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!