Pulau Weh

See for yourself the lush tropical vegetation covering hills and mountains. Turquoise waters teeming with corals and multicolored marine life. A bay, dotted with tiny verdant islands, reducing the surf to almost nothing. For sheer topographical beauty, I am hard-pressed to come up with something that surpasses Pulau Weh. The weather is nothing short of splendid. It only rained the first night, and then never again. The air temperature was a most comfortable 27 Celsius, while the water was 26. While other beaches may come close, there is a unique magnificence here that will stay with me forever.

Following the Boxing Day Tsunami of 2004, NGOs poured into the province of Aceh, and a peace agreement with GAM rebels made the place secure. On Pulau Weh, there was more damage to property than loss of life, although the extent of the former can’t be overstated. This however provided a unique opportunity for the fledgling tourist industry to find its bearings and share the loveliness of this island only two hours by ferry from Banda Aceh.

Iboih beach is said to be the more social venue on the island. NGO staffers, both foreign and Indonesian, tend to spend weekends here. Being the Christmas season, there has been somewhat more activity. There are even intrepid travelers who, like me, came for the scenery and also reckoned that it was an exotic enough locale to make for interesting conversation long after travels have concluded. There is also a smattering of resident expats, married to locals, who have set up shop here doing one thing or another. Acehnese children are an inordinately cute lot, and the Euro-Indonesian children are even more so.

Around the world, it must be said that all the beaches I tend to be drawn to feature scuba diving as a recreational sport, and strange as it may seem, I had never actually taken the course. Until now, that is. There was an Indonesian NGO staffer, Rheinhardt, from Banda staying at the same guest house (the one with the shared bathroom), along with Frank, the German dive master. A course was about to begin, and it would be much better with two students. It seemed that events had conspired to make me, quite literally, take the plunge.

I was presented with a rather thick tome that was surprisingly well written, going on about water pressure and diving equipment, and safety precautions and procedures. We watched an amusing video. And on the second day, Frank put us in wetsuits, fitted us with inflatable vests, a scuba tanks, masks, snorkels and fins, to take us to the beach (only 5 meters away) to breathe with scuba equipment for the first time. It was pretty cool.

The next day, after more theory lessons, we actually went for a swim around the beach, and of course did more exercises. This time I saw some real marine life. On the third day, we actually went diving to a depth of 12 meters. I had equalizing trouble with my ears, and suffered a nosebleed. Learning to dive is like learning to drive for the first time. You are constantly multitasking, concentrating on so many things at once, that the underwater scenery is secondary to all the things you’re trying to keep tabs on. Maintaining neutral buoyancy is quite a challenge. I found myself either sinking to the bottom or floating to the surface, and was invariably struggling with that.

However, on the last day of the course, we went out in the boat to an underwater mountain, that we circumvented, going to a depth of 25 meters. It was on this dive that I really took a good look at my surroundings, and had a true National Geographic hour. We saw a barracuda swim by in the distance. It’s an incredible experience to swim right into a school of luminescent tropical fish. Back on the boat, someone from the more advanced group asked us if we had seen the sharks. I am told that if you do get to spot them, it’s only at a distance and they pass very quickly. Although white boys are a favorite treat the world over, sharks are actually more interested in bona fide marine life. Having seen Jaws, and other PBS programming, I knew that sharks could smell blood from many miles away, and my constant underwater nosebleeds had placed a bee in my bonnet, so to speak. No, we hadn’t seen any sharks. But I can tell you that if I had, I would have shit my wetsuit, to be sure.

I never got to see cool stuff like this when I lived in Jakarta. Most of my tourism consisted of weekend jaunts, and the “bigger” trips I took with my English flatmate, so I had never been able to experience village life in action. By this time on Pulau Weh, my Bahasa was fully functional, and I could both observe and participate in all manner of interactions. It was a strange and exhilarating feeling to be in such an exotic and different place, and yet understand everything.

The music situation at the guest house was spotty. There were lots of CDs. Some were actually OK. But the old Sony Discman used to play them wasn’t so reliable. When the diving course was over, on Christmas day, I decided to deploy Uncle André’s Great Box of Wonders to rectify the situation. Bachtiar, the guest house custodian, former seafarer, former GAM fighter, purveyor of bong contents, sat with me and we enjoyed the exquisite view from the balcony and some more than decent tunes. Just as the munchies set in, Akbar and Maxi, two adorable Euro-Indonesian children who reside permanently on the grounds, brought us cakes and chocolates. It was a Holy Moment. Later, I treated them to the Fantastic Four on VCD.

Alas, being Indonesia, the food situation was not good. Bali seems to have been an anomaly. The grub in Banda and on Pulau Weh conform more closely to the national norm I was subjected to during my sojourn in Jakarta. As a result, I was constantly hungry. The dives had turned my innards to mush, and three days after the course my ears were still blocked. This was the most unpleasant aspect of my stay. As was boredom. Iboih is a friendly and social place, but I have been on the road for a long time now, and I find my thoughts wandering to Big City Saigon at times, but more often to my San Francisco job prospects. I want to do something. It’s time to get back into a routine. I’m actually glad that I’ve arrived at this point, even though there are two months left in my trip. When it is finally over, I want to be glad of it. So I continue whittle away the time.

I rented a motorbike to see more of the island. I almost didn’t take the helmet, but at the last moment, being the klutz I am, it seemed wisest to don it. Of course I took a spill and scraped my knee. I also managed to damage to foot brake. Later that evening, the bike shop owner came to claim the helmet and keys. I knew he would mention the damage. Let me say something really positive about Indonesians, and let it be known that the following encounter is emblematic. He waited until everyone had left the restaurant before talking to me. He mentioned the damage. I mentioned my fall. He told me the cost to repair it. I realized that it was a fair and real amount, and immediately handed it over. He then inquired about my knee scrape, offering to bring bandages (unnecessary). The point is, people here go to extraordinary lengths to help you save face. I’ve never seen such consideration of this type before, although that may be because I have the language here.

Finally, it is worth pointing out that every single resident expat in Aceh I’ve met has had either dengue or malaria, or both. The Lonely Planet health section clearly states that this region is a risk. I have been taking anti-malarial medication since India, as a preventive measure. Such a tropical paradise is bound to be filled with mosquitoes; the two go hand in hand. And yet, in this particular paradise, even the mosquitoes seem to be cooperating. With my precautions, and their surprisingly sparse numbers, I am almost bite-free. Let’s just hold our collective breath until after the requisite incubation period.

Aceh Comes Alive

Getting to Pulau Weh from Banda Aceh was more of a challenge than I had anticipated. Nevertheless, my previous hunch about more interesting travelers in these parts was confirmed in spades.

Not realizing that the day I chose to travel was Idul Adha, there were glitches in the ferry service. I got up early and checked out of my motel and found a motorcycle rickshaw. This isn’t the Bajaj vehicle that they drive around cities in India, Thailand, Indonesia, but rather a converted bicycle rickshaw attached to an actual motorcycle. Pretty cool.

My driver took me for a bite to eat and over my morning fried rice, he pointed to a building that had not yet been repaired for tsunami damage. He told me then that he had lost his wife and two sons, and his house was destroyed. I asked him if he was still sad. He said that he was over it, and smiled. I admired his fortitude. I said, God has tested you, and you passed. I was beginning to really appreciate having the language, which I was putting to full use by this point.

On the drive to the wharf, there were more obvious signs that a terrible disaster had occurred. The road was still pockmarked. Earthmoving equipment could be spotted at various points. There were memorials in front of buildings that had remained in their destroyed state. At one point, there was even a mass grave. I was later told that there were 22,000 people buried there, one of several such sites around Banda Aceh.

We got to the wharf, and there was a young Dutch couple. Apparently, the fast ferry was cancelled, but there would be a slow ferry at noon. It was 9 AM. No matter. Took another motorcycle rickshaw to the other wharf and waited. The Dutch couple, Lisa and Guido, arrived by and by, and we struck up a conversation. She was working for a disaster relief NGO, and he had set up a company to provide water filtering plants.

After some time, an Australian woman friend of theirs came by, and we went for lunch. Linda had been living for eight years in Indonesia, and had the exact same date of birth as my sister. She had come to Aceh just a few days after the tsunami, and had been taken on by the UNDP as a coordinator of sorts. Her most recent contract was with Oxfam. On the ferry, which in the event only left at 4 PM, she explained a bit about Acehnese history and society. GAM is not a fundamentalist organization. It is an Acehnese nationalist party. Yet, you cannot separate Islam from Aceh. And the imposition of Sharia law actually came from Jakarta, for its own incomprehensible reasons, a few years before the actual peace agreement. So Sharia governs family law, outlaws alcohol, gambling and drugs, and, of course has a few things to restrict in terms of morality. It does not apply to non Muslims. Public morality, you ask…? Yes, just what you’re thinking. Improper relations between unmarried couples, and indeed there have been public floggings, although they stop as soon as they draw blood. Gruesome as this may sound, it stands in ironic contrast to secular Singapore, where when you are caned, the goal is to leave scars, and a doctor is present to revive you if you pass out.

We did arrive on Pulau Weh eventually, although it was already dark. Linda got picked up by her boyfriend. Lisa and Guido took their bikes to pedal the 40 km to their pre-arranged bungalow. I took a taxi with Linda’s boss, Elizabeth from the Netherlands, as well as two women who were friends from Jakarta: one Finnish, attached to her Embassy, and a Frenchwoman, bona fide expat sent from an engineering firm in Paris to work for a year abroad. They were going diving.

I decided to head to Iboih with them, as the Lonely Planet had described that particular beach as more “social”. As it was raining, I picked a place that was early on in our walking, and seemed nice enough. Although it didn’t have an attached bathroom, which is proving to be something of an inconvenience, it was spitting distance from the beach, and there were two very friendly German blokes, who greeted me with a spliff. I was already starting to like this place. Later came the local staff of the beach’s restaurant, a boisterous crowd who were drinking and rolling, too. The conversation was informal and was a trilingual mix of Bahasa, German and English. None failed me.

When one wakes the following morning in a beach location to survey the surrounding in the morning daylight, it is always a pleasant and eye-opening experience. Let’s find out what’s in store for the next ten days.

Banned

Bali is a spectacularly beautiful place, and in retrospect, I’m really glad that I idled my time away in the northern bit of the island. I swam, walked, read, contemplated and ate. On the subject of eating, the last two days, I did my best to ingest as much pork and gin and tonic as I could, knowing that I was coming to Aceh, in northern Sumatra, where Islamic Sharia law has been in force since 2003. Certainly there was a promise of more interesting people to meet in a place so off the beaten track. Bali was certainly a wasteland in that respect.

Nevertheless, on the minibus ride back to Kuta in the south, in anticipation of my flight out, I did chance on meeting an intriguing young man named Xin, from the People’s Republic of China. We immediately struck up a conversation, where it was revealed that he was currently finishing a doctorate in Chemistry, with a specialization in medical imaging, at no less than Oxford University in the UK. Suffice it to say that this chap was a Class A intellectual, with a broad knowledge of world and cultural affairs and issues, and the nonstop conversation was nothing short of fascinating. He shed quite a lot of light on the inner workings of the People’s Republic and the Communist Party, especially on the subject of factionalism in the latter. By the time the bus ride was over, we had decided to share a room for the night, whereby on the morrow, I would catch my early morning flight to Banda Aceh, via Yogyakarta, Jakarta and Medan.

I’m also glad I only spent a day in Kuta, and doubly glad that it was with the cerebral Xin. Kuta is just a pale imitation of Pattaya, Thailand, which is not a compliment. That said, I have gotten more of a sense that Indonesia truly is a fantastically diverse and sprawling archipelago, as Bali seems to come closer to the Southeast Asian norm in many other respects as well, in contrast to dirty and bustling Jakarta, and certainly to Islamic Aceh.

After a day of flying on Air Whatever, by nightfall I had arrived in Banda Aceh. The billboard just after the airport announced that Sharia law was in effect, sporting pictures of a man and woman dressed in clothing that didn’t appear all that suitable for the equatorial climate. Nevertheless the drive into town showed me that it was still very much Indonesia, with national banks and other such flagship brands and institutions.

For many years, a rebel movement called GAM fought the Jakarta government for separation from Indonesia and the imposition of Islamic law. One definitely gets the sense that people in Aceh are more pious by culture. In any event, travel in Aceh was, until very recently, not exactly recommended. Hence, my spontaneous and harebrained notion to come here in the first place. The civil war ended with the 2004 Boxing Day Tsunami, the third anniversary of which is right around the corner at the time of writing. Aceh was doubly devastated, as the epicenter of the underwater earthquake that caused the tidal waves. First it was flattened; then what remained was washed away. In the devastating aftermath, the GAM rebels sued for peace. The Jakarta government, under the admirable President Bambang Susilo Yudhyono, magnanimously granted far-reaching autonomy, which included Sharia law, within an Indonesian context.

The first thing I noticed was that there was construction everywhere. Nevertheless, like the other Tsunami sites I have visited, like Phuket, the Andamans and Kanyakumari, there were no remaining outward signs that such a disaster had occurred. It will be interesting to see the outlying areas. In any case, NGOs have flooded the province, and as a result, prices are more than what one would expect for an area with this level of economic development.

I was also looking to see how many women were actually in veils. In the airport, there were a number without. I went for dinner at Pizza Hut, which I belated remembered, is always a mistake. Aside from the rather disappointing fare, all the women staff were veiled, seemingly as part of their pandering uniform. And certainly all the female patrons were veiled. Again, knowing Indonesia as I do, it strikes me more as a cultural norm rather an imposition by the authorities. There is supposed to be a Chinese restaurant in town that discretely serves beer. I bet they have pork, too. I wonder, though actually doubt, that ingesting such banned items will lead to my arm being chopped off.

And since we’re on the subject of banned items, being the subversive dissenter that I am, the book I have been reading since Bali is banned in its native Vietnam, my next destination. As such, I am diligently plowing through the 700 pages, in French translation, of Duong Thu Huong’s No Man’s Land (Terre des Oublis). On returning from the forest one day, Miên, is shocked to find the man she had married fourteen years previously, and whom she thought killed in combat, has returned. However, in the meantime, Miên has remarried a wealthy landowner and businessman, which whom she has a child. But Bôn, the communist veteran, reclaims his wife. Under pressure from the community, Miên returns to her first husband, to live in despair and poverty. The book has some pretty damning metaphorical commentaries regarding the authorities, but is engaging throughout, with some piercing insight into the characters of men, women, human sexuality, and the contrasts between the peasant and bourgeois mentalities. Food is also amply described and used as a literary device, and in such a way that I am eagerly anticipating my upcoming culinary experiences in Vietnam. Interestingly, Ms. Duong was a member of the Communist Party, before being expelled for some of her earlier works. Only since 2006 has she resided full time in France.

The war had an impact on Vietnam and its society to an extent that is impossible to enumerate in these few lines, if at all. I plan to visit the war museums and memorials in Saigon, come what may. America is reeling to this day from that spunky country that left the Empire with egg on its face.

Iraq is the Vietnam of this generation. The country’s leaders willfully misled the people, getting it into a mortal embrace with a tar baby. Nearly obliterating America’s credibility abroad, perhaps the good that has come out of this morass is that it has shaken people out of their usual complacency, improbably turfing out the Republicans in 2006 from Congress. It also seems likely that the Democrats will recapture the White House in 2008, in a groundswell of disgust for the misguided direction that the country has been led in.

On that note, it is good to see that the Democratic primaries are actually shaping up to be a real competition, rather than a coronation of Hillary. For the record, I want to see Barack Obama take the nomination and the Presidency. He is a uniter, and not a divider. He has lived and traveled abroad and can heal America’s image through actions based on well-grounded understanding of the actual facts, rather than prejudice and conjecture. He is the face that America has truly become. If he stands by his principles, and doesn’t cave into vested interests, certainly a tall order, he could be a leader of historical dimensions. One can hope and pray. One can also campaign and get out the vote.

Bali Photos

Few places on earth are this beautiful. Click here to see for yourself.

Toby Eck

A fascinating young man in his early twenties, I got to meet Toby in Tel Aviv in the spring of 2006. He had been a student of my cousin Lisa in Arizona, and had pursued his interest in filmmaking. He was in Israel to present his short Ana Mish Fahim.

Here it becomes more interesting. American by birth and in every way culturally imaginable, his skin is fair and his hair is light. Toby’s father was of Swedish extraction. Mother was from Egypt. Father converted to Islam to marry mother, even though mother’s family never quite fully digested him. He spent part of his childhood in Saudi Arabia and speaks fluent Arabic. He is even a bona fide Hajji.

Especially in the aftermath of September 11, Toby has struggled with building an identity as a secular Muslim in America. His ideas are unconventional within the context of much of the “mainstream” Muslim discourse (he dates girls, has a positive fascination with Israel). His intriguing films try to reconcile this duality. He accepts that there is no definitive conclusion.

He even interviewed me on film in my home in Tel Aviv, an honor I found most humbling. I hope to see it one day (hint, hint).

Part of having a binational identity between juxtaposing first and third world cultures is the issue of class. While America may not be quite the meritocracy it purports, there are fewer cultural fault lines along social class (as opposed to race). Money buys status, by and large. Wealth earned through labor is glorified.

In Egypt, as in many third world countries, being white instantly confers status. Labor is frowned upon by the elites. So when Toby is in Egypt, he can ride with the upper crust crowd, and use his American nationality, not to mention features, to gain access to social privileges reserved for but a few.

That elite Egyptian crowd nevertheless expects certain things from him that simply aren't there. The first is the budget. By night he hangs out with the English speaking youth, the elite jet setting type. You travel in someone's driven Mercedes or the like to some location where your car is chauffeured into the dark. At the entrance you're waved in, the guard having easily noticed your American features, thereby obviating the need for ID. The bar or lounge is priced exorbitantly for standard international fare. Toby's humble travel budget for covers the 200 pounds (35 dollars) for pasta. By day he gets around Heliopolis on scooter, dodging cars and donkeys on his was to pick up a breakfast that costs no more than 3 pounds (54 cents).

The second is alcohol. Once you're part of the elite in Cairo, it's fashionable to drink. If he were "really" Egyptian, he reckons he would drink to try to fit in and hang with these wealthier kids.

The alcohol issue is interesting in America, too, the land of binge-drinking youth. While not drinking was part of his upbringing as a Muslim, today Toby is very health-conscious, ingesting not so much as aspartame or MSG, let alone alcohol, perhaps quite wisely, I might add. This is a minority, yet accepted lifestyle in North America, and works effectively to put these values into an American context.

Like Gaby and me, he accepts that he'll never feel truly at home anywhere. Toby's main vehicle for an integrated self-made identity has been his film making. Ultimately, Toby, like the rest of us Nationally Confused, has eked out a cultural space for himself, as a citizen of the world, comfortable with ambiguities that are not easily answered, and at home where he hangs his hat.

Israel vs. Iran

Much has been made recently of the US Intelligence report that in effect downgrades the threat coming from Iran’s nuclear program. On the one hand, this may be an attempt by the US government to ease Iran into more fruitful diplomatic talks. On the other, it may also be a way of admitting that it is not politically feasible for the US military to tackle the problem. As such, it opens the door to Israel taking up the baton and defending its national security interests.

Indeed, there have been murmurings from the highest political and military echelons in Israel to this extent. It seems that they are now preparing the ground politically for an attempt to hobble Iran’s enrichment program. In Israel, opinion is also divided, although ultimately, there would most likely be a consensus in favor of an attack. The fact remains that whether Iran is capable of deploying a nuclear weapon in 2009 or 2015 is irrelevant. It is still trying to play the nuclear card, and it risks destabilizing the entire volatile Middle East. How ironic that the burden of world security now falls on Israel.

An Israeli airstrike on Iranian nuclear facilities is, at best, a long shot. The facilities are spread out in a very big country. They are well protected. And Iran’s air defenses are by no means negligible. Compounding this is the greatly reduced effectiveness of air force bombers so far away from base. No doubt there would be a response to such action. One could expect Hizbollah to retaliate in a fashion similar to the Lebanon conflict of Summer 2006, most likely with heavier weapons. A direct rejoinder from the Islamic Republic itself, in the form of long-range missiles, also cannot be written off. This would take the action straight into Israel’s main population centers.

However, reading between the lines, the US and French governments would most likely stand back, and even passively support such a strike by Israel. Iran could not count on support from such powerful allies. Israel may be able to deploy its bombers from a remote location, perhaps even one of the Gulf states, who are privately, but equally, petrified by the prospect of a nuclear Iran. The cost of failure is incalculable. For this reason, the best minds in the IDF are formulating a plan, and saying so publicly.

So while the Western powers have taken a step back, in order to possibly facilitate a diplomatic process, the Israeli stick has been brandished. The stakes being so high, any attack would have to be debilitating, to say the least. I suspect it will be.

Return to the Spice Islands

I awoke in a bungalow, surrounded by tropical greenery. On my way to the (included) breakfast, I spied a most fetching swimming pool. I took my pocket bilingual Indonesian dictionary that I had wisely purchased in Singapore and began to look up high frequency words. It began to come back to me.

After breakfast I headed out to the beach, which, Bali being one of the most spectacularly beautiful places on the entire planet, was simply exquisite. I could barely believe that I was finally back, and had made it to a place that had escaped me during the year I resided in Jakarta. The temperature of the water was of course perfect, and best of all, there were no waves, which is just the way I like my beaches.

A stroll on the boardwalk got me into a conversation about Hinduism and Buddhism, and sufficiently schooled in the Hindu pantheon from eight months in India, I was “invited” (for about $3) to be taken to a Buddhist temple. As a demographic aside, Bali is an island of Hinduism in this vast archipelago of Islam, and it certainly adds to its uniqueness.

The ride took me across stunning views of mountains, tropical vegetation, terraced rice paddies, until finally we got to the temple, which was also beautiful in itself. I sat in the sanctuary and did half an hour of Vipassana meditation. Walking around the temple grounds, I began my first real conversation in Bahasa Indonesia, with the driver of the scooter. And back it came. The language. I still got it! Wow, it is SO MUCH EASIER than Hindi!!

The following day I resolved to spend tanning by the pool. I took the dictionary with me and brushed up on more vocabulary, while tanning. It actually is a surprisingly effective way to study. I still have a tan from Kovalam, so now I can deepen and darken it, along with the language.

As it turns out, Bollywood is quite popular among the Balinese locals, and as a result, Uncle André’s Great Box of Wonders, with the Bag of Media, has made me very popular among the hotel staff. Naturally, I have used this to my advantage to have more conversations in Bahasa Indonesia.

Being so far from the big tourist centers, I find myself very much alone. It has taken a while to adjust to, but now it fits me well. Although I’m traveling for a year, this still seems like something of a holiday. I guess that’s what Bali is for.

You Can Count on Singapore

In the end, with all my errands and comings and goings, I was left with only one full day for proper tourism in Singapore, and I made the most of it. I took the MRT to Harbor Front and stumbled onto some wonderful hawker stalls, where I had an exquisite breakfast of rice porridge with duck, and big glass of lemonade, all for S $3.30. Big signs drew me to Sentosa, Singapore’s artificial beach and amusement park, where I spent the better part of the day taking pictures, seeing exhibits, going on rides and generally enjoying myself.

The monorail back dropped me straight in Vivo City, an immense mall of everything interesting. First I looked at an 8 GB MP3 player for only US $150, but further browsing brought me to an optical shop, where I purchased a much needed new pair of spectacles, Porsche Design, no less. After eight years of frameless, I now sport very stylish frames, and have a new chic look about me.

Later, I went down to the Orchard Road shopping area and picked up all my onward tickets, plus the visa required to enter the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. And from there, it was off to Little India with Mahesh and Jayashri of the Indian High Commission for a farewell dinner. Little India was just super. It was a piece of India in wonderful and orderly Singapore. It says a lot about leadership and vision. If only they had more of it in India itself. In the event, I ate my final south Indian thali on a banana leaf, and spoke my last words of Hindi, and said my goodbye to India in a more concrete way than I had in the mad rush to get out of Hampi and Bangalore.

Some people assert that Singapore is something of a dictatorship. That may be true, at least to the extent that you are well advised to keep your opinions to yourself. But it isn’t despotic, and there is an unspoken contract between government and the governed, that in return for obedience, prosperity will follow. And what an amazing place Singapore truly is. From the humblest of origins, with no resources at all, in a few short generations, this country, through grit, sacrifice, incredible discipline and hard work, catapulted itself from the third world to the first. In many ways it is a model of development: infrastructure, education, enterprise, with a strong social bent to help the weaker sectors. It helps that the population is small. But I reckon that the principles remain the same.

I was left with a very hectic departure day, what with picking up my glasses at 10 AM at Vivo City, checking out at 11 (no other time would do, inexplicably) and meeting Mahesh and Jayashri one last time for lunch, before heading off to the airport for a haircut, sushi meal and GST refund. Let me tell you that if a series of events has to go off in the proper sequence, in Singapore, it will. I managed everything, on public transit, with time to spare.

Nevertheless, upon claiming my tax refund, I examined my Vietnamese visa more closely, only to discover that it was for the wrong dates – December, designated for Indonesia, rather than January, the time meant for Vietnam. This put me in something of a huff, because I had paid S $230 to the travel agent to arrange the visa. However, a Monday morning first thing phone call to Singapore yielded promises to investigate and rectify. I suspect they’ll be able to do it, too.

My Singapore Airlines flight to Bali went off without a hitch, naturally, and there was a ride waiting to take me to the hotel I had booked. What I hadn’t realized was that it was over 100 km from the airport, and it took some two hours to arrive. Exhausted, the impact of arriving back in Indonesia after an absence of twelve years was somewhat lost on me, and had to wait until the next morning.

Every Silver Lining Has a Cloud

Ah, Singapore. So clean. So honest. Everything works. What a breath of fresh air! Bought clothes for prospective job interviews at Banana Republic, and just generally spent an inordinate amount of money. But I’m feeling kind of down, since Mikael and I are no longer traveling together. I suppose, in some ways, that the end was inevitable. But it happened badly, and I feel like shit.

So now I’m just making my ongoing travel arrangements. Bali is coming up in a few days. From there, I’ll go to Aceh, which is rather off the beaten track. And on to the rest of Southeast Asia, before heading Stateside mid-February (to Florida for starters – I’m not that stupid).

So there it is. The rest of the India photos have been updated, so check out the photo album link on the right side of the page. And don’t send any condolences please.

And The Winner Is…

Let’s start with who the winner isn’t.

Greetings from Hampi, a mystical place of strange yet natural rock formations and ancient stone temples, the former seat of the Vijayanagara Empire, the largest Hindu realm ever to rule South India. The zenith of their power was in the 16th century, but eventually the Mughals swept down from Afghanistan and showed them what for.

Hampi is in the state of Karnataka, the capital of which is hi-tech Bangalore. But the two places may as well be in parallel universes. The Hampi region has perhaps the most crushing poverty I’ve seen so far in India. And for all its natural beauty and the structural wonders, the place is filthy and quite very much the one-horse town. The food is uniformly disappointing, to the point that I lost my appetite and only ate the minimum necessary not to starve. There is garbage everywhere, no shortage of skinny cows, mangy dogs and scraggly children. All varieties of animal droppings can be found at every step. It stinks in many places.

I promised myself to stay in India until I had achieved stimulus satiation. And truly, there could be no better place to end my sojourn in this enigmatic country than Hampi. It has all the wondrous beauty and the wretched third world underbelly in plain and unavoidable sight. I’ve had the least fun here (OK, I was also sick). I’m ready to go. I’ve had enough.

And of all the places I’ve been to, almost all brilliant adventures, the winner would have to be Kovalam, with MANAM, Nina and my birthdays, gin and tonic sunsets, the sun tanning competition, fabulous food, and happiness all around.

Now I return to Indonesia, to take the trip I never had the chance to take when I lived there in 1994-95. But first, a bit of the first world, in the form of Singapore, The Mall With a Government. Safety, order, the best food in Asia and nonstop shopping await Mikael and I. Stand back: I have a Gold Visa card, and I’m just crazy enough to use it!

Mosquitoes are in Heaven, Too

Kanyakumari was actually a stopover for MANAM on our way to Madurai (the Sri Meenakshi temple surrounded by an archetypal Indian heaving mass of filth and chaos), also in Tamil Nadu. Mikael had a mission. And we wanted to be there for him. And so it was. Certainly not easy, but best expressed in his own words.

And then, as previously planned, Nina and I headed to the Kerala backwaters for a four-day houseboat cruise, while Mikael made his way alone in various places in Tamil Nadu. We all planned to meet up in Hampi, which would be my final destination in India.

As it turns out, Mikael wants to keep traveling with me. And who am I to say no?! If all goes according to plan, we will do a grand tour of Southeast Asia together, starting in Singapore, and proceeding to Indonesia, Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia. Needless to say, I am rather looking forward to it.

But back to the houseboat. For starters, it was small, or at least our quarters were. Notwithstanding being a tad cramped, for four days we cruised along the most spectacular natural scenery you can possibly imagine, with our crew. Siju was the cook, and the one with the most English. What raw culinary talent! All day long we were just fed, and the local delicacies were nothing short of scrumptious. Shaji was our captain, who piloted us expertly across rivers, canals, lakes and even out to the ocean. And Sabu was the engineer, always helpful.

Palm trees, with coconuts, bananas, rice paddies galore, on the calmest of waterways, all instilled an unbreakable sense of serenity from the moment we boarded. It was truly heaven. The only thing is that mosquitoes abound in heaven. And not just here. I recall a similar experience in the Andamans. The two seem to go together. I guess you have to take the bitter with the sweet. Conveniently, I have run out of anti-malaria medication, so let’s just hope for the best from here on in.

Moored by a rice paddy, eating from the crop of shucked short-grain red rice was a particular treat. I can’t recall ever having this type of rice anywhere else. We had fish once a day and a vegetarian meal at dinner, except for the day when the fishermen pulled up right alongside us and sold us river tiger prawns – who could resist? There was fresh fruit in abundance. Curries with potatoes, beans, okra, fresh salads, grated coconut of course in all manner of things, garlic and lime pickles, all graced our meals. In between, there was a constant flow of masala chai, strong southern coffee, biscuits, fruit and yoghurt, and well, you get the idea. Our most memorable breakfast was of idly, a southern specialty. Normally, you eat two, or perhaps three if you are feeling particularly ambitious that morning. Well, Siju brings out a stack, not unlike hotcakes. There must have been at least twenty. We ate all except three. I was a little embarrassed at my own gluttony, but then I realized that we were also making Siju very happy. There is no greater compliment to a cook than an empty plate. And I sort of suspected that many of the Western tourists he hosts are not used to the food, and it must be nice to cook for folks that so enjoy his own mother’s down-home recipes.

Every day there was an onshore activity. On one day, we went out to a beach literally where the river spills into the ocean. It was a most fetching beach. On the river side, it got deep very quickly. On the ocean side, the waves were high, but crested quite close to shore, so it was very pleasant to be out a bit further. And to be sure, the water wasn’t as salty as one would expect in the ocean.

As it turns out, there was a festival at the time of our little cruise, and we passed by a temple playing devotional music. Now this wasn’t the crap I was most cruelly subjected to in Rishikesh (or in Madurai for that matter). This was beautiful. It was catchy. I want to remember it as our backwater soundtrack. In any case, they took us to a temple onshore to see elephants all dolled up for the occasion, and we witnessed a procession around the temple grounds. It was truly a National Geographic moment.

The following day, we saw a traditional Kerala wedding ceremony at another temple. Up until that time, I had only ever seen Indian weddings in movies. To that end, let me state for the record that the most beautiful bride I have ever seen on the silver screen was Rani Mukerji in Chori Chori. Aishwarya is also a lovely bride. But this was the Real McCoy, and we enjoyed the experience immeasurably.

I had expected there to be at least one electrical outlet on the boat, but alas it wasn’t the type that I could charge all my toys with. But once I started playing music on the computer, Uncle André’s Great Box of Wonders became an instant hit with the crew, and they made every effort to find locals onshore who were willing to let me charge the computer and external battery, sometimes twice a day. Once I even waded through a small river flood to get to a house. A few evenings we screened movies, to all of our enjoyment. And if you’re thinking that such a device ruins the rustic experience, you couldn’t be more incorrect. There is absolutely nothing more pleasing than cruising down the waterways with the soundtracks of Om Shanti Om and Bhool Bhulaiyaa as accompaniment.

I’m really glad that this is my penultimate activity in India. It’s almost like saving the best for last. Spending it with Nina only amplified the magic. To my chagrin, MANAM will part ways in Hampi, our next destination, and my last in India. It has been eight months. It really is time to move on.

Ends of the Earth

Sitting for ten plus hours a day in front of my computer, slogging away as a technical writer, my favorite escape fantasy used to be the perfect beach with the perfect boy, in the perfect state of mind. I often mused how long I could hypothetically go on in such a situation. I scoffed at people that said it would become boring eventually. But indeed, there is a limit to everything, and the one for the above-mentioned scenario can even be quantified: three weeks.

Oh yes, Kovalam was paradise. Every single evening, we had our ritual of putting gin in partially emptied tonic water bottles and climbing up to our lookout point for spectacular sunsets and our most moving conversations. This would be followed by sumptuous seafood dinners and plenty more to drink. We’d stay up late using the computer, listening to music, reading, and enjoying each other. I would get up earlier each morning to have breakfast with Nina at the German Bakery, sometimes over some good Kerala Gold. Then we would hit the beach.

I was intent on a tanning competition. I tan well, after a few initial days. That Mikael had two head starts (Andean origin and a week in Goa) didn’t deter me. At first I burned. Then even Nina pulled ahead, leaving me in third place. Undaunted, I realized that the goalposts had to be shifted slightly. I would be darker than Mikael’s original color. And at this, I verily succeeded.

For my birthday I was fêted in grand style at the German Bakery, with catch-of-the-day swordfish in three different preparations, a series of salads, and lemon sugar crêpes for dessert. I got a silver bracelet, which I still haven’t taken off, as well as another beaded bracelet, and the feeling from Mikael and Nina that I was dearly and truly loved. We partied into the wee hours until Mikael simply passed out.

The festivities went a long way in assuaging my distress at having my credit card number phished. Yes, I have been a victim of identity theft, and it was only brought to my attention when Fidelity called my Mom to alert her that my card was being invalidated on suspicion of fraudulent use by third parties. Well, good on them for catching it so quickly and not charging me a single penny, but in the ensuing three weeks, I have been without access to my money, and supported financially by Mikael. He’s been a great sport. But the question remained as to whether we would wait for the replacement card in Kovalam, or move on to Madurai, in Tamil Nadu, where Mikael had a Mission.

As it turns out, Fedex does not deliver to these parts. At all. DHL does, but it takes six business days. Upon hearing this, Mikael had a meltdown. We decided to have the card sent ahead of us to Madurai.

The next day, while walking on the boardwalk, we saw a postcard in a shop window of a beautiful scene in Kanyakumari. As a point of information, Kanyakumari is the southernmost tip on the Indian subcontinent, and for that reason alone, I was curious about discovering it. We were only 100 km away. We could go to Madurai via the one of the true Ends of the Earth. So we bought the train tickets.

Nina’s birthday rolled around right at this time, so it was only fitting that our last night in Kovalam be celebrated in the grandest of styles. Happy Birthday Dunce Caps were donned, presents were procured, and a most decadent dinner consisting entirely of tiger prawns in various preparations was downed with much gusto. This time we didn’t drink to (too much) excess, and on the morrow, we left.

Nevertheless, on that last night, I had my own emotional meltdown with the realization that not only was I leaving Paradise, but it was also one step closer to eventually parting ways. At the time of writing, I’ve been on the road, as it were, for eight months. Although a bit of a ways off, the end is in sight.

Mikael’s and his knapsack are really a sight to see. The bag weighs an astonishing 70 kg. He weighs 55. At one point in Trivandrum station, he keeled over backwards, just like a tortoise. It took both Nina and I, similarly laden, to get him back up. The boy is strong. On the train, he just crashed. I dozed for a while until a conversation in Hindi just below me caught my attention. Our Malayali compartment partner was talking to a Gujarati schoolgirl, and not only was it clear that both had learned the language in school, but I was able to understand almost everything. I got up.

You may have had enough of me patting myself on the back for this accomplishment or that, but I really must commend myself on having a level of Hindi that is not negligible. I can do introductions and quickly get the conversation onto movies (always a crowd pleaser). With some help and patience from my interlocutors, I can definitely hold my own. Most interestingly, this was not to be my last conversation in this way-cool language with reversed word order. And the great irony of it all was that it was occurring in Tamil Nadu of all places.

And so we arrived at Kanyakumari, where hoards and hoards of Hindu pilgrims, mainly from the North, congregated to see a monument built in honor of Vivek Ananda, a Bengali guru in the Shiva cult who walked from the Himalayas down to this point to meditate at the place where, in one of her incarnations, Parvati wooed Shiva. Then he started a multimillion dollar ashram.

Alongside this monument stands a gigantic statue of Thiruvalluvar, the great Tamil philosopher, who produced his moral code, the Thirukkural, in 31 BC. That the Tamils are uppity about their language and culture has always gotten my goat a little, being the Hindi devotee that I am. I mean, come on. I grew up in Canada. What’s the point of having an official language if you can’t force people to speak it? And yet, the oldest modern literary traditions in Europe hail from France and Portugal, clocking in at around 800 years. The Tamils can claim an unbroken chain of over 2000. That is something to crow about. In Europe, only the Greeks can assert anything similar. And here I was, with ample opportunity to speak Hindi, yet with a newfound respect for Tamils and Tamil Nadu.

And while Kovalam is now behind MANAM, it is the best documented relationship I’ve ever had. We have our home movies, the official soundtracks and playlists, endless photo slideshows, mine and Mikael’s corresponding blogs, and of course the memories. We still have Madurai ahead of us as well. Admittedly, it’s hard to do this with eyes wide open. But then again, that’s travel. That’s India. And that’s life itself.

Birthday Pictures

We knew Nina was drunk when she started singing patriotic American songs.... in Yiddish! The entire following day was dedicated to quiet recovery. Ten million thanks to MANAM for making it so special!

Click here to see the collateral damage.

Happy Birthday Skye Frontier

Birthdays are a time for reflection, as well as getting cool presents. Most years, I'm kind of sheepish about announcing and celebrating. Strange as it may seem to the readers of these pages, I feel a bit uncomfortable with that kind of spotlight on me.

Not this year. Perhaps it is because India 2007 has been a crowning achievement for me, and has boosted my self confidence immeasurably, as it was meant to. All of this has been an incubation period, to be ready for the next stage in life. So this year, in Kovalam, Skye Frontier is letting MANAM go the whole nine yards.

As for recapping, which I have done at various junctures, I look back again at the last seven months (!!) and see Bombay for loss of passports and a new start, and to be a minor Bollywood dancing star.

Then there was unwinding and finding the first real peace in a long time in the Andaman Islands.

Bangalore gave me a taste of hi-tech consulting. Pondicherry bored me to tears.

Rishikesh ended solitary travel with the coming together of the Schedule Sisters, who continued with me to Bhag Aviv.

Then it was Thailand with Francois, at which point, my journey really started; the Vipassana meditation course brought about a seismic shift in my thinking, and in Bangkok I acquired the Hi-Tech Knapsack.

Where most people try to escape Delhi as quickly as they can, I spent three wonderful weeks in Delicious Delhi having the love affair of the decade.

Next came Pushkar, the Enigma Café, being stoned for four weeks, and meeting Mikael in the fifth, and celebrating the Jewish High Holidays at Beit Chabad along the way.

Back to Bombay for two weeks, the second of which was spent with Mikael.

And on to Cochin to meet Nina, reconnect again with Mikael after a week's break, and inaugurate the official formation of MANAM.

Finally we reach Black Sand Kovalam, where Skye Frontier turns 37, on the same day that my great hero Shah Rukh Khan turns 42.

Incidentally, the President of India, that stupid Gujarati woman, has also come to celebrate, basically turning Trivandrum and Kovalam into Yom Kippur. But it was great for getting around by scooter - no traffic!

And it ain't over yet. We have the Kerala Backwaters, Madurai, Cochin yet again to look forward to with MANAM. And then, it's Singapore, Indonesia and in the New Year, on to the coronation of the Sultan of San Francisco. Stay tuned.

Black Sand and Communism

First of all, check out the photos.

Approaching the southernmost tip of the Indian subcontinent lies Kovalam and it’s fabled beaches. On the main tourist drag, to my amazement, the sand is actually black. Not from tar, mind you; black is simply the dominant color. There’s plenty of sun, and of course a bit of rain, with mid October being the tail end of the monsoon so far down south. True to form, we arrived just before the real tourist season started, and had the excellent luck to find lodging in the Rock View guest house, which has only two rooms. We had the run of the place, including seafront balconies and a full-on rooftop.

One fine morning, after another night of gin and tonic carousing, we hit the beach at a relatively early 10:00. As previously mentioned, Mikael and I are in a tanning competition, I being undaunted by his South American origins. I told him the fable of the rabbit and the hare. Nevertheless, by early afternoon, large and frequent dollops of sunscreen notwithstanding, it became clear to me that my day in the sun was over, and we should move on to other activities for safety’s sake.

Mikael insisted on a final dip in the high waves before hitting the showers and applying the aftersun lotion, and who was I to refuse. The waves were strong and high, and I conveniently placed myself right in his path so that the waves propelled me to crash into him several times. And as I was walking ashore ahead of him, he let out a peel of sustained laughter. I turned around to see him nearly falling over, pointing at my ass. As it would happen, my bathing suit had a nice big gaping hole in the rear. I can only speculate the interesting effect it must have had on my tan line. Upon reaching Nina on her chaise longue under the parasol, she commented that she had noticed the tear on my way out, but realized that calling out to alert me of the garment malfunction would only have drawn even more attention to it.

Later on, we found a pizza place on the boardwalk, and I gave my surely annoyingly specific instructions on exactly what we wanted, thinking we would be getting a family sized pizza. To that end, we spent a good quarter of an hour creating a consensus pizza that would please the three of us. Domino’s it wasn’t, and in the event, we were served with three individual consensus pizzas, when I had really wanted bacon on mine, Mikael had wanted chicken, and Nina pineapple. Underwhelming is the word that first comes to mind.

Pizza disappointments aside, the fresh fish and seafood in Kovalam is nothing short of spectacular. We already have a designated favorite restaurant, Leo’s. What’s more, I can give the most specific instructions for preparation, and they will follow them to a T. Ditto for the German Bakery, albeit for different fare.

The other day Mikael and I rented a scooter. I allow myself to do this in third world countries where seatbelt, helmet, and indeed driving license laws are conveniently suspended. In any case, perhaps my most favorite activity in the whole world is to drive at a leisurely pace along scenic country roads. (This is of course because I have not yet driven a Porsche on the Autobahn at 250 km/h).

We found and wandered into a village not far from Kovalam. Kerala is one of two states in India that are usually governed by the Communist Party of India (Marxist) – CPI (M). It has the lowest illiteracy and birthrates, and is perhaps the least caste-conscious state in this vast country. Kerala is also home to something like half of all of India’s Christians. In any case, this village was mixed with Hindus, Christians and Muslims all living side by side. And amazingly, the CPI (M) was their common rallying point.

Now you probably have a preformed opinion about Communism as an ideology. While Skye Frontier concedes that as an economic system it was somewhat nonsensical, you must agree with me that in a parliamentary democracy where they win (and lose) fair and square, as a common rallying point, it has a definite non-sectarian appeal. Focusing on class rather than caste differences is also a huge step in the direction of progress. And there’s still something of an armchair socialist lurking in the core of the Neo-Colonial Baroness’s heart.

Our evening tradition includes gin and tonic at our sunset point, just up on the rocks about 50 meters from the guest house. We are impressed each evening anew, and the waves crashing into the rocks only adds to the romance of the scene. Around that time, a rat usually emerges, whom we’ve christened Rufus. However, it would seem that Rufus has replicated many times over, though I am happy to report that the rat population is confined to those rocks by the shore, and they provide a bit of scary entertainment as the sun goes down each evening.

We prepaid the guest house for three weeks in advance. So this is just the beginning.

MANAM

Mikael, André, Nina. And then André and Mikael again. A fitting name for our gang in a number of ways. For starters, traveling in Kerala, the local language is Malayalam. The locals are quick and proud to point out that it is the only language in the world whose name is the same whether you spell it forward or backward. Mikael is from Sweden, just like ABBA, another such palindrome.

And we’re all sort of from somewhere. Mikael arrived at the age of two months in Sweden from Chile, whence he was adopted by salt-of-the-earth Swedish parents. I find it fascinating to see the South American and Northern European traits in tandem. Nina was originally from Cleveland, but that was before even I was born. She is my adoptive mother all the way from Kibbutz Yotvata, and she has bestowed upon me the honor of spending her sojourn in India with us.

Mikael and I met up in Pushkar. Then we went in different directions. And then we missed each other. A lot. So we met up again in Bombay, and had a whale of a time. Once again, we chose differing onward paths, with Mikael going to Goa, and I making my way down to Cochin in anticipation of Nina’s arrival. But we missed each other. This time quite seriously. A reunion was essential. And this is how the three of us linked up and became MANAM in Kerala.

I had already been in Cochin for two weeks, and for as lovely as that place is, MANAM reached a consensus that it was high time to head for the beach. Nina had the good sense to pack light. I have no such sense. And Mikael, in an endearingly Northern European attribute of being a master of organized packing, was finally, at long last, on hand to ensure that my knapsack would indeed close this time. Until now, it has only been by the grace of God and the skin of my teeth that I’ve been able to fit all my gear into the available and feasible baggage.

In the event, when he saw the state of affairs, he nearly had a breakdown. Before he could start, he poured himself a stiff gin and tonic, after which he expelled me from the room. It was his good luck that there was any gin left, as MANAM has taken to downing a bottle almost every night. Blue Ribbond is the local brew, and I gotta tell you that it is basically rubbing alcohol with artificial flavors. But it leaves no hangover, and we don’t get too messed up or irrational, so it has become MANAM’s cocktail of choice.

Nina and I went to a local tea house to bid farewell to Chaim, an American Jew resident in South India, who coincidentally, was also sort of from Cleveland. Upon my return, two hours later, having arranged for late checkout, since there was absolutely no possibility of our getting our acts together by the requisite noon hour, I found my big knapsack two thirds full, containing every article of clothing rolled up neatly, and tied with a rubber band. All the white clothes had been stored together, separate from the rest. The books had been carefully arranged to balance out the weight and volume in the framework of the bag’s other contents. And I was met with a stare of stupefaction as to how I could have kept myself on the road for six whole months in this state of affairs.

Destination: Kovalam, some 15 km from Kerala’s state capital of Trivandrum. A beach, so we are told, to behold in its beauty. And tourist season hasn’t even started, so we’ll more or less have the place to ourselves. The main goal: a tanning competition. Mikael doesn’t believe me, but I reckon I can give him a run for his money and end up the darker between the two of us. Gin and tonic, sunsets, fresh fish for lunch and dinner, and lots of sunscreen: this is MANAM’s formula for Kovalam.

Cochin Aventures

My Cochin Adventures with Mikael and Nina are best narrated by the pictures we took.

Click here to view.

Cochin, again

Six years ago I visited Cochin. Foolishly leaving after too short a time, to Chennai of all places, it has ever since then retained the status of Best Place to Visit in India. Admittedly, Bhagsu shares this distinction, and was ironically also left too soon. So you see, when something is good, I come back for more, even if it takes a while.

Urban, yet lush, green and sumptuously tropical, Fort Cochin is a little piece of paradise. The more reserved Southerners are a most welcome change to being harangued as a foreigner at every corner in Bombay, and indeed pretty much most of North India. The restaurants serve a wide variety of fare at very reasonable prices. There is a splendid boardwalk, along which you can stroll and view fishing boats, the Chinese fishing nets that typify this place, as well as fish hawkers who sell their fresh wares, that you can have cooked up for you on the spot. And although I haven’t tried it (yet), the State of Kerala is famed for its ganja.

My biggest challenge here is to find cinema halls that are playing the latest Hindi releases. Most movies seen here are in the language of Kerala, Malayalam. Now basically conversant in Hindi, I sort of miss the opportunity to use it. While there are a number of Hindi channels on cable TV in the Hotel Park Avenue (where incidentally I stayed the last time around as well), the idiot box is not my favored medium.

In the coming days, Nina is finally arriving from Yotvata, Israel. Mikael, who decided to take a detour through Goa is now on his way, too. And I will sniff out cinema halls in Ernakulam on the mainland for some good Hindi movie fare for the Dream Factory. Time to get some Kerala Gold, too. So if you think it has been fun up till now, you ain’t seen nothing yet, baby!

The Battle for God

The manner in which the human mind, hard-wired for spirituality, originally related to the inexplicable and the temporal, was to divide existence into what the Greeks called mythos and logos.

Mythos was the myths, fables, legends, stories and parables told, and later written, for the symbolic value of the lessons they imparted. When coupled with cult and ritual, they were able to gain the spiritual dimension that all humans need in order to make ultimate sense of their universe, provide solace and joy, and, as I believe, cleave to their Maker.

Logos was interaction with the real and physical world that was by necessity based on logic, deductive reasoning and practical solutions. As science and civilization progressed, especially in the Western world, mythos came under the type of scrutiny reserved for subjects that pertained more to logos, and thus secularism was born.

This was an attribution error. The stories of the Bible, Koran, Gita and other holy books were never meant to be taken literally. If you had asked the ancients of these texts the same question, they would have been quite perplexed. They saw mythos and logos as two sides of the same coin.

Today, the hallmark of fundamentalists the world over has been to see the world through the eyes of logos, and in a paradoxical error of modernity, give literal and logical reading to mythos. It is impossible to be further off the mark.

This is articulated in a phenomenal book I am now reading called The Battle For God, by Karen Armstrong, a former Catholic nun, turned scholar, author and commentator. Thank you Mikael for this most wonderful gift! On a tangent now, her narrative reminds me so much of Joanna Manning and I wonder if these two amazing women are aware of each other. They should meet. I of course can beam with pride that I lived with Joanna for some time and we continue to be close friends, even after so many years of my wanderings.

If you are curious about religious fundamentalism, as well as how the human psyche has historically processed religion and integrated spirituality with scientific and cultural progress, this is the book for you.

Har Pal – Movie Shoot

A good part of the last several days in Pushkar were spent with Mikael, an amazing Swede, with a heart of gold, and a great eye for taking the most striking pictures. After a spell apart, we resolved to link up again in the Big City, and as no trip to the glitz capital of India is complete without a day on a Bollywood set, I rang up Amjad, and made sure we both got into a song sequence for an A-production. My luck held up.

Har Pal features relative newcomer Shiny Ahuja, paired for the first time with established star Preity Zinta. The scene was set in a nightclub. I recognized some of the dancers from Johnny Gaddar, and others from further movies I have seen, as well.

Right away we were treated to the stars themselves. Shiny Ahuja is very personable, and I wish him much success in his growing career. Preity Zinta is a bitch.

Mikael and I were hands down the best dancers in the foreigners group, not including (but not needing to) the dancing girls with breast implants and feathers in their bleach-blond hair, shaking their wares on the bar. After the first take, true to form, we were both moved right into view of the camera, and nearly stole the show. Knowing beforehand that it was to be shot in a nightclub, I had dressed us appropriately for the occasion.

At a certain point, they put us up in the DJ’s booth, and the beginning of that shot was focused right on us as the camera began to pan across and then down. Doing that take had its good and bad points. The worst part was that behind us was an entire wall of light bulbs, and the whole time it felt like our backsides were baking full tilt in a Holly Hobby oven. The best part was, being in a bar, and feathers in their bleach-blond hair, Mikael cleverly managed to score us beer and Red Bull (but not together) and our dancing soon grew in energy and enthusiasm. We were joined by an intriguing Austrian girl who spoke a slew of languages, including about as much Hindi as me. There was another English girl who also spoke Hindi, and the three of us made quite a stir among the dancers and crew chatting each other up in their language. The Austrian girl was mad as a hatter. When it came up that she spoke several languages, I asked that inevitable question of just how many. She feigned the usual “oh it’s really nothing” false modesty, and revealed the number eight. I can’t describe the malicious fun it was giving her the reaction she least expected, taking her down a peg with my ten. Nevertheless, it must be said that I was duly impressed.

Previously, given the chance, I would loved to have given Preity a cultivated compliment on her (best) performance in Veer Zaara. Austrian Hyperpolyglot managed a short but pleasant exchange with Shiny. The most I managed with Preity was brief eye contact and a Namaskar, which she acknowledged with the most grudging and brief of smiles. From the DJ’s booth, I had the perfect vantage point. Being all pissy and full of diva attitude, I would just have loved to have had a slingshot to pelt her with a spitball, or two. I mean, does she actually reckon that her shit comes out perfumed with a blue ribbon tied to it? She’s apparently not a favorite of other film industry workers, either.

In the event, it was certainly the most fun I’ve had thus far on a film set, and I really couldn’t care less if I make the final cut or not. OK. I’m lying. It would be very nice. Later that evening, Mikael and I, in true neo-colonial fashion, toasted ourselves over outrageously overpriced sushi at the famous Taj Mahal hotel. A memorable end to a memorably week, and a particularly memorable day.

Bombay Pictures

Mikael has a keen eye with a camera, so these pictures are courtesy of a very enigmatic Swede.

Click here to enjoy.

Johnny Gaddaar – The Movie

Well, it’s out. And I saw it. And guess what – it’s a hit! Admittedly an off-the-shelf thriller, with some great acting, and brilliant technical execution, I was pleasantly surprised by Johnny Gaddaar.

One of the aspects that stood out for me was the copious quantities of (apparently authentic) banknotes they used for the film. Seeing all those stacks and piles of money made my Jew-heart leap.

Wouldn’t you know it, as in every movie and commercial I’ve been in, I didn’t make the final cut. I guess it’s in my karma. But that doesn’t subtract from the experience, and certainly not from the film.

It’s an apt metaphor, as well. Having fun making the movie of your life is the point; making the final cut is actually secondary. On that note, with my Bollywood agent Amjad on my trail, it’s time to be in another movie!

Leaving Pushkar For Bombay

Puskhar was the longest time I spent in a single place in India: five weeks. I had the spiritual awakening I had sought. It was high time for some big city action. But during such a relatively long sojourn, it was impossible not to form relationships with a number of the locals, who were saddened at my departure beyond anything I could have imagined.

Fareen, of eBay start-ups, medical and dental adventures, gave me a way-cool shirt. Then he showed me a passport photo of me that had fallen out of my bag, without my knowledge. He asked if he could keep it. I thought it was a silly question, because it seemed clear that he most definitely should. I took the picture out of the little sachet to make sure it wasn’t too bad of a shot, as photogenic, I am not. On the back, he had written “André. The best man in the world.” I couldn’t believe it, and was instantly reduced to tears.

Monu, of motorcycle and Mountain Baba fame, gave me blessings, complete with red tikka, and then garlanded me with marigolds. Having seen the garlanding ceremony in Bollywood movies, I understood that it was an exceptional honor to bestow on someone, and had always had something of a vain and silly fantasy of receiving one for myself. Nevertheless, it occurred to me that I was going to look absolutely ridiculous traipsing around Ajmer, and later Jaipur with this thing around my neck. I wore it anyway and with some pride at that.

Accompanied to the train station by a veritable entourage, for once, the usual disturbances that foreigners endure from beggars and touts, were kept safely at bay. Everyone boarded the train. Hugs. Promises of return trips. Tears restrained, but barely. These wonderful people, who had only done good deeds for me, showering me with hospitality and boundless generosity, were genuinely distraught at my leaving. It was a unique and overwhelming experience which I will have and hold in my heart forever and ever and ever. Thank you Pushkar. Thank you so much.

********************************************************

Jaipur is a nondescript provincial capital. Anyway, I just overnighted there, anxious the reach the Big Lights. My heart lept with joy upon sighting our Jet Airways craft on the tarmac. This carrier is hereby awarded Skye Frontier’s Best Airline of the Decade Prize.

For all my whining about India’s dreadful infrastructure deficit, Bombay’s domestic airport is spanking new, clean, efficient and modern. Through the kindness of others, I managed to get a coveted room at Bentley’s Hotel, with air conditioning, running hot water and cable TV. I had a McFish combo at the Golden Arches, since I was in desperate need of some animal protein, not to mention variety, after the culinary monotony of a small town. I even had Domino’s deliver a pizza to the room for dinner. Zoom TV provided me with everything I’d been missing with respect to what the heck is going on in Bollywood, so I can hit Nariman Point’s Inox cinema. I may emerge from there once I go in tomorrow. We’ll only know if it actually happens. The highest cinematic priority is the premier of Johnny Gaddaar, which opened to mixed reviews, but is nevertheless my best shot at 15 minutes of fame.

However, that won’t be before I put on the dancing shoes I’ve been lugging around since Delhi, and set the dance floor ablaze at a party in Juhu Beach.

Final Night in Pushkar with God

Health recovered, and with an acute case of cabin fever, I spent Erev Sukkot at Beit Chabad. A different set of rabbis were flown in from 770, and intrepid as I am, we sat together at dinner. I asked some good questions.

The universe can be explained up to a point by both science and religion. However, at a certain juncture, there is a void that requires a leap of faith. Faith is a funny thing. While one cannot rely on it entirely, or only on rationality for that matter, blind faith strikes me as having a strong element of infantilism. Nevertheless, that final gap of understanding remains, any way you slice it. Question: how can you be sure God exists?

Long discussion. Many people chiming in. The answer, roughly and in sum, is to look in the small things. Trying to find proof of the Divine with questions like why did this or that happen is like looking in the broom closet for a glass of orange juice. What’s more, at risk of spouting a cliché, throughout creation, to my mind anyway, there is some rather compelling evidence pointing to intelligent design.

OK. So assuming that God actually exists, what was His purpose in creating the universe?

Another long discussion, with quotes, verbatim and paraphrased, from all manner of sources, including the Zohar. Once again, the answer isn’t so simple, but here’s my abridged take on it, adapted to my limited understanding and worldview.

Beyond space and time, which we do know are relative and even subjective, there exists the Infinite Light. When that contracted and the universe was created in the so-called Big Bang, everything was set on course to return to Source after a given period. All cultures in humanity, with its capacity for abstract thought, expressed through language, music, mathematics, and so on, also seem to be hard-wired for religious or spiritual expression. This is no accident. This spiritual constituent of humankind is the force driving the universe back towards the Source, somewhat through ritual, but mainly through good deeds. The impetus to do such deeds comes from the Godly component, i.e. the atman, which exists in each and every one of us.

This collective divine energy agglomerates, propelling the whole universe towards what many faiths term as a type of messianic salvation, where the nature of the world as we know it changes for the better, and the ills of this illusory physical existence, such as sickness, death, and all forms of evil, no longer plague us, and we will be treated to a greater knowledge, understanding far beyond what we are capable of today, and closeness to the Creator. The details of this ultimate transformation vary from religion to religion, but there seems to be much overlap and concurrence, even in some polytheistic faiths. Discard the fire and brimstone. This is merely a grab, historically successful, at social control.

Taking strong hints from Zoroastrianism, we Jews have had the mission and honor of bringing the concept of monotheism to humanity, for which, incomprehensibly, we have been persecuted and punished from time immemorial, up to and including today. In these times, it mainly takes the form of Israel-bashing.

Whatever your opinion on the Jewish State (and Skye Frontier’s has been spelled out pretty explicitly in these pages) what you think about Israel is mistaken. It is the ultimate locus of paradoxes. You think you know it. You think you understand it. You don’t. It is a mystery. Jews, and especially Israelis, may be a problematic bunch from a behavioral perspective. But to focus on that and the details of the Middle East conflict misses the point entirely. This conflict has a solution. The seeming impossibility of reaching it is diverting the spiritual energy necessary for the salvation of the world through love and selfless good deeds. Compromise means nobody gets everything they want, but hey, that’s life. Tough cookies. Addiction to victimhood, thirst for revenge, hatred, prejudice, divisions within society and between peoples, especially when perpetrated in the name of God, must certainly be one of the greatest desecrations of God’s name, work and intentions.

Health recovered, and with an acute case of cabin fever, I spent Erev Sukkot at Beit Chabad. A different set of rabbis were flown in from 770, and intrepid as I am, we sat together at dinner. I asked some good questions.
The universe can be explained up to a point by both science and religion. However, at a certain juncture, there is a void that requires a leap of faith. Faith is a funny thing. While one cannot rely on it entirely, or only on rationality for that matter, blind faith strikes me as having a strong element of infantilism. Nevertheless, that final gap of understanding remains, any way you slice it. Question: how can you be sure God exists?
Long discussion. Many people chiming in. The answer, roughly and in sum, is to look in the small things. Trying to find proof of the Divine with questions like why did this or that happen is like looking in the broom closet for a glass of orange juice. What’s more, at risk of spouting a cliché, throughout creation, to my mind anyway, there is some rather compelling evidence pointing to intelligent design.
OK. So assuming that God actually exists, what was His purpose in creating the universe?
Another long discussion, with quotes, verbatim and paraphrased, from all manner of sources, including the Zohar. Once again, the answer isn’t so simple, but here’s my abridged take on it, adapted to my limited understanding and worldview.
Beyond space and time, which we do know are relative and even subjective, there exists the Infinite Light. When that contracted and the universe was created in the so-called Big Bang, everything was set on course to return to Source after a given period. All cultures in humanity, with its capacity for abstract thought, expressed through language, music, mathematics, and so on, also seem to be hard-wired for religious or spiritual expression. This is no accident. This spiritual constituent of humankind is the force driving the universe back towards the Source, somewhat through ritual, but mainly through good deeds. The impetus to do such deeds comes from the Godly component, i.e. the atman, which exists in each and every one of us.
This collective divine energy agglomerates, propelling the whole universe towards what many faiths term as a type of messianic salvation, where the nature of the world as we know it changes for the better, and the ills of this illusory physical existence, such as sickness, death, and all forms of evil, no longer plague us, and we will be treated to a greater knowledge, understanding far beyond what we are capable of today, and closeness to the Creator. The details of this ultimate transformation vary from religion to religion, but there seems to be much overlap and concurrence, even in some polytheistic faiths. Discard the fire and brimstone. This is merely a grab, historically successful, at social control.
Taking strong hints from Zoroastrianism, we Jews have had the mission and honor of bringing the concept of monotheism to humanity, for which, incomprehensibly, we have been persecuted and punished from time immemorial, up to and including today. In these times, it mainly takes the form of Israel-bashing.
Whatever your opinion on the Jewish State (and Skye Frontier’s has been spelled out pretty explicitly in these pages) what you think about Israel is mistaken. It is the ultimate locus of paradoxes. You think you know it. You think you understand it. You don’t. It is a mystery. Jews, and especially Israelis, may be a problematic bunch from a behavioral perspective. But to focus on that and the details of the Middle East conflict misses the point entirely. This conflict has a solution. The seeming impossibility of reaching it is diverting the spiritual energy necessary for the salvation of the world through love and selfless good deeds. Compromise means nobody gets everything they want, but hey, that’s life. Tough cookies. Addiction to victimhood, thirst for revenge, hatred, prejudice, divisions within society and between peoples, especially when perpetrated in the name of God, must certainly be one of the greatest desecrations of God’s name, work and intentions.

High Holidays in Pushkar

Spending the birthday of the world in the place it was created always seemed like an interesting idea from an ecumenical standpoint, even if it was with Beit Chabad, a movement not familiar with such a standpoint.

Pushkar is a holy city of pilgrimage, and like Rishikesh, meat, eggs and alcohol are not permitted within city limits. I wondered how Chabad would respond to this on the high holidays. To my pleasant surprise, we had a vegan feast, attended by some 350 travelers, 99% of whom were Israeli. The entire program was in Hebrew, which after six weeks of near total disuse was nice to hear again. The Diaspora Jews could have been counted on a single hand. I sat opposite one, a nice young Canadian woman, who spoke the world's most sublime language: Montreal Moroccan French.

Before services, I found one of the few English books on the shelf, and began immersing myself in the kabalistic secrets of the Hebrew alphabet. Knowing the language, but being able to read the explanations in English made the subject resonate all the more fully. I was able to discuss the topic and my experience of Vipassana with one of the rabbis present. On the tail of this pleasant experience, I was actually looking forward to Yom Kippur.

Of the five weeks I spent in Pushkar, I was stoned 90% of the time for four of them. That’s a lot of time to be stoned. And not just buzzed. I mean really whacked. It was an experience no less rich than doing Vipassana. But wanting something “different” after bhang lassis day in and day out eventually got me into trouble.

The best alternative to bhang is charas, that black Himalayan hashish. Charas is made by rolling cannabis paste in your hands until it becomes a soft block. Entire villages in the Parvati Valley live from the trade. It is usually children who do the final rolling. One can imagine that their hands are not exactly clean.

The first charas lassi I had was made with half a tola, which is about 5 grams. This is actually a huge amount, and as a result, I was stoned off my face for two days straight. It was a lot of fun, but a bit too intense to repeat so quickly afterwards. Nevertheless, in breaking the block down into tiny pieces, which I did myself, a small piece got lodged under the nail of my left index finger. It became infected. The infection turned into an abscess, which sported a green-yellow color, and sent me straight to a Mittal Hospital in nearby Ajmer. A small surgical procedure removed the right third of the nail, put my finger in a splint, and brought about the realization of how important the left index finger is for a plethora of daily tasks, most significantly left ear and general nose picking.

As if this wasn’t enough to teach me, about ten or so days later, I decided it was time for another round. This time, I had the concoction made for me, with only 2.5 grams. It was good stuff. I tripped out and even hallucinated a bit. I also managed to contract a bacterial infection in my intestine, because charas ultimately is meant to be smoked and not eaten. As soon as the symptoms set in (no appetite, nausea, crapping sauce) I went straight to the doctor in Pushkar, who incidentally had his clinic literally next door to Beit Chabad. It was Erev Yom Kippur. I got the necessary doctor’s dispensation to eat, although it was exceedingly difficult before the medication set in. I only managed part of a potato.

After a series of intense and sensual experiences in Bangkok and Delhi, being in Pushkar for the latter part of the Hebrew month of Elul, which is meant for meditation, contemplation and repentance, as well as the High Holidays, was meant from the outset to be a quiet, centering experience. It was. I realized that instead of fearing failure, I should embrace it. You cannot learn without it. This mitigates fear. Courage is not the absence of fear. It is the strength and equanimity to face it head on.

Back at Beit Chabad, the usual crazies that tend to agglomerate there were in full force. Maybe they like being told that they’re the spiritual master race. The idea of the Lubavitcher Rebbe rising from the dead to reveal himself as the messiah and dispense great miracles at will is also a comforting Big Daddy story. Nevertheless, for as theologically problematic as these issues are, it does not subtract from the fact that there is no other Jewish organization in the world that undertakes this kind of mission work on such a grand scale. And they do have very positive outreach programs. I suppose this mix is more innocuous outside of Israel, where Jewish religious groups have no influence on government policy, per sé. So as always, I’m left feeling ambivalent.

Nina, my adoptive mother from Kibbutz Yotvata, is coming to travel with me in mid October. This and the change of seasons is powering my push back down south. Next stop: Bombay again for two weeks. Then, off to Cochin to meet Nina. The journey continues. Drug free now. Ironic that it should happen in India of all places.