Thursday, March 29, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
Up Me Arse and Round Me Armpits
It has been said that discussing the weather is a massive part of British culture. That's because we can't believe how unpredictable it can be. There are no periods of adjustment. I left India thinking I'd skipped the worst of the winter, and what did we have last week? SNOW. In Spring. Seriously: the weather is fucked. Well bugger me - If it ain't a third world war, it'll be global warming which kills us. Pessimist? Me?
Briony is back from Korea, at last. She flew into Heathrow the day after I got back from India - stinking of sushi (she flew a Japanese airline) looking lovely, all smiles and full of euphoria for being home. I had the faded smell of the Bombay Express (it's a train, not a paper) dressed in sandals, brown flares, and a long Islamic nightshirt thingy which, with the beard, made me look like a sort of hippie Bin Laden who'd surrendered his turban to the wind. It's a wonder they let me into the arrivals lounge.
She drove us both up North amidst the snow, with a massive amount of patience. I'm a nervous passenger you see (because I'm not in control) and as I'm not insured to drive her car I had to sit there and take six hours of motorway driving. Now Bri is a good driver, but she's just spent a year in Korea where they drive on the right. I was calm for the first half of it;"Baby, it's not you, it's the other drivers I don't trust" and "Honey, why don't we just get into the slow lane and take our time? It's really not worth it for the sake of us getting there quicker". By the time we were past Birmingham I was inconsolable. "For fucks sake Bri, it's a fucking deathtrap on this motorway! Loads of people die here all the time! I don't see why it shouldn't be us!"
It's always nice to go up North to visit my folks. Everything in England is either "up North" or "down South". My Mum reckons I look like "a charity" and my brother - a sighting slightly less rare than a two-humped camel - thinks I'm a "tree-hugger". Down in Totnes, both descriptions are considered to be signs that I've finally "arrived". My mum, bless her, didn't quite know what to offer Briony to eat (she's vegetarian) and after asking her "what do you eat?!!" she offered her a pork pie. Funny, funny. And it's great you know, coming up North, because it's starting to become a real cultural experience. I'm seeing it with so much affection.
On the way back to Devon we sort of detoured and decided to visit Stonehenge. For some stupid reason, I imagined we'd be able to hang out among the rocks, lay on the grass, watch the sunset. It costs £6, you're kept away from the rocks by about thirty feet, and it was outrageously cold. No kidding, it was baltic. I got purple fingers and a slight windburn.
So what's happening?
Briony is back from Korea, at last. She flew into Heathrow the day after I got back from India - stinking of sushi (she flew a Japanese airline) looking lovely, all smiles and full of euphoria for being home. I had the faded smell of the Bombay Express (it's a train, not a paper) dressed in sandals, brown flares, and a long Islamic nightshirt thingy which, with the beard, made me look like a sort of hippie Bin Laden who'd surrendered his turban to the wind. It's a wonder they let me into the arrivals lounge.
She drove us both up North amidst the snow, with a massive amount of patience. I'm a nervous passenger you see (because I'm not in control) and as I'm not insured to drive her car I had to sit there and take six hours of motorway driving. Now Bri is a good driver, but she's just spent a year in Korea where they drive on the right. I was calm for the first half of it;"Baby, it's not you, it's the other drivers I don't trust" and "Honey, why don't we just get into the slow lane and take our time? It's really not worth it for the sake of us getting there quicker". By the time we were past Birmingham I was inconsolable. "For fucks sake Bri, it's a fucking deathtrap on this motorway! Loads of people die here all the time! I don't see why it shouldn't be us!"
It's always nice to go up North to visit my folks. Everything in England is either "up North" or "down South". My Mum reckons I look like "a charity" and my brother - a sighting slightly less rare than a two-humped camel - thinks I'm a "tree-hugger". Down in Totnes, both descriptions are considered to be signs that I've finally "arrived". My mum, bless her, didn't quite know what to offer Briony to eat (she's vegetarian) and after asking her "what do you eat?!!" she offered her a pork pie. Funny, funny. And it's great you know, coming up North, because it's starting to become a real cultural experience. I'm seeing it with so much affection.
On the way back to Devon we sort of detoured and decided to visit Stonehenge. For some stupid reason, I imagined we'd be able to hang out among the rocks, lay on the grass, watch the sunset. It costs £6, you're kept away from the rocks by about thirty feet, and it was outrageously cold. No kidding, it was baltic. I got purple fingers and a slight windburn.
So what's happening?
- The deranged little monster who runs Zimbabwe, Robert Mugabe, believes that twenty-seven years in office isn't enough. The ageing leader - once the nation's hero for his spirited fight against colonial rule - has had opposition leader Morgan Svangirai and several party members beaten up and hospitalized. Nice behaviour from Mugabe. He's kind of shot himself him the foot really, despite telling critics that they can "go hang". The eyes of the world are on Mugabe at this minute, African leaders are finally waking up to the debacle which is Zimbabwe, and Mugabe is said to be attending a crisis meeting with other southern African leaders in Tanzania next week. God bless the people of Zimbabwe. Can't wait to see Mugabe knocked off his perch. How long can we all stand by and watch, then sweep it all under the carpet until more tales of injustice hit the headlines? As Martin Luther King put it: injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.
- Fifteen Royal Navy personnel have been captured by Iran. The British contingent - while no proof has been offered to back this up - say that the troops were in Iraqi waters and were led into Iranian territory. They're being held at the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps base in Tehran, and Tony Blair has urged Iran to release them, and to respect international law. While I sympathise with the captured ones and their families, it's a bit embarrassing, don't you think, this business of the British Prime Minister telling another administration to respect international law?
- Oi Va Voi! What kind of a national side do we have in our football team at present? We can't even score a goal against Israel. Israel! We play Andorra next. The England team must be cacking themselves at the prospect.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Goa, and Game Over...
With Marwan, Arambol, GoaCrazy, crazy, crazy... as always... Goa. A time of meeting old friends and a few new ones. Some familiar faces about, including a few of the Totnes contingent. Mirco and Shiran showed up. And I made a new friend in Marwan, a French guy who has become a brother. Marwan is a talented photographer, painter, and musician. He's great fun to be with, and he's an easygoing, good natured, top bloke. However, the bags beneath my eyes are completely Marwan induced.
What to say about Goa? People usually refer to it as "Easy India" or "India for Beginners". It gets busier and busier every time. Gone are the days of all night partying on the beaches. The police have put a stop to it all; music everywhere these days is finished at 10pm. Changes, changes. The hordes of Israeli travellers have been replaced by massive crowds of Russians, the beaches are busier, and the life gets just a little more expensive.
I dropped in on my mate Toffie, a great character who I met here a couple of years ago. Toffie was born in Pune to a prominent family of Brahmin caste. She lives in a small villa just by the beach, behind some dunes in a coconut grove. It's a peaceful place, and I enjoy our late night talks. We have a great respect for each other, despite being at loggerheads politically. She drives her battered car through the jungle lanes like a formula one driver, cigarette hanging from her lips, hand on the horn, the engine screaming in protest, while my fingernails dig deep into the dashboard. Really she's quite something, and last week her parents came down to stay.
Her father is a star; he's eighty-eight years old now, and completely on the ball. I'm so pleased to have met him. He was a freedom fighter as a young man under British rule, met Gandhi three times, served in the Indian army under Nehru, and during the Vietnam War led a UN peacekeeping force into Hanoi, where he was honoured by Ho Chi Minh. I could listen to him for hours. People like this are a rare breed today and they really are a living history.
Some people can't actually bear the thought of coming to this great country because of the poverty on the streets, or the corruption of the authorities, or the filth and the dirt of India. Regarding the latter, yes, India has a long way to go to learn perhaps about civic sense. But as for everything else, it must be said that in this country everything is out in the open. You can walk along the street and find yourself right in the middle of a funeral, a deeply private event in the West. But that's India. Nothing is really hidden. It's all out in the open. And that perhaps is the most surprising thing of all.
So some people wonder why I like India so much. When I'm asked why, I really can't give a simple answer. It can be the most frustrating place and yet at times it can be the most peaceful and giving country. The diversity and the food and the great distances and the music and the literature and the historical and contemporary connection to my own country and culture. I don't shy away from meeting the tourists here either - why should I? I am one - because unlike many other countries (let's say, Thailand, for example) the people who travel here are so mixed. You meet people of all ages from all countries and they're on a totally different trip. I love to listen to Indian opinion and to discuss everything with them; they usually have something to say about most things, although I hate to disappoint them with my lack of knowledge of cricket. Who could fail to love a country which gave the us the Buddha, Rabindranath Tagore, Osho, Arundhati Roy, and Mahatma Gandhi?
The train from Goa pulled into Bombay just after dawn (roughly about the same time the entire city seems to take a poo) and after a quick breakfast of toast and coffee at Leopolds, I took a flight to London. It is bloody cold and I have a pair of one dollar sandals on my feet. I've only been gone for a couple of months but some things never seem to change at home. The faces of Jordan and Victoria Beckham grin and pout at me from magazine racks at Heathrow, and the cost of a twenty-minute tube journey into the city costs just about the same amount as a couple of nights accommodation in India. When I think about it, the world really is a mad - albeit a beautiful - place.
What to say about Goa? People usually refer to it as "Easy India" or "India for Beginners". It gets busier and busier every time. Gone are the days of all night partying on the beaches. The police have put a stop to it all; music everywhere these days is finished at 10pm. Changes, changes. The hordes of Israeli travellers have been replaced by massive crowds of Russians, the beaches are busier, and the life gets just a little more expensive.
I dropped in on my mate Toffie, a great character who I met here a couple of years ago. Toffie was born in Pune to a prominent family of Brahmin caste. She lives in a small villa just by the beach, behind some dunes in a coconut grove. It's a peaceful place, and I enjoy our late night talks. We have a great respect for each other, despite being at loggerheads politically. She drives her battered car through the jungle lanes like a formula one driver, cigarette hanging from her lips, hand on the horn, the engine screaming in protest, while my fingernails dig deep into the dashboard. Really she's quite something, and last week her parents came down to stay.
Her father is a star; he's eighty-eight years old now, and completely on the ball. I'm so pleased to have met him. He was a freedom fighter as a young man under British rule, met Gandhi three times, served in the Indian army under Nehru, and during the Vietnam War led a UN peacekeeping force into Hanoi, where he was honoured by Ho Chi Minh. I could listen to him for hours. People like this are a rare breed today and they really are a living history.
Some people can't actually bear the thought of coming to this great country because of the poverty on the streets, or the corruption of the authorities, or the filth and the dirt of India. Regarding the latter, yes, India has a long way to go to learn perhaps about civic sense. But as for everything else, it must be said that in this country everything is out in the open. You can walk along the street and find yourself right in the middle of a funeral, a deeply private event in the West. But that's India. Nothing is really hidden. It's all out in the open. And that perhaps is the most surprising thing of all.
So some people wonder why I like India so much. When I'm asked why, I really can't give a simple answer. It can be the most frustrating place and yet at times it can be the most peaceful and giving country. The diversity and the food and the great distances and the music and the literature and the historical and contemporary connection to my own country and culture. I don't shy away from meeting the tourists here either - why should I? I am one - because unlike many other countries (let's say, Thailand, for example) the people who travel here are so mixed. You meet people of all ages from all countries and they're on a totally different trip. I love to listen to Indian opinion and to discuss everything with them; they usually have something to say about most things, although I hate to disappoint them with my lack of knowledge of cricket. Who could fail to love a country which gave the us the Buddha, Rabindranath Tagore, Osho, Arundhati Roy, and Mahatma Gandhi?
The train from Goa pulled into Bombay just after dawn (roughly about the same time the entire city seems to take a poo) and after a quick breakfast of toast and coffee at Leopolds, I took a flight to London. It is bloody cold and I have a pair of one dollar sandals on my feet. I've only been gone for a couple of months but some things never seem to change at home. The faces of Jordan and Victoria Beckham grin and pout at me from magazine racks at Heathrow, and the cost of a twenty-minute tube journey into the city costs just about the same amount as a couple of nights accommodation in India. When I think about it, the world really is a mad - albeit a beautiful - place.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Hope and Mercy: Aung San Suu Kyi
Aung San Suu Kyi remains under strict house arrest.
Free Aung San Suu Kyi
Free Burma
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