tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-109111322024-02-20T13:43:59.979-08:00WhatChi?What is your favorite question? Answer here. eh?Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-69292999456388669632009-08-11T13:18:00.000-07:002009-08-11T13:27:36.406-07:00Middle of nowhere<div><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto">I arrived in <st1:city st="on">Conakry</st1:city>, <st1:country-region st="on">Guinea</st1:country-region>, from <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Freetown</st1:city>, <st1:country-region st="on">Sierra Leone</st1:country-region></st1:place> early one November afternoon in<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>2002. I was on a work trip for an international organization. It took mere minutes to<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>successfully traverse the notoriously strict yet enterprising immigration and customs. For one, I hand no luggage, and was carrying only a small backpack. When asked what I was carrying<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>into the country, I pointed at my backpack and said “Sous-vêtements –Underwear-?),<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>which caused the robust ladies a robust chuckle my way and a “tax”-free exit from the<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>gauntlet. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto">I was met at the arrival hall by our driver, and we immediately began a journey that<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>would take us to the town of <st1:city st="on">Kissidougou</st1:city>, about 10 hours from <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Conakry</st1:city></st1:place> on a nominally<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>paved road. We had about 9 hours before sundown, the start of the curfew for driving<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>into Kissidougou town. This hour deficit introduced an added incentive for the driver’s<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>gusto on the streets out of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Conakry</st1:city></st1:place>, and the road through Mamou towards Kissi. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto">The over-used tape player churned the over-played cassette and the speakers crackled<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>with rapid-beat, singsong music of a famous Ghanaian singer as our driver maniacally<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>sped along both lanes and the blind-curves of the road snaking up and down the<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>hillsides. His quiet lip-synching along with the music would be interrupted with<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>rapidfire commentary as he intermittently would swerve onto the oncoming traffic<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>lane at full speed while pointing at a pothole the size of a pond, or worse yet, a poured<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>block of cement, covering our lane. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto">“Wartime checkpoint, no good for the axel of the car, hehehe...” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto">Instead of slowing down, he would honk once or so before overtaking, and at times<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>overrunning, lumbering minivans with 20 passengers inside and a dozen on top. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto">“Sleepy time slow taxi...They go faster if they walk alongside....” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He double-honked when reaching the hapless, meandering dog or cow, “ Move now, or<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>be stew later...”, and laid a steady horn for walking and cycling villagers with large<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>parcels balanced on their heads “The road is no bazaar mama...”. Magically, they would<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>get out of the way as we passed, only to re-emerge from the tall grass that flanked the<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>windy road. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto">We only slowed down for the occasional rope stretched across the road, with a soldier,<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>or otherwise camouflaged gun-toter, holding one end, lounging under a shade and dark<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>pilot sunglasses. Driver would sit up straight and tip his imaginary hat with two fingers. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto">“Easy we go...no trouble we with the NGO car.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto">While the road-blocker’s companion would extract ‘tolls’ from the overloaded minivans<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>and local transports, he would wave the foreigners by in their air-conditioned SUVs . </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto">As hours rolled on alongside the scenery, with the repeat of the same 7 songs and the<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>almost identical anecdotes dotting the constant harrowing driving style, I started to<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>concentrate beyond the road and passing of the circular mud huts and occasional<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>villager in a daily chore. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto">By the time darkness fell, all that was visible was the orange scatter plot of distant<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>bonfires that accompanied the scent of burning firewood coming through the windows.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>By then, the Ghanaian songs’ innumerable replays had turned into a mantra, and the<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>drive had become a vague multisensory experience of getting deeper and deeper into<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>some unknown world. My only connection to the here and now was the basic but<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>overwhelming need to relieve myself, which we had postponed in order to reach our<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>destination before curfew. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto">“Plenty of bush for the business when we reach...” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>By the time I was about to succumb to an embarrassing personal spillage moment, we<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>suddenly turned off the main road into the creek-bed serving as a long driveway at the<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>end of which a walled compound appeared with dim light bulbs demarcating the<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>metallic doors. A dog barked on the other side, as the driver pulled the parking break,<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>honked three times and opened the car door. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto">“Welcome to the compound in the nighttime <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Guinea</st1:country-region></st1:place>....” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto">I was overjoyed to leave the SUV, step into the darkness around the wall and answer<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>nature’s call at likely the exact coordinates of the middle of nowhere. </p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-36820007846258540662009-01-18T07:13:00.001-08:002009-01-18T07:17:00.169-08:00Amman Views -1Outside the office window in the distance, on the “largest flag pole in the world” a majestic Jordanian flag lazes in the breeze over one of King Abdullah’s Palaces, intermittently obscuring one of the Amman hills in the background.<br /><br />A streetlight post is swaying just as lazily underneath this 3rd floor window, overlooking the unkempt field of dirt and debris that stretches for a city block. This is where they sell the sheep for Eid-al-fitr, which means that this derelict looking patch of land is quite by design. Later in the week, a family of gypsies will have pitched a tent in the field to witness the occasional herd of suburban sheep grazing past.<br /><br />We are located on the outskirts of downtown Amman, on the way to Hashmi-Shmali, which is a more modest northern suburb, as compared to Maghdoon, where my hotel is located, alongside large homes and apartment buildings, with BMWs and shiny SUVs buzzing about.<br /><br />The office itself has no central heating, and upon entry, you notice the building’s inherent heat dissipation and coolness retention properties. What passes for a great boon during summertime is cause for shivering dismay at this time of year. I am introduced to our local staff on the first floor, huddled around a gas heater with arms stretched down and hands cupped like satellite around the heater to intercept the heat waves.<br /><br />They have the gleam and lightness of proud new-hires, and the warmth and openness their culture affords new guests (who come invited). I feel an immediate connection. The Iraqis, the Jordanians, the Palestinians, all keen to say hello to the HQ emissary. As soon as my name is mentioned, a layer of formality is lifted; they probably have cousins or siblings with the same name. Are you Arabic, they ask and my answer doesn’t deter the kindnesses. Iran? I love Googoosh. (the 70s singer/youth symbol of Iran) says one. Another claims the Persian cuisine as his favorite.<br /><br />We step into the conference room, newly appointed with freshly painted walls, an easel and Whiteboard at the ready in the corner, and tables and chairs arranged in a rectangle so all can see each other. With informal chatter out of the way, we spend a few minutes in formal introductions. Self introductions provide some information about people’s backgrounds, and some insight into who they perceive themselves to be (by what they choose to divulge). One has a PhD in Religious studies, another was raised in Ramallah. Someone has worked in the UN, another is here because of the children.<br /><br />I divulge that I have been with the organization for 7 years. What does that say about me?<br /><br />Left to ourselves, we could continue sharing and comparing our cultures and personal stories, but the westerners are keen on the schedule of training. I, along with Admin staff, leave the team to their at times harrowing discourse on the subject of torture and rehabilitation.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-73889426328867764322007-07-02T13:45:00.001-07:002007-07-02T14:12:10.950-07:00A lesson in history and humility<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszvofh2HwLfV2rO1k4kExyiagJHj5wCUaYs7CVXXDyHjM1UhYb0Xx6EhHlJjWFB99FOsGSQByg7bgKY5fU63vDOWOugQAt0haASmQMdkHFIyPUDRdthFglksSAWIdBCp1WNp9/s1600-h/IMG_3103.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszvofh2HwLfV2rO1k4kExyiagJHj5wCUaYs7CVXXDyHjM1UhYb0Xx6EhHlJjWFB99FOsGSQByg7bgKY5fU63vDOWOugQAt0haASmQMdkHFIyPUDRdthFglksSAWIdBCp1WNp9/s320/IMG_3103.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082704030936972866" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Places like <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Monrovia</st1:city></st1:place> have a penchant for knocking you off the mountain of self importance in a hurry. For me this happened on one of the work trips there. First, I will describe the events in the self-aggrandizing manner they happened leading up to that precise humbling moment of understanding how little I understood, and the extent of my insignificance. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I was helping set up a conference</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> with some auspicious title like 'Rebuilding Civil Society in Post Conflict Communities'. Our journey towards self importance figuratively had started months in advance during the preparation, and literally kicked off as we met that friday at the Minneapolis International airport.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>Despite a sizable Liberian diaspora, travelling to <st1:country-region st="on">Liberia</st1:country-region> from <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Minnesota</st1:place></st1:state> is not as straight forward as it might seem. We are spoiled to expect the choice of multiple flights on multiple airlines at any/all time of day for any destination. Flights to <st1:city st="on">Monrovia</st1:city> are typically limited to 2 or so flights a week from <st1:place st="on">Europe</st1:place> on 2 airlines. In our case, the itinerary had us travelling to <st1:city st="on">Brussels</st1:city> via DC, and then onward to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Monrovia</st1:place></st1:city> on a 'milk-run' flight (whereby the plane makes several landings, and you only deplane at your destination).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">We did eventually make it to <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Brussels</st1:city></st1:place> for our milk-run flight, but not after several cancellations and flight delays had us and our luggage rerouted through several other countries and airlines. We made several full sprints down unending airport hallways to make it, and I was fully resigned for my luggage to be en-route to <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Mongolia</st1:country-region></st1:place> instead. But all 12 of our suitcases and boxes (of material) successfully appea</span><span style="font-size:85%;">red on the trundling conveyor belt in the absolute chaos of the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Roberts</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">International</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Airport</st1:placetype></st1:place>’s cramped luggage hall. Disbelief gave way to joy, and a slight feeling of invincibility and righteousness. We were there for a noble purpose, and the travel gods had deemed us worthy.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Ours was to be a 5 day workshop with some 40 activists from across <st1:country-region st="on">Liberia</st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region st="on">Sierra Leone</st1:country-region>, and presenters from other parts of <st1:place st="on">Africa</st1:place>. A local NGO was our partner, and they were in charge of the larger, more ceremonial first day of our weeklong workshop, including speeches, speeches, and speeches by dignitaries followed by a half-day workshop for 120 select participants from Liberian Civil Society.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>We arrived an hour early (just in case) at the massive City <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Hall</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype st="on">Building</st1:placetype></st1:place> on the main road. This building, despite its state of disrepair after years of abandonment and ravages of war, has retained some of its majesty, with its spacious halls and generous hallways and windows. For our daylong visit, enough fuel was pre-purchased for the generators for electricity and air conditioning, podiums and dignitaries tables were brought in, and about 150 plastic chairs were placed cinema style on the old hardwood floors.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>Upon arrival we noticed no organized process in place for sign-up, set-up, preparation of the hall, or attending to the guests-of-honor. As a matter of fact, our local partn</span><span style="font-size:85%;">ers weren’t there, and did not arrive until 15 minutes before the official start time, by which time throngs of local and non-local participants were amassed at the front hallway, slowly warming in the impressively climbing heat of the mid-morning.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>After our partners arrived, and for the rest of the morning, we flew by the seat of our pants in all directions; we alphabetized applications, stuffed welcome folders, set up queues for the quickly heating up guests, improvised protocol for receiving this minister or that commissioner, jerry-rigged sound systems and projector screens, hand-crafted nametags, consoled indignant participants and late-coming divas, and countless other frantic activities.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">All of this was the prelude to the day we were to be having, which was an eye-opening exercise in improvisation. By mid-day, most of the planned activities had gone differently than expected. We had rolled with all the challenges, and had maintained a somewhat successful flow to the program, in the face of what seemed to be the inevitable forces of chaos, as well as a prevailing process-defying sentiment among the participants.</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYLinOF-kPrvRt7UFumOZraVuzsjylrzMlajXWQ-6wpy22fEf3iZU8PuQJhhL9xlj_yth0hBMkNJ1qU91Vkaw2NURs4CJrfwmAtGhFThv_9WYDvyOBM45nRkxSNv_ueMW7t8pF/s1600-h/collage.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYLinOF-kPrvRt7UFumOZraVuzsjylrzMlajXWQ-6wpy22fEf3iZU8PuQJhhL9xlj_yth0hBMkNJ1qU91Vkaw2NURs4CJrfwmAtGhFThv_9WYDvyOBM45nRkxSNv_ueMW7t8pF/s200/collage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082707385306431058" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>By late afternoon, despite some challenges in food distribution that left some participants without chicken and others without spoons, most were happily engaged in small-group activities, and busily, colorfully identifying and prioritizing the issues facing their society.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>So the meeting ended and as the last of the lingering participants left the cool spaciousness of the main hall, we were left with some sense of success that they actually found this to their benefit. I for one, was subconsciously attributing some of the success of the day (if not most of it) to our being there, and being the important, savvy, knowledgeable and skillful conferenceers who saved the conference, despite some participants’ dissatisfactions, others’ disorientation, and a few who found it wanting.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>I was one of the last to leave, watching the guests melt into the late afternoon crowd beyond the City Hall Driveway. I almost felt as though I did more of the work for this day than the participants. Then I tried to tell myself that I came from the comfort of abundance and convenience back home to spend one day of minimally extraneous action, whereas they came from fledgling communities just reconstituting after all the trauma and inhumanity of the previous years.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>I needn’t have bothered with the contrived self admonishment, as my mental exercise was obviated by the ensuing 15 minute drive and our driver’s impromptu detour.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I had met Sibley on my previous trip to <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Liberia</st1:place></st1:country-region>. He is a unique person by all accounts. He is a bald medium sized man with a permanent frown and pout, until he bellows out with his laughter, putting his hand to his head and showing all his front teeth. He alternated between formal conversation and somber looks, and bouts of laughter and easygoing banter.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>Like any other person you meet here, Sibley has many harrowing stories to tell, and the wounds of the war on his soul are still fresh. His mind is overflowing with the memories, and he recounts them. On the my last journey, we occasioned to travel inland to Gbarnga, a 3+ hour drive in our SUV, where he described the time he had to flee <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Monrovia</st1:place></st1:city> with his family on foot along the same road, sometimes in the bush, sometime on the road. What death and dismemberment he saw, the fright of checkpoints, the unknown random evil lurking behind the next lush greenery, or at the next checkpoint. He would recall gruesome tales with a numbness of emotions, letting the words and images bring their own horrid emotions. His drooped eyebrows would belie his stoic delivery. Maybe it was telling the stories to another person who hasn’t heard it before, one more witness whose comprehension might dilute the intensity of the pain.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>That Gbarnga ride has a story all its own. This day, though, Sibley has just arrived from another trip inland, in time to give us a ride down the main road to Mamba point on the westernmost part of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Monrovia</st1:city></st1:place>. I see him leaning against the hood of the Toyota Pickup in his white polo and Khaki pants, socks and hiking boots. He is munching from a bag of cheese puffs. I know he likes Cheetos, and have brought him a bag of them, and some goldfish crackers to expand his horizon.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>He greets me with a mouthful of orange teeth, and shakes my hand with his training/driving gloves. After pleasantries, we get in the truck for the 10 minute drive, a straight shot down the main road.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>No more than a block down the street, beyond the UNMIL (UN mission in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Liberia</st1:country-region></st1:place>) building and he asks us without waiting for an answer as he swerves off to the left on a clay road.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>“You mind if I show you something?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>Not at all, I say, while wondering what enterprising endeavor I am going to experience this time.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>“I told you last time I had to leave <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Monrovia</st1:city></st1:place>, you remember?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>“Yes, yes. You said your couldn’t stay in your house”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>“That’s right. I am going to show you my house, the one I had to leave”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>By now we are down that clay road, and past a largish building that is currently hosting the budget office. He turns right, down a downhill dirt road, honking in a non-linear rhythm to alert the many locals who are walking or riding, or carrying bundles and large bins down the middle of the road.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>The road snakes through red-dirt like a creek. Strewn on the sides of the road are semi-habitable 2-story houses made of cement. They all show signs of destruction and disrepair. The house on our left has a large tree whose roots bulge out of the front yard, almost flush against the wall. Several children are running after a rolling bicycle rim. A few women sitting in the shade are tending to foodmaking on a stove in front of the glass-less window of what looks like the kitchen.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">As this is not where any NGO offices are, our presence is obvious and the stares are ubiquitous. The pickup truck trundles as Sibley navigates the creek-bed that pretends to be the road.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirFy__FG1il1yUZarX9nZ6KQMdDYqvwVCIuVAc4hIu8FIOES9seVSlK2I7Lb_cAuvX-YMKs9o0WBKH79ZXsbWzcePAbntOZ92S9uaak6felV33kleeozuXDao1n96NJG_kmM06/s1600-h/IMG_3123.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirFy__FG1il1yUZarX9nZ6KQMdDYqvwVCIuVAc4hIu8FIOES9seVSlK2I7Lb_cAuvX-YMKs9o0WBKH79ZXsbWzcePAbntOZ92S9uaak6felV33kleeozuXDao1n96NJG_kmM06/s200/IMG_3123.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082707986601852514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">We reach a curve in the creek/road, and can see the ocean in the near distance below. As we are about to take the bend, Sibley’s finger-pointing hand shoots past my face, out the passenger window, and points at this cement 2 story house with running cracks and large splotches of peeling pink-gray paint, plopped in the red dirt, set back behind a makeshift fence. Most prominently, a smoked out, bomb-carved upstairs window stares back at me like a giant, punched black-eye on an old wrinkly face.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>‘There!’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>Is this where you live, I ask. And he looks at me and says</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>“now? No no. This is where I lived before the fighting came up the road from the beach. I left this place with my family. We went running away…”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>Have you gone back in again, I ask, not really knowing what to say.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>“what for? I don’t need to. I have a house in the suburbs, and it is better. You will see….”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>By now we have passed the house, and are about to get on a small bridge that is not really traversing a river, or a creek, but a shallow valley of garbage. This is where the waters wash the refuse of the city onto the ocean, and the result is this multicolored, delta of trash.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>Smoke is smoldering out of a pile here, the stench of trash and burnt rubber burdens the balmy air, and I can pick out children and young men off in the piles rummaging for something.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>We drive past in surreal non-chalance. I don’t know what to ask, and Sibley sees nothing worth of clarifying.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>Until we clear the garbage delta and arrive at the edge of another paved road on the shoreline, next to a sandy beach where youthful boys are playing soccer with the flare and flamboyance of African Allstars in the haze of the smoke.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>“See this beach?” Sibley says “This is where they shot the ministers”.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>I manage a “HUH?” as my eyes shift to put him and the past in focus while the playful soccer scene of today vanishes behind his silhouette.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>He tells me the story of when he watched from his pink house when the soldiers paraded the ministers from the barracks right across the street onto the beach, and executed them.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>“here?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>“Yeah, right there by where that goal is set up. It was after they killed Tolbert in the mansion. But that was </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Doe, that was before the worse things happened.” He shook his head. The smile had given to the frown.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>“but you already know. Now you'll remember them every time you see a 5 or 10 Liberian Dollar note … anyways, I just wanted to show you the house”. We have come to a rolling stop by now, and he momentarily stares away from my face, onto the ocean. He breaths in, clucks, and </span><span style="font-size:85%;">looks back onto the road.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><center><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYLiwXkEmI-z_I6AF1DiWtGfvzoV-WzmiGWMbL9i-k2FPX3zjRNYf4jVXR6sCaYjvnTCcEwFQBTFqJO2Xt88DolD8hyCJ23SL6yhklkGvTwEe7K3CW5q7apRkgRYJSgSgvUyu2/s1600-h/IMG_3130.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 139px; height: 104px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYLiwXkEmI-z_I6AF1DiWtGfvzoV-WzmiGWMbL9i-k2FPX3zjRNYf4jVXR6sCaYjvnTCcEwFQBTFqJO2Xt88DolD8hyCJ23SL6yhklkGvTwEe7K3CW5q7apRkgRYJSgSgvUyu2/s320/IMG_3130.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082708587897273986" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggI7nwBQtOxE2Su_XoYVlfLhlUY-krnE1pg8jFrkGIQ90hl2VJdgducAhXARn_ZlQXZKSIKVKIMe6JSDpxWxfLHUCG8UXNDem37d3q_voUFQEvt1OWeIcUtfY0Me7Y3RSch8UI/s1600-h/IMG_3126.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 139px; height: 104px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggI7nwBQtOxE2Su_XoYVlfLhlUY-krnE1pg8jFrkGIQ90hl2VJdgducAhXARn_ZlQXZKSIKVKIMe6JSDpxWxfLHUCG8UXNDem37d3q_voUFQEvt1OWeIcUtfY0Me7Y3RSch8UI/s320/IMG_3126.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082708579307339378" border="0" /></a></center><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">“now I will drive you to the hotel” pointing with his fingered hand emphatically forwards, as he switches into a higher gear, honks the horn and flips the windshield wipers, moving us down the road and putting the beach, the barracks and the stories behind.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>I look through the back window of the pickup to see the kids in their unending energy pushing forward while the heavy haze slowly obscures them from view.</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoFLyNypxvwHy4V9At-aro-Sq1gTSdQI8YKd3rfjem6RZWLXiNW1bi7OBpYjGRFSctHraJ_NNXrHUv0-s-nzEpXqeYJiQZPwk3eBoJTuWyQqRnRZOY2K86FO64yoqVFk11TSPQ/s1600-h/IMG_3124.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoFLyNypxvwHy4V9At-aro-Sq1gTSdQI8YKd3rfjem6RZWLXiNW1bi7OBpYjGRFSctHraJ_NNXrHUv0-s-nzEpXqeYJiQZPwk3eBoJTuWyQqRnRZOY2K86FO64yoqVFk11TSPQ/s320/IMG_3124.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082708592192241298" border="0" /></a><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-60832911107000633322006-12-19T00:39:00.001-08:002006-12-21T15:45:53.126-08:00Furnace and Soul tuneup<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span style="font-size:85%;">Last week I called in the Gas company for a routine maintenance of the Fireplace and the Furnace. I don't really believe the 15 minutes, 3 screws, one blowing into a nozzle, and a glance at the CO meter really merited 265 dollars.<br /><br />I didn't realize though I was getting more than just that, as the dude also had a mission to show me the Way, the one with the capital W. I had never been approached by an evangelizing type, especially not a 190cm (6'4") 80kg (200lb) furnace tuneup impersonator.<br /><br />Thanks to a basically maintenance-free machine and the power-screwdriver, his formal task took 12 or so minutes. The flames were restored to the pilots, the burners were inspected, and the heat of the hades was flowing in my house once again. But alas, heaven awaited, and I was getting more than the bargained-for service. Taking advantage of my sleepy crack-of-dawn stooper (at 9 am), the maintenance man transformed himself into a paver of the path to glory. He took a look at the book on my coffee table ("Persepolis", a graphic novel that basically encapsulates my Iran during my childhood give or take a gender).<br /><br />"Hey what book's this?" He asked curiously, though still in the Furnace fixer tone of voice.<br /><br />"It's a book about Iran..." I said, preparing to explain my affinity for the book, though I was conflicted. After all, I was sure he could care less about all the nuance I was about to unleash. What I didn't expect was to be out-drawn on the oratory front.<br /><br />My half sentence lingered in the air only a moment, and then came his response. His voice suddenly had changed to a semiwhisper deep voice, degaussed of all the crispness of early-morning man-to-man talk, and airbrushed into a sacred-wanna-be monotone.<br /><br />"You know what book I think is magnificent?..." He asked, and then answered ad-infinitum himself. He told me about this book that showed him the path through the depths of despair, and of arrival at the doors of salvation. He quoted me chapter and verse of all that stands between me and heaven.<br /><br />after about a 5 or so minutes, he asked me if I had heard of the Bible. He didn't expect me to say I had actually read it. The gauzy voice screeched to a halt and the soft melodic sounds momentarily lapsed as he asked in the furnace-man voice " You've read the bible? Where are you? Do you believe?"<br /><br />I am very comfortable in my belief, I said, though others may not agree.<br /><br />He blinked, his mind reaching to flip the mental tape for the b-side, turned on the pseudo angelo-acoustics and began into another few minutes of how his path had saved him, and how his job puts him in front of many people who don't see the way. He told me about his hands being magical creations, about evolution being a falacy of the devil, of evil blinding us to the true path, and how easy it is to go to heaven.<br /><br />In the 20 or so minutes that he continued with his monologue, I had plenty of time to ponder things.<br /><br />Of all the permutations, I chose to think that he was genuinely interested in sharing his bliss with me. As such, I should be thankful for his efforts even though, as I wanted to impart on him, some people need to learn the alphabet while others are already reading. I also wanted to ask him about his compunction to spread this word and whether he was doing it to feel better about himself?<br /><br />In the absence of an entrypoint to this one-sided conversation (uni-versation), I also understood the unfortunate thing: there was no mutual acceptance here. There was no dialogue about shared understanding. His monologue only saw one path to one truth, and a very literal one at that. Eventually, he ran out of what he had practiced to preach(and/or the next appointment loomed, or he got tired of my quiet nodding), and chalked it up to another practice run for the next time.<br /><br />I thanked him for his work and his words, and congratulated him on finding his own path and that may others find their paths too. His "does not compute" frown momentarily flashed, followed by his non haloey bluecollar tone telling me You Bet., and off he was to the next furnace appointment to salvage another person from the worldly cold and their souls from otherwordly peril.<br /></span><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-1161369771426539942006-10-20T11:01:00.000-07:002006-12-08T18:40:38.162-08:00Express yourself<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsbX-rXsH1oXvYhAaQaVwZOmfBUbniyZaHSKpdawFhOBc5poS7glGl-xlFOcsF3qHX6J8AqZ7LB-u4-s-pZrYS-fH6j26pT3noJc-4-B-D1vpFqnmtqM3NKIvgkeEC7eh9Q-EP/s1600-h/IMG_2643.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsbX-rXsH1oXvYhAaQaVwZOmfBUbniyZaHSKpdawFhOBc5poS7glGl-xlFOcsF3qHX6J8AqZ7LB-u4-s-pZrYS-fH6j26pT3noJc-4-B-D1vpFqnmtqM3NKIvgkeEC7eh9Q-EP/s320/IMG_2643.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5006311569657678914" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">I will begin by telling you two musical irritations of mine, before I tell you about one night's experience in <st1:city st="on">Istanbul</st1:city> that shattered them both, and those who have seen the film "Crossing the bridges of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>” know why.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><o:p></o:p>One, I am by no means a jazz lover. I love parts of it, don't get me wrong, but there is always a point where the musicians get themselves into some sort of persistent fixation, or an audio-compulsive frenzy. By the time they detach themselves from their instruments I feel my eardrums have been swisscheesed by a swarm of termites. I am fully aware that this is my lack of appreciation of the artform, as I can see the mastery at work, it just happens that when they get possessed by the Jazz wigging bug, It means agony.<br /><br />Secondly, I am not so keen on “fusion”. Just as I don’t like ginger extract in my cup of espresso in the name of blending of cuisines, most mixing of musical genres leaves me upset about two good things being ruined. (As you see, I don’t even know the proper use of the term fusion)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" spt="75" preferrelative="t" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f"> <v:stroke joinstyle="miter"> <v:formulas> <v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"> <v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"> <v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"> <v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"> </v:formulas> <v:path extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" connecttype="rect"> <o:lock ext="edit" aspectratio="t"> </v:shapetype><v:shape id="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:244.5pt;"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\ADMINI~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.jpg" title="IMG_2643"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]-->On this fateful night, I showed up at Babylon music Bar in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>. This is unassuming, but substantive brick hall with African artifacts in faux-window arches and sharp blue and red lights giving it a “I am too cool to point out my coolness” kind of place. The stage was set, and before long they marched in from the entryway on stage left; Two DJ dudes, a percussionist, a guest French jazz pianist, a Yankee on sax, a Britton trumpeter, a Saz prodigy (Saz is the long-necked string instrument with that haunting twang), and a tiny traditional folksinger with a mesmerizing voice that soon would penetrate our souls.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Without fanfare, the double DJs went to work, and with a few switch flips and a few knob turns, they paused, looked at each other, and unleashed a groovy house techno disco something or other backbeat on us all, immediately going into their synchronized torso-bobbing as if they were sharing the same pogo-stick.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdlTJr5kN_5vh_Ec8MPJQySEzweJOMKBJPdqe9eQ9g_BRzRDKXZ_BqibnG8KFxGBUmOeaKzQX9MPxgt5QVYkYXX3KkKwrMrUYsWvii4UXBDIB_Dol-vLPN2o-fxagyXypshtZu/s1600-h/IMG_2662.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 156px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdlTJr5kN_5vh_Ec8MPJQySEzweJOMKBJPdqe9eQ9g_BRzRDKXZ_BqibnG8KFxGBUmOeaKzQX9MPxgt5QVYkYXX3KkKwrMrUYsWvii4UXBDIB_Dol-vLPN2o-fxagyXypshtZu/s320/IMG_2662.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5006311883190291538" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Almost immediately, the percussionist picked an impossible eastern cross-rhythm on his tabla/and djembe drums while the Saz player began the captivating plick-placks of an old Turkish melody. Before long, all of us in the audience were riding the same pogo-stick, bobbing up and down while the Saz hummed our collective heartstring, and the drumbeat tickled our solarplexus. By the time the piano and the horn section moved into the audioscape of the hall, it was impossible to decipher what music was being played by whom, and moreover, it didn’t matter.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><a href="http://localhost:4884/8fecd85be6db19959874b92e7213df6a/image157.jpg?size=1024"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1026" type="#_x0000_t75" alt="" style="'width:225pt;height:300pt'" button="t"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\ADMINI~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image003.jpg" href="http://localhost:4884/8fecd85be6db19959874b92e7213df6a/image157.jpg?size=400"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><br /><!--[endif]--></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">We were all awash and abob in the sea of musical umami. As the juxtaposing east-meet-west fantastic rhythms of the synths and the drums warmed up our core, the musicians took turns to do their solo frenzies. the vocalist’s beautiful and elongated notes; the rapidfire piano riffs;<span style=""> </span>the uber-ambidextrous beating on the drums ; the slow howl of the saxophone, and the permeating, tiptoeing of the delectable Saz.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">They cured me of my boorishness about Jazz-wigging and fusion,<span style=""> </span>they slow-fast mesmerized</span><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> me, fused the music into me and scooped me up in their trance-bob-groove-fest for hours on end, and showed me the way to Fusistan.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><br />so much so that I am ready for that ginger in my cup of java....<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" alt="Posted by Picasa" style="border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" align="middle" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-1160685507185464232006-10-12T13:38:00.000-07:002006-10-12T13:38:27.213-07:00Of Both Worlds<p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm">It is fitting that this thought should cross my mind as I am airborne enroute to Istanbul, which to me is a genuine crossroad of civilizations. </p> <p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm">Those who know me have heard many times my lamenting the plight of the emmigrant-type. You know…growing up as a child in one culture, then being transplanted (or rather transtumbled) into another, often with a period of "transition" ( i.e. war, repressions, harrowing escapes and sundry other occasions of enduring inhumanity). This means the soul lands with feet on planks of existence that are tectonically moving apart, or askew.</p> <p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm">In Persia we/they call it "one rooftop but two skies".</p> <p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm">The above is my segue, or actually anti-gue into the thought I was mentioning: I feel blessed about having grown up in a culture where from early on we were spoken to in parables and proverbs. We then learned more parables and proverbs as we ostensibly studied grammar and dictation, oration and comprehension. We also heard it from taxidrivers and grandmothers and the bums on the street in simile and saying form until it was second nature to be "a dead mouse" when scared, or "having grown a tail" when mischievous. </p> <p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm">This is helpful in the following ways. First, it is thusly not boring to learn life lessons. For example, <i>Be thankful for what you have</i> was the lesson I remember leaning through one of Saadi's prose pieces in gradeschool farsi class; It talked about a ship and its owner and one of his "servants" (slaves, really, though we didn't address that issue) who was so afraid of the water he was in hysterics. The patron (master, ….) ordered him tossed into the sea to get a couple of gulps, then had him lassoed back onboard whereupon he became quite content. Unpolitically correct, I should admit, but memorable nevertheless. </p> <p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm">Or on the virtues of doing good deeds we were told to "do good, throwing it in the river, so that god would return it to you in the middle of the desert".</p> <p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm">Second, thusly these sayings get folk accustomed to looking for patterns at a young age, deriving meaning from seemingly unrelated events. </p> <p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm">"The cat who couldn't reach the meat said 'it stinks' [meaning the meat, not the situation, though that would be another parable]"</p> <div style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm">"Whenever you grab a (live) fish from the water it is fresh" </div> <div style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm"> </div> <div style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm">Hearing statements like this gets the mind a fresh alternative universe whose patterns are similar but there is no exact correspondence. Cat is to you as the meat is to an unreachable item, as "it stinks" is to a shrug and a "pssha". However, you don't meow, the meat isn't what you are trying to touch,etc… </div> <p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm">The blessed feeling also pertains to my opportunity of hours of lunchtime entertainment as I look at colleagues faces as I invoke <i>or inaugurate </i>such sayings, as I did at my best friend's wedding during my bestman toast. The parable was about trees growing roots and intertwining and shades and sunsets. It was a Persian Saying; I was Persian and I was saying it. </p> <div style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm"> </div> <div style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm">I will end on the random(er) note that I actually did say the last two sentences in my toast, and half the audience heard me say "I am virgin and I am saying…", and chalked the grammatical glitch to my foreignness. </div> <div style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm"> </div> <div style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0cm">ON to Istanbul, the land of virgins, parables, stinky meat and rooftops looking onto beautiful skies filled with seagulls and the sounds of the call to prayer.</div> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-1155248907990355302006-08-10T15:12:00.000-07:002006-08-11T16:33:16.203-07:00Aran Island for some<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/1024/DunAengus1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: right; width: 290px; height: 175px;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/400/DunAengus1.jpg" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">OK, so most people tell you amazing stories about the Aran Islands, and how they are the relatively untouched part of Ireland, where you hear Irish being spoken by the </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">locals, where the wool sweaters beckon you with their (wooly) aroma (stench?), and the rocky 700ft cliffs face the Atlantic waves with majesty and perseverance.<br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><br />Yes we too heard the lore, and set out to capture it with our own senses. We made a perfect plan. Fly into Shannon airport, hire (rent) a car, drive through the scenic Burren area of the county Clare, then arrive at the tiny but authentically musical town of Doolin, spend an evening listening to Irish music, then head out to the Inish Mor on a Ferry the following morning.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">Inish-mor is the largest (and farthest from Doolin) of all the islands. It is there where the medieval stone ring of Don Angus perches atop the 700ft cliffs, about 5km away from the harbor, making it a perfect bike adventure for a daytrip. Yes, yes, perfect adventure, nuances notwithstanding. For us, here were but a few nuances<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">- The ferry being cancelled the day of the planned trip due to rough seas (should that alarm anyone?)<o:p><br /></o:p>- The ferry-crossing being being the longest (due to departing from Doolin)<br />- The ferry being the smallest of the Ferries (and the most expensive)<o:p><br /></o:p>- 6ft waves<o:p></o:p><br />- motion sickness<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">That morning, we were prepared to take our jaunt on the hourlong ferry to the Inish-mor, and the sea looked much calmer than the day before, and the number of whitecaps were decidedly less. We quickly ate a plate of salmon scrambled eggs and some orange juice, and took the brisk walk, 3 minutes down to the end of the road and beginning of the sea.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>There we paid our 35Euros, and waited along with throngs of french speaking tourists. With Laressas reframing help, I felt pretty good about managing this hourlong ferry ride without getting too seasick, thinking about all the ferries I had ridden and how I could manage some turbulence and this was a mind-over-matter opportunity.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>The "Happy Hooker" pulled up into the pier. This was unlike any ferry I had imagined. It was much like any smallish commercial fishing boat, very happy to bounce on the suddenly impressive looking waves.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>Psha....mind-over-matter.<br />We marched on in the mass of french around us and onto the back of the 'ferry'. while most were filing inside to grab the 20 or so seats, We noted benches tucked on the sides of the cabin, facing the back of the boat, out in the open, in front of rows of blocks, but under a roof.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>Perfect. as we sat down, we had the perfect back-ways view off the bow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>By the time everyone settled (or rather piled) in, our view was that of the armpit of a couple of Germans, and a not-so-newly shaven face of a lady.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>The boat left the mooring, and we started to bob and weave past the harbor and into the sea.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>...mind-over-matter...<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>It became apparent that the harbor's relative calm (which I had thought was anything but) had belied the actual sea's festive mood....<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">mind-over-matter....<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">as the boat roared slowly to its cruising speed, the pitch and yaw and twist and waves began in the earnest....mind-over-matter....from the small openings in the claustrophobic wall of german tourism we were witnessing the dousing of the others with all their luggage as the waves would crash onto the side of the boat and spray accross the bow....mind-over-matter...mind-over-matter. I (mistakenly) took a peek around the side to see the see, as we bobbed in and out of the valleys of water, and I could make out the smallish 2m...yes..2meter squals (that suddely gave me panic visions of titanic proportions)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">...mind-over-matter...oh please...mind-over-matter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>It took about 5 more minutes of this mind over matter exercise. In those 5 minutes, I began feeling very sweaty and warm, then very parched, and all this time being smothered by the germans who hung on the ceiling above my seat and bounced around 3 inches in front of my face.<br />MIND OVER MATTER!<br />A young man came bursting out of the cabin and off past the folks onto the side of the boat...<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>....MIND...<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>Within seconds, the green looking french woman to my left darted outward mumbling and then not mumbling whilst running for the edge<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>...OVER......<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">Next, it was Laressa my travelmate who bolted from my right around to the southern side of the boat, where the most splashing was happening....<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">....MATTER...MIND...OVER....MATTER....MIND....<o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">Nope. I had to go.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">I stood up. I looked at the sailor guy and said "I have to go"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>"Not to that side...it is wet"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>"But my, my...."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>"Your girlfriend? I'll get her to come around over."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>No time to haggle over the title of my travel companion,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">OUT of the way french man with camera,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">OUT OF THE WAY Older french woman sitting on luggage sitting in Water,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">OUT OF THE WAY old bald man looking as if I am a leper....<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">OUT OF THE WAY EVERYONE.....<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">It is not the winning of mind over matter, it is the triumph of SEA OVER MAN!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">The next few moments, without getting into graphic details, were glorious. Glorious in relief despite the wretchedness. I was defeated by the sea and I welcomed it. You win Atlantic, You win. You can have it. you win.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">FWHOOOOSH a faceful of power wave of the ocean as I leaned over the edge of the boat<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>"Yes" and there was relief in convulsive waves.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>FWHOOOOSH, another wave to cover most of my torso and my pants<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>"Sea over man...sea over man"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>Fwhoosh....<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>And so it went for the following 5 minutes, until I could manage to step back to the side, and find a divet in the side wall as minor reprieve from the oncoming powerwash.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">I banged my head on pipes, I torqued my thumb attempting to hold on, I felt numb, I thought about my "girlfriend", I looked through the window, past the dispondent looking person on the inside, through the other window, and onto the other side of the boat. I could see her head as she sat facing the ocean, face down, taking her punishment in wave after wave of gushing ocean water. I was dripping wet on my pants and jacket, and she was the one on the "wet" side.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>And after 5 minutes I felt sick again, and weak, and wet. I thought about if it would help if I jumped off the boat. I thought about if it had been 67 hours. I thought about the fact that in 5 hours I had to make this journey again (or think about emmigrating to Inish-mor). I thought about how wet Laressa was. I thought about fainting. I thought about how thirsty I was, and how the salty water was not to be drunk. I thought about my water bottle in my pack, kept in care of the short french man somewhere away from all this water.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>I thought about moby dick, and the movie perfect storm and poseidon adventure and titanic, and how I definitely must forget about space travel.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>It took the ferry onoly 75 minutes to reach Inish-mor. By this time I was no longer able to walk straight, yet found my predicament quite funny if it weren't so painful. The sailor told me that this was not the largest of seas by any means, but the "northern chopper" was a devil to deal with especially if you got sick to start with. He recommended I eat up before I come back<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>"It helps, trust me, not that you won't be sick, but it helps", and I knew what he meant. and I wanted to wail thinking about 5 hours later when I had to go through this again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/1024/Picture%20172.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 150px; height: 212px;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/400/Picture%20172.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">We came off the boat, like beaten up wet kittens. I could not straighten my head or walk straight, and the solid ground wasn't rocking enough. Laressa was much wetter and colder than I, and much more coherent. Her feet and hands were numb, and her chin was quivering like a harpstring. We wandered like vagrants in oliver twist, begging for a place to lay down, a pair of pants to buy, or a room to rent, or anything. Finally, I collapsed on a bench outside the harbor, while she found a wool-sweater shop and purchased sweaters and socks. Amicably, we parted (temporarily) ways, while I sprawled on the bench like a drunkard, and she ventured off to the cafe she had scoped out to blowdry her pants, and warm up her limbs and spirits.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">An hour later, after a blissful recovering nap in the sun that warmed my cheeks and dried up some of my clothes, I was able to actually walk and look for her. I was still acting a bit drunk, and couldn't find her, so I asked a minibus tourguide driver about a cafe near a convenience store<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>"What are you looking for?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>"Well I seem to have lost my.....(on with it) girlfriend"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>"That's a problem for some and a blessing for others, but the SPAR store is yonderways"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">I told him about our predicament and he told me about the cure being a shot of brandy and a shot of port, then he told me to find her and bring her so he could give us at least a driving tour of this island. I mentiioned to him about getting in a vehicle might not bode well for his upholstry, and he chuckled and waved me off.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>I found Laressa tucked inside a cafe, with hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea and stomach filling with hot soup. We laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>This had become a humility crossed with survival test. We had come to terms with it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p></o:p>No we were not about to do any sightseeing<o:p>.<br /></o:p>No we were not about to rent a bike or get on a pony driven "jaunting car"<o:p>.<br /></o:p>No we would not wander much past the harbor<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/1024/Picture%20192.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: right; width: 203px; height: 152px;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/400/Picture%20192.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU">For us the Inish-mor was unlike all other tourists around us. It became about accepting our limitations, that for us the island was a wobbly harbor, a somewhat unaccommodating surrounding to our need for dryness and warmth, a sweater store, a sun-drenched bench, soup and tea in a café, a shared shot of Brandy, and eagerly but apprehensively getting on the “HAPPY Hooker” to take us back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="RU"><o:p> </o:p>…which is another story.</span></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-1143412833306349322006-03-26T13:52:00.000-08:002006-03-26T15:08:32.966-08:00where to?<a href="http://localhost:3318/a4bcffff0e206cb4a1b801ab9ee7f550/image4759.jpg?size=1024"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: right; width: 151px; height: 202px;" alt="" src="http://localhost:3318/a4bcffff0e206cb4a1b801ab9ee7f550/image4759.jpg?size=400" border="0" /></a>I roamed maybe in a 500m by 500m quadrant of the world today; up from the house here to the edge of the road (to throw out the trash), and then back through the snowfilled fields adjacent, up to the powerline, through the patch of pines, and back to the house.<br /><br />I might as well have been roaming on the 6th moon of Jupiter. Nothing specific about that moon, which tangentially is called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ganymede_%28moon%29">Ganymede</a>. and, not because I was witnessing some out-of-this-world scenery; it was your typical Swedish (or Minnesota) early spring scenery with white covered fields, a slightly biting breeze, and crunchy snow that you know has melted and frozen before, like the layer of crunchy snow that appears on freezer-burned ice cream.<br /><br />I was in another plane though. The snow was crunching under my (well, henrik's loan) boots, and I was wondering what the hell I am doing in this part of the world. I thought about cougars who might be hungry and happen to find me here, and what sort of defense I might have against such an unfortunate encounter. Then I was wondering about how one would orienteer in this situation, and the wisdom of using 2 aligned points of reference instead of one. (Which I assume it is because if you pick a far enough point to walk towards, you can pretty much walk forever "towards" it, but in reality be walking a zigzag/spiral/figure-8 or whatever that never reaches it.<br /><br />This thought led me to what the thought can represent:<br />First, that whatever point towards which you are going is arbitrarily picked,<br />Second, you may never reach it.<br /><br />Then a Gödel third, or Zeroth: Towards what point am I traveling?<br /><br />In the easy case, today in this field, it was the random Birch tree with the branches looking like crossed fingers for good luck.<br /><br />In the hard case, this life, I am not at all certain. That there is some destination there is no doubt (or is there? how about that for a premise rebuttal, but I digress). Assuming there is one, WHAT THE HELL IS MINE?<br /><br />The journey is the destination...OK fine, so a buddhist hallmark card shall quell all this internal angst. And it doesn't.<br /><br />Two reasons why: 1. This answer doesn't help any more. If the purpose of life is the experiences, then what is the purpose of the experiences? Life? hahaha. Now that we are done with 6th grade circular arguments, can we please move on?<br /><br />(You're not looking for reason #2 I hope, it was a 'creative' writing trick)<br /><br />By this time, I had reached the dang burch tree, and my nose was dripping. I stopped there, wiped my nose on the luckily stuffed tissue inside the glove, then turned to my left, picked another destination (this time a less mystical one, namely a high-power electric tower) and kept on crunchety-crunching.<br /><br />No more life/journey/destination crap on this leg of the promenade. Instead I concentrated on the yellowblack little finches who were shuffling from branch to branch on the naked bushes to my right. They seemed quite content with their frivolous game of chase. It is spring, and that must mean something to them.<br /><br />I got to the powerline tower much faster and with much less internal angst.<br /><br />more to prove my old friend (who doesn't realize it, and I haven't<a href="http://localhost:3318/11fa5b75a5f2a0f21c4525dc3217753d/image4769.jpg?size=1024"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: right; width: 285px; height: 214px;" alt="" src="http://localhost:3318/11fa5b75a5f2a0f21c4525dc3217753d/image4769.jpg?size=400" border="0" /></a> seen him in about 4 years), the Philosopher of simple-life, the Brithish Jonathan, who was the first with an epiphanic prognosis of my problem. One day not far from this 500m patch where I was walking, he and I were having lunch, and I was bending his ears about my problems with women, love, life, future, world, politics, job, peace, war, sportsmanship, trust, honor, justice, etc, then I said, so what do you think?<br />He looked at me with bushy eyebrows (Yes, yes, he looked with his greenish <span style="font-style: italic;">eyes</span>, but the bushy eyebrows is what you always notice more), shrugged and said:<br />I don't.<br /><br />Where to? pffft, wherever, but just stop the dang thinking.<br /><br />I went back inside and tried some Yoga poses with Sylvia. Ouch.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-1143328138997623962006-03-25T14:42:00.000-08:002006-03-26T15:09:33.856-08:00Back to Sweden<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" >The first day at Sylvia and Henrik's started with a lot of sleep. MORGONSÖV as it is called. I had the run of the secluded living room, in which I rooted about until the sun came up and then promptly fell asleep. The 2 of them probably woke up at 7 or something, and used sign language during my morning nap. I finally walked off at 11 to find S. feeding the birds, and H. out in the shed, working on their latest hobby, a 12+ meter boat (40ft). Gustav (the gentle teenage son of Henrik, who has grown to about his dad's height already at 15) </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: right; width: 322px; height: 241px;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/400/collage.jpg" border="0" /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" >cooked us 2 lazies breakfast, which comprised of slowcooked oatmeal, Lingonberry jam (made by Sylvia and sister), and whole milk.<br />The following hours were spent very leisurely (for me). S and I visited the boat-shed across the yard, finding a dusty H. showing off beautiful mahogany bits and pieces he worked on (All pictures proudly presented in Swedish at <a href="http://www.fuhrita.info.se">www.fuhrita.info.se</a>). Then the non-mahoginzing 2 of us sat on the bench outside the house in the early spring sun, and had the kind of conversation one has with old friends; about love and future and thoughts and thinking too much, and of course about backache too.<br /><br />When Henrik broke away from the shed with 4 clumps of wood to varnish, we all went in and created a delicious homemade lunch in their handmade kitchen. I did some salad, S. made Risoto, H. made some fish dish. The food turned out delicious, the making of it turned out soulful.</span> <a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" alt="Posted by Picasa" style="border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;" align="middle" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-1130465222909786692005-10-27T18:39:00.000-07:002005-10-27T19:25:16.796-07:00Thumbnails from Varzob, Tajikistan<span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="EN">Here are some mental bookmarks which will help me remember all the fun I had in Tajikistan, The pictures are attributed to me, Simos, Peshka, Hetha, Kaladan, Sarafroz, Evgeny, and a slew of others, some of whom are depicted below.<br /></span></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="EN">(please peruse in moderation, as some images may inflict nostalgia, jealousy, or just painful memories)<br /></span></span></p> <p face="verdana" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/1600/collage.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 20px 20px 0pt; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/320/collage.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p> <ul style="font-family:verdana;"> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Hydroelectricity (a new definition of the word): conduction of electricity through water coming out of the faucet…. <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Morning circle game of tag</span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">The clicking song (ee<click>a, lindlela, o<click>lo <click>lo <click>wany)</click></click></click></click></span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US"><click><click><click><click> <o:p></o:p></click></click></click></click></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Co-facilitation with Heather <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">The Bulgarians (bu-la-goo DAAAR ya)</span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">BEDAR SHAV <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Answering Abubakr at 1 in the morning about some CD he wanted <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">The eternal chase after the herd of<span style=""> </span>laptops with the aid of several Tajik staff <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">The bonfire night: jumping over the fire in Iranian tradition, and dancing Tajiki with the Tajiks. <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">The Publishing track from A(aigul: Kh-zh-ph-rh-kuh-ding .....) to Z(ulu representative Heeeetha). And all the other letters in between. <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">The Russian Interpretter Dude...(arrgh)</span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">The Iranian rock-star team; getting them to finally NOT speak to me in formal tones<span style=""> </span>like I am an old uncle, and connecting me again to my hidden half. <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">The Games night: choking on a poundcake while folks chant your name <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Chasing away the minister of Billiards from the publishing lab.</span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Getting chased from the publishing lab by the cold weather, and finding refuge near the kitchen <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Being visited by the minister of wall hangings and electrical sockets daily in the publishing lab. <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Watching the old-man housekeeper scurry around with his leak-stopping pair of pliers and the light-bulbed screwdriver in search of hot-wired doorknobs and shower-handles. <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Muhammadi the DJ</span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Late nights in the Migration-lab (before the Great Flood) with Iranians, Bulgarians, a Greek-Aussie, and Abubakr <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Aso, Aso, Aso (smiling, dancing, occasionally twitching and then smiling some more) <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">The bazaar, and trying the fruit-flavored rock (and of course the bum-belle-bee incident)</span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Playing poetry slam (bayt-barak) with the Tajiks at </span><st1:time minute="0" hour="2"><span style="" lang="EN-US">2am</span></st1:time><span style="" lang="EN-US"> (they were very gracious accepting our comebacks to their Rudaki poems as Sahar and I were either making them up, or singing <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Ya Magoo Gavariz pa Russki <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Learning Greek ΣE ΑΓΑΠΩ<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Saying goodbye to the Iranians, and feeling really sad <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Saying goodbye to Aso and feeling really sad</span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></li> <li><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Leaving </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-US">Dushanbe</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-US"> on Domododevo, and thinking the word must mean Sardines in Russian</span></span><br /></li> </ul><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/1600/collage1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/320/collage1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-1129096610789800672005-10-11T22:47:00.000-07:002005-10-11T22:56:50.803-07:00The Butterfly Effect<span style="" lang="EN-US">Beware of unimportant things, for they may lead to important (and dire) events.<o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">It was around </span><st1:time minute="0" hour="13"><span style="" lang="EN-US">1pm</span></st1:time><span style="" lang="EN-US"> when I got to check in at </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-US">Minneapolis</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style="" lang="EN-US"> airport for my multi-hop flight that was supposed to land me in </span><st1:place><st1:city><span style="" lang="EN-US">Dushanbe</span></st1:City><span style="" lang="EN-US">, </span><st1:country-region><span style="" lang="EN-US">Tajikistan</span></st1:country-region></st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-US">. No, still not a non-stop flight between </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-US">Dushanbe</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style="" lang="EN-US"> and </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-US">Minneapolis</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style="" lang="EN-US">. So I got to Ohare, where the agent was more congenial, but not much more useful. She knew what </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-US">Tajikistan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="" lang="EN-US"> was, but still not able to reprint my tags, and directed me to the staff in Heathrow, the mecca of all international travel. Surely they would be able to rectify the situation.<o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">In the meantime, I spent the 7 hours next to a greek couple and their surprisingly well-behaved 9-month old. I did not sleep much, but instead watched excerpts from the epic movies “bewitched” and “sahara” whilst longingly looking at the comfort of the higher-up classes of service. (ranging from Fat leather seats, to super reclinable pods, to basically your own private cottage and waterfall).<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">I arrived in Heathrow, I was sleep deprived, I was disoriented, and I had 40 minutes to cover several miles of walkways, 15 minutes of busriding, and about 400 yards of escalatoring. I reached the transfer desk panting, sweating, and entirely without higher mental faculties.<o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">This is when I didn’t question the agent, when she said I there is no issue having to get my luggage in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-US">Moscow</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style="" lang="EN-US"> and re-check it on my adventures onwards. This proved ultimately impossible for me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">In retrospect, it was lucky I asked the main attendant about the logistics of reclaiming and resubmitting luggage in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-US">Moscow</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style="" lang="EN-US">. Then she said she will go and ask the ground staff, and whether or not I had a Russian visa. She came with a quite terse young lady who came with all fangs and claws showing, admonishing me for not having a Russian visa, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘but I am not going to </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-US">Russia</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="" lang="EN-US">’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘I know you are not, it is because without a visa, they will charge us 2000 pounds, so there is a problem here.’ and she went on to pontificate further about how I will be disembarked, and be put on another flight later in the day once my visa to Russia is obtained.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘but I am going to </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-US">Tajikistan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="" lang="EN-US">’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">I thought that would be an A-ha moment, but instead she began telling me how I could be forcibly removed if I made trouble, and I should meet her at the doorway, while she goes and makes arrangements to reroute me to later in the day (I mentioned in passing that the next possible arrival in Dushanbe would be in about 4 days)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">I walked to the entrance and I waited and waited and waited, and was smiled at placatingly and talked behind of (all equally politically and grammatically incorrect) by the flight attendants:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘He didn’t even bother to get a visa for where he’s going’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘Did you see his passport? there isn’t room for a visa in it’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘At least he is smiling, but luckily the team is coming…’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘It will take hours to find his luggage I bet’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p>I, in the meantime, was on a campaign of my own, giving suggestions, raising the specter, and a dose of flattery:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘Maybe you can just re-tag my bags?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘The humanitarian conference will not be able to function…’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘I’m sure you can resolve the tagging problem amicably’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘I am alright having my luggage be confiscated in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="" lang="EN-US">Moscow</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style="" lang="EN-US">;<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘They are like two cabin luggage’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘can’t we put them in the pram section, so I can get them planeside?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘I can maybe bring them onboard….’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">‘I am certain you can help my situation without deranging my plan’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p>And then 2 decked out anti-terrorist <span style=""> </span>SAS commandos (well, just police in flak jackets, and some good guns) appeared in the elephant-trunk walkway, walking confidently towards me…I turned to the nearby attendant to exchange surprised looks about the seeming escalation of events. I suppose my ‘yikes’ expression and subsequent chuckle helped deflate the situation (in my head anyway).<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Finally, the pilot came to my rescue by asking the lead attendant about the situation, and then telling her to just pull the luggage and bring it to the cabin, since he had heard me say that they are basically carry-on sizes<span style=""> </span>( I omitted to mention that they are unruly, LARGE ones)<o:p><br /></o:p><br />As we were finally rolling off to the runway, I was still being worked over by the lead attendant about my need to make sure I have visas to the place I was traveling to (including all the airports and airspaces en-route), that my passport was too crowded with visas, that my luggage pieces were actually too large, and that I should do something about my complexion. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">I was just tickled that my luggage and I were still not derailed from our destination, or worse.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-1124162587846071262005-08-15T20:21:00.000-07:002005-08-16T09:04:43.510-07:00Man against Beast<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/1600/lochness.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/320/lochness.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Everyone has their own Loch Ness monster to deal with. Mine was in the form of a lizard. Normally, I fancy myself in control of my fear faculties, and can semi-calmly traverse shrubby gauntlets and gecko-laden hallways. It became evident though, that some forces in the universe conspired for an eventful animal-interactive evening.<br /><br />One contributing force was the self-induced sleep deprivation of the previous 2 nights. Mark (my compadre and the person in charge of A/V as well as creating a web presence) and I had been running around the conference compound during the day, making sure Human Right activists didn’t violate our human rights with unending petty technology needs and indignant expectationalisms (an entrenched sense of high expectation manifested by abuse of fellow individuals).<br /><br />At night, we would patiently wait till the last of internet addicts and/or groupies of our little internet dungeon would depart, so we could get down to the business of transferring some content onto the website in the US. This would take us into the wee hours (e.g. 2,3,4 am). By So on day 3 I was already in a sleepless, frantic, and oddly entertaining universe.<br /><br />But on this day, the universe decided to show me the animal kingdom up-close, to the point that by the time I finally got to bed at 5 a.m., I firmly believed I had landed in the Jurassic Park Island, unsure of my fate as a precarious mammal in a world of predators.<br /><br />At 11 a.m. I ran past the terrace restaurant towards my room to fetch yet another wire, or some other techie trinket. By the time I returned, I looked through the restaurant at the place I just had run under, while a Pakistani Participant woman hurried towards me, in a shudder, and making some comments about a snake. As it turned out, a 5 foot green snake had fallen off a tree onto the path I had taken, about 35 seconds after I had been there.<br /><br />As the compound dog (an unpettable she-dog with battle scars all over her body) tended to her snake neutralization duties, I wondered to myself what I would have done had this snake decided an earlier jump.<br /><br />At about the same exact moment a spider landed on my head. The startling coincidence of thought and reality jolted me just a tiny bit, unbeknownst to me foreshadowing of what was coming my way later in the evening.<br /><br />Later in the afternoon, a jumping lizard surprise-hopped over my feet as I was walking by the pool, helping a cosmopolitan Britt (Stephanie) with some flower photography. I managed to maintain a façade of machismo as I pretended to be interested in taking a snapshot of the bouncy creature, all the while hoping it would just keep on running away.<br /><br />A butterfly landed on my elbow about 5 minutes later, and unknown rustling sounds in the bushes near the walking path reminded me of the sharing of space with other creatures.<br /><br />That evening at around midnight, I found out how much sharing was expected of me. I was scurrying past the kid-pool towards my room to fetch a CD or something, when I noticed a tiny frog with a phenomenal leap. Like a green walnut-half on a catapult, it flew about 4 feet in a great arch, landing on the pool side of me. As I leaned over to take a closer look, it jettisoned itself again, landing on the edge of the pool, paused for a moment to take another look at me, and then launch itself in another parabolic arch that, unfortunately for him, ended in the blue and over-chlorinated pool.<br /><br />I was beginning to feel a sense of over exposure to the animal kingdom, as I was walking on the whitewashed open corridors of our hotel rooms; a popular hangout (literally) for scores of insect eating tiny lizards (geckos) with their suction cupped limbs accommodating their anti-gravitational manoeuvres. Some ungodly loud squawking from a monitor lizard in the nearby shrubs unsettled me a bit more, and I was glad to finally get to my room.<br /><br />As I absent-mindedly reached to put my key on the desk, the phone handle jangled violently, and something jumped onto the tissue box, toppled it, and scurried some more to land on the wall. And there I was, air sucked of my lung, petrified in an eternal instant, staring at a splotchy dark green colored scaley creature diagonally oriented on the wall with arched back and salamander-telescopes one of which was staring back at me.<br /><br />Flight or fight instinct in both of us chose flight, and we scurried in opposite directions, with him making flippity-flop noises with his tail slapping against the back of the table, and the sofa, and me making a “wlllaaaaachhhh” sound as I ran 3 steps off and froze again.<br /><br />The salamander-dragon also stopped, now visible through the sofa’s back-rest slats, he was now flattening his limbs and putting his chin against the wall to pretend he was invisible or cute, except for the fact that a 10-inch dark green lizard on a white wall, in my bedroom, is hardly camouflage-able, and definitely not, NOT cute.<br /><br />Here I was, the supposed intelligence pinnacle of species, facing a relatively tiny creature with only a reptilian brain. Yet, I would give him better odds. Finally my front-lobial processing kicked in, I opened the door, closed the other escape routes, and flanked him by walking over the beds to get him between me and the doorway, hoping that I could direct his next burst of scurrying towards his freedom and my ability to ever use the room again.<br /><br />As I was preparing to shoo him out that way, I happen to notice a tiny 2 inch cartoon-like gecko about 2 inches away from my eyes on the balcony’s glass door. I chuckled to myself, mentioned to the tiny one to stay put, as I had bigger lizards to shoo.<br /><br />Here it went: I made eye contact with (one of) the dragonlet’s eyes, clapped hard, stomped towards him, yelling in a highly colored language and angry tone urging him to get out of my room. He respectively blinked his eye, jacked up from his ‘stealth’ flattened mode to the all-terrain high chassis mode, pumped his body up and down once, and vanished behind the sofa, only to reappear on the far end of the table.<br /><br />Boldened, I dispensed some more words and clapped his way again. He then lunged off the table onto the floor, but instead of scurrying straight out of the room, he turned right, and hopped out of sight onto the cabinetry where the fridge, my snacks, and extra pillows were stored. I could no longer see him, but could hear his clip-claps alongside the wooden walls of the cabinetry, and then there was silence.<br /><br />I could no longer see him, or hear his rustling, or comfortably move towards the door past the cabinetry into which he vanished. Here I was, standing on the edge of one bed, leaning across the way to see if I can spot him in my snacks or stacks of undershirts, while the wide open door would likely be invitation to other wild kingdom’s creatures to join this humbling predicament.<br /><br />At this point one of the Indian Participants (Somya, the dragon-slayer) walked past my door, and to my life affirming relief (and mortifying embarrassment) came in to see what all the fuss was about. As I got the momentary resolve to walk off the bed and hurry out of the room, I mentioned ‘big lizard, in my cupboard…I don’t know where it is’. It must be enjoyable for a role reversal like that when chivalrous women with more of a rational view on lizards can show their fearlessness and save the sissy cityslicker type man from having a panic attack over something 10 times smaller, and 10 times more afraid of you.<br /><br />She climbed atop tables and sofas, checked inside cupboards and among my (unoccupied) undies. She finally located a hole behind the mini fridge that led to the panelling overhead, and after a few moments, located a comfortably out of range lizard staring down at us from the overhead slats of the ceiling. The only remaining option was to cover the hole with something, and hope the dragonlet did not have another passageway figured out.<br /><br />I locked the door, and left for more midnight work. That night we worked until 5am, so by the time I returned to sleep in my bed, I was too exhausted and delirious to be afraid. I was just thinking to myself, if my reptilian roommate was related to Kimoto dragons who cripple their prey and eat them while they are still aware.<br /><br />In the split second that I was not fully asleep yet, I had a conversation with my indoor predator, in which I asked: ‘will this hurt?’ and he responded: ‘Not to worry… you will not feel a thing….’<br /><br />This night, though, I was not eaten by the 10-inch lizard. He instead treated me to a nightlong tapdance routine on the other side of the ceiling, as if to celebrate its victory of occupation over his supposedly pinnacle-of-intelligence adversary.<br /><br />I moved out of that room the following day, and accepted yet another dose of humility about my place in the universe.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/1600/gecko.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/320/gecko.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-1123472717362931692005-08-07T20:19:00.000-07:002005-08-07T22:58:18.296-07:00Proof of insignificanceIf anything, adversity is a good calibrator of self-importance. So, I had spent the past week making sure that the beautiful resort we have this conference at will be ready with a modicum of technology presence. I set up, or rather finagled setting up of, 3 wireless hotspots. Actually, one sentence doesn't do it justice. Setting up technology in a foreign land is quite an intriguing challenge, especially if you don't want to be some yankee jerk who bulldozes their way (as is done in the business world, oppressing and demoralizing all locals to get your technology or whatever). After all, this is a Human Rights type of conference, and how hypocritical to abuse the innocent (if confoundingly nonresponsive) local folk.<br /><br />There is also a double whammy of ability and willingness to interact:<br />Ability, in that I don't speak Thai, and they hardly speak English.<br />Willingness, in that the IT-folk in general tend to be nerdy and not so communicative.<br /><br />But, with pantomime and sound effects, the internal wireless hotspots were connected to the Hotel's fledgling semi-broadband, (slenderband?) connection. The IT guy whose name is dtee (pronounced almost like T.E.) kept pulling out secret wires from under roofshingles and inside back closets, and in general making it all happen.<br /><br />The positive thing about IT folk seems to be that once you pique their curiosity, they will doggedly pursue the implementation.<br /><br />So, after many hours of pointing and smiling, counting in thai and flailing, we established a patchwork of hotspots, beautifuly connected to the internet. A motley crew of laptops (namely Shiba, Pokey, Frenchie and Techie ... <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/1600/IMG_0984.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/320/IMG_0984.jpg" border="0" width="200" alt="" /></a>subject of a another e-versation) were sprinkled on the desktops of the internet Cave (prononced like cafe, but with a v, to signify lack of cofee and presence of a dungenous odor). across the way, 4 mini lapatops blinked expectantly for the afternoon sessions of technology infusion.<br /><br />And then... with 15 minutes before the 4 simultaneous classes were to begin, as I was riding some wave of self importance and accomplishment in the early afternoon torrent, slowpacing like a peacock for the imminent onslaught of technology onto the eager participents...all the fans, and lights, and yes the blinking routers and modems stopped, as power in the entire neighborhood went out.<br /><br />In the crashing descend into the abyss of helplessness (the power returned, but not the internet connection), I understood some Goedel's theorm version, that there is always a larger circle outside your circle of control, in this case, the Thor, norse god of thunder on vacation in Thailand.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-1123131812086529022005-08-02T21:23:00.000-07:002005-08-07T22:40:57.083-07:00Sawadtee<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/1600/IMG_0877.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/942/118/320/IMG_0877.jpg" width="250" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Chiang Mai in August is wet, warm and still wonderful. I arrived here with all my luggage yesterday. Small miracle about the luggage, since my ticket was a patchwork of 3 tickets; a domestic flight (read sardine transport) from Minneapolis to LA, a 4 hour layover, a much anticipated ride on a non-US carrier to Hong Kong, a 4 hour layover, flight to Bangkok, a 4 hour layover, and a domestic 65 minute jump to Chiang Mai.<br />As I checked in my luggage with the agent at Minneapolis, she and I both chuckled as I asked "do you think I will ever see my bags again?"<br /><br />The cattle-ride from Minneapolis to LA was nice enough if one lowered expectations. 6 ounces of orange juice for a 3.5 hour ride, what more can you ask for, really? As Dreaded pirate Roberts would say "This word they use 'service'...I do not think it means what they think it means".<br /><br />LAX is as welcoming to travellers as Immigration officers are to foreigners (ambiguity intentional). The gate area had about 50 seats for 400+ passengers.<br /><br />The world changed as I stepped through the threshold from the gate to the plane, ground to air, drab to exotic. My trans-pacific flight was on Cathay Pacific, an airline I hope will open up routes from Minneapolis to wherever they want to take me. aside from marveling at the void between my kneecaps and the seat in front, I cherished the food and amenities in coach class, that these days are reserved for Millenium-titanium elite status folk stateside.<br /><br />The n-teen hour ride was much less tormenting than anticipated, as I deftly avoided the blue screen of information trauma ("time to destination 11 hours and 34 minutes...."). By the time we landed in HongKong (at 4 am) I was only mildly discombobulated.<br /><br />I commandeered a pair of VERY comfortable sofa-esque chairs in the terminal that belonged to me and about 5 sleepy cleaning ladies, and slumbered for at least an hour or 4.<br /><br />On the plane from HKG to bangkok they fed us again!<br />On the plane from Bangkok to Chiang mai a couple of hours later, they fed us AGAIN, and this was a 65 minute flight...This word they use 'service'.....<br /><br />When I spotted my luggage on the merry go rounds at chiang mai, I threw up a couple of peace symbols as a shoutout to the big guy/gal/thing up above for taking care of me so well, and then stepped out to the thailand-proper of the other side of the airport terminal.<br /><br />The shuttle service (once I called them to not forget me) was instructive, as I learned to say hello, goodbye, 1,2,3,4.......10 in thai, and I reached 'home' after Sam-Seip (30) hours of traversing the globe. I walked past the olympic size pool, and the lush flower jungles that surrounds my room. I forgot to do my signature flailing on the bed in sheer excitement of a new place (due to sheer exhaustion), but deep inside somebody was tickling me into a smiley sense of belonging.<br /><br />Next, trying out this thing called real thai food.....Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-1112079869386697642005-03-28T23:04:00.000-08:002005-03-28T23:04:29.386-08:00<a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/58/2730/640/IMG_0404.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/58/2730/320/IMG_0404.jpg'></a><br />Happy Persian New YearUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-1112076668400429762005-03-28T22:11:00.000-08:002005-03-28T22:41:45.266-08:00blue screen torment<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/58/2730/640/a11.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/58/2730/320/a11.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The visual for the post below...finally am getting my act together.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10911132.post-1108695066472352842005-02-17T18:47:00.000-08:002005-02-17T18:56:08.806-08:00Information forcefeed<p class="MsoNormal" style="">Okay, here is a personal gripe with these blue-screens they show incessantly on the plane-rides over oceans (or huge tracts of land). Never mind the quickly diminishing novelty of knowing my ground speed and outside temperature, I really rather NOT know, especially after enduring an eternity of a primal scream festival by the 2-year old in front of me, that I have exactly 6 hours and 04 minutes left to go!<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Although I do enjoy the little stick-figure airplane at the end of the red line showing the exact location of Yalta inrelation to Ankara, or where exactly Timbuktu is, which may become useful trivia someday, I rather not be constantly reminded of the duration of my “life is suffering” experience.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">My counter measure normally is to avert my eyes, but can’t they issue special eye-glasses for minutia enthusiasts who like to examine the see-saw duel of the minutes elapsed and minutes remaining or the excruciatingly slow extension of the red line over the vast ocean?<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">There are times though that even averting my eyes is not enough, because the ‘helpful’ smelly man next to me (yes always old smelly men, and never more pleasing individuals to spark a romantic comedy routine) will blurt out:<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">-Well, we have only 4 hours and 20 minutes to go.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">ARGH!<br /><o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0