....has violence looked so good on screen.
Justice make a departure from the pop world. There's something about French film making and raw, brutal and urgent images that somehow possess a kind of harrowing beauty.
By Director Romain Gavras
High Quality Quicktime here
Friday, August 1, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Homecoming Prince (of Darkness)
So it's official, after almost seven years existing in foreign climbs on the other end of the world, I have decided to head back to that Great Southern Land I call home (well...for twelve months at least anyway). I was going to celebrate with Banjo Paterson's Man From Snowy River, but that's pushing the cheese barrier (even for me) - so instead I decided to go with another Aussie with a thinning crop who has also been away from home for too long.
Nick Cave is one of those rare musicians whose talent and credibility somehow gathers more momentum as he gets older. He is constantly experimenting and his narrative style of embedding terrible tales within his music snares me in every time. He has a new album out - Dig, Lazarus, Dig - and if this title track and video is anything to go by, the man and his writing are still holding form.
Nick Cave is one of those rare musicians whose talent and credibility somehow gathers more momentum as he gets older. He is constantly experimenting and his narrative style of embedding terrible tales within his music snares me in every time. He has a new album out - Dig, Lazarus, Dig - and if this title track and video is anything to go by, the man and his writing are still holding form.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Jaisalmer breakfast
We're in the far west corner of Rajasthan not far from the Pakistani border in a fort town called Jaisalmer. The 12th century fort rises out of the desert plains like a massive Bondi Beach sand castle, replete with 99 crumbling sand bucket bastions. A quarter of the towns people live within the fort walls and the ten year old in me wanted to stay within them as well, so we paid through the teeth to stay in a 500 year old haveli with a room that was more a film set from Arabian Nights. It looked over the ancient Jain temple next door and out on to where desert plains meet the sky.
We thought we'd be sweltering, but it's winter here and outside high noon it gets cold. Real cold. We've invested in blankets, thermal underwear, gloves and cultivated a rum and hot chocolate addiction just to keep warm. From 11am to 3pm Cheryl and I can be found on the rooftop of our haveli reading books and soaking up rays for the cold night ahead as if we're solar cells.
Yesterday we decided we'd brave the elements and book in to a camel safari through the desert just south of here in Khuri for a few days. We met our guide out the front of the fort. Dressed shoulder to toe in white with a multicoloured turban and turned up shoes, he would have looked like a postcard Rajput if it wasn't for the bad brown leather jacket he'd donned to keep the morning chill at bay that matched the colour of his betel stained teeth. We discussed our trip over a cup of chai, where he also told us his life story. Chatting with Indian alpha males is like chatting with coke heads. Some are interesting, some are boring and (apart from some cursory questions about yourself to not come across as rude) they will largely talk about themselves and any contributions by yourself will be ignored unless they add colour to the wonderful picture they are painting. Baba Singh, was a character though, "not rich and not poor" by his own definition, he'd led a good life and had the hearty laugh to prove it. He said he'd pick us up in his jeep after he'd been to the doctor. He's been coming to the doctor here in Jaisalmer every day for a week after bull rammed him in the desert and gave him a nasty puncture wound to the stomach. We shook hands and agreed to meet in the morning - after three months here we've become complacent with the ridiculous.
We then headed back up in to the fort to track down the Vyas Meal Service - a ma and pa operation that apparently do great breakfasts of Paratha (a roti like flat bread) with apple curd and honey. After eventually stumbling across it in the maze of narrow alleys, we walked up stairs to find a bent over old woman and her daughter sweeping up what can only be described as a living room. It was as dark as night and contained a small gas stove, a Pepsi fridge and a table with four chairs. After some enquiries in basic English, we confirmed that we had actually come to the right place. She bade us to sit down and hobbled over with a menu and a pad and pen and asked us to write our order down. We gave her the pad with our written down order and with a beaming toothless smile asked if we could read it to her as she didn't read English (after three months here we've become complacent with things not making sense). Cheryl patiently read the order to her and we sat back in the candle lit darkness to await our meal. We felt guilty having this poor old woman wait on us so we insisted we'd carry everything over to the table, leaving her on the floor with the gas stove making chai and curd.
When she finally called to us in Hindi that it was ready, we sat down to our most basic yet best breakfast yet. In the cold of the desert morning in an ancient fort, we warmed ourselves up with her spicy chai and piping hot paratha with which we scooped up the rich goodness of apple curd with honey - eating every morsel. We thanked her profusely and left her a massive tip that she would not have known about as we had to add up our own bill (another example of the incredible trust and hospitality we've encountered across India). Warmed to the bone, we flung our rugs back on and headed out to the wine shop to stock up on rum for tomorrow's camel safari. Maybe its the Australian in me, but even after six years in Europe I'm still a big girl's blouse when it comes to the cold.
We thought we'd be sweltering, but it's winter here and outside high noon it gets cold. Real cold. We've invested in blankets, thermal underwear, gloves and cultivated a rum and hot chocolate addiction just to keep warm. From 11am to 3pm Cheryl and I can be found on the rooftop of our haveli reading books and soaking up rays for the cold night ahead as if we're solar cells.
Yesterday we decided we'd brave the elements and book in to a camel safari through the desert just south of here in Khuri for a few days. We met our guide out the front of the fort. Dressed shoulder to toe in white with a multicoloured turban and turned up shoes, he would have looked like a postcard Rajput if it wasn't for the bad brown leather jacket he'd donned to keep the morning chill at bay that matched the colour of his betel stained teeth. We discussed our trip over a cup of chai, where he also told us his life story. Chatting with Indian alpha males is like chatting with coke heads. Some are interesting, some are boring and (apart from some cursory questions about yourself to not come across as rude) they will largely talk about themselves and any contributions by yourself will be ignored unless they add colour to the wonderful picture they are painting. Baba Singh, was a character though, "not rich and not poor" by his own definition, he'd led a good life and had the hearty laugh to prove it. He said he'd pick us up in his jeep after he'd been to the doctor. He's been coming to the doctor here in Jaisalmer every day for a week after bull rammed him in the desert and gave him a nasty puncture wound to the stomach. We shook hands and agreed to meet in the morning - after three months here we've become complacent with the ridiculous.
We then headed back up in to the fort to track down the Vyas Meal Service - a ma and pa operation that apparently do great breakfasts of Paratha (a roti like flat bread) with apple curd and honey. After eventually stumbling across it in the maze of narrow alleys, we walked up stairs to find a bent over old woman and her daughter sweeping up what can only be described as a living room. It was as dark as night and contained a small gas stove, a Pepsi fridge and a table with four chairs. After some enquiries in basic English, we confirmed that we had actually come to the right place. She bade us to sit down and hobbled over with a menu and a pad and pen and asked us to write our order down. We gave her the pad with our written down order and with a beaming toothless smile asked if we could read it to her as she didn't read English (after three months here we've become complacent with things not making sense). Cheryl patiently read the order to her and we sat back in the candle lit darkness to await our meal. We felt guilty having this poor old woman wait on us so we insisted we'd carry everything over to the table, leaving her on the floor with the gas stove making chai and curd.
When she finally called to us in Hindi that it was ready, we sat down to our most basic yet best breakfast yet. In the cold of the desert morning in an ancient fort, we warmed ourselves up with her spicy chai and piping hot paratha with which we scooped up the rich goodness of apple curd with honey - eating every morsel. We thanked her profusely and left her a massive tip that she would not have known about as we had to add up our own bill (another example of the incredible trust and hospitality we've encountered across India). Warmed to the bone, we flung our rugs back on and headed out to the wine shop to stock up on rum for tomorrow's camel safari. Maybe its the Australian in me, but even after six years in Europe I'm still a big girl's blouse when it comes to the cold.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Varanasi
Was it standing on the banks of Marnikarnika Ghat, where the worker explained that it took three hours and 120kg of wood for a human body to burn completely? Or him mentioning that the three apartment blocks behind us were full of people waiting to die and be burnt right there, the smoke and stench of the funeral pyres filling their nostrils just as it did ours? One of the Doms (outcasts that handle the bodies) stoked the fire just metres in front of us and a head and torso jumped out of the flames, its skull staring at us through eye sockets, hollow and bubbling and black. Just behind, another Dom bends two legs back until they break and fall in to the fire, a fire that was lit by Shiva two and a half thousand years ago and has been burning ever since.
Maybe it was seeing the faithful bathe, brush their teeth and do their washing in water that is septic. No oxygen exists, just 1.5 million fecal coliform bacteria per 100ml of water (anything over 500 is considered unsafe for bathing). Dead bodies, excrement, anything of the physical realm cannot possibly harm them when they believe the water is so pure, so holy.
It could also have been the morning chai with the sadhus, street kids and the homeless out the front of our hotel. All of us feeding twelve puppies - smiling and laughing at the simple joy these little furry creatures brought to all of us.
Then there is the light and the way it plays upon the river, the mist, the buildings and your retinas so you're certain that if everything in the place was obliterated tomorrow, it would somehow still be holy.
It could also be the constant array of prayer, puja and ritual that surrounds you, so that in any given place at any given time you are sure to be faced with something bizarre and baffling happening before you.
I think seeing a family stand in solemn silence over their just departed Grandmother (whom they had taken down to the auspicious river for her last moments), draping her Sari over her face had a lot to do with it.
Along with winding our way up the old town, sharing the Galis (narrow walkways framed by decaying buildings and hole-in-the-wall shops) with a constant stream of pressing bodies, motorbikes, hobbled donkeys, road-blocking buffaloes, mad charging cows (that send people flailing out of the way) and a bull that rammed me from behind as I chatted with a local. The actual streets provide little respite, sharing these with striking boatmen shouting slogans with rifles casually slung over their shoulders, haggling touts and rickshaw drivers and a travelling procession of wound up Muslim boys brandishing swords and mock fighting with bamboo poles.
Framing all of this chaos is the tranquil flow of the Great Mother Ganges. Rendered even more serene by the boatmen's strike, it takes on the persona of a wise and graceful old matriarch lovingly tolerating the antics of her beloved children.
It could have been any one of these that left me reeling in bed with a pounding heart, a racing mind and restless sleep - but it was most likely the sum of the whole. Varanasi, Benares, is India distilled into 2km of river bank. It is where life and death co-exist brazenly along side one another and out in the open for all comers to see. It is also where you'll be enthralled, captivated and confounded by a culture you'll never really come to understand.
Maybe it was seeing the faithful bathe, brush their teeth and do their washing in water that is septic. No oxygen exists, just 1.5 million fecal coliform bacteria per 100ml of water (anything over 500 is considered unsafe for bathing). Dead bodies, excrement, anything of the physical realm cannot possibly harm them when they believe the water is so pure, so holy.
It could also have been the morning chai with the sadhus, street kids and the homeless out the front of our hotel. All of us feeding twelve puppies - smiling and laughing at the simple joy these little furry creatures brought to all of us.
Then there is the light and the way it plays upon the river, the mist, the buildings and your retinas so you're certain that if everything in the place was obliterated tomorrow, it would somehow still be holy.
It could also be the constant array of prayer, puja and ritual that surrounds you, so that in any given place at any given time you are sure to be faced with something bizarre and baffling happening before you.
I think seeing a family stand in solemn silence over their just departed Grandmother (whom they had taken down to the auspicious river for her last moments), draping her Sari over her face had a lot to do with it.
Along with winding our way up the old town, sharing the Galis (narrow walkways framed by decaying buildings and hole-in-the-wall shops) with a constant stream of pressing bodies, motorbikes, hobbled donkeys, road-blocking buffaloes, mad charging cows (that send people flailing out of the way) and a bull that rammed me from behind as I chatted with a local. The actual streets provide little respite, sharing these with striking boatmen shouting slogans with rifles casually slung over their shoulders, haggling touts and rickshaw drivers and a travelling procession of wound up Muslim boys brandishing swords and mock fighting with bamboo poles.
Framing all of this chaos is the tranquil flow of the Great Mother Ganges. Rendered even more serene by the boatmen's strike, it takes on the persona of a wise and graceful old matriarch lovingly tolerating the antics of her beloved children.
It could have been any one of these that left me reeling in bed with a pounding heart, a racing mind and restless sleep - but it was most likely the sum of the whole. Varanasi, Benares, is India distilled into 2km of river bank. It is where life and death co-exist brazenly along side one another and out in the open for all comers to see. It is also where you'll be enthralled, captivated and confounded by a culture you'll never really come to understand.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Lather me up
Facial hair. I have too much of it. From the top of my cheekbones to the base of my Adam’s apple - it’s solid beard. Whisker to whisker it never lets up, with some follicles sprouting two, three, even four whiskers. I shave in the morning and by evening there’s a shadow any spaghetti western bad guy could light a match off.
I’ve experimented with growing it – mutton chop sideburns, goatees, Bollywood moustaches – with varying comedic results. People say “that looks great” modulated by chuckles as they say it, as though they’re commenting on a fancy dress outfit. I grew a beard once. That didn’t work either. I was told I looked like I was homeless or a terrorist. Or was it a homeless terrorist? The kindest taunt was courtesy of the inimitable Guy Champney “Matty K, you look like the New York based financier for Al Qaeda, the respectable face of terrorism.” And the look I was going for was ‘sea faring philosopher’. With the reality way off the mark from my perception (and a persistent campaign from Cheryl stating that kissing me was like kissing a ball of steel wool), I eventually shaved it off. Fact is (as cruel as it may be), with all of this facial hair at my disposal, growing it simply isn’t an option.
So I revert back to the standard procedure of shave it, let it grow until itchy, then shave again. I can’t shave daily as it kills the skin on my neck. Well that’s my excuse anyway. With a beard like mine shaving is a hassle and it’s painful. Even though I invest in the latest shaving technology (currently Gillette Fusion), the blades grate and tug against those iron filing whiskers and makes for quite an unpleasant experience.
The only time I can be at peace with my beard, is when I’m traveling in the third world – where a proper barber’s shave is always cheap and readily available. This relic of by-gone era is alive and well in the developing world. And with a beard like mine the shaving experience and final result are both heaven sent.
Here in India the barber shop is a hub of social activity, with all the blokes seemingly queuing up for a turn at the seat, but actually just hanging around for a chat. Whenever a foreigner stops by it creates a stir and people get up and out of the way to ensure a clear path to the hallowed chair. For a shaver of the Gillette Mach 3 kind – it’s still slightly nerve wracking to have a shirtless Indian man dressed in only a Lunghi wield a cut-throat razor across my bare and vulnerable neck. I allay these irrational fears and relax into it as he softens the skin with a hot wet towel and lathers me up, using the brush to apply layers of foam at differing consistencies. He poises with the blade like a conductor with his baton before making one large sweep with the blade from my sideburn all the way to the bottom of my neck, cutting through that week old dense forest as though he’s sweeping lint from a linoleum floor. He’s considerate enough to stop what he is doing as he gloms a good look of the two girls walking by his shop, or when India takes another wicket against Pakistan, only resuming once he has regained total concentration. He meticulously sweeps my face clean, wiping the blade after each stroke on to a torn piece of newspaper, then lathers my face again for another round, repeating the process to clear any errant patches. He wipes my face clean, before applying pure alcohol (the sting strangely satisfying), then a dab of old spice after shave, then some multi- vitamin face cream and finally some talc. He finishes off with an Indian head, neck and shoulder massage.
It is impossible to find a closer shave (regardless of what Gillette and Phillips will tell you). Even with my beard I can’t detect any stubble running my finger against the grain. It’s also the only truly masculine way for a bloke to be pampered by another bloke. The tenderness with which they move your head around, massage it and apply the creams and lotions doesn’t jar in the slightest when you’re in a barbers chair surrounded by other guys reading the sports pages and listening to the cricket. And all this for the ridiculous cost of 40 Euro Cents. In India the impossible happens to you everyday, I just never thought it could include me enjoying a shave.
I’ve experimented with growing it – mutton chop sideburns, goatees, Bollywood moustaches – with varying comedic results. People say “that looks great” modulated by chuckles as they say it, as though they’re commenting on a fancy dress outfit. I grew a beard once. That didn’t work either. I was told I looked like I was homeless or a terrorist. Or was it a homeless terrorist? The kindest taunt was courtesy of the inimitable Guy Champney “Matty K, you look like the New York based financier for Al Qaeda, the respectable face of terrorism.” And the look I was going for was ‘sea faring philosopher’. With the reality way off the mark from my perception (and a persistent campaign from Cheryl stating that kissing me was like kissing a ball of steel wool), I eventually shaved it off. Fact is (as cruel as it may be), with all of this facial hair at my disposal, growing it simply isn’t an option.
So I revert back to the standard procedure of shave it, let it grow until itchy, then shave again. I can’t shave daily as it kills the skin on my neck. Well that’s my excuse anyway. With a beard like mine shaving is a hassle and it’s painful. Even though I invest in the latest shaving technology (currently Gillette Fusion), the blades grate and tug against those iron filing whiskers and makes for quite an unpleasant experience.
The only time I can be at peace with my beard, is when I’m traveling in the third world – where a proper barber’s shave is always cheap and readily available. This relic of by-gone era is alive and well in the developing world. And with a beard like mine the shaving experience and final result are both heaven sent.
Here in India the barber shop is a hub of social activity, with all the blokes seemingly queuing up for a turn at the seat, but actually just hanging around for a chat. Whenever a foreigner stops by it creates a stir and people get up and out of the way to ensure a clear path to the hallowed chair. For a shaver of the Gillette Mach 3 kind – it’s still slightly nerve wracking to have a shirtless Indian man dressed in only a Lunghi wield a cut-throat razor across my bare and vulnerable neck. I allay these irrational fears and relax into it as he softens the skin with a hot wet towel and lathers me up, using the brush to apply layers of foam at differing consistencies. He poises with the blade like a conductor with his baton before making one large sweep with the blade from my sideburn all the way to the bottom of my neck, cutting through that week old dense forest as though he’s sweeping lint from a linoleum floor. He’s considerate enough to stop what he is doing as he gloms a good look of the two girls walking by his shop, or when India takes another wicket against Pakistan, only resuming once he has regained total concentration. He meticulously sweeps my face clean, wiping the blade after each stroke on to a torn piece of newspaper, then lathers my face again for another round, repeating the process to clear any errant patches. He wipes my face clean, before applying pure alcohol (the sting strangely satisfying), then a dab of old spice after shave, then some multi- vitamin face cream and finally some talc. He finishes off with an Indian head, neck and shoulder massage.
It is impossible to find a closer shave (regardless of what Gillette and Phillips will tell you). Even with my beard I can’t detect any stubble running my finger against the grain. It’s also the only truly masculine way for a bloke to be pampered by another bloke. The tenderness with which they move your head around, massage it and apply the creams and lotions doesn’t jar in the slightest when you’re in a barbers chair surrounded by other guys reading the sports pages and listening to the cricket. And all this for the ridiculous cost of 40 Euro Cents. In India the impossible happens to you everyday, I just never thought it could include me enjoying a shave.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Reading Naked Lunch in the depths of India can skew your perspective
Serenaded by a classical Carnatic trio in the Old Portuguese Courtyard in Kochi. Cheryl framed by a great decaying wall - black with mold and perforated at its base by mood-lit alcoves thick with moss of ectoplasm green...One of which on her right doubles as a pen for a bronze four-headed elephant. The humid air breathes musty as we inhale our forbidden meals of Spanish Beef and Baked Mussels, all washed down with a strange concoction of buttermilk, ginger, honey, curry leaves and onions sucked through alabaster straws.
We are flanked by odd refugees from foreign climes. To our right are an incestuous father/daughter twosome furtively reading Aztec adventure comics to each other in French. While to our left sit three fugitive Burmese monks disguised as Japanese tourists.
We make our excuses and slip past the scowling lesbian Maitre'd unnoticed.
We are flanked by odd refugees from foreign climes. To our right are an incestuous father/daughter twosome furtively reading Aztec adventure comics to each other in French. While to our left sit three fugitive Burmese monks disguised as Japanese tourists.
We make our excuses and slip past the scowling lesbian Maitre'd unnoticed.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Wildlife
We've been in Munnar in Kerala's Western Ghats these last few days. A bucolic idyll and home to the world's highest tea plantations, it's been a more than welcome welcome break from the oppressive heat and chaos of the coast. We'd been living pretty cheap of late and decided we'd splash out on a one day tour of the local area with our own private driver - getting the local knowledge on our surrounds.
We started first thing in the morning - taking in tea factories, cardamom, pepper, sandle wood and tea plantations, waterfalls and breathtaking scenery. Beautiful, but pretty standard stuff for these parts. After lunch our driver dropped us off to commence our 5 hour trek in the Chinnar Wildlife Sanctuary.
Maybe it's my Aussie upbringing, but the term 'Wildlife Sanctuary' conjures images of migrating water birds and a few furry creatures scampering about the place if you're lucky. And if there are any dangerous creatures present, measures are taken to keep any visitors out of harms way. So I thought nothing of signing the declaration they handed me. It mentioned stuff about trekking being 'highly' dangerous and that while 'all care is taken', they won't be liable for any accident occasioning death or injury. Pretty standard cover your arse stuff.
It slipped my mind that we were in India. It slipped my mind that the owner of the farmhouse we were staying in insists we only take auto rickshaws home after 7:30 and not walk back through the surrounding tea plantations as wild animals some times creep in during the night (for 'wild animals' read: tigers, elephants, panthers, leopards and boars). Maybe it's the genteel surroundings - a strange cross between Australian Tablelands, South Coast England and the Swiss Alps - that never allows this threat to really sink in.
Anyway, our driver secured our tracker and guide and introduced us, he was a young local guy from an indigenous tribe that (among others) had been entrusted as caretakers of the land. He smelled of last night's campfire on a dewy morning and looked more like a Koori (an Australian Aboriginal) than Indian. As the four of us (tracker, driver, Cheryl and myself) commenced our trek, it became more apparent just how much he had in common with the Koori trackers. At one with his land, his movements and sensory perceptions took on animal-like characteristics and sensitivity. He had this piercing gaze that seemed to scan his whole field of vision with hunter precision, his ears twitch at the slightest sound and our driver mentioned he could smell animals from across the valley.
We begin to track some elephants - which is not so hard given they leave behind great steaming piles of shit and knock over any trees that may be in the way - when a sound stops him in his tracks. He holds his hand to quiet and still us, his animal senses working over time. I watch his face intently to see if it will betray anything. He looks concerned then relieved before muttering something in Malayalam.
"Tiger. But not too close." our driver translates
Tiger?
I had no idea there had been sightings of Tigers here. There are a few select places you go to increase your chances of seeing one and this wasn't one of them. I'm at once incredibly excited and a little concerned.
On the excited trip - I love tigers. They're my favourite land animal (for reasons I won't bore you with here) and laying my eyes on one in the wild is one of those boxes I must tick - if not on this trip, then at least in this lifetime.
On the concerned trip - This love of tigers also involves a deep respect for their ability as the most stealthy, ferocious and single minded land hunter on the planet. Their their paws can break its quarry's back with a single blow, the jaws crush wind-pipes and neck vertebrae for good measure and it will stalk it's prey for days (giving up earlier opportunities) just for the fun of it.
With all this in mind, I'd kinda been banking on seeing one within the confines of a 4WD (Big Cat Diaries style)...or at the very least on top of an Elephant. Only a few days ago we'd met a French couple who had encountered wild elephants and their guides had taken rifles along in case anything went wrong. Ours was armed with a half sized machete and we were on foot (flip-flops to be precise). We ploughed on, never really realising how vulnerable we were. At the time, we were still bird watching as far as I was concerned and I thought this little tiger show was something they put on for hapless tourists.
Back to the story. So, after several hours of walking around examining piles of shit and animal tracks and a distant Bison sighting, our tracker spots a lone elephant across the river on the opposite slope. We scramble up to higher ground only to see it disappear over the other side. Perched atop an overhang with an incredible view of the Western Ghats out of Kerala and in to Tamil Nadu, I pour my backpack's contents on to the rock and we hang out and eat, drink, take in the view and hope the elephant wanders back in to view some time soon.
After a while some tribesmen appear at the clearing where we'd spotted the elephant. We assume they must have been tracking him too. They seem apprehensive about following him down that same slope, but eventually conjure the courage and disappear from view. Soon after, two of them re-appear. Running at speed - like 'run for your fucking life' speed. I never thought it possible for a human to run so fast, down so steep an incline. Then we see another two. One is running too fast and he takes a really bad spill, tumbling head over heels a few times before miraculously regaining his footing and keeps on going...never letting up.
Their reaction seemed all so out of proportion. No elephant could have followed them down such an incline, yet they just kept running and running and running - at literal break-neck speed. The final two soon follow in similar fashion and by now the four of us are in hysterics (fed by that universal humour of witnessing other people's misfortune, whilst safe in the knowledge that they're gonna be OK). The distance and the river between us rendered their terror silent and the spectacle took on a farcical nature that was a cross between Benny Hill and The Gods Must Be Crazy. We waited for that elephant and I tell you, if an elephant had bumbled over that hill in slow pursuit I would have suffered a fit of such rock slapping laughter that it would have required a Heimlich Manouvre just to get me breathing again. But alas, the bumbling elephant never made his entrance and the hysterics died down to absent chuckles.
The hilarity over, I began to stuff the regurgitated contents of my backpack back in to its belly (careful to leave not a scrap of rubbish behind), when our tracker's eyes bugged out of his sockets like tongues. He shot up pointing and shouting the only English word in his vocabulary:
"TIGER!"
A tiger bounded over the top of the hill and with feline dexterity gracefully bolted down the exact same slope as the tribesmen - making a beeline straight for the trees they had taken shelter in. When at the very last second something scared him and it changed its tack and veered right, leaping off a considerable drop in to a clump of trees below - never to re-appear.
Full disclosure: I didn't see that last bit ^^^^. I'm afraid that brief, yet crucial paragraph has been constructed using the eye witness accounts of Cheryl and our driver with some flourishes courtesy of my minds eye reconstruction. Where was I? I was there, packing my pack. And from the angle I spun round on, the guide's finger seemed to pointing to a rather bland rocky outcrop. Cheryl described everything to me and was kind enough to say that it was all so quick and far away that it could have been a large dog, that it didn't really count as a sighting. But the fact is that I missed out on the punchline that made what we had witnessed less of a joke and more a playing out of a real life and death drama, of two top-of-the-food-chain dominant life forms scaring the bejeesus out of each other. I had been thwarted yet again at seeing a tiger in the wild (first time: Sumatra) and my first close encounter with one lacked the teeth of actually seeing it.
The fact is, they are so rare now and are fighting a losing battle against extinction. Even where they are protected, their habitat isn't. Being located largely in the third world it only takes a small payment for officials to turn a blind eye to poachers and loggers. Sadly, unless conservation efforts miraculously manage to turn things around, the days of this magnificent creature ruling the Asian wild lands are numbered. Those that are left are understandably shy of humans and are notoriously difficult and dangerous to encounter - with that camouflage they are only seen when they want to be seen.
We make our way back to the car without event. Part of me wanting to catch a glimpse, the other (much louder) part hoping he stays on the other side of the river. Still, I won't give up until I see one in the wild, with my own eyes.
We started first thing in the morning - taking in tea factories, cardamom, pepper, sandle wood and tea plantations, waterfalls and breathtaking scenery. Beautiful, but pretty standard stuff for these parts. After lunch our driver dropped us off to commence our 5 hour trek in the Chinnar Wildlife Sanctuary.
Maybe it's my Aussie upbringing, but the term 'Wildlife Sanctuary' conjures images of migrating water birds and a few furry creatures scampering about the place if you're lucky. And if there are any dangerous creatures present, measures are taken to keep any visitors out of harms way. So I thought nothing of signing the declaration they handed me. It mentioned stuff about trekking being 'highly' dangerous and that while 'all care is taken', they won't be liable for any accident occasioning death or injury. Pretty standard cover your arse stuff.
It slipped my mind that we were in India. It slipped my mind that the owner of the farmhouse we were staying in insists we only take auto rickshaws home after 7:30 and not walk back through the surrounding tea plantations as wild animals some times creep in during the night (for 'wild animals' read: tigers, elephants, panthers, leopards and boars). Maybe it's the genteel surroundings - a strange cross between Australian Tablelands, South Coast England and the Swiss Alps - that never allows this threat to really sink in.
Anyway, our driver secured our tracker and guide and introduced us, he was a young local guy from an indigenous tribe that (among others) had been entrusted as caretakers of the land. He smelled of last night's campfire on a dewy morning and looked more like a Koori (an Australian Aboriginal) than Indian. As the four of us (tracker, driver, Cheryl and myself) commenced our trek, it became more apparent just how much he had in common with the Koori trackers. At one with his land, his movements and sensory perceptions took on animal-like characteristics and sensitivity. He had this piercing gaze that seemed to scan his whole field of vision with hunter precision, his ears twitch at the slightest sound and our driver mentioned he could smell animals from across the valley.
We begin to track some elephants - which is not so hard given they leave behind great steaming piles of shit and knock over any trees that may be in the way - when a sound stops him in his tracks. He holds his hand to quiet and still us, his animal senses working over time. I watch his face intently to see if it will betray anything. He looks concerned then relieved before muttering something in Malayalam.
"Tiger. But not too close." our driver translates
Tiger?
I had no idea there had been sightings of Tigers here. There are a few select places you go to increase your chances of seeing one and this wasn't one of them. I'm at once incredibly excited and a little concerned.
On the excited trip - I love tigers. They're my favourite land animal (for reasons I won't bore you with here) and laying my eyes on one in the wild is one of those boxes I must tick - if not on this trip, then at least in this lifetime.
On the concerned trip - This love of tigers also involves a deep respect for their ability as the most stealthy, ferocious and single minded land hunter on the planet. Their their paws can break its quarry's back with a single blow, the jaws crush wind-pipes and neck vertebrae for good measure and it will stalk it's prey for days (giving up earlier opportunities) just for the fun of it.
With all this in mind, I'd kinda been banking on seeing one within the confines of a 4WD (Big Cat Diaries style)...or at the very least on top of an Elephant. Only a few days ago we'd met a French couple who had encountered wild elephants and their guides had taken rifles along in case anything went wrong. Ours was armed with a half sized machete and we were on foot (flip-flops to be precise). We ploughed on, never really realising how vulnerable we were. At the time, we were still bird watching as far as I was concerned and I thought this little tiger show was something they put on for hapless tourists.
Back to the story. So, after several hours of walking around examining piles of shit and animal tracks and a distant Bison sighting, our tracker spots a lone elephant across the river on the opposite slope. We scramble up to higher ground only to see it disappear over the other side. Perched atop an overhang with an incredible view of the Western Ghats out of Kerala and in to Tamil Nadu, I pour my backpack's contents on to the rock and we hang out and eat, drink, take in the view and hope the elephant wanders back in to view some time soon.
After a while some tribesmen appear at the clearing where we'd spotted the elephant. We assume they must have been tracking him too. They seem apprehensive about following him down that same slope, but eventually conjure the courage and disappear from view. Soon after, two of them re-appear. Running at speed - like 'run for your fucking life' speed. I never thought it possible for a human to run so fast, down so steep an incline. Then we see another two. One is running too fast and he takes a really bad spill, tumbling head over heels a few times before miraculously regaining his footing and keeps on going...never letting up.
Their reaction seemed all so out of proportion. No elephant could have followed them down such an incline, yet they just kept running and running and running - at literal break-neck speed. The final two soon follow in similar fashion and by now the four of us are in hysterics (fed by that universal humour of witnessing other people's misfortune, whilst safe in the knowledge that they're gonna be OK). The distance and the river between us rendered their terror silent and the spectacle took on a farcical nature that was a cross between Benny Hill and The Gods Must Be Crazy. We waited for that elephant and I tell you, if an elephant had bumbled over that hill in slow pursuit I would have suffered a fit of such rock slapping laughter that it would have required a Heimlich Manouvre just to get me breathing again. But alas, the bumbling elephant never made his entrance and the hysterics died down to absent chuckles.
The hilarity over, I began to stuff the regurgitated contents of my backpack back in to its belly (careful to leave not a scrap of rubbish behind), when our tracker's eyes bugged out of his sockets like tongues. He shot up pointing and shouting the only English word in his vocabulary:
"TIGER!"
A tiger bounded over the top of the hill and with feline dexterity gracefully bolted down the exact same slope as the tribesmen - making a beeline straight for the trees they had taken shelter in. When at the very last second something scared him and it changed its tack and veered right, leaping off a considerable drop in to a clump of trees below - never to re-appear.
Full disclosure: I didn't see that last bit ^^^^. I'm afraid that brief, yet crucial paragraph has been constructed using the eye witness accounts of Cheryl and our driver with some flourishes courtesy of my minds eye reconstruction. Where was I? I was there, packing my pack. And from the angle I spun round on, the guide's finger seemed to pointing to a rather bland rocky outcrop. Cheryl described everything to me and was kind enough to say that it was all so quick and far away that it could have been a large dog, that it didn't really count as a sighting. But the fact is that I missed out on the punchline that made what we had witnessed less of a joke and more a playing out of a real life and death drama, of two top-of-the-food-chain dominant life forms scaring the bejeesus out of each other. I had been thwarted yet again at seeing a tiger in the wild (first time: Sumatra) and my first close encounter with one lacked the teeth of actually seeing it.
The fact is, they are so rare now and are fighting a losing battle against extinction. Even where they are protected, their habitat isn't. Being located largely in the third world it only takes a small payment for officials to turn a blind eye to poachers and loggers. Sadly, unless conservation efforts miraculously manage to turn things around, the days of this magnificent creature ruling the Asian wild lands are numbered. Those that are left are understandably shy of humans and are notoriously difficult and dangerous to encounter - with that camouflage they are only seen when they want to be seen.
We make our way back to the car without event. Part of me wanting to catch a glimpse, the other (much louder) part hoping he stays on the other side of the river. Still, I won't give up until I see one in the wild, with my own eyes.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Only in India
The things you read in Indian newspapers. This one is courtesy of Indian broadsheet The Hindu:
Priest drowns during yogic feat
GUNTUR: A 33-year-old priest in Medikonduru mandal drowned in a well while performing ‘Jala Stambanam’ (a yogic practice by which a person can stay inside water for a long period).
Purnam Rama Sastri jumped into the well on Wednesday around midnight, after assuring his family members that he would come back the next morning. However, the man got drowned and his body was fished out in the morning.
According to Sub Inspector of Police Md. Osman the priest had been practising various meditation practices in Guntur. On Wednesday night, he jumped from a two-storeyed building and sustained only minor injuries.
Priest drowns during yogic feat
GUNTUR: A 33-year-old priest in Medikonduru mandal drowned in a well while performing ‘Jala Stambanam’ (a yogic practice by which a person can stay inside water for a long period).
Purnam Rama Sastri jumped into the well on Wednesday around midnight, after assuring his family members that he would come back the next morning. However, the man got drowned and his body was fished out in the morning.
According to Sub Inspector of Police Md. Osman the priest had been practising various meditation practices in Guntur. On Wednesday night, he jumped from a two-storeyed building and sustained only minor injuries.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Indian Spirituality
It pervades everything. I don't know why, but anything that would pass as cultish or faddish in the west comes across as genuine and sincere here. Yoga instructors radiate serenity rather than smugness and it doesn't seem strange that somebody, whom you've just met, suddenly starts reading your palms (I'm gonna be minted and have three kids). Conversations with people about their daily routine of yoga, oil massage and going to the temple are of great interest in comparison to my: have a coffee, make a resolve and boost it with extra paracetamol and hope I wake up sufficiently before I make it to work. If it was a blonde with an LA accent telling me their body is a temple and what routine is responsible for that crazed look in their eyes...I would have lost interest before they'd mentioned their morning wheatgrass shot.
Maybe I'm prejudiced, but maybe it's because Indians are the true original New Agers and us Westerners just come across as cheap counterfeits when we try and jump on the enlightenment bandwagon.
What got me on this riff was an unsolicited text message that I received from my mobile provider this morning:
"Every bad situation will have something positive. Even a stopped clock shows correct time twice a day. Think of this and lead ur life. Good Morning. Regards Airtel."
If this had happened in the west, I'd be sure I'd joined a cult not a mobile network. But here in India (the largest cult of them all), some spiritual guidance to start the day is all part of the service.
Maybe I'm prejudiced, but maybe it's because Indians are the true original New Agers and us Westerners just come across as cheap counterfeits when we try and jump on the enlightenment bandwagon.
What got me on this riff was an unsolicited text message that I received from my mobile provider this morning:
"Every bad situation will have something positive. Even a stopped clock shows correct time twice a day. Think of this and lead ur life. Good Morning. Regards Airtel."
If this had happened in the west, I'd be sure I'd joined a cult not a mobile network. But here in India (the largest cult of them all), some spiritual guidance to start the day is all part of the service.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Masala Rider
When researching the riding of motorbikes in India I had a web-based nemesis, a portent of doom that followed me wherever I went. Everytime I posted a query on a message board, his dark log-in would emerge from the ether and proclaim that if I were to ride a bike in India, I would surely meet my demise. I dismissed it as a classic case of keyboard-hero fear-mongering or just some clown with a dark sense of humour (as clowns have). Strangely, I never thought his comments might have been based in truth.
After riding only 35kms from Varkala to Kolam yesterday, I may not have met my demise, but I was certainly sailing close to the edge of existence. After only one day on the road I don’t exactly qualify as an expert - but in the interest of traveler health and safety (and from the comfort of a stationary chair with four legs), I have managed to collate these unofficial, yet essential top-ten guidelines to negotiating Indian roads for your perusal:
1. When riding at any speed you will need to keep one eye on the road watching out for potholes and the other for oncoming traffic. Vehicles will regularly and unexpectedly veer on to your side of the road to avoid one of the numerous wheel-destroying potholes. You will end up doing this also.
2. Use hand signals when making turns or when coming to a stop. Other drivers will only notice your vehicle’s indicators once you have done this.
3. Use your horn…a lot! There is a constant barrage of horns around you. Use this cacophony as a bat uses sonar. Each horn is a vehicle telling you where it is amidst the chaos. Use your horn on corners, when overtaking, when approaching vehicles, pedestrians and livestock or when you see something funny. It’ serves a language that says “do you see me?” with the reply being “yeah I see you”. It can also say many other things like “Get the fuck out of my way sisterfucker” or “Hey check me out! I’m a dude on a bike with some cool Bollywood shades and a hot girl on the back”.
4. If you are unfortunate enough be on the apex of a bend at the same time as a bus coming in the opposite direction - close your eyes, breathe in to reduce your body-mass and hope for the best. If there is a shoulder on the road, use it, as the bus will use his lane, your lane and then some.
5. When being overtaken by a bus, let them get ¾ of the way past you then apply your breaks. They will cut you off. In fact – try and steer clear of buses altogether.
6. Don’t speed. Period. Apart from the above, there is always a multitude of reasons for having to stop on a dime. You will have to share the roads with people who cannot drive for shit, have a death wish & officials that tear down the roads sitting on their horns maintaining a beeline down the middle of the road regardless of what’s ahead. There is no emergency; they’re just propelled by self-importance and the official sanction to put everyone’s lives at risk so they can make lunch in time. You will also have to share the road with cows, goats, water buffalo, playing children, farmers drying grain across the road and using vehicles’ wheels to do the threshing for them and men pushing hand carts stacked impossibly high with goods ranging from coconut husks to metal girders.
7. Try and not get too distracted by what you see by the side of the road. Whether it’s breath taking scenery, village life, people screaming hello or any one of the forever surprising elements of India…keep at least one eye on the road.
8. If riding in the late afternoon, pay extra attention while answering all the questions being shouted at you from the school bus in front. Just because the kids are asking your name and where you’re from, doesn’t mean that Mr. Deathwish driving the school bus will drive any less erratically. He will stop suddenly - just as the pot holes will keep coming. Again, keep at least one eye on the road.
9.When the smell of Cardamom and Tea hits your nostrils – slow down, pull over and refresh yourself at a marsala tea stall.
10. And finally, when you eventually make it to the next town in one piece, the taste of adrenalin has subsided and the feeling has come back to your numb butt cheeks – you will want to get straight back on and do it all again.
After riding only 35kms from Varkala to Kolam yesterday, I may not have met my demise, but I was certainly sailing close to the edge of existence. After only one day on the road I don’t exactly qualify as an expert - but in the interest of traveler health and safety (and from the comfort of a stationary chair with four legs), I have managed to collate these unofficial, yet essential top-ten guidelines to negotiating Indian roads for your perusal:
1. When riding at any speed you will need to keep one eye on the road watching out for potholes and the other for oncoming traffic. Vehicles will regularly and unexpectedly veer on to your side of the road to avoid one of the numerous wheel-destroying potholes. You will end up doing this also.
2. Use hand signals when making turns or when coming to a stop. Other drivers will only notice your vehicle’s indicators once you have done this.
3. Use your horn…a lot! There is a constant barrage of horns around you. Use this cacophony as a bat uses sonar. Each horn is a vehicle telling you where it is amidst the chaos. Use your horn on corners, when overtaking, when approaching vehicles, pedestrians and livestock or when you see something funny. It’ serves a language that says “do you see me?” with the reply being “yeah I see you”. It can also say many other things like “Get the fuck out of my way sisterfucker” or “Hey check me out! I’m a dude on a bike with some cool Bollywood shades and a hot girl on the back”.
4. If you are unfortunate enough be on the apex of a bend at the same time as a bus coming in the opposite direction - close your eyes, breathe in to reduce your body-mass and hope for the best. If there is a shoulder on the road, use it, as the bus will use his lane, your lane and then some.
5. When being overtaken by a bus, let them get ¾ of the way past you then apply your breaks. They will cut you off. In fact – try and steer clear of buses altogether.
6. Don’t speed. Period. Apart from the above, there is always a multitude of reasons for having to stop on a dime. You will have to share the roads with people who cannot drive for shit, have a death wish & officials that tear down the roads sitting on their horns maintaining a beeline down the middle of the road regardless of what’s ahead. There is no emergency; they’re just propelled by self-importance and the official sanction to put everyone’s lives at risk so they can make lunch in time. You will also have to share the road with cows, goats, water buffalo, playing children, farmers drying grain across the road and using vehicles’ wheels to do the threshing for them and men pushing hand carts stacked impossibly high with goods ranging from coconut husks to metal girders.
7. Try and not get too distracted by what you see by the side of the road. Whether it’s breath taking scenery, village life, people screaming hello or any one of the forever surprising elements of India…keep at least one eye on the road.
8. If riding in the late afternoon, pay extra attention while answering all the questions being shouted at you from the school bus in front. Just because the kids are asking your name and where you’re from, doesn’t mean that Mr. Deathwish driving the school bus will drive any less erratically. He will stop suddenly - just as the pot holes will keep coming. Again, keep at least one eye on the road.
9.When the smell of Cardamom and Tea hits your nostrils – slow down, pull over and refresh yourself at a marsala tea stall.
10. And finally, when you eventually make it to the next town in one piece, the taste of adrenalin has subsided and the feeling has come back to your numb butt cheeks – you will want to get straight back on and do it all again.
Friday, November 2, 2007
A sting in the fairytale
You think there’s no room for magic anymore. You’ve grown up and the time for child-like wonder has passed. Some try to re-capture it with drugs or even Harry Potter books – but these are more exercises in escapism. The land where fairytales might exist has been submerged under weightier issues such as mortgages, careers, mistakes and possibly a few regrets.
Then one day you find yourself in Kerala, slowly drifting down the backwaters with a boatman and his long bamboo stick the only mechanism to get you anywhere. The people, their superstitions and the land itself has conspired with your imagination to suggest that maybe there is more to this place than meets the eye.
You round a bend in the river and see before you an island bathed in sunshine. As you approach, music seems to draw you in - a siren song. You gesture to the boatman that you would like to alight and explore the island and with an almost imperceptible head wobble, he changes the direction of the boat. As you alight, music emits from the forest like an echo from heaven. Sunlight dances on the leaves and the palm trees dip and sway in the breeze as if in time to the music.
As you negotiate the narrow paths in to the interior, you have step aside for the fairies – little girls moving to and fro wearing brightly coloured princess dresses. There are thatched houses with vegetable patches, enchanted gardens and swings garlanded with flowers. You move on through into a forest dense with columns of Coconut Palm trunks. The forest floor is carpeted in soft grass and decorated with ferns as another swarm of giggling fairies pass you by – the music still filling your ears.
In the middle of the island is its heart. You stumble across it in a clearing, a church whitewashed in sun-faded pastels. It is from here that the girls come running from, where the wires that feed the speakers in the tree tops throughout the island are powered at their source.
Though the curtain has been pulled on the great Oz pulling his levers, the island still maintains its fairytale quality. Inside the church, through the open walls, you see the matriarchs praying as a girl with the voice of a cherub coos her hymn into a taped-up microphone – piping her blessings out into the trees. Behind her is an altar festooned with flowers and disco lights and a kitsch portrait of Jesus Christ at its centre. The sight seems out of place until you remember that in India, there are many paths to God.
You move past the church where the sun (now low in the sky) warms your face and silhouettes the palm trees and boys playing cricket on the beach – the breakers behind them all thunderous and kicking up mist. Hidden by the glare are the fishermen at your feet, dressed in Lungis and Sunday-best shirts, staring at you with lines etched in to their faces as deep as the wells of their eyes.
Having walked the breadth of the island, it is here that you realize the precariousness of their existence, of this unique and enchanting paradise. It is no more than 1km long and a few hundred metres across. On one side the temperamental Arabian Sea, on the other the monsoon-prone backwaters. It is a thin green line between two powerful ecosystems that wax and wane at will and (at times) without warning. On this knife edge a community exists in a bubble, a haven of tranquility between the wilderness of the ocean and the chaos of mainland India.
The island cannot be higher than ten feet at its highest point - one storm surge, one monsoon deluge or even one melted iceberg away from obliteration. Only recently, a fishing community (just a few kilometers to the south) was decimated by the encroachment of large seas. Like anything of beauty, the island is fragile and possibly fleeting.
You slowly make your way back, leaving the same way you came. You try and etch it all in to your mind and don't even dare to take a memory tainting photo. As you leave the island and step back on to your boat you hope - for the sake of the girls in princess dresses, the praying matriarchs, the girl with the taped up microphone, the boys playing cricket and the fishermen in their Sunday bests - that this fairytale doesn’t have an ending any time soon.
Then one day you find yourself in Kerala, slowly drifting down the backwaters with a boatman and his long bamboo stick the only mechanism to get you anywhere. The people, their superstitions and the land itself has conspired with your imagination to suggest that maybe there is more to this place than meets the eye.
You round a bend in the river and see before you an island bathed in sunshine. As you approach, music seems to draw you in - a siren song. You gesture to the boatman that you would like to alight and explore the island and with an almost imperceptible head wobble, he changes the direction of the boat. As you alight, music emits from the forest like an echo from heaven. Sunlight dances on the leaves and the palm trees dip and sway in the breeze as if in time to the music.
As you negotiate the narrow paths in to the interior, you have step aside for the fairies – little girls moving to and fro wearing brightly coloured princess dresses. There are thatched houses with vegetable patches, enchanted gardens and swings garlanded with flowers. You move on through into a forest dense with columns of Coconut Palm trunks. The forest floor is carpeted in soft grass and decorated with ferns as another swarm of giggling fairies pass you by – the music still filling your ears.
In the middle of the island is its heart. You stumble across it in a clearing, a church whitewashed in sun-faded pastels. It is from here that the girls come running from, where the wires that feed the speakers in the tree tops throughout the island are powered at their source.
Though the curtain has been pulled on the great Oz pulling his levers, the island still maintains its fairytale quality. Inside the church, through the open walls, you see the matriarchs praying as a girl with the voice of a cherub coos her hymn into a taped-up microphone – piping her blessings out into the trees. Behind her is an altar festooned with flowers and disco lights and a kitsch portrait of Jesus Christ at its centre. The sight seems out of place until you remember that in India, there are many paths to God.
You move past the church where the sun (now low in the sky) warms your face and silhouettes the palm trees and boys playing cricket on the beach – the breakers behind them all thunderous and kicking up mist. Hidden by the glare are the fishermen at your feet, dressed in Lungis and Sunday-best shirts, staring at you with lines etched in to their faces as deep as the wells of their eyes.
Having walked the breadth of the island, it is here that you realize the precariousness of their existence, of this unique and enchanting paradise. It is no more than 1km long and a few hundred metres across. On one side the temperamental Arabian Sea, on the other the monsoon-prone backwaters. It is a thin green line between two powerful ecosystems that wax and wane at will and (at times) without warning. On this knife edge a community exists in a bubble, a haven of tranquility between the wilderness of the ocean and the chaos of mainland India.
The island cannot be higher than ten feet at its highest point - one storm surge, one monsoon deluge or even one melted iceberg away from obliteration. Only recently, a fishing community (just a few kilometers to the south) was decimated by the encroachment of large seas. Like anything of beauty, the island is fragile and possibly fleeting.
You slowly make your way back, leaving the same way you came. You try and etch it all in to your mind and don't even dare to take a memory tainting photo. As you leave the island and step back on to your boat you hope - for the sake of the girls in princess dresses, the praying matriarchs, the girl with the taped up microphone, the boys playing cricket and the fishermen in their Sunday bests - that this fairytale doesn’t have an ending any time soon.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
It's not just cricket
I woke up in a daze and walked out on to the wall to watch the fisherman again. Cheryl suggested we walk through the village behind us and out on to the point to get a closer look.
There was a huge surf this morning and the men out in the sea guiding the nets in were experiencing some trouble. Nets were getting tangled and a double effort had to be put in by all. The process is more a tribal dance or ritual with up to thirty men chanting as they’re engaged in a mighty tug-o-war with the sea - hauling in the net from way out back beyond the breakers. The net finally lands on shore. There aren’t many fish this morning and the usual ecstatic dance and cheers are replaced by flat disappointment.
By this time Cheryl and I had attracted a fan base of five tenacious boys wanting money, a pen – but ultimately a game of cricket.
Cricket in India is like football in Brazil. Everybody plays it. From Brahmin to Dalit, Prime Ministers to Fishing Village kids – they are positively fanatical about it. Coming from the only nation that comes close to this across-the-board fanaticism means that the moment kids find out I’m Australian, a cricket bat is produced.
I am no cricket fan. I was no good at it as a kid, my idea of spending a whole day standing in a field never appealed to me and I certainly don’t keep abreast of the game on the international stage. Some have called this un-Australian. I call it having a life.
This unfortunately means that when an Indian discovers my nationality, the conversation inevitably turns toward cricket. I have to make do with polite yet uncomfortable vagaries about the current state of the game and its various teams until they realize I have no idea what I’m talking about - and eventually drop the subject.
I do, however, have an entirely different viewpoint of the knock-about version of the game. I grew up with backyard cricket. It’s a great leveler (skill-wise) and a fun way to pass to the time with a bunch of people you’ve never met. The most important difference between this and the real thing is that you can walk away the moment boredom sets in.
The boys beckon us back and set up the wicket in the middle of their village. The village is back from the beach and set amongst a dense forest of coconut palms that is also home to hundreds of Keralan Crows (whose squawks are only slightly less ominous than those of your garden variety).
With the ritual of the stumps being hammered in to the sand signaling that a game is about to commence, about fifteen kids come running out from nowhere. All of them are boys, no girls are to be seen anywhere and all the men are still hauling in nets. So it’s Australia V India. Fifteen kids against one overgrown one.
I win the toss and elect to bat. I can swing a bat OK and put in a decent effort. I kick off with a few singles and manage several slogs that get picked up just short of the boundary. I’m on a roll until I’m declared run-out by a very dodgy call. It’s fifteen against one and I’m not going to argue.
I hand over the bat to the ringleader whose swagger tells he’s something of a maestro with the bat. This is where my game goes to shit.
I can’t bowl for anyone’s money and I throw in a few wides for a very average start. Just as I get my eye in on the stumps, I send in a few plumb sitters, which this pint sized ten year old slogs for six – on several occasions. I haven’t had breakfast yet and my stomach rumbles from hunger (or is it embarrassment) so I call it time to pull stumps.
India 1
Australia 0
I tell them there’s gonna be a re-match tomorrow and they swarm, several of them holding on to each hand. We struggle back to the gate of our hotel holding five conversations at once until something has them leaping around even more than they already were. They’re jumping up and down screaming and pointing at a huge six-foot pale yellow snake making a break for it across the path (no doubt freaked out by all the commotion). We follow suit, using the distraction to slip in the gate promising a re-match tomorrow.
I’d better brush up on my game. Something tells me I’m gonna be playing a lot of it.
There was a huge surf this morning and the men out in the sea guiding the nets in were experiencing some trouble. Nets were getting tangled and a double effort had to be put in by all. The process is more a tribal dance or ritual with up to thirty men chanting as they’re engaged in a mighty tug-o-war with the sea - hauling in the net from way out back beyond the breakers. The net finally lands on shore. There aren’t many fish this morning and the usual ecstatic dance and cheers are replaced by flat disappointment.
By this time Cheryl and I had attracted a fan base of five tenacious boys wanting money, a pen – but ultimately a game of cricket.
Cricket in India is like football in Brazil. Everybody plays it. From Brahmin to Dalit, Prime Ministers to Fishing Village kids – they are positively fanatical about it. Coming from the only nation that comes close to this across-the-board fanaticism means that the moment kids find out I’m Australian, a cricket bat is produced.
I am no cricket fan. I was no good at it as a kid, my idea of spending a whole day standing in a field never appealed to me and I certainly don’t keep abreast of the game on the international stage. Some have called this un-Australian. I call it having a life.
This unfortunately means that when an Indian discovers my nationality, the conversation inevitably turns toward cricket. I have to make do with polite yet uncomfortable vagaries about the current state of the game and its various teams until they realize I have no idea what I’m talking about - and eventually drop the subject.
I do, however, have an entirely different viewpoint of the knock-about version of the game. I grew up with backyard cricket. It’s a great leveler (skill-wise) and a fun way to pass to the time with a bunch of people you’ve never met. The most important difference between this and the real thing is that you can walk away the moment boredom sets in.
The boys beckon us back and set up the wicket in the middle of their village. The village is back from the beach and set amongst a dense forest of coconut palms that is also home to hundreds of Keralan Crows (whose squawks are only slightly less ominous than those of your garden variety).
With the ritual of the stumps being hammered in to the sand signaling that a game is about to commence, about fifteen kids come running out from nowhere. All of them are boys, no girls are to be seen anywhere and all the men are still hauling in nets. So it’s Australia V India. Fifteen kids against one overgrown one.
I win the toss and elect to bat. I can swing a bat OK and put in a decent effort. I kick off with a few singles and manage several slogs that get picked up just short of the boundary. I’m on a roll until I’m declared run-out by a very dodgy call. It’s fifteen against one and I’m not going to argue.
I hand over the bat to the ringleader whose swagger tells he’s something of a maestro with the bat. This is where my game goes to shit.
I can’t bowl for anyone’s money and I throw in a few wides for a very average start. Just as I get my eye in on the stumps, I send in a few plumb sitters, which this pint sized ten year old slogs for six – on several occasions. I haven’t had breakfast yet and my stomach rumbles from hunger (or is it embarrassment) so I call it time to pull stumps.
India 1
Australia 0
I tell them there’s gonna be a re-match tomorrow and they swarm, several of them holding on to each hand. We struggle back to the gate of our hotel holding five conversations at once until something has them leaping around even more than they already were. They’re jumping up and down screaming and pointing at a huge six-foot pale yellow snake making a break for it across the path (no doubt freaked out by all the commotion). We follow suit, using the distraction to slip in the gate promising a re-match tomorrow.
I’d better brush up on my game. Something tells me I’m gonna be playing a lot of it.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Delhi
If a director needed inspiration for a post apocalyptic vision of the future, he need go no further than Delhi. No imagination could conjure nor capture the essence of this city. I have never seen anything more alien. It felt like I missed my stop and ended up on the wrong planet.
Weaving our way through the medieval back alleys of the Chandni Chowk Bazaars I am a stranger in another world. The alleys are impossibly narrow instilling nighttime on to daylight. The merchants ply their wares virtually on top of one another and once the day’s trading is finished they scramble up a makeshift ladder on to the roof of their 2sqm shop and huddle under the shelters they’ve built from corrugated iron sheets, gunnysacks and tarpaulins. We constantly had to flatten our backs against the wall to let through loads fit for a mule with only two small brown legs visible beneath – deftly propelling it along through the claustrophobic space.
If a director were to go to Delhi, sure, he would find inspiration. But anything that made it up on screen would be a pale imitation – a mere symbol of the real thing. My even writing this is an act of futility. You have to go there yourself to breathe that air and see those unbelievable situations that happen every millisecond on every street.
Even if the director had the kind of budget necessary to attempt this, he would need a set designer that could create the kind of architectural chaos that would send a Bauhaus fanatic into a fit, with each building being a palimpsest of several – from Ancient to recent, from blackened cement to cardboard.
The art department would have to add centuries of grime to the structure as the Animal Trainers brought in mules that could sit out a mortar bombardment without so much as a flinch.
The casting department would have to seek out thousands of extras ranging from the heartbreakingly beautiful to the tragically deformed and everything in-between – all of them with their life story etched on their faces.
The Gaffers would have to abandon every Health & Safety measure they’ve learned and rig up kilometers of tangled electrical wire and suspend it just above head height above every alley, with each wire sprouting new branches – splicing off to power yet another light bulb, another TV set. The Gaffers must pay no heed to what might happen to this set-up if it rained.
The wardrobe department would have to source Saris of the most brilliant colours and delicate fabric and sew on little pieces of glass that dazzle the eye when they hit the light. The 1st assistant director would need the help of a choreographer to train the extras so they can move through the dirt and grime without so much as a mark on their clothing.
The Sound Engineer could record the din of an actual Delhi street – with horns, revving unmufflered motors, screeching breaks and shouting hawkers layering upon themselves exponentially until you have an impenetrable wall of sound – but the sound system to deliver such an assault in the required 3D doesn’t exist yet.
Even if the director were to succeed in capturing all of these approximations with the aid of a killer Director of Photography – what would appear on screen would be a disappointment. For no director (or writer) can capture the feel of that dirty air soup that lines the inside of your mouth, clings to your skin and seeps in to you pores or that combination of sewage, spice and incense that once it hits your nose stays in your sensorial memory forever. Not only are these impossible to capture, it is simply untenable that anybody could (through any medium) convey the fractal-like depth of what is going on around you. The deeper you look the more you’ll see - and the more you’ll miss out on seeing.
Delhi is like the universe. Indefinable, it never stops. Never stops creating, never stops dying and whatever you witness through the tunnel of your senses is at once everything and nothing at all.
Weaving our way through the medieval back alleys of the Chandni Chowk Bazaars I am a stranger in another world. The alleys are impossibly narrow instilling nighttime on to daylight. The merchants ply their wares virtually on top of one another and once the day’s trading is finished they scramble up a makeshift ladder on to the roof of their 2sqm shop and huddle under the shelters they’ve built from corrugated iron sheets, gunnysacks and tarpaulins. We constantly had to flatten our backs against the wall to let through loads fit for a mule with only two small brown legs visible beneath – deftly propelling it along through the claustrophobic space.
If a director were to go to Delhi, sure, he would find inspiration. But anything that made it up on screen would be a pale imitation – a mere symbol of the real thing. My even writing this is an act of futility. You have to go there yourself to breathe that air and see those unbelievable situations that happen every millisecond on every street.
Even if the director had the kind of budget necessary to attempt this, he would need a set designer that could create the kind of architectural chaos that would send a Bauhaus fanatic into a fit, with each building being a palimpsest of several – from Ancient to recent, from blackened cement to cardboard.
The art department would have to add centuries of grime to the structure as the Animal Trainers brought in mules that could sit out a mortar bombardment without so much as a flinch.
The casting department would have to seek out thousands of extras ranging from the heartbreakingly beautiful to the tragically deformed and everything in-between – all of them with their life story etched on their faces.
The Gaffers would have to abandon every Health & Safety measure they’ve learned and rig up kilometers of tangled electrical wire and suspend it just above head height above every alley, with each wire sprouting new branches – splicing off to power yet another light bulb, another TV set. The Gaffers must pay no heed to what might happen to this set-up if it rained.
The wardrobe department would have to source Saris of the most brilliant colours and delicate fabric and sew on little pieces of glass that dazzle the eye when they hit the light. The 1st assistant director would need the help of a choreographer to train the extras so they can move through the dirt and grime without so much as a mark on their clothing.
The Sound Engineer could record the din of an actual Delhi street – with horns, revving unmufflered motors, screeching breaks and shouting hawkers layering upon themselves exponentially until you have an impenetrable wall of sound – but the sound system to deliver such an assault in the required 3D doesn’t exist yet.
Even if the director were to succeed in capturing all of these approximations with the aid of a killer Director of Photography – what would appear on screen would be a disappointment. For no director (or writer) can capture the feel of that dirty air soup that lines the inside of your mouth, clings to your skin and seeps in to you pores or that combination of sewage, spice and incense that once it hits your nose stays in your sensorial memory forever. Not only are these impossible to capture, it is simply untenable that anybody could (through any medium) convey the fractal-like depth of what is going on around you. The deeper you look the more you’ll see - and the more you’ll miss out on seeing.
Delhi is like the universe. Indefinable, it never stops. Never stops creating, never stops dying and whatever you witness through the tunnel of your senses is at once everything and nothing at all.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Hairybones is going travelling
Hadn't had much to post of late due to some serious wrapping up for our trip to India.
With me trekking through the Indian Subcontinent, there won't be much in the way of video clips and car chases, but there'll be the occasional update and missive from the road.
Check in after October 20 for Hairybones' Indian Adventures.
With me trekking through the Indian Subcontinent, there won't be much in the way of video clips and car chases, but there'll be the occasional update and missive from the road.
Check in after October 20 for Hairybones' Indian Adventures.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Interpol: Mammoth
You have to love the simplicity of Interpol. Spectacular clips created by music video auteurs are not necessary - just film them on a stage in their suits and let the music do the rest.
Simple.
Simple.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
No End in Sight
I know this blog doesn't normally cover politics, but this film is essential viewing. This is no Michael Moore polemic, it's damning a indictment of the arrogance, incompetence, deceit and downright betrayal of the Western ideal of Freedom - all told by political and military insiders.
Website here
Website here
Friday, August 3, 2007
It's like...sunny
And that makes you want to break out some summer tunes before they go musty.
After the jump you'll find the Trailmix remix of Fleetwood Mac's "You Make Lovin' Fun". They shun the chorus and focus on intro, verse and classic disco synth instead - bubbling up some seriously languid robo-house.
One for an Amsterdam rooftop sunset.
After the jump you'll find the Trailmix remix of Fleetwood Mac's "You Make Lovin' Fun". They shun the chorus and focus on intro, verse and classic disco synth instead - bubbling up some seriously languid robo-house.
One for an Amsterdam rooftop sunset.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Mash-up
Mash-ups can be a little hit and miss. But this effort conflating some Bob Fosse dance moves to the hip-hop of 'Walk It Out' shows that can it can be an art form...and that there's still some life in the (now) old dog of creative democratisation.
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