NoWayJose
Monday, September 20, 2004
It's been a while.
There's been New Zealand. And Fiji.
And a failed attempt to get to the US.
And other people's broken legs, pleurisy, death, coming out (or not), etc.
Saturday, February 07, 2004
On the other hand knowing something's name = having power over it
Having the power to choose your own name - and not to give it to others:
13 Moses said to God, "Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, 'The God of your fathers has sent me to you,' and they ask me, 'What is his name?' Then what shall I tell them?"
14 God said to Moses, "I am who I am . [2] This is what you are to say to the Israelites: 'I AM has sent me to you.' "
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Currently on heavy rotation chez me: Sean Paul's Dutty Rock. Altho I can't seem to get past track 5. hmmmmm.
"Is this Shaggy?" enquiries a housemate.
"Sean Paul" I reply.
"Is that Shaggy's real name, then?" he further probes.
"No"
"Well, he sounds like Shaggy"
"They are both ragga singers"
"Ragga?"
"Yes, ragga or dancehall. From Jamaica"
Ah ha! I (30, librarian) am momentarily cooler than my housemate (35, acountant). I even have as Greensleeves sampler somewhere.
'Ear me now, rude bwoy!
I arrived back on Saturday. I had about 400 emails awaiting me to trawl thru so I wimped out and went to the cinema to see "Return of the King". Bad move.
Why it didn't work for me
- It's long. I don't think I have ever had the urge to leave the cinema before a film is over (except for that one time when I was seven I ran out a showing of The Black Hole coz it was too damn scary) but at the 2 hour mark I was looking at watch going "enough already, i could murder some sorbet".
- It's nothing to do with my life. The characters are all noble and heroic - or evil. And the goodies fight the baddies and win and most of them live happily ever after. Hooray. But their heroism (basically twatting people in battle) wouldn't last them five minutes here. And I look at my box of emails with its tangle of relationships and half-truths and compromises and, frankly, facing a bunch of orks seems preferable sometimes. Coz most of us aren't chosen for "destiny". Just life, geezer.
So I spend 5 days sitting on various Gilli islands and not doing very much. A tropical island with friendly natives and a ready supply of coconut juice. I suppose this is paradise. It says so on the tin. Maybe I saw too many Bounty Bar commercials as a child.
Gilli Air around 7 pm. The sun is going down beind the trees which are a sumptious green. To the West, the water looks like beaten copper stretching into an ultramarine blue (is it just my brain or does the water actually glow?). The full moon has risen and there is a trickle of silver on the water. In the distance, the mountains of Lombok reflect the last of the sun and a rainbow stretches from the crags into the clouds hovering above them.
This Beauty. My greedy eyes strain to take it all in. My heart breaks.
Thursday, January 08, 2004
Apparently I slept thru an earthquake on the morning of Jan 2nd. About a 6 on Richter scale so I'm told.
Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Happy Birthday, Dear Bruvva
My bruv is working towards his black belt in jujitsu and he rocks! With mighty fists of steel.
The Story of Ganesh
Once upon a time, there was a god called Shiva. His nickname may give you some idea of his character - "The Destroyer". And he had a wife called Pavarti. Now Pavarti was pregnant with their child. When the time of delivery came, Shiva wasn't there. He was off fighting demons - or so he claimed. More likely he was sinking a couple of schooners of soma with Vishnu. Anyway, Pavarti gave birth to beautiful boy, who being a god was born fully formed (not an easy birth but that's gods for you).
Anyway, Shiva came back tired and emotional from "fighting demons" and what happened next is not really clear. Some say that Shiva walked in a found Pavarti in bed with a strange young man (her son) and went wild with jealousy (and possiby a little guilt), drew his sword and cut the luckless lad's head clean off. Shiva then kicked the severed extremity over the horizon. Others say that this is sub-Freudian bollocks and that what really happened was that the young man was standing guard at the door whilst his mother rested when he was accosted by a strange, three-eyed gentleman wearing a snake as belt who demanded to see Pavarti. The lad demurred whereupon the furious god unshealthed his blade and decapitated the object of his wrath. Either way, the baby deva was without a bonce. Pavarti was furious. "Not only were you absent from the birth, Shiva, but you have just beheaded our child. Get him a head. Now."
Despite being called the Destroyer, Shiva was a good husband and aghast at what he had done. So he rushed out and, lo and behold, the first animal he should encounter was an elephant. He pleaded with the animal for its head. The elephant informed Shiva that it needed its head at least as much as he did but that seeing Shiva was a god and all, it would help him out. Shiva returned with the pachyderm's head and attached it to the lad's body. And that is why Ganesh has the head of an elephant.
Why do I like this story so much? Coz if you go into any Hindu home, you'll probably find a statue of Ganesh there. They call him the Remover of Obstacles and the Lord of Boundaries. If you want something sorting out, Mr G may be able to give you a hand. Coz if you have the head of an elephant due to parental decapitation then everything else must seem like pretty small potatoes. There's always a way out but it may not be the obvious one.
Overpaid, oversexed and over here
"Bule (Western) women are just about OK. They can be reformed. Bule men are beyond the pale however. Probably all drug-addicted sex maniacs. Most of the Bule guys have trouble getting a relationship here without an imediate promise of commitment. Some of the office girls were told by their parents not to talk to the English teachers. They were terrified of us."
Javanese manners
I have to say that on the whole, the Javanese are some of the most helpful people I have ever met. If you look lost, people will come up to you in the street, take you to the place you want to go and even work out itineraries for you on the spot (you should go here at this time coz you get the best views and then go there coz there are fewer people around and be sure to avoid there coz its full of touts and so on) with no outside agenda of their own. How lovely.
Solo vs Jogja
These 2 central Javanese cities apparently have a long-standing rivalry going on as to who is the real home of Javanese cultural. Soloeans say they have the better Gamelan players, the better artists and dancers but they get poached by better-known, fly-by-night Jogja. They mutter darkly that this wouldn't have been the case if the Sultan of Solo hadn't supported the Dutch in the battle for Independence. The Jogjeans say this is all sour grapes. But then they would say that.
Solo has 2 Kratons (royal palaces). In one they have museum with pretty much everything the royal family has ever owned (including chastity belts based on the principle of magic rather than locks/keys).
I imagined everything I had ever owned being put on public display. It wouldn't really amount to much. A few hundred tapes and CDs. Some books and clothing. A 1983 vintage Raleigh BMX burner.
That's about it really.
Big up James! I spent the first half of last week in Solo staying at his place. J teaches English to bored Chinese-Indo young people and is good vaue. For Christmas we went to Jogja and staying with Ker and Odie - who also rock.
Many thanks to you all for your hospitality.
Happy New Year to you all. I went to Kuta, Bali for NYE. Now, I can see all you hardcore travellers at the back turning your noses up - "But.. but... it's a tacky beach resort." Korrectamundo. And therefore has good restaurants, nice shops and a fair few scantily-clad young people.
As 2003 became 2004, I stood surrounded on a beach by people blowing paper trumpets (these are de rigeur on NYE in Indonesia and have been on sale for weeks) with a bunch of guys drumming for their lives and young tykes letting off extremely powerful fireworks all around me.
Rock!
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
There is a monkey forest in Ubud. At the end of Monkey Forest Road oddly enough. And it's full of monkeys. With mohicans and bad attitudes - so punk monkeys in fact. And around them there are statues of monkeys - one notable one with a big grin on his face. Whythe grin - well, maybe the large erection he's holding in one prehensile fist is reason enough.
And thru some odd, associative train of thought I remembered Monkey Mafia. In 1998, they released their only album "Shoot The Boss". They were lumped in with yer FatBoy Slims and yer Chemical Bros at the time, but MM didn't do so well and disappeared shortly after this.
Shoot The Boss is not a Big Beat album - if anything it's the estranged half-brother of Basement Jaxx's Remedy.
Clue: Packaging. Open up FatBoy Slim's #1 album and you get a pair of tits. Open up StB and you get pictures of the Watts riots. the vibe is militant from the get-go. Somehow, Jon Carter has been possessed by the rudeboy spirit of Jamaica. Rather than make some awful roots reggae record like all the other whiteboys, he's gone dancehall instead. The opening three tracks ("Jah Music", "Blow the Whole Joint Up" and "I am Fresh") smash into you like the bullbars on an SUV. The version of "Lion in the Hall" isn't as good as the one off "15 Steps", and we'll skip Steppa's Ball. And I have to take a cold shower after listening to "Work Mi Body". Then it all gets a bit weird. Ward 10 has seen something nasty in the dancehall, the Whore of Babylon is an evil electro nightmare and Metro Love sounds like a nervous breakdown. Things look rather bleak at this point but the 7th Cavalry appear in the raggatastic Healing Of The Nation. The last two tracks are gorgeous. Retreat Wicked Man is an exorcism of the preceding nastiness. The organ glows like raindrops in the afternoon sun and the sampled vocals make you happy to be alive. As Long As I Can See The Light is a Credence Clearwater Revival cover. And is a blinking lovely.
Coz StB is a redemption album, a Pilgrim's Progess/Divine Comedy in slack dancehall clothes.
Who would thunk it?
It is dark. It is raining. And worse, it is 4.30am. I have left the hotel at the crater's edge and slowly navigate my way downwards with the aid of a torch. I do not know where I am going. The path is steep but soon ends on a flat plain. Where do I go now? There is a light in the distance. "Go towards the light I think". There aren't mainly other options. I trudge on. The sky is getting lighter. Thru the murk, a man on horseback gradually appears. It's all rather like Lawrence of Arabia - but set in Whitby rather than, er, Arabia. "Transport?" he says. I decline the horse. I've walked this far and dammit I'll continue on foot. I pass a temple shrouded in mist and reach an encampment at the foot of a hill. I follow a crowd of Javans up the hill. I am wearing Timberland boots, they have flipflops. I feel like a big Western wuss. The hill is not a hill. It is the caldera of a dormant volcano, belching sulfur into the sky. The sun rises over one side of the volcano and the rain stops. The walking and rain have been worth it - and how. Trying to capture the view in words would be futile. I walk round the rim of caldera. The surprising thing is how soft the cone is - it's all volcanic ash which melts away when presure is applied.
Bromo. Cool as.
Friday, December 26, 2003
I spent Christmas Day cooking pasta for Javanese skate punks.
My list of top Christmas treats:
1. Bread fried in bacon fat.
2. The doll-based video for Sum 41's Hell Song.
3. Garlic potatoes.
4. Bribing security guards with alcohol.
5. Watching toodlers fight with dogs (no betting took place unfortunately).
I Say, I Say, I Say
Just as the speed of light is constant in a vauum, so watching person A kick person B up the arse on stage is universally funny. For want of something to do last Saturday I went to a Javanese music hall night. Well, it was free and out of the rain. The band were gamelan and after a bit of floaty dancing a middle-aged man and woman duo took to the stage (and to the kicking also). I had a vague feeling of deja-vu. The action then moved to a Javanese royal court where the bickering couple reappeared and the slapstick repetoire was expanded to include hitting each other with shoes. I'd like to tell you what happened next but I went home to bed. Sorry.
I have been in the waiting room for an hour - only three more to go before the train has come. It's not so bad, the air-con and MTV Asia are keeping my spirits up. My idyll is shattered as three of the campest Javanese men I have ever seen enter the room. One of them speaks English and we get to talking. He's a pharmacist turned barman (just moving from one form of pain relief to another kids). We talk a lot. Then he tells me a secret - he's bisexual. I am too exhausted to feign surprise. I assure him he's far too well-dressed to be straight and catch the sleeper train.
Javanese overnight trains are rubbish and I hide in my corner until the train pulls into Surabaya at 5.30am.
so I'm in this minibus with a middle-aged dutch bloke called bill and bill's violently sick and blames it on my face and i tell him it's his own fault for being an old man and with this spirit of bonhomie he asks me if i want to check out this hotel run by a dutch couple that's been recommended to him and i go along for want of anything better to do then go down the beach which is about an inch wide and covered in grey sand i meet bill and he begs me to save him from the other dutch people apparently they all sit around and talk about the state of the roads back home so we go to the hot springs where dragons puke green, sulphurous water on your head and then we hunt for dolphins in tiny boats but THE DOLPHINS ARE TOO FREAKIN' CLEVER then we hide from netherlanders in bar deserted except for javanese idol wannabees and then i get the hell off bali in search of punctuation
Monday, December 22, 2003
Ubud is where you go for a bit a kulcha on Bali. You can get to see various forms of Balinese dance: including the Legong, the Barong/Rangda amd Kecak.
Legong dances are essentially the dances of the Hindu Balinese/Javanese royal courts. Like most aristocratic types, they are elegant and extremely neurotic. Posture and expression are everything.
The Barong (yay!) is a big cuddly thing somewhere between a chinese dragon and a pantomime horse in appearance. The Barong is symbolic of all that is good in the universe. The Rangda (boo! hiss!) is an evil witch that does battle with the Barong.
For my money, the Kecak is the best. Dancers performing the Ramayana are accompanied by a 50-strong chorus of men who provide a hypnotic rhythmic accompaniment.
Sunday, December 14, 2003
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Bah Humbug
I didn't know what to do for Christmas until a few weeks ago. I was sitting in a hotel bar in Double Bay gossiping with a colleague when all of a sudden it hit me: I loathe Christmas.
Now Christmas is fine if you are a kid. It may even be bearable if you have kids but as a single man with no offspring, it offers little in the way of pleasure. Everywhere is shut and everything has tinsel wrapped round it.
Having reached this epiphany, others swiftly followed: I had 4 weeks of holiday left to take by the end of Jan 2004. It might be best to spend Christmas in a non-Christian country. The nearest such country is Indonesia.
Two days later I had a return ticket to Bali (leave on Saturday) and a replenished stock of imodium.
I have spent the last month irritating the hell out of my friends and colleagues about this trip.
As this trip was paid for by somebody else, I was staying in plush hotels rather than the dives I normally frequent. The whole experience is rather underwhelming. It's nice having somebody fold yer towels for you and getting to open a fresh sachet of soap every day - but apart from that? Nah - gimme back the sleaze.
More Seoul
Korea used to have its own monarchy. Who lived in palaces. Then the Japanese came and did away with that in the early years of last century. The palaces are now shells of their former selves - and altho simple and beautful, have a melancholic air about them. In the National Museum next to the main palace, there are two large scale models of the palace - one before and one after Japanese occupation. A big sign said all but said: "Look what you did, you Jap bastards, look, just f***ing look!!!!"
Seoul
Seoul was actually quite interesting. It's 40km to the DMZ with North Korea. So on a day off, I went there.
It was cold and pissing down with rain - appropriate Cold War whether. I was on a tourist bus with a bunch of Hyundai workers from Alabama. Apparently this was a month long training course / holiday for them - although most had elected to go home early.
The best bit was the tunnel. You get to go down the tunnel in a little car like a rollercoaster for midgets. You then walk along the tunnel - which ends abruptly before the DMZ.
"I know guys, we'll build a tunnel under the DMZ and send our glorious troops through. The running dogs of capitalism will never suspect a thing!" [cue much evil, manical laughter]
I know it's supposed to be serious, but it's kinda hard to take the whole thing seriously.
Japan and Korea
I spent a hectic week visiting Tokyo and Seoul at someone else's expense. However, I don't have that much to say except that I ran a course with a Vietnam vet who roadied for Sly Stone.
Oh and this guy writes about Japan in a very funny way.
Driving
I learnt to drive when I was 17. The instructress was this Hyacinth Bucket-type woman who slapped the dashboard to make rhetorical points, almost causing me to crash. For one reason and another (mainly laziness) I haven't been behind the wheel of a car for nearly a decade. As most of Australia is only visitable by car, I decided it was time to get a vehicle. But not wanting to kill the innocent, I got some lessons first.
My new instructor was a talkative, pendantic pom of whom I grew strangely fond over time. Apparently I have problems looking attentatively at the road. It is a good measure of my inattention that it took me over month to notice that he only had one leg. Eventually I steered the conversation round to enquire how he lost said limb.
"In a car crash", he replied.
I asked him how he felt about the loss of his leg. "Best thing that ever happened to me", he said before outlining the benefits that had accrued to him since.
Gotta admit that I like his attitude.
Sunday, October 05, 2003
The Yarra Valley
Beautiful countryside filled with heaps and heaps of wine. What were they thinking?
Went to some fringe stuff. Got told off for heckling one of the comedians - and his audience.
I dunno - I can't help it.
After the Gold Rush
Melbourne is a nice city. The centre is grid - ordered, sane. Lots of cafes and restaurants. Lots of rain and wind as well apparently.
Sunday, September 21, 2003
I Think I'm In Love
Matters of the heart crop up all the time in pop songs. Yearning, satisfied, pure, lustful, before, after. But in most songs, there's little room for doubt. You love somebody or you don't. You're in love or you're out of love.
Of course, things aren't that simple in real life. People may know what their feelings about someone or something are (although even this is tenuous) but we sure as hell can't always rely on knowing what the feelings of others are. We live in a world of perpetual uncertainty. We navigate it as best we can but there are no guarantees.
Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space is an album shot through with doubt and distrust. Nothing and nobody can be depended on.
So ITIIL is the third song on the album. The music is wistful. Humming away into a sweet buzz of disorientation. The sound track to an Indian Summer afternoon as the light dies. Jason Pierce's lyrics begin as standard-issue junkie crap - and then comes:
"But I don't care 'bout you
And I've got nothing to do"
A childish, petulant come back. I'm so over you... I'm gonna shoot up. Ah, that didn't work, did it? And then the strange call-and-response dialogue starts up. Jason is talking to himself. The effect is like Woody Allen gone gospel:
"Think my name is on your lips (probably complaining)"
The song fizzes away like an alka seltzer. Neurotic self-absorption turned inward, fitfully eating itself away. Drug delirium as a metaphor for romantic delusion.
It may be one of the best songs about love (as opposed to love songs) and its various side effects ever written.
Saturday, September 20, 2003
Jesus and Mary Chain - yes, they are painful. That's the point. You Trip Me Up or In A Hole are meant to leave scars on your ears in the best possible way.
And as for humidity - yeah, Bummed always smelt of dry ice and sweat to me. The whole album disappears in a haze. Pills 'n' Thrills was definite and well-behaved and dry in comparison. Or rather it felt rusty and corroded - like the years of hedonism on the inside and Manc precipitation on the outside had finally compromised the industrial infrastructure of the Hacienda.
London (and Dizzy Rascal)
I went into a shop today and asked after the Dizzy Rascal CD as others had raved about it. It left me cold. Literally. I was shivering in Sydney spring sunshine. It's defintely got a lotta garidge in there. The sub-bass pressure drops, the asymetric drum patterns. The sheer naked aggression of the thing. It triggered a weird flashback to life in London. Screwfacef***youbodyarmourdontcomenearme.
It reminded me why I don't live there now. But I didn't need reminding often enough to buy the goddamn thing.
This week is Glebe Week (courtesy of the Glebe Chamber of Commerce).
Tomorrow we have the Blessing of the Pets at Glebe Estate Community Church. If i had a pet, you can bet ya caboose I'd be down there ensuring it was blessed.
A Home and a Castle
We moved offices at the end of August. They didn't have enough space in the new building so a whole slew of us were told to work from home. I have been adjusting to this situation. Contrary to others' expectations I do make an effort in my teleworking - washing, wearing clothers, even shaving. But the change is requiring some adjustment, especially around ethical practice.
The early indicators are:
- Working from home is fine, provided you find alternative ways of keeping touch with colleagues
- The urge to get out of the house during the evenings is pretty overpowering
- Sitting out in the sun drinking tea in the backyard whilst doing business on the mobile is kinda cool
When do they put WiFi in pubs?
Sunday, August 24, 2003
You can't see out of the windows. Not that there is much to see - just an enormous McDonalds and the Parramtta Road traffic. It is mandatory for all lower-league rock venues to an airless black box where everything is coated with stale beer and fag ash. Drinks are served in plastic glasses. Don't get the wrong idea - this is not a place most people would go to hang out. No - you have come here with a purpose. And that purpose is to ROCK. But not only is the venue conspiring against you, so is the first act. I have nothing against men in dresses. Indeed, I spent Wednesday evening watching Vanessa Wagner's talent / talk show at the Columbian. I have nothing against individuals acting like they have tourette's syndrome. I even nothing against people lacking talent. I just want none of these individuals on stage in front of me. Anyway, moving swiftly on anyone remember Transvision Vamp? No? Well, 16DD are a bit like that. Accentuate the positive - Slant Six look like they really want to be in 50s American. But they do rock.
But not as much as Zombie Ghost Train who put on a show. They're kinda the opposite of "indie" bands like Coldplay and Radiohead. Indie bands are/were notorious for their lack of showmanship. Four blokes on stage who could just have walked out of the audience by chance. All earnest about the importance of their music and their art and all that crap. ZGT have no budget but put on pure theatre - staged tableaux, gymnastics, patter, costumes and make-up. They don't just invite, they insist the audience has a good time.
Does my heart good.
But probably not my liver.
Monday, August 18, 2003
Until a month ago, all Ian Penman meant to me was a name in Cure curio Desperate Journalist. And now he's spilling his heart out in html. Ian's gone TV cold turkey.
Ah TV - so much cheaper and socially acceptable than heroin, so much less disruptive to the lifestyle than alcohol abuse.
On Vinyl
Kpunk picks up on Paul Morley's article.
My take on this is a bit skewed. Coz I wasn't allowed vinyl records as a child. My parents believed that I would break/scratch them - as I broke everything else they gave me. I wasn't violent - just unbelievably clumsy (but, hey, you knew that from my prose style no?).
So I had a tape recorder instead. First, one of those enormous reel-to-reel jobs like something a FBI surveilence dude would have in an unmarked van parked outside Gene Hackman's house. Then a cassette number. I owned a record player for about 6 months at Uni 10 years ago (a family friend donated it to me) and I own about 20 records tops. So vinyl has no aura for me.
Now cassettes are different matter. A despised format - both by afficionados and the industry ("home taping is killing music") - but a necessary one.
The cassette experience is far more linear/sequential than the record - you can't drop the needle any where you wish but must scroll backwards and forwards to find the tracks you want. The recording is viscous and tactile. Time is felt.
Cassttes made music ubiquitous - car tape decks and walkmans desacralized the listening experience.
And cassettes are also mutable - you can record your own compilations - making the music your own in some key way.
Records are objections of adoration - sensuously stroked by the stylus to croon out their melodies. Cassettes are components to be plugged into a machine.
Sunday, August 17, 2003
Body Stuff
Can I just say how much swimming rocks? The resistance of the water against your limbs. The sense of being suspended - cheating gravity?
And can I also content that yoga rocks with mighty fists of steel?
Friday, August 15, 2003
Today is Indonesian Independence Day. The smoke from dozens of barbeques drifts across Sydney University and a student bands knocks out that old Javan favourite "When I Saw Her Standing There".
The Australian relationship with Indonesian is rather complex. Both are essentially European colonial creations. One is an archipeligo of 2000 islands and 200 million people (mainly Muslim) held together by a marginally democratic government and a repressive army in Jakarta. The other is a continent with a tenth of population but vastly wealthier and nominally Christian.
Potential allies, rivals and enemies both. And don't even get me started on East Timor.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
"I hate my job."
"Come to our place. Do you have much experience with Brazilian waxes?"
"Not technically, but I do tear strips off c***s all day."
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Thursday, July 31, 2003
A Time For Fear and K-punk delirial/derailed.
When I was 9 an early experiment with DIY connected me briefly to the mains electricity supply. The energy poured through. It was exhilarating. Wonderful. But reluctantly I knew it had to stop or else I'd die.
Breathe deeply. In. Out. Forget the world. Forget the farawayvisions in the corner of the room. Forget the people around you. There's no one here. Forget the future. Forget the past. How did you get here? It doesn't matter. Where will you go? It doesn't matter. Breathe.
In.
Your diaphragmatic and intercostal muscles contract, the negative pressure draws the air outside through your mouth, down your windpipe and into your lungs. Oxygen is absorbed by the tiny capillaries in your alveoli. Bound with iron (haemoglobin), it voyages through your body before its metabolized with organic compounds - traded for energy and carbon dioxide.
Out.
The carbon dioxide is traded for fresh oxygen at the border of the lungs. The carbon was once part of you. And now its being pushed up your windpipe, expelled into the big wide world. Diffusing into the atmosphere.
Breathe. You are connected to the outside world whether you like it or not. You can't cut yourself off. Make yourself invincible. Disengage. The only way would be stop breathing.
In. Out.
I can't tell you anything about the divine or the inhuman or even AFL.
I just remember the electricity.
I'm still breathing.
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Human-isms
What exactly does inhuman mean? And if music can awaken the inhuman within us then how can it be inhuman if it's part of us already?
You've caught me at a bad time, so why don't you piss off
Currently caning this on my headphones whilst I receive emails with "God Bless American" signatures.
It's partly coz the music is both forlorn and cheerful. But mainly coz Barney Sumner has truly absymal voice that with any other backing would drive you to rip your ears off. But it works here.
In much the same way that Ian Brown's off-key warbling complemented John Squire's string vest guitar.
Monday, July 28, 2003
Ridicule is nothing to be scared of
Agree with K-punk on this one. An ironic approach to culture means never having to say you love something. Never making yourself vulnerable to the critical judgements of others. Never taking a gamble. Flatlined.
I kinda have issues with The Carpenters at the moment (see below). But I think ABBA are great. Dancing Queen and Gimme Gimme Gimme are ProgDisco. Their ambition was incredible - and more incredibly on occasion they pulled it off.
When I was a child, I was brought up in the Evangelical Christian Church. The Divine was a weekly occurence (speaking in tongues, healing, exorcisms, prophecy) along with Grandstand and Sunday Roasts. It took be quite a while to realise that human beings made the divine rather than the other way round. And then I was cast out of the Garden. I tried other gates, other ways in - but could find only one: music. Music is my last contact with the divine, with a god who is already dead. And the divine only makes sense if you give yourself to it utterly, abjectly. It might be ABBA, or Human Resources, or Donna Summer, or The Pixies or even the fcking Birdie Song. It doesn't matter.
You got to lose it to use it.
No Recuperation, Only Feedback
Most of this paper strikes me as irrelevant however the following is quite interesting:
"The very desire of Ubiquitous computing to become embedded or pervasive technology serves to render space and time invisible; it quite simply seeks to go anywhere and be everywhere. But theories of everyday life as flow and transduction suggest that Ubicomp cannot actually be anywhere and everywhere, it must be somewhere and sometime"
Will consider and respond.
Creeping
Am I alone in finding Stelarc bloody annoying?
"Look, look - I have shoved a DVD player up my arse. Marvel at my post-humanity!!!"
A Jim Rose Circus Side Show for the academic lecture arts circuit, most of his posturing misses the point. Our bodies and the everyday life we experience through them are being reconfigured by technology. But this technological transformation is incremental and mundane - the drama is absent.
How you make these changes visible? How do you make the undramatic involving?
I am not convinced by Stelarc's answer but do not have a counter-suggestion of my own.
Yet.
Just received a press release about this event:
"Thomas A. Stewart, the all powerful editor of the Harvard Business Review and one of the world’s 50 most influential management thinkers as voted by The Financial Times"
All powerful, eh? Well at least I can stop worrying about world poverty now, Tom be praised!
Somebody needs to have the "hyperbole" function disabled on their word processor.
Friday, July 25, 2003
The character and fate of Sisypheus are similar to Loki. In both cases, their punishment is eternal and somehow circular. But then, they'd been very naughty boys. And we can't have people pulling tricks and getting away with them, can we.
On Wednesday, I took a late lunch and contemplated leaving Australia, never to return. To backpack and learn Spanish in South America may be. Or possibly a Buddhist monastery in Thailand. Anything but continue my Sisyphean office routine.
That's not going happen. Maybe I feel better today.
K-punk reaches out with an undead claw...
"It's true, what I was interested in, when I started the blog, was (re)covering the (lost) Futures of Pop - Partly a genealogical exercise"
Any escape into the past (e.g. a past where you are saddled with Joan Collins) implies the present can't that great. The lost futures are resuscitated as the present future ain't up to scratch?
Are the dead not being reanimated here (which is never pretty)?
The impact of alternative history doesn't lie in swerves in the grand narrative sweep of empires and war but in the unheimlich sensations induced when you realise that your everyday life is built on contingencies. In "High Castle" it's the little things (the I-Ching) that are important. If pop has alternative futures (and why the hell not?), then why should we be interested unless we can hum them on the bus?
Mark - all that said, I do read your blog and hope you continue it.
Friday, July 18, 2003
Monbiot sells out
George Monbiot is the Hugh Grant of the anti-globalisation movement. Noam Chomsky with a better hairdresser. An engaging public speaker with some ambitious ideas for the future of global democracy.
Oh and I got into a argument with someone from here and someone from here outside the event. Apparently everybody needs to join a union. Party like it's 1926!
Thursday, July 10, 2003
"She had a baby on your bathroom floor? You lived with her, didn't you notice she was pregnant?"
"Well, she didn't so how were we supposed to?"
Rich Americans discipline their kids
Western corporations outsource industrial production (and increasingly services) to countries with low labour costs and lax regulations. Why shouldn't Western families do the same with activities such as parenting?
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
"Don't dress in a manner which attracts attention to your body"
Camoflage possibly? Or maybe a disguise (e.g. animal costume)?
So easy mock.
Which is why I am doing so.
Let's keep these foreigners away at any cost.
Oh unless they're sponsored by multinational technology companies of course.
'Why did you come to the Blue Mountains if you suffer from vertigo?"
"I didn't think we'd go near the edges."
One of my flatmates said: "You listen to a lot of angry music."
And he was right. And I don't think it's helping my mood. So I went to "Dirt Cheap CDs" on Pitt Street (this is Australia, if a desert is great and sandy, it gets called the Great Sandy Desert) and bought a bumper 60-song pack of reggae and this.
Aural prozac.
"You should get involved with the Big Sister Big Brother programme. They're crying out for responsible male role models."
"When I become a responsible male, I'll let you know."
Saturday, July 05, 2003
"How do you find out about a person's character?"
"By slips of the tongue. What they say or don't say, I suppose."
"I disagree. Action reveals character. People lie all the time, especially to themselves."
"Well Denial is a good place to live. Its plains are rich and fertile."
"But treacherous. The plains are prone to flooding."
Question from audience: What do you think of frequent commercial use of your father's image in the West?
Che's Daughter (via translator): I hear that in Australia you use my father's image to sell ice cream. I am not happy about that. But some of those who wear Che's picture on a T-shirt must wonder who he was. And a few of those will read his words. And one or two may act of them. Recently, an Argentinian child was shown on a news broadcast, waving a flag of Che at a protest. When asked why he did this, he answered: 'Che's struggle is our struggle."
Thursday, July 03, 2003
Dayglo: what this Mirror article about David Beckham misses is the I-Ching reference. And there's a fascinating reference to Morse Code.
"Splitting Apart" - could this refer to Beck's effect on the opposition? Or on his move from his native country? Or maybe his marriage?
Or is it just that Michael Jordan had the same number?
The writing around Po (Earth below the Mountain) reminds me of The Tower.
Phrases to add to budget requests in the futile hope that they'll get approved:
- "Implementation will drive shareholder value"
- "Significant impact on both revenue and cost drivers"
- "You can use my children as little knife-throwing acrobats"
- "For God sake, do you know how many hours of my life I wasted on the 30 pages you've just consigned to the shredder? Do you? I'll never get them back... never...."
More KM
NSW Forum where we were presented with a tag-team presentation by Sydney Catchment Authority and CSC Australia on Social Network Analysis. A fascinating technique that maps interactions between people.
The applications of this are potentially endless - and also disturbing. A fear for many is that people are talking behind their backs, or even worse, having a better time socially than them. SNA could provide empirical evidence to prove that, yes, you have no mates and nobody likes you.
Goodbye to Tim Kannegeiter who leaves Standards Australia for Fonterra across the Tasman. Where apparently he'll be doing everything.
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
A conversation at work triggered a memory of the following:
The trick, he said, was to ignore what other people said, whoever they might be, and just deal with the person in front of you, and what they said and did in the time you spent together. Otherwise, he said, you’d constantly be behaving as if the other person was an asshole, and only notice when they did asshole stuff. Since adopting this blatantly manipulative approach, twisting what well meaning people had told him about others, he said, he’d met much fewer assholes in the course of his work, and in the rest of his life.
As I recall, Mr Reynolds also has a damn fine meditation exercise involving Homer Simpson.
Monday, June 30, 2003
Che Joe
I'll be attending this launch of a compilation of Che Guevara's writing this Friday.
Go Che! Revolutionary and T-Shirt Salesman!
I have a new locker at work. I do not have a key for said locker. The lockers (and therefore their keys) are not made in Australia. They are in fact made in Italy. Hence the key to my locker will have to be shipped over from Italy.
Well at least I'll have one Italian accessory in my wardrobe.
When we think of love, we think of flowers. There are good reasons for this. They are beautiful and perfumed (as, by implication, is the object of our affection). It is the job of flowers is to be attractive - to insects. The seduction of people is an unintended by-product. Subconsciously many of us know that flowers are vegetable reproductive organs but most of are too polite to mention this.
But there's a problem. Flowers don't feel like love. Love is about the ties that bind people together: emotional, physical, financial and social. The links of dependency. With their cut stems, flowers are the very model of (doomed) independence. Love seems more like Kikuyu. A weed that spreads above and below the surface. That's difficult to root out once established. That binds and breeds.
But what do I know about gardening?
Baran - love amongst the scaffolding on an Iranian building site.
Igby Goes Down - hey rich people are as messed up as regular folks - but they have better interior design and more erudite dialogue.
Release The Bats
I fell asleep in the park for 5 minutes. When I awoke the tree in front of me was full of bats. Hundreds of them, like black, leathery fruit hanging from the branches. Fantastic.
Sunday, June 29, 2003
Downer
You may have come across the excreable show TV's Funniest Bloopers. It revisits the screw-ups and mis-takes that you never normally see on the box. "Ha ha - look there's a local news presenter being savaged by rabid dog!!! That'll have him foaming at the mouth - d'ya geddit? Foaming!! At the Mouth!!!!"
Anyway, depression has its own version of this show. Only in this case it's called: "You Are Crap". Every instance that you've screwed up, screwed someone else over or been screwed over yourself is run on loop. And it corrodes your self-confidence and energy. Why should you do anything when you'll just mess it up? And hurt other people in the process? Back under the blankets with you. Is your journey really necessary? In fact, is your existence really necessary?
I'm not currently screening this show - coz if I was I wouldn't be posting about it.
At work:
"Are you making a difference?"
"Oh yes. I'm raising the CO2 levels in this room even as we speak."
Thursday, June 26, 2003
Tuesday, June 24, 2003
Monday, June 23, 2003
No Money
Lost my wallet on Friday. Should be returning to me shortly. Basically it meant that I had $20 for Saturday and Sunday. An insightful and unpleasant experience. You think: "Hmmm, could really do with a coffee now. Ah there's a coffee house! I know I go in and get a coffee and... oh."
This may be karmic payback as I haven't been giving money to charity in the last few months.
Sunday, June 22, 2003
Saturday, June 21, 2003
The Only Explanation I Can Find
I'm have this recurring nightmare where I'm in a kareoke bar with Karen Carpenter. We're on top of the world, looking down on creation. And we're given a menu covered in plastic. Each entry is for a song and an item of food. We both have to sing a song then the one with the better voice gets the item of food in the menu. We begin and by the time we hit a swing-tempo "Highway to Hell" it has become apparent that the contest is hopelessly mismatched. Karen is thrashing me hollow. But the more she eats, the thinner she gets. Just as I am limping through a skiffle version of "No Woman No Cry", the waiter comes in and announces they have run out of food. Karen (by now skeletal) turns round and starts eyeing my leg. She's going to eat me alive - whilst crooning a medley of Radiohead songs.
It wouldn't be so bad but the screaming is starting to annoy my flatmates.
David Weinberger says: "We are bodies. Flesh rulz."
And he's read lots of Heidigger and written books and stuff - so he must be right.
Coz some of us sometimes forget that. Ya have to love ya body. And treat it right.
Go David!
"I'm saving myself"
"You're not spent yet"
Luke and Jacqui attempted to persuade me last nite that Frank N Furter is a classical Shakespearian hero brought low by his own flaws. I blame the chocolate margaritas they had been consuming.
Go Luke! Go Jacqui!
Alister: ex-music journo, script writer, techie, charming coffee companion and knowledge manager. Go Alister!
Krista has just become the proud mother of two twin baby boys. Go Krista! Go Isaac! Go Logan! Go Jonas! Go Noah!
Thursday, June 19, 2003
The knight sat at the bus stop, his shield resting on his knees and his armour glittering in the street lights.
"Do you think he's lost his horse?"
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
Dayglo was a Rodeo.
Just remember:
1. Hang on
2. We're right behind you. But that's only because riders are thrown forwards.
My favorite metaphor for the rough patches of life remains Ocean Kayaking. You start on the shore, two to a kayak. You get in the kayak (easy). You then attempt to paddle through the impact zone. You the faster you go and the more perpendicular you are to the incoming waves the less likely you are to be knocked off. But you almost certainly will be knocked off. So you get back in again. Then you're past the impact zone and floating on the ocean like a match stick. Riding in on waves is pretty cool. You wait for a biggie to form a 100 yeards from you, then you paddle like buggery and if you're lucky it catches you and you cruise into shore. Again you have to be perpendicular or the wave will tear the kayak from under you and send you spinning like an ant in a washing machine.
Of course, to pursue this metaphor to its logical conclusion, I'd have to fit in the bit about having an enormous German guy in the back of the kayak doing all the work while I whinged.
Yes, that is very much like life my child.
"Ya used to tell the truth
But now ya clever."
Thief. Addict. Casualty. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you...
"Get in the lift please, I have a plane to catch."
He stands by the lift's controls, jabbing at the close button with a woodpecker thumb.
"This life is going to stop on every floor", he grumbles as people exhibit the temerity to get in.
The lift descends. He motions everyone to stand clear of the doors and stands as close as possible in front of them. I cock my hand like a starting pistol.
The lift stops.
The doors open.
He exits, stalking down the corridor.
"Bang."
The doors close.
I turn to my fellow descendants: "Hang on, hasn't he just got off on the wrong floor? The one with no exits?"
"Yes he has. What a shame."
"Here, mate, mate, OI mate..."
"Yes?"
"My mate's seen you around and she really fancies you. Can I get your phone number?"
"I'm terribly sorry I don't have a phone."
"What not even a land line?"
"No, I'm allergic to them you see."
"Well can I give you her phone number then?"
"Well no, because I couldn't ring her, could I?"
I received this message from the FCO:
"Australia
The vast majority of visits to Australia are trouble?free. The risk from terrorism is low."
Thanks for sharing that. You've really set my mind at rest.
Monday, June 16, 2003
The Queens of the Stone Age vs. Bjork
1993: The second song on Debut is Crying.
It's a song about longing, about being separated from someone you love. The percussion starts twitchy and awkward. Unable to relax because it's distracted, its thoughts are elsewhere.
"there's no-one here,
and people everywhere"
These two lines sum up the feeling of isolation when no one else will do but the person who is not there. They are vulnerable and charming.
2003: Better Living Through Chemistry, the fifth track on Rated R made me double take. The chorus is a direct lift from Crying. Except the meaning of the words has completely changed. Bjork sounds open and human - all too sensitive to the world around her. By contrast Josh Homme is completely desensitized. The music is techtonic hard rock shot through a psychadelic prism. Drug paranoia and dreams of apocalyptic vengence seep out into the earspace of the listener.
"There's no one here
And people everywhere,
you're all alone"
The addition of the final line is important. Bjork's lyrics are a pain in heart put into words. Homme's the accusation/temptation offered to a psychotic.
In their own ways, they both confront loneliness. The fact that we are all disconnected from each other. And yet, as social animals we are bound to try to overcome that. The solution QOTSA offer on "Rated R" is to disconnect completely - and relish it. Although "relish" is not really the word to describe this sour older brother of Ladies and Gentlemen, We Are Floating In Space ("Yeah kid, drugs mess you up but love won't redeem you. It's just a rationalization for sex - which'll mess you up even more"). You're all alone. Deal.
I'm not sure whether Bjork offers a solution or not. She just is (emoting/emotional). It's difficult to imagine her ever wanting to give up on humanity entirely (despite the unpredictability of "Human Behaviour", the dangers of being "Violently Happy" or the "Anchor Song"s temptation to remain under the sea). The pleasures and pains of love, sensuality and contact with others are too intense and real for that. You have to try or it's not worth it.
I kinda prefer Bjork's vision, much as I like QOTSA's RAWK attack. And it seems they might do too. The two singles from Songs For The Deaf offer worldviews gradually recovering from jaundice. 'No One Knows" may refer to a person or a drug but its bouncy/dreamy demeanour suggests some search for happiness - it's not all lost yet. "Go with the Flow" is a different kettle of wolverines altogether. The music is pedal-to-the-metal ramalama and Homme's voice is yearning. For once, he gives a shit.
"But I want something good to die for
To make it beautiful to live."
Bjork would approve.
What is it about explanatory frameworks of human behaviour (e.g. astrology, MBTI, Belbin) that means they have categories between 7-20? A cynic would say that such a number is large enough to give the appearance of rigour (unlike the comments such as Sgt Hartman's to Pvt Cowboy)without being overwhelming (as say the 821 classifications of SOC).
Lives and Stories
In the spirit of "confession" that I outlined below, time for some critiquing of the Myers-Briggs concept and my engagement with it.
I test as an INTx - sometimes INTJ, sometimes INTP . This bothered me. I am annoyed that this should bother me. Why could my nature not be fitted comfortably in a behaviouristic box? This explanation (if you leave out the author's obsession with classical music and science fiction) comes close.
The main problem that some of the more devoted (even rigorous) followers of the MBTI have is that they assume type sits on top of a repeatable mental architecture (see the lengthy INTP profile again). Freud made the claim that all our psychic life stories are the same (Oedipus Complex yadda, yadda). MBTI tries to split them up into 16 life stories. Astrology gives us 12.
And here's where it breaks down. People's lives flood over these boundaries and form unique patterns. The best these explanatory frameworks can provide is some thematic structure to the narrative. Of course, any narrative worth its salt has to play with its own conventions (even if only a little before returning to standard ending for reader satisfaction).
Saturday, June 14, 2003
Another current obsession: Process / decision mapping and flow charts. There is nothing in life that cannot be turned into a process map. And they certainly offer the illusion of understanding and control.
yesterday, i attempted to process map buying some trousers (is colour suitable? if no select another pair, if yes then do they fit?)
i never got round to buying the trousers.
i need help.
All Saints
"Do you like chocolate or jelly?"
"Erm... both-"
"No, that's impossible."
"Well, actually-"
"You must be Libra. Librans are indecisive."
"I'm on the cusp - which is may be another indication of my indecisiveness. I'm a Scorpio."
"So am I, my birthday is November 1st."
"All Saints' Day."
'What, that doesn't sound very Scorpio-ish!"
"It's a church holiday. Hallow'een is shortened from All Hallows' Eve. It means the day before Saints' Day. The day after is All Souls Day. So I guess that makes you a saint."
Can you tell who it is yet?
This is my current obsession.It has its origins in the psychology of Jung and is very widely used in the business world. Here are some cogent criticisms of it.
"I ask managers whether they are planning to pay people to be likable or to do a good job"
Because the two are obviously incompatible. "Work harder, you scum!!!"
At its best MBTI provides a neutral framework, that allows people to talk about who they are (how they think, what motivates them and how they interact with others). It's simple and appealing.
However:
There is always a danger in categorizing people that you pigeon-hole them. Nobody is just 4 letters. And nobody knows just how damn complicated anybody else is. Therefore some maturity and insight is required.
Altho type-spotting is fun if done subtly. But don't take it too seriously.
Monday, June 09, 2003
Bad Face
Wanting to complete some work last night, I went our Sydney offices. A woman was entering the door just in front and I ambled in after here. She turned round and I flashed my ID to indicate I worked here too. By a coincidence, she walked to the same lifts as me and pressed the request button. On the arrival of said life, she didn't get in. Noticing my puzzled expression, a look of extreme discomfort crossed her face.
Ah. I look like a mugger/rapist/murderer (hey, like that's news).
I got out out of the lift, said I understood and said I'd take another one. Situation solved.
Except.
I kinda understand why she did it. A deserted building late at night (altho with security guards and cameras). A single male in proximity. Maybe a bad experience in the past.
Except I don't really understand what she felt. I've rarely felt scared in urban environments at night (as I don't walk around carrying drugs, weapons or large amounts of cash, I don't attract the wrong sort of attention).
I don't what it feels like to be anyone else.
Drive-By Evangelism
I was accosted on Sunday nite by 2 kids jabding out flyers. On closer inspection these turned out to be religious tracts, with people telling me how Jesus had made their (and indeed our) lives better by dying (Jesus is quite like his followers in this respect). Born and bred on bad religion, I reacted quite badly to this. Before I could work myself up into the requisite psychotic lather, they merrily skipped off saying "read your Bible and pray to God, that'll solve everything".
Hulk Smash!!!
Yeah, I got "issues". My basic problem with Christianity is that it starts from the assumption that the only good things in human beings come from a nebulous external source prone to vengence and apocalytic acts of destruction. Well, thanks for that.
Despite my earlier comments, I love and respect a lot of people who identify as Christians ("hey, some of my best friends go to church"). There was term they used to bandy about: 'Loving the sinner, hating the sin." Which seemed to translate as: "I despise your choices and opinions and expect to see you tormented for eternity for them. No offence."
Right back at ya, brothers and sisters.
On Sunday I did make it to Bondi for some work with Conservation Australia. Which was a miracle coz I'd spent Saturday moshing like a beast (an unfit, ungainly beast mind) to these dixie-fried fools.
The Booth And The Baseball Bat
There are (at least) two models of what a confession is.
1. Catholic. You confess your sins, repent and receive absolution. If that was the model here, then what I'd want from you was simply a chuck on the arm and a "you're alright mate" - in lieu of 10 hail marys and 10 how's ya fathers. Ah, that's better. Except it isn't. Simply saying the truth does not make you free. Admitting you've done wrong may be the start of a "road to recovery", but all too often the work afterwards is ignored. "Getting it off your chest" does not drive it from your heart.
2. Judicial. In the police interview the experienced offender will lie, dissemble and distract. The confession comes at the end of the process rather than the beginning. The confession is a result of examination and possibly brutality. There is a risk it may not even be true. Once the confession is signed, the judicial process can then grind on - with others testing its validity.
These pages have more in common with a show trial than a psychiatrist's couch.
Friday, June 06, 2003
I am going to dive into the murky waters of professional activities here.
Last night, I attended NSW KM Forum. Adam from Ribbit gave a very passionate presentation on the impact of the online gaming community on the future of business.
Adam's basic premise is that those involved in online game development and playing are the entrepreneurs and employees of the future. What they are doing now will impact work patterns in 10 years time (if not right here, right now).
The gamers will be completely comfortable with virtual collaboration and project management and demanding of rich media environments.
Oh yeah, and we all discussed knowledge mapping (facilitated by James) for an hour before visiting the pub.
Thursday, June 05, 2003
Somewhat surprised when I went for lunch with a friend and they bought a crackpipe on the way home.
That's not my idea of dessert.
Tuesday, June 03, 2003
Ah, a footnote on confession from the followers of St Michel by way of Dayglo.
"People are taught that their liberation requires them to "tell the truth," to confess it to someone who is more powerful (a priest, a psychoanalyst), and this truth telling will somehow set them free"
Am I free because I tell the truth? Or do I tell the truth because I am free?
We could go into that whole "What is Truth?", "Are We Free?" crapshoot - but really wouldn't you rather have an armani-clad Larry Fishburn do that for you?
More on confession tomorrow.
And why good music makes me want to smear myself in blood.
Though not yours.
I have to take issue with this:
"Writer of pop music crit shouldn't *ever* apologise for its subject. Those who feel the need to do so should fuck off and write about something that doesn't leave mud on their boots..."
Dayglo: I absolutely agree. Reynolds does do this on occasion (c.f. the patronising label "avant-lumpen' for hardcore) - but mostly he loves what he writes about. It may be an occasionally guilty, shameful love. But still love.
He loves it enough to wrestle and argue with it - which precious few music journalists do.
Sunday, June 01, 2003
So then, George, these Weapons of Mass Destruction. Where are they? Come on, you've been talking about them for months.
What's that Tony? Secret proof you say. Well, that's alright then. I'm convinced.
As you were.
"Everything Dies"
Notice a theme emerging here? We fear change. And run from it. And reject it. Tear up its reminders and calling cards. Erase its entries in our calendars.
But it is implacable.
There's been a lot of change in my 9to5 since Easter. Almost more than I can manage. Almost. I just have to hang onto my paddle. That's all.
In the tarot deck, Death symbolises change, rebirth, transformation. Everything is dying continuously - a torrent of "little deaths". We shed skin and blood. We shed the people we've known and loved. We sweat money and desire.
Don't die just yet.
Confession Time 3
Grant Morrison is a prick. Discuss.
Grant Morrison is a genius. Discuss.
Who cares? Maybe at one point I did. Again, back in 99, when my CCRU infatuation was peaking, I resurrected my interest in The Invisibles. A comic book. A sick, twisted, brilliant comic book.
You had a Mardi Gras of violence, black magick, kinky sex, inhuman technology, and ideas. Most of these ideas had be nicked from Philip K Dick, Robert Anton Wilson, and bunch of other hippies that took too many drugs in the 60s, but again, so what? They were good ideas anyway.
Then I found this. A internet board full of geeks? Oh yes. I eventually met with some of them as my circle of friends at the time were (and are) very sweet but something was missing. Something weird. And these guys provided that in spades.
Indirectly, they were one of the two main factors encouraging me to leave the UK. In a good way. Oh, and Barbelith indirectly led to imminent marriage of one of my best friends.
But I can't stand the place now.
Everything dies.
Confession Time 2
Later. Much later. After I had finished my research into information broking and ebusiness for the MSc and moved to London, something else happened. I was holding down 2 jobs. For the first one I sold numbers and annoyed people. Selling numbers: a bank would ring the office up and we'd have to find the number of dry cleaners in Europe in the next 2 hours OR THE WORLD WOULD END!!! Annoying people: Telephone-based market research. Second job was running the LSE library at night, supervising a staff more intelligent and experienced than myself but lacking the requisite paper qualifications. This situation has coloured my view of managers ever since.
Why am I telling you all this? Isn't it boring? Well, yes, it is boring. And it was boring. You have to understand this or what I'll tell you next won't make sense.
I began to look elsewhere for kicks. Intellectual kicks. Weird kicks.
I encountered Cybernetic Culture Research Unit. They came out of Warwick University (a place I had worked at briefly in the mid-90s), had been created by Sadie Plant, a "media academic" (in both senses of that term) who has written about Situationists, Cyberfeminism, Drugs and mobile phones.
Also involved was Nick Land. Whereas Plant's writing is accessible (despite its origins in Continental Philosophy) in accordance with her media-friendly image, Land's is deliberately obscure. That which the lay reader does comprehend seems to go out of its way to shock and abuse. Once you realise that Land's heroes are Nietzsche and Bataille (two great wind-up merchants of European Thought), a lot of his posturing seemed as threatening as the man himself - a tawny haze of desert boots and camel lights. Land may now be in either Singapore. Or Birmingham.
CCRU seems to have grown out of a combination of 90s rave and jungle, 70s French philosophy (Foucault, Deleuze, Guattari, Virilo), cyberpunk science fiction, and later, Crowley-esque black magick and Lovecraftian bollox. They were a beautiful mess.
I attended the Syzygy events in London in 99 (by which time Plant was long gone - all those Radio 4 interviews to prepare for) - when my jobs allowed. The events were kinda fun in a self-consciously arty, "multi-media" fashion. Kodwo Eshun spun a few discs - awe-inspiring writer, average DJ. CCRU themselves seemed at once precious and playful - but hard to engage with. In their heads (and in their writing) they were counter-culture titans at the cutting edge of Cyberculture (this was 99 remember, before the dot.com bust). In reality, they seemed like a bunch of postgrads, bereft of their academic home, adrift in world where the best you can hope for is an Arts Council grant and maybe a spot at the ICA.
The only two that appear above the radar now are Mark Fisher and Simon Goodman.
Fisher writes about k-punk. Ditching all the stuff about the future, and escaping into the post-punk past. Retrenchment during tough times?
Goodman has run a UK garidge web site for the last few years and DJs regularly around the world. The site itself is a treasure trove of goodies. But most of it is journalism, lacking the incisive and disorienting (vampire) bite of CCRU.
I never knew these people (altho I have drunkenly harangued at least 2 of them at one point or another). But I loved their ideas. And not forgetting Matt Fuller's.
But that was then. Everything dies.
To use the appropriately Deleuzian term, CCRU seem to have been Reterritorialized. Or may be they split over "Theoretical Differences".
Confession Time
In the early 90s, I read NME and Melody every week. I didn't necessarily buy it every week - which used to piss the newsagents off no end.Anyway, most of the writing was appalling - posturing, self-righteous crap. One guy was... different.
Simon Reynolds - a theory-influenced cleverclogs in the mold of 80s types like Paul Morley and Ian Penman, SR would write about the likes of My Bloody Valentine, dreampop, avant-rock, 90s rave, jungle, hip hop. The music I grew to like but couldn't really explain. And he was obviously overeducated, just like me. Only far more articulate and interesting and stuff. I lapped up his articles and later, the books: Blissed Out, Energy Flash and The Sex Revolts (written with his wife, Joy Press). More than any other writer, SR shaped not so much the way I listened to music, but the way I contextualised and talked about it to others.
On occasion, I have parroted a Reynoldsian analysis of, say, happy hardcore to a luckless friend (usually Phil - almost always Phil - sorry Phil). But most of the time I agreed with him. No one else wrote about the music I loved with such passion and rigour - except maybe Chuck Eddy and too often he was just bloody annoying with his sodding jug bands and goth eurodisco.
So it was with first disbelief then despair that I saw SR fall away from doing what he did best - engaging with futuristic pop music. 2001 was the year that everything went pear-shaped (in so many ways). SR became disillusioned with the UK dance music scene and so decided to escape, like most discontents of the present, into the past. Not the future, where he belonged, but the past. Articles about 70s/80s post-punk began to appear. He seemed to only review re-releases of ACR or 23 Skidoo. What Tha F***?
Now, I have no insights into SR's personal life beyond what he posts/writes in public. But much of his disengagement seemed to stem from changes in him as much changes in da chunes. Moving to NYC, becoming a dad, nearing 40 - I dunno, like I say, I don't know the bastard.
Anyway, Cilla, the story has a kinda happy ending - coz now he has a blog. And there's heaps of good stuff on there. I no longer know most of the stuff he's writing about, but that doesn't matter, it's both yesterday AND today AND tomorrow.
We don't have to bury him yet.
Red pill, blue pill or hormone pill?
Now you know why the Matrix's main female character has wears leather catsuits.
"I want people to know the truth," he says. "When Larry walked down that red carpet with my wife he was probably wearing a bra and panties under his suit."
With Friends Like This
A few months back I signed up for this. I have had a client for about a month. I can't tell you anymore really.
I made this
Back when I was in Kolkata, I wrote and constructed this site.
It took them a year to put it up - I imagine they were too busy tending the sick and teaching the young. Priorities, eh?
I have agreed to be the Australian contact for CR. Trying to set an Australian branch of this organisation has been a side project of mine. And it's tough. Coz to be a "proper" charity in Australia, you need DGR status. To get DGR if you intend to send the money overseas (i.e. to Kolkata), you need:
- 2 years audited accounts
- 100 voting members
- other stuff that we don't have
CR Australia ain't gonna get that soon. So we have to be creative. And clever.
Sheeeshhhhh.
...And the crusties shall inherit the earth
2. The Matrix 2. It rocks. Yes, the dialogue is woeful, the characterisation marginal and the plot plodding but, dude, the special effects!
That can't actually make Keanu act, but they can cunningly distract you with some lovely fight scenes.
Now some twats will tell you the Matrix is philosophical. Philosophy in M2 boils down to:
"We have free will."
"No, we don't."
"Do."
"Don't."
"Do."
"Don- ah screw it! Let's try to kill each other!!!!"
Of course, what M2 is all about is the growing convergence between movies and video games.
Enter The Matrix includes unseen movie footage and links directly into M2's plotlines (such as they are).
Now most video games have the same plot structure - they're quests. You are the hero (or anti-hero in the case of GTA) and you have a set of tasks to achieve. M2 has a "quest" storyline as well. Which presumably means more and more films will take on the narrative structure of video games.
Good or bad thing?
And while you're thinking of that read this Seussian Matrix
It is well-known that rather than discuss their subjective feelings, men prefer to express themselves through "objective" topics such as sport, cars, and music. So, I'll kick off with the following:
Went on a film binge yesterday.
1. Secretary. Having played some truly pervy characters before, James Spader has the comparatively straight-forward role of a sadistic lawyer embarking on a dom/sub-style relationship with his self-mutilating secretary, played by the talented Maggie G.
I wish I could say I was sickened and digusted by this degenerate filth. But I kinda liked it. Well acted. Reasonably well written and directed.
I'm not really into BDSM. The "fetish" aspects that surround (leather, restraints, instruments of torture, PVC) come across as cheesy and naff rather than sexy. The only aspect that does interest me is "mindgames" bit. How much do you trust someone? How far would you let them go - and how far would they let you?
Or to put it another way, what challenges us most when we see examples of real torture is the physical brutality and destruction.But the physical scars are only a means to an end - the point of torture is destruction of the will. You could argue some kind of logic of both physical torture and meditation. The body becomes a conduit to transform the mind - build or break.
Thursday, May 01, 2003
I'm back! Life is finally interesting enough to squirt across your monitors again.
Hello?
Hello?
Where is everybody?
Oh, that's right, they were never here in the first place.
Saturday, November 09, 2002
It's patently obviously this page is going no where for the moment. So both this site and its evil twin are going on ice indefinitely.
Thursday, October 31, 2002
Taking a year out? Living in Oz? Working for a management consulting firm? Becoming a bit of self-obsessed prat while you're away? Engaging in geeky conversation with a closely knit circle of friends? Debating the role of religious belief in modern society? References to friends with suspected testicular cancer? Nearing 30?
I want more information on this Richard Herring and where he gets his ludicrous, unbelieveable stories from.
Playing Hide And Seek With Jesus
I turn away from the shops and fish-and-stalls as the bus pulls away. Ahead of me is fine white sand. A young mother sits with toddlers near the surf, wiping mouths and priming the eyes in the back of her head. The sun blazes in the sky, scrambling my DNA. The elderly swim back and forth in the artifical pools by the rocks, leathery turtles safe from predatory currents. In the sea, fleas in wet suits cling to their boards as the swell sends them up and down. The moon pulls the water of the Earth into useful shapes for pleasure. I look at the ocean. Big. Blue. Pacific. No gills. No fins or scales. I cannot go home.
I turn away from the shops and fish-and-stalls as the bus pulls away. Ahead of me is fine white sand. A young mother sits with toddlers near the surf, wiping mouths and priming the eyes in the back of her head. The sun blazes in the sky, scrambling my DNA. The elderly swim back and forth in the artifical pools by the rocks, leathery turtles safe from predatory currents. In the sea, fleas in wet suits cling to their boards as the swell sends them up and down. The moon pulls the water of the Earth into useful shapes for pleasure. I look at the ocean. Big. Blue. - posted by Daniel @ 4:01 AM
OK. I am living at a very quiet hostel in Glebe. Which is kinda like a shabbier Hampstead/Highgate for all you Lahndahnas out there.
And this job in Oz thing is moving apace. Still in the interview stages but I want to pre-empt any need to rush decisions. So I emailed loads of people asking for advice. Looking for different viewpoints and inspiration rather than a simple "yes/no" formulation. So far 10 responses. Including lots of interesting gossip (some funny, some sad but all appreciated). If this is the response generated, I must have potentially life changing decisions thrust upon me more often.
Tuesday, October 29, 2002
Sunday night we went the casino. I've never been into gambling. Largely because I don't get it. There is no pleasure for me in throwing money to the winds of chance. Possibly because I'm a rationalistic tight-ass. But I'm also a little bit scared. Scared that if I get a taste for it I can kiss any kind of future good bye.
But what part of life doesn't involve a gamble?
What have I been doing recently?
1. Turning 29. I'm old but not that old.
2. Played Mahjong with Bron and John. It's poker for the poetic. Shuffling the tiles is known as "the twittering of the birds".
3. Trying to get part time work. So far: Failure. I was all set to leave Syndey and and maybe engage in some WWOOFing. Then I get a mysterious message about a job. In Sydney. Long term (i.e. 1 year+). Doing pretty much what I was doing in London.
I don't know. Stick, Twist or Burn?
Monday, October 21, 2002
Went to Livid on Sunday.
What's Hot in my Head: International Noise Conspiracy, Machine Gun Fellatio, Mogwai, Mercury Rev.
I think I may have fallen out of love with pop music.
Thursday, October 17, 2002
Doubtless you have heard about the nightmare in Bali. Horrendous. Still checking with the people I know in that neck of the woods. Most seem to be OK, but there's one I can't get in touch with.
Monday, October 14, 2002
Last Wednesday I was paid to fire tennis balls at a professor of physics from sydney university.
Allow me to explain.
The hostel I was staying is approached by local entrepreneurs requiring 'flexible' labour. A couple of weeks ago, I was woken up and asked if I wanted to do some work on some guy's boat with another lad from the hostel. To this I said yes - as I was somewhat lacking in cashflow. We worked on the boat (a small number that had seen better days) for two days until a miscalculation with some epoxy resin abruptly terminated that line of work. The boat owner had made his money in astroturf. He then asked us to work in factory producing artificial grass. No worries. As his machines began to seize up, we were 'let go'. Only to be called back the next day to work with the professor. He was testing the 'bounce' speed on the artificial courts produced by the astroturf factory. And we were to act as his little helpers. Money for old rope - or indeed artificial turf. Sadly soon after this we were returned to the factory.
Abseiling. Canyoning. Wet suits. These are not words normally associated with me. But three of us decided to give it a go in the Blue Mountains on Saturday.
The abseiling rocked with fists of steel. Even tho we only did 14 metres max.
The canyoning would have been more fun if it hadn't involved 1.5 hours of wading and swimming thru freezing water.
Instructor: Everybody OK?
Me: (Unable to control chattering teeth as body goes into shock): Bbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Instructor: Stop winging mate, it's supposed to be cold.
The wet suit wasn't as arousing as I thought it would be.
The Blue Mountains
Bron says the Blue Mountains are blue because of gases given out by eucalyptes. John and myself view this explanation with scepticism. But she organised the four day weekend and did most of the driving. So she must be given some latitude. I did most of the sleeping and eating.
Perhaps that comment deserves some explanation: Last weekend was a Looonnggg Weekend in Australia. So we went to Ku Ring Gai Chase National Park. Lots of beautiful nature.
Monday, October 07, 2002
Sunday, October 06, 2002
Respect Due: Krista. She may - or may not - be some kind of hippy. But it was lovely to meet her and Isaac and Logan (who I will refrain from calling 'lil' or 'cute' on pain of death) in Thailand.
Friday, September 27, 2002
Siem Reap
Angkor wat is 'awesome' (in the sense of inspiring terror and wonder simultaneously). The product of hundreds of years of megalomaniacal feudal kingship, local stone and slave labour. In particular the Bayon's multitude of smiling boddhisattva heads gazing over a kingdom eaten by the jungle and eclipsed by the rise of the thai and the vietnamese. as david chandler points out, both s21 and angkor wat are examples of unchecked power exercised over crushed human bodies and minds. and both in their odd little ways are now tourist attractions.
Cambodia Rewind:
Phnom Penh. Saw the killing fields and s21.
at the killing fields, the first thing you see is the top of a wat. as you walk closer, you see that the wat is full of human skulls. Thousands of them. then there are the mass graves. it's unnerving how small a mass grave can be. the air is full of dragon flies. and the river is close by. it's a quiet place. and utterly horrific.
s21 used to be a school. then it became a prison and mass torture chamber. now it's a genocide museum.
after these 2 sights, our moto drivers asked us if we wanted to fire some weapons at the shooting range. we declined. there's something about the remnants of mass murder that put you off guns. that night the other guys went off to a girlie bar. i got bolloxed in the hostel and fell asleep instead.
Went here. They had a seminar on Working in Australia and New Zealand. There were five presenters. And four audience members. they all introduced themselves and then they asked us punters to do the same. I went first.
Me: Hi, I'm mate. I'm interested in IT training and business research and analysis.
Them: Er, thanks for that. How about bar work? Bar work's really fun. And the pay's great.
Now, they actually have a point. But. I've been on the road for 8 months and I REALLY need to get my brain working again or else I'm toast. I DO actually wanna do a bit of bar work - whilst lazing round on the beach, and maybe fruitpicking or labouring. But right now, I wanna get my mental motor back in shape b4 it seizes up completely.
OK, I'm now in Sydney, Australia. After a few days staying with the hospitable B and her family (B is the fiancee of a friend - and a friend in her own right I suppose), I have moved into a cheap hostel in central Sydney. Which is a dive. But like I say, cheap. the following conversation should have rung some alarm bells.
Dave the hostel doorman: So, where ya from, mate?
Me: Bognor Regis, it's a little town on the South...
Dave: No way mate. Ya gotta be shitting me! I was there a few months back. A guy stayed here from Bognor for 18 months. Damien i think his name was. Do you know him...
Me: No
Dave:... nevermind. Next time he rings up I'll put you on...
Me: Er...
Dave:...Do you know Sheiks*?
And so on.
*Sheiks = the kinda place you may as well bottle yerself before going in as it'll save time.
Saturday, September 07, 2002
Why you no buy from me?
The Hmong girls in Sa Pa are merciless. Most are between 10 and 16. They hang around on street corners. They learn your name. And assault you. With handicrafts. But most will miraculously turn from selling machines to fun-loving children on presentation of a small magic trick or game.
Sometimes people can't help being human.
Miss Saigon?
Yes, we have no writing. Why? I haven't been arsed for two weeks. And thinking it's time to resurrect True Facts. There are two further pieces on India - that you will never see. I think "I Can't Explain" summed it all up really. And I have something developing around this.
Friday, August 30, 2002
Border between Hekou and Lao Cai. The Chinese border is shiny and new and obviously had lots of cash poured into it. The Vietnam side had lots of dust poured into it. Which wasn't wuaite the same. the moment we crossed the border, a school of moto-riding sharks surrounded us. We eneded up taking a Russian jeep to Sa Pa:
"Shall we install suspension on our glorious Soviet troop carriers?"
"Nyet comrade, such bourgeois luxuries will weaken the resolve of our great Red Army".
The seats were uncomfortable but the views were amazing.
Tuesday, August 27, 2002
Arriving in Kunming, I was presented with an enormous queue at the railway station. I needed a ticket Hekou. I had been told I could get one from the main station. So I waded in with my elbows and waited. About 45 minutes later, I was nearly at the front when the man in front of me produced an little red book (no, not that one). This elicited some anger from the woman at the counter. So riled did she become that she had to calm herself by counting change for 20 mins and blocking out all contact with the queue. Finally the red book was returned and I was next. "Hekou, Train L933" I said. "No", came the reply. I redoubled by efforts, writing down the destination and train number. She wrote down "Bus 23". But I didn't want a bus. I wanted a train. An English-speaking member of staff was summoned and I was told to take bus 23 to the smaller railway station north side of town - where I could get a ticket to Hekou.
Grrrrrr.
So I went to the north railway station. It was deserted. Some yelling and a faked epileptic eventually provoked some service. "Hekou", I said. "No", she said. "Hekou", I repeated. She rummaged around behind her desk, produced a paper with English and Chinese writing and directed me to this:
English Lesson No. 7
1. "There has been an accident on the line. The train has been cancelled for a month."
Ah. No train to Kunming then.
1. Chinese hard sleeper train carriages are very comfortable. You get a comfortable bed and they turn the lights out at 10pm on the dot. You also get small kids who find your phrase book then play The Guessing Game. The Game is simple. They say a Chinese word. You have to guess what it is by miming it out. This was quite fun for the first two hours but after that my enjoyment waned. I was saved (or so i thought) by an carriage attendant who wanted to practice his English. He tried out all his known phrases on me. And as he had a radio at home tuned to the World Service, he had a lot of them. Fortunately, my journey only had a mere three hours left.
2. Vietnamese hard sleeper trains are a different proposition. Putting the 'hard' into 'hard sleeper' you get a formica shelf, a straw mat - and that's it. Sweet dreams.
Horse Trekking: Sichuan borders Tibet and Songpan has a very Tibetan looking population. And the main thing to do their is saddle up and git on out thar. My first horse had a attitude problem. Not to me but to other horses. So he was demoted to carrying bags of food and I was a given a more placid beast. Up the hills we went. Down the hills we went. The waterfalls were beatuiful. The guides plied us with lethal local grog and dodgy home-cooking around a roaring campfire. And the Americans kept on falling of their horses. So much for the cowboys.
Pandas
Went to the Chengdu Research Base of Giant Panda Breeding. Now if you go in the morning you see the Pandas being fed. But that's at the crack of dawn. So I went in the afternoon. In the torrential rain.
The average panda is not very active. Their schedule consists of 1) Sleeping and 2) Eating. In fact a panda must eat between 10 and 40% of their body weight each day. A panda lifestyle would be ideal for me. Except for the endangered bit. And the rubbish sex life.
The pandas I saw were comatose, slumped on floors and tables, their eyes dark-rimmed and saliva dribbling from their chins. It was like visiting a student hall of residence when 'Neighbours' is on. Only pandas are cuter and don't leave their washing up in the sink for months.
The museum stated that one reason for pandas difficulty in breeding is the shortness of the male's equipment and the length of the female's pipes. "No, no, it's fine. It's average that's all. Size isn't important. Stop sulking and eat some bamboo".
Of course the main reason for the panda's imminent extinction is the destruction of its habitat by man.
The museum also featured some the worst taxidermy I have ever seen. The method used is:
1. Kill animal. Preferably with a multi-blade chain saw.
2. Skin animal with a rusty spoon.
3. Give animal skin to a chain-smoking coal miner for 2 decades.
4. Retrieve skin, stuff with steel wool and display in an unflattering light.
Thursday, August 22, 2002
I'll tell you all about Chengdu and horse-trekking soon . But I have to catch a bus to Vietnam shortly. So my next post will be from Hanoi.
Monday, August 19, 2002
One of the few interesting things to do in Lijiang Old Town itself is visit the wonderful Naxi Orchestra. With an average age of 146, it's touch and go as to whether they'll all make it thru the performance. They fon't so much play Naxi music as traditional Han Chinese fare. The bi-lingual conductor identified the topic of one piece as bound feet. With its delicate, ungainly rhythms and different tonal conventions all the music played evoked that delicate and disturbing image. Oh and the conductor got everyone singing Christmas carols at one point.
Rules for Chinese Tour Groups:
1. If your group numbers falls below 30, unpleasant feelings of anomie and individualism may result.
2. If camers unused for more than 5 minutes will cease to work.
3. Rule 2 also applies to the human larynx.
4. Souvenir purchasing is NOT optional.
5. Smoking can serious damage your health - causing such conditions as cancer, heart disease and impotence. So if you ever want to get rid of the one child policy - you know where your duty lies!
Of course, it's not just Chinese tourists that follow these rules.
Friday, August 09, 2002
"Where are you from?" I looked up from my book. The girl had good English for a 14-year-old Chinese.
"England".
"Part of Britain, yes?" She said evident intent to unearth the truth of the matter.
"Yes, Great Britain, United, Kingdom, many names."
"And are you proud of this?"
"I dunno. I do not have much choice in the matter."
"Why not?" She was surprised. "I am proud to be Chinese."
National pride is a tricky matter for Europeans - esp. bleeding heart Guardian readers like me. What do you think of national pride?
Mission: Pathetic
Two days ago I left Lijiang to do the three day Leaping Tiger Gorge trek. Arriving at the start of the trail equipped with the bare essentials, I headed off along the trails - following the trails of litter if presented with a forking pathway. About two hours in I started to feel rather peculiar. Kinda sick. And dehydrated. And dizzy. After three hours I reached the first guest house on the trail, negotiated a room at a reasonable rate and promptly passed out for three hours. I spent the next day indulging in one of my all time favoritest hobbies - deep sleep - with occasional interruptions froma concerned landlady. By today I felt fully recovered. The landlady waved me off with directions to the next guest house on route - three hours away. I thanked her and walked on... until just out of sight, where I waited a few discreet minutes before retracing my path and heading back to the start. To forge on or wimp out - the decision must have taken at least a millisecond. I didn't have the heart - or the Mandarin for that matter - to tell the landlady this tho.
Cycled to Baisha with a trainee doctor. Here the Naxi engage in their traditional pursuits of gouging tourists and playing pool. On arrival, we were confronted by a Naxi dancing troop - who stirred into action at the sight of potential tourist dollars as though they were puppets on a motion sensor. We avoided Dr Ho, who was standing on his doorstep dragging potential punters off the street. And instead had tea and cakes with an enterprising Naxi woman who had opened her home to tourists. She dressed my companion in traditional Naxi women's costume (which was appropriate as my companion was female). She didn't try the same with me - which is a shame because it's so flattering to the unkempt figure even I could get away with it.
We rounded off the day by visiting a temple just outside town. Its inner sanctum featured a Taoist deity surrounded by two Buddhas with a Naxi Mother Goddess thrown in for good measure. You have to make sure you've got all your bases covered, eh? Oh and there was a statute of a peasant and a emperor in there too. Just in case the others got lonely.
Attitudes to towards religious belief in China are extremely pragmatic. Whereas Hinduism attempts to bind diverse deities and practices into a single philosophical whole, Chinese culture kinda lets them compete in a free-market fashion, despite official communist disapproval.
Some photos that are better than mine. If only because this person bothered to take some.
There is a place called Black Dragon Pool just north of the Old Town. Here, Han Chinese tourists are pimped Naxi culture in much the same as Bai culture at Dali. Fortunately Chinese tourists do not enjoy climbing or walking, so I was able ascend, admire a panoramic view of the plain on which Lijiang sits and read a book in peace. Didn't see any elephants mind, but you can't have everything. Maybe they were hiding in the trees.
And so to Lijiang
One thing you have to understand about the Chinese is that they like their history to look nice and modern and shiny and new. Hence the "old town" of Lijiang has been extensively retrofitted into a bijou shopping mall. They were also celebrating the Torch thingy here too. The main addition being little polystyrene flower-boats with candles attached. You float these down the stream that runs thru Lijiang. Making an offering to the spirits whilst simultaneously getting rid of that pesky ozone layer. Neat, huh?
Firestarter
Celebrated by many of the tribal groups in Yunnan The Torch Festival. Some people say that it comemmorates the combustable suicide of the widow escaping the clutches of a lecherous king. Others talk of battles between demons and heroes. Still others mention a fertility rite to celebrate the rice harvest.
All you need to know is it gives small children an excuse to run around with flaming brands of wood. And the rest of us an excuse to drink beer next to twenty-ft high bonfires.
Friday, August 02, 2002
The Chinese language is kinda like lego. You take loads of one-syllable words and create new words from them. For instance, the word for martial arts literally translates as "5 trees".
I went to a little shop by the hostel and the woman immediately offered me some washing powder. Was that a hint?
Met an English guy who had spent 6 months teaching at a Chinese school. Some interesting points came up:
- All Chinese organisations run by the State have a dual hierarchy. You have the basic administration and then the Party appointees. So the Principal of a school will be its day-to-day manager. But the deputy head is Party and can tell the Principal what to do.
- Guangxi. Or "connections". Everything in China runs on Guangxi - who you know and what they owe you. The West would view it as corruption but the Chinese just see it as doing business.
- To a certain extent "corruption" is institutionalised. There is one pass mark for getting into university. There is another if you are willing to a few thousand yuan. There is yet another for the family of high-ranking Party officials. And this is all public knowledge, officially approved.
Yunnan is host to a number of ethnic minorities - esp. the Bai. And until a few years ago it was the preserve of Western backpackers. Now it has become a popular destination for packs of Han Chinese tourists. I chanced on some waiting for a presentation of Bai dancing inside one of the pagodas that top the city walls. They were kitted out in white CITS baseball caps. I thought it might be fun to join them. So having been relieved of some cash, I sat down to enjoy the show. The Mistress of Ceremonies (decked out like the rest of the staff in 'traditional' Bai costume) began with an intro in Mandarin. I couldn't understand a word of it, but it's unlikely it made reference to the persecution of minorities during the more turbulent years of communist rule. The dancing began and between numbers we were presented with small samples of Bai cuisine - pickled fruit, tea, a broth made from honey and coconut, and a tonic that took away the lining of my throat and refused to give it back. The dances involved three men and three women and seemed to be courtship rituals. It looked more fun than a night down Pizza Express. One number near the end involved the men playing guitar-like instruments and the women turning coyly away. When it was finished, the MC dragged a young bloke from the audience on stage and questioning him - to gales of laughter from the audience. He was presented with a guitar-thngy and a heart-shaped pendant apparently designed for Julian Clary. He was expected to perform in an amateur version of the previous dance and looked mighty embarassed. Poor bloke. But what was this? The MC was walking down the aisle towards the back of the room. Why was everyone was looking at me? She stopped where I sat. Oh dear. It seemed I was volunteer number two. Now I could simply refuse - but that would involve a massive loss of face. Damn it. Take me to the stage. On went the guitar-thingy and the pendant. And with me, matey and a male dancer lined up, the music started. The dance was quite simple. You hade to mime playing your guitar with romantic vigour and run from one side of the stage to the other, while your beloved looked away (which for my dancing is quite a common reaction). Unfortunately, half the time I couldn't see the lead dancer so I kinda made it up. The audience laughed so hard I wondered if they've need to mop the floor afterwards. When it was over I calmly went to my sit. The Chinese women sitting in the row all gave me the thumbs up.
Glad to be of service.
Wednesday, July 31, 2002
Impressions of China (warning: only been here 5 days)
The cities are much more industrialised and 'Western' than expected. And the people have been friendlier than I was led to believe.
I went to a small cafe yesterday. The owner sat me down with the only English menu he had and kept me stocked up with green tea. As I was finishing my chicken with ginger, a gang of chinamen came in and sat down. First they offered me a cigarette (the chinese view tobacco as one of the four major food groups) then they insisted I sit with them and sample some of their food and some potent local rice wine - toasting various members of the party as we went along. Apparently the Chinese prefer to do things in groups (hence the communal showers). Communication was slightly hampered as they knew no English and I no Mandarin. But my phrasebook cause much interest - they took it in turns to read as though it were the latest John Grisham. Eventually it all became too much and I made an excuse and left. But utterly beguiling none the less.
Currently in the backpacker mecca of Dali. Altho supposedly an 'ancient' city, most of it seems suspiciously modern. It probably took a pasting during the Cultural Revolution (when anything pre-1949 could be attacked as anti-communist) and has been extensively rebuilt by the government to attract the tourist dollar. It's still very pretty, mind.
Monday, July 29, 2002
Buses. Took a 24 hour bus from Mengla to Kumming in Yunnan province. It didn't have any seats. Instead 30 bunk-beds / cots were available. These are designed for Chinese people who are not renowned - as a rule - for being tall. Certainly not as tall as me. This situation was exacerbated by:
1. The bad state of Chinese roads
2. The bad state of bus suspension
3. The gung-ho approach of our driver
I think I spent more time in the air than on the bunk and felt like a pancake by the time we arrived.
China. What can I say? Excellent food. Appalling bathrooms. The toilets consist of chutes leading directly into fields or common pipes if in a hotel. One is reminded of Glastonbury's legendary conveniences. Showers are shared and often unisex. However cities are well-developed in terms of facilities.
Oudomxay - dodgy border town. The streets are ill-lit and full of bored teenagers roaming in packs. Get me out of here. Had an interesting conversation with a Lao guy tho. He asked me a couple of Dutch what we thought about comunism. Good and bad was our reply - and his too. He also thought that one-party states were more efficient than multi-party ones. Hmmm...
And so northward. By bus from LP to Oudomxay. There are 3 buses - 8am, 11am and 1pm. I bought a ticket for the 11am and was told to get there at 10.30. I was greeted by what appeared to be a giant tuk-tuk. So I plonked myself on a bench and waited. And waited. And waited. Meanwhile the bus filled up with people, infants, baskets of bananas, electric fans, sacks full of unidentified round, hard things and a small motorbike. The 11am bus became the 1pm bus. Then we left. After 2 hours of bouncing around I decided that hanging off the back on the tailboard might be more comfortable. It was and the views as we trundled up and down the hills were spectacular. We passed thru many tribal villages clinging to the side of the hills on stilts. It was almost alpine - apart from the naked children, obvious poverty and distinct lack of yodelling. Occasional flashes of incongruity as well - such as blue plastic garden chairs sitting outside a bamboo hut.
The Mekong River. Do you remember the river of chocolate river from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? Well the Mekong looks just like that. I cannot confirm that it tastes the same.
Luang Prabang - for those that find Vientiane unbearably fast-paced and urban, there is LP. The waterfalls nearby are spectacular. Some unusual sites tho. The State Water Company Offices seem have installed inpromptu bandminton courts in their grounds. And the Red Cross have shown unexpected entreprenurial spirit by opening a sauna and massage parlour for tourists.
Vang Vieng - a kinda of backpacker holiday camp. Whitewater rafting, walking around caves and pancakes laced with non-standard herbs. None of which currently appeal. Oh and it rained continuously for 3 days.
The local brew - Beerlao is incredibly cheap - about 50p for a litre of the stuff. The draught version is excellent whilst the bottled version has the impairment of tasting of cardboard.
There is an Arc de Triomphe Laos-style in the middle of Vientiane - a gothic Buddhist affair made of concrete that even the official signs describe as "ugly". The view is quite interesting tho. Uniquely for a South East Asian city there are no buildings over 6 stories. And lots and lots of trees. So Vientiane - flat and green.
Tuesday, July 16, 2002
I am a millionaire. Well in Lao Kip anyway (US$100). Now in Vientiane. If Bangkok is "You, you, you. You buy my elephant / use my tuk-tuk / want Thai girlfriend?", Vientiane is "Uh, you've just woken me up". Possibly the most laid back capital city I have ever visited.
Service with a Smile
Everybody smiles in Thailand. It's the standard way of keeping your public sweet (and Thai's also excel at flattery). and it rubs off on you a bit as well. I'll come back looking like a Moonie - or worse a New Labour cabinet minister.
Friday, July 12, 2002
OK, fully visa'd up now. Heading to Laos tonite, followed by China, Vietnam, Cambodia, then Thailand again. Excited? Oh yes...
I Pity Da Fool
Okay. Am I an idiot? The evidence for: I gave some clothes to my guest house in Chang Mai as laundry and promptly forget to pick them up. I left with one sert of clothing that after 5 days ahas now begun to smell. Doh!
The museum at Sukhothai descibes the meanings of different poses of the Buddha statues: standing, sitting, walking (a delicate catwalk sashay in fact). There are about 8 in all. Why has no one produced a fully-poseable Buddha action figure? He Walks, he Sits, he Overcomes his desire to release himself from suffering into enlightenment. Or something.
Sukhothai
See the ruins of Thailand's first state capital. Which are actually quite dull. Lots of Buddhist chedis and the occasional 50ft Buddha. What makes it a little unusual is the geographical dispersion of the ruins. You can cycle thru paddy fields and farmers quietly washing their motorbikes and then you come across a bloody great ruined temple. It gives you some tiny inkling of what Sukhothai might have once been like.
The trekking experience wasn't quite over yet. Tong suggeted the five of us go out for a beer. He took us all to an empty kareoke bar where short thai women wearing platform soles that wouldn't disgrace an oil rig delicately trilled out Thai pop classics. After a couple of beers we decided to join in. Unable to identify songs by artist, only title we finally located Michael Jackson's Beat It. I like to think Wacko Jacko would have been touched by our interpretation - but then, I am one of the most deluded men you may ever meet.
Chang Mai. A heavily-touristed city in Northern Thailand used mainly as a base for trekking. I went on a 3 day trek last weekend. And here's what happened:
The trek started at 10am with two tour guides (Sunshine and Tong) and eight tourists (a Dutch couple, two Danish girls, a Yank, an Aussie, a Northerner and me). Everything went relatively well on the first day. We yomped thru the jungle to a Karen tribal village to stay the night. The Karen orginate from Tibet and remain largely outside Thai society. Altho the village was hardly untouched it was all pleasantly rustic. Perhaps a bit too rustic for certain members of our party. Having gone to bed early, I was awakened by a scream followed by terrified sobbing. One of the Danes had encountered a house spider when going to bed and proved to be massively phobic where insects were concerned. It was decided that the Danes would curtail their trek - the Dutch were only doing 2 days anyway so on the second day the party split in two and Tong led off us anglophones into the jungle. A singsong was initiated to keep spirits up. One song ("My Highland Goat") in particular caught Tong's fancy and he could be heard humming it at various points over the next two days. We reached the camp by the waterfall after a leisurely 4 hour walk. This wasn't enough for Tong, and after we'd shed our packs we went on an hour's speed march to another waterfall ("same same but different"), running precariously across tiered paddy fields. At some point, I fell in the muddy water up to my knees. Doh! Fortunately, all was not lost as Tong's impressive cooking skills cheered me up no end. On the last day, I spent an hour on top of Hong Di, a 40-year old mother two. Lest you get the wrong impression, Hong Di is an elephant. Elephants are surprisingly hairly and unsuprisingly thick-skinned. At one point, whilst crashing up a mountain path we encountered another elephant going the other way. A brief game of chicken ensued which we won. Elephants are easily distracted and Hong Di's keeper was constantly coaxing her away from snacking on leavy trees. A baby elephant accompanied us on this trip - presumably therearen't creches for elephants. Then we rounded everything off with some bamboo rafting. Someone foolishly gave me a steering pole and we almost came to grief.
Wednesday, July 10, 2002
Koh Pangan: Not a lot to say really. It's got a beach. It's got a Buddhist monastery. It's got an enormous rave every month. That's it really.
Tuesday, July 02, 2002
I was on a bus from Krabi to Surat Thani. All along the journey were these enormous limestone pillars rising verticaly out of the ground.
"Is the a geologist on the bus?" I idly wondered out loud.
"Er, we're geologists", said the couple in front of me.
Apparently, these pillars are karsts (in no way related to the tedious scouse britpoppers). Millions of years ago this part of Thailand was underwater and layers of coral formed. Then the sea levels changed and erosion left these stagering things high and dry.
So there you go.
Thailand:
Arrived in Hat Yai, a sleazy border town where Malays come over to get some action. Walked into an internet cafe at 11pm. Saw a couple of women in there. Fair enough. But hello, what's this? They're playing a Doom-type shoot 'em up. Closer (but discrete) inspection indicated deceptively manly lines to their faces and bodies. Yes folks, ladyboys. Judging from their recreational technology use it seems no matter what interior decorating you do you just can't change some things.
Monday, July 01, 2002
Malaysian Rewind: Club Tropicana
It's like the set of a movie. A bay of turquoise water, a short stretch of clear white sand before you hit the lush green undergrowth. But the trees aren't made of fibre glass and the horizon isn't a painted backdrop. It really is where the sea meets the sky. It's real. As real as the beach huts on stilts made of plywood and corrugated iron. As real as the rows of cafes offering barbecuded barracuda all the way along the surf. As real as the piles of rubbish you stumble on in the jungle or around the sides of the rockpools. This is my first proper tropical beach resort thing - Palao Perhentian Kecil. It's OK. If you want to go diving or snorkelling you can see the coral and fish. Or else you can sit on the beach and work on your tan. I am very short-sighted and burn like a match. All the leisure activities specific to this environment centre around light: either its ambiguous effects on the skin or its power to illuminate underwater objects for your vision. You could make a case for beaches as Bataillean solar economies of excess and nihilistic waste. But that all sounds disapprovingly puritanical. Anyway, Bataille was rubbish at volleyball...
Malaysia Rewind: Cameron Highlands Tour
I have booked up for a tour of the Cameron Highlands by coach. A motley mix of white backpackers and Chinese/Malay families. First stop, the flower gardens. I like flowers. They look nice. They smell nice. I wander round in a haze of perfume. The families buy tonnes of potted plants. The backpackers look faintly bemused. Next stop, strawberry farm. Bit of a letdown this. A load of greenhouses with strawberry plants in. We walk up a row of plants. We walk down a row of plants. Nothing exciting happens. Why are we here? Ah, the shop. Where we can buy punnets of strawberries (titchey) or jam (watery and oversweet). The backpackers go for the bemused look again. The families buy everything in sight. One woman buys ten pots. Maybe she's speculating on a world-wide surge in strawberry jam demand. Maybe she enjoys annoying her relatives during birthdays ("Playstation 2? What's that deear? Have a nice pot of strawberryjam..."). Okay what's next. The Butterfly Gardens. That's a bit wet isn't it? No, cause it has rhino beetles (the bull-barred cherokee jeep of the insect world). And scorpions. And stick insects that could take yer arm off. And, best of all leaf frogs. Now your average leaf frog does not do very much. But they look like some leaf/frog hybrid created by origami-obsessed genetic engineers. They aren't letting us buy any scorpions so parents are feeling nervous, their credit cards twitching. Time for a nice cuppa. The coach cruises thru the stately beauty of the Boh tea plantation. The little bushes are tended by Bangladeshi and Indonesian immigrants - the pay is too poor for Malays. We see the tea being crushed, fermented and filtered. The smell is overpowering. We are then packed off to the shop to purchase our cups of tea and assorted giftery. There's a riot at the checkout among the families for boxes of tea and shortbread. I wonder if any of them buys one of the workers by mistake. Finally the apiary and the local market. Apiary? That's just bees innit. And not even GM killer bees. So, a let down after the miniscule savagery of the Butterfly Gardens. We are told that honey is a cure for fever, constipation and (oddly enough) the runs. Tehy're probably just waiting on FDA clearance before AIDS and cancer are declared honey treatable as well. And in the market they sell fruit. Brilliant.
So the tour is largely an excuse to part tourists from their money. There's one born every minute. In this case - me.
Sunday, June 30, 2002
English speaking: Common in Singapore and Malaysia. Not that common in Thailand. Unlike virtually every other country in South East Asia, Thailand remained uncolonised by the European powers. Which means I may have to learn some Thai. It's a tonal language so that could be a bit tricky (as I am tone deaf).
Not explored Bangkok very much so far. The Khao San Road is bit like Carnabie Street - but with more Thai people obviously. Places to buy your trinkets, or get yer hair extensions, or watch the footie over a beer.
Saturday, June 29, 2002
Thailand: Now in Bangkok. All the stuff I have been promising to write for the last month should finally make an appearance tomorrow.
Anyone up for this:
Definitely not a con. Oh no. Perish the thought.
FROM: ENGR. SOLOMON UZO
email:- solomon@nnpc.zzn.com
Mobile:- xxxxxxxxx
EFAX:- xxxxxxxxx
LAGOS NIGERIA
STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL
ATTN.: PRESIDENT/CEO
SIR,
REQUEST FOR URGENT BUSINESS RELATIONSHIP I AM ENGINEER SOLOMON UZO ,
A
DEPUTY DIRECTOR AND CHAIRMAN OF CONTRACT AWARD COMMITTEE IN THE
NIGERIA NATIONAL PETROLEUM CORPORATION (NNPC) I GOT THE INFORMATION
OF YOUR GOODSELF FROM A VERY RELIABLE FRIEND OF MINE WHO HAS LIVED IN
YOUR COUNTRY BEFORE .
HE ATTESTED FOR YOUR RELIABILITY AND TRUST WORTHINESS IN THIS
BUSINESS PROPOSAL I WANT TO DISCUSS WITH YOU.I, AND MY COLLEAGUES ARE
TOP OFFICIALS OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT CONTRACT REVIEW AND AWARD
PANEL . WE ARE IN A POSITION TO TRANSFER THE SUM OF THIRTY FIVE
MILLION FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND UNITED STATES DOLLARS
(US$35,500.000.00) IN TO YOUR PRIVATE /COMPANY BANK ACCOUNT FOR
MUTUAL BENEFIT.
THIS AMOUNT OF MONEY WAS GOT FROM OVER-INFLATION OF CONTRACTS AND
SERVICES CARRIED OUT BY FOREIGN FIRMS WITH THE NIGERIA NATIONAL
PETROLEUM CORPORATION (NNPC). THE ORIGINAL CONTRACTORS HAVE BEEN PAID
AND WE ARE NOW LEFT WITH THESE OVER INVOICED AMOUNT FLOATING IN THE
CENTRAL BANK OF NIGERIA, HENCE MY COLLEAGUES ENTRUSTED ME TO CONTACT
YOU FOR ASSISTANCE.
TO FACILITATE AND CONCLUDE THIS TRANSACTION YOU ARE REQUIRED TO
FURNISH US WITH THE FOLLOWING INFORMATIONS :-
A. YOUR NAME, YOUR CONTACT ADDRESS , AND YOUR PHONE AND FAX NUMBERS
FOR EASY COMMUNICATION . B. THE NAME OF YOUR BANK , PHONE AND TELEX
NUMBERS,
AND YOUR ACCOUNT NUMBERS WHERE THIS MONEY WILL BE REMITTED C.
ASSURANCE THAT YOU WILL KEEP THIS TRANSACTION SECRET CONSIDERING THE
PERSONALITIES INVOLVED AND ABOVE ALL, YOU WILL NOT SIT ON THIS FUND
WHEN IT FINALLY GOES IN TO YOUR ACCOUNT.
MY COLLEAGUES AND I HAVE AGREED THAT IF YOUR COMPANY CAN ACT AS THE
BENEFICIARY OF THIS FUNDS ON OUR BEHALF, YOU OR YOUR COMPANY WILL
RETAIN 30% OF THE TOTAL AMOUNT WHILE 60% WILL BE FOR US (OFFICIALS )
AND THE REMAINING 10% WILL BE USED IN OFFSETTING ALL DEBTS/EXPENSES
INCURRED BOTH LOCAL AND FOREIGN IN THE COURSE OF THIS TRANSFER.
ALL MODALITIES FOR A HITCH FREE TRANSFER OF THIS MONEY HAVE BEEN
CONCLUDED .YOU ARE REQUIRED TO TREAT THIS BUSINESS WITH UTMOST
SECRECY AND CONFIDENTIALITY AS WE EXPECT TO CONCLUDE THE TRANSFER
BETWEEN 14 TO 21 BANK WORKING DAYS FROM THE DATE OF RECEIPT OF THE
NECESSARY REQUIREMENTS FROM YOU , PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS TRANSACTION
IS 100% SAFE AND RISK FREE .
IF THIS PROPOSAL IS ACCEPTABLE TO YOU, PLEASE REPLY IMMEDIATELY
THROUGH THE ABOVE EMAIL AND SEND US YOUR BANK
PARTICULARS TO ENABLE US APPLY FOR THE CLAIM OF THIS MONEY FROM THE
VARIOUS MINISTRIES INVOLVED.
THANK YOU AND GOD BLESS.
SINCERELY YOURS,
ENGR. SOLOMON UZO (O.F.R)
N:B, PLEASE DO NOT FAIL TO SEND ME FAX:-
Mobile:- xxxxxxxxx
EFAX:- xxxxxxxxx
Thursday, June 20, 2002
Updates will after to wait until after my visit to Ko Pha Ngan and the legendariy hedonism of the Full Moon Party on the 24th. Which coincidentally is also my father's birthday. I'll be thinking of you, Dad.
Monday, June 17, 2002
Now in Thailand. Mucho writing about to hit both blogs soon. Seems to be a problem with the archives so I've taken evasive action and put everything that's happened so far on this frontpage.
Sunday, June 09, 2002
Coming out of the cold: Leaving the chilled Cameron Highlands today for some beach action by the sea.
Friday, June 07, 2002
Hell.
I don't believe it.
A Malaysian guy I met in KL a week ago is dead. Diving accident in Australia.
Nice guy. Absolutely shocking.
Three minute silence.
Thursday, June 06, 2002
The Steamboat:
The steamboat consists of a big pot of heated soup and several plates of raw noodles, veg, fish and meat. You could the food items yourself in the soup and then consume. Two provisos:
1. Do not burn yourself with the soup.
2. Remember to cook the food for long enough.
Otherwise a ridiculous amount of fun.
Sunny the Trekking Guide: "There are spirits in the jungle. Not human, not like ghosts. You have to be careful. If you get weak then something might come inside."
In the Jungle:
It's damp. It's full of vegetation and animals that move just beyond the edge of your vision. The ambient noise is the most unnerving thing. There's an intense humming criss-crossed with calls and messages you don't understand. It reminds you that here you're out of the loop.
Tuesday, June 04, 2002
To get to the Cameron Highlands:
I bought a ticket from a tiny booth in the bus station at KL (wo)manned by two ladies who owned far too much demin and make-up for people of their age and was told to be at the Shell petrol station across the road at 1pm the next day. I wasn't completely able to shake the feeling this was all a bit dodgy - kindalike agreeing to meet Joe Peshi and some baseball bat-wielding associates on a lonely country road to discuss the possibilties of credit extension. Anyway I, and a reassuring number of Malays, made it to the service station on time. Nothing happened - except we all sweat a bit. Half an hour latter, one of the women arrives (this time sporting an ill-advised pair of leggings) and directs us down the street to the bus. It's quite swish. I get a seat next to a hormone-crazed 18 year old lad who insists of waving his stash of contraceptives in the direction of his mates for about 10 mins. Tiring of this, he simply settles for yelling across the compartment at random people. I shut my eyes.
Two hours later we arrive at Tapah. We change buses. For some reason this new bus is somewhat shabbier than the first. My new companion is much quieter - apart from an 80 a day death-rattle cough. The reason for the state of the second bus quickly becomes clear. The two hour drive from Tapah to Tanah Rata is breath-taking: both for the scenery and the relish with which the driver throws his machine round the narrow, steep road and its hair-pin bends. The sight of the mist rising up out of the jungle kinda makes up for that tho.
Cameron Highlands
Good Points:
- Cool temperature-wise
- Unpolluted
- Nice walks in the jungle
- Nothing much to do
- Generally far too laid back for its own good
Bad Points:
- Er, none currently. I'm sure by the end of the week I'll be pining for smog, concrete and money-grabbing taxi drivers - but everything's fine fer now.
Currently Reading:
A History of Malaysia Interesting first primer - a trifle turgid.
Calcutta Dated but not as dated as it should be.
Saturday, June 01, 2002
In a weird alternative universe, Senegal have just beaten France 1-0 in the first match of the World Cup. And I am sitting a bar watching a Malay rasta band covering Phil Collins' Another Day in Paradise in a roots reggae stylee.
What is going on?
I leave tomorrow for the Cameron Highlands.
I have just been spammed by Jesus:
During the next 60 seconds, stop whatever you are doing, and take this opportunity. (Literally it is only 1 minute) All you have to do is the following: You simply say "The Lords Prayer" for the person that sent you this message:
Our Father, who are in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom Come, Thy Will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, forever. Amen.
Next, you send this message to everyone you know. In a while, more people will have prayed for you and you would have obtained a lot of people praying for others. Next, stop and think and appreciate God's power in your life, for doing what you know is pleasing to Him. If you are not ashamed to do this, follow the instructions. Jesus said, "If you are ashamed of me, I will be ashamed of you before My Father" If you are not ashamed, send this message...only if you believe. "Yes, I love my God. He is my fountain of Life and My Savior. He Keeps me going day and night. Without Him, I am no one. But with Him, I can do everything. Christ is my strength." This is a simple test. If you love God and you are not ashamed of all the great things that he has done for you, send this to everyone you know, and the person that sent it to you. Thanks!!!
A little bit more on the situation in India. Received this email from someone in Kolkata which I shall take the liberty of reproducing here:
"yours is one of 5 emails i've recieved in the pass 2 days about war in india! You know, here in Calcutta,its on the news papers about kashmir but really,speking to all the indians its like there is nothing going on. I received an email from a volunteer coming out asking about the 'situation' and me and xxx were like..what situation? whats going on?!! Obviously kashmir is a no go etc but as far as calcutta...well,life seems just the same.The american embassy has issued a travel warning advising against travel in india, aparenlty the NZ embassy in new delhi has told travellers they should leave.the british embassy hasnt said anything at all (except the obvious) so who knows mate.
As for CNN...well,its CNN...innit? "
So there you go. Don't get busy with the iodine tablets and hanging white sheets infront of yer windows just yet.
Thursday, May 30, 2002
I went to the somewhat threadbare Malaysian National Museum. They had a monkey on a chain. A cruel and barbaric thing to do you might say. What if I were to add that the monkey was in a glass case? And dead. And stuffed. How many cases of monkeys coming back from the dead have you encountered? A rather annoyed 10-ft crocodile also featured. As did an 8-ft long fish (which goes by the Clintonesque name of a Giant Groper).
There were also some tableux of traditional Malay scenes such as weddings and, er, circumcisions. The only slightly disconcerting thing was that the dummies used in these reconstructions seem to have come from Marks & Spencer circa 1978.
Also a fascinating little bit on the history of Shadow Play in South East Asia.
The Malaysian government has a bit of a tower complex (I wonder what Freud would make of that). Not only do they have the KL Telekom tower but also the Petronas Twin Towers. And they also have the world's biggest aviary. To an emerging nation, size obviously matters.
I am staying in a $2 hostel. I visited a friend in the 5-star Renaissance hotel. Looking out from his room I saw a tennis court and an enormous swimming pool populated by overweight Westerners. And just beyond that what appeared to be a sizeable shanty town. Don't wash your dirty laundry in public eh?
Malaysia's an interesting blend of people. About 60% of the population are Malay and Muslim. The women wear headscarves. They have been added to the traditional McDonalds uniform ("halal chicken, sir?"). And women policemen wear them as well. The next largest group is the Chinese (about 25%). Basically the Malays run the government and the Chinese run the economy. And both are happy with this situation provided the other delivers the goods (i.e. political stability and economic growth).
KL: Lots and lots of cats. Stacks of them. Mangy as hell most of them. Some guy I talked to had a theory that nations are either dog or cat countries (altho we shouldn't be so dualistic and so we could widen it out to fish countries or hamster countries maybe).
Some thoughts on the India-Pakistan conflict, which seems to be dominating CNN at the moment:
This is typical brinksmanship behaviour between India and Pakistan. It's been going on for years and the world has been ignoring it. Only now the two playground toughs are playing Russian Roulete with 6 loaded chambers. My gut feeling is that nobody wants a nuclear war but the screw-up potential is huge.
If people in the West begin to take a good long look at India and Pakistan and what's going on there then some good may come out of this horrible situation.
Batu Caves. Spectacular. Great mothers of caves that some Hindus have plonked extremely colourful temples in.
Monday, May 27, 2002
Photographs!
1. Some taken by me at Pramod's school a few months ago
2. Some of Pramod's snaps - a few featuring someone you might know...
Chatting to Omar, a Malaysian microbiologist. We discussed divisions in Malaysian society between Malays, Indians and Chinese. They all go to different schools and do not intermarry. Who set up this system? Well, the British.
Omar went on to say altho there was mistrust between the races he had never experienced racism like he had in Britain - where people called him a 'Paki'. Which he found odd - because he comes from Malaysia not Pakistan.
Felt a small, smouldering moment of national shame.
Sunday, May 26, 2002
Left Malacca. Now in KL - which actually translates roughly as Muddy Waters, blues fans. First impressions? A bit rubbish actually. Grey, busy, dirty, homogenised. Things may improve when I hook up with Crafty Karl's family.
Admission of shame: I had a McDonalds. I felt so guilty and dirty afterwards. It reminded me of the time they caught me with the six geckos in the shower. Only worse.
Last night: talking to Tom (who goes around the world trying to unload Belgium's surplus manure on developing nations) and a rather nice Norwegian couple. All of a sudden, the quiet Korean girl pipes up:
Korean Girl: Hi, my name is xxxx and the Singaporean police are trying to kill me.
Us: Really?
KG: Well, like, yeah. Why else would they be taking my blood and accusing me of taking drugs?
Us: Who's accusing you of taking drugs?
KG: Well, that's what I'd like to know right.
Us: And it was the Singaporean police doing this?
KG: Well I guess so. I mean, they didn't say that. But would you say that? Huh?
Now it's possible KG is being chased by the Singaporean police and God knows who else. It's also very possible she's suffering from paranoid delusions. But how do you tell someone that? I mean, you're obviously in on it too, right?
Saturday, May 25, 2002
The bike tour was cool - thanks to a charming guide and some up-for-it fellow tourists. Watching rubber getting tapped was kinda fun. And then I visited the TYT Museum - which is an object lesson in self-knowledge and the perils of its deficiency.
Malacca has a lot of museums - on Islam, beautification (basically all kinds of body modification - but this had been burnt down), the Dutch, anything really. The TYT Museum's area of specialisation is the State Government and Chief Minister (Tun) of Malacca. The visitor is treated to action-packed recreations of the Tun's Office, Dining Room, Inspiriation Room (which involves silver plates, a natty Koran and some indoor golfing equipment), and Family Area - where we are assured that"Despite his tight schedule, the Tun makes it a priority to spend some time with his family" ("Son, I can see you on August 25th at 3.46 - how does that work with your diary?"). In addition, lengthy profiles of each Tun is provided. To be a Tun, you require the following:
- a fez
- a lengthy name, the last one was called Tun Dutuk Utama Syed Ahmad Al-Haj bin Syed Mahmud Shahabuddin.
The tragedy is not only that this is all staggeringly dull but also that it is professionally arranged and quite a lot of money seems to have been 'invested' in this momument to executive ego - I mean, civic duty.
The Backpacker Existence
You're fated to have brief contact with other human beings. Nothing too deep, nothing too sustained. Nothing you can't walk away from in 30 seconds. A stone skipping across the surface of an immense lake.
Friday, May 24, 2002
Hindus go crazy!
I didn't get there early enough to see the blades going in. But there's a guy with a spear going into one cheek and coming out the other. And someone else has 40-odd limes hanging off his bare back on pins. And nevermind the guy who's pulling along a statue of Mariamman using a dozen vicious-looking hooks sticking into his spine. The Chetty are the descendents of Tamil traders from southern India and yesterday was a bit of party for the deity Mariamman (who combines peacock arraignment with a Freddie Mercury-style moustache). So they fasted and prayed for 7 days then paraded round town with various bits of cutlery sticking in them. All the guys have the same expression: "I am completely bonkers - approach with extreme caution". Accompanied by little musical combos (drums and snake-charmer trumpets) churning out infectious polyrhythms, we end up at a temple on the outskirts of town. Inside, everyone is going for it - dancing, praying, you name it. The slice-and-dice guys remove their bits of metal and are blessed by a priest. Some collapse in a dead faint. Others wander off for a fag and a chip-butty. One bloke decides to put on some flip-flops - with 3 inch nails sticking up through the soles. Well lads, it filled in a dull Wednesday.
It's 6.30am. I have a raging hangover and vague recollections of arguing with an Irishman about genocide. I think I was against it. That doesn't explain why the small Malaysian chap is sitting on my bed and slapping me awake. Oh yes, that's right - I signed up for a mountain bike tour of the locality. Damn. Nurse?
Thursday, May 23, 2002
Malaysia: Yeah, Alright then
Malaysia is fairly relaxed. Got an air-con bus to Malacca where I was greeted by 4 or 5 touts for the various guest houses. They were polite, orderly and offered the minimum of hassle. At no stage have I had to argue with anyone about prices or felt like I have been ripped off. I don't think the locals can arsed.
Back track to the Asian Civilisations Museum in Singapore:
Another highly professional and informative museum. A recent one too, established in 1997. And a politically interesting one. Singapore is a multicultural society (all signs are in English, Malay, Chinese and Tamil) with components of Sinic, Malay and Indic origin. Moreover, its economic success has made it a leading voice for Asia as a whole. The museum is a cultural accompaniment to Singapore's formation of self-identity and regional foreign policy.
Both the Singapore History Museum and Asian Civilisations Museum have exhibits on Peranakan material culture. Now part of this reflects the Singaporean love of material possessions (and this kit is tasty), but the Peranakans are important to Singapore - Chinese traders who married Malay women and created their own hybrid culture. They are a historical model for a distinctive Singaporean identity.
Wednesday, May 22, 2002
In Malayasia, in Malacca, currently in a cybercafe full of fat kids playing Doom-style shoot-em-ups and soft rock at simultaneously nerveshredding volumes. Apart from that, life is cool. Looking forward to doing some hardcore lazing for a week.
Tuesday, May 21, 2002
As you might expect, Singapore's Botanic Gardens are both beautiful and extremely neat. Almost every tree has a plaque at its base giving Linnaean name, Family (which as we know is very important here), and geographical origin. There are orchid gardens, a sundial garden, a ginger garden and even a bonzai garden.
Singapore calls itself the Garden City. What is garden? A man-made attempt to control a chaotic, unstable environment - beauty through order. And this is one vision of what Singapore is. It is surrounded by far larger, potentially hostile states. Its notoriously strict laws and autocratic government can be seen as attempt to maintain order in this garden - pruning, grafting and sometimes weeding. ANy greenthumb will tell you that a garden can be a fragile place.
In my head at the moment:
The Clash of Civilizations
Orientalism
Sacred Cows
Last one is short, pithy and surprising revealing. Other two are must-reads.
Sunday, May 19, 2002
One of the most interesting things about travelling is to overturn not only your own prejudices but those of your hosts. Indians were surprised to hear that we actually have problems in the West and that these are the same problems they have (access to education, lack of interest by political institutions to people's needs) in nature if not in scale.
Many Singaporeans view Westerners as decadent and anti-family. And yet we have kids killing themselves over their exam results too and (on the upside) many of us are very close to our families and expect to contribute to the support of our parents later in life (there Mum and Dad, you've got it in writing).
The differences are just what you tend to see first.
This play of sameness (that makes communication possible) with difference (that makes it worthwhile) is what it's all about.
Noticed for sale in one of Singapore's interminable malls/markets: a slab of exam papers from a local private school. Apparently on sale for $15 to state school pupils who want to up the ante. Comes in three sizes:
- Regular
- Family Pack
- Attempted Suicide
7. Mixed Meat Soup (***)
Contains spine meat, internal organ meat, stomach meat, liver meat and meatballs. Sounds like something dreamed up by Jhonen Vasquez. Again quite tasty. Not for vegetarians.
8. Grass Jelly (***)
Made with bits of the creeping fig. A refreshing drink - with lots of jelly in. Hald expect the Creature from the Black Lagoon to pop out and grab you.
"I don't think he'll like it."
"Hmmm, he did turn up his nose at the ice cream version. And that was only mild."
"But he has eaten everything put in front of him so far."
"Nah, it'll just be a waste."
Right. A challenge. The Durian is the Rolls Royce of Fruit. It comes in different gradings. A D24 grading is one of the best and a single Durian will set you back about S$15. After the seafood (which P and D generously sorted out), it was decided that I should be exposed to this delicacy - which P described as being reminiscient of old socks. We went out and got a top notch one. And...
It was very tasty. Result. You are supposed to drink salt water from the discarded casing of the fruit and then wash your hands in a similar manner - it's said to get rid of the smell.
At this point I had to cry off the offer of Laksah from D. In fact, after some ice cream and ice tea I had to pass out for a couple of hours. Dylan awoke me just in time to pick up Michelle from church and go to what passes for the beach in a Singapore. And an expectionally fine seafood restaurant. We were joined by Patrick, Dolly and their daughter Jade. We'll skip over the:
- fried squid
- braised vegetables
- pepper crab
- chilli crab
- fish liver pate
We'll briefly pause over the steamed fish: many years ago Patrick worked in London. He used to go to Portabello market and get the fish heads for free. "I used to tell them it was for my cat", he chuckled, "I thought everybody knew the best part of the fish is the cheek!"
The sharks fin soup was a new one on me - and very tasty. But the final dish was
6. Drunken Prawns (*****)
The prawns were brought live to the table to display their freshness and vigour. They returned about half an hour later less active but pinker in a brandy sauce. One of our party voiced a concern.
"How do we know if the prawns they brought the first time are the ones we are eating now? They could be sending sending round the same live prawns to each table."
Indeed, maybe the prawns were professional actors.
Yesterday Dylan decided to give increase my gastronomic knowledge of Singaporean cuisine:
We kicked off with some Prawn Mee (***) then had some fiddly bits including:
4. The Century Egg (****)
A hen's egg without a shell that's the colour of a submarine hull. Eaten with copious amounts of preserved ginger. I asked D why the ginger was necessary.
"Oh the ammonia smell can get a much for some people."
"Ammonia?"
"Yeah, it's prepared using horse urine."
Then we went to a separate location for some:
5. Chicken Rice (****)
This is chicken. And rice. Nothing could be simplier you may think. But you would be wrong. Good chicken rice is an art. The chicken must of the highest quality. It is boiled for 10 minutes then dropped in cold water. Then boiled again and then cooled a final time. Fat from the chicken is removed prior to boiling and used in the preparation of the rice. Under no circumstances should the chicken be allowed to go dry. The only thing more succulent than the chicken will be you in the humidity here.
Friday, May 17, 2002
Visited the Singapore History Museum - which is absolutely as professional as the web site implies. The 3D film is quite odd. They kick off with a 5 min advert for the firepower of the Singaporean Navy. Now there is an exhibition on to celebrate 35 years of the Singaporean Navy - and I asked a sergeant hanging around if they had ever fired a shot in anger. He said they practiced a lot with foreign navies but they weren't really into firing stuff. They also had an interactive, illuminated map of countries and port they had diocked at. I asked him why China didn't have any lights by it - but he said he wasn't qualified to answer that.
The traffic lights have a 10 second countdown for the green man. It makes you want to get to the otherside of the road before Mel Gibson and Danny Glover jump out and the street explodes.
2. Vietnamese Dragonfruit.
A bit of dandy this. It has a vivid purple and green exterior. But the inside is white flesh and tiny black seeds. Kinda like a kiwi fruit but blander. It's a bit like putting a forensic accountant in a Vivienne Westwood suit.
3. Bubble tea
V.v. popular this. Basically tasty ice tea with, er, bubbles. Also has 'pearls' of fruit jelly in it. V. nice. Dylan and myself discussed selling it in the UK. If anybody fancies getting in on a little import / export then let me know.
Singaporeans like to work. Its the only explanation as to why a city of 4 million people can seem so empty. In fact the only things that Singaporeans like more than working are shopping and eating. So anything that's not an office will probably be food or retail related. So they'll be some brief reviews of various food stuffs over the next few days.
1. Pork Floss.
This is not to clean the teeth of pigs. It is served on toast. It had the texture and look of candy floss. But it tastes of pork. Go figure. Not one for the UK.
My first shock in Singapore was at the airport. I had just got thru immigration when I saw the sign for customs. Singapore applies the death penalty for the importation of drugs. I didn't have 3 kilos of smack nestling in my boxers but I was still alittle nervous. Strip searches? Rubber gloves? 3 hour interregations from a shadowy, chain-smoking figure hidden behind an angle poise lamp. Actually what I got was an old buffer who put my bags thru an X-ray machine and asked me if it was my time in Singapore. We were just discussing whether I should take the train or businto town when Dylan and Michelle arrived. D&M are a sweet couple that I met in Kolkata. Bursting with enthusiasm they piled my kit into their car and we headed into the Garden City. They didn't have a lot of spare time because they were launching their first business in a few weeks but they'd make what time they could. As we were cruising down the 6 lane East Coast Parkway, Dylan pointed out the sights:
"...And you see those barriers in the middle of the road..?"
"The nice floral ones?"
"...Yes. They are removable. In the event of a warthis raod can be turned into an airstrip. Neat huh?"
"Er, is a war likely?"
"Oh yes. Our water supply is controlled by Malaysia. Or Indonesia could decide to attack us."
Dylan then asked me what my budget was. I mumbled something about S$40 a day (S$1 = 2.5 UKP). He then regretdully informed that a swift internet search has indicated the cheapest hotel room in town was S$50. I replied that the Lonely Planetsaid you could get a dorm bed for S$15 a night on Bencoolen St. Dylan brightly suggested we drive there immediately.
Singapore is very tidy place. Chewing gum is illegible here because of the mess it causes. The budget/backpacker-type accomodation had been tidied out of sight. Eventually we found a hostel four flights of stairs above a veg cafe. The room was spartan but clean and inhabited by 2 British women with long vowels.
"I never knew places like this existed in Singapore", said Dylan, eyes alight with mild digust and entreprenurial opportunity. After I had booked in, D&M suggested we get a bite to eat and plan my itinery for the next few days. Over a delicious plate of noodles, they broke down the possibilities into daytime and nighttime activities and fixed various appointments. Singaporean efficiency should never be underestimated. Neither should Dan-style incompetence - I left the itinery in their car by mistake.
Left Mumbai. My final encounter was pretty strange. Met this Bengali guy called Eric on the train to the airport. He's a super-confident hot shot in the hospitality industry. Telling me all about his penthouse appartment and his career plans, yadda yadda.
When we reached our stop, we got off the train together and he ehlped me with my bags. Then he got into the autorickshaw with me to the airport. It seems after he finishes a 16 hour day, he has nothing else to do - he's done this before with tourists apparently. Hey ho.
Tuesday, May 14, 2002
The last fortnight has been overloaded with work - that's why I have been oddly silent.
Just completed a 33 hour train journey in luxurious 3-tier A/C. Despite being 40 degrees celsius plus, it was so cold in the carriage at night I had to use my sleeping bag.
Currently in Mumbai.
Tuesday, April 30, 2002
Frankly My Dear, I Don't Give A Dharma is now available from Hackwriters.com
I like the idea of being a hack.
Monday, April 29, 2002
Things coming soon on True Facts:
One Night In Heaven - Poverty, Corruption, Pole Dancing
White Man in a Kurta - Shopping, More Corruption and Politics
I Can't Explain - A communication breakdown (it's always the same)
What won't be coming to True Facts:
Famous Last Words has lived up to its name and bitten the dust. I just can't write fiction at the moment. May be when I'm on a beach in Thailand...
What might be appearing elsewhere:
Articles on Gandhian theory and practice, and cultural integration for travellers. The Development Tourism Manifesto is being overhauled and there may be a theoretical piece on the cultures of different NGOs. I've got lots of ideas at the moment but precious little time to write them down. I do have a 30-hour train ride coming up before I leave India.
I'd love to hear what you readers think of this site. I what interaction, debate, abuse even. If I don't get it, I start upping the provocation levels and may end up like Gary Bushell. Please don't let that happen to me.
General rumination: Without dissing my past, I can honestly say that these few months in India have been some of the best and most intense so far. I want the rest of my life to match up to them. What do you want?
Saturday, April 27, 2002
I am toying with doing a part time PhD in the future on cantankerous French philosopher Michel Serres. Anybody interested in him? IF so, let me know.
Thursday, April 25, 2002
Photos!
1. & 2. Pramod's school in Bodhgaya
3. Bright-eyed kid from Dwarkoji's Ashram, Bodhgaya.
More to come soon.
Some of my photos
Wednesday, April 24, 2002
Back in the saddle
Looking for some action
But like Mick Jagger said
I can't get no satisfaction
Unlike Tone Loc my problems can't be solved with funky cold medina. I've been getting a little jaded of late so I've connected with the Mothership and started working mornings in a home for mentally handicapped children. It's... okay I suppose. Some people rave about the experience but I tend to switch into job-doing mode - feed, clothe, mop up, sing songs, play. That's why I didn't go into the caring professions (as to opposed to the uncaring professions - which describes where I spent the last two and a half years working).
Wednesday, April 17, 2002
The Indian Dining Experience
1. Ten of you arrive at a restaurant.
2. The waiter hands you one menu to share.
3. He reluctantly lets another one or two menus go your way on request.
4. You order a dish of cheese and spinach
5. The waiter informs you that they have no dishes containing cheese or spinach.
6. You try to order a dish of potatoes.
7. The waiter informs you they have no potatoes.
8. You ask the waiter what dishes they do have.
9. The waiter points to an obscure section of the menu mentioning tomatoes. The menu seems to be a sadistic case of wishful thinking.
10. You ask for a masala dosa.
11. The waiter demures.
12. You point to a man opposite eating a masala dosa.
13. The waiter looks surprised - and a little annoyed.
14. You wait for your food.
15. You wait for your food.
16. You wait for your food.
17. The waiter spends this period avoiding your gaze - even if this means facing the wall for long periods of time. You eventually catch his attention with a deft rugby tackle. He promises to look into the food situation.
18. Your food arrives. It is a dish of spinach and cheese. You briefly remember steps 4-17 and elect not to send it back.
Eric (jazz drummer, spanish translator, doctor - don't you just hate people like that?) thinks there is a CIA operative staying in the Modern Lodge. Man From CIA is a big, middle-aged American with some clunky jewellery.
I think he's a bloke who travels around hotels trying to make people think he's a CIA operative - so they'll think he's interesting rather than tedious.
Monday was Bengali new year and Tuesday was a strike day called by the Communist Party of India - who for many years ran West Bengal. So some of us packed our bags and spent a long weekend in Digha - a cosy little resort.And it was nice, in a not-much happening kinda way. Beach cricket, seafood, mild sunburn, sand in yer trunks - the usual seaside fun.
Stayed in the Larcia Holiday Inn - an establishment rich with Eastern Bloc-style hospitality. It's a rambling, white-washed place with enormous corridors and crumbling paintwork. I half-expected to be awoken at 3am and dragged off to an interregation room hidden behind the kitchens. But all the grief I received was from mosquitoes.
Monday, April 08, 2002
Last few days have been a bit cultural.
Thursday: The Story of Calcutta. A son-et-lumiere experience. Could do with a bit more work - example from soundtrack.
Narrator: And then the following year there was a riot.
(Fade up noise of a riot)
Posh English Voice 1: What's that dashed awful racket?
Posh English Voice 2: It's a bally riot.
You get the idea. A lot of fun mind - even if it's not all intentional.
Friday: Sh..sh..sh(e) at the Max Mueller Bhavan (out of date info). A film on male sex workers in Kolkata. And they were in the audience as well. No I didn't ask for a discount.
Saturday: A visit to the Calcutta Swimming Club. Basically a hangover from the Raj - it's another world where the Indian elite get to parade around with air-con and a f***ing enormous outdoor pool. I heartily disapproved even whilst I was jumping off the high-diving board and whooping with joy.
Sunday: Lagaan. Bit of a weird one this. It's a film where a mismatched bunch of Indian villagers beat a team of English bastards at cricket. And it's great fun. Lots of musical numbers, some romance, some action, zero depth. It was nominated for an Oscar and everybody here was going crazy about it. Couple of critical points:
1. It's an idealised picture of India. Despite caste and religious differences, the characters pull together to thwart a foreign invader. Now to a certain extent, that's what happened 50 years ago. But in the light of the events at Gujarat it all seems hopelessly optimistic. But hey, that's entertainment.
2. The Indians in the film are playing the British at their own game - competing on alien territory. And the film itself was doing the same in the international arena. The Indians in the film retain their pride and adapt the game to their own skills. The Indian filmakers themselves do something similar with the format of the masala movie. But I can't help thinking India should be setting its own standards and not giving a toss about the Oscars. In much the same way I groan whenever British people get excited about Americans noticing our own cultural products.
Friday, April 05, 2002
TNTSRN has asked me to stay for a while longer and build a web site for them. Quantas permitting, I've said yes.
Wednesday, April 03, 2002
Now Showing on True Facts:
Frankly My Dear, I Don't Give A Dharma - You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!
Monday, April 01, 2002
In fact the whole journey had a bit of an Apocalypse Now feel to it. Holi did nothing to dampen this down.
How to celebrate Holi:
1. Assemble large collection of intoxicants (booze, glue, whatever).
2. Assemble large collection of paints, dyes, coloured water, etc. Anything that stains.
3. Ingest intoxicants.
4. Splash colours over a wide area.
5. Repeat until collapse.
Holi is a little like New Years Eve. Only with a much bigger dry-cleaning bill. And I must say that on no NYE I can remember has anyone grabbed me by the testicles and attempted to dye my pubes orange - as one Indian gentleman tried on Friday.
Spent the weekend in Puri which was... weird. Puri is a beach resort about 300 miles south of Kolkata. Most of our party went by train, except three of us who went by bus. Fortunately there weren't many people on the bus. Unfortunately there were plenty of budgies, puppies, sacks of tea and other freight items animate or not. The soundtrack to our 14-hour drive was some Bollywood movie on audiotape. The plot consisted of one man with a gruff voice laughing a lot (this was to presumably emphasise how evil he was - which is odd cause the truly evil people aren't big on laughing) and a woman crying. It was like Eastenders with tablas. The journey itself wasn't too bad. Apart from the breakdowns. And the fierce electrical storms. And the random hallucinations triggered by christ knows what.
Wednesday, March 27, 2002
Big Muslim festival over the weekend. Sunday night - lots of flagellation in the streets - people beating themselves with swords and stuff. Monday night equally mental. Teams of young Mulim lads had 15m high flags they were carrying round. Four or five lads would hold it by its mast with some more guys on guy ropes. They then ran around the centre of the city. As you can imagine these aren't the most stable structures in the world and I had one very narrow escape.
Okay. Sunday was Indian-dress night at the Modern Lodge. The lay-deez were all wrapped up in their saris and two of the lads were sporting lungis and wife beater vests. I opted to go for the dhoti. This is a single piece of material 5m long. It forms a garment somewhere between coulottes and a nappy.
This guy is wearing one but I looked much cooler. Oh yes.
Friday, March 22, 2002
This temperature developed into some really violent vomiting and diarrhoea so liquid I felt like a water pistol (a situation hastened by a massively unwise visit to one of the fanciest hotel bars in town). However, it could have been a lot worse. For in the room above me is an expert in shit. She works for TNTSRN but is also doing a PhD on diarrhoea among Western visitors in Kolkata. Hence she has access to a lab and all the medication and treatments you can imagine. Thanks to her help and that of others, I am now firmly on the mend.
Not only that, but I get Rs 500 for the stool sample I provided.
I was running a bit of fever a few days ago so I asked one of the nurses to take my temperature. She said she didn't have a thermometer but could take temperatures using her lips. Now, knowing where you usually put a thermometer, I was a bit bemused by this. But she gave me a peck on the forehead and said, "37.8". Which I assume was my temperature in centigrade.
The work I'm doing for this NGO is actually quite dull - database design, web page writing, a bit of training and job design. It's very much like my job back in the UK.
But this is a good thing. It reminds me why I left. And why I have to keep on going.
Following the loss of my passport I went on an interesting visit to the local police station with the young lad that had done the actual passport-losing (who to be fair was sick with worry) and the director of TNTSRN.
There was much moving from queue to queue and conversation in Bangla. What I didn't know at the time, but was told by the director later, was that if I had reported the passport missing it would have taken 7 days to process but because it was a local doing it, the police could deal with it instantly (well as close to instantly as Indian bureaucracy gets) - as a local would be less likely to do a runner than me.
On Monday, I went to the British High Commission with my police statement to sort out a replacement passport. I got as far as the gate. I told the guard I was a British citizen and I had a problem with my passport.
He looked at me funny and asked my name. On hearing my reply he handed me my passport back.
It had been handed it in. Somethings really restore your faith in human nature y'know?
Sunday, March 17, 2002
Good News / Bad News:
Good News: I will be spending three weeks in Kolkata doing some bits and pieces for The NGO That Shall Remain Nameless (TNTSRN).
Bad News: Within one hour of meeting them, they managed to lose my passport. Like the Lord Jehovah I am filled with Wrath. But also like the Lord Jehovah I am Merciful. And unlike the Lord Jehovah I am Rubbish At Smiting. So I'm keeping it cool.
At the very least, the ensuing adventures with International Bureaucracy should provide me with some more material. And quite possibly an ulcer.
Friday, March 15, 2002
I haven't read a newspaper for a month, so I'd heard there was unrest in Ayodhya concerning the temple and there had been rioting in Gujarat. It wasn't until breakfast this morning that I found out exactly how bad it had been. Today is the day when the shit hits the fan. There is some nervousness in the air but I think it's going to be okay.
A bit of sightseeing:
The Victoria Memorial is a massive building set in quite beautiful grounds. Inside is a surprising professional museum and access to a St. Pauls-type dome. The main exhibition concerns the history of Kolkata, Bengal and the British in India. It is a nice twist, they've turned a monument to British Imperialism into a celebration of Bengali culture and nationalism. And next door is a Cathedral actually called St. Pauls, which is altogether more gothic and crinkly than the UK version.
I am writing all this from the relative comfort of the British Council Library, an oasis of peace and tranquility. Ahhhh.
The Modern Lodge is on Sudder Street, the Westerner ghetto of Kolkata. It has its good and bad points. One good point is the relative proximity of the Indian Museum. There's all kinds of odds and ends hidden away there (it's like UCL near Euston in London), including the Bengal Fine Art College - who are holding their annual exhibition. There is an inexplicable fondness for watercolours, but the best work is an intriguing mixture of European and Indian techniques. n And it's all for sale so I might try and pick something up. Just walking around it, I got a brief pang cause I know some people who would love this (hello Mum, hello Abi). However, the college is not far from the Salvation Army Hostel:
Geezer3: Do you want a rickshaw?
Me: No, thank you.
Geezer3: How about a cubist-influenced oil painting utilising elements of Hindu iconography then?
Me: Er, no. Not right now.
Geezer3: It's on handmade Nepali paper.
Me: Um, goodbye.
There is probably an archetypal Indian safety manual somewhere. It is a weighty tome, written in ponderous English. It has never been opened. On the front cover, someone has scrawled in Hindi: "Don't worry, it'll be find. Fancy some chai?"
Also outside the Salvation Army Hostel:
Geezer2: Do you want a rickshaw?
Me: No, thank you.
Geezer2: How about a girl then?
Me: Er, no. Not right now.
Geezer2: The girls are very nice.
Me: Um, goodbye.
Thursday, March 14, 2002
Now in Kolkata.
I tried speaking to Mother Theresa's nuns (and I would like to assure readers that despite some foul slurs, I am not developing a nun-fixation) but the whole building was locked up.
I have a ridiculously small room - but which is also ridiculously cheap - at the Modern Lodge hostel.
The streets are full of human excrement and dead animals.
It's all just like being in London again.
A conversation five seconds ago:
Geezer: Do you want a rickshaw?
Me: No, thank you.
Geezer: How about some opium then?
Me: Er, no. Not right now.
Geezer: Hashish, manali*?
Me: Um, goodbye.
And this happened outside the Salvation Army Hostel. Standards have slipped in the Sally Ann since my day. But then who am I to talk? I only joined for the uniform.
*As well as being a potent form of cannabis resin, Manali is also a small town near the Himalayas - so it is possible he was offering me a trekking holiday.
Wednesday, March 13, 2002
Last night was the festival of Shiva. He is the creator and destroyer of the universe, an ascetic and the Lord of the Dance (but don't tell Michael Flahtery). I don't know much about his followers but they are BLOODY NOISY.
Today I leave Bodh Gaya and head to Kolkata.
Sunday, March 10, 2002
Now Showing on True Facts:
You'll Be Sari - Death. Sex. Carrots.
The Development Tourism Manifesto - Getting Mouthy.
Saturday, March 09, 2002
Big Three:
Everybody knows about Gandhi (or at least thinks he looked like Ben Kingsley). But he is actually part of the holy trinity of Indian social thinkers, the other two being Vinoba and Jayaprakash Narayan (JP). Gandhi's writings feature the leading questions fot he advocate, Vinoba's are more rigorously academic and JP is something of a polemicist (sample title: Total Revolution). Broadly speaking, Gandhian thought is pastoral, utopian, ascetic, and small-scale.
My previous theory that Gandhi = James Brown has received a serious blow. Gandhiji exhibits a loathing of both sex and machines that The Hardest Working Man In Show Business would find intolerable.
Indian History for the Impatient (1):
Name? Harappa Civilization
Where? Punjab
When? 3000BC - 2000BC
Likes? Extremely neat cities, Indecipherable writing, Cosy houses, Models of animals, Mother Goddesses.
Dislikes? Mess, Making weapons to defend againmst technically superior invaders.
Summary? Nice but dull. The kind of civilization you could take home to meet your parents but never really go the distance with.
Nam
I had visited all the temples and monasteries in BG except the Vietnamese one. The others were situated around the town centre but this one was quite a way out and i had twice been led astray by a faulty LP map. My quest ended as the dirt track a high wall topped by razor wire. The little I knew about the rich and ancient culture of Vietnam had been gleaned from repeated watchings of Platoon, Full Metal Jacket, and Apocalypse Now. So in a strange way, the forbidding aspect was quite reassuring. The gate appeared locked but the driver lolling about in a flashy car outside pointed to a smaller, unsecured grill and suggested I walk in. Feeling like a soldier (non-speaking role) ordered to investgate a suspect hut by Tom Berenger, I did so. If this conformed to standard movie narrativethe I would either be confronted by a cat (cue nervous laughter and relief) or a bug-eyed grandma in a dynamite corset (cue smoke, flame and offal). I got the cat, which studiously ignored me as cats are wont to do. Apart from Tiddles the place seemed deserted. Building work, both ancient and recent, lay scattered around the compound. The temple itself was covered in scaffolding and stank of primer - or was it chemical weapons? I peeked in but Buddha was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had gone to a health farm to get in shape. I then turned my attention to a path leading into some trees. I followed it gingerly, checking for booby traps. Something stirred. I had disturbed someone. Not a Viet Cong dugout but a gang of Indian workman who cheerily waved hello. My fears completely evaporated when I saw the Viet monastery. It was 50ft high and painted bright yellow. A sign attached welcomed pilgrims if they refrained from 'sensual misconduct'. I have at least 5 senses and that's a lot of scope for misconduct. I saw the abbott and wondered if I should have a chat. The only Vietnamese words I know are 'me love you long time' (ah, hang on...). Then I remembered the sensual misconduct sign and beat a hasty retreat.
Friday, March 08, 2002
Spent this morning introducing Pramod to the ideas of project planning and marketing. It's a slow process but I think he's getting the idea. We had an 'American' breakfast. Now perhaps my memory's playing tricks but I don't recall eating curried potatoes in New York. May be it's a West Coast thing.
Most of the projects have detailed accounts. I was looking at a book of receipts one day and I saw there were very few signatures in them. Instead there was a mass of green thumbprints...
Bognor Regis vs. Bodh Gaya:
I have been trying to explain the familiarity I feel for Bodh Gaya. I think its to do with the following:
- Both are full of mildly thick locals amiably fleecing tourists.
- In both great men had key moments. BG: Buddha found enlightenment. BR: George V got his end away.
- Both are sites of pilgrimage. BG: The Tree of Enlightenment. BR: Butlins Holiday Camp.
I am reading the following:
The Wrong Way Home
And The Ass Saw the Angel
The Glory That Was India
What I find sad abou the last is the tense of its title.
Wednesday, March 06, 2002
More serious stuff:
Did a survey of kids at Pramod's school today. All aged 10-15. Three of the girls are already married - despite the legal marriage age for women being 18. The average family size is 8 (incl. parents) and the average family income is around 800 Rupees a month (that's about 10p per member per day). To give you some idea, a meal for two in restaurant or a cheap place to stay per night is Rs 100. There will be some more funny stuff soon I promise but I'm rather busy at the moment.
Tuesday, March 05, 2002
NoWayJose gets out its begging bowl
You get a lot of begging in India. Now its my turn. I'm doing some work with a guy called Pramod. He runs a school for disadvantaged kids in a disused factory. It costs about 80 pounds sterling a month in total - only he can't afford it any more. We're looking for a Western institution to fund it. Ideally another school and ideally for at least three years. Opportunities for cultural exchange and some do-gooding too. I've done some checking around and it all seems on the level. So if any of you know of any likely candidates, there's a proposal we've put together I can send you. Please drop me a line at: laalgadger@yahoo.co.uk.
Saturday, March 02, 2002
Nepal: Sadly, I will not be going to Nepal. What with the massacres, curfews and strikes - it just don't seem that much fun. Maybe next year...
Coming Soon to True Facts:
- Two follow-ups to Aloo. Love, Money, and Gents Outfitting are covered. No more toilet gags (well, may be just the one).
- A Development Tourism Manifesto.
- A monthly serial called Famous Last Words. It promises to answer questions such as:
a. What is the real shape of the universe?
b. How can you use the 4-4-2 formation to predict the future?
c. Who would win in a bar brawl between Flann O'Brien and Jean-Paul Satre?
Why am I telling you all this? The only reason I am in India is that I told so many people I was going, I could not get out of it. So, if I do the same with these, I will have to write them. Idle so-and-so that I am.
P.S. If you like this blog and its evil twin, then share it with your friends. There is a faint possibility someone, somewhere might actually pay me to do this. Or at least cover my dry cleaning bills.
How to do a helicopter swing:
1. Find a clear spot. There should be nothing to impede the child's angular momentum - e.g. walls, washing lines, OTHER CHILDREN.
2. Grab child firmly by wrists and spin round shot-put fashion.
3. DO NOT LET GO.
4. Decelerate genetly and set the child down.
5. Stagger around disorientated for a bit.
6. Groan inwardly a mob of kids surround you demanding more.
Helicopter swings are like kiddie crack cocaine. There is an instant high followed by an insane need to repeat the experience. Just Say No.
Gin Gan Gooly Gooly Gandhi (2): Most of the projects I've been to are run on Gandhian lines. The emphasis is on rural life, perserving Indian culture and small-scale change. Gandhi's ideas about India independence also had a personal and spiritual dimension - a kind of holstic 'self-rule'. Like the great man himself, most Gandhians are intelligent, articulate and driven. They can be right pains in the arse but are mostly worth the effort.
The origins of the word 'monsoon':
(Englishman emerges from torrential downpour)
Englishman: What the hell was that?
Indian: Oh, just weather, mausam.
Englishman: Monsoon eh? Too bloody right!
Gin Gan Gooly Gooly Gandhi (1): Gandhi - top bloke, social reformer, etc. A believer in 'soul force' - which kinda makes him like James Brown minus the angel dust and wife beating. Like all interesting men, G did have a few odd ideas. Gandhi quote of the day: "Hospitals are institutions for propogating sin". Oooohhhh matron.
Donuts with Buddha (4): Just spent the morning with some nuns. Practical, no-nonsense sorts more interested in starting women's self-help groups than preaching hellfire (which is kinda how I like my nuns). In a typically Indian gesture there is picture of Buddha next to a smiling Christ.
Lots of Indian tourists here as well as Japanese, Chinese, Thai etc. They're mostly Hindus but don't seem to mind worshipping Lord B as well. "Oi, mate. I'm a Hindu. I'm a bit om, a bit shakti. I'll worship anything me."
Donuts with Buddha (3): The ashram. It's a Gandhian institution (see above) run to educate the children of poor families. Basically I am surrounded by 30 kids from 4am (prayers) to 8pm (collapse from exhaustion). Don't tell the News of the World. They might think I'm paedatrician or something.So during the afternoon I give helicopter swings and in the morning I work with a nice chap called Pramod doing acupressure and reflexology*. he also wants me to help him raise some money for a school he runs. More on this later.
*This involves touching people's feet - but not in a bad way.
Donuts with Buddha (2): There is an enormous temple on the site of Buddha's tree, just opposite the ashram where I am staying. You can even sit under the tree if you like (altho don't expect Enlightenment - what worked for Buddha may not work for you). There's also a 30ft statue of Lord B a little further away. And the want to build a 100ft one. Size matters to Buddhists. Each Buddhist community has a monastery and a temple here. Kinda the religious equivalent of those Far Eastern food halls with a stall for each country. They range from the Art Deco austerity of the Myanmar to the breathtaking Bhutanese temple which is covered in 3D reliefs of Lord B's life. After so many images of B, the composite effect is tranquil, contented and perhaps a little smug.
Donuts with Buddha (1): Now in Bodh Gaya, a place in Bihar - the poorest state in India. BG is notable for one thing. About 2600 years ago, an Indian prince was sitting under a tree. And he had an idea. Like Newton but with less fruit. He became Buddha and the idea was Enlightenment. BG is the key place of pilgrimage for Buddhists and therefore a tourist centre. Most of the action is over now as the monks have gone back to the hills. There's a big field on the North side where the Dalai Lama performs his greatest hits. I cannot confirm is Radiohead were supporting.
Sunday, February 24, 2002
I am pleased to announce the launch of True Facts, the evil twin of this site.
Currently showing on true facts:
- Much Aloo About Nothing: A genuine, true, scientific fact.
- A message from other sponsors.
- A really strange little story that I quite like.
http://truefacts.blogspot.com/
Things that aren't as exotic as people think (1): Again, in the countryside, one of my guides beckoned me follow him to a field. Here he pulled a stalk from the crop and proudly said: "This is wheat. It is used to make bread." He seemed quite disappointed when I told him we had tons of the stuff in England.
A few days ago I was cycling merrily down a country lane when I hit a pothole and went careering towards a patch of nettles. This was going to hurt. Fortunately it wasn't nettles - no, it was an enormous ganja bush instead. But rest assured, gentle reader, NoWayJose remains sex, drug and rock'n'roll free.
Saddlesore: Every form of transport here is overloaded. People even sit pillion on bicycles - only they sit side-saddle. I've tried it and it's bloody difficult. You basically use your legs vs. torso in acounterbalance system. Builds up your stomach muscles no end.
Varanasi has a vibe somewhere between Lourdes and Blackpool. Its a city of pilgrims and conmen, the devout and the devious. I spent the afternoon in the company of Sanju. He claimed not to be tout - but then who would. We chewed paan, talked politics, saw some mosques and did a little shopping. Most enjoyable. I also: took a boat trip down the Ganges, received an Ayurvedic massage and gave a woman a kilo of wood to burn herself with in a few days time. This is my first day's sightseeing in India. It was fun but also very wearing. Hey ho. Tomorrow I visit the Gandhi Institute for some serious chit-chat about Gandhiji.
"The population of India is one Arab":
This isn't a reference to some Saudi arbitrage. The concept of a million is not understood in India. After a thousand, we go up in thouands (million, billion, etc). They go up in hundreds: a lakh = 100,000; a krore = 10 million; an arab = 1 billion.
What to do if attacked by a beer:
I was up in the hills yesterday, and one bloke said that people around here often attacked by beers. I briefly envisaged kegs of Stella rolling inexorably towards terrified villagers. Then I realised he had said 'bears'. He then told me the secret of dealing with a bear. You need two sticks*. You hit the bear with the first stick. It catches it with razor sharp claws and holds it in a remorseless grasp. You then twat it with the second stick until it gets the message. Let me know how you get on with that one.
*When I askd him what to do if you do not have two sticks, he gave me a look that said:"What kind of fool walks around bear country without two sticks?"
Friday, February 22, 2002
Who's the Grandaddy?: If you're the boss of your turf you are called 'Grandad'. And people touch your feet a lot.
Remember the ACME corporation from the Roadrunner cartoons? Well TATA Corp is the Indian equivalent. They make everything from trucks to telephone directories. I wonder if they have an iodine removal service?
Note: Iodine stains. Don't spill it down your trousers whilst looking at your watch (unless you are Stan Laurel and a movie camera is present).
The Story So Far: Laal Gadger had been spending a peaceful few weeks in a village in central UP eating food, chatting and alternating his reading between brit chick lit and hardcore development studies kit. This idyllic existence came to an end when he volunteered to travel across Northern India writing profiles on development projects for 'International Journal of Rural Studies'. It gives him a tenuous excuse to ask loads of stupid questions to those with better things to do. Now read on...
Saturday, February 02, 2002
"Ji" in Hindi is a term of respect. It's not related to the use of "G" in hiphop. But it would be nice if it was.
I now have to decide where to go to. Lucknow then Varanasi. Then may be Bodhgaya in Bihar followed by Nepal then Calcutta. It'll be a mixture of tourism and checking out some more development projects (and may be some low-level journo-type stuff too).
Notes on Indian diet: As you most of you have probably realised, I haven't been tucking into Lamb Pasanda every night. if yuo've ever had a vegetarian Thali then you'll have close. Rice, chapatis, dal (lentil stew), sabje (curried vegetables), chutni (a coriander/chili mix reminiscent of mown grass) plus raw carrots, radish and onion. There are some strange points of overlap tho: 1. Kir, which is basically rice pudding. 2. Puri (a kind of fried bread) which is almost identical to yorkshire pudding. As yuo have have noticed there is no meat - basically down to Hindu diet laws, cost and the lack of refrigeration. Be careful with fried food. It's cooked in low quality oil and has a distressing tendency to "open you up".
Things to freak out English people (1): Tea, Indian style:
Take some water, tea leaves, lots of milk and even more sugar.
Boil.
Boil some more
Strain and serve.
Feel your teeth begin to dissolve.
Things to freak out Westerners (1): There are swastikas everywhere (in newspapers, on number plates, etc). It is originally a Hindu symbol mind.
Did you hear the one about the conference on poverty that cost $3000 to attend and took place in a 5-star hotel?
It was Mukat Singh's birthday this week, so we pulled together some celebration stuff (my part involved clutching frantically onto a cake whilst riding pillion thru the narrow streets of a market town). MS is a man of tremendous integrity and drive. How can you not warm to someone whose basic repsonse to life is: "Well, no one else had started a school/clinic/brick kiln/international research journal (delete as appropriate), so I thought why not start one myself."
OK, I realise the entries posted for the last couple of weeks have been somewhat fragmentary. More background:
I am staying in a village in rural northern India as a project visitor. The project consists of: a primary and secondary school, a 6th form and degree college. There is also a health clinic and a spice-making business and an informal agricultural training network. It was founded 30 years ago by Mukat Singh (a local man who's taught in the UK and India) and his Australian wife Jyoti. I am here with two other visitors: Katie from Cornwall and Noemi from Switzerland (both on gap years). We are looked after by Pushpa, an Indian woman who teaches us yoga and Hindi (I am proficient at neither). In the mornings, I do conversation classes with degree students and in the fternoon I do some geeky stuff with the computer, electricity permitting. I suppose what Robert Chambers would call a "development tourist".
Sunday, January 27, 2002
There are a lot of monkeys in the village. Don't look them in the eye or they go crazy and try to attack you. My colleagues keep a cricket bat with them at all times (altho actually spanking the monkeys is inadvisable). I meanwhile I have been taking notes so I can later perfect my 'monkey dance'.
Republic Day (2): What's big clotheswise in India? Blazers, neat 'taches and flopy hair, slacks, loafers. David Niven would be revered here. People do keep themselves tidy under trying conditions so I have had standards to maintain. Yesterday this involved sitting down in roadside shack where a 14 year old attacked my head with a cutthroat razor and a pair of pinking shears. The end result was quite fetching.
Republic Day (1): Yesterday was Republic Day. So all the school children marched round the village in a parade and then performed some cute musical numbers on a makeshift stage. And no just the children. Us foreign visitors (2 Brits and a Swiss) got to sing a song. I bet most of you have never hear 'We Shall Overcome' in Hindi, eh?
Notes on Indian education: been doing some informal convrsational English classes with some of the students. The school syllabus in India is like the UK 30 years ago. Learning by rote, memorising answers to questions - all Gradgrind-style facts, facts, facts. Very little imagination or creativity encouraged. But also very, very competitive - not only for the academic exams but also for the entry exams for prestigious civil service posts. So students work hard(altho not always to great effect). There is also a fair bit of cheating. Tho it's not as bad as in the 70s when B.A. students would often take guns into exams and shot uppity invidulators.
Indian personal ads: Never mind GSOH, n/s, veg, WLTM, etc. Ads in Indian papers work differently. To begin with, it's 'matrimonals' and they're posted by parents seeking 'alliances' for their beloved offspring. They generally state religion/caste, then move onto the educational achievements and salaries of the wouldbe-spouse. For women, height is always given/specified. And, of course, they must be 'fair' and 'most beautiful'.
Okay. Made the journey from Amurpurkashi (the village where I am staying) to Moradabad by jeep today. Last week, our driver ran over some one and then sped off. Indian driving ain't pretty.
Saturday, January 19, 2002
Sugar cane: You break away the greenish bark with your molars until you have a whitish spear of the soft core exposed. Then you chew. Think wooden gobstoppers.
Train journeys. Everybody piles in. I saw one guy wedged in a luggage rack. Every so often the train stops and guys wander round selling hot tea in urns or peanuts or socks. You see mud huts next to Escher-style concrete villages. Landscapes that could from England but for the banana trees. Rows of people calmly crapping in fields. Armies of buffalo dung cakes drying in the sun.
I have been given some clerical tasks at the project involving computer. Well, when there isn't a power cut that is. Fortunatey there will be an election in a couple of weeks so apparently there'll be fewer of them for a while. Such is political largesse.
Laalgadger. This is my email address and is Cumbrian dialect for 'short bloke'. It also sounds like the Hindi for red carrot. Which is odd, cause here carrots are red. Bright, florescent red like a little subterranean glow sticks.
Driving in India: Unhinged. You see entire families clustered on top of mopeds. In the UK, use of the horn is reserved for informing another driver you wish them and their family dead. Here it merely means "hi, I'm here. Do not drive into me."
The good news:
Rural India is ace. My chapati/curry addiction is coming into its own. People very friendly. Learning Hindi a priority.
First the bad news:
Delhi: Truly, it is crap. Pollution equates to a 20 a day cig habit. Touts everywhere. Hmmm.
Thursday, January 10, 2002
I have now left work. Been free of meat (and booze) for nearly 2 weeks in preparation for the coming days of austerity. Of the two, meat is harder to kick. Also started the malarial medication - with no apparently side effects so far. May be that three-week trek in Kashmir I booked wasn't so wise after all...
The next post will be from Delhi.
Monday, December 17, 2001
I finish work on 21/12.
I leave the country on 14/01 - going to Delhi then APK for a while.
Boring details: I have visas, tickets, insurance, innoculations etc.
Oh, and never trust a hippie
Wednesday, November 14, 2001
Okay, I leave the UK in mid-January. Finally arranged an 18-month "career break" at work last week. First round of these. Do not come near me.
Received IVCS booklet on cultural differences.
SD&LC have produced the most wonderful map of Australian things to do. Anyone know where I can get access to a scanner?
Wednesday, October 31, 2001
Probably going for IVCS following an interesting conversation in Harrow.
Good comment from a Kiwi observer:
"workcamps/misery tourists thing. It's a fine line for bog-standard lazy liberal, but ultimately I suppose you need to look at (a) the end result (what are you actually achieving) and (b) what you're going to get out of it." Pretty spot on that.
Saturday, October 13, 2001
Cheap holidays in other people's misery?
We are also becoming increasingly conscious of the fact that many voluntary work and workcamp programmes are an exotic form of tourism. We see this from the kind of letters we get: " ....do you have a project in the mountains in Himachal Pradesh, I like trekking?" or "....fascinated by the desert, do you have a project in Rajasthan?" It is now becoming fashionable to do some "voluntary work" for a few days while on holiday so that one could talk about the good deed one did for the third world.
Fighting talk? Looking round this site I was immensely impressed with their uncompromising attitude. It's also made me focus on a question at the back of my mind - am I a "development tourist" or just a patronising post-colonial? The answer is - probably, yeah, a bit. But despite comments below, my primary concern is not to 'help the poor' as such but rather to make connections with people from another culture as equals. Win-win, may be? I am going to think hard before contacting these people but what they do sounds intriguing - definitely worth further investigation.
Of course, having the best intentions in the world is dandy but how will they (and that's they as a mass of individuals not a single Other) see me?
(Reminds me of the CND march thru London this afternoon and a friend's questioning of the marchers motives - but then what's more important motives or results? trick question)
Okay, been thinking about this travelling lark. Temple. Hill. Temple. Hill. All very nice but it might be more interesting to spice it up with some more involved stuff. VSO is normally for a minimum of 2 years. Being cogentially shallow and uncommitted, I have just got a list of interesting, and shorter, projects back from these guys - 20 notes, bargain for the idle wannabe-dogooder.
Some interesting ones. Including Auroville. Now is my initial bemusement a mark of my prejudice or their nuttiness? Let me know what you think or indeed if you've been involved with them. Is wanting a better world at all peculiar?
Slightly more promising is IVCS. A bugger of a site to find and don't try phoning that number during the day. HOWEVER, projects themselves look very interesting. Definitely applying for this.
Also slightly bemused by the Turtle Conservation site in Italian. Cute baby turtles tho (er, I mean, yes, the work they do is very worthwhile and necessary and ... oh hell).
I suspect timescale and language issues mean I won't go for Childlife. But it's very moving - donation time, I think...
Tuesday, September 11, 2001
When everything finally gets together for my jaunt round the world, this will be my main method of communication with the outside world once I'm on my way.
BTW for those of you who are slightly puzzled, my real name isn't Daniel Byron.
Initial itinery 2002:
India: Jan - Apr. It's going to be a bit cold.
South East Asia (Singapore/Malaysia/Thailand/Vietnam/Laos?/Cambodia?): Apr-July. It's gonna be a bit hot.
Australia: July-??? (well until my visa runs out basically).
Some groundrules: This is a semi-public journal of my planned (not that I'd stress that word too much) trip round the world, for people that know me and have an idle moment - just to tune in. It will feature links and comments where appropriate. However, I am conscious of other people's privacy - and will be limiting what I say about others. If you think a post is out of order then let me know and off it comes. The basic rule is: if you can't think of anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.
Get me at: laalgadger@yahoo.co.uk
