more time here. These people are virtually ignored in the economic boom that is India and they stab themselves in the back with their cultural norms- the illiterate women, the alcoholic and abusive men, the large families and kids becoming their parents. Dev must feel like he’s looking up a forested mountain which he needs to clear of every tree; chip-chip-chipping away with the ax at that very first one. He must be so overwhelmed. But he’s here everyday. Trying to let these kids know that they can pull themselves out of this world. Trying to give them the tools.

I’m just teaching guitar. Hoping the older guys will pass on the knowledge. The seeds of music. Telling the kids about what I do, where I come from. That the world’s actually a pretty big place though it may not seem like it.

Burning Twigs

2008-04-18T04:05:00.000-07:00

Standing in my tower gazing down at the slums. Some king. This city goes forever. If I had a speed-dating service, 5 minutes meeting with everyone that lives in the range of my vision, could I complete the rounds in my lifetime? In an hour I’d meet 12 people, in an 8-hour workday, 96. 100 people a day. 500 a week. About 22000 a year with a few weeks off.. 220 000 in a decade. And in a lengthy 50-year career of briefly getting to know as many Bombayites as I can, I’d reach a grand total of approximately 1.1 million. Within the bounds of my vision from the top of this castle tower, modern day fortress of luxury, immune to the fracas and frenzy of the street-dwellers below, there are probably more than 10 million souls. Beyond the pollution haze and deeper into the Northern suburbs are probably another 5 million. There are too many souls to count.

No wonder they worship so many gods here- hard to imagine a single god’s army of answering machines, blinking like distant stars, ‘You have 280,161,544 messages’. Prayers flood upward, translucent puffs of smoke, rainbow in the sun like oil on tarmac, they grow thick in the stratosphere, oily, airborne rivers are born, cascades of invisible rainbows lost between here and space, angels caught in the prayer paste like cormorants in oil spills, slick and frightened, suffocating from the Earth’s truths, humanity’s silent desperation and terrible fate. Beings of light floundering in invisibility, broken by spider-webs where the black meets the blue. Couldn’t it be we’re fending for ourselves? Temporarily, at least. Ant farmers. Science project employees. Truth is, I’m no further down the road than when I started. Been through the Holy Land where some kids have bombs and some have guns, some live in mansions and others in slums. Where the world’s greatest prophets rose to the sky, and the people cry because they finally made it. I’ve been through the land where Buddha was born, bisected by the holy Ganges, the sustainer, lifeblood of Shiva and Vishnu and Brahma.

And I’m starving. I am dug deeper into my disbelief. I keep building this fence so high and I won’t be able to sit on it, gaze out, search for that truth on the horizon. This wall made of twigs I been tearing out of the forest. I’m screaming in this dark forest, the treetops are warm in sunlight and I’m scrabbling in pine-needles, tearing at branches and twigs, rippin em off the trees for firewood, for my fence, to keep warm and tall- but standing on a wall of broken twigs doesn’t bring me towards the treetops- I’m not closer. I just have lots of fuel to burn- this is what I’ve earned with my rational mind. If God isn’t on lunch, if he did indeed give me a brain, then why does it seem to lead me further and further away? The more I think, the more I look around, the more reasons I find to avoid this whole scene. And no, I’m not ignoring my heart, Joe Christ, it’s beating loud and strong, I’m fierce with my love and I’m listening hard. Wilderness of words here, I’m lost again.

It’s all or nothing, I think sometimes. I see the Buddhist monks in Ladakh- saffron robes and shorn skulls. I think of their quiet minds, their connection to the soul of the Universe which is their soul, their Middle Path, their truth and tranquility. And the next day I see poor boys who didn’t want to be farmers like their fathers, who spend their mother-given lives sitting cross-legged, eyes closed on mountaintops, so silent and alone that their minds play tricks and give them false paradises. While they never know the love of a woman, never see the sights of their planet or know the warmth of a stranger’s home a thousand miles away from theirs. It is All. Or Nothing. You want enlightenment, you better suit up and dive in- there’s no halfway. You think Jesus died for your sins? That a man, the son of God, took iron nails through his flesh and bone, hung in the heat with blood in his eyes until his very ribcage gave out and suffocated him- that a man did this as his ultimate teaching, his ultimate sacrifice- if people would only see it and rejoice in God? Then for you there is no halfway; there is no, ‘I like some of the things the Bible has to say’- Jesus knew it was the book of his father. It is the book. You better jump in. And yet I see the hate. And the one-track minds. I can see that people might say that they love their neighbours as themselves, but then they distrust them because of their culture, their religion, their sexuality. I see people who have jumped into faith, and from the top of my fence I see that I don’t like the way they behave. I don’t like how they see people, the world. How can I possibly jump in? Testing the waters with toes, that’s me. On the shore for eternity.

And so it comes back- I will look for the wisdom in these books made by man- these Bibles and Qu’rans. I’ll look for the wisdom in how holy people live, the recognition of the good in everyone, the soulful practicalities of having membership in the human beast. But it is all Wisdom. It is tied to the very earth by a spinal column and two strong legs. It isn’t whistling in the winds with the prayer vapours. It isn’t the singing spirit. That is all or nothing. And right now I’m busy burning twigs.

Wailing at the Walls

2008-04-18T04:03:00.000-07:00

They took Jesus down from the cross over here. Under this stone is where they washed the blood from his wounds. People are crying. Here’s where his cross stood. People are crying. This is where the first Tower of David stood. It was demolished. People are crying. Wailing. Over there’s where Mohammed ascended to heaven. I’m sure they’re crying too. I feel like crying. People come from all over the world to moan and wail over a pile of stones, over a hole in the floor; for the past. Meanwhile, people still die for these memories, these ashes. Surely somewhere a clean Jesus or a heaven-bound Mohammed are crying too, looking down through telescopes-for-a-quarter from on high, looking down at the antswarms around the holy sites, shouting Look up, Look around, Look forward, not back, and for God’s sake forgive each other for once.
There’s a lot to cry about around here. And everybody tends to look the same when they cry. I wish they’d realize that.

I put a little letter in the wailing wall too. While people wailed. Swayed and nodded at the stones. Most the big crevices were over-flowing. Found a little nub emerging from the smooth stone, tucked my note in its tooth.

Traveling Curse

2008-04-04T07:01:00.000-07:00

VI- Amman, etc.

Isn’t that just the traveling curse, meeting people who become fast friends in a mere 2 days, then being untimely ripped from them as the friendship is mid-bloom. There is yin and yang to this system. I respect Qasim so much, we are like kindred spirits in many ways. I feel for his sorrow, he is an intellectual outsider in his own society. I don’t know what to say. But he has such good in him. I just feel sad. Sad. Off on another lonely bus.

Belly dancing prancing dancer jingly jangles, a time gone by, those Wahhabis ruined it for everybody, now I don’t get to see no Arabic girls shake their shakers, janglin hips, hiding in their hijabs. -God made girls for men, for men and men only, it must get lonely in the house I’m thinking. I don’t make eye contact with most of them. Trying to be “respectful”. Sometimes I do though. Specially the ones in the burqas. Sly big brown eyes are peering through a slit, furtive glance at the foreigner. A little curious perhaps? Kill the infidel!!
I’ve got Arak in the brain. Distilled four times in “wooden” barrels, so the bottle says, made from asine seeds. Taste like sweet ouzo, looks like milk or a sperm donor sample if you add water. feel fuzzy like a peach.
At the Turkish baths steam kept making my eyes sweat and my vision’s still blurry. Then the little guy comes out in BugleBoy jean shorts to scrub me down with something like a camel-hair loufah. Taps my back when I should turn over. Pours soothing warm water over me to wash away that dead skin. Then they change my loincloth and another guy massages oil into my back, arms and legs. Doesn’t linger long on the feet- curses and drat! Drums my back too. I don’t go get massages often. They usually hurt. Plus I associate them with sex and I’m nervous my blood will betray me and pool in the wrong place at the wrong time, by association. Fortunately not. I lie on the side-bench with the tube pillows when it’s done, look at the ceiling, listen to Arabic football on the TV, wait for my tea to cool.

Last night Nahar wants me to come to this pre-wedding street party. We catch a cab and head to East Amman. How come the rougher sides of cities are almost always the east? East LA, East London, East Vancouver. We ask someone where the party at, but our eardrums are already telling us. It’s a sausage-fest street party bachelor night, light-bulbs strung from telephone poles, synthesizers set to “Arabic”, and a guy wailing on the mic. Plastic chairs all around, head-covered women leaning to watch from upper-story balconies as the young men, arm in arm, dance around in a half-circle, step, step, all together, KICK, step, step, squat, KICK- the kid with the pit-stains and the wooden stick leading the way, feet this way and that, I’ve never seen so many men dancing together except at punk shows, but that’s not really dancing, now is it? Step, step, turn-and-kick, laughing, stumbling, drunk from paper-bag booze down the street, just watery tea and pastries allowed here, the guy with the feathers and traditional red pajamas will see to that. Now the groom is hoisted on a plastic chair, his father laughing, shouting to Be Careful in Arabic, probably remembering his chair-hoisting day years ago, and then CRACK CRACK, the greasy hair in the corner returns his revolver to the small of his back after letting off a couple celebratory rounds. -That’s nothing, says Nahar, In the village it’d be everybody doin it and they’d all have Kalashnikovs. Now I’m wondering how many of these drunken dudes are packin heat, barely a woman in sight, testosterone thick in the air. But it’s pure joy- they take turns leading the dance with the leading stick, jumping over it, twirling it, passing it on, singing along, more gunshots ring out while me and Nahar sip contraband Amstel. What is the bride doing right now, while this is going on? I ask. Nahar says, She’s probably having a party with her friends, dancing and singing too. A house-party though. Indoors. They gotta stay indoors.

Twigs

2008-04-04T06:51:00.000-07:00

V- Amman cont.

Me and Nahar hit the bars last night. No, it isn’t all camels and burqas- girls in tight jeans with blonde highlights, muscle-bound tight-tee boytoys sipping cosmopolitans on the patios- sounds like somewhere I know..
Amman has this part. Like Bombay. The upper mids, the daddy’s Mercedes kids- I guess I should’ve expected it in a big city.

Me and Nahar share pitchers of local Amstel beer. He explains King Abdullah to me, the ruler of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, with his self-appointed advisors and “publicly” appointed puppet parliament. He tells me to hush when I exclaim, You guys are ruled by a f-ing King?? Hey, this is Jordan, man. And the royalty was originally appointed by the Brits, no less, to earn public support for the revolt against the Turks in the 20s. King Abdullah’s gigantic photos and banners are everywhere, public billboards and private shrines, and he lives in palaces and makes decrees. Decrees! He’s a king!

More beer, more chat, it’s good for that. Me and my new Jordanian friend getting drunk together, my mind getting educated through the haze. It’s a strange case of realities here. I ask Nahar if people date; Girls will go out with a guy more than a few times only if they’re seriously considering if he’s marryable. Will they have sex? No- they may make out, do other things- but virginity is a woman’s honour. Men in this society have many ways of being honourable, he says- their work, their piety.. Women have only one way, and it’s between their legs.
And men don’t have female friends. Nahar went to play squash at the University with a female European friend of his who’s living in Amman- they wouldn’t let them on the court. Then, a couple weeks ago Nahar found a comfortable two-bedroom apartment to move into, and his European friend suggested they become room-mates. When the landlord discovered this idea (the potential roomie came over to look at the place), he screamed the house down, accused them of filth and sin, ordered them out, and Nahar lost the apartment. It’s hard to imagine this surrounded by the university crowd here, laughing and smoking hookah. These traditions run deep. These twigs, these pine needles obscuring the tree-trunk of spirituality for humanity. These rules. Nothing but twigs.

Nahar’s a gentle guy. An articulate but soft-spoken guy. A guy who wore a camouflage uniform to every day of public high school in Syria, just like every other kid, and knew how to dismantle and reconstruct an assault rifle by the age of 16, just like every other kid. –Everyone in the Middle East keeps a gun in their house, he says. Nobody trusts the government. They could be toppled tomorrow and people want to be able to fend for themselves.
People laugh on the patio. The waitress is Filipino, local women don’t normally work after dark. There’s guns under the pillows. Guns under the pillows… We finish the pitcher.

Like This

2008-04-04T06:41:00.000-07:00

IV- Amman

I hope tomorrow to find an oud. A real one, not a souvenir piece of shit. Qasim is hosting me, he said he’d go with me. Qasim has sadness in his eyes. He’s separated from his wife recently, and the 15-year old daughter has gone too. But 20-year old Mahmud is with Qasim - they stick together. You can see Mahmud loves and respects his father immensely, it is a beautiful thing to witness.

Drinking tea after downing a Ukrainian omelette another guest taught him how to make, Qasim and I talk about the cancer of religion. He reads and reads and he knows so much. He tells me the historical facts of Mohammed, the baselessness of Wahhabi claims to Quranic truth which they use to control simple-minded people. Sounds like Catholics 500 years ago. He tells me how this sect has infiltrated places like Egypt and Jordan in the last 25 years, how before them Muslims were spiritual but free to have choice and live their daily lives as they saw fit. Qasim tells me how when he worked in Saudi Arabia for 2 months a while back, if you were caught walking down the street during prayer time the religious police would give you a beating. These are the Wahhabis. They began giving free lectures in Egypt and Jordan in the eighties, handing out free hijabs to the women, and by the mid-80s suddenly the women are all covering their heads. It’s like this, yanni, says Qasim, like this. And his wife held out, kept her head bare till she started to feel naked amongst all her covered friends. She began wearing the hijab. And husband and wife began to grow apart. While Qasim learns more and more about the origins of monotheism, the links to Sumerians, the truth behind Quranic tales, he begins picking his way toward God- peeling back layers, searching for the truth. God gives us a brain, yanni, he says, so that we may use it to think and to find our way to him. But this talk scares Qasim’s wife, and it scares his friends, the fear of wrath and fire is embedded in them from childhood, from society- husband and wife grow still further apart.

It’s a quiet house, here. Qasim reads for hours everyday, picking his way toward God, making his own path- it’s a search for truth I can relate to. I guess God gave me a brain too…

A Sniff

2008-03-30T04:05:00.000-07:00

III- More Petra

Nothing hits harder than the music knife to the heart, nothing makes you miss home more, “nothing feels better than blood on blood”, the Boss competing with the sunset over Petra and the call to prayer. Sunset’s like my call to prayer, too. It’s when I reflect- reflect like a windshield in the drowning western sun, take what the day has given me and shine it out there, most times to no-one.
What’s really going on, what’s the buzz, Al-Jazeera TV for the masses, oh yeah there’s a world out there, this is some real news, and they’re showing truck bombs in Afghanistan and I’m covering my mouth with my hand, but this isn’t hype, it’s truth. Or pretty close for the media anyway. I watch as much Al-Jazeera as I can, I’m a learning robot. Wish we had news at home. Now I’m here in the Middle East, half a day’s drive from Iraq, (like driving to Kamloops, or Portland), the familes on TV aren’t just digital puppets anymore, tragic marionettes. They are families. They run super-markets. Their kids give them hell. This sounds clitchy, but I understand these images a little better all of a sudden. Men weeping, walking behind coffins, blood on the streets- I’ve seen the streets here, and they look the same. Streets shouldn’t have blood on. People are people, most of em peaceful, if I had the balls I’d go to Iraq and see for myself, but I don’t want to be kidnapped to prove someone’s point. I just understand a little more now.

Jordan flags are in every car and the Arabic- beautiful and thick like caramel in the throat, but you haven’t heard an argument till you hear it in Arabic. I’m just trying to finish my shwarma, guys, but the kid with the ponytail, the Che shirt, the eyeliner is yelling hot caramel at the waiter, and then there’s attempted punches, a kick to the chest that connects, I’m so hungry I slide the extra chair in beside me, but keep chewing. Everyone holds everyone back. The kid was being rude to the Egyptian waiter because he’s Egyptian. I could see the kid was trouble, you don’t need to speak the language to know. Finished that shwarma. Climbing mountains will make you hungry.

I climbed two more today. The usual style of my youth- fuck the trail. Climbed up sneaky around a temple where no-one could see me to yell at me to stop, worked my way up chimneys, down gorges, a canyon labyrinth, leaving arrows made of branches to find my way back down these sandstone faces. Three hours later I reach the top and I get my rewards- bits of Nabatean staircase, worn, here and there, a cave temple and my very own sacrificial altar. I don’t think anyone makes it up to this peak very often, even locals. Almost no sign of unintelligent life. And I get to look down at the siq canyon from 250 feet on an overhang. Get the vertigo. Getting old? Maybe.

I ate this place up. Come down that siq today at 6.30 am again, no-one around, just rose walls rising around me. I’m listening, trying to picture the sound of hooves and chariot wheels 2000 years ago. I tell myself, I’ll never forget this feeling, this ancient gorge, quiet and empty. But I probably will. That’s why I write this shit down, that’s why I photograph so much. I never remember. Got a fuzzy ocean memory, blurry things bob to the surface now and then, and sink into the murky depths again. I slip messages in bottles and hope they hit the right beach. I keep old deodorants so I can experience the olfactory stimulus, maybe stir up something from the depths years from now. With naught but a sniff..

Before Even London Was Londinium

2008-03-30T03:59:00.000-07:00

II- Petra

my lips are dry and burning, I was stroked by that sun today, I’m hurtin all over. Back. Left knee dodgy again. I think I’m locked into my room, Mohammed had to take the key from me under the door this morning to bring breakfast in. hope there’s no fires or earthquakes. I’m like a cranky baby right now. I must just be tired. Everything was pissing me off. Dinner was 11 jd’s, they said it’d be 8. Batteris, 4 dinars, after the first set didn’t work. Every kid saying, Hello, and then, One Dinar! They said there was music at the Cave Bar at 7- go back. Nope, 9 o’clock. I’m too damn tired to wait. This isn’t a goddamn travel guide, it’s my brain on paper. So. Petra blew my mind. I mean, it blew my mind. Palaces carved into canyon rock. Pink canyon rock. Deep gorges and high peaks. A whole little city carved by hand into rose-coloured stone. And I’d be a kid on a playground anyway, climbing in and out of these gorges, but then to walk up rock-hewn steps carved by Nabateans before little tiny baby Jesus burped up, and ascend to an altar surrounded by a spinning vista of peaks and valleys, an altar to the gods, a stone bench for the onlookers, the believers, and some high priest would slit a mewling lamb’s throat, and the bubbling blood would flow hot and fast like water into this basin here, and out through that pipe there and surely these heathens would dance and wail and chant, I had my arms up touching the clouds, thinking what I should sacrifice, here at this altar, holy even before London was Londinium.
Up and down, I went, up and down, drinking in views like milk, sunshine dripping down my chin, greedy little smile all over my face, hobbling down steps by the end of the day because my mountain-running knee says Enough is enough. What tools does a man use to cut a 90-foot column out of a sandstone cliff? Or an entire banquet room with straight, high ceilings and smooth walls? I left my fucking jaw in Petra. I don’t even feel I need to go to Macchu Picchu now. It was like that.
I’m glad I remembered how good this day was. It was just l.o.n.g. Hit the canyon trail at 6.30am and didn’t look back. Limped back up that same trail many climbs and canyons later, at 6.30pm. And dinner was good. A vegetarian’s nightmare. I had mansafe- Jordanian classic. Chuckled to myself, mawing tender lamb straight off a white leg bone, Mansafe maybe, but Lamb not so safe. I’m such an idiot. Humous and babaganoush to boot. Eating like a wolf. Rip-offs be damned, cheats be damned, my breaking knee be damned. I’m on top of the world looking down down on creation. Hope I can walk tomorrow.

Welcome. Welcome!

2008-03-30T03:45:00.000-07:00

JORDAN
I- Aqaba to Petra

It’s some Muslim holy day here. No-one seems to be able to explain which one. I’m full of chicken kebab, bbq’ed and scrumptious. Long day in bus seats, but I made it here in a day , so I’m satisfied. Tel Aviv to Eilat was five hours of trying to build on the 3 hours of drunk sleep I had, between Israeli girls playing eyes, vacationers headed to surf city for some sin. Nothing but lip-gloss and chest-chuckling, these Israeli chicks, and loud as chickens. Thanks God again for my earplugs. Eilat’s stinkin hot at 2pm, so I forget looking for a bus to the border, and hop in a cab.
The border’s a breeze, over and out. Share another cab with some awkward Americans. The cab-driver tries to lie to me while we’re driving to Aqaba, Red Sea port city, tells me it’s a holiday, no buses to Petra, I should let him drive me there for 25 Dinars. –Give me your card, but drop me at the city centre. I’ll call you if I need you, I tell him. Full of shit for sure.
Big-backpack man, turning this way and that in the dusty quiet streets of central Aqaba. People are so friendly though. Welcome. Welcome! Welcome, says the butcher as he smiles and holds a guttering chicken down by the throat. Welcome! yells the pint-size little man from his daddy’s sweet shop. Everybody saying welcome, it’s hard not to feel.. welcome. Here in Jordan. A kind man walks up the street with me, shows me where the bus depot is. And there’s the Petra minibus, full and just about to leave. Good timing. Rickety little thing. Give the driver the dinars, only white guy, people glance, curious. I wedge into a seat and we’re trundling.
Outskirts of Aqaba look strangely like Leh- dust brown cliffs and crags rising into the screaming blue sky. 12000 feet lower and 40 degrees hotter though, so it is. Powerlines across the scrubby desert, random camels and Bedouin lean-tos with their pick-ups parked outside, (what lives those people must lead; wanderers). Seems to be a black plastic bag stuck to every desert shrub out there. Hard to believe they’re still handing these things out in the super-markets back home.
The three curious Jordanians behind me finally pipe up after half an hour. One wants to know how much is my camera, can he buy it. Another wants me to take a photo of the red sandstone bluffs in the distance, they are important in Jordan. It’s hard to understand their English. I’m surprised when a woman in a head-covering hijab and black robe to the ground translates what they are saying to me in English that’s a little clearer. As we climb and climb through the desert, the land finally falls away in the west, miles of deep gorges and sandstone islands in the air, like a Grand Canyon near the Red Sea. It’s breath-taking. The woman opens her curtain so I can see better and points out the canyon where Petra is hidden as we come closer.
A town begins to engulf our speedy little highway on either side. Wadi Musa. Again like Leh, built into the sweeping hillside above the sea of canyons that echo into the distance. This is where I sleep tonight.

Jamal in the pick-up says he’s got a room, I hop in. Jamal’s wrong, there’s no room- things are busy. He feels bad for taking me so far up the hill away from town, though, so he drives me around to three different hotels until I find a room. Private bathroom, two beds, a TV that doesn’t seem to work and a gob-smacking view of the sun sinking into the myriad of gorges in the distance beyond the town. I’ll take it.
Walk down around the town centre, lots of smiles and Welcomes. And nobody really trying to sell me anything. Feels like Pleasantville, Arab-style. Things aren’t even so different here. Kids in jeans hanging out on the corners, maybe smoking nargileh, men in the pool hall, families at outside table for kebabs. Allah-u-akbar riding the breeze and some men chatting in Arab head-dress. Not too many women out, and their heads are covered if they are.
The man in the grocery store smiles when I tell him I’m traveling alone so I can hear myself think. And here I am now, listening.

Tel Aviv

2008-03-30T03:34:00.000-07:00

The beach beside the military base in Bat Yam, where Katya grew up, is nearly deserted- it’s a little cold for most Israelis, I guess. We ate excellent seafood. I listened to Russian. The kid at the next table was talking longing loveytalk with his girlfriend. He must’ve been about 19, 20. Sunglasses on his head like a camp counselor. They finished and got up to leave, and he casually slings a Kalashnikov over his shoulder. Half of me is thinking, That’s a realistic looking water pistol!! The other half knows damn well it’s real as all hell. Katya and I gawk as this youth saunters away in his shorts, arm in arm with his girlfriend and his gun. I keep thinking how early American settlers probably had kids like this strolling around with firearms cause their new laws said they could, don’t want no injuns or no English strutting around like they own the place. Look where that got Americans. Katya’s aunt says they’re soldiers on leave, they have a special license to keep their gun with them, uniform or not. This way, if an Arab madman appears to gun down a bunch of students someone can take him out. Hard to argue with that- I don’t know what living in that kind of fear is like. But I sure don’t feel safe seeing a spotty kid that looks like he should be measuring children outside rollercoasters strolling around with a semi-automatic. That doesn’t feel like security. That feels like desperation. That feels a breath away from anarchy.
Sitting in the breeze in these quiet suburbs, normal sounds, construction, traffic, everyday life. But I’m in the middle of a tiny country that’s barely hanging on. It’s incredibly strange.
I guess the thing to do is just buy stuff.

* * *

so, Tel Aviv. The modern city. No cultural tour would is complete without a fuck-off vodka night at the Russian clubs. Throwing back sickly sweet vodka-redbulls at home before 11. We meet childhood buddy Igor on the corner and cab it downtown. Ksusha knows people, so we’re into the Rio for free. DJ’s blaring it, wannabe pornstars with white lace and angel wings gyrating slowly onstage. Mullet blue-eyed Russians with hazing vodka eyes gape as the little angels strip down to G-strings and fake titties, the place is filling up. Igor buying round after round, how to keep up, but it feels good. The club experience is to blast your mind with so much alcohol and screamingly loud music that self-conscious little whispers can’t be heard, and the Id can take over, grinding your hips, movin your lips in shouts that no-one hears, turning you into an animal machine in a smoky mating season, tuned into species propagation mode, all systems go go GO! Banging techno beats and sweating mess of bodies, rounds come and go down the hatch, you don’t even remember the cab ride between clubs, you don’t even remember where the shekels went. This is the unforgiving and not-so-blind mating ritual, biceps and tight shirts, tiny skirts and glossy labia-looking lipstick, sex pounds the blood like bass beats, all this and more, Friday night whores, we’re all made the same in the end, the same stuff, but it comes out in different ways. 5am, we’re home, don’t know how. Hitched a ride in some suped-up hotshot Honda blaring Eminem, seatbelts on, that’s for sure. Ears ringing, it’ll be the only reminder in the morning. Ringing ears and aching head. Answer the call next weekend again. Shaking tail-feathers. Squawk. SQUAAAAWK..

A Thousand Steps

2008-02-09T07:45:00.000-08:00

MYSORE

feelin like it might be time to leave India for a spell; getting in altercations in fruit markets, temples looking the same, the cows are turning yellow. Gotta head to London for a new visa anyway- rain and cloud and real beer and real wine and family.
“He grabbed my ass!!” yelled Katya, pointing. Little guy in a plaid lungi, glanced over his shoulder as I started after him and began to run, around stacks of bananas and chikus, men tottering loads on their heads in the mid-day market. He slips through the bike barrier but I catch him by the wagon outside the market- “You learn some respect, man!! What you do if I grab your wife?!” I’m jabbin him with my finger, crazy beardo tourist towering over him, he’s yelling back in something that’s not English or Hindi, I keep jabbin, “You like I grab YOUR wife?! Huh?!” Jab jab. “You learn some RESPECT!!” I slap the back of my hand into my palm violently- I’m not quite sure what this is supposed to mean, but the little guy looks sufficiently scared and bewildered, so I pick my way back through the wide eyes and veg stalls, back to buyin’ peas. Dig for the fresh ones. Couple minutes later the little guy walks by again, crates on head. I give him the mad-eye stare-down as he passes. Couple moments later he’s at my side again, jammering away. “What’s he sayin, what’s he sayin” I’m asking the pea walla; he doesn’t know. Nothing is between just two people in the street in India though- pretty soon we got an audience, one of them’s good with English, "What’s he sayin?!" English-speaker says, “What happen what happen?” “He grab my wife bum!” I grab a chunk of my ass at point to the little guy. This gets translated; animated jammering from the little guy. “He say no no, not him. Him not like this. Other man. Coolie. Make 2, 3 rupees per hour. They like this!” I point, and yell across the stall, “Was this the guy!” “YES!” she yells back. “This is him! He grab her!” Jammering, jammering. “No no, not him, he say!” I look in the little guy’s eyes- sincere, puppy-dog almost. Maybe he’s true- I can’t forgive him right here though- what if he did it? I mean, he did start to run. I don’t know, what the fuck; I shrug. “Challo”, I say. Let’s go. We’ve got almost 3 kilograms of peas now anyway.

Stepping round husks and shells, bangle shop wallas yelling, veg vendors yelling, their customers yelling back; for the sixth time since I entered the market someone grabs me and demands, Which country you are from? I could say, Pakistan- then they laugh and think I’m a new friend making a joke. I could say somewhere they’ve never heard of- Estonia; then they repeat it to themselves a few times, start to ask me all about Stoneyaar, curious. I could be honest- Canada; then it’s, Which part? French or English? Trrronto? Wancuva? It is the perfect impossible question for these guys; Which country? And if that doesn’t work- Your name, friend? Answer, and you’re into a conversation, and then you’re buying something you don’t want for a price you don’t like. Don’t answer, and you feel rude for ignoring a simple question, so innocently asked, specially if it’s a kid, specially when they repeat the question five times. There is no solution- my reaction changes according to my mood.

We took the bus to the top of Chamungi hill this morning; One of the eight holy hills of Southern India, proclaims the sign. A thousand steps to the citadel overlooking Mysore- but the bus is only six rupees. No brainer. We get off and it’s a circus of souvenir stands, package tour buses, snacky shops and pilgrims lined up all around the temple at the centre of it all- the eye of the storm. We walk to the wall at the hilltop’s edge to admire the view and escape this unexpected mayhem, but we’re greeted with a gentle slope of plastic dumpings and human waste down the mountainside- I’m suddenly glad we didn’t climb a thousand steps for this.

I sit on a wall above a thinner patch of waste. I think about the 24-hour train ride I have ahead of me tomorrow, and then a long flight to a whole different world- a quieter world, an ordered world, cold rain and grey skies. I get that creeping feeling in my scalp, that chapter-ending feeling, that almost-time-to-flip-the-record feeling that’s part sad, part pensive- that turn to look back at the mountain you’ve descended before you continue the hike into the valley. I guess this is India, Part One. Flip the record.
I jumped off the wall to start down a thousand steps. Two young women were struggling up the steps, hunched and bending to mark every single last step with red and yellow turmeric powder. I stepped around them and started down.

Coffee and Cardamom

2008-01-29T03:59:00.000-08:00

Outside Madikeri-

Werner is the major player here, the guy that runs the joint, ex-late hippie, 1980 hippie, came to Goa/Bombay first time back then, dropped acid, chilled in opium dens where there’s one large long pipe for four users on bamboo mats, sharing the smoke with little wooden headrests, but no smoke no stay, This is not a flophouse, and it’s bad shit says Werner, never again, and then the power snaps back on again in his living room and his eyes are red, moustache twitching, he looks ten years older in the electric light, he’s telling us in his Germano accent about these electric times on LSD, the planning and preparation, agreeing on the music and the mood beforehand, valium at the ready in case of a bad trip, how he had such a bad trip one time he took all his valium to get off it- lucky he had only three left, and the smoke is being passed around, rolled from his giant Medusa-head looking growth and he’s telling us how it’s lonely living alone but it’s hard to find someone who’d adapt to this plantation lifestyle, out here on the retreat amongst the crickets and the tea leaves and coffee leaves and cardamom and giant tadpoles and little poisonous green snakes that coil up in balls when something’s coming and bite something if it steps on it so you gotta carry a torch at night on the paths to see your way, don’t step on those little guys, no way.

Crickets or cicadas, rice paddies and tea plantations, stillness and peace- it’s a different kind of India miles out here, my body is still vibrating from twenty hours of bumpy, spine-busting bus-riding, my neck is practically in traction. We got to Madikeri, but didn’t last long there- dust and noise and scummy hotels and “rooftop garden restaurants” which are dining room attics attached to open urinals. We made a few calls and came out to the Silver Mist Retreat, quaint cabins overlooking rice paddies frequented by elderly British couples. Whatever. K’s not well enough to go trekking for three days like we planned, and the Tibetan village we wanted to see now requires a permit, and we definitely weren’t staying in Madikeri. It’s beautiful serenity here- how I imagined Kerala, actually. Too bad I was so starving and all they had left to eat was toast. And cheese though. Smiley.
Our overnight bus stopped in Hubli for the half-hour break. I clambered down from my sleeper to look for a pisser and a friendly Indian man, late thirties, skinny, went to temple today, asked me, What country?.. We started talking, I was in a friendly mood and I knew he wasn’t trying to sell me anything, he was just on my bus. We found a piss alley, then he offered to buy me a beer from the standing bar. He took a tiny bottle of whiskey with some water and threw back the whole thing in one shot. Then we went around the corner to scrounge out some food. He told me how he worked in mining, managerial business side, traveled lots, and told me that it was an ancient volcano that gave Hampi its crazy Flintstone rock formations. He bought me some gobi and rice too, refused to take any money and threw back another of those tiny whiskeys. Now his eyes were red, and I can see why he likes to travel for his job. I tell him how all the Indians I’ve met in the past while have been trying to sell me something and it’s so wonderful to experience this amazing hospitality again, and he starts to go on about humanity and how it’s the only thing that matters, and he’s not really making sense any more, but who cares. I’m smiling. This is why I like Indian people. I remember again.

Home Away From Home (away from home)

2008-01-29T03:45:00.000-08:00

Trapped in Hampi, more Hebrew than Hindi here, and I’ve never slept so much in my life as these last two days. We got the food poisoning again, K. worse than me. She was in high fever last night with painful leg cramps. We’re supposed to be in Madikeri by now, but we had to re-schedule. It’ll be a relief to get to London in a week- I’m tired of the backpacking trail, Hampi made me tired. I’ve discovered that backpacking in a place like India is a strange phenomenon. People come here to backpack presumably because they want to experience a different culture, try new things- yet the main backpacking centres are constructed to be a cheaper version of home. Here in Hampi, you walk down the guesthouse strip and you’ll see only white people, some dressed in the baggy riding pants and colourful loose scarves and dredlocked hair which is considered “Indian” by these travelers, but I’ve been here six months and have never seen an Indian dressed like that. Anywhere. Some of these neo-hippies will even accuse you of not having been here very long- “I can tell by your dress”, which makes me want to flick turmeric in their eyes. These same backpackers eat in the guesthouse restaurants where the first half of the menu is Israeli salads and humus & pita; then pizza and pastas; then burgers and fries; and the back page might have some daal and rice options, but I never see these ordered. Then in the evenings. these same culture-seekers watch Hollywood blockbusters- walk down the strip and every guesthouse is showing its own movie, dredlocked heads gathered round the glowing light. If they opt not to watch Pulp Fiction, they’ll most likely smoke hashish and compare notes with fellow countrymen on the bargain they got on their Om t-shirt, while Pink Floyd tunes blare from their shoddy i-pod speakers. Meanwhile, in modest rooms on the ground floor, Indian families try to sleep, another day of serving the argumentative foreigners at an end.
You will see Indians when you walk around here, but they are all trying to sell you something- the closest most of these backpackers get to a relationship with an Indian national is arguing with a rickshaw driver over a ride to Hospet, or ordering another side of fries in the guesthouse restaurant. This is the strange world of Indian backpacking; get high, dress hippy, fuck a German or a Texan, (you know, something exotic)-meet a monkey, take lots of digital photos and go home and tell everyone about the wonderful mysticism of India. It’s bullshit.
I am so glad I spent my first few months here meeting only Indians. In the first cities we visited, we’d scream, White person!! as if we’d seen a tiger when we spotted a goora. We made many friends from Chennai, Mumbai, Bangalore, etc. We experienced incredible Indian hospitality first-hand, learnt what they thought about their country, its pros and cons, first-hand. So it was a shock to hit the tourist trail and to suddenly have to be wary of the locals we met in the street- we had experienced such kindness everywhere else, even from complete strangers. I miss this. I miss Ladakh, where I was alone outside the tourist season and couldn’t help but make local friends. I miss striking up a conversation with a local without wondering if he has a guesthouse room he wants to sell me for the night. And sure, it’s been nice to watch a movie and eat a pizza and hear some Pearl Jam again, but I’m ready to get back to India. I’m ready to get the hell out of Hampi.

The Hump to Hampi

2008-01-21T06:57:00.000-08:00

It’s a post-sunset slow river in a Flintstone movie set from the 16th Century, huge tan boulders impossibly stacked, huge tan temples dirty, blending into the landscape. It’s Hampi. The last boat to our side of the river just came in, straggling tourists climbing up the last hill for the day. It’s quieter over here, away from the bazaar and the major temples. Something about a slow river makes everything around it a little slower, a little lazier. People take their cues from their surroundings.
We just arrived here after an odyssey. It shoulda been: one-hour bus, Gokarna to Kumta; wait 3 hours. Then 8-hour bus overnight, Kumta to Hospet. Get in at 8am and rickshaw it to Hampi. Instead, it went like this..
We scramble for the one-hour bus to Kumta; leaving an hour earlier than they told us yesterday. Catch it barely, ride to Kumta, then have four and a half hours to kill in the dirty little town. We find a dingy little backroom bar, and start in on the Kingfishers, the four of us, me and the three girls (Nooshin and Rebekah). Ceiling fans stirring the thick air, all the men in shock to see three women in their watering hole. We drink and drink and laugh and laugh till they boot us out at 10:30, then we wander down to whosever restaurant is open to eat something and drink some more. Quarter to 12 we decide we better head back to the bus stand, to be safe. There they tell us the bus won’t come until 12:30. So we settle in. 90% men, gawking at the three white girls who are too liquored to take it quietly and throw out a few good, Can I help yous??- a crazy beggar woman befriending Rebekah, a huge and injured German shepherd befriending Nooshin; I keep thinking how it’d be a lark to get my guitar out, but I don’t really want that much attention. Another big joint burns down. Stale urine on warm breezes, all eyes on us- I fucking hate bus stands. 12:30 comes; so does a bus- it’s not ours. Then another. And another. And still another. Katya’s pleading with the office man, Where is it?!One o’clock comes. And then finally so does our bus. We’d hoped for front seats, but we’re stuck in the middle again. Katya and I try to get comfortable on a 3-seater, but the bumps make your teeth chatter, and the driver takes the turns like he’s experimenting with bus wheelies. I’m getting the spins; too much drink, too much swerving. I’m so tired, and my eyes are closing slow like curtains, but backstage it’s all black spinning until I’m reeled awake again. Try to breathe. Eyes closing. Spinning. I fight like this for almost an hour. Then I get the telltale shot of hot saliva in the back of my mouth, and I slide the window open.. I’m really gonna join em- all those Indian school-buses I’ve seen with the long brown streaks beneath every window; I’ve always wondered what it’s like. I jut my head out into the rushing cold air as far as I can, watching for oncoming trucks. And then up comes fried gopti and rice and beer, spattering the speeding asphalt, the window beside me- I don’t want to think what the passenger behind me is seeing. I clench my teeth, and heave again. And again. Window splattered, my mark left on the night highway somewhere. I fall back into my seat and slide the window shut. Katya is snoring, she slept through the whole thing. I feel much better.
Sometime later we arrive at a stop and most of the bus disembarks- all four of us claim three-seaters for ourselves. By god, we are going to get sleep on an Indian bus! We start off again, but I soon realize that the driver is keeping his window wide open to stay awake, and the air is absolutely frigid. I’m still in my shorts and t-shirt from the beach, trying to fit every inch of me under a thin blanket, huddled down on the seats. But drafts find their way into every space between blanket and body. I can’t get to my pack till we stop again, so I steel myself and think warm thoughts, shivering for an hour.
Finally we stop, and I get the cosies on. We start off again and I manage to drift in and out for half an hour, but then the sun’s coming up, the same fuzzy peach I saw dip below the waves from a motorboat twelve hours ago on my way out of paradise. We must be getting close, so I just sit up and wait.
Pretty soon we pull into a bus stand- Is this Hospet? Hospet? Bustle, confusion- the bus clears. This must be it. But the conductor is saying something to Nooshin about switching buses… What?! This is not Hospet. Then someone else says there’s a traffic jam,
no-one’s going anywhere. But we can walk to the train station and reach Hospet from there. So we march.
Train tickets are cheap, and the wait’s only fifty minutes. We settle on a bench, all eyes on us, all beggars on us, dried puke only on me. After fifteen minutes people start clambering down off the platform and crossing the tracks to stand on the other side- there’s no other platform though. They tell us it’s where we have to stand for the Hospet train. So we struggle with our luggage down to the tracks, stepping over sun-baked human shit and other delicacies to bake ourselves in the morning sun, standing on the tracks for the train.
It finally comes. We settle in for half an hour and then grab a rickshaw into Hampi from Hospet, bedraggled and exhausted. But maybe it was all worth it.

Man-cubs, Millipedes

2008-01-21T06:53:00.000-08:00

In the station a dirty monkey hunches in the rafters, enjoying bath-time and lunch-time at the same time- the old pick n’ chew. Occasionally throwing a careless glance down to his crazy relatives, the man-cubs and washer-women, the rainbow sari splashes and suitcaseheads, milling like millipedes, busy like ants. Greasy rats crawl through wet corners, and kids-at-work in the station smile bright white through dusty faces, asking for ice cream. Families stacked on suitcase stacks in package circles, sharing nuts and sweets, parked on the dirty floor; babies snore on shoulders as trains roll through on other platforms. Calm before the storm. Hindi, English, hindi, English, the constant loudspeaker updates are indiscernible in any language, but they’re going for quantity, not quality- and then the chai seller’s voice cuts through them all, high and nasal- Chaaii-ii-i!- as he pushes the steel cart between squatting families and forlorn holy men. Finally, the gazelles at the watering hole hear the warning cry, whistle shivers down the track, and entire family clans are on their feet in seconds; lanky porters are already pushing through, huge suitcases on their heads; backpackers are turning this way and that, Is this the right train, is this the right train?! And then a sudden gloom swallows the station as the snake slides in, and jostling groups try to predict where their door will stop. Finally, the whole apparatus sighs and jolts to a halt, and the disembarking passengers start to push from the inside out- they get about forty seconds grace to squeeze themselves out of the coach doors, then it’s toothpaste back into the tube- the mass of sweaty shirts and hairy arms grappling, trying to become liquid as it surges itself up a steel step and through a tiny door. Just put your head down and PUSH! No women first, children follow bread crumbs through the forest of legs, just PUSH, and you pop through the entrance, bag and all, until you’re carried down the human river to your seat. And the monkey in the rafters glances up when the steel snake trundles off, crunches down another bedbug snack.

Passing Strange

2007-12-23T04:02:00.000-08:00

VII- Mt. Abu

Wasn’t it strange to sleep in a mango-tree fort in an Indian jungle with three other adults last night? Not really. It is difficult to find things strange when you are asleep. And I slept quite soundly- despite the fact that the four of us were shoulder to shoulder like sardines- sardines of the future with shoulders. In a mango-tree sardine box. Can. And despite the fact that we were a good, dark walk from any village, out in the jungle with its leaf-rustling and cricket-chirping and foreign wild animal calls. And despite the fact that I eradicated seven members of an unfamiliar species of treebug-cum-cockroach from our wooden sleeping quarters five minutes before turning out the flashlight. And despite the fact that two layers of mattresses, two layers of blanket and two specimens of human were stacked snugly above the trapdoor, (the only way in or out of the mango-tree fort), and that one of those human specimens had suffered from repeated stomach sickness over the course of the entire ten-kilometre hike through the hills to our mango tree. Despite all these things, it was not strange to sleep in a mango-tree fort with three other adults for the simple reasons that I was warm, cosy and most importantly- asleep.

However, it was a little strange, passing strange, to share a chillum of mountain-grown marijuana with a deep-voiced, deep-stoned swami with 5-foot dreadlocks in a cellar lit only by a single candle and full of silent, friendly, non-English-speaking turbaned men in a remote Indian mountain village at sundown. It was strange to be mountain-high, and watch the swami mumble things in broken English to Katya about Atman, while she nodded and sympathized, saying that she’d suffered asthma herself. It was strange to sit on the concrete floor with the turbaned men, drinking a mixture of water and cheap rum while all eyes were glued to the melodramatically melodramatic Indian soap operas on the small TV controlled by the small children. It was then also strange to eat daal and chapati made by a woman who was silently hugging her knees beside the corner floor stove, shrouded in an orange veil from face to toe, and moving only when her husband requested more chapati. Passing strange. And then we carried off bedding and firewood down the path into the dark forest night, enjoying a brief fire before climbing into the mango-tree sardine can and sleeping with the fishes.

Eh, Bhagwan

2007-12-23T03:57:00.000-08:00

VI- Khuri

Now Bhagwan is our Indian Tevye, and he holds court at his "Mama’s Guesthouse". A circle of mud and cow-dung huts in the tiny desert village of Khuri where we stayed last night. This is a man who presides. A man of the people. Just big enough to be called jolly, he laughs a 1000-watt laugh and strokes his moustache between pontifications- a long, black, drooping moustache that stands out from the well-cropped stubble beard. He presides in his lungi, his Rajasthani slippers and worn-in bomber jacket. He reminds us again and again that it is the guests that are important to him; not the money.
We’ve returned from the desert dirty and tired. Bhagwan has a group of Indo-Americans staying in the circle of huts, so he offers us his son’s room in his house, which we’re happy to take. Tonight, Bhagwan has arranged for a group of musicians and dancers to perform for his guests. We are seated in a circle, huddled in blankets, outdoors around a blazing pit-fire. The air is clean and cold. Twelve musicians kneel on the ground beneath the light of a bare bulb which hangs proud and lonely from a wire strung across the courtyard. In the firelight, Bhagwan presides- gruff voice and a belly laugh, already a quarter into the whiskey mickey hidden in the bomber. His hand gestures work hard to upstage his blazing eyes and guffaws as he lavishly introduces the evening’s entertainment he has brought to us, and finally he allows them to begin playing. He takes his throne off to the side, stroking his moustache and listening intently. Beneath the bare bulb, an orange-turbaned singer gesticulates heavenward and occasionally, when he is moved, rises himself off his knees as he grapples for high yelps and moans, singing from the gut. Harmoniums drone underneath his voice, and he rises again, glancing sidelong every so often to see if Bhagwan approves. Indian castanets clack-clack and double-headed drums call and answer; two turbaned boys join the fray an octave above, trying to follow along with the men’s laments, choirboy high but not quite there. And soon almost everyone is wailing almost together, but loose enough that it sounds like the whole thing might fall apart. Bhagwan suddenly rises and stands over the group as they play, lowering his hammy hand to indicate a drop in volume, then raising it to bring it up again. He presides. Food arrives on steel plates. The courtyard suddenly JUMPS into light as a waiter pours gasoline on the pit-fire. Then bejeweled and glamorous village girls rise from the group and begin to move their hands and hips not-quite-in-time to the madness of the music. Bhagwan, half a mickey in, sachets over to give them helpful hints. The fire is bright and the wailings louder in the king’s courtyard.
Later, Bhagwan joins us at our table. Whiskey’s gone; Bhagwan, almost. Moustache stroking and broken English falling into smaller and smaller pieces which we can barely pick up any more. But then he suddenly ROARS with laughter, and keeps roaring, so I’m laughing too, slapping my knee, we’re roaring together at God knows what, until he stops it all with a wave of his hand. He leans in, conspiring. Whiskey breath. He tells me there are two things in this world, only two things, and they are very clear- VERY CLEAHH- two things. Money. And religion. The only two things in this world. And Bhagwan, Bhagwan has neither!! ROARING again. And then he is abruptly off to preside somewhere else around the fire. Our tongues are burning from the food, and we’re all wailed out. We leave the king’s court and find our warm bed- warmer than the dunes at night anyway.

Deserting

2007-12-23T03:52:00.000-08:00

V- Khuri

Sunrise in the sand dunes, camel-bell wandering tunes and campfire chai, we slept under the sky, a speckling of freckles from light years away. It’s the human way to start the day, when the sun rises high and the bag gets too hot to lie in any more. I don’t remember much about last night- eating daal fry and chapatti with my fingers in the firelight, drawing country flags in the sand with a stick which graduated to explicit sexual scenes which, in turn, collapsed into laughter. Dozing off bundled in under the planetarium sky; me a sleeping snow-globe dweller under a blizzard of stars, shook up every time I opened my eyes. A new blizzard every time. The sand was hard and I awoke often to give one side of my bones a break, and I would gaze, half-sleeping, at that rain of stars above me, that desert of open space so outmatching my meager dunes. And I slept soundly. Light snores. Insignificant reverberations.

Walkin Rupee

2007-12-23T03:41:00.000-08:00

Tourist town, temporary hippies, I’m a walking rupee, a running crore, there’s a pattern here, it goes- temple, store, temple, store, (give a little bit more). Laid back enough here but I feel a little like I’m on a movie set- universal Studios, India. It’s all so quaintly "Indian", except for the hundreds of hotels and the Hebrew on the shop signs. In Ranthambore we went in the general store and made a friend, ended up at a wedding- here they rip you off on peanuts. Prices aren’t so bad though. We’ve seen a lot worse. I shopped till I dropped I can’t walk no more.

Two nights in a row we hit the bhang lassi, and it creeps in and numbs you from the inside out. Comfortable numb. We ate real pizza at the Real Baba’s rooftop joint, and afterward sat on straw stools in the street and sipped the lassi out of a paper cup. Banana flavour. We talked to a British neo-hippie twit with neo-dreds for a while whilst his faux-hawked friend taught beardo Americanos how to juggle balls. We wanted badly to go but decided that one lassi might not be enough, so we downed another one, bought some chocolate for later and wandered off. Pushkar gets quiet at night- rustling cows eating plastic in wet corners, lingering shopkeepers enticing us with midnight monologues;

YesfriendHellofriendToiletpaperminralwaterchocolatechipscandybatteries??
..Ne-ext ti-ime!

But we’re back at the Maharaja room in minutes.

In the day, they coerce you down to the Holy Lake; it’s green as sick and hairy-shouldered men plunge in headlong and headstrong. The Brahmin "priest" forces a flower into my hand, makes me come down to the water, sit, grudgingly repeat a Hindu prayer with him and though he told me at first it all had nothing to do with money, now he’s dropping the word "donation" everywhere and I’m telling him I don’t believe in giving money to religious institutions and if I’m going to give money to a charity I don’t want to be tricked into it. But Katya already got out a 100. Sew. Soe. Sough. Soh. Sow. So..
More faux spirituality. Holy Hindu town and tourist trap central- trap indeed. God’s got a piece of cheese and a smile on his face two blocks long, women in flocks singing holy songs and shuffling along the river’s banks- "there are many ways to show your thanks and they’ll barely cost you a dime and just a moment of your time, sir. Where do you come from and where are you going? Is it snowing this time of year in your home? Are you really traveling alone? There are many ways to show your thanks, kneeling in the riverbank, waiting in the only bank, wading in the bank..

2007-12-08T22:36:00.000-08:00

III-Ranthambore Park

She was strolling down the road when we saw her, sexy swagger, confident, paws the size of frying pans padding the earth with a soft-sure gait. Her coat was glossy and healthy, her potent power was magnificent from 100 yards- I have never in my life seen such a beautiful animal in the wild. She sauntered along on Indian time, even with so many eyes on her- she took her time, picking at leaves, spraying trees, lolling her tongue out her mouth. And finally she eased off into the yellow brush, high arc of a striped tail above the tall grass, a descending jungle periscope. And the ripples vanished.
We’re in Ranthambore Park. But I guess now we’re leaving Ranthambore Park- we saw what we came to see. But we still have the day, so we’ll visit another park with the Belgian couple, Alain and Jacobin, and their daughter Yulia, who shared our jeep this morning. We got up at a quarter after four this morning to get to the booking office by 5. It was typical Indian madness- we were the only goras because most tourists pay guides and hotels commissions to get up and book jeeps and canters for them. But we met the Belgians and found ourselves a jeep, so it all worked out.
The park was misty and beautiful, straight out of the Jungle Book. The arched gateway mossy and vined, blending into the forest- man meets nature. And we saw other wildlife from our open-top jeep- sambar, spotted deer, black-faced monkeys, crocodiles, kingfishers, egrets, “tiger dentists”.. but it was tense and quiet with tiger hopes in the jeep. We got almost-lucky near the end- I could see a beast from a distance through the brush, padding his way carefully down a rock to the water- a striking sight, to see such a familiar shape, huge and feline, while peering through the tress. I’ve peered through a lot of trees in my time, but never seen a shape like that. But he disappeared, and despite the cacophony of birds in the trees above him, we didn’t see him again. We thought we were done, but in the homestretch suddenly there She was, out for a stroll.

Beer Ears

2007-12-08T22:33:00.000-08:00

II- Jaipur

Pink city, pink palaces, was the Maharaja gay? says Hendrik. We’re speeding along in the rick Kuldeep hired us for the day. The driver is Don, his nickname after the Big B movie. He’s a friendlyguy, yells to us from the front about the various palaces we’re speeding past in a rickshaw-yelling voice that is strong and practiced. We got to the Tiger Fort pinnacle just before sunset and found wrought-iron chairs and tables on the terrace in the sky high above the city sprawl and we drank Kingfisher beers and chatted, Katya, young Hendrik (from Germany) and me. The sun became an orange bowl and sunk slowly into the dun of smog until it was swallowed whole- at least five whole minutes before it should’ve set properly. Set into the smog. And soon after, a curious sound reached our beer-ears- like wailing bats between the cave-walls of the valley, a thousand mosques singing a thousand ALL-AAHS reverberated between the guardian cliffs edging the city, and rose into the smog. I cupped my ears and it was all I could hear- a fine blend of prayer calls, almost frightening in their unfamiliarity. An unexpected conspiracy. A sudden siege of piety for the smog-swallowed sun. And then the boytoy Dutch boys with Nazi eyes and fraternity cut-off shirts saunter over with sauntering smiles and beer breath to small talk and ask what the hell the racket is. I explain. They snigger, and tell me about an Amsterdam painter who purposely painted an incorrect Mecca compass on the ceiling of a mosque there. Hi-larious. These fresh faces belong at spring break in Miami beach, not in Jaipur. They laugh and tell me how their driver is just like a dog, coming when they call and even asking permission to use the bathroom. I tell them I need to finish my beer. Too polite. Too Canadian.
We finish our beer and make for the parking lot where K saw a rick (for some reason our rickshaw driver said he couldn’t go all the way up to the Tiger Fort, so we hiked around the bag-eating pigs and leering motorcycle lads, climbing a quick fifteen minutes up to the clifftop fort to catch the sundeath). But there is no rick in the lot anymore. Just one car left with a couple climbing in. Katya begs them for a ride down, and they’re happy to oblige. Indians are kind. He’s Dinesh, owns a textile store. When K tells him she worked with Shiamak he swivels round to shake her hand, and tells her he won’t wash it after this. They sure love a sniff of celebrity in this country, that’s for sure.
They get us down to Don, and he drives us crosstown to an Italian terrace joint, wood-fire pizza and Spaghetti Bolognese. Surrounded by goras we’d barely know we were in India if not for the mock-Mughal hotel across the way. It’s a tourist town in a tourist time- it’s to be expected. They’re in throngs around the palaces and the touts and sellers are watching them, ten-to-one. We even saw the snake-charmers earlier and I found myself with a cobra around my neck.
I’m on the terrace roof in the night that’s almost cold, someone’s blaring Hindi love songs down the street, in the distance I can hear a highway. Don’t even know how we found our way back here tonight, twists and turns in the dusty backroads.

Temporary Homes

2007-12-08T22:29:00.000-08:00

RAJASTHAN- I

On the oustskirts of Jaipur. Dust road village, terrace and small stuc-up homes where the one-room general shops don’t sell bottled water for some reason. We’re staying at our first couch-surfing site. It started off auspiciously enough when we stepped off our 5 and a half hour non-AC train from Delhi to find a little man with a big sign- Welcome Adrian and Katya. There’s nothing like having someone meet you in an unfamiliar city.
We piled into the little man’s rickshaw, and he darted and dodged camels and trucks, finally taking us off paved roads and onto the dust ones, urban surroundings sinking further and further into suburbia. Middle of nowhere. We stop outside a pinkish one-storey home, and I step out of the rick and into a cowpat- supposed to be lucky. Kuldeep (the homeowner, my contact here) is at work, but his wife and two small children are home. I don’t know if her and Kuldeep see eye to eye on this whole couchsurfing thing, because she doesn’t seem too excited by our presence and our questions. But she is cordial. The place is: stone floors, a threshold, two bedrooms, a kitchen and small bathroom and terrace roof. We out our bags in room number 2, which looks like it is probably usually the kids’. I knew already that there was another guest staying (Uncle Stephen from Britain), but we’re informed there will be a German guy as well. Four people in this room that’s about 10 by 10 and already has a single cot, two chairs and a loveseat and a computer desk crammed in it. Looks like three of us will be on a mat on the stone floor. Katya’s taking it well.
We’re famished. The little girl, Pinky, walks us through the dusty village to find something to eat. Little shops sell gum and chips, then one unlikely looking place called Indian Idol is said to be a restaurant by the little girl. The friendly owner seats us in what appears to be his household office (turns out this is his home), and says his wife can cook us noodles or rice, but nothing else. He assures us they are a restaurant, but just getting started. We’re too hungry to be picky. We ask for noodles and potatatoes and rice. They bring us delicious, creamy-sweet lassi drinks as well. And the food turns out to be scrumptious. Raul, the owner, chats with us in enthusiastic if not struggling English. Introduces us to his young son and wide-eyed daughter- apparently he’s Good and she’s Naughty. When we finish eating Raul has no change for my 500, so he takes me on a motorbike up to the main road where we find change as well as water and some fresh fruit.
Katya and I walk back to our temporary home, escorted by our pint-sized guide. Crossing the dusty field, a group of boys finally overcome their shyness and start to ask , What country you are from?, etc. They’ve got some pick-up cricket going, and are gleeful when I agree to give my batting a try. I connect for a four on the third ball, and try my hand at bowling as well. They all crowd in as Katya snaps a snap, and we continue on. In a strange town in a strange home with a strange sleeping arrangement, but we’ll make the best of it. More interesting than the Marriott anyway.

Hutment

2007-12-08T22:27:00.000-08:00

They squat on the beach, little brown bums in a tideline wasteland, bubbling refuse and rat-tails in drainpipes. This is harmony, though- human harmony. Here on the edges of Bombay, the crammed corners, the hutments nestled and squeezed to the edges of the Earth, where city meets sea. Human harmony. Naked kids exploring overturned boats, men playing afterwork table-games in huts with chai, women ariring out tiny tidy huts, starting stoves, sweeping doorways. Selling fresh-caught fish (the cats hide under the low tables, greedy fish-head mongrels, wiry and alert); vegetables for sale, men for evening shaves in plywood closets with cracked mirrors and torn barber’s chairs. There isn’t fighting or screaming or misery in the air in the poorest place I’ve ever seen. There is mainly activity. If people are still, they are alive with conversation. Otherwise they’re walking, cleaning, playing, laughing, buying, selling, smoking, spitting, shitting.. Every narrow alleyway between stalls and stalls of huts is a Christmas-in-New-York bustle with humid heat and smoke for dinner. Hundreds of thousands of people, stacked like broken teacups around the beachhead toilet garbage dump, all with joy and sorrow and lives and love, all puzzled into a space about the size of my high-school’s grounds, and they are in harmony. Clicking along. Another unintentional choir, singing strong.

The Happy War

2007-12-08T22:25:00.000-08:00

Diwali, Indian New year-

Crackerbomb festival, a sea of smoke and the Queen’s Necklace was the Ring of Fire; every bright-eyed kid a joyful mercenary in the Happy War of Diwali, shooting botlle-rockets over the hotels on Marine Drive, exploding sparkshowers raining on the cars and on the ocean, a sea of splattered cardboard shrapnel littering every square inch of concrete between happy families’ feet. And the trenches stretched as far as the eye can see in Bombay, right around the Queen’s neck; they’re trying to blow her head off, they’re trying to smoke out the New Year, scare the shit out of any demons looking for a way in. Scared the demons outta me. I moved stealthily through the Happy War with Pvts. Nooshin and Rebekah at my side. We ducked for cover from a dynamite row of mighty-mites a half a block long, made a run for it under a sudden sparkshower, explosions and flashes and squeals of glee all around us in the air as we reach no-man’s land, observing from the protection of a tree across the Drive, doing reconnaissance for how to navigate this New Year.

Chasin the Snake

2007-11-19T02:34:00.000-08:00

VIII
Got up early to ride the bus outta here. Jouncy bouncy early morning river valley bus, out the window just a scream and a shout down the boulder ride to the glimmering Indus below, and the bus-top SWAYS over that edge and my stomach SWAYS with it. Just keep looking at the blue heart, a scratched sticker above the driver’s head- “I Love Blue-hearts”? “I Love..Love”?? “I Love Blue Love”? Jouncing bouncing along to a Ladakhi love song, Casio backbeats over a wire-high folk melody- did the synthesizer kill folk music everywhere? Ancient campfire melodies stamped on plastic bass-lines and tincan beats. Jouncing bouncing, keep looking at the blue heart, front of the bus, don’t lose yer lunch.. but the valley is a vision, pulling my eyes out the window. Dusty hills and that azure snake glimmering and swimming thickly through the valleys its eaten over the centuries, the road like a little brother humming along, imitating its bigger brother’s moves- a little less smooth, a little less deft. Hairpin!! Hold on, eyes front. A hundred knuckles go white. The men still muttering under their breath, spinning prayer wheels (ohm padme ohm) or just a grunt on the inhale, asking Indus’ little brother for deliverance. I’m praying to the Blue Heart to keep my breakfast down, feet cold in the desert air, head sweating in its yakwool toque. Chasing the snake three hours all the way back to Leh...

happy hallowe'en

2007-11-19T02:20:00.000-08:00

VII
It’s a lonely Halloween. A cold, lonely Halloween. Although Halloween usually is . I was recording last Halloween. This year I’m in Alchi. Cobalt Indus river. Orange and yellow crispy leaves trembling on the skeleton trees. Thatch roof huts and empty streets, every guesthouse has a lock on the gate. Tourist season is o-ver. I’m eating chocolate at dusk to celebrate- 10 rupees for a Kit-Kat. They’re cold.
Got off the bus this morning from Leh at the Alchi bridge- the only disembarker there. Trudge over the bridge, up a hill between highway curves, up another hill, down a dale, round a curve- the book said 2 km, but I’ve been trudging for 40 minutes. I’m on the right track, though- people are happy to help. Hit the town, find Lotsava Guesthouse- there’s a lock on the gate. Same with the six other guesthouses and hotels around. Look in the book, and the one on the outskirts is supposed to be open all winter. Trudge trudge. Find it- it’s open! Muslim-looking worker men are eating in the Kitchen/Reception area. The young Indian doling out the dal says there’s no rooms. I get in an almost-argument with him and one of the Muslim workers, saying that there must be at least ONE dormitory bed free. Nope, just for workers- the Indian shrugs and leaves, and the Muslim placates me by offering me free lunch. It works.
After I eat I thank him- he’s strange, dark-eyed limp-handshaker toothpicker. He suggests I try the next town. Thanks, and leave. But fuck that. Walk back to town (pack and all, still) and Lotsava’s open this time. Guy in the courtyard’s about as excited to see me as he would be a stray dog, but the good news is I get a room. Four lumpy white-washed concrete walls, thin balding carpet over concrete floor, and two hospital cots pushed together. A room. I go out to see the lonely gompa, a thousand years old. I go down by the river to see how fast and cold it is. I climb up above the town at dusk and watch the fading orange on the higher hills, kids below playing tennis-ball cricket in a windshower of crinkly leaves. There’s urgency in the air with this oncoming winter- stacks of wood and yak-dung on roofs, people hurrying from the stores home- you can feel the chill deepen every night, the days shorter every day.
I buy chocolate and go back to my white-washed walls. It’s pretty and cold and lonesome here- I am the only tourist in the whole town and not a single restaurant is open. I can’t wait for the warmth of sleep and the bus in the morning to take me back to Leh. Away from the ghost-town ghosts. Happy Halloween.

YARUTSE, cont.

2007-11-15T06:02:00.000-08:00

VI
That night it was a storytelling circle lit by candles, with the cold night pressed against the window listening with its stars. We were in Yarutse, a one-house hamlet further up the valley. Dorjey and I had the company of Englishman Sir Robert Ffolkes (who lived and worked with the people in these hills for 25 years with various NGOs and is something of a legend among them), and his guide and pony-man Lhopsang, (a man that handles ponies, not a Centaur, you nerds). I sipped chung (a lemony, homemade barley beer not unlike Hefeweizen), and each time I took a sip Lhopsang would top me up. Immediately. It’s how they do it. At some Ladakhi weddings, the chung man carries a stick to poke guests with if they refuse to drink what he pours them. Lhopsang’s a guide from Leh, maybe in his 40s- a natural storyteller with a big laugh that starts in his eyes. And then he laughs so hard that he keels over his knees- like the time the Indian army men in Kargil thought he was Japanese even though he was speaking to them in Hindi.
And between sips of chung he told of the legends of the valley, the stories of Wanla Lonpo, the robber baron who had promised to watch over his people from beyond the grave, and still was known to appear in the voice and the eyes of local farmers and shepherds.
Or the arrogant villager who’d refused to make the customary small donation to a local gompa- the monks were unhappy with it, and soon the villager fell ill with pneumonia. The local healer said that he sensed there was something that needed to be put right; so the villager’s family dispatched a rider to bring money to the gompa. Within a day the villager was fully recovered and healthy again.
I was fortunate to have Sir Robert there because he was a key into the door of these stories and legends because he either knew them already, or could translate what Lhopsang couldn’t make clear in English.
I laughed and listened in the candle’s light to stories from a far-flung place, warm and hazy from homemade brew. Our little hamlet must’ve looked like a star itself, lone and shimmering in the hillside blackness.

YARUTSE

2007-11-15T05:47:00.000-08:00

V

Cracker of a hike today. Climbed more than 2000 feet- all in a day’s work for Dorjey, though. This is an easy day for him. Kind of. I was definitely getting sluggish when we finally saw the prayer flags in the breeze at Ganda-La pass- not so much that the muscles are tired, but the breathing is hard and the head hurts. We were at about 15000 feet. It was windy as hell when we came over the pass- it all funnels from one valley to the next through these very flags. I went over the hill to escape the icy knives while Dorjey searched with the scope for the Tibetan Argale (like Bighorn sheep) that we’d seen go over the pass an hour earlier. He found em, of course. Amazes me- these things weren’t even specks on the distant hillside, yet he somehow picks out a movement or a flash of white and then focuses in on the area. He grew up in these hills- he knows what to look for. So we sat and watched them, then ducked out of the wind to share an apple and some biscuits. I lay flat on my back, trying to regain some energy. We fritzed around taking some flying photos (see above), then we’d had enough of the wind (and it was getting dusk) so we started down.
We’d climbed a fuck of a long way. On the way down Dorjey told me how he’d started smoking after a Portuguese girl broke his heart. He thinks he’ll have a marriage arranged for him this winter. I asked him if he’d go for a love marriage with a European girl if he got the chance (like one of his friends did), and he said, Definitely. Even though it’d make his family angry. We chatted a lot on the way down. We sang some of Hotel California, stepping around rocks with the sun on the peaks and the darkness in the valley.. and when we smiled at each other in conversation something of the forced small-talk grin was gone and it felt like we were breaking a real smile together. It takes a couple days to crack a friendship.

Himalayan Trekking

2007-11-08T22:08:00.000-08:00

IV- Rumbak

It’s Katya’s big day today- Jhalaak Dikhlaja, Indian Dancing with the Stars- here..
( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0RmFUOSqLcs ).
Wish there was a TV within a hundred miles so I could watch.
I had a rough night last night. Had a splitting headache right down to my neck, so I was dead silent through my dal-and-rice dinner with Dorjey (my mountain guide), and my host family here in Rumbak. Drank a litre of water and crawled into my bedroom at 7:30. I Tucked my pajama pants into my yak-woolly socks, slid on a wifebeater and T-shirt. Pulled my jogging pants over the pajama pants, and a long-sleeve shirt over the T-shirt. Then a sweater on top of that, and finally my hoodie. Pulled the hood up. Bundled up in three blankets and a sleeping bag in my Himalayan mountain hamlet at 12 and a half thousand feet, and did my best to sleep.
My lips are peeling off- nothing but wind and sun out here in the hills. Didn’t see any snow leopards today, but enough dizzying glorious vistas to keep my drunk for weeks. I must’ve spent a total of two hours just sitting there, staring (usually while Dorjey was scanning the cliff-faces and rockfalls with the telescope).
Mountains are know-it-alls. Stoic. Quiet when they’re rising up around you. And yes, they are in the act of rising. One thing about mountains is that they don’t seem stationary or lifeless; they seem to be breathing, watching, stretching- and they instill their life-force in you as you lay your footfalls in their tracks and rivulets. Dorjey and I hiked up up up from the village in the valley. Must’ve climbed over a thousand feet, straight up the hills, making our own trail in the loose shale and bramble. Dorjey’s a quiet fellow- we don’t say too much. But he’s cool with it, so I’m cool with it. I asked him if he’s married; he said, No, but maybe this winter. It’d be arranged with a girl from another village.
Back in my hut the ceiling is many sticks laid over log-beams and above that, thatch. The sleeping areas are on the second level, for warmth, I presume. This is a big village, Rumbak- seventy people or so. Yarutse- tomorrow’s- is a one-house hamlet. All I can hear out in the stillness is baby goats crying and the occasional donkey hissy-fit. And the men hissing SHUK! to persuade the long-haired yaks off the paths between the huts.
I wonder how long people live out here. They’ve been doing it for a thousand years, right in this village, surviving in the mountain desert at thousands and thousands of feet. Sunbaked faces. Older women (who are probably only in their forties) have facial skin like well-tanned leather. The men’s hands when you shake them are like lizard skin. This so-called simple life is a hardy one.
I sat above the village, dusk falling, high snow in the mountains beginning to glow white. Gave thanks for my luck and my health and the many beating hearts of the ones I love. Little hearts in ribcages of people I love, little candles burning far away and I can’t see the light but I can always sense the warmth. Thinking, so much to be thankful for. But then I heard a sound in the darkening hill above me and turned my head so fast that the Velcro around my chin snapped open. And then all I could think of was how silently the snow leopard must stalk his prey, and how he is known to target those vulnerable and separated from the flock. So I stumbled back down the slope between the mudbrick walls, stepping cautiously around the yaks in the corners and watching the first star appear over the dusty mountain. It’s almost a lunar landscape here.
Inside it’s a home. Worn rugs over the coldstone floor, thicker ones along the walls. Knee-high tables with steaming tea, steaming rice. When you’re in the mountains anything hot tastes good.

Hoodyhead

2007-11-06T22:44:00.000-08:00

III- Leh

Writing by candlelight, hotwaterbottle feet, hoodyhead, trying to be warm in the very dark starry night until Norbu brings the hot water in the morning and I stand naked in the frigid shivering bathroom and douse myself, scald myself into the day. Omelette and Ladakhi bread for breakfast; I’m too shy to tell him that I don’t like eggs. He’s too sweet.
Last evening I sat in Angmo and Norbu’s living room, cat-on-lap, while they chopped and diced tomatoes to pickle for the winter around the corner. Indian soaps battled and raged on TV while the power came and went, solar backup kicking in. Talked of family and weather and wegetables and the new dam at Alchi and Bactrian camels. And Little Cat purred all the while, or begged for a piece of my mutton. It warmed me up.
I had been cold. Another day of talking only to myself in the crisp silence above the town, surrounded by the valleyed beauty spread out below my wings from up at the gompa. Prayer flags high in the breeze. And then making my way down, ducking through tunnels and steep alleyways, between mud-and-wood huts at dusk. But a home’s a home, and the glowing feeling seeps out the orange windows, through the indoor-dog’s bark or the baby brother’s laugh. I’m one of the outdoor dogs tonight. Roaming. Very few tourists around. Ate dinner twice hoping to find someone to talk to, but the restaurants (if not closed for the season) were empty. And I was cold, lonesome and homesick wending my way up the dark narrows, moon and stars overhead, donkeys wrestling in the shadows. Thinking of the gift of family. You can’t invent family or pretend it or replace it. The orange glowing. Either you’re an indoor-dog or an outdoor-dog. I trudged and sulked and got lost twice in the black and waved down a jeep for directions and there was heat in his car and kindness in his eyes and I hoped he’d offer me a ride, but no such luck. So I trudged. Headful of thin blood and dull ache. Creaky bones. Found my gate, found my door.
But then in the vegetable-slicing kitty-purring chitchatting I somehow warmed up again. Home away from home, this is Ladakhi hospitality. A little orange glowing for an outdoor dog.

Leh, LADAKH

2007-11-06T10:55:00.000-08:00

I

I’m surrounded by towering mountains and from my bedroom I can see the sun rising over a clifftop stupa. I’m sipping hot black tea and it’s so peaceful here. I can’t hear a thing but buzzing in my ears and a morning bird outside the window.
The sun rose over the Himalayas as we flew in an hour ago; this endless sea of jagged teeth, a broken earthsmile. I could close one eye and imagine I was looking out across an Antarctic ice shelf in autumn, as its beginning crash itself together and freeze in place. Pink suntongue licking the icing sugar-frosting off the proudest peaks first, while the deep blue valleys remained in shadow; and the proudest peaks marched off into the distance with their sunlight victory, an army of snowclad megaliths, sullen and majestic, regal and imposing. Ramparts. Mountain ramparts; hard to believe human beings have conquered these barriers and these apexes when you see them from above.
It is so breathtakingly, peacefully, silently, serenely beautiful here, I don’t know how I will sleep all day.

II

Been feeling a bit of the eleven thousand foot headache, but I’m doing my best to be downright lazy while i adjust. Dozing, farting, reading- sometimes the top of my head aches like I’ve been running too long.
Norbu and Angmo run this guesthouse- they’re middle-aged, parents of college-kids, very sweet. Norbu’s family has lived in Leh for over 200 years and owns a lot of land here.
The sun has slipped behind the garden wall of the ramparts now, the moon pursed his lips, snuck up over the other garden wall, leering above the gompa, stealing focus before his cue. The town is still as ever. Even at “rush hour”. Nestled between its garden walls, huddling for a little warmth.
I’m happy here. Simple. My room is; a hard but cosy bed, couple small tables and a plastic chair; electric lights on each wall (that usually work); two walls of superb mountain views. The taps aren’t working cause the water will freeze- if I want hot water, I have to request it in a bucket. I feel so much lighter without the TV, computer, 6 pillows and a fountain-pool. I like the simplicity. Feels like it suits me better.
It’s getting colder now, you can feel it creeping in like gas. The mountain feeling. It peels me again. Maybe at eleven thousand feet my mind begins to bend. The mountain feeling. Closer to the core.

flagpole

2007-10-18T23:31:00.000-07:00

I’m watching dusk fall on Hyderabad. I’m watching it from a rooftop in Banjara hills. I can see the massive valley of urbanization through the settling haze of dusk and smog, and the city’s dusty moonscape is broken only by the man-made lake in the centre, the Hussain Sagar. It’s balmy and breezy. “All-llah ak-baaar”. There’s a beauty in the call to prayer at dusk. There’s a beauty in those words alone- Call to Prayer. Feels like a gentle reminder; an Invitation to Peace. Or something. For some reason it makes me think of Flagpole at summer camp. Whatever you may be doing, at dusk you report to Flagpole. To see all your friends. To salute the day. To take a moment to think. I miss the flagpole in my life. I can understand people taking comfort in structured days- it makes sense.
They’re starting in now- three different Invitations warbling and waving like flags of song, like beckoning fingers. Intermittently they form an accidental harmony with one another. An unintentional choir. What could be more beautiful than an unintentional choir?
The first tiny bat appears in the dying light. Every other winged creature seems to be heading for home, but bats take the night-shift. At the Charminar today we hired a guide- I see no reason not to spend $2.50 on learning at least one thing you didn’t already know. I wouldn’t have known that one side of the four-pillared structure has no stairs so that the King’s chariot could pull up alongside it 400 years ago. I wouldn’t have known that one of the carved symbols inside the minaret was a cat; a cat because cats eat rats, rats cause plague and the Charminar was built as a monument to those who lost the battle with the rat disease.
We also visited the Mecca Masjid today, second-biggest mosque in the country. They had a bomb blast here three months ago, killed seven. Broke a stone altar in half. In the market outside, the bustling, busy, Ramzan-shopping-preparing crazy market, it’s beautiful to see a Hindu woman in a colourful saree haggling for bangles beside a burqa-shrouded Muslim woman. Katya tried on a burqa in the market, but just bought the mask. We still got lots of stares. I think the boys thought I was running off with one of their own.
The pray-ers are marching up the hill to mosque now. Just like we marched up the dust trail from campfire. I wonder if they feel as warm as I always did after campfire. Longsleeves over summer skin almost feel superfluous. Perfectly superfluous.
Can’t see anymore…

Barbershop

2007-10-17T01:24:00.000-07:00

it costs 30 rupees for a straight razor shave. Who’s doin the shavin and who’s just hanging out, the barber shop is full of guys, curious about the foreigners who stepped off the back street. And when my barber snaps in the new razor, it looks a little worse for wear, is that rust? And he gives it a rinse with some tepid water. Lathers me up, fans stirring slowly overhead, the kid beside me is getting a bowl-cut butcher job and is crying quietly because of it, but now the hairs are being sliced from my ghost-white visage, and I can tell the razor isn’t razor-sharp because there’s a tiny pull, a tiny scrape, but it’s coming off smooth just the same. More men arrive in the doorway, or whisper quietly in the darker corners, smiling and the word Canadian seeps through now and then. (when they asked, ?American?, we said no, Canadian. They said, same thing? We said, are India and Pakistan the same thing?) he’s given my face the twice-over now, and it’s baby butt smooth, so he rubs perfumed oil into my baby’s butt and vigorously shake-massages my face so my whole body is vibrating and I’m trying not to laugh at how strange it feels, but it feels good. He asks if I want an oil head massage- What the hell. I feel like a dog with fleas as he empties what looks like fast-food ketchup package of molasses-thick golden oil at the crown of my scalp, and goes to work rubbing and squeezing it in below the hairs. It’s not the drift away to ocean soothing sounds type of head massage- there’s no worry of falling asleep as he’s either pushing and rubbing his fingers so hard against my scalp that my whole head is moving, or he’s bonking it- there’s no other word for it- with the bottom of his fists, quickly and efficiently. My head definitely feels lighter when he’s done. They ask if I want a full-body massage, but I’m good. The foreigners leave the barber shop..

ENTRY

2007-10-07T01:01:00.000-07:00

I haven’t written anything here for a while. Sorry about that. I am in Pune. Near Mumbai. Last week we were in Bangalore, further south. We took it easy down there, being exhausted after 2 weeks in Delhi of sightseeing and birthday partying (for both of us). We stayed in a company house and got to have our first cockroach experience when we discovered a hundred of them, all shapes and sizes, squatting in the microwave. Butter popcorn proved to be too much for them (or maybe it was the sweltering microwaves) and they made a mass exit, some trapped in the digital clock (it’s cockroach o’clock). But it was a welcome change to be under a roof with more than one room to call home that we didn’t have to take an elevator to get to. We’d been looking forward to being domestic again (we’ve forgotten what cooking and cleaning is), but we were denied such simple pleasures as the house provided its own duo of maids to cook every meal and wash every dish. But after having seen the menagerie in the microwave we weren’t too keen to hang out in the kitchen after all.
I was fortunate enough to get another radio interview in Bangalore, with an English pop/rock station called RadioIndigo. I was interviewed over the course of an hour by RJ Ayesha, live on the air, and she played Marianne and Stop the Time from the record, and I played Howling and the Moon live. The response from the rush-hour traffic listeners was fantastic- many text messages of support and requests for CDs. We gave a few away. I wish I’d had another week there- I would’ve tried to do a show. But maybe I’ll go back. In fact I just talked to Ayesha today, and she said there’s been a request for Marianne every day this week. So that’s heartening.
So onto Pune. The weeks are flying by now. We’ll soon be back in bustling Bombay. Here in Pune I walk around a lot. Today I played a tracking game. I sat in a roadside café and waited for someone to walk by that grabbed my attention- a fire-person. A wizened old man with a full head of silver hair, and a child-like perplexity about his features caught my eye, so I let him get half a block, then began tracking him. Following him. We crossed the bridge and were soon wandering through tight streets choked with afterwork traffic, people rushing home, rushing to school, or not rushing at all. I soon lost my quarry and had to find another one. I did this a few times. It’s a great way to get into the thick of a city. It’s a great way to get hopelessly lost as well, so I made continuous mental notes of how to get back to the bridge (Go back to Hindu temple with green truck, turn right, back to Yellow Cloth Pyramid, turn Left, etc). I enjoyed peering into people’s lives as they went about them. I sat by the road and had the best chai I’ve ever tasted for 3 rupees in a tiny shot glass. I wandered back over the bridge.
Sometimes I get a little sick of being a tourist so I make up these games. Tracking people and so on. Sometimes I feel isolated in these hotels, or just that I need a haircut. Sometimes I go off the rails, but most times I’m pretty close. Wobbly but okay. Sometimes I feel like an emotional flatliner, I’m riding a riverraft down the flat line, coasting to nowhere in particular, feeling nothing in particular. It’s disconcerting. So there’s colours all around me, why should I jump ship? My legs are waggling. Some say it’s unlucky, but I can’t help it sometimes. Sometimes.
To start a rickshaw you pull up on a long lever that lies flat beside your left foot. It grunts and sputters like a lawnmower before it gurgles to life. Women in sarees ride behind their husbands side-saddle on the scooters. Little boys in school ties play plastic cricket under the awnings of abandoned shops, 6 feet from the smoke and long horns of early evening traffic, and the little girls in green school frocks stand in large circle playing a clapping game, waiting for their mothers to fetch them. Some men sit at the steel chai-seller’s table and wait for a friend to pass by. Most sit for the minute it takes to finish the small glass, and abruptly leave. Some of the stray mutts that roam every city have surrogate caretakers, and follow them in small packs, waiting for a small treat. At the base of the bridge, the man with the lime-juice cart sweeps the stones in front of his stand with a short broom, thin twigs tied with twine.
It's better for business.

Fishin Blues (that's a hint)

2007-09-25T06:02:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know everyone wants to hear about the Taj Mahal. Right? For those of you unfamiliar with Taj Mahal, he’s a blues musician who’s been around since about the 60s, and while he’s certainly rooted in the country blues tradition, he has never been one to stick to the well-beaten traditional blues path. Oh, and there’s also this palace thing with the same name. It’s in India somewhere I think. No, Indiana. Actually, it’s in Agra. It takes about three hours to get to Agra from Delhi. We got up at five. And woke up at the Taj Mahal.
It’s pretty much the best gravestone I’ve ever seen. See, Shah Jahan (with a little help from thousands of his friends) built it for his wife after she died. That’s right, AFTER she died- she never even got to see this thing. And yeah, people say it’s over-rated, and yeah it’s a tourist trap. But when you walk out of the ticket building and into the courtyard it still manages to take your breath away. But it’s been described a thousand times before, so go ahead and google “wordy Taj Mahal descriptions”. I’ll just tell you that it’s overwhelmingly majestic but simply beautiful at the same time. That’s from a distance. Up close the detail would make any mason cry. Picture a small floral design, designed in a pattern where the stems meet to form heart-shapes (love), and pull away to represent loss. Picture it about twelve inches high and twelve inches wide and carved into the translucent marble. Picture different types of coloured stone inlaid into the carving- lapis lazuli for blue, onyx for black, etc- shaped to fit the delicately weaving carving. Picture camels bringing sacks of these various stones from as far away as Turkey and South Africa. (It helps if you picture magical, flying camels. They’re pretty cool to picture. Especially spitting on people from great heights. I digress..). Now picture this little 12x12 design, and multiply it by about 400, so that it can adorn the walls around the entire inner circumference of the mausoleum. This should give you an idea of just one small piece of detail on this ornate corpse-box. (Is this the first time the Taj Mahal has ever been called an ornate corpse-box?)
We hung around the corpse-box for a while. Lots of pictures. Then we went and argued with our driver to take us half an hour out of Agra to Fatehpur Sikri. His boss tried to tell us on the phone that this place was in another state- Rajasthan- so he’d have to charge us out-of-state fees. We were like, We’re looking at two different maps, buddy, and Fatehpur Sikri is not in Rajasthan. It was a bold attempt by the honest car-company man, but a failed one. Our driver took us there, and we spent the rest of the afternoon checking out the illiterate emperor Akbar’s hilltop palace abode, complete with a judgment courtyard (where elephants would literally stomp convicted criminals brains out), a frolicking nymph pool with a musician’s island in the middle (because it’s hard for nymphs to frolic without tunes),and denominational temples for each of Akbar’s three wives (Catholic, Muslim and Hindu).
We ate some dal on a rooftop overlooking the village and got back in the car. Tablas are good for falling asleep to.

Delhimarketing

2007-09-25T05:52:00.000-07:00

Turned a corner today. Dusk fell on the bazaars around the Jama Masjid and I sauntered off beneath the bright bulbs strung between buildings and I breathed in.
I breathed in. I took my time. It can be hard to take your time with so many eyes on you, but I ignored the stares and took in the market around me. Fresh-baked smells and every shopkeeper a photograph in himself, every doorway a story. Stacks of goat’s heads in the meat market and the beggars seated outside a market café, waiting patiently for fresh naan. The call to prayer coasts in on the encroaching darkness, and white caps and long robes are rushing past me, hurrying into tiny streetside mosques, flitting through the narrow doorways into tiny oases of peace and prayer.
I felt at ease, and I felt joyful to be surrounded by this vibrancy, this life. Just people living, and me waltzing among them, observing.

ADRIAN'S LONG AND ARDUOUS JOURNEY TO THE FLOWER SHOP DOWN THE STREET

2007-09-17T04:30:00.000-07:00

16:30 Hrs; Left the hotel. As per directions from the staff went Right out of the hotel, and then Right again. Got lost. Walked two blocks, then stopped a passerby to ask for help. Turns out I am on the right street (Janpath), but going in the wrong direction.

16:40 Hrs: Walk back the way i came, past my hotel, and reach the large, frantic roundabout (Delhi is full of these). Waiting to cross the heavy stream of traffic, a man beside me strikes up a conversation. He's friendly, well-dressed- middle-aged professional. Asks where am i from? Where am i going? (Regular Gaugin, this guy). -I'm trying to get to Connaught place. -Why? -Looking for a flower shop. -Oh, well there's one right near here, they have everything you need.
Okay, great. Friendly Guy even walks me over there himself. I go inside, and it's an over-priced, over-air-conditioned, multi-level Indian craft store. Not a flower in sight. Kinda saw this one coming.

16:55 Hrs: Leave the Emporium. Back to the road. Accosted by numerous autorickshaw drivers who demand that I not walk to my destination. I ignore them, and head back to the roundabout. This thing is confusing, and has about ten different crosswalks. I don't know where to start fording this stream. I know that Connaught Place is only five minutes and fifteen rupees away from where i am by rickshaw because I've done the trip in the other direction, so I cave in and hail one of the green-and-yellow whiplash machines. -Connaught Place, please.
. We're off, but I notice that so is the meter. -Could you turn the meter on please? -No, no meter. Thirty rupees, thirty rupees. -No, meter. Meter. -Just thirty rupees, baas. (He's pulled to the side now). - Meter, or I get out. -Thirty rupees only. -I'm getting out.
I get out. Another rickshaw pulls up behind. I walk over. -Connaught Place, but put the meter on. -No meter. Only forty rupees. -No! Meter. METER, or I'm not getting in. -Meter broken. Broken, baas. Forty rupees, only. -YOU GUYS ARE FUCKING WITH ME,
and I storm off. We'd been warned that Delhi is scam central.

17:05 Hrs: I walk halfway around the roundabout, and then into the swanky Shangri-La Hotel, which I'd been told was near my flower shop. They're very helpful, give me a map, point me in the right direction.

17:15 Hrs: Okay, this damn roundabout is still really confusing, so I bust out the map to make sure I go up the right avenue. A Friendly Guy stops to help me. I'm wary of friendliness now, but I'm also Canadian, and find it hard to be an outright asshole to a guy that's "just trying to help". -Where are you trying to go, sir? -So-and-so Flower Shop. -Oh no no. They are closed now. All Janpath market close now.
He points to my map. -You go this market, it's open. Have everything you need.
This market is a mile from where I want to go. I decide I better just start walking away. -Thank you. He keeps telling me the directions as i retreat, and then, -But you take rickshaw, sir. No walk. Many beggars. Take rickshaw!
I just keep walking.

17:45 Hrs: And walking. But as it turns out, he pointed me up the right street. I find my flower-shop, and it is not even close to closing, and all of Janpath is abuzz with activity as well. I buy my roses, and return to the hotel unscathed by further friendliness. And it all took only two hours...

Anyway. Delhi is big. And flat. And wide. The streets feel like the Amazon after the traffic-swollen little rivulets of Bombay. Wide avenues, government buildings. Very British. This is Central Delhi, of course.
It's summer weather. No monsoon moodiness. But the men here stare at Katya with abandon, as in their eyes abandon their fucking heads, like they're all cartoon wolves or something. I don't think she'll be wearing many sleeveless tops here...

BOLLYWOOD SWINGIN

2007-09-04T07:13:00.000-07:00

I saw my first Bollywood film last night.
“Heyy Babyy”.
Miral took us. He’s Katya’s co-instructor for the classes, and one of Shiamak’s dancers.
It was a multiplex-type place called Inox. Regular movie stuff at the candy counters, popcorn and pop. Then weird Indian things too, like mini-buckets of curry-dusted corn. Stadium seating inside the theatre, like anywhere else. Some ads. Some previews.
Then suddenly a CGI Indian flag waving in a CGI breeze appears onscreen, and everyone stands while a Casio-synthesized version of the Indian national anthem blares. Katya and I stand shaking, trying not to giggle at how absurd it all seems, but then it’s certainly no more absurd than saluting your country before overpaid baton-wielders pound each other half to death over a hunk of frozen rubber. Go Canucks. Go Bollywood!!
The film begins. And it begins with a glorified music video, (a lot of Bollywood is glorified music videos). And it is LOUD. They crank it. The story’s not a very tough nut to crack, even in Hindi. Although we do have Miral to point out the finer subtleties of the humour. It’s loosely based on Three Men and a Baby. Three Indian dudes- swingin Hindu bachelors-live together in a swingin bachelor pad in Sydney, and they go out and swing most nights. Then a baby appears on the doorstep. Three men and a baby, they can’t handle it, diapers in faces, etc, and they finally leave it outside a church, until they think better of it, go to retrieve it, it’s dead from pneumonia, but the hospital miraculously revives it, and now they’re the 3 best daddies ever and they do a 3-daddy song and dance. Till mommy shows up. INTERMISSION!!
Yes, they have intermissions. Which I think is great. Any movie over two hours should have an intermission, (and this movie’s almost 3 hours). Anyway, after the intermission/pee break/popcorn refill there are more trailers (strange), and then it’s back to music-video land, our heroes trying to win babyy back from Once-Spurned Lover Mother, and with the help of much singing and dancing our number one dude (He Who Spurned) does finally win her (and babyy) back.
If you’re a fan of subtlety in film-making, then Bollywood is probably not for you. When it’s comedy (in Heyy Babyy anyway), it’s over-the-top slapstick with a PeeWee Herman kids-show soundtrack. But then when there’s drama, there is DRAMA. I have never seen so many shots of grown men crying. In my entire life. Put together. And oh! the slo-motions! Babyy’s hand leaving daddy’s in close-up (music swells); tear-stricken men r-u-n-n-i-n-g toward babyy after her first word, (Dada).. (music swells); a light that can only be God breaks through yonder hospital ward window after babyy’s life is spared (music is swollen).
Oh, the dizzying highs and terrifying lows. The masks of comedy and tragedy in a rainbow of brilliant colours. But what of the songs, you ask? Never fear, there was no shortage here. I counted at least five full-on music numbers complete with convincing lip-synching, dangerous dance-moves (often done by 50+ people at a time), and slick music-video smash cuts. (You will often see these videos, extracted straight from the movies, on Indian MTV).
Finally the last video-montage ends, the credits roll, I look at the time and it’s 1:30. AM. We got here at 10:30. That’s a long roller-coaster ride.
Anyway, I’m glad I went. It’s interesting to watch when other cultures attempt to emulate Hollywood, (and I’m not saying Bollywood is an Indian version of Hollywood- it’s obviously unique, but there are still many elements that try to do what Hollywood does). Witnessing this, you start to realize how contrived Hollywood really is, and how we’re all so blind to it. Pretty people with their world-sized problems, lots of tears and Good Acting and a score that deftly guides your emotions through the crescendos and diminuendos of the story. You realize how stupid it must look to someone who didn’t grow up on it when you see an Indian trailer that could easily be for the next Michael Bay classic, and yet somehow not. Something is missing; something is hard to believe. But come on, Tom Cruise is believable? We’re just used to him, that’s all. Star power. The next “role”. Anyway, I didn’t come all the way to India to write about Tom Cruise…

THE ASHRAM

2007-09-04T07:05:00.000-07:00

We visited a popular ashram in the middle of Pondicherry, (what used to be a French colonial town, 4 hours south of Chennai). Remove the shoes, walk in silence, a mural of flower petals laid over the graves of the two founding gurus there, and you line up to kneel and pray. And I must tell you I am searching these days. My liberal education and Western values have taught me cynicism and skepticism in the face of religion since I was a teenager. That said, I have felt in the glory of the peaceful mountain-shadow or the sweat and aftershock of the loversbed the greater connection- the Spiritual. I am not aspiritual. Just disillusioned.
I knelt to pray in silence with the others. To pray. I haven’t really tried to pray in years. It felt clumsy, like I was reading Shakespeare for the first time, but it also felt somewhat freeing as I tried to humble myself. I gave thanks for the many things I have to give thanks for, and I reflected quietly with everyone else. It was peaceful. And then each person slowly stands when they have finished, and files silently and single file out of the courtyard and into the adjacent building.

Which is a gift shop.

My short-lived spiritual journey-of-the-day finds its fizzled end in a gift shop where the ashram patrons remain silent, but the buzzes and beeps and clicks of the cash machine are louder than ever. My head is screaming- How Can I Not Be Cynical?? I feel betrayed and annoyed. And granted, many of the books in the shop are cheaper than cheap, and any institution needs to support itself. It’s not like they’re turning over Starbuck-sized profits in here. But it certainly doesn’t leave one feeling spiritually fulfilled, that much I can tell you.

Religion is still in the zoo for me. Not that I was expecting a couple weeks in India to change this.
There are Hindu temples here crammed between the fabric shops and grocery stands in the dirty crowded streets. There are afternoon prayers. Flocks of parades and celebrations and fireworks bursting over a city until past midnight two Sundays in a row. A beautiful thing?
Or is it sheep-herding? Tradition. And a fear of change. and The Way Things Are Done. Are the temples and churches the boxes it takes courage to think outside of? Or am I out in the cold and wilderness, peering through the thick glass at the library; at the hearthfire..

PIGS

2007-08-31T06:26:00.000-07:00

i thought i should mention to you that people walk pigs on the beach in Mumbai. I have no idea what this is about, but i was walking along the seawall in Bandra, and i saw people out on the rocks below the tideline, with huge black pigs sniffing along beside them. maybe there's some weird form of Indian truffle or something. .

LAST DAY IN CHENNAI

2007-08-27T05:51:00.000-07:00

Our last day was an Indian road-trip with friends. We rented a van , and along came Meena (with Pravda), Dipti, and Sajit (Sarge) and Brenton- two young guys that are also instructors for Shiamak’s school. Two and a half hours bumping along the highway to the old French colony Pondicherry, laughing a lot and stopping for photo ops.
We were too late to see the Shore Temple at the beach in Mahabalipuram. We clambered over the seaside rocks and saw its simple beauty from a couple hundred feet. Almost looks like an ornate sand castle. 3000 years old, they said, and it muses quietly beside a filthy Bay of Bengal beach, with a tourist market and fairground distractions.
Driving back into the city after dark we were quiet. It was a blessing to make such good friends at our first stop in India. These people showed us a lot of love. It was hard to leave Chennai. Such a big city and yet it felt friendly and small. I don’t think I will forget the week there when I think back on India.

SOWCARPET

2007-08-27T05:48:00.001-07:00

A couple nights back Meena took me into Sowcarpet market, where pigs and rugs are plentiful. Just kidding. Actually, no, they probably are. Well maybe not the pigs. Anyway. You park outside it and hop a bicycle rickshaw into the fray. Now, take all the craziness and stereotypes you’ve heard about India, and cram them into a few narrow, teeming backways, and you’re on the right track. Cattle with painted horns pulling wagons of wood; dusty, barefoot rascals hard at work yanking on your shorts with puppydog eyes; women in splashes of saree colour gossiping, haggling, seated in groups or carrying any manner of household item home with them atop their heads. And as you squeeze your way past, around and through people, while dodging hollering rickshaws or the occasional (potentially rabid) straymutt, you can glimpse every manner of shop and service you could ever need. It’s Wal-Mart with soul. Textiles, sarees, jewellery, produce, footwear, Menswear, hardware, underwear; street vendours hocking hot peanuts (so salty good), flower garlands, frying fish. Meena even got me a Henna tattoo.. story?.. done on my arm, right there in the street. She knows where everything is, too, even though it seemed like a maze of people and tiny shops to me. She says the market is the place to go when you need something specific, and she has her own personal favourite shop for every need.
But apparently Sowcarpet Market is just a junior version of the kind of market you might find in Delhi. I don’t know. I was saturated. And satisfied. This was the India I’d heard about and been dying to see.

RADIO CITY INDIA!

2007-08-27T05:47:00.000-07:00

There’s been lots of press here- Katya’s been interviewed by about 7 papers, plus TV shows and magazines. We did a radio interview together on the Chennai rock station 91.1, RadioCity, and then I went back and did another interview with them about songwriting and music, and they played some songs from the EP, and I played a song live as well. It was a trip to sit in my hotel room a few days later and hear “Marianne” over Indian airwaves. (I have some video of this which I will try to post on youtube at some point, and maybe some audio on myspace).

Monsoon

2007-08-27T05:44:00.000-07:00

It’s early for monsoons here. The sky grows ominous dark. The black clouds roll in with the thunder overhead, and the juicebar guys on the street start rolling out the canopies. We all cram under them when the rains gun the street down. Thunder and lightning and the rain blows the wind so there’s no staying dry, even under cover. Air thick with moisture like sweat, and a steady sheet of rain hammers the pavement and nearly silences the city. And then suddenly it stops as suddenly as it began, and the traffic accelerates back to a fever pitch again, and the city is showered and ready for work.

CHENNAI

2007-08-27T05:42:00.001-07:00

It’s hot. But seaside hot more than urban sprawl hot. Although this is still an urban sprawl. And I’m still sweating. The city is exploding outside. I’m not sure what the festival is called, but it is a Christian one celebrating the Virgin Mary. We saw some processions in the street earlier. Then from the rooftop restaurant at the top of our hotel we sip Sandpiper beer, and the city is laid out all around us like Paris-at-our-feet, and every temple in the city seems to have its own assortment of fireworks to explode at random. Apparently Sundays are always lively in Chennai, but this one’s especially crazy.
Meena and Dipti met us at the airport- Meena’s a manager for the Shiamak organization, and Dipti is a dance instructor- they are both lovely women and immediately gracious. We stop beside the highway for fresh coconut milk; (meaning a sunworn woman holds a coconut aloft and hacks it with a machete, shoves a straw in the opening, and presto- instant refreshment). Immediately the city has a good vibe. Still Indo-crazy, near misses from rickshaws on the highway and PEOPLE EVERYWHERE, but it feels less frantic; more friendly somehow.
Later, Meena, husband Jeetu and 8-year old daughter Pravda take us across town to a popular idli joint. Idlis are rice patties you eat off banana leaves with your hands and dip in chutneys. You clean the leaf first. You eat with your right hand. You don’t get to pay because your hosts won’t let you- Meena and Jeetu tell us they are honoured to have us as their guests. You read about this kind of hospitality…

Bombay, Pt. One

2007-08-20T00:02:00.000-07:00

BOMBAY-

This place is a mad-hatter’s New York. Bustle doesn’t even come close. Ratrace. It’s frantic. The rats are rabid. The mad-hatters’ jeering honks and hornblasts rise from the distant streets below like an odour. I don’t think this city will know what sleep is. But this is only my second night here.
It’s eight o’clock on the rooftop and the monsoon rains have cleansed the whole massive metropolis, and the wind has wiped the sky clean of clouds so maybe you can glimpse a star through the light-haze city-fog. It’s warm, but too humid to be comfortable. Or maybe it’s the hotel bar elevator music. A business hotel. Near the airport.

Welcome to Bombay.

The cabbie’s card today said Sayed- he said he’d drive us into South Mumbai, around for the day and back for 1300 rupees. I tried to bargain with half a heart- he said to pay him what we thought he deserved at the end. Tricky.
It’s 45 minutes into town from the hotel. And there’s one person for every square foot along the way. Mainly men though. Wiry old ones, spitting from shanty-shack doorways. Shiny skinny young ones dragging bamboo poles or stubborn cattle down the choked thoroughfares, sharp black eyes and black moustaches The traffic stutters, jumps and flows like a river of over-achieving ants and you know the cabs and rickshaws would climb over each other if they could. They nearly do. And they speak a language of sharp beeps and long HOOOORRRNS- a constant chatter filling the air, like whale-gossip under water.
We were silent for nearly the entire ride. It’s like taking a kid who’s been reading nothing but colouring books and dumping him in front of a 40-foot TV action movie in hyper-colour. We’re not used to it. We were speechless. People. People. People. People. People. Shacks, shanties, holes-in-walls, apartments, office buildings, people, people, people. Everywhere.
We drive into downtown and our driver lets us out near the Gateway of India- a massive archway beside the sea. We walk around the decadent Taj Mahal Hotel Palace and Tower as well. Then down through the Colaba market. Colourful, over-enthusiastic salesmen, wares that start to look the same from one block to the next- fabrics, leather sandals, bangles. We’re not looking to buy anything yet. We just walk. And it’s sticky sticky hot. Our shirts are stuck. Nobody else here seems to notice the heat.
We find our way back to our Cool Cab. It’s called that because of the AC. We sprang for it. Glad we did.
Driving through the mad-hatter maze into Khola Goda, looking for the Mahesh Lunch Home- seafood restaurant. Despite spirited honking, our driver can’t penetrate the clogged backstreets, so he points us in the direction of the restaurant.
It’s clean and cool inside. An aquarium with a lion-fish adorning the wall. About twelve staff standing around for a one-room restaurant with about 10 tables. The waiter upsells us deliciously. Even tells me the cheaper dish I want to order is “bad”- I should get the twice-as-expensive fresh-caught crab. It’s still cheap, so okay.
Spectacular food. I’m still full now. Huge prawns and spices and rices and crab in thick sauce and CRACK and suck the meat and your mouth burns and your stomach is like, What the hell is all this, like it started raining oil-paint in the land of Black and White, but it’s oh-so-good and filling me up, and those tiny little green and red candies wipe away the spice from your mouth after the meal anyway. A good meal.
It’s after 4 and we head back to the hotel. I pay Sayed the 1300. He did a good job.

This place is a madhouse.