Roamings

Karakoram Conversations III

2008-02-02T15:18:00.000+02:00

Sost is the last town on the Pakistani side of the Karakoram Highway. There is little reason to linger in Sost other than to absorb the strange atmosphere inherent in an isolated settlement separated from its closest Chinese neighbor by the highest official border crossing in the world, the Khunjerab Pass.

Getting to Sost tried my patience. I had been waiting all morning in the previous town for the rumored Natco bus plying the KKH before word finally got around that a snowslide had stranded the bus earlier in its route. I waited with an old man and his chicken for numerous full vans and jeeps to zoom by before finding a tiny space in the back of a rickety van blasting local music through a tinny-sounding portable tape player. Except for some minor rock slides the passage was OK.

It was 3pm when we arrived, with the incessant drizzle and increasingly threatening storm clouds casting an ominous edge over an already shadowy community. No women wandered the primarily empty streets. Only the odd group of men hiding beneath their head scarves and shadowy beards. Up ahead, a typical KKH cricket match between rowdy boys with big grins and tattered shoes. The highway made for a challenging bowling surface with its potholes and pebbles; the best bowlers uncannily capitalizing on rather than being flummoxed by their presence. The vice-principal of Sost Government School and principal of the Aga Khan Girls School introduced themselves and invited me to join them for tea and coconut cookies. The Veep was reading a book on Neurolinguistic Programming and stared glassily at me for most of our time together.

“You find for me more book like this?” he asked hopefully.

“What is this?” I asked, curious to hear what he would say.

“I can control my students with this,” he winked.

“How?”

“Oh – this technique velly good.”

I considered volunteering to participate in an experiment but thought better of it. And so ended my final night in Pakistan. The night’s sleep punctuated by occasional jeeps screaming past my roadside room window up towards the pass and border, fog lights sweeping their way in and blinding me. Loud arguments outside and much banging on the wall. Not a restful place.

Karakoram Conversations II

2008-02-02T15:12:00.000+02:00

“Let him read your palm.”

“What for?”

“He has good eye and he come from family of palm readers. Tlee generations!” the palmist’s publicist piped persuasively, thrusting three fingers triumphantly up in the air.

“OK – but I no pay money, understand?”

“No, No – no money, my friend. Only for fun. No money.” he assured.

“For fun OK,” I smiled and opened my right palm up for inspection.

The palmist spoke no English at all and his friend translated for us. “He say you very lucky - very VERY lucky,” the friend clucked as the palmist eyed my lines seriously, studying them from various angles in a manner more scientific than any fairgrounds quack I’d seen before.

“You will not have money problems in this life,” he winked, making me wonder if the earlier proclamations about all this being nothing but simple non-commercial fun were in fact extremely naïve of me to believe. No matter – I was in a public place in broad daylight.

“What about marriage?” I asked, “Will I marry and when?”

There was a long pause and much twisting and prodding of palm, “Mmmmm, difficult to say, my friend. Not clear answer.” This left me a little dejected.

The two of them then started a flurried exchange in Urdu and there was much hmmm-ing and not a little scowling even.

“What is it?” I asked, feeling more uncomfortable at this point.

No answer was forthcoming – only more frowning and a quick reference glance, it seemed, at my left palm. Finally, the friend said, “There is one warning you have to take with you always.”

I took a deep breath and prepared myself, “Y-y-yes?”

“Electricity.”

“What?”

“You know – electricity. Switch. Power.”

“What do you mean?”

“He say you must be careful of electricity. Maybe when you take bath, don’t touch switch or when you fix machinery, be careful the wire, that kind of thing.”

“Ahhhh…..I see” though I was no less comfortable at this point.

The palmist put my hand down and looked me in the eye expressionlessly as if trying to siphon out more insights known only to him. He turned away and mumbled to himself as his friend followed after him. “Very lucky. Very very lucky…..” I think he said in halting tones.

All I could think of was electricity.

Karakoram Conversations I

2008-02-02T13:44:00.000+02:00

“You have come here seeking something, have you not?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, looking up from the book I was leafing through in his store.

“People like you always come here looking for something,” his knowing smile peeking through the thick beard. “I am Sufi mystic. I know.”

“If you know so much, maybe you can tell me what you think I’m hoping to find,” I teased good-naturedly while meeting his piercing stare.

“Mmmmm, I think maybe you have illness you want to cure.”

I didn’t think this was particularly perceptive as I had been suffering from immense travel fatigue and it was probably etched on my face. I was unceremoniously dumped in Nairobi and waylaid for 7 days because Jeddah airport, my original connecting nexus, had been overrun with pilgrims over Eid, a major religious holiday. By the time I stumbled into Hamid’s bookstore in Rawalpindi, I was due for an illness. My glazed eyes from the breakfast joint a teenage Afghan student had left me as a parting souvenir from our brief conversation the evening before only added to my overall torpor.

“I did not come seeking a cure but it is true that there are physical ailments I have which I would be happy to see go away,” I conceded.

“Speak and Hamid will make you well,” he bellowed, wagging his finger commandingly and never once averting eye contact.

“I have had asthma since I was a child and if you can make it go away, I shall remember you forever, Hamid.”

“Bring our guest here some cha!” he gestured to a curious cherubic boy who throughout this exchange had been sitting quietly, his big round eyes never once blinking. He was a cute boy but rather unnerving too. Like a Paki Chucky. Once the cha had arrived, Hamid ordered me to sit down about 20 feet away from him facing the far wall of the bookstore and drink the entire cup.

Highly skeptical, I nonetheless gulped it down. It tasted OK. “Now what?” I asked.

“Patience,” he said.

The one other patron in the store during this entire time had been going about her business without the slightest interest in this long-haired foreigner going through an ancient Sufi ritual to rid him of a lifetime of asthma. She paid for her items and left, and the whole store plunged into an unexpected silence.

I was still sitting in a well-behaved way facing the wall when Hamid let out a sudden, forceful and emphatic “Hohhhhth!” from deep within his abdomen.

Slightly startled, I let the moment pass and maintained my steady posture.

“Now stand up slowly and without turning around, walk backwards towards me,” Hamid instructed.

Thinking this could not get anymore absurd, I figured there was no point in breaking the Sufi spell at such an advanced stage and motioned gingerly backwards, taking care not to upset the precariously balanced piles of books on the floor. At least I was still conscious and not being carted away in a panel van after downing the mysterious cha.

After several paces, I felt Hamid’s hand on my back, halting my progress. A tingling warmth emanated from his hand while the other was placed behind my neck. We stayed thus for about 15 seconds with Hamid muttering incessantly in what I presumed was Urdu. Then he announced, “OK, it is done.”

I wanted to laugh but restrained myself. “So I am cured?” I asked.

“Yes. But if after a year your asthma returns, come and see me again.”

I wasn’t sure where else to go with this conversation and after exchanging some pleasant banter – relatively meaningless by comparison – I bade farewell to Hamid and his store.

Two months later, I went on a week-long trek to a holy Hindu lake in Nepal. It was some 15,000 feet high and for a long time – well before my encounter with Hamid – I had been concerned about my asthma acting up on the trek as I had done no preparatory training for it whatsoever. Not only did my respiratory faculty perform exceedingly well, Badri – my guide – commended me on my pace. Not bad, I thought, for someone bedeviled with asthma throughout his life. I found it difficult to accept that Hamid’s incantations and grunts had done what a lifetime of Western medicine hadn’t even claimed to attempt. Must be a placebo, I concluded.

A year later, I started wheezing again.

Everything Satisfying

2007-02-11T08:48:00.000+02:00

has an inconvenience, a compromise, an ashen lining. The source of satisfaction. But is the unearned pleasure a lesser if not borne through sweat? Providence ought garner at the very least equal marvel & respect for its magnanimity. Karmic adherents no doubt ascribe a holistic perspective to fortuity - thus, nothing is ever universally unearned.

What then are we trying to earn everyday when we put in "the hours at work". Well, other than to put food on table, clothes on body and roof on head - to "survive" in so many words, in which the species could certainly have chosen any number of ways like its innumerable peers in the animal kingdom, but some indistinct energessence gave form to a lifeform capable of breathtaking poetry on the one hand and the ability to destroy the entire planet on the other.

What is the unquenched desire provoking this march. That an eternal march may be an assumed normal state when extrapolating dimensionally, it still begs the question miscrocosmically, what is the march of humanity all about? though ants may not "know" it, we omnisciently absorb all there is to perceive in the scope of an ant's interminable march along with millions of others to keep the queen happy.

The queen being responsible for producing ever more ants leads to the banal conclusion we've always felt, that we were put here to ensure we survived. With the spectre of overpopulation at the turn of the Millennium, it is noble that fundamentalist Christians & Muslims are stepping forth onto the altar of self-sacrifice. If they do it in a respectful fashion, those remaining can begin the rejuvenation process with pressure relief afforded by a billion or so fewer clamoring survivalists on the planet. That is really the only way to "ensure a better life for your children".

One could be alarmed at uninvolved parties' silence at rising tensions. Waiting to lay claim to spoils. To steal the pot. Unaware presently perhaps of their assumed responsibility to right the ship after the dust settles, to birth a solution to coexist & multiply without invoking Siva again.

For now then, self-destructive behavior and self-satisfaction entwine like DNA in the soup of dutiful contribution and consideration for others that follow, absent the nihilist vinegar.

I DO!

2006-05-07T20:35:00.000+03:00

Deciding to buy this car was for me much like what I imagine committing to that "other" union must be for others. It had been on my mind for some time – well, say 25 years.

My brother and I had started obsessively playing Top Trumps “World Class Cars”, “Super Cars” and the like, resulting in an effortless and - for all intensive purposes – permanent imprint of meaningless Exotic Car statistics in our subconscious. We will for instance always know that the Ferrari 365GTB/4 Daytona’s V-12 engine has a displacement of 4390cc and that the Citroen SM is 1836mm wide.

The BMW 3.0CSL showed up in the “World Class Cars” pack of cards. It was puppy love. Granted, the CSL was a limited production lightweight aluminum body version of the highly successful Le Mans racer, the CS was actually an attainable classic in my teenage mind, at least when compared to say a Lamborghini Miura.

I remember the first one I ever saw on the road. It was on a family trip to Europe. I don’t recall exactly what city but it was parked on a quiet cobblestone street, simmering with a menacing calm that hooked me immediately. Being but an early teen however, it would be some years before I’d actually start dating.

I drove my first coupe but 3 years ago. After a peripatetic plod around the world and a wheel-less decade in NYC, I was finally in Southern California and the dating scene was hoppin’! Rust-free bodies, mmmm mmmm…My first was a little underwhelming, original engine 2800CS that (ahem) “needed TLC”. I started online dating and became acquainted with coupes formerly owned by ZZ Top, Sean Connery and star of my #2 all-time favorite film, Malcolm McDowell. The latter I made a pass at but was turned down in favor of another suitor. I slept around….a Right-Hand-Drive CSL (something fishy with her) and a modified, proudly cared-for CS (a beauty but our timing just wasn’t right) being the more memorable. Up till then, I could never really visualize “happily ever after”, though that last one gave me a glimpse before I trashed the idea of settling down once again.

I may have been launching a brand of condoms in Egypt but I was totally celibate as far as the dating scene went. Vicious Sahara sandstorms, madcap driving etiquette and an Air Quality Index that fondly earns Cairo the moniker “ashtray of the world” are not conducive to finicky, high maintenance 30-somethings. So by the time I returned to sunny San Diego, I was…mmm…fidgety.

First time I saw her picture and profile, she reminded me of my old flame from a year ago. Near-identical color with a ravishing but yet somewhat more understated body. A well-groomed & classic-looking 33, but modern & robust underneath the hood. Nervous with excitement, I had my brother chaperone me on our first date and I knew she was the one the moment I saw her.

She came from a good family – though there were rumors of fast “Friends” in her past. No matter. She had come through all that with flying colors and was available. I proposed and she accepted! WOW!

Then the inevitable started happening…..be careful what I wish for, I just might get it? As the wedding invitations were dropped in the mail and my garage was being cleaned out to make way for the new bride, jitters set in. Would my parents approve? Was I really ready for this commitment (TLC, in sickness and in health, frequent and costly maintenance etc etc)? This would be the largest sum of money I’d ever spent on any one item. Blah Blah Blah, the doubts were appearing from out of the woodwork.

I left the altar at the 11th hour. Her Dad was speechless but sympathetic.

There’s always a very specific instance in time, an infinitesimally singular moment of clarity in the lead-up to unprecedented life experience where you simply surrender to fate, where the mind with all its rational flexing no longer serves any purpose. The moment before crouching those knees and leaping into the void atop the world’s highest bungee jump; the instant before the electric clippers shave off four years of hair in advance of two-and-a-half years of military service. That instant before "I DO".

But old habits die hard. The day after "I DID", I upped and started a new job in another city. Here I was in another long-distance relationship. Only this time I know this one will last.

Epiphanies: A Visual Perspective (Part I)

2006-04-09T23:29:00.000+02:00

(based on images from the Richard Kostelanetz film)

The first order of the day involved roping in a runaway cow and leading it to slaughter.

Along a straight path, he somehow managed to wander in circles.

Second childhood begins when sexual innuendo gives way to cartoon imagery.

Once in a while, you might try saving the rubbish and tossing the trash can.

Sloth is hardly the deadly sin it is purported to be.

After surveying the multitude of options, the here and the now was, while not the best, certainly the most convenient.

He thought he was meting out the punishment, but found himself on the receiving end.

Newton was fortunate it wasn't a boulder.

It took but a mere twitch of the thumb to cause the stallion to surge ahead.

The level of amusement attained by stupidity rests on the degree of timing.

After looking up at the World Trade Center from below, she decided she wasn't prepared to peer down from atop it.

The subliminal advertising must have been working as it somehow persuaded him to relish a heinous tonic he initially abhorred.

New art forms need not have any objective other than to furrow one's eyebrows.

A snack is all the more pleasurable when snuck.

Upon realizing the power had gone out, he immediately looked for his ATM card.

She hoped her life's defining moment would be the next.

After enduring yet another equestrian event, they wondered if it might be more fun to watch the Dog Olympics.

In the midst of a heated domestic squabble, she found respite in the massacre of an innocent melon.

To his amazement, the bag really worked!

He found himself in the awkward position of having to smile politely and absurdly at the Grand Poobah society's silver anniversary soiree.

She had to focus hard on the fleeting moments of ecstasy despite her lover's valiant efforts.

It annoyed her to no end that she enjoyed watching American Football games for the very same reason her boyfriend enjoyed watching the Miss America pageant.

Nursery rhyme characters seem to have a propensity for harmless fun.

The pace at the office is always distasteful.

Alone by the fence, I think of tearing it down.

Just as he was about to surely die from the impact of his ten-storey leap, he wondered whether to lead with his left or right leg.

"I've had it up to my ear wax with you!!"

Looking through the Yellow Pages with a prospective partner can be a pleasant finger-seduction escapade.

Hoping to find an oil well, he drilled through his hardwood floor only to gush sawdust.

Violent behavior in adults is often thought to originate from similar displays meted out on food products during infancy.

The pleasures of imagined strangulation exceed that of the real thing.

Caught in the act of raping, he decided to pretend he was thieving.

She often fantasized about cultivating her own money tree plantation, given the ease of harvesting bumper cash crops at the onset of autumn.

The sense of superiority he felt upon seeing his name on the credits list was outweighed by the fact that the film was abysmally received by the audience.

Opening the door to the bathroom, he somehow found himself looking into the closet.

The only reason for his belief in reincarnation was his overwhelming desire to be reborn a virgin.

Before you fill your stomach, you have to fill your cheeks.

Watching Harry pound on the treadmill, one got the sense he was a lab rat for a higher intelligence.

No matter where you are in the world, a leopard suit will steal the spotlight.

It's woeful if nobody cares for you - perhaps more so if you care for nobody.

She looked beneath the veneer and beheld the promise of the veil.

Although the band's heavy metal music remained unchanged, it lost its following when it renamed itself "The Playful Pandas".

An "action dog sequence" is the crowning glory for any budding home-movie maker.

Mirages in a snowstorm look different from those in a desert.

The three-point shot is an odd way of getting even.

While bored at home, he often amused himself by scanning his roommate's belongings in the hope of discovering something juicy and scandalous.

Agonizingly, he couldn't penetrate beyond the shield of repression.

Leaning over, he asked the little old lady to "hold my gun, please".

"You're such a big strapping hunk now, Bobby -- I....I can't help but look at you in a completely different way than simply as Mildred's boy."

Transcendental surfing is the art of riding the airwaves.

His otherwise vegetarian diet was strategically balanced by adequate junk food intake.

Amateur kidnappers should practise their craft lest they hurt themselves.

Were Joe Namath the leading man, we would have been watching Saturday Fright Fever.

He charged ahead, swinging his sledgehammer in support of the Revolution -- and inadvertently ruptured a water pipe.

A Pine Cone Parts Production Plant is an essential ingredient in Disney's new venture: Yosemite Sam National Park -- "where nature is the theme".

It is always entertaining to dramatically demonstrate the Law of Entropy.

An effective way of maintaining your personal space in a crowded party is to ignore the usual halitosis-reduction regime before leaving home.

The sight of a woman sensuously peeling a banana seldom reminds men of their childhood circumcision ordeal.

Standing on a pier welcoming the sailors back, he suddenly began to feel seasick.

Nothing brightens up a dull outdoor laundry-hanging session than the momentary appearance of a flock of geese.

Life on Mars may be identical to that on Earth with the exception that everything will be red.

There is no such thing as "a bit of a mess".

The Taller the Tumblers, the Taller the Tumbler Tower, the Taller the Tumble Too.

One's idea of a Rollickin' Good Time certainly matures with the passage of adolescence.

A whole new class of rudeness is exemplified by the person in joint possession of the TV remote control and poor taste.

"Life is like the chocolate on a dry cupcake -- you never know if you're gonna get nothing".

Dancing alone in the dark invites fewest critics.

Little can rival the adrenaline rush that comes from riding in an ambulance with one's liver visibly being carefully cupped in another person's hands.

"Are you lost, perhaps? -- or simply in need of further mime instruction."

Seurat would have been thrilled to live in the digital world.

"I'm afraid Express Delivery is the only mailing option for our 'Box of Live Men' product," the salesperson curtly replied.

Gazing intently at his Halloween mask, he felt the surge of an unexpected identity crisis.

Having a stream of cars whiz by you is far more exciting while standing on the painted lane dividers than on the kerb.

Lines that reveal your age don't do so in the night.

Kids play hopscotch, adults simply step on others.

If spotlights hypnotize bullfrogs, will a strobe make them yodel?

Ticker tape parades aren't very celebrated events for city clean-up workers.

If the Queen weren't so silly, she wouldn't need God to save her.

Danger always seems imminent in a dark alley.

The tentative flicker of weak candlelight merely reflects the tension between the courting couple bathed in its warmth.

Her desire for total heroism was dampened by her participation as but one member of a championship relay race team.

Chess would be that much more satisfying if "retirement" from the game was not an option in order to be spared actually watching one's King being physically captured by another piece.

High-impact skating is a sport only for the well-padded.

Since opposites attract - therefore, a magnetic attraction must occur when one's outgoing positive vibes are interpreted as incoming negative vibes by the recipient.

Unfamiliar images are frequently reminiscent of scenes from Sesame Street.

Getting off-track is wise if a train is coming along -- unless it is a train-of-thought, of course!

Constantly kissing a smoker won't help her quit.

An Unidentified Flying Movie Special Effect is usually what it is.

An erroneous picture does more damage than those often maligned 1,000 words.

Foreign language signs in black-&-white often do no more than intimidate.

Hungrily wolfing down her hot dog, she was clearly in blissful ignorance of its true contents and manufacturing deceptions.

Dancing may be somewhat two-dimensional if you are a stick figure.

We all can imagine what an Octopussy might look like even if it doesn't exist.

Inverted family portraits are more difficult to capture because keeping a rowdy group of people still is more difficult while they are upside down.

Utterly bored by her boyfriend's displays of marksmanship, she wandered off to another attraction at the carnival.

Captivity finally afforded him the luxury of contemplation.

There are certain events that can happen only in the mind of Stanley Kubrick.

They would have ignored mother's warnings had it not been for her wagging finger.

He fancied he could tolerate the heat in the depths of hell, as long as it wasn't boring!

The kids felt their hearts beat with excitement as they boldly entered the East German High Jump Training Area.

Her fear of fire was traced to the time she inched her eye just a little too close.

Little did they know that the continuing visible evidence of their lusty romp in the abandoned bus was being monitored by an audience awestruck by their prowess.

Starlight StarBright - explode in the night for my sheer delight!

Disappointment set in when he realized that no matter how much he loved his pet dog, he couldn't bear to give it a big wet kiss.

Being responsible for a Rolls Royce without the redeeming benefit of ownership is an onerous burden.

If your life is but a blur, you must be living in California.

She considered it fortunate that, unlike the horses, she was able to get off the Merry-Go-Round.

Alas, a "Gourmet" Sausage is never to be.

Though on a quest for total peace, he quietly settled for a piece.

In the warmth of the church, all were chilled by the organ's soulful wail.

Not able to tolerate its challenging licorice flavor, the little brat dunked his ice-cream cone head first into the trash bin with merciless purpose.

In preparation for his journey, Mr. Pak took a long time to pack.

To meticulously sweep his circular-shaped room, he purchased a broomerang.

While not understanding why, she happily capitalized on her naturally and eternally bemused facial expression to garner attention.

Tisn't the sound of one hand clapping, but the noise for one head banging.

He chose the cello over the violin because he could dance with it.

The power of a feather lifts birds to the sky and your lover to a new high.

The picture might look more appealing if we could only see its frame.

Easing into the morning with a light leisurely breakfast, their serenity was rudely jolted by the

appearance of his mother in curlers and a green facial mud paste.

She couldn't believe that such putrid, soggy mush was once a head of lettuce.

He wasn't about to question his sense of optimism when the light at the end of the tunnel revealed a half-full glass of wine.

One of the finer things in life is dust.

To a vast majority of people, it doesn't matter if it's Greek or Chinese to them.

The key measure of ecstasy is not quality but quantity.

While robustly chopping firewood all day with his trusty axe, he could not rid himself of a bloodthirsty yearning in his taste buds.

In a frenzied demonstration of self-worth; he strapped on a pair of high heels and ran amok, triumphantly disrupting and scattering flocks of resting pigeons all over the park.

Epiphanies: A Visual Perspective (Part II)

2006-04-09T23:03:00.000+02:00

(based on images from the Richard Kostelanetz film)

In the mundane ebb and flow of Ted's career as a tax consultant, 1982's Championship Year came on the strength of 2,505 return completions.

While sitting on the bus, she suddenly decided to abandon all plans for the day and instead follow the whereabouts of the last passenger to alight.

After returning from his maiden trip to a foreign land, he never quite felt the same rush of pride whenever he gazed into his full-length bedroom mirror.

In a blatant statement against a generation raised on consumerism, her business thrived on the concept of holding back from customers exactly what they wanted.

The notion that Writer's Block is more painful than Tennis Elbow is all in the head.

It was a steamy, still night -- written and choreographed by Edward Hopper.

The start of their beautiful relationship for him began when he first noticed that odd, perpetual and barely discernible curling of her lips.

Every time he successfully landed the 747, he would yell "TOUCHDOWN!" and exuberantly slam his cap on the cockpit floor, much to the bewilderment of his international crew.

Their romp in the hay amazingly uncovered a lost needle.

In stark contrast to the hard edgy relief that is the roof of the palate is the soft undulating valley that splits the tongue.

It may take place on a desk, but it can hardly be called a job.

The performer thought her audience had put on a jolly good show.

Their desire to keep up with the Joneses and concurrent fear of being labeled by the neighborhood as "passionless" prompted them to inject a physical element into their hitherto tame domestic squabbles.

His fairly harmless fetishist display of caressing the scantily-clad mannequins was amusing but nonetheless disquieting to the female employees.

Dressing room doors frequently provide unexpected entrances into the Twilight Zone.

Key to an actresses' range of competencies is the ability to portray growing anxiety and terror without sending the audience into a raging fit of laughter.

Worse than choking on a fig is inducing an unintended Heimlich by falling on a stake.

For all their modern gadgetry and zippy action, James Bond films would not be half as entertaining were it not for the pervasive air of flirtatiousness.

There was severe unrest in the Bermuda Triangle when about ten square miles of ocean suddenly burst through previously watertight seals.

Though he couldn't decipher the inscription, its somber script left little room for light-hearted interpretations.

As she put the finishing touches at the end of the assembly line on yet another high-end PC, she sorely envied its path to presumably more comfortable surroundings than her own.

Focus is the key to completion of many difficult tasks -- including an eye test.

He enjoyed the act of lovemaking more with one item of clothing on.

To ease the pain of reliving the crucial fumble that cost them the game, they watched that portion of the film in reverse.

And then there were five, which meant there muat be no fewer than four false prophets.

His obsessive superstitiousness caused him to attempt to squeeze awkwardly -- and subsequently get stuck -- into the narrow space separating the two adjacent leaning ladders.

EVIAN -- two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen, seven parts marketing integration.

Before the helicopter, the term "WHIRLYBIRD" referred to an obscure aristocratic pastime where caged pigeons are observed in their confinement after being subjected to a mild alcohol overdose.

NoNoNo -- we're weary of you, Yoko.

Hidden skeletons aren't likely to be in a closet.

It concerned him that whenever he witnessed a cheerleading routine, ballet dance or chorus line, his mind's eye saw a burlesque show.

Though he understood neither French nor German, he dreamt in them -- making him a tremendously challenging patient for his therapist.

As his girlfriend was burying him in the sand, a bully came & kicked sand in his face.
Since the stand-up microphone was a major prop in his stage act, the advent of clip-on wireless devices was hardly a welcome advancement.

I start to weep as I watch my mother on her exercise machine, trembling with excitement as she recites a prayer about orgasm.

As he menacingly stalked the scantily-clad vixen, he became aware of a band of thugs lurking behind him.

Debbie needed a live coach constantly by her side in order to maintain pleasant phone manners.

Though she didn't reduce its price, she thought it rather egalitarian displaying a 'FOR SALE' sign on the window of her Mercedes while driving around the township.

She was producing a beautiful condensation landscape on the rear window when the car lurched suddenly.

He was so excited at having sneaked under the barrier and slipping into the building that he didn't realize he had disembarked at the wrong bus top.

Momentary shadows were his photographic specialty and as such found it a demanding discipline.

His only purpose for renting the limousine that evening was to be seen arriving and leaving from all the city's hotspots with a hired escort.

The peaceful rural path had a steep downward gradient, a gorge at its end and an out-of-control skateboarder careening along it.

An express train to work can be a good or a bad thing.

As Daddy put on his goggles and gargled in front of baby, baby gurgled.

A Milanese Mafioso Movie will have many mean-sounding men.

The balcony of view of the featureless earthy smog in the background was partially obscured by the monstrous skyscraper rising offensively in the foreground.

His casual interest in the rally peaked considerably when the riot police arrived.

She awoke me from my deep sleep by rapping on the office glass partition and gesturing that the boss was coming.

His initial satisfaction at being caught behind the celebrity motorcade turned to bellicose annoyance when he realized it was only a traffic jam.

The mathematician stared incessantly at the passion-locked couple because they reminded him of a Moebius strip.

Not one for consensus, the CEO longed for a time when conflicts were resolved by a good old-fashioned joust.

Grandma exceeded all social protocol when she spat her dentures clear across the banquet table straight into grandpa's cognac.

She'd been told the water was unsafe to drink and so proceeded to wash her face with beer.

He answered the doorbell and was greeted by a pair of perky breasts.

In a bold move, the Police Commissioner ordered his force to wear red uniforms.

If not for her stunning good looks, Morgen would have found it more difficult to forgive her parents for the silly name they gave her.

Today's mood forecast calls for a wave of optimism followed by a downward spiral.

He finally invested in a zoom lens for his job of photographing aircraft landings.

While he enjoyed sporting a goatee, he couldn't deal with the associated expectations of greater wisdom.

The flower blossomed beautifully into shades of varying gray.

She viewed the 'exponential function' not as a mathematical entity but rather as another chapter in her tedious textbook.

Her mom said, "If you're dead set on going to an orgy, at least make sure it's a damn fine one!"

There's nothing like a game of Jenga with people cushion-pounding you as you're trying to tell an interesting story while removing blocks simultaneously.

It's rarely the case that butterfly catchers are in it for the chase only.

He had gone completely Overboard in his barrage of insults, so the ship's captain gave him his due punishment.

She retired from her career as a magician when her rabbit began getting claustrophobic.

When two hearts beat as one, their impact is less sobering than when two ships meet.

The headlights swiftly approaching his car weren't as much a concern as the train behind them.

It's a little known fact that people with blue eyes make better pilots because they have clearer sky vision.

People who dictate fashion simply have a fetish for passion.

"Achtung!" he uttered.

As an anesthetist turned body artist, she now carves a nice living creating personalized nipple sculptures.

To the residents' dismay, the arrival of the police served merely to elevate the tension and noise-level of the demonstration.

Kevin & Tim made quite a hit on public access TV with their weekly critique of Siskel & Ebert reviews.

As his coach's favorite guinea pig for developing hammer-throwing techniques, he suffered many heinous hernias.

Most passers-by who saw the glamorous couple sitting on a park bench in a pensive posture assumed they were posing.

Behind every evil king is a sinister spy.

He was really good at doing headstands from the waist down.

Nothing is quite as dizzying as gazing at a constantly moving Mondrian montage.

While the school board warmed up to the proposal for women's basketball and football teams, it was decidedly uncomfortable with an accompanying troop of screaming male cheerleaders.

There is no such thing as a minor shipwreck.

Disco undoubtedly has some roots in early Chaplin comedic dance routines.

He found it anatomically challenging to satisfy his foot fetish and phone sex fantasies simultaneously.

People who attempt suicide are as impatient as queue cutters.

People plunder peerage, penguins preen plummage.

A man approaching ecstacy focuses intently on the white light.

The mature splendour of the sweeping landscape was disrupted by the waste treatment facility.

She held enough power in her hands to actually light the bulb.

He wondered if his pet falcon would feel condescendingly towards the idea of a road trip.

The worst place to hide your treasure map is up your sleeve.

Boys who chug beers aren't as masochistic as girls who chug grape sodas.

He didn't mind walking to church, at worst he'd be late.

Watching the bird suddenly fall out of the sky and splatter itself mercilessly on the pavement seemed rather surreal for John.

The woman with the big orange hair abnd the man with the big orange jacket walked in together unnoticed.

Paying no attention to the stick-up, the man and his horse rode on.

He theorized that men really bonded with jukeboxes because they possessed many mechanical moving parts and gave control to the user.

Sewer is thicker than water.

All his colleagues developed nasty headaches from the malodorous mixture of his body stench and over-powering cologne.

Caught by the police spotlight in the alleyway, she instinctively broke into her stand-up comedy routine.

She couldn't take her eyes off the decor - till the cameras arrived.

She was dancing with such reckless abandon as to forget time and the precipitous fall beyond the low roof railing.

Many lives would change if the earth zipped across the heavens like a shooting star.

Abortion rights meant keeping the clotheshanger factory open.

As he stood by the window ready to leap, he first decided to take off his watch.

The trouble with elevators is there's seldom enough natural lighting inside.

He didn't help investagators much by describing the suspect as an indiscriminate shadowy mass.

She was so pre-occupied with looking for her misplaced clock that she was unable to find time for much else.

The woman in the leopard skin suit would do well to not work in the male nursing home.

They were caught red-handed in the black market.

The ashcan flame was too small to sufficiently warm their outstretched hands but too big to safely light their cigarettes.

After pacing incessantly around the phone booth and rehearsing his lines, he dropped his quarter into the payphone's out-of-order abyss.

Ray McCooney

2006-03-11T02:16:00.000+02:00

Matisyahu Mattafix

2006-03-11T02:13:00.000+02:00

Matisyahu - watch "King Without A Crown" (Live @ Stubb's) video for something different

Mattafix - Big City Life (Video)

Shanghai-ed

2006-02-03T01:18:00.000+02:00

“We are solly, but your connecting flight to Kathmandu is cancel and you stay in Shanghai until next plane….”

“When will that be?”

“Sir, Royal Nepal Airways is come next week…..”

I found out later that RNA had missed a lease payment on one of their aircraft, effectively reducing its fleet size by 1/3. I had just arrived from Kashgar in Xinjiang province, expecting to spend one hour in Shanghai airport, not one week in the city. This was going to decimate my stringent budget but I figured even worse would be to augment this unforeseen circumstance with an unflinching attitude. While knowing nothing of Shanghai, I at least had language capability and hastened to a cheap guesthouse touted upon me.

Having spent the better part of the last month in Northern Pakistan’s Karakoram range, entering China via the Khunjerab pass - allegedly the highest internationally recognized border crossing in the world at around 14,000 feet - into Xinjiang, a rolling tundra replete with yurts and hot dry deserts, Kashgar was like an urban oasis. And yet, one unlike any I’d ever taken respite in. Populated by minority Uighurs - a vaguely Turkish-like peoples – traditional crafts like blacksmithing are still widely practiced. The weekend market attracts over a hundred thousand villagers from the region engaged in a lively frenzy of gossiping and camel trading.

There were no camels to be seen on the streets of Shanghai. There were however, tourist bookstores and I nipped into one to kill some time. The other thing that Shanghai has that is noticeably absent in Kashgar is eye-catching women. In large part because most women in Muslim Kashgar veil their faces in public and catching their eye is literally impossible. This Shanghai stranding was at least easy on the senses.

I first saw her flipping through an English book and noticed she was of a curious Eurasian mix. I picked out a long sought-after souvenir, a world map in Chinese with China at the center of the 2-D projection and lined up behind her at the cash register, hoping to take a mental stab at her background from any tell-tale utterances. No such luck as she slipped through her transaction without a peep. About to utter a pathetic ice-breaking line myself, I looked up towards her and saw no one there except the cashier glaring impatiently at me.

Leaving the bookshop defeated, I spied in the distance that icon held in highest disdain by road-weary travelers, so described because of the self-loathing that arises from the sheer joyous desperation that accompanies its sighting after a long withdrawal. I’m speaking of McDonald’s golden arches! Unable to resist the insidious pull, I was soon clutching a tray with my #1 meal looking for a place to sit. And there, alone at a table with a pack of fries was my winsome woman of curious ethnicity.

“Hi – I was wondering if you knew your way around Shanghai because I don’t....could you give me some ideas on what to do around town?”

“Well, I’m a visitor myself but I’ll share what I know.”

That was all the invite I needed. Lise was currently living in Kunming, primarily to study Chinese and was in town visiting her brother. Her Japanese Dad had married an American – putting my curiosity to rest. We spent the rest of the afternoon roaming the streets of an ever-increasingly pleasant Shanghai. That evening, I met her friendly but somewhat over-protective brother and we three dined at the 5-star hotel in which he was staying. Crowds bustled around the lobby trying to glimpse Cindy Crawford, in town to plug the new line of Omega timepieces.

After assuring big brother that she wouldn’t ‘stay out too late’, Lise and I adjourned to the on-premises botanical gardens and stargazed – celestially, that is. Soon we were star-crossed. Several long kisses later, she blithely stated, “You know - I leave for Kunming in the morning.”

The amnesia that had blissfully anesthetized the frustration of my flight delay was rapidly ebbing, unveiling the heavy clarity of 5 remaining days adrift in an impersonal concrete jungle of 10MM strangers.

“Why don’t you come with me to Kathmandu?” I implored, hardly believing what I was hearing – both from her and myself.

“You’re…….”

“I know – it’s silly….I’ve known you for 12 hours.”

We held each other tight out on the dewy meadow till the sun peeked above the horizon. After a silent goodbye, I stumbled out of the hotel grounds exhausted and vacant. I wandered into my guesthouse around 9am, flopped into bed and stared transfixed at the TV – MTV Asia bathing me in its light drivel. Seiko Matsuda’s new video “Missing You” set to a backdrop of Manhattan and the Brooklyn Bridge was on heavy rotation.

I looked out the window of my 9th storey room and tried to focus my attention on just one of the numerous ant people pacing below. Low as I was feeling now, would I still trade places with that twentysomething outfitted in the smart Italian suit clutching his Nokia, spare hand gesticulating wildly, weaving in and out of his cohorts sharing the sidewalk? Across the street stood a serene looking woman waiting for the little green man to beckon her across. She had a smile on her face that no traffic smog or police siren or jackhammer drill or stagnant sewage could diminish. If I approached her and opened my mouth, would she too spend a magical day with me and skip town the next morning? My gaze wandered further up to the horizon and visualized the faithfully firm stone foundation of the Brooklyn Bridge, across from which in the bowels of Lower Manhattan lay the space I called home. I could scarcely recall my daily routine and yet at times of fatigue I longed for its comfort. The beauty and horror of routine is that one doesn’t have to think about it. Life then was a plod, sometimes pleasant, other times pallid. Despite the little plot twists and inspired characters that peppered the play, the stage essentially stayed constant from act to act. Jettisoning the daily routine was like hiring a stage manager on speed and steroids. I was now standing by the windowpane, leaning gingerly over the sill, closing my eyes and feeling the gentle breeze wafting warm breaths of polluted air against my face. The air was heavy and felt like it could support my body as I leaned precariously forward and downward. I was so tired……

A sudden noise from the street below made me lose my balance and the resulting vertigo startled me into grabbing my pillow and opening my eyes back into the reality of an interrupted doze. Seiko Matsuda was on again – or had she never left. The sound came again and I realized it was a rapping on the door. Not knowing the time, I staggered to and opened the door expecting to see a housekeeper of sorts. Lise stood there with a small backpack and a nervous smile.

There would be time for words later as our lips met and I returned to a familiar state of vertigo. She had postponed her flight to Kunming without telling big brother and remarkably remembered the name of my hotel. We spent the next few days holed up in said hotel room, curtains drawn so my time-of-day awareness was triggered only by the interval estimate between Seiko Matsuda videos. We did however hit the streets for our meals and one extended afternoon of sightseeing on our last day – a day memorable for the long silences we filled by simply entwining our hands together.

On that last morning before Lise left, I took photos of her against the open window of our refuge. An inevitable loss is ponderous and weighs you down while a sudden one is like a knife that cuts you up. Neither is pleasant. One results in severe emotional bloodletting in the short run but ultimately heals over, sometimes leaving nary a scar. The other may have no visible external impact but like a cancer, can continue to fester and rot if ignored.

One year later, Lise visited me in New York. Seiko Matsuda’s “Missing You” was not on MTV rotation there. Interaction between us was stilted and on the third day, I awoke to a note on my bedside table wishing me well.

10 day transit from Cairo to Beijing

2006-01-06T10:14:00.000+02:00

Russia is one of the most challenging countries in which to travel on a budget. Oh sure, your ruble might still go a pinto’s puff further out on the street than your yen but you’ll have spent the equivalent of an entire emergency fund just for the privilege of stepping onto said street. Visa fees, invitation letters and courier charges for original documents can set you back over $200 for a collection of stamps and embossed paper. And then come requirements for proof of accommodation bookings & pre-purchased air or ground passage as part of the visa application and the stern warning to register the visa at any police station within 72 hours of arrival. It is almost enough to make me forsake my plan to take the Trans-Mongolian train in the Siberian winter and go lie on a Thai beach but then I hear about the transit visa.

“Certain Russian consulates (they don’t say which ones) have been known to issue transit visas of up to 10 days” reads the travel blog I’m researching. Calling the consulate in Cairo is no help. They’re open but 2 mornings a week and each time I call I get a different answer. The beauty of the transit visa is it requires neither invitation letter (an arduous & costly step, given suspect mail service in Cairo) nor post-arrival visa registration. I go to the consulate armed with a pile of papers demonstrating I'm not “visiting” but merely passing through Russia on my way from Cairo to Beijing. A tense afternoon later, I have the rare visa in hand.

As luck would have it, I have two full days in Moscow between the arrival of Aeroflot 342 & departure of Train 004 though this is only reflected as one calendar day on my application and passes unnoticed by the normally vigilant Russian bureaucracy. That SU342 is, at slightly over $200, only 1/3 the cost of the next cheapest airline and my Trans-Mongolian train ticket is purchased directly from a Moscow train station for less than $200 means I will spend 10 days transiting Russia and Mongolia for about $400 + meals. But first I have to close an eye to the Tupolev’s starchy blue vinyl seat backs not staying up, toilets looking and smelling like a 3rd-world bus station, black dishwater passing for coffee, lumpy soggy macaroni, tough stringy chicken and overhead lights staying on throughout the redeye. Everyone claps and cheers when SU342 lands.

Moscow is below freezing when I arrive on Christmas Day. Cyrillic is so close to being decipherable but alas. James, the hostel manager who bought my train ticket, is a Brit who’s lived in Singapore and Brazil each for years. Other hostelites include the Chus, a Brazilian family of Italian-Chinese descent and Dragan, a Serb employed at BMW Beijing, traveling with his buddy, Goran. Red Square and the Kremlin are maddeningly restricted in terms of traffic flow though we (Dragan, Goran & me) manage to sneak into the soon-to-be-closed iconic Russia Hotel, thanks to a conniving waiter who lets us bypass the security detail through an adjoining café side door. Hundreds of police line the driveway outside the hotel and we exit only to find ourselves surrounded by 3-star generals shaking hands vigorously with each other. After taking a few stealth photos, I definitely feel a trifle nervous standing where we’re clearly attracting Militsiya attention.

Evening is spent wandering watering holes, getting lost and hoofing miles in the bitter cold, relieving our bladders into Moscow river from atop a bridge and meandering through the social outcasts congregating at Kurskaya station. Dragan has his cigarette snatched away and furiously snubbed out by a robust, screaming Metro babushka. Goran almost picks a fight with an inebriated security guard while my highlight of the evening was flicking my hair back and forth on some Russian boobs in a bar. Just when we decide to cut our losses at 2:30am, we hear muffled basement trance and enter the warm sanctuary via an unmarked doorway, blocks away from the brilliantly-lit Basilica, magnificent in the empty square against the light snowfall and deep night. The basement party has groups of friends in different rooms and various states of undress. One comely lass teases Goran by revealing her “combat attire” and whispering sweet nothings. All in all, the warm revelry is the chilly evening’s savior.

Second day is spent sleeping in, ambling around and preparing for the week-long train journey. Relish my final shower of the week and head off to Yaroslavsky train station. Stock up on extra beer and cigarettes at the platform and at 2130 sharp, Train #004 leaves as scheduled.

My cabinmates are a Swedish couple and the friendly Chinese conductor quietly agrees to try his best not to fill the 4th bunk and allow us the extra breathing room. Most everyone in the coach is Chinese and a trader, this journey being essentially a tri-monthly commute where all the Chinese goods they’ve sold in Moscow are exchanged for Russian fur coats, hats and other desirables for sale in the markets of Beijing and elsewhere. Fast friendships are made onboard and passenger quotas are evened out so no one is liable for excess customs duties.

We spend the first days gazing out the windows and in the evenings, the Chinese play cards while the few of us travelers read & chat. I become better acquainted with two neighbors. One is a working class trader who peppers me with questions about earning power in Western economies. He is most generous with his food and cigarettes but I am reluctant to get drawn into much money talk. The other is a Chinese college student graduating from a Russian university, on the train with his girlfriend, an Uzbek-Korean Shotokan Karate champion. Between him and me, we translate between the Russian and English speakers on board, Chinese being the intermediate tongue. As a matter of familiarity, I’m initially startled at an Asian face speaking Russian (until I see them all over Russia), while they and the Chinese are more taken by an English-speaking one!

On the 3rd day, things get time-warpy for me. As we head perpetually eastward at approximately 1 time zone per day, the disparity between the train’s “official (Moscow) time" and “local time” grows wider. This incremental wear wreaks more havoc on the body than the sudden transcontinental flight. You cannot ignore “official time” as the entire onboard schedule of station arrivals and departures is based on it and should you need to alight or renew a rapidly dwindling supply of food, this time reference is key. What additionally confounds things is the dining car (the only Russian element on an otherwise completely Chinese train) runs on local time and has very limited operating hours, not to mention limited food, smiles and small change.

Say you draw the blinds and sleep in till 12noon. If this is the 4th day on the train, it’s effectively 3pm local time. As it’s winter in the far north, the sun’s zenith barely nudges above the horizon and by mid-afternoon, it’s sunset again. You awaken and before you’ve finished breakfast, it’s time for bed.

The predominant feature is the bitter cold. It drowns out the colorful villages and adds glazing to the monolithic oil and gas industrial plants around Omsk. Balabinsk is a brisk –25C when we pull in. I purchase some cole slaw and desert (beet salad topped with sliced apples & cream), peanut candy and beer. The food is stored in refrigerated units to prevent freezing and upon opening the lids, a whoosh of warmth emanates.

Our eastward progress finally gives way to the southern fork of the Trans-Mongolian and my most eagerly anticipated passage of the journey. Lake Baikal, by all accounts, is an anomaly. It is the world’s oldest (~30million years) and deepest (over a mile) lake and contains 20% of the world’s freshwater. It is also constantly growing deeper and some scientists believe it will split the Asian continent in about a million years.

The first sighting is breathtaking. Blanketed in heavy fog, the sky and water form an ominous soupy grey. Pancake ice bobs in sections where the bay offers shelter. Farther out, white caps belie the tumultuous bluster beneath. The train skirts the coastline for the next several hours. I take my coffee in the dining car with a Nantucket native on his way to Beijing to brush up on his Chinese, both of us gazing pensively at the passing lake as we sip at the hot mud in our mugs.

During my afternoon nap, I’m awoken by the Chinese college student reminding me to show up in the dining car for the New Year’s Eve revelry later. I shudder at the thought of whooping it up in the bland Russian dining car under the gaze of its stern staff but after clearing immigration at the Russian/Mongolian border stop of Suhe Bator - which obliged with a modest fireworks display at the stroke of midnight - I stumble dutifully through the succession of coaches to the dining car, eager to see what this year’s version of the annual ritual will bring.

Pushing through the last door, I’m unexpectedly greeted by an onslaught of red murals with gold trimming, a ceiling with exotic lanterns and beer being served by pretty girls. While I was sleeping, the dining car was changed to a Mongolian one. Russians, Mongolians, Chinese, Vodka, Herring, Calamari, Soup and Fruit all contribute equally to the festivities. Much goodwill is exchanged. I take it upon myself to arm-wrestle a Buryat miner, originally from Okhotsk but working in Pakistan and elsewhere. With my two arms to his one, he graciously concedes a tie. I sleep at 7 and awaken at 11 with a minimal hangover to a complete change of scenery. We are now in Mongolia.

The wide-open Mongolian tundra is devoid of snow. Instead, odd-looking animals dominate the landscape. Funny stubby horses, furry camels, reindeer llama hybrids, eagles and vultures catch our eye. I notice a barbed wire fence running parallel to the tracks and witness a lamb who had somehow made its way into the train’s corridor try to scamper back to the other side as the train rumbles by. As the lamb leaps through the fence, the jagged metal tears its white flesh, gushing red while its lungs scream out in pain and its panicky legs flail at nothing, body suspended in midair. Further along the fence are similarly trapped plastic bags of assorted colors flailing and waving at us as we pass.

That night, we pull into the Mongolian-Chinese border town of Erlyan to transit for several hours while the train is switched to narrower Chinese gauge. After leaving Erlyan, the train travels alongside the Great Wall for much of the day before the rural landscape slowly transforms to the urban sprawl of Beijing. While much of Beijing’s outskirts bring back visual memories of 12 years ago when I last passed this way, there is also much that is overwhelmingly surprising and new. 3-lane highways filled with cars streaming in both directions and in between neatly painted white lane markers, a skyline crowded with glass towers and cranes and the ubiquitous sparkle of the welder’s torch. Teens with the edgiest haircuts & yuppies with the latest mobile devices share the sidewalk with large groups of constructions workers dressed in their gray outfits and heading to their nightly urban camps.

We pull into Beijing station barely a few minutes behind schedule. After helping one of the Chinese traders with her baggage, I notice the motley crew of companions I’ve had for a week scattered about the plaza. I grab my pack and disappear into the crowd, eagerly anticipating a shower at my friend's pad.

8 years on - Natural Light II

2005-12-12T10:40:00.000+02:00

Vang Vieng to Luang Prabang (12/12/97)

Awaken to natural light & roosters ~8am. Salty omelette & café nom (800k) for breakfast. (US$~1,200kip). Leave for bus stop ~10am and see the Swedes, 2 from last night + 2 more, complete with Miles Davis on a portable tape player. A tuk tuk with an Italian and a German sit around waiting. The driver comes over and strikes up a “5 person, 5kk” deal. We hop in. It’s not too crowded but tiny slats limit scenery views. One of the locals takes an interest first in one of the Swede’s spectacles, then in Hannah! Quite funny as he offers money for both.

One-and-a-half hours later, we’re at Kasi. The trip from here to Luang Prabang is another 6-7 hours & 7kk. Our driver is now demanding 1.5kk from each of us and after a long, barely communicable – my Lao, his English – exchange, we finally settle on the 1kk arrangement. Genuine misunderstanding? Or rip-off attempt. Hard to say…..

After a bus fails to show up in 20-30 minutes, we give in to the same guy’s offer of 7kk to Luang Prabang. Meanwhile, Christoph and Regis arrive with a public bus close behind. The bus is full and only roof seating is available. We hop into the tuk tuk and after 10 seconds, pile out because the driver decides not to go to Luang Prabang.

I walk the 100 yards to the bus and decide to roof it for 7kk. Am concerned about sun exposure,.

Everyone else comes along and we’re all on the roof. I, together with Christoph & Regis have spaces in a basket-like section atop the driver’s cabin. The rest are all piled on top of the luggage tarp.

Key points:

1. Beautiful scenery, consisting of dramatic limestone karsts and rolling green hills. Guilin-like relief.

2. Children of the hills

3. Cute little (and big) pigs

4. The cold air!!

My snowboarding jacket soon makes its appearance from the pack. Only one brief toilet stop on the way up the windy road. Condition is good except for the odd landslide section. Bus goes awfully slow up & down the hills. Watch the milestones for Xieng Nguen pass agonizingly slowly.

Finally arrive ~7pm, some 6-1/2 hour hours later. Many of the guesthouses are full and we end up at Manilath. Get a single with shared hot-water shower, which is so-so but oh-so preferred to bone-chilling after the rooftop freezedown, for 5kk.

Make our way out for dinner and splurge at the Lane Xang Luang Prabang where the new, cheaper menu is debutting. The Swedes turn up a little later. Our dinner indulgence is ~ 7kk per person. In bed by 11pm, eyelids droopy, nose sniffly. In fact all our noses were – Christoph, Regis and the German too.

8 years on - Natural Light I

2005-11-20T02:47:00.000+02:00

Kompong Som 11/20/97

Awaken to natural light after a long time in the den. Use communal facilities and start the day ~ 8:30 by rolling (but not smoking) a joint.

The $4 motobike is waiting for me outside as Sokha (?) shows me a fixed set of lights. I get on a moto to drive for the first time and he’s my pillion. Take it semi-comfortably around the block and decide to ride it into town. Learning as I go along. I drive to the Telephone place. Politely give Sokha 1500r (US$1=3,400r) and tell him thanks but no. Much more laid back here than in Phnom Penh, recalling the first moto driver from Pochentong.

The bloody call from here to Phnom Penh is US$1/min. As I leave, Sokha still me and pitching the bike. Chat a bit but am firm. Stride on to GST and pick up Honda Dream for $5. Top it up with 2L of gas ($1). Each L is good for ~ 15km and a full tank ~ 5L.

Head straight out of town. Road is OK except in patches. Even then, it’s not too bad. Very little traffic outside town. Swing by abandoned (except for drinks stand) Independence Hotel for beer and photos.

Drive back to hotel after my maiden 2-hr spin. Smoke the j. Begin to really appreciate Tree House feel of room. Les feuilles everywhere. A setting for blue windows, red ants and sleeping dogs. Blissfully begin to photograph the peace punctuated rhythmically by the sound of strange insects. Before hypnotically shooting the whole roll, I force myself to leave the room and take the moto out. First stopping by to confirm tomorrow’s room with “Chun” at Orchidee. Affirmative. Cruise east of Occidental towards Outres and become increasingly isolated.

Photo op of a lifetime slips by as I await these cows to walk under a sign. Of course, they’re taking their own sweet time. I shoot a couple of angles as they approach. Then, inexplicably, the roll runs out. Shit! “Slow down, slow down,” I urge the cows, frantically rewinding and fishing around my bag for that extra roll. Keeping my eye trained on the herd, I see them all walk into and out of my perfect frame as I’m threading the new roll. Then, the last cow stops, looks at me and shakes his bell a tinker or two. My heart is racing as I’m just about ready with the new roll. Then, she looks down again and plods on, just escaping the confines of my frame the moment I glimpse into the viewfinder. I laugh all to myself. However, a cute dog and 2 kids chanced by and partly made up for the uncooperative cows.

Back on the bike and on to Outres. By now I haven’t seen anyone for a while. Remind myself to stay on visibly trodden roads – and hence, away from mines – though it’s tempting to just turn down a side road on a whim. I see a promising candidate and turn towards the water. Park bike in a small clearing amidst some tall grass and walk the last 100m to the beach. It’s absolutely empty. Strip down and take my first dip in ages. Realize I haven’t bathed in 48 hours and it’s all the fresher.

Unfortunately, am still plagued about safety and before I get too relaxed, I’m dressing up again and walking back to the bike. It’s still there, of course. Cruise home with the wind blowing in my wet hair.

Park bike at guest house and walk down to Occidental beach for a beer. Coupla haoles around. Begin writing and soon a pair of Khmer guys comes by. One peers at my writing and begins a hesitant conversation, while simultaneously stealing glances and commenting on the other farangs. “Mr. Brown very handsome”. “Lady, like man – same same” indicating a rather athletic, tomboyish white female. They start commenting on my hair and how each other is a neuter and like to eat ice cream. I became suspicious but hum the automated jingle of the “ice-cream-man” driving about town in his colorful van. Coupla laughs. Then, he begins peeling my sunburnt skin and commenting on my penis size. I indicate no further interest in the conversation heading this way. They remain friendly but well-behaved, leaving after a while.

If not for them, however, I would not have tried “Boklahong”, an awesomely crunchy and tangy Khmer seafood salad with dried shrimp and crab (plate on beach ~ 1,500r). They let me try their order and I got one myself.

It’s now 4pm exactly. One could stay here a while.

Bad News. Last 24 hours I smoked a pack of Mild Seven lights. Am I nervous about tomorrow? More excited than nervous actually. After all, she has Hawaiian blood, her eyes change color and she reads faster upside-down. She’s also spoken of an Iroquois amulet, shaped like a lightning bolt, that possesses powers. Whoever touches it will have the same dreams as Amanda. And when it’s in color, it’ll come true.

Amanda gave the amulet to Belinda about 3 days ago.

10 days of siyaam

2005-10-20T00:34:00.000+02:00

Day 1: Had great difficulties with thirst. I habitually keep a glass of water at my desk and had to resist countless urges to get a cuppa from the water cooler all day.

Day 2: Saw a dead body on the road on the way to work from the bus. A sheet covered it with shoes showing.

Day 3: Started breaking fast in the evenings with a glass of Limoncello on the rocks + a duty-free Cohibinho. Have also not assiduously avoided "frivolous entertainment" in the form of banal Cairo satellite TV offerings.

Day 4: Most days I had the feeling of hunger in my belly but twas hardly intolerable. Requiring more discipline was abstaining from any and all lascivious thought and activity. It is hardly surprising that few weddings take place during Ramadan, save for the very end.

Day 5: Weekend was very hard with food, water, ciggiess daring me at home while idle. At work, I'm distracted and don't have these within sight. Had thought to sleep in late but Tamer said that'd be cheating – turning night to day and vice versa. I agreed. He said to try living as normal…but I did decline invitation to go to the White Desert to maintain a relatively less physically demanding environment.

Day 6: Was grateful for Adel’s iftar invitation if only to get out of the flat and have something to occupy my mind. Helped make "Atoif" - a sinfully sweet fried samosa filled with coconut powder, sugar, crushed nuts and raisins; and flash-cooled in a refrigerated syrup.

Day 7: Today had the worst headache that carried on past iftar. Jumped onto rapidly moving bus on way home after several passed completely empty without stopping. This one was “bumber to bumber” with an empty bus in front and once on, I realized we were giving it a good ol’ fashioned push along. Everything was fine till we hit the uphill entrance to 26 of July bridge, at which point we stalled and cars overtook us on all sides. Many efforts to overcome the gravity-assisted inertia of the dead weight bus with our own feeble diesel. Took at least 5 mins, with passengers muttering in btwn their Quran recitations.

Day 8: The bus today opted not to take the usual exit off the bridge into Zamalek. I had to alight off the moving bus on the bridge & an awkward step nearly planted me flat on my face in the middle of traffic.

Day 9: The metro to work today was probably the most crowded I’d experienced yet in Cairo. While standing scrunched against a pole, two men started talking loudly, but not unlike normal boisterous Egyptians. Then the jostling began and when it got to a noticeable point, I turned to look and missed a feeble swing thrown by the flabby sweaty man screaming, “You’re a dog” to his flailing adversary. Others got drawn in holding each man back as the train jerked us all along. I tried to simultaneously hold an arm out as part of the barricade between the two men and stay clear of wild punches and lunges. I mean, these two guys were right next to me! Fortunately, the calmer man got off at the next stop and with the typical mass exodus at Saad Zaghloul, the extra breathing room gave everyone just the relief they needed.

Day 10: My last day coincided with an office-sponsored iftar at the Sheraton Heliopolis. An outstanding buffet that saw the 5-star crowd swarm the serving tables at 5:30pm, resulting in a feeding frenzy reminiscent of opening bell at a Barney’s storewide sale. Competition & queue maneuvering amongst the suited men and bejeweled ladies caused the first ample trays of food to disappear before I was able to get two sambouseks on my plate. Satisfaction though wasn’t far away & the sinful selection of heavy sweets was the coup de grace. The evening was capped by pleasant waves of shisha conviviality and tonight I shall be blissfully unaware of the discomfiting parched mouth typical of my previous nights' pre-sleep breath.

I am a Godfather

2005-10-12T00:54:00.000+02:00

My really good friends Tim & Trish asked me to be godfather to their adorable first-born, Tara. I was so stunned they thought my silence was the lag typical of international calls. I accepted without hesitation, overjoyed they’d bestow such an honor on me after already allowing me the privilege of spending baby’s first night at home with her.

It dawned on me that I’d been asked twice to be a wedding “best man”, not including my brother who decided against the tradition but for whom I gave the speech, but on neither occasion did I fulfill my duties. For my jolly (now dearly departed) friend Li Choon, I’d unfortunately already made plans to go to Antarctica when he asked me. For Lester, I botched the time difference calculation flying to Singapore from the States and missed the wedding by a whole day. Made the banquet though, and that’s really the key!

After hanging up, the obvious question surfaced in my mind. “What in heaven’s name does a Godfather do?” Images of Marlon Brando waving aside sycophantic, ring-kissing adulants tempted me to abuse my new title. The standard battery of godfatherly duties however centers on providing religious guidance to the godchild, traditionally in a Christian context. eGodParent.com lists the following 5 key responsibilities:

1. Pray for your godchild regularly
2. Set an example of Christian living
3. Help him/her to grow in the faith of God, Father, Son & Holy Spirit, in which he/she was baptized
4. Give every encouragement to follow Christ and fight against evil
5. Help your godchild to look forward to confirmation

Tim & Trish are very religiously broad-minded and knowing neither their choice for godmother (Lisa Grimes) nor I is particularly religious likely influenced things in our favor. I for one feel ill-equipped to perform any of the above in a literal sense, considering myself spiritual but not religious and seeing common benefits in all the world’s major religions but not aligning myself with one for the simple reason that doing so would automatically imply a personal choice I don’t feel egotistical enough to make. And thus far, no religion has chosen me.

That said, the day of my first godfatherly nomination is also the second day of my first “saum”, the Muslim fast during Ramadan. I plan to undertake the fast for 10 days and already at this early stage, can feel the unifying strength of this humble act adhered to by an entire populace. Rising, praying and eating together in a rhythm dictated by the sun, daily focus heightened on compassion & piety. One thing I will certainly do as a godparent in the realm of spiritual mentoring (should I ever be asked specifically) is to advocate close personal study of all the world’s major religions. Billions cannot be wrong and it’s worth distilling the essence of each religion for oneself and developing a deeper empathy for all humanity and/or possibly some form of personal practice.

For now, that’s about all I can summon for my new god-daughter.

John McEnroe

2005-09-21T23:20:00.000+03:00

“Don’t go away”

“Please”

Johnny Mac implores with a good humored yet resigned grin as the camera pans back from him and his guest to make way for the dreaded commercial break. A necessary evil that pays the bills for the show but only so far as viewers don’t grab the remote to indulge their desire to “surf the break”. It is public knowledge that viewers have indeed tended to catch the break and ride off to other primetime temptations.

It is endearing to see Mac the Mouth reach out to keep his viewer base tethered. For more than a decade as the brash entertainer extraordinaire on the world’s premiere tennis stages, he had a magnetic hold on a fan base by combining electrifying play with volatile theatrics. I was and still am a Big Mac fan. Admittedly though, I was an even bigger Connors fan.

Connors had a longer though more patchy career. Part of his appeal for me was that even at his peak (save for 1974), you didn’t sense he was as thoroughly dominant as Mac was against the competition. You felt that your fan support was critically integral in willing him to his tough victories. His win over Mac at Wimbledon in 1982 symbolized that. And every Connors fan remembers the 1991 US Open. Connors now maintains a very private life in contrast to Mac. Obviously understandable, but as a fan who felt like a partner in his victories, I am now jilted.

On the other hand, while Mac was on top of the tennis ladder, though never directly unappreciative of his fan base, one nonetheless felt his impregnability as a competitor extend into an aloof detachment as a person. Today, Mac’s colorful and insightful commentary at all the Grand Slams makes him one of the best reasons to watch the sport on TV. This continued visibility in a more mature but still edgily irreverent incarnation has lengthened the longevity and warmed the timbre of his post-player public image. Not to mention his cameos as a rock guitarist and ongoing dealings in the fine art arena.

And now, he is a talk-show host. One of the earlier reviews contained a comment that stuck in my mind. Amidst the backdrop of slick and over-choreographed talk-shows in general, it described the McEnroe show as one in which “stuff could go wrong” and alleviate the humdrumness of the generic talk-show experience. I’ve only seen the show 2 or 3 times and I’ve seen Mac struggle to do a sit-up, box a punching bag and even labor to keep it lively with Roger Federer the day after he won his 1st US Open. The production crew also appeared to botch an intro segment, with Mac listing a lineup of guests on “tonight’s show” that was in fact wrong. I find all this quite entertaining as it displays sides of McEnroe that we’re less familiar with. This is not the supreme athlete in total control of the moment, attacking or parrying with perfect timing and coordination. This is an entertainer who’s taking a risk and feeling out a new playing field. To be frank, I thought Mac would slide into the role of talk-show host quicker than Arnold did into that of political leader. But that’s another story.

I visited the McEnroe show’s website and found that not only can you attend a show taping, the “package” includes free transport, an audience photograph and a chance to meet Mac. I fired off an immediate email and within 24 hours got a reply with 2 confirmed reservations for the date I’d requested. Remarkable.

For years, I’ve attended the US Open in Flushing Meadows roaming the grounds with a softcover coffetable photo book of tennis champions from the ‘70s - Connors, Evert, Borg, and even a young Lendl. Mac is on the cover and I’ve coveted his autograph on this book for a while now. Twice I’ve encountered his brother (Patrick) in public and each time had the fleeting thought of walking up to him and requesting an address to which I could mail the book to – return postage included – in order to get it signed. Prudence got the better of me each time.

Two days after the email confirmation from the McEnroe show, I dreamt I played tennis with Mac himself. Actually, it was Tim Mayotte (don’t ask me why), Mac and I. The only episode I recall about the dream was – giddy with apparent mutual conviviality, I jokingly disparaged Mac’s current tennis form and failed to receive the light-hearted reaction I expected. A silent scowl is the expression I remember.

Given the uncertainty of the McEnroe show’s future, I hope my date with Mac will be spared the producer’s hatchet. Mac needs his fans now – seemingly more than he ever did when he was racking up Grand Slam and Davis Cup titles - and I’ll be there to lend a hand. A hand that will be holding out a book that’s been awaiting his final put-away signature volley.

P.S. I in fact successfully get my books signed and in the process have an amusing interlude with Mac. I’m seated in the studio audience when Mac announces his main guest as Phil Hellmuth, World Poker Champion. Mac apparently spies me snickering with mild excitement to my buddy in the adjacent seat. The following exchange ensues:

Mac (looking in my general direction): So you a poker fan?
Me (not realizing I’m being spoken to directly): ?????? (freeze in silence)
Mac: Uh – yeah, YOU….you speak English?
Me (realizing I’m being addressed by Mac, look straight at him): hey – just calling your bluff!
Mac (grinning): hey! (fingers pointing at me gunslinger-style)

US Open

2005-09-15T21:23:00.000+03:00

The 2005 US Open at Flushing Meadows, New York ended last weekend.

People everywhere regardless of changes brought on by career, family, travel or all-round personal turbulence, have certain anchors that ground them. These may include career, family, religion, relationships, hobbies, pets etc. One of my consistent anchors over the last several years has been the final Grand Slam tournament of the world professional tennis tour.

My earliest memory of professional tennis was when I was with my family visiting an aunt in upstate NY. It was the first time I’d ever visited the US. I remember being glued to the TV screen as I watched Jimmy Connors brashly demolish a helpless Ken Rosewall 6-1 6-1 6-4 in the 1974 Wimbledon Final. Connors seemed uncharacteristically out-of-place, this mop-headed grunter with no visible respect for the courtly air surrounding Center Court, the posh almost artificial greenness of everything, the white hats on the dukes and duchesses. Connors ended up being my favorite tennis player over the years even though he was a frustrating player to support, succumbing to many a foe as a result of hand-wringing unforced errors off his flat forehand. Borg, McEnroe and Lendl seemed to have his number as time went on though when he did defeat them in big matches, the memory was etched forever.

It was thus only fitting that the first ever US Open I attended in person was in 1991. I was at a first-round night match – my first ever Grand Slam match attended in person between two players I don’t remember when midway through, an announcement came through the PA system that they were releasing a limited number of tickets for the next night’s play featuring Jimmy Connors. I dashed out the stadium and returned shortly after with tickets. My tennis lackey buddy, Martin, in attendance that 1st night would also join me for Jimmy. It was a Tuesday evening and Jimmy quickly went down 2 sets to love and 1-4 in the 3rd to Patrick McEnroe. The stadium practically cleared out and Martin and I eased down to near court level to witness what had to be the last few games. Remarkably, Jimmy clawed his way back from the brink and at almost 2am in the morning, won the match to the absolute delirium of a disbelieving crowd. At the time, I was recovering from shoulder surgery and my arm was in a sling. When Jimmy won the last point, I was so overcome I raised my arms in a reflexive burst of ecstacy, temporarily forgetting my frailty and immediately was brought to my knees in agony, laughing and whimpering simultaneously. My favorite player had completed an incredible comeback at age 39. And this was just a 1st round match. I would return to the stadium to witness another dramatic match. Labor Day weekend, the stadium was packed as Connors, the living legend was playing for a quarterfinal berth on Sep 2, his birthday and the eve of mine. In a seesaw battle Connors, behind the entire match forced a 5th set though fell behind rapidly 2-5. Again, he fought back and won the match in a tiebreak and this time, both my friend Marcia and I could barely contain our tears of incredulous joy. Connors became the oldest Grand Slam semifinalist ever since Ken Rosewall in 1974.

After 1991, I moved to NY and religiously attended the US Open every year that I lived there. Even when I was on sabbatical, I'd try and schedule my walkabouts around the Open. I played once on the courts there with my friend, Kathy who had a wicked backhand for her diminutive frame. One of my best friends, Lester, was a marketing executive for Heineken, the US Open’s biggest sponsor at the time. He was involved on the tennis end of things too and for several years on end, I would receive a birthday present envelope filled with dozens of prized US Open tickets. They were frequently 2nd-week tickets and almost always in premium seats. I felt like a sugar daddy, doling out invitations to my favored friends who all came to know of Lester even though few met him. I have countless memories of the weeks I “camped out” (as one friend affectionately put it) at the Open.

I left NY in 2000. Since then, wherever I am in the world, those two weeks in Aug/Sep will find me trying to carve out time for the tournament. 2001 I labored to find friends with satellite TV in Zambia where I could watch matches, often with my equally-avid tennis fan friend, Yiannis. 2002 I caught matches in sports bars as I made my way through New Zealand. 2003 I watched from San Diego. 2004 I managed to maneuver my Los Angeles-based job into a business trip back to NY, armed with tickets from work & Lester. This year I fulfilled my quota with early-round coverage off German satellite TV in Ibiza. It was also the first time I “listened” to the Final on Internet Radio, unable to locate a telecast anywhere in Cairo. 2006 will be the 15th anniversary of my love affair with the US Open. What awaits?

10 days of Ibiza

2005-09-12T14:40:00.000+03:00

“Clubbing” recap of my 1st-ever visit to Ibiza from 28/8/05 to 6/9/05.

Sun 28/8: Danny Tenaglia (Be Yourself) @ Pacha

The displacement of Flower Power (a highly touted party) to the following week from tonight’s Pacha billing w/DT initially disappointed me but not enough to defect to Spun (Infected Mushroom/GMS) @ Privilege. Free bus deposited me at the club just before 2am. No queue at the entrance and club was relatively empty. DT was in the booth but not spinning. This being my first time in Pacha, arguably the world’s premier club “brand”, I took the opportunity to scope the joint.

The first room after clearing the security brigade has a bar with cushioned platform seating alongside it and the far wall. Several other comfy table/chair sets make it a good space to adjourn for a respite from any excessive headiness. This leads down to the main dance floor from which you can see the rest of the stylish multi-level interior. Lighting and layout manage to infuse a sense of warmth into the spaciousness afforded by the 360° panoramic view of the multiple balconies and bars. There are also several VIP areas cordoned off in random spots. I recall at least one other room with different music.

Having safely washed down the evening’s head with some water (both of which cost the same!), DT took to the decks to much applause. Crowd density still sparse and the beat lackluster & monotonous, I was beginning to feel underwhelmed. Remarkably, all the elements started to converge simultaneously. DT picked up the tempo and energy, right when the floor began to fill up and the head started to tingle. The backup visuals consisted of a montage of boxing images and what appeared to be childhood family photos. DT maintained an edgy but not overly deep house groove without resorting to the short-wavelength crescendos often favored by DJs bent on catalyzing fist-raising frenzies. As I was as yet unfamiliar with the season’s popular tracks, I only encountered 1 or 2 hummable strains though judging again from dance floor reaction, DT didn’t pander to “Top 10 hits” selection. Crowd density stabilized ultimately to an optimal level around 4am and consisted largely of “serious” clubbers as most tourists and teens were likely at Space. As testament to this, most everyone (including myself) stayed till the very conclusion of his set at a respectable 8am.

Mon 29/8: Manumission (featuring FischerSpooner) @ Privilege

Bar M (Sant Antoni) pre-party had its smattering of scantily-clad/costumed performers warming up the mostly young British crowd. Persuaded ticket girl to toss in free admission to Carry-On@Space and she kindly consented with a VIP bracelet, most welcome after having to endure a 30+ minute line to simply catch the free bus to Privilege. The ride was overrun by boorish English kids bellowing football fan-like chants, much to my and the few other non-English patrons’ bemusement.

As the “world’s biggest club”, Privilege takes your breath away. I was able to sneak a camera in for some sub-standard snaps. The main hall is vast as a hangar, with multiple staircases and passages leading to split-level terraces and stand-alone rooms, including the popular Coco Loco. A large pool/moat occupies the center with numerous stages and podiums for performers. There’s also the customary souvenir shop, as well as clairvoyance and head massage service.

I chose to go to Manumission for its past lore, which in its heyday included explicit sex shows. The famed crowd contribution to its legendary atmosphere was disappointing with little costumery and an overwhelming percentage of tourists, especially in contrast to Danny Tenaglia. The show itself was passable, with an impressive aerial “bedsheet suspension” act by a pair of gymnasts, stilt walkers, a confetti machine and several sexy dance choreographies. FischerSpooner came on for a total of two (3?) 10-minute sets. I enjoyed their rock guitar-energized Queen-like theatrical interludes, though it seemed discordant to the general club ambience. DJ mix was sufficiently enjoyable, with a crowd-pleasing selection of Disco/‘80s remixes & Ibiza house. Coco Loco featured spurts of psytrance & tribal beats but stuffy ventilation drove me out the room quickly.

All in all, Manumission didn’t meet the lofty expectations and I departed at 6am for a power nap in preparation for the Carry-On.

Tue 30/8: Manumission Carry-on @ Space

Recharged my head in the apartment before stumbling out into the harsh sun and ambling the 300m or so to Space. SO looking forward to my 1st Space! As I wandered through the parking lot, a voice behind me called out “Eh Hombre” and I spied a Ray-Ban-ed uniformed Guardia Civil motioning me over to his parked car. My first thought was “thank heavens for the in-apartment recharge”. Having no goods en el corpo, I fearlessly went over. Emptied all pockets, every cigarette inspected closely, patted down meticulously. Then I was asked to unzip my pants. I objected in principle, and the thought flashed that his thoroughness would not be inconsistent with possible police planting. To get on with it, I let him look where he wanted and thus satisfied, he brusquely asked me to gather my stuff and move on as he got in the car and stationed it closer to the club entrance. Future visitors are thus hereby forewarned. I shall say here too that Space club staff (roaming security and bartenders both) was super-vigilant on stamping out visible drug use, tipping over powder, upsetting lines and stubbing out joints. I didn’t witness any evictions though.

OK – back to the fun stuff.

The outdoor terrace was bathed in a warm 11am sun as I sauntered in and was greeted with a sea of grinning, beautiful people moving joyously to the infectious Balearic House that I’d grown to love in a matter of days. After a quick inspection inside the one interior hall that was open – which had a moodier trancier bent, amenable but not what the doctor ordered – I heeded the words of one of the Manumission staffers I’d struck up a yak with, “get the lay of the land, then stay on the terrace the rest of the day”.

Friendly smiles were abundant and before long, I found company in the form of a group of longtime Ibiza regulars - Spaniards and most gracious to share their love of the island. Graca immediately shared her party favors and a sampling of the very tasty local liquor, Hierbas. The energy and spirit of the party was such that I was actually a trifle winded and didn’t take to the floor much, content to lean back and bop incessantly on my bar stool, people-watching and engaging in numerous randomly-generated conversations mostly with forward Italian women. Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better, Space staffers began walking around depositing garbage bags around the terrace and dance floor. Whoops and yells emanated from all corners as the range of freebies was soon revealed. Snazzy sunglasses, shiny golden wigs, fake mustaches/boobs/butts, pink-tinseled toy microphones etc. found their way around the crowd. Happy became hilarious and crazy became nonsensical. All the while, the music wove us all together. On the basis of my first party there, it wasn’t difficult to see why Space was voted the World’s Best Club in 2004.

I left at some point in the afternoon with my new friends to a private party in the hills of Es Cubells, notable mainly for the world-class view, the appearance of Richie Hawtin (though he didn’t spin) and large groups of cliquey Italians. The evening wound down at sunset (circa 8:30pm) on Playa D’en Bossa with a leisurely demi-pill & local smoke, after which I eased into my first stretch of sound sleep since arriving.

Thu 1/9: Steve Lawler (Viva-Fundacion) @ Space

On my 30min hopper from Barcelona a few days earlier, I’d sat next to what initially appeared to be a fidgety guy who upon takeoff, whipped out a stack of CDs and promptly cocooned himself in high-end noise-canceling headphones, industriously taking notes as he made his way through the stack of tracks. I was gazing out the window at the magnificent Mediterranean islands when he struck up friendly conversation. Noting it was my first time to Ibiza, he inquired of my “party schedule” and it turned out he was a resident at Space with Steve Lawler on Thursday. Pete (Gooding) also regularly DJed the sunset set at Café Mambo (adjacent to the cultish Café Del Mar) and without any hesitation, offered to guestlist me for Steve Lawler. That solved the tricky dilemma of my hardest scheduling decision of the entire stay – Cream (Paul van Dyk et al) or Lawler.

I took full advantage of Pete’s generosity and brought 3 newfound friends met earlier in the evening at Bora Bora’s famed pre-party, conveniently located between my apartment and the beach, mere steps away from Space. On this night, Space was relatively empty and Pete intimated that end-Aug/early-Sep is typically a short lull when Ibiza catches its breath from the headiness of Jul/Aug and the frenzy of the mid-Sep closing parties. I caught my own breath, realizing everything I was experiencing was during a “quiet week” in the season.

Most everyone at Space that night was in the one main room that was open though I never made it up to inspect the chillout roof. Steve didn’t take too long to come on and quite rapidly wrapped the room in his traditional hypnotic wave of deep, dark, sexy trance. I was mildly disappointed that the usual Thurs doubleheader line-up of Sasha/Lawler was not to be (victim of the lull week?) but I knew I’d be at the marathon 22-hour WLS (We Love Sundays) at Space, headlined by Sasha & Groove Armada. Steve was relentless and I might have favored a freshening/lightening up at points but I’m being picky. My companions, partial to the “cheerier stuff”, bagged after a few hours and I happily ground on with the other diehards of the evening. We made plans to meet up the following evening and with the knowledge that I’d be celebrating my birthday then, I begged off the dancefloor at a modest 7am.

Fri 2/9: Pete Tong/Darren Emerson et al (Pure Pacha) @ Pacha

This was another (what wasn’t?!!) eagerly anticipated night, not only for the birthday excuse but the impressive line-up. I’d heard extreme opinions about Pure Pacha, many decrying its “commercialism” (let’s face it, this is Ibiza!), others extolling its vibe. And while I love Space on account of its unbridled energy, Pacha – for all its attendant snootiness (VIP areas, hyper-priced drinks, nattier dressing, reserved tables) – has accoutrements that admittedly make it a comfier club.

I arrived at 2am and instantly realized this was going to be a different experience than Danny Tenaglia. I’d gotten wind of this earlier as everyone seemed headed to Pacha tonight. It was THE party to be at with little competition elsewhere. The line was not ungodly but somewhat unruly. My experience with Cairo “queues” helped ensure reasonably swift entry. Inside, there was barely room to see, let alone move. Forget dancing. After an hour, I realized I’d never find the people I’d arranged to rendezvous with. So much for “old friends” - I would spend my birthday with brand new ones, primarily a Dutch group and later an English crew, the latter bequeathing me a half-bottle of Absolut they’d inherited from their table’s previous occupants.

The layout was markedly changed from the DT night, with the main DJ booth oriented differently and 2 (?) other active booths going simultaneously. More smartly-dressed crowd tonight and I was ushered out of one table I’d temporarily planted myself at by a foursome of ostentatious Luxembourgers - the only friendly one being the lone lady – who upon being seated had two bottles of champagne immediately uncorked. The constant stream of visual stimuli afforded by the density of people was accentuated by my departure from a hitherto consistent diet of Ibiza warEz to a remnant rogue South African souvenir I’d somehow saved from years back. This packed a headier punch than the local stuff and along with the unexpectedly pounding Pete Tong, who stayed clear of his oft-favored vocal tracks, I rarely found my legs throughout the night.

This night was memorable for the well-wishes & compliments I received, the at-times unnerving crowd levels and a relentless music tempo that wreaked havoc in conjunction with my Capetonian catalyst. I was energized enough to make a spur-of-the-moment decision to attend the morning party at Space to further extend my birthday euphoria and the pragmatic side of me took leave of Pure Pacha before its end for another power nap.

Sat 3/9: Matinee Group @ Space

This had been touted by the locals as an excellent day party, notable for its attendance by serious aficionados with few tourists, who’d be gearing themselves for WLS the next day. The price for spontaneity was paid via a ticket at the door for 35 EUR (1 drink included). This time, the open rooms were the two main halls, with the outdoor terrace closed off. The magic of daylight however, bathed the room, which previously held court to Lawler’s sinister grind, in a wide swath of warm sensuous sun and I was struck by the rawness of energy visible on all the faces, expressions which hide themselves in the dark of night. The locals obviously were right.

Music was anthemy but hardly pandering, with hints of disco expertly woven into the upbeat summer Ibiza house. Notable too was the gay pride strength on display in both rooms characterized by a large visually uniform group of muscular shirtless men in jeans dancing in a cohesive mass in the center of each floor, exuding a pulsing statement for all to take in. Tempo and mood stayed at an unvarying high level, attractive but a shade monotonous and just a bit draining. The week’s toll was starting to take its measure.

Sun 4/9: Jeff Mills, Groove Armada etc (We Love Sundays) @ Space

There was palpable anticipation for this party all week amongst the newcomers like myself. Once in, I was devastated to see that Sasha was missing from the line-up sheet posted just inside the entrance. Further inquiries revealed his previous 2 gigs had drained him, and he was taken off the lineup today - HIS birthday no less!

In consolation, Jeff Mills was added to the line-up and since I hadn’t seen him before, I was sufficiently mollified. All the rooms were open for the first time, including the open-air roof terrace playing an R&B/Chill mix to go with the hot baking sun. Relaxing there with newfound friends of the day, I sweated more than any other occasion and soon made my way downstairs to the throng below.

I didn’t think it could’ve gotten more crowded than Pure Pacha but WLS made that seem like an evening at a suburban jazz lounge. I spent most of the afternoon on the terrace jostling with a crowd that was pleased with the rotation of familiar current Ibiza hits. I was pleased too though only familiar with about a tenth of the tracks. Knowing that Groove Armada was due on at 9pm, I took my pass-out at 6pm for a quick dinner break and peek at the US Open.

Returning at 8pm, the line was the longest I’d experienced – roughly 20 minutes. The terrace was now crammed and everyone was near frenzy. The DJs were just as animated as they edged from the bass line of Michael Jackson's "Smooth Criminal" to the most inspired crescendo of a decibel-crunching full-length mix of Nirvana’s “Smells like Teen Spirit”. Shortly after this unbelievable high, I receded indoors for a reprieve in the relaxing air-conditioned discoteca and remained inside the relative spaciousness for some extended bona fide dancing.

At midnight, I met an attractive Indonesian couple (one of few Asians I encountered all week) and we could barely contain our excitement over Jeff Mills’ imminent start. There was some confusion as the outside terrace stayed silent until we realized JM was spinning inside. The room was already packed and I guided us to my favorite spot on the mezzanine level. JM was less “techy” than I’d expected and I was emotionally won over with his patient, teasing segueway into a thumping mix of Santana’s “Jingo”, augmented by original vocal chorus. The mesmerizing beat droned on and for variety I nipped in next door to check out James Zabiela (a Sasha protege) and unbeknownst to me in the other room, JZ was blitzing a crowded dance floor with a wicked, eclectic high BPM mix. High-octane lighting further juiced the adrenaline. I stayed contentedly here for some time before deciding I’d end things with one more JM techno session.

In all, WLS was the extravaganza it promised to be. Good vibe, inspired mixes and a real marathon. Sasha spinning on his birthday as well might have been too much to handle.

Notable missed dates

Clubbing in Ibiza is spectacular for its weekly roster and for a supposedly lull-week, I must list the numerous acts/parties I regret simply not being able to attend.

Infected Mushroom/GMS
Circo Loco @ DC-10
Roger Sanchez
LaTroya (DJ Oliver)
Timo Maas (Closing Party)
Erick Morillo
Cream
People from Ibiza
Hed Kandi
Satoshi Tomeii
Sander Kleinenberg
Carl Cox

September 11, 2005

2005-09-11T22:14:00.000+03:00

I don't watch EuroNews, a pan-European news channel, much but they have a riveting segment called "No Comment", which highlights newsworthy clips devoid of overlaid commentary and punditry. The images and original soundtrack speak for themselves and viewers draw their own conclusion.

First time I saw it, there was a 3-minute clip of the Israeli evacuation in Palestine. The tension was palpable in the "live" sounds of residents pleading with perplexed military personnel, ubiquitous scuffles and the occasional gunshot – all happening in real time.

This clip segued immediately to the scene of a traffic accident on the outskirts of Bangkok. It was clear the accident had just occurred. Again, no commentary. Only the sounds of grief, shock, panic and urgency as police and bystanders took stock of the situation. A raging fistfight broke out though between whom I didn't know as everything was in Thai.

Unvarnished reality TV.

Today there was a long silent clip of Downtown Manhattan and immediately I knew. There was barely any traffic noise. A large flag was draped down the side of a golden skyscraper. Image after image of people clutching framed photos of missing/deceased loved ones, many with heart-wrenching dedications written next to the pictures. They were gathered at Ground Zero to remember.

Every time I remember, my chest feels heavy and my eyes well. I didn't lose anyone close but I did live and work very close by. Numerous friends and neighborhood acquaintances had horror stories to tell. I heard them all, from the buddy called up on reserve duty to assist in combing the wreckage for remains and the unspeakable images he'll carry with him for life; the friend who while running for his life wanted to stop and help those he was overtaking on foot that were collapsing from suffocation but was relentlessly driven by survival; another who while fleeing the scene recalls the thud thud thud of bodies hitting the pavement. I would have been on my way to work that morning too and who knows how I'd have been altered.

On the 1-year anniversary, I was on the Tranz-Alpine from Christchurch to Greymouth. I was in the middle of a month strolling around New Zealand on my own and was glad that on this somber day, my haphazard schedule should place me on board one of the world's most spectacular train journeys, gazing out the large windows - with Marlborough Pinot Noir in hand - at the beauty and majesty of our natural world while contemplating the inexplicable twists in the journey of life.

On this the 4-year anniversary, I am in Cairo. It is mere days after Egypt's first-ever multi-candidate presidential election. Uncannily, the Israeli withdrawal from Palestine is complete today. While the human toll from recent natural disasters around the world is more staggering, the self-inflicted root of 9/11 renders it painfully sad and thus, it requires our remembrance.

60th Anniversary of Hiroshima

2005-08-06T15:54:00.000+03:00

“When it turned out that I, an average Joe, was successful in making a device from easily acquired materials that could annihilate millions, I didn’t feel pride in accomplishment. There was a sense of immense sadness and dread and I buried my head in my hands for an eternity.”

“I feel certain that in our lifetime, we will suffer a mass destruction of humanity as a result of such a detonation,” the curious middle-aged amateur tinkerer muttered ominously into the camera.

Those were the last words I recall hearing before drifting off on the couch. I wish I hadn’t heard them. A chill snaked up my fetal-curled spine as I strived to shut out the reverberating thoughts.

It had been a moody time, days drifting listlessly by in the aftermath of the tsunami in SE Asia. “Death toll exceeds that of Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined” the headlines hinted. The names were all too familiar – Sumatra, Phuket, Phi Phi, Kerala - the experience sadly not, digesting it as I was, through the cocoon afforded by a news anchorman and a TV screen. My ex was on a plane just about to arrive in Phuket when the first wave hit. The pilot turned around and landed in Kuala Lumpur instead. She and I had planned to see each other over the holidays. Had I gone, might we have flown out the day before? It might have been that we’d go diving the next day. Instead, we’re both back to our busy distractions on opposite corners of the world. I eased my conscience by uncharacteristically sending off $100 to one of the active disaster relief NGOs.

The real noose of guilt was the absence of real relief from this malaise through the joys of daily life, for example in sunny Santa Monica. What right did I have to be unhappy? Did I secretly want to be there – in Aceh - in the midst of the pandemonium? It felt like 9/11 all over again, when my parents - reversing earlier sentiments - gave thanks to the fact I was in faraway Lusaka, and not asleep in my Chambers Street apartment watching the flaming towers through my bedroom window. Then, while riveted to CNN from the living room of my former classmate’s home, I’d felt a pang of inadequacy. Like I had let my mates down in their time of need. They would have been at our office round the corner from the stock exchange, no doubt dealing with their own panic. And here I was, oceans away trying to see if my building was still standing through the rapidly panning lens of the CNN camera. I should have been there. It was only right. And I wasn’t. And now it happened again. I wanted to be there in part because I might as well not be here. Paradise seemed like it had wasted a precious berth on me.

And now this. Someone I might sit next to on a bus, announcing his success in constructing a nuclear device out of easily obtained materials.

London and Sharm El-Sheikh feel mortally close. This seething heaviness and its attendant influence must subconsciously be one of the more defining forces of our time.

Fragments

2005-08-02T23:57:00.000+03:00

GROUP MEMBER LEADERSHIP

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group name and a collective view of the characteristics that we wanted the group to have. This was done under some time pressure imposed by the staff and thus necessitated an efficient group process. During this process elements of

While you are likely to have your own opinions on each of these subjects, how

out of their way to make sure that you have everything you need.

In the Cape our local guide was Dr Peter Ryan, a young scientist attached to Africa's foremost academic centre for ornithology, the Percy Fitzpa

write even more, setting me up for the temptation to slip two manuscripts into the following week’s pile for more masochism or massage as the case may be.
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The value of property

2005-08-02T22:49:00.000+03:00

A friend who’d years ago graciously apportioned a small section of her basement for the temporary storage of my life’s belongings contacted me recently. Apparently, when I’d finally liberated the space of my boxes, I’d left behind some things – kitchen equipment, old shoes, a cache of jackets. Possessions I’d clearly not missed in the 2 years we’d been apart, excepting the one occasion when I wondered whatever happened to my precious shearling. I asked her to dispose of all items save for the jackets.

I’ve never been a frivolous jacket shopper and items of that magnitude merit considerable weighing of practical and gratifying aspects of ownership before committing. Would seeing each of those “lost jackets” revive those moments of considered thought, the decision to actually follow through on acquiring the item spurred by some aspect of nicety or necessity? Years later would I be grateful of this reunion, to again walk in a long-forgotten comfortable skin once carefully selected as part of my visual makeup to the general public; or burdened by its reappearance, questioning the original choice and onerous spatial accommodation?

Over the last several years, I’ve had occasion to live apart from the bulk of my personal belongings. For periods as long as a year, the sum of personal items within reasonable access ranged from objects that could be contained within a backpack to a small studio apartment. All other possessions of value would be stored somewhere far away, out of sight and more significantly, out of mind. This arrangement seemed to suit me best, unencumbered by physical objects in my immediate vicinity yet anchored by the psychic association to items representing the passage of my life.

Memorabilia – it has always for me been a tense tease between “memory” and “liability”. Without the benefit of memorabilia, we wouldn’t have such ready access to our past. Every glance, whiff or unconscious caress of an old letter, faded photo, creased concert ticket or never-worn trinket is like turning a combination key in the vault of our memory bank, unlocking unexpected images and responses in our minds’ eyes. Surely an easy way to cheat a leg up along the Buddhist path of non-attachment to the past is the jettisoning of memorabilia.

For individuals embarking on a “new life” with a spouse, that watershed moment of transitioning from one’s past to a future likely represents a point in time where the anchor of personal property ties is at its lightest, the old making way for the new. As someone yet to seriously approach such a defining watershed, property represents a tangible record and witness to all I’ve experienced.

Huangshan

2005-08-02T21:28:00.000+03:00

In Huangshan, each morning is holy
Pilgrims awaken amidst a mist
The freshly scented dew
Of anticipation

Collective souls in gentle jostle
some have waited years it seems
Seeking this very vision
Must be mystical

Surveying this peaceful place
endless canvas of heavenly lace
we gaze

Welcoming rugged peaks
in first light - mere meek peeks

Strength gathering with hearts
Quickening

Saffron red
Soul radiate
The buzzing of the haj
10,000 silence
to await a mirage

And anoint their dawn with the golden halo

Ultar

2005-07-30T19:46:00.000+03:00

“Trekers ples not go Ultar without guide” read the neatly painted and very official-looking sign placed about ankle level at a street fork in Karimabad, Pakistan. It was about 10:30am when I calmly strode past it, taking the upper fork towards the village outskirts. I couldn’t wait to leave its realm, charmingly picturesque as it was, for the famed Karakoram solitude beckoning in the shadows of moody Ultar Peak. Ultar, at 24,500 feet, up until a recent successful 1991 conquest, had the dubious honor of being one of the world’s highest unclimbed mountains.

The young Australian couple I had met a few days earlier declined to accompany me on my trek and so I proceeded alone after a quick porridge breakfast, selfishly relieved at the prospect of being able to claim the calm all to myself. Passing the sign reminded me of the guidebook passage describing the trek to the base of Ultar as “strenuous” where a local guide was “useful but not necessary”. Assuming that those guidelines were meant for the “lowest common denominator” trekker, I waived the need for a guide without a moment’s hesitation. The sign I passed only served to reinforce the impression that the local constituency of able guides was becoming increasingly savvy in its approach to securing customers through a combination of fear-inducing tactics and warm approachability.

Generally, I tended to be tight-fisted in soliciting guide services, feeling that they were an artifice that detracted from the sacred “independent experience”. Moreover, the New York Marketing Executive voice-in-my-head kept nagging, “The last thing you want to be is a victim of a smooth pitch.”

I felt even more steadfast in this suspicion when I encountered two returning villagers about ten minutes beyond the village boundary. They expressed surprise that I was going to Ultar with no guide. “Dangerous!” they warned. I calmly responded with my characteristic nonchalance and snapped a few photos of them lofting back-mounted loads of dried grass, 700-year Baltit Fort majestically framed in the distance. Fifteen minutes after parting ways, I was truly on my own.

It was not long before I began noticing the subtle degradation and disappearance of the path. The luxury of being able to stroll ahead unconsciously while taking in the humbling scenery gave way to the necessity of continually maintaining a sense of my surroundings and direction. This got more challenging as I became engulfed by the uniformly stark relief of the gorge-like entrance into Ultar’s foothills. Clues consisted of little more than a faintly visible pebbly scattering that seemed just shy of a random arrangement amidst the finely ground rubble. My upright walking stance also started to angle itself nervously towards the mountain face as the ground underfoot began losing its firmness. I found myself digging my feet deliberately into the crumbly moraine as I paced ahead with an increasingly low centre-of-gravity crouch. Above and below me on the steep slope stood precariously positioned rocks held questionably in place by the pasty stony shrapnel I was constantly agitating with my every tenuous step. And then it happened.

Placing my weight on one of these rocks, I inadvertently dislodged it. A state of mild panic arose as I noticed it plow its way downward, releasing an entropic series of events that included a gentle shower of rubble about a hundred feet below. Before I could marvel at my mini-landslide, several thumb-sized pebbles started bouncing off my leg from above. I gulped palpably and swiftly turned to see if the landslide effect extended upwards, my gaze fixed on the two large boulders some roughly 30 feet up. When all was at equilibrium again, I found I had slipped onto all fours; my knees, elbows and backpack smeared with a gravelly mud.

The indelible mark of mud is a sign of nature’s supremacy. Getting up sheepishly from my first knockdown, I tried brushing off my muddy clothes with my muddy hands. It was apparent that I was going to be spending my evening doing some down-and-dirty hand washing. It was also apparent that I had begun sweating rather profusely.

My altimeter/thermometer watch indicated a comfortable 70 F. Few clouds dotted the sky and I picked myself and my spirits up - thankful at least, that the weather was being cooperative. Tying my muddy jacket around my waist, I proceeded gamely, convincing myself that “This was IT!” That a passage without tribulation is a passage that yields no satisfaction, insight or enlightenment. With that cheery thought in mind, I rounded a bend and confronted a sight that both tantalized and tortured me.

A chill overran my body despite the afternoon warmth as I realized that if I wanted to go any further, I would have to crawl on all fours up the next slope. It was a vast vertical scree of scattered rocks and sharply chiseled stones awash in a sleazy mud. The path by now had completely disintegrated.

One of my first thoughts was whether or not I had made a wrong turn at some point. It seemed incredulous that what lay ahead constituted an “indistinct trail” in the guidebook. What lay ahead was positively off-putting and just a little frightening. I mentally re-traced my steps and remembered that I had indeed previously taken a few forks that led inevitably, after a few short turns, to a non-sequitous precipice - more often than not, accented by a spectacular waterfall a few yards away. That I couldn’t really place the exact location of the telltale water whoosh was testament to the immensity of the echo that enveloped me. It enabled a perception of magnitude but none whatsoever of direction.

I refused to believe that I had made a severely wrong turn as my last distinct route decision felt like ages ago. The top of the scree seemed to belie a ridge-like path. It stood over a hundred treacherously vertical, sickeningly muddy feet away. I visualized the safest route upwards, taking care to skirt the big boulders in the most conservative fashion possible. Three steps into my crawl, I began muttering out loud about my own sanity as I took my first real slide downhill.

Rubble from above tumbled down and overtook me, selected pieces ricocheting chaotically off boulders and bouncing with abandon towards and off an edge about fifty feet down slope. Others rolled sluggishly till the viscosity of the muddy substratum stopped them. Assuming an octopusian position on the slope face, I alternately scrambled, clawed and spread-eagled myself to a halt. In all, I may have slid ten feet, but I feared for every screaming inch of it. I was now desperately crouching on nature’s belly with, you guessed it - mud on my face.

Straining my neck upwards, I sucked in several urgent breaths and plotted my upcoming strategy. Meanwhile, any frivolous move generated more slippage. With what amounted to nothing more than a scrappy intuitive interaction between body and terrain, I found myself successfully breaststroking my way to the target ridge. I didn’t dare speculate about what I would see after surmounting the ridge. Would there be a steep drop on the other side? Would the ridge be absurdly narrow? Would I find myself inexplicably cornered and have to slide back down and retrace my steps to who knows where?

I scrambled back up to my feet and slapped as much earth and dust off before surveying the future. A faint path had re-appeared and with it, my optimism. By this time, my vision had been tuned to the subtlest directional indicators. The slightest hint of an unnatural indentation or pebble placement was enough to give me confidence. And yet, the path would vanish time and time again. Giving way, in most cases, to more body contact with the Karakoram Range and its mealy moraine. This became routine and my anxiety ebbed and gave way to a meditative plod. I became less concerned with losing my way and simply made up the way as it came. My gaze focused aimlessly at the monotonous harsh, Martian relief. Plodplodplod. Surmounting another routine hump, Mars suddenly gave way to a vast meadow of dreamlike quality that brought me to my knees. This time, in utter gratitude & joy.

The incongruous onslaught of greenery almost gave me an asthma attack as I absorbed its beauty with all my being. Sloping gently upwards, it had a putting green texture and was visually peppered with carefully positioned boulders. Low-lying wispy clouds contributed to the overall floaty headiness I was now feeling, a queasy combination of dizzy exhaustion and triumphant relief. Relief because there beyond the cloudy veils stood Ultar - an immense monolith whose upper reaches stayed hidden in a threatening mass of unusually dark frothy cloud.

I could only guess at Ultar’s total size as that was continually confounded by the booming icefall that echoed in this natural amphitheater. Adjacent to Ultar is Bubulimating Mountain, a sheer rock face so steep, it is completely devoid of clinging snow or ice. Legend has it that Princess Bubuli was imprisoned atop it by an evil king, where nightly, she would sing in vain for a rescuer to set her free. I imagined her song in the thickest night, whistling sadly in the mountain wind, like a shrill piccolo to the accompaniment of Ultar’s glacial kettledrums. A gradually perceptible pitter-patter on my windbreaker brought me back to reality as I opened my eyes to an ominous sight.

The gloomy clouds that shrouded Ultar’s peak had during my brief interlude with the Princess completely blanketed the sky. The temperature had also dropped dramatically. A glance at my watch revealed a nippy 50 F. My concern heightened as the slight drizzle that had initially awakened me transformed into a hailstorm. I took shelter in the nearby shepherd’s hut, the landmark signifying the end of the trek. Confident that the temperamental Karakoram weather would do an about-face as inexplicably as it had turned south, I relaxed and tucked into an overdue snack of dried fruit. It had taken me 3 hours to climb 3,000 vertical feet. I was pleased with myself and inhaled a few generous breaths of fresh dewy mountain air. All that remained was for this weather tantrum to pass and I would head back down.

Forty-five minutes later and the only thing that had changed was the state of my nerves. Highly charged at this point on account of the stubborn hailstorm and venting sky, spewing forth an ever-thickening broth of gray soupy cloud. I estimated it would take me maybe half my uphill time to trek downhill, getting me back to Baltit around 4p.m. It was tempting to wait a little longer and try to enjoy the surroundings but my anxiety prevented any natural peace from occurring. I took a few final mist-covered photos, double-checked the plastic coverings in my camera bag, chugged down a few more apricots, adorned my loose wool hat and extra wool shirt and turned to go down. It was 2:30p.m. and I was more than a little concerned at this point. Especially when my hands began feeling numbish and I chided myself for not packing my gloves.
I descended initially at a quick and purposeful pace, trying to ‘make haste while the sun shines’. The ground was slippery but I soon attained a comfortable groove. The following guidebook passage kept dogging my thoughts:

“On the return trip, high water channels look like good trails but they aren’t, because they leave you with some dangerous descents, and may pose a rockfall hazard below.”

It soon became apparent that I was on a distinctly different return trail. Winding passages through garden-like groves of scrawny trees struck an eerily mysterious chord - like I had accidentally crossed into a fairytale setting where the pathways were clear, yet totally unfamiliar. In this deceptively dreamy setting, I was possessed by a deadening calm, like that of a highly alert sleepwalker. The trickling tumble of the meandering stream alongside the path a comforting symbol of life. I just couldn’t get over how I could have missed this obvious trail on the way up; all that scrambling on my belly seemed so silly. Until I found myself suddenly at a dead end, facing a “dangerous descent”.

Ahead was a small leap off the trail onto a narrow one square foot space. I made the jump adequately but not without a little ankle quiver that jolted my senses. If I weren’t careful, this would turn ugly. Thoughts of my recently repaired shoulder surfaced. I was now walking very carefully with my hands tucked into my coat pocket for warmth, pacing like a clumsy toy soldier. The calm from a few minutes ago had frittered away and in its place was a mantra-like chant that went, “No mistakes now, no mistakes”. On and on it went. The next leap was an eight-foot one and when I came face to face with it, I realized I was in for a test the rest of the way back. For I had become quite lost.

I hadn’t encountered any of the wide crumbly slopes down which I had resigned to scrambling on all fours. Instead, I was led down a series of tight and narrow switchbacks strewn with minor rock-climbing episodes. The latter involved several dicey jumps onto landing spots either perilously close to a life-taunting edge or surrounded by waxy pebbles and jagged stone facets. The mantra became all the more urgent as I consciously battled my ever-increasing fatigue.

The opportunity to navigate down some crumbly terrain interspersed with delicately suspended boulders soon presented itself. And yet, its setting didn’t look at all familiar from the upward journey. I stopped often, usually at a jumping-off point, daring myself to speculate that I was heading into an ever-increasingly precarious situation; my hands getting more cold and wrinkly from the drenching moisture; my pants, jacket and even my hat soaking wet with sand and mud; the mantra slowly surrendering to my wavering spirit, darkness setting in - straining my vision and increasing the chances of a tired slip. Each step forward was an effort of deliberate concentration as I tried my best not to be the next rolling stone.

I found that I had subtly changed my inner voice. It now repeatedly uttered, “Today I’m being tested. Can’t afford to fail. Not today. Not this test.” For the rest of the way back, my new mantra went uninterrupted by nary a single sighted soul. The guidebook estimated a return trip of about one hour.

At 5p.m., a solid two-and-a-half hours after I’d begun, I spotted Baltit Fort. Traipsing back into town in the failing light, a local villager with a wizened countenance watched me stumble by and, catching sight of my sorry muddy mess, stepped aside from the path, giving me a wide berth. As I glanced over at him, he stroked his silky white beard, waggled his finger at me knowingly and muttered, “You go Ultar without guide.”

2 months of Cairo

2005-07-29T16:12:00.000+03:00

I arrived exactly 2 months ago. And like most other places I know, Cairo has its bevy of contradictions.

The most noticeable of which is the persona change Cairenes undergo behind the wheel. On the streets, in public transport and elsewhere, I've found Egyptians to be disarmingly gentle and ready with a smile. As drivers, they are flagrantly aggressive and ready with the horn. An alternative outlet for Cairene angst would be a welcome improvement.

Egyptian Arabic also sounds to my untrained ears to run counter to its written form. Arabic is a cursive script, visually mellifluous with a languid loopiness unlike blockier orthogonal Chinese script. Yet, ECA (Egyptian Colloquial Arabic) is spoken by its native speakers in much the same way as they drive. Cutting each other off, in each other's faces, high decibel. And I'm told this is normal. Oh to be a fly on the wall during whispered "Ba He Bek Kithir"s.......

My apartment is a contradiction. Prime Zamalek location, 10th floor view, fancy French restaurant & chic deli downstairs, with a rare pub next door to boot. Inside, an overstock of comfortably old-fashioned furniture adorning the 2 living rooms and 2 bedrooms. It even has a LAN though it took me 4 days of troubleshooting to get it working. Evidence of this being a waystation for like-minded nomads abounds. Left-behind paperbacks in Russian, Italian, German, French, English, Greek and Spanish abound, 4 volumes of "Teach Yourself Arabic" (along with notebooks hinting at early-aborted learning attempts), multiple Lonely Planets (Bahrain, Cyprus etc.) and loads of voltage transformers. There are Rolex and Patek-Philippe catalogs and a selection of foreign policy academic journals. The most noticeable thing though is the dust.

Cairo is a dusty city and it all comes into the apartment and settles into the nooks of the barely functioning furnishings. Toilet seat that doesn't stay up, insect screens that brittle away when touched, electrical tape holding all wiring together, 2-legged teetering mahogany dining table. One out of every four items I touch suffers subsequent damage. Once every fifteen minutes, I wash my hands off the newly accumulated dust.

I have been commuting about an hour daily to and from work in Maadi. A walk, then a bus, the metro, another bus, followed by a final walk. I've taken to wearing my Foakleys everyday to avoid countenancing the ubiquitous stares. Random conversations with Chinese language instructors (Egyptians) and apologists on behalf of blatant oglers spice up the daily ride. I've also gotten reasonably adept at embarking and alighting packed moving buses. Maybe one day I'll let my hair down and ride in the car reserved for women.

It has been difficult on the social scene. Invariably I meet people in pubs and have an enjoyable time though they're not people with whom I'd regularly hang. The "friends" I've met are very cool folk but again, not a regular crowd. This is mildly perturbing but not overwhelmingly so, being reminiscent of my general lifestyle elsewhere in other locales.

Progress in my attempt to launch a new condom brand here is rife with contradictions too. Provocative imagery is everywhere, from racy music videos to Viagra ads. Oh - so it's only on satellite TV but that penetrates over half the households anyway. People are not exactly against the concept (i.e., they're not "contra-ceptive", get it?), but mention a mass media condom ad and all the red flags appear, with a healthy tangle of red tape attached to them.

10 days of silence

2005-07-28T13:03:00.000+03:00

10 days of silent meditation. No contact with the outside world. No communication of any sort within the meditation center, including hand gestures or eye contact. No reading or writing. Certainly no alcohol or cigarettes. The latter made me pause briefly given that I’d be coming off several days of continuous body abuse and sensory overload in the form of a Ko Phang An full moon party. No matter – a few days after leaving Thailand, my best friend and his Myanmar cohorts in the beer business bade me peace as a send-off to this inner retreat.

“Peace I shall have, if nothing else!” I joked. The locals laughed a little too exuberantly for my comfort.

Clothed in a T-shirt and pair of loose pants, I walked 15 minutes through the bustle of Yangon before veering into a quiet lane. There were no foreigners on foot in this part of Yangon, and only white-collar workers commonly donned pants. I’d packed a longgyi together with basic toiletries, a towel, a plastic bottle for water refills, insect repellant and some medicines. This would be all I needed for 10 days.

“Noble silence will begin once we enter into this evening’s meditation,” a young assistant translated in English for the handful of us non-Burmese speakers. “After that, you will only be able to speak to your teacher and only during lesson. The only exception to that is if you have a problem, such as a medical emergency or accommodation issue. So before we begin the meditation tonight, please approach me with any questions you might have.” It turned out the young translator was a Singaporean who dabbled in a small IT business and discovered Goenka’s teachings and schools. Since then, he’d committed himself to volunteering at the center whenever he could. He looked barely 20 years old.

We stood in the small courtyard outside the main meditation hall, awaiting our names to be called and filing into the hall in order. We were shown to our individual sitting spot, to remain unchanged throughout our stay here. There were roughly 7 rows of 7 men, and an equal number of women segregated in the other half of the hall. The more experienced “sitters” were assembled closer to the teacher. Even though it was my first time, I had a position near the head of the first-timers by virtue of my foreign status. I looked around and tried to mimic the postures of my fellow meditators. There was no overt instruction here.

Goenka’s Pali and Sanskrit chants echoed through the hall’s PA system. Meditation guidance in English was supplied by him. A lady’s voice followed with the Myanmar translation. The focus tonight would be on breathing. Easy effortless breathing through the nose, while sitting straight and relaxed with eyes closed. In and out. In and out. To be aware of the passage of air through the nostrils and the sensations it conjured. This first sitting was a mere half hour though it seemed quite a bit longer than that. That the end of the 30 minutes was over was signaled by a characteristic drone-like chant that began coming over the speakers, easing aside the interminable silence in the air and the turmoil in the mind. This chant would end up being the most savored sound over the course of the next 10 days, no matter how incessantly the concept of “Anitcha” - where all sensations, pleasant or otherwise, are impermanent and do not warrant any attachment whatsoever - was invoked.

One of the easier adjustments turned out to be the 4am daily wake-up gong. Like the chant that signaled the end of our sittings, the gong that started each day wooed us gently into being over the course of several minutes, each strike resonating more urgently till we were all silently pacing round the courtyard in the dark,limbering up before the 2-hour sitting that started each morning. All told, each day involved 10-11 hours of sitting meditation, 1-2 hours of instructional discourse, 3-4 hours for meal breaks and a 1-hour rest period after lunch. Despite the relative physical inactivity of this retreat, I relished the midday shut-eye as a chance to take my mind off my mind.

Like everything about the center, meals were simple and adequate. As the only time in my life where I’ve had 10 consecutive days of bland vegetarian food, meals became an element of necessity and nutrition rather than a focal point of enjoyment. Eating in cocooned silence compelled me to focus on every mouthful and every chew, acknowledging the cycle of life and recognizing our reliance on the sustenance granted by each act of swallowing. The simplicity of our environment coupled with the rigor of our concentration made for a heightening awareness of our surroundings. One of the basic precepts (“Sheela”) we had to follow was “abstention from killing”. As the center was swarming with ants, mosquitos and other insects, constant vigilance was required in making sure each footstep avoided stepping on an ant. I was mortified when round about my seventh day, in trying to shoo an errant mosquito out from beneath my netting, I inadvertently killed it. This act plagued my meditative concentration for several sittings.

Another incident that pierced my bubble of isolation was the only infraction of noble silence that I experienced over the 10 days. I had been experimenting with slight changes in sitting postures as well as floor cushion arrangements in an effort to keep the inevitable lower back pain at bay. Having noticed out of the corner of my eye an interesting cushion folding technique employed by my neighbor, I attempted to imitate likewise. To my surprise, he inched over and in verbal silence but obvious disregard for the no-communication rule, indicated to me how the cushion fold was performed. I was confused, frustrated, grateful and speechless all at once. Before I was able to resolve these internal conflicts, an eagle-eyed assistant, noticing the momentary interaction, hastened over and asked if there was a problem and reminded us that such exchanges were impermissible. I shrunk away slightly shaken at the unexpected perturbation and like the mosquito incident, this disturbance manifested itself in subsequent sittings.

Though we couldn’t express our appreciation of them, moments of humor abounded as well within the walls of the center. For me personally, it was the observation of other Burmese though I shudder to think what I might have been doing with regularity that made for symmetrical examination in this silent petri dish. For one, Burmese men, like Indians, are exuberant with the discharge of their nasal and throat irritations. Some of them also burp like dolphins calling out to each other. The first time I heard this, I was walking along a dark corridor, alone save for this one Burmese. I thought it was a bullfrog calling from the nearby swampy pond, in which many locals living along its shoreline bathed and laundered their longgyis. The second time I was sitting under a tree in the courtyard, watching my co-meditators in pensive perambulation when the deep plaintive belch sounded again. This time I saw that it emanated from one of the walking men and the realization that it wasn’t a swamp thing almost made me hack and cackle in spontaneous delight. Then I saw a second man make the same melodius sonic saw. And no one around me seemed alarmed – it was as routine as a buzzing mozzie. And then there were the peacocks.

Though it might seem that we spent endless hours in meditation (we did!), there was also much time in open-eyed wakefulness that was spent idling. Most of us only utilized half our meal breaks actually eating and the rest of it was spent pacing or sitting in the courtyard, our eyes eager to latch onto anything that broke the monotony of the simple setting. The peacocks could be relied upon to fulfill that objective time and time again. There were two of them and they would walk around the center, pecking at dead leaves or ground grub. Occasionally they would fly up one of the two large sprawling trees in the courtyard and prance around from branch to branch, each trying to outdo the other in terms of perch altitude. They however weren’t very sure-footed on the higher and flimsier twigs and would inevitably misstep and tumble – their plumage flapping away wildly in defiance of gravity and creating a crackling ruckus of falling foliage and bemused Burmese. We all laughed at the peacocks and there was a slight dissatisfaction at having to resist sharing the mirth in unison, beyond the confines of noble silence.

When people ask me what “noble silence” was like – I always liken it to salt. It was one of the singular ingredients key to the whole experience , but like salt, was such a fundamental component that I hardly noticed its presence after a while. Having no outlet for my thoughts and receiving no input from others, I was left to cogitate in solitary perpetuity. Thoughts of all kinds would from nothing germinate and ruminate and assimilate back into nothing again. And again. I would with some success set them aside for most of my sitting time but they would always resurface. And the strange thing was, it typically involved others – other people, other places, other times – all except where I was at the moment. Just internalizing that with all its clarity set things on a different tack. I developed a new sense of work – that for the enhancement of others – outside the realm of self-gratification that I never previously conceptualized. I resolved at a simplistic level the duality of determination and unattachment.

3am on my final night, I was a restless insomniac and I couldn’t figure out why. The anxiety in advance of the retreat was a thing of the past and I was pleased at having learnt a new meditation technique. I tossed and turned in a heady sweat and decided ultimately to sit in meditation. Within minutes, I sensed this was going to be unlike any sitting I’d had before. Thoughts came rapidly but despite that, I was able to concentrate simultaneously on the technique taught me over the past 10 days. My whole body tingled in a fit of sensation awareness as centers of focused light and heat pulsed first from my head and then down towards my solar plexus. These were accompanied by unexpected jolts of lightning searing through my lower back, all the while my inexorable stream of thoughts swam by. These were thoughts of sheer sadness and hopelessness, both for myself and the human condition. As I continued to concentrate on applying the technique, I found myself crying uncontrollably amidst waves of pleasant sensations flowing through my body. The tears from my thoughts and the sensations from my meditation.

When I emerged from my hour-long sitting, I was sufficiently confused. Was this how meditation was supposed to ease suffering? By masking pain in distracting waves of pleasure? I began formulating a careful question for the teacher on our last day together.

Noble silence was lifted mid-morning of the penultimate day at the center. We were given a full evening to get acquainted conversationally with our silent partners over the past 10 days – an easing back into urban Yangon rife with stimuli. On the last morning of my stay at the center, I went looking for our teacher. He was busy involved in a major clean-up effort, directing workers about and climbing up tall ladders himself to sweep the rafters. I asked him if he might entertain a question and he kindly obliged. We went aside to a quiet corner and he sat me down.

I told him how I’d woken up in the middle of the night, my mind busy with thoughts and keeping my body tense and a restful night at bay. I told him over the course of several minutes about the meditation I’d had, the sad thoughts and the pleasant sensations, the painful jolts, everything. When I finished, I made a quick mental scan lest I forgot an important detail – and eagerly awaited his answer. He looked at me for an instant, then set his gaze downwards with a smile, as if to acknowledge a sense of déjà vu.

“Anitcha,” he said. “Remember only Anitcha.”

I knew immediately, of course.

“All this is impermanent. Your thoughts. Your sensations. Sad thoughts, tingling sensations. Do not become attached to them. Only remember to concentrate, stay aware and of course,……..Anitcha!”

I packed my things together, left my donation at the front desk and walked home – the dusty afternoon breeze wafting through my longgyi.

Going to Ibiza

2005-07-27T07:24:00.000+03:00

I guess going from Siwa to Ibiza is a variation of going from a 10-day silent Vipassana meditation to a Ko Phang-An Full Moon Party. Everything in moderation - though as it were, I bracketed the Vipassana retreat with 2 FMPs. As a religious partyer though, this trip to Ibiza will be like doing a hajj to Mecca. Or should I save that analogy for Carnaval?

This likely will be the most costly pilgrimage I've taken. Take water for example. Knowing that I'll be downing a lot of water, whether in the clubs or out under the august sun, I find out that tap water is not an option. In the clubs, water is 8 Euros a bottle. Yeah. Furthermore, the DJ lineup during my stay leaves little room for downtime outside the dance floor. Here's what an Ibiza forum had to say about my scheduling dilemma. I think if I'm lucky and the magnetic strip on my Visa wears thin and malfunctions, I can keep it under $4,000 for the whole 10 days, all in. On my "normal" run rate, that would last me 4 months.

Siwa

2005-07-23T22:09:00.000+03:00

Siwa was full of sand and salt. So much salt going swimming was more like a glazing. So much sand they called it a sea. And seaworthy is Siwa. "Come to the palm-lined oasis of Siwa & escape to a paradise of sun, sand and sea. But don't bother bringing a date, they're everywhere!"

Siwa seared. The hot breeze only ceding way around midnight. The glare of the full moon casting a cinematic sheen over the still vast sturdy canyon bluffs set into the carpet of soft desert dust. On an elevated carpet, I sat for a while. It was difficult to focus away from the distraction of the setting.

Against this setting was the backdrop of the crew I found myself with. A quad of raucous wry and wacky Greeks, a trio of unpredictable and entertaining Americans, and a host of other able participants in general desert folly. Folly which included the recurring misplaced Rayban, the Siwan trying to steal bikini bottom pinches, the Serbian calisthenic routine, dune downhilling and rousing debates on evolution and gay pride. At the very core, it comforted me to intuit that beneath the divergent conceptions could always be found the substrata of common understanding.

Came back to unexpected emails inquiring into my health as unbeknownst to us, Sharm suffered Egypt's worst terror hit yet.

Jingar

2005-07-09T01:33:00.000+03:00

jingar uma moda de vida eh
guarantido trazer uma alma leve
quando mexendo com a musica
nao sei o que outro dia dera
so uma opportunidade jingar

Peace

2005-07-08T07:00:00.000+03:00

This was started while staring at a Chinese "Peace" calligraphy in my new old Cairo apartment, in between stretches of my right shoulder joint and puffs on my left over joint.