Thought it'd be interesting to list the languages I've found myself speaking along the trip....it's been helpful to learn a few words in local tongue everywhere...not just for communication, but for inciting amazingly deep smiles!
Hindi (Indian national language), Urdu (Pakistan national language), Burushaski (middle Hunza Valley, Pak autonomous region), Ughyur (used by locals such as our taxi driver when we crossed the border on the KKH in
Xinjiang autonomous region, China), Chinese (used in Xinjiang by non-Ughyurs), Arabic (Oman), Malayalam (Kerala, Indian language used in Oman - thanks to Sam in Muscat for teaching me), Turkish (first night in Oman happened to sit next to a man from Konya, go figure...), Sindhi (in the remote village of my 8 year old friend, Erum), Italian (9hours stop in Roma), French (bruxelles), Dutch (I haven't actually spoken in Dutch yet, but it's all around as I'm in the Flemish part of the Brussels outskirts), Malagache (also in Bruxelles, staying in an American/Madagascar household!)
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Friday, December 14, 2007
my PHOTOS from the SILK ROAD!!!
My pal Joe has been kind enough to put a bunch of my photos from my 1st 2 weeks (I'm on my 11th week away now) on his flikr site.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/musicandlight/sets/72157602879867189/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/musicandlight/sets/72157602879867189/
Sunday, December 9, 2007
malagasy eucalyptus balm and strong song
Hello from Linkebeek, a 'suburb' of Brussels/Bruxelles, where I'm in the home of the greatest musical stars of Madagascar, N'Java. The sun is straining to peek out of the clouds, the trees are swaying in the cool wind, the house is quiet with the sisters at their boutique, D'Ame D'Amour, singing their hearts out as they arrange the traditional items in the shop for the holiday rush we all hope for.
The ladies, Monika (wife of Daniel, my friend and 'producer') and her sister Lala - both with deliciously wild hair and temperaments, have been asking me to join their accapella ensemble which is about to break into the limelight of the World Music scene. I'm a bit awed that they would even joke about asking me...though I have to admit that their brother Maximin (with even more amazing and wild hair) did recording wonders with a red-wine induced session I sang on a few summers back when I was visiting - the match of the chathartic, open-throat, heel stamping and soulful belting of African voices, and my silky, Indian-inspired rifts weaving in.
The clouds have succumb to the power of the sun and there's a heavenly moment that seems like it will last forever, like it won't actually start to get dark at 3pm ever again, like Belgium is bright and lively with a wonderful and balanced music scene where I could come to live afterall....
The ladies, Monika (wife of Daniel, my friend and 'producer') and her sister Lala - both with deliciously wild hair and temperaments, have been asking me to join their accapella ensemble which is about to break into the limelight of the World Music scene. I'm a bit awed that they would even joke about asking me...though I have to admit that their brother Maximin (with even more amazing and wild hair) did recording wonders with a red-wine induced session I sang on a few summers back when I was visiting - the match of the chathartic, open-throat, heel stamping and soulful belting of African voices, and my silky, Indian-inspired rifts weaving in.
The clouds have succumb to the power of the sun and there's a heavenly moment that seems like it will last forever, like it won't actually start to get dark at 3pm ever again, like Belgium is bright and lively with a wonderful and balanced music scene where I could come to live afterall....
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Roma through Pakistani eyes for 9 hours
24 hours after leaving down the bamboo ladder at Pilu's house, piling my bag and sarangi into a cycle rickshaw and then into a taxi, waiting in an endless and chaotically unstructured line first for boarding passes then for security (one elderly couple waiting behind me had been at the airport for 8 hours, their flight was running 6 hours late due to the security check line suffering from the airport remodelling effort restrictions), a flight to Milan and then another to Rome....I called to the Pakistani Export shop of a friend I met in Korea about 5 years ago. It happened that this friend, Fayyaz Bhai was actually again in Korea with Qadus Bhai (my very first friend in Korea, aside from my roommate and co-saving grace, Brad), but Fayyaz's brother gave me directions to take a train from the airport and his other brother met me on the platform. They gave me a take-out plate of the best Indian food to be found in all of Rome, and then the younger brother journeyed with me out to the Colloseum and a walk along ancient sites, and then for the best cappacino I have had in many, many years. A half hour more sitting around at the shop as the older brother internet-ed his life away and the younger brother hid in the back, then I was dropped back at the train, and got to the airport for the flight on to Brussels where a tired and somewhat sick Daniel was awaiting.
My Pakistani friends and their random shops around the world really are wonderful in these times of urgent need to both pass some time and eat well. What a blessing!
My Pakistani friends and their random shops around the world really are wonderful in these times of urgent need to both pass some time and eat well. What a blessing!
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Hi from Karachi Airport
Hello from the airport...the recurring delays of this morning's flight to Delhi has given me the gifts of complimentary breakfast and internet use! "PIA Flight 272 is delayed due to technical reasons." Hearing this, a couple of people standing nearby joked, "Yes, technically, the plane is not here."
So where to start...I arrived back from my week in Oman (the first 4 days of which were spent resting my stomach which was invaded by microbes of rotten raita at the fanciest restaurant in the Karachi neighborhood I stay in) last Thursday. Friends and family were suggesting I avoid going back to pakistan due to the state of emergency, and I went to a travel office in Nizwa, Oman, to change the ticket - but due to the Diwali holidays there were no seats available to delhi from there, and so bravely I returned. And, as every pakistani I had spoken to had said, it actually feels safer and more stable than before, somehow. Anyways, I had had my ticket changed from the 17th to the 12th...meaning I wouldn't take my trip to multan and couldn't go to see my dear sweet 10 year old friend Erum. Anyone who knows me, knows I'm not going to sacrifice that trip...I'll be back across the border by road in 2 weeks time and go to the ancient Sufi centre of Multan and I'll get to see my Erum!! It will probably be faster from Delhi than from here, distance-wise it's closer from there.
In the 4 days back in Karachi, away from running hot water again, I set my mind to paintin one of the walls of Ikhlaq's family's house, there's a beautiful archway to the kitchen, and I had envisioned a traditional Mughal palace archway there...so 4 days I painted to complete a really lovely archway with arcs and flowers, hearts, and messages painted in for my family. It came out lovely, and I photographed everyone there. There was one picture of me and Papa, and when we looked at it we were amazed, our faces look exactly the same, we definately could be family, the same music spirit kindled in our eyes.
The little hillarious details about things like the tailor and the clothes that were supposed to be stitched the previous week, and then would be done by evening, and then would be done by next morning, and then by 1pm after the azhan, and then by 8pm, and finally we had to collect everything, and one sister stayed up finishing the stitches long past midnight! Imran Bhai honored my request to cook his special secret recipe chicken...which he said he'd give me the recipe for, but naturally didn't...so we all went down the street to his house for a midnight meal. Ikhlaq called while we were there, and the phone was passed to Papa so Ikhlaq could play some sitar strains and get Papa's suggestions on how to improve them - precious. When Papa listens to music, he practically dances, feeling the notes so deeply, and the spirit spreads, the appreciation radiates thickly from him until there's no way not to enjoy and feel the same power in every note.
Well, let's see if the flight is further delayed, if complimentary lunch is also offered, if the technical difficulties get solved and the plane comes and safely flies and lands in Delhi where other wonders are waiting for me.....
p e a c e
So where to start...I arrived back from my week in Oman (the first 4 days of which were spent resting my stomach which was invaded by microbes of rotten raita at the fanciest restaurant in the Karachi neighborhood I stay in) last Thursday. Friends and family were suggesting I avoid going back to pakistan due to the state of emergency, and I went to a travel office in Nizwa, Oman, to change the ticket - but due to the Diwali holidays there were no seats available to delhi from there, and so bravely I returned. And, as every pakistani I had spoken to had said, it actually feels safer and more stable than before, somehow. Anyways, I had had my ticket changed from the 17th to the 12th...meaning I wouldn't take my trip to multan and couldn't go to see my dear sweet 10 year old friend Erum. Anyone who knows me, knows I'm not going to sacrifice that trip...I'll be back across the border by road in 2 weeks time and go to the ancient Sufi centre of Multan and I'll get to see my Erum!! It will probably be faster from Delhi than from here, distance-wise it's closer from there.
In the 4 days back in Karachi, away from running hot water again, I set my mind to paintin one of the walls of Ikhlaq's family's house, there's a beautiful archway to the kitchen, and I had envisioned a traditional Mughal palace archway there...so 4 days I painted to complete a really lovely archway with arcs and flowers, hearts, and messages painted in for my family. It came out lovely, and I photographed everyone there. There was one picture of me and Papa, and when we looked at it we were amazed, our faces look exactly the same, we definately could be family, the same music spirit kindled in our eyes.
The little hillarious details about things like the tailor and the clothes that were supposed to be stitched the previous week, and then would be done by evening, and then would be done by next morning, and then by 1pm after the azhan, and then by 8pm, and finally we had to collect everything, and one sister stayed up finishing the stitches long past midnight! Imran Bhai honored my request to cook his special secret recipe chicken...which he said he'd give me the recipe for, but naturally didn't...so we all went down the street to his house for a midnight meal. Ikhlaq called while we were there, and the phone was passed to Papa so Ikhlaq could play some sitar strains and get Papa's suggestions on how to improve them - precious. When Papa listens to music, he practically dances, feeling the notes so deeply, and the spirit spreads, the appreciation radiates thickly from him until there's no way not to enjoy and feel the same power in every note.
Well, let's see if the flight is further delayed, if complimentary lunch is also offered, if the technical difficulties get solved and the plane comes and safely flies and lands in Delhi where other wonders are waiting for me.....
p e a c e
Friday, November 2, 2007
Frankincense Tea
Yesterday morning with rumbling stomach and only a few hours of sleep, after embracing the sisters who were awake and my Pakistani Papa, Faisal Bhai got me a taxi and reluctantly let me sit in the front seat. Amrit Bhai rode his motorcycle along with us, picking up a too cool for his own greased back hair guy sporting a cigarette somewhere along the way; parting at the entrance to his work at the DHL department. We passed a very beautiful old church (St.Christopher’s) within the airport complex. There was a VIP departing at the same time as we arrived, so the taxi had to finagle its way to the curb. I got my sarangi out of the “diggi” (trunk) and was expecting Faisal would leave with the taxi, but for some reason he let the taxi go and a few minutes later said goodbye and probably had to find another taxi, or who knows…
There was luggage inspection directly inside the doors, and some very nice and impressed inspectors who asked me a million questions about sarangi. The computers were down at the Oman Air desks, still unbelievably people were trying to budge through the line, a porter putting them in place and apologizing to me, “very sorry, Madame”. Was happy to see female immigration officers at Karachi airport, the first international flight I had from there since my first visit several years earlier when I was overnight in transit in Karachi and had my passport confiscated. I was told it was law for transit customers to have their passports held before leaving the airport for the transit hotel. It was all the more dramatic after a day of sufi episodes meeting an Italian Chistiya sheika who judged I was following a false spiritual path and made parallels to a roof not being supported without columns, and a person not being able to leave the country without a passport…. Back at the airport when I went to get my boarding pass I was asked for my passport, when I said I was supposed to collect it from them, I was asked to step out of line and wait. Nearly boarding time, I was called back to get my boarding pass, but wasn’t given my passport. From one desk to another, and finally shoved into the immigration line, the officer looked me up and down and asked where I was from, and wasn’t I Pakistani, I looked so beautiful with a scarf around my neck, and wouldn’t I pull it up to cover my head, how beautiful I would then look. I finally lost decorum to the subtle point that I was capable to someone in such control of my life at that moment, and said, “No, Sir, I am not in prayer now, I’m only praying that you give me my passport back.” Neighboring officers turned heads, and the man sobered and pointed me to the next desk and I was given my passport and the lines opened up for me to pass through.
Waiting for boarding time, I went over to get some chai and the chai wallah struck up a conversation complimenting my urdu and uncertain if I was actually Pakistani or not, his second guess was Turkish, as he didn’t really buy my line about being without a country and being from the Universe. Time passed, I boarded the plane bound for a country of women clad in black robes and veils. I wear clothes the color of my eyes and skin – turquoise head scarf, kurta, Lahori embroidered shoes light sea green dupatta and white silwar; off to see what awaits.
Arrived to dusty mountains and dusty air, men in long white robes with tightly wrapped low turbans or high embroidered hats, and women clad in black. There was a mysterious visa process with lines going to immigration and lines going to a money changer and an information window that was issuing pre-arranged visas. I had to go to the money changer and he collected the fee, then I showed the receipt to the immigration officers – two rather young and dashingly turbaned guys who were pretending to be all stern as they smiled and practiced their English and acted perplexed over an American female arriving from Pakistan, I nodded and agreed it was strange. Passing through and collecting my sarangi, then had it opened by a female customs officer who insisted on plucking the strings over and over and trying to interest the other officers to look (which they didn’t have time for). Outside my friend Ma’at was nowhere in sight, so I figured out the system of buying a phone card and making a public phone call and reached her. She and two friends were being held up by overexerted Indian hospitality, and were finally given the excuse they needed to leave when my call came.
As I waited I pondered endlessly over the mystery tassel at the front right collar of the men’s ankle length robes, wondering what esthetic or useful purpose it could possibly be there for. Looking around at “Magic Wok” and “Costa Coffee”, the dark skinned Nepali faced ladies in bright, bright pinks across the way, the men in their robes; I was trying to gauge whether it was a 3rd world country or 2nd world, but the cleaning lady, in her black toe-socks, asleep behind the bathroom door gave some of the answer away. A short-haired white woman in a short-sleeved tee-shirt finally came into the airport arrival hall and called out to me, walked me out to Ma’at (aka Justine) who was driving a beautiful white car through the arrival lane. A third lady, Fatima, from Hyderabad India, was also with the receiving entourage, and we drove off to the Muscat Mall to grocery shop at a fancy place where international items were plentiful.
As my stomach was rumbling and I felt in the thick of a flu, Ma'at suggested I get some tea at "Mood Cafe" and put medicinal-grade frankincense into it. What a taste! Hunza apricots, and Omani frankincense tea...what a life I lead!! I know why the wise men brought Frankincense to baby Jesus, not for the smell, to keep him alive through the cold winter nights! It was about a two hour drive back to Nizwa, we stopped at a little town off the main road, where the ladies put on their tourist shopping hats and stocked up on ceramic items (from little turned up shoes to vases to decorative Arabic plaques).
For the first time in perhaps weeks, I had a full night’s sleep, and a nearly hot shower – though Ma’at’s gas ran out and being Friday no one is working so it can’t be replaced so no stove cooking or hot showers til then. I took a walk out to the Shell station where there were purportedly samosas to be found…but being Friday…. It was a lovely 20 step stroll, gazing at the jagged, crumbling mountains all around. Something in the very nature of the stone seems restless, maybe they are just a mirror for me, though.
Ma’at, and apparently all of her expat friends here, want me to come and teach, and the University even agreed to us splitting a year’s contract, where I work 6 months, then she works 6 months, we live in the same lovely, fully furnished and livable apartment. Before we arrived to Nizwa, I determined if before leaving this week I find a very advanced North Indian musician, a recording studio/producer to work with, and the love of my life….I’ll definitely take the job. I have to admit, I think the love of my life is everywhere, and it need not matter where I go…if the love of my life does not travel along with me I will be bound to find the love of my life where I go….insha’Allah. Though already in NY I have those 3 ingrediants, and as Papa says, “Why go to Multan, Sufi is here!?” He is right, but also I must go, and he knows, and he allows me my journey.
There was luggage inspection directly inside the doors, and some very nice and impressed inspectors who asked me a million questions about sarangi. The computers were down at the Oman Air desks, still unbelievably people were trying to budge through the line, a porter putting them in place and apologizing to me, “very sorry, Madame”. Was happy to see female immigration officers at Karachi airport, the first international flight I had from there since my first visit several years earlier when I was overnight in transit in Karachi and had my passport confiscated. I was told it was law for transit customers to have their passports held before leaving the airport for the transit hotel. It was all the more dramatic after a day of sufi episodes meeting an Italian Chistiya sheika who judged I was following a false spiritual path and made parallels to a roof not being supported without columns, and a person not being able to leave the country without a passport…. Back at the airport when I went to get my boarding pass I was asked for my passport, when I said I was supposed to collect it from them, I was asked to step out of line and wait. Nearly boarding time, I was called back to get my boarding pass, but wasn’t given my passport. From one desk to another, and finally shoved into the immigration line, the officer looked me up and down and asked where I was from, and wasn’t I Pakistani, I looked so beautiful with a scarf around my neck, and wouldn’t I pull it up to cover my head, how beautiful I would then look. I finally lost decorum to the subtle point that I was capable to someone in such control of my life at that moment, and said, “No, Sir, I am not in prayer now, I’m only praying that you give me my passport back.” Neighboring officers turned heads, and the man sobered and pointed me to the next desk and I was given my passport and the lines opened up for me to pass through.
Waiting for boarding time, I went over to get some chai and the chai wallah struck up a conversation complimenting my urdu and uncertain if I was actually Pakistani or not, his second guess was Turkish, as he didn’t really buy my line about being without a country and being from the Universe. Time passed, I boarded the plane bound for a country of women clad in black robes and veils. I wear clothes the color of my eyes and skin – turquoise head scarf, kurta, Lahori embroidered shoes light sea green dupatta and white silwar; off to see what awaits.
Arrived to dusty mountains and dusty air, men in long white robes with tightly wrapped low turbans or high embroidered hats, and women clad in black. There was a mysterious visa process with lines going to immigration and lines going to a money changer and an information window that was issuing pre-arranged visas. I had to go to the money changer and he collected the fee, then I showed the receipt to the immigration officers – two rather young and dashingly turbaned guys who were pretending to be all stern as they smiled and practiced their English and acted perplexed over an American female arriving from Pakistan, I nodded and agreed it was strange. Passing through and collecting my sarangi, then had it opened by a female customs officer who insisted on plucking the strings over and over and trying to interest the other officers to look (which they didn’t have time for). Outside my friend Ma’at was nowhere in sight, so I figured out the system of buying a phone card and making a public phone call and reached her. She and two friends were being held up by overexerted Indian hospitality, and were finally given the excuse they needed to leave when my call came.
As I waited I pondered endlessly over the mystery tassel at the front right collar of the men’s ankle length robes, wondering what esthetic or useful purpose it could possibly be there for. Looking around at “Magic Wok” and “Costa Coffee”, the dark skinned Nepali faced ladies in bright, bright pinks across the way, the men in their robes; I was trying to gauge whether it was a 3rd world country or 2nd world, but the cleaning lady, in her black toe-socks, asleep behind the bathroom door gave some of the answer away. A short-haired white woman in a short-sleeved tee-shirt finally came into the airport arrival hall and called out to me, walked me out to Ma’at (aka Justine) who was driving a beautiful white car through the arrival lane. A third lady, Fatima, from Hyderabad India, was also with the receiving entourage, and we drove off to the Muscat Mall to grocery shop at a fancy place where international items were plentiful.
As my stomach was rumbling and I felt in the thick of a flu, Ma'at suggested I get some tea at "Mood Cafe" and put medicinal-grade frankincense into it. What a taste! Hunza apricots, and Omani frankincense tea...what a life I lead!! I know why the wise men brought Frankincense to baby Jesus, not for the smell, to keep him alive through the cold winter nights! It was about a two hour drive back to Nizwa, we stopped at a little town off the main road, where the ladies put on their tourist shopping hats and stocked up on ceramic items (from little turned up shoes to vases to decorative Arabic plaques).
For the first time in perhaps weeks, I had a full night’s sleep, and a nearly hot shower – though Ma’at’s gas ran out and being Friday no one is working so it can’t be replaced so no stove cooking or hot showers til then. I took a walk out to the Shell station where there were purportedly samosas to be found…but being Friday…. It was a lovely 20 step stroll, gazing at the jagged, crumbling mountains all around. Something in the very nature of the stone seems restless, maybe they are just a mirror for me, though.
Ma’at, and apparently all of her expat friends here, want me to come and teach, and the University even agreed to us splitting a year’s contract, where I work 6 months, then she works 6 months, we live in the same lovely, fully furnished and livable apartment. Before we arrived to Nizwa, I determined if before leaving this week I find a very advanced North Indian musician, a recording studio/producer to work with, and the love of my life….I’ll definitely take the job. I have to admit, I think the love of my life is everywhere, and it need not matter where I go…if the love of my life does not travel along with me I will be bound to find the love of my life where I go….insha’Allah. Though already in NY I have those 3 ingrediants, and as Papa says, “Why go to Multan, Sufi is here!?” He is right, but also I must go, and he knows, and he allows me my journey.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
20 Sleeping Legs
Hello, after a very long pause visiting the internet. I am ALIVE!! And well in Karachi. Though you may have been worrying about me being here, due to the bomb blasts last week....there's nothing to fear, though you can not imagine the driving conditions here...me sidesaddle on brother Amrit's motorcycle racing through the night.
It has been fine here 2 weeks and 2 days now, but I'm going a bit stir-crazy. Every morning I step my way through 20 sleeping legs to get to the squat toilet. It's probably the longest I've been without running water...though there are mysterious times of the day when it does run and all of the water tanks and sinks overflow with water spilling through the house! Excitement all around.
Ikhlaq's father is patiently guiding me along with music and sarangi, and honors me with picking up the sitar...and I wish I didn't have to try to focus so hard and figure out how to replicate what he's teaching, but could just sit back and enjoy the beauty of it.
After the bomb, actually before the bomb, the door outside of the apartment was officially closed for me - as crowds and chaos ensued in the nebulous outside world. Then there was a strike that lasted another 3 days or 4, and even after no one wanted to let me go out and greet the sun. I'm very eager to take a vacation from my vacation, at this point. Finally last night after 2 weeks and only going out of the house once to try to get my ticket to oman, I was driven to see my friend Luqman (nephew of ustad mashkoor ali khan of calcutta, and friend of mine from korea! we both did time there). I had lost his #, so we had to drive around trying to find it, but we did, and he was very beautifully surprised to see me, and I met his daughter of 9 months, and his sweet wife and sisters and mom and gma.
Tonight I may do some shopping for material...I'm encouraging one sister to do some of her amazing stitching work for me to sell to friends back home - her work is beautiful, and if my idea works it will be the first time that she has ever had a means for making an income!! (More on the idea, email me if you have any interest in buying indian cloths!) Also heard something about going to Ala-Din, some game arcade that's all the rage.
Thursday is Ikhlaq's nephew, Sonu's concert at Alliance Francais; surely he'll play amazingly like the superstar he is.
Plan to go to oman for a week on the 1st, and then sometime the following week start to wend my way north and then back over the border that separates one land from itself....I have actually a lot more interesting plans than I'm letting on, but I'll have to save something for later... and still hope to update the last part of my china journey, when there's time.
For now, sending my love out to all my friends, hope all are safe, happy, healthy!
It has been fine here 2 weeks and 2 days now, but I'm going a bit stir-crazy. Every morning I step my way through 20 sleeping legs to get to the squat toilet. It's probably the longest I've been without running water...though there are mysterious times of the day when it does run and all of the water tanks and sinks overflow with water spilling through the house! Excitement all around.
Ikhlaq's father is patiently guiding me along with music and sarangi, and honors me with picking up the sitar...and I wish I didn't have to try to focus so hard and figure out how to replicate what he's teaching, but could just sit back and enjoy the beauty of it.
After the bomb, actually before the bomb, the door outside of the apartment was officially closed for me - as crowds and chaos ensued in the nebulous outside world. Then there was a strike that lasted another 3 days or 4, and even after no one wanted to let me go out and greet the sun. I'm very eager to take a vacation from my vacation, at this point. Finally last night after 2 weeks and only going out of the house once to try to get my ticket to oman, I was driven to see my friend Luqman (nephew of ustad mashkoor ali khan of calcutta, and friend of mine from korea! we both did time there). I had lost his #, so we had to drive around trying to find it, but we did, and he was very beautifully surprised to see me, and I met his daughter of 9 months, and his sweet wife and sisters and mom and gma.
Tonight I may do some shopping for material...I'm encouraging one sister to do some of her amazing stitching work for me to sell to friends back home - her work is beautiful, and if my idea works it will be the first time that she has ever had a means for making an income!! (More on the idea, email me if you have any interest in buying indian cloths!) Also heard something about going to Ala-Din, some game arcade that's all the rage.
Thursday is Ikhlaq's nephew, Sonu's concert at Alliance Francais; surely he'll play amazingly like the superstar he is.
Plan to go to oman for a week on the 1st, and then sometime the following week start to wend my way north and then back over the border that separates one land from itself....I have actually a lot more interesting plans than I'm letting on, but I'll have to save something for later... and still hope to update the last part of my china journey, when there's time.
For now, sending my love out to all my friends, hope all are safe, happy, healthy!
Friday, October 5, 2007
What Time? It's 9 o'clock AND it's 7 o'clock ??!!
XinJiang Autonomous Region (perhaps not very autonomous after all) has 2 concurrent time zones, making time itself seem a silly thing. One time is local XinJiang time, and the other is Beijing time - 2 hours ahead. Official things, like breakfast at the Chinese Tourist Hotel, and plane departures happen on Beijing time, and answers to 'what time is it' happen on local time. To make things equally exciting there are two languages spoken. I soon realized, as all the local Ughyurs get stuck with the worst jobs, all the taxi drivers are Ughyur. I got in a taxi saying, 'ni hao' and got a glare, realizing my mistake, the next time I got into a taxi I said, "Salaam Aleikum" and the driver replied with a heartfelt smile and "wa'aleikum a salaam". But, try to Salaam the Han nationals, and the same glare comes back, or rather a bewildered look as if we're speaking latin.
Watermelon season. Jujubes. Fresh flower peaches, grapes, apricot kernals.
We went to the shrine of Apak Hoja, the air of Sufis, somewhere beyond the mud walls. Akimjan, from the morning after the after missing official breakfast-time experience - peanuts cold pork rind and sugary white bread to dip in sweet and sour sauce, eeks..., guided us to China Air and to China Bank and back to China Air and suggested we eat chicken noodles at Entazaar Restaurant (delicious), took us to parts of the Old City, where the cobbler sewed my boots back together, lingering over the details to irk a bossy woman who then had to wait with her fists clenched for him to finish both of my boots zippers and back seam. There were some guys singing operatic 'happy birthday' across the way on the computers next to the W.C. We saw more bowed instruments, something called 'khoshtar' that had minah birds carved on the top. There were parrots in cages singing outside of the little grocery shops. Women wore skirts just below the knees with silk leggings and nylons over them; clicking high heels and scarves tied under the hair, men in mismatched jackets and suit pants, the pirs wearing Afghani style robes and long white beards.
Kashgar.
Watermelon season. Jujubes. Fresh flower peaches, grapes, apricot kernals.
We went to the shrine of Apak Hoja, the air of Sufis, somewhere beyond the mud walls. Akimjan, from the morning after the after missing official breakfast-time experience - peanuts cold pork rind and sugary white bread to dip in sweet and sour sauce, eeks..., guided us to China Air and to China Bank and back to China Air and suggested we eat chicken noodles at Entazaar Restaurant (delicious), took us to parts of the Old City, where the cobbler sewed my boots back together, lingering over the details to irk a bossy woman who then had to wait with her fists clenched for him to finish both of my boots zippers and back seam. There were some guys singing operatic 'happy birthday' across the way on the computers next to the W.C. We saw more bowed instruments, something called 'khoshtar' that had minah birds carved on the top. There were parrots in cages singing outside of the little grocery shops. Women wore skirts just below the knees with silk leggings and nylons over them; clicking high heels and scarves tied under the hair, men in mismatched jackets and suit pants, the pirs wearing Afghani style robes and long white beards.
Kashgar.
Kashgar, China - what was supposed to be our destination
So here we are in Kashgar - after a 4 day journey which went quite smoothly. How great to be in a "luxury" hotel ChiniBagh after last night invading the Khyrgustani family's house - paying brutally for it and having only a few bites of bread and yak cheese, and no bathroom but the bright jagged and dusty stones under the freezing cold of the full Moon. Sweet Muneera. I'm coming up with a story, weaving a past life tapestry of me as a Hunza girl falling in love with a XinJiang girl who came to visit and perhaps brought me back to China with her...but I couldn't stay, I missed the apricot valley too much.
We walked around the block to the old Id Ka Mosque from the 1400's. There was a 20 yuen admission (nearly $3) just to walk in, but it was lovely and peaceful, poplar lined and yellow archways. The to the KahLa (public bathroom - not a pretty site and required admission fees too!), into the handicrafts music store where a guy demonstrated the local violin which sits raised on the left knee facing out at arm's length, elbow holding it in place. There was even a double bass version, way cool. Talking calculators were passed over so we could type a price in, hillarious, really. At the little supermarket near the hotel I bought Colgate watermellon toothpaste (thinking of Daniel whom got me into the wonder of buying foreign toothpastes), a red bean bread, Nutri-Express drink, Piko chocolate bar, coffee ice cream bar, and this cute Pooh bear notebook entitled "you laughter is the suns i keep look for each day your voice is music to my ears your smile helps light my way" all for a dollar and a quarter - 9 yuen. Some of my Chinese is coming back. At least I can say, "hello, thank you, goodbye".
To the Pakistani Cafe for dinner. Beijing-Pakistan photo exchange happening, as a young Chinese girl asked a Pakistani guy how to eat the food. The Pakistani's speaking amongst themselves thought I was Russian, but weren't sure because I didn't speak. It was a far cry from the Hunza people who whispered guesses as we walked up the Karimabad hill - first Peshawar, then they guessed I was from Kabul! I spoke in Urdu to the Ughyur ladies in the kitchen and told them it was delicious. Sweet people everywhere, no hassles, no real out friendliness either - except maybe the boys outside of Id Ka Mosque trying to sell their golden butterfly pins. It's cold. Can't wait to use my watermelon toothpaste,now is the time!
We walked around the block to the old Id Ka Mosque from the 1400's. There was a 20 yuen admission (nearly $3) just to walk in, but it was lovely and peaceful, poplar lined and yellow archways. The to the KahLa (public bathroom - not a pretty site and required admission fees too!), into the handicrafts music store where a guy demonstrated the local violin which sits raised on the left knee facing out at arm's length, elbow holding it in place. There was even a double bass version, way cool. Talking calculators were passed over so we could type a price in, hillarious, really. At the little supermarket near the hotel I bought Colgate watermellon toothpaste (thinking of Daniel whom got me into the wonder of buying foreign toothpastes), a red bean bread, Nutri-Express drink, Piko chocolate bar, coffee ice cream bar, and this cute Pooh bear notebook entitled "you laughter is the suns i keep look for each day your voice is music to my ears your smile helps light my way" all for a dollar and a quarter - 9 yuen. Some of my Chinese is coming back. At least I can say, "hello, thank you, goodbye".
To the Pakistani Cafe for dinner. Beijing-Pakistan photo exchange happening, as a young Chinese girl asked a Pakistani guy how to eat the food. The Pakistani's speaking amongst themselves thought I was Russian, but weren't sure because I didn't speak. It was a far cry from the Hunza people who whispered guesses as we walked up the Karimabad hill - first Peshawar, then they guessed I was from Kabul! I spoke in Urdu to the Ughyur ladies in the kitchen and told them it was delicious. Sweet people everywhere, no hassles, no real out friendliness either - except maybe the boys outside of Id Ka Mosque trying to sell their golden butterfly pins. It's cold. Can't wait to use my watermelon toothpaste,now is the time!
Sunday, September 30, 2007
4 ways
Breakfast Peking time 9am…we luckily made it on time for a buffet of pine nuts and collards, and assorted weird items including the squeeze-the-charmin bread and sweet and sour marmalade..mmm… We sat at a table of Westerners, met Josephine and David, a couple traveling by road from Britain. (They’re interestingly enough heading back to Pakistan…) In China they are allowed to bring their own vehicle, but not allowed to drive anywhere without a Chinese guide. We went to the bank, and to the airline office, and all for me to wonder what in the world do I do with 4 equally unappealing options. Margret decided she had to go on to DunHuang, it was the place that was calling her. She had seen a book on the table of the tourist office in the hotel, a book of the Buddhist caves in DunHuang, and tears came to her eyes. However, it was very far by road, and she would fly there and then from there back to Pakistan. My options were #1) wait in a random, dull, expensive hotel (by expensive I mean $25 per day, not like the West), in a random city I don’t feel any desire to really stay in for 5 days and then catch a flight back to Islamabad, #2) stay in Kashgar 3 days and after crossing the Chinese border at Tashkurgand, ride in the cramped jeep with the British couple over the nauseating pass to Sost (and then pray Ahsan could be there and drive me on to my flight in Skardu a few days later), #3) fly with her to bustling Urumqi and stay there in that random city I know nothing about and have no connections in a few days until the next flight to Islamabad, #4) cough up 6 or 7 hundred dollars for the flights and continue to accompany Margret on her expedition which she had thus far paid everything for me to do so. {Speaking from the future, if I was going to choose again, I would have chose #2, because I still think there are Sufis for me to find in Kashgar, and I would’ve loved to return to the Hunza Valley – now both places I’ll have to go back to…but maybe that for a reason too.} #4 was chosen.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Mud House with Yak Dung Fire, Bathroom Beneath the Stars
Our first night in China, all in all, under the Full Moon, was quite a memorable treat. After our Hunza angel, Ahsan, helped us transition to a new driver and cross the Pakistani border...no easy thing...when we arrived to Sost one of the jeep's tires was a bit flat. The system of remedying this was to attach a hose from the engine exhaust pipe to the tire, with one person revving the engine, the exhaust would then flow through the plastic pipe into the tire; ingenious!! We had to have our names put on a manifest with the travel monopoly before going through immigration, the process of which I believe I already wrote about....okay, so moving along...we drove through khunjerab national park, to the tippy top of the pass with the awful sickening smell, and then arranged a new driver who spoke neither English nor Urdu, but fortunately a language quite similar to Turkish, called Ughyur, so at least I could count to ten with him! As we got onto the road the 100 word dictionary in the lonely planet travel guide our savior, still couldn't get us to an internet cafe. We drove about an hour and a half through a slow sunset on a deserted highway (the only highway in the province, I think)through chinese ghosttowns and dusty yellow plains with snow-topped mountains rising off in the distance.
Arriving at 'the lake' and the only restaurant thoroughly locked up and closed down for tourist season, we ventured to check out one of the yurts beside the lake. I stayed in the car and Margret went on the mission to see if it would be our home for the night. She came back dismayed, there was a strange man staying there and the owner wanted about $15 a person for us to also stay in there. The taxi driver made a swooping yelp to indicate he wanted to stay way across the other side of the lake, and off we went. We drove onto a rocky dirt path that shook his mini-van every which way, when mud houses started appearing the driver beeped his horn until finally someone appeared outside one of the houses. It wasn't a yurt, and there was no toilet, but it would do. The owners had run to the neighbors to borrow a stove which got assembled on our side of the house, meanwhile the very sweet girl (maybe 10 or 12 years old), Muneera, showed me across the lane to a pile of rocks where we could pee under the full moon. What a lovely bonding experience. (reminded me of other such bonding experiences, like in india as the ladies held up shawls for each other stopped at the side of the road so the truck drivers wouldn't stare us down, and then the 2am post-Happy Noodle Shop in Chungju, Korea with Becky and Rae, squat in the grass in front of the police station)
Inside, with yak dung burning and finally being able to take off my down jacket, we were offered some hard naan bread and lumpy yak yoghurt. The chai tasted like butter, and I couldn't bear to drink it. Margret brought out some treasures - a Swiss fruit cake which the locals didn't dare take two bites of, and Miso soup mix. Then it was time for bed, and the Khirgiz family brought down silk embroidered comforter after comforter to pile on top of us (the dung fire would inevitably die out). The driver was looking mighty uncomfortable about sleeping in the same room as us, but slipped his pants off nonetheless and pretended to snore after two seconds. I think I actually slept. We were woken for seheri, Ramadan breakfast before sunrise, but expecting them to bring food to us we missed the chance to eat. A couple hours later we were offered the same piece of stale bread from the night before. Before leaving, the lady of the house tried to pawn off her necklace and then her ring and earrings. We refused, but left some moisturizing creams and a pen for Muneera, who was still asleep. The sun was rising over the yellow plains and snow-capped peaks, the yaks' breaths misting in the full moon air...we were back on the Silk Road.
Arriving at 'the lake' and the only restaurant thoroughly locked up and closed down for tourist season, we ventured to check out one of the yurts beside the lake. I stayed in the car and Margret went on the mission to see if it would be our home for the night. She came back dismayed, there was a strange man staying there and the owner wanted about $15 a person for us to also stay in there. The taxi driver made a swooping yelp to indicate he wanted to stay way across the other side of the lake, and off we went. We drove onto a rocky dirt path that shook his mini-van every which way, when mud houses started appearing the driver beeped his horn until finally someone appeared outside one of the houses. It wasn't a yurt, and there was no toilet, but it would do. The owners had run to the neighbors to borrow a stove which got assembled on our side of the house, meanwhile the very sweet girl (maybe 10 or 12 years old), Muneera, showed me across the lane to a pile of rocks where we could pee under the full moon. What a lovely bonding experience. (reminded me of other such bonding experiences, like in india as the ladies held up shawls for each other stopped at the side of the road so the truck drivers wouldn't stare us down, and then the 2am post-Happy Noodle Shop in Chungju, Korea with Becky and Rae, squat in the grass in front of the police station)
Inside, with yak dung burning and finally being able to take off my down jacket, we were offered some hard naan bread and lumpy yak yoghurt. The chai tasted like butter, and I couldn't bear to drink it. Margret brought out some treasures - a Swiss fruit cake which the locals didn't dare take two bites of, and Miso soup mix. Then it was time for bed, and the Khirgiz family brought down silk embroidered comforter after comforter to pile on top of us (the dung fire would inevitably die out). The driver was looking mighty uncomfortable about sleeping in the same room as us, but slipped his pants off nonetheless and pretended to snore after two seconds. I think I actually slept. We were woken for seheri, Ramadan breakfast before sunrise, but expecting them to bring food to us we missed the chance to eat. A couple hours later we were offered the same piece of stale bread from the night before. Before leaving, the lady of the house tried to pawn off her necklace and then her ring and earrings. We refused, but left some moisturizing creams and a pen for Muneera, who was still asleep. The sun was rising over the yellow plains and snow-capped peaks, the yaks' breaths misting in the full moon air...we were back on the Silk Road.
Friday, September 28, 2007
NYC go to Ikhlaq's Concert!! This FRIDAY - 28th - SITAR BLISS
This Friday night, virtuoso sitarist Ustad Ikhlaq Hussain will be performing at THE ARCH SPACE, 66 West 39th Street, 3rd Floor, at 8:00pm. He will be accompanied on tabla by Nitin Mitta...this is going to be a musical night to remember!
My mom wrote and said that Ikhlaq dedicated a song to me - how sweet, I was in tears reading that in DunHuang, China at Shirley's Cafe after experiencing the worst in sweet and sour eggplant and tofu - the french fries were good though. He also gave his bouquet of orchids to my mom - doubly sweet.
I haven't spoken to him yet to hear about the concert, but I'm sure it was amazing. I'm eager to reach Karachi and start lessons with his father, whose music is so amazing it's in his every breath, miraculously beautiful....
My mom wrote and said that Ikhlaq dedicated a song to me - how sweet, I was in tears reading that in DunHuang, China at Shirley's Cafe after experiencing the worst in sweet and sour eggplant and tofu - the french fries were good though. He also gave his bouquet of orchids to my mom - doubly sweet.
I haven't spoken to him yet to hear about the concert, but I'm sure it was amazing. I'm eager to reach Karachi and start lessons with his father, whose music is so amazing it's in his every breath, miraculously beautiful....
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Over the Khunjerab Pass - into China
At the top of the mountains, with a dusting of snow in our midst, and turns that turned my stomach so sour I had to stop taking pictures, we arrived at the Chinese checkpost - the actual border. Though the air rightly should have been fresh and sweet, like Hunza, there was a sickening smell of old petrol and burning chemicals. It was the Chinese checkpost, perhaps some disinfectant; Margret said she recognized that kind of smell from eastern Germany.
We were on the other side, unlike when we left Sost and the Pakistan immigration officer had to run and turn on the generator to process our passport numbers, we were not in strict freezing cold chinese hands; no games, no pictures, no questions.
A young soldier hopped into our car to be driven to the next checkpost where our passports would actually be stamped. Me sick in the front with the window wide open, him without a proper coat shivering in the back (refusing to accept food or water or a coat from us), and the funny driver, quite a team we made!
An hour on we were at lower altitude and at the customs point where all of our bags were gone through, our precious hunza dried apricots confiscated, and all manner of being patted down had passed by the smiling female officer (unlike the pakistani side where we were separately taken into a room where the veiled woman reached for my privates and nowhere else, took me aback).
We then had to find a way to get to kashgar or out of the border town, tashkurgan, and to the karakol lake. We almost got whisked into a van with 10 pakistani guys, not my ideal sick as I was, finally were able to arrange a private driver for another $100 to take us to the lake, spend the evening there, and drive us on the next day to kashgar.
We were on the other side, unlike when we left Sost and the Pakistan immigration officer had to run and turn on the generator to process our passport numbers, we were not in strict freezing cold chinese hands; no games, no pictures, no questions.
A young soldier hopped into our car to be driven to the next checkpost where our passports would actually be stamped. Me sick in the front with the window wide open, him without a proper coat shivering in the back (refusing to accept food or water or a coat from us), and the funny driver, quite a team we made!
An hour on we were at lower altitude and at the customs point where all of our bags were gone through, our precious hunza dried apricots confiscated, and all manner of being patted down had passed by the smiling female officer (unlike the pakistani side where we were separately taken into a room where the veiled woman reached for my privates and nowhere else, took me aback).
We then had to find a way to get to kashgar or out of the border town, tashkurgan, and to the karakol lake. We almost got whisked into a van with 10 pakistani guys, not my ideal sick as I was, finally were able to arrange a private driver for another $100 to take us to the lake, spend the evening there, and drive us on the next day to kashgar.
Apricot Soup on Karimabad Hill
Our first night in Karimabad we went to Hidden Paradise for dinner, and were served thick and sweetly delicious apricot soup, chapati with soft cheese stuffed inside, and smothered in apricot kernal oil. We drank tea called 'tumoro', an herbal blend with a punch and something familiar that I couldn't place, but which made me want more and more; perhaps it helped with the altitude. It was our finest meal of the entire journey and we both longed to stay..and after we left we longed to return...and now in fact I'm in China, backwriting the legs of the journey...and I still long to be in hunza enjoying the apricot splendors.
In the morning, the sunrose over mountains too high to see the top of from our hotel room window. We ate what margret calls 'squeeze the charmin' bread with omelet, and tumoro tea that seemed to be cooked in petrol - deeply disappointed we had to send it back, Ehsan wouldn't even drink it.
We were back on the winding road. I held my camera out to take pictures, though by the time the camera turned on we had turned a bend into a new scene of magnificence. It was a few more dizzying hours until we arrived at the border, Sost. We didn't stop to see any sights, pushing forth to get to china and margret's mission of finding a certain site she had to return to.
Ehsan woke up a cousin who had a special border passport and would drive us over the pass. We had to hire a car from the company with the pass monopoly, Ehsan got us a good price, about $150 for the 4-5 hour journey which also took us through a national park where we had to pay in US dollars $4 per person.
The new driver didn't speak English, but we communicated in Urdu a bit. He was a funny sort of man, he got out of the car at one point and let us take pictures. Getting back in the car he spit and then turned so fast that the spit landed on his coat; we all had to laugh over that.
The glaciers rose and the sites were amazing. The road was dizzying, and as we got to the pass, my face beet red - as I hadn't realized that I could get so sunburned when the climate was well near freezing.
In the morning, the sunrose over mountains too high to see the top of from our hotel room window. We ate what margret calls 'squeeze the charmin' bread with omelet, and tumoro tea that seemed to be cooked in petrol - deeply disappointed we had to send it back, Ehsan wouldn't even drink it.
We were back on the winding road. I held my camera out to take pictures, though by the time the camera turned on we had turned a bend into a new scene of magnificence. It was a few more dizzying hours until we arrived at the border, Sost. We didn't stop to see any sights, pushing forth to get to china and margret's mission of finding a certain site she had to return to.
Ehsan woke up a cousin who had a special border passport and would drive us over the pass. We had to hire a car from the company with the pass monopoly, Ehsan got us a good price, about $150 for the 4-5 hour journey which also took us through a national park where we had to pay in US dollars $4 per person.
The new driver didn't speak English, but we communicated in Urdu a bit. He was a funny sort of man, he got out of the car at one point and let us take pictures. Getting back in the car he spit and then turned so fast that the spit landed on his coat; we all had to laugh over that.
The glaciers rose and the sites were amazing. The road was dizzying, and as we got to the pass, my face beet red - as I hadn't realized that I could get so sunburned when the climate was well near freezing.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Air of Mountain Sage - Hunza Valley
Margret and I arrived to Gilgit early in the morning, wandered out of the airport and into an unbelievable landscape of soaring gray mountains. No hotel bus waiting to greet us, we wandered around to find a taxi, and somewhere along the way, found a kind looking man (very hard to believe he was pakistani, his complexion snow white as mine, he looked more uzbeki) who offered to drive us to an internet cafe. We then hired him to drive us over two days to the Pakistan border.
After finding a cobbler to fix my beautiful new orange embroidered sandals which had already broken, we headed onto the Karakoram Highway...the Old Silk Road. The mountains rising around us were breathtaking, with the wind blowing through the blue WWII jeep with the japanese engine, and the air smelling of mountain sage, we drove on and on until we could see snow on the peaks. Luckily there had not been rain recently, so the chance of landslides and falling pieces of mountain were not as likely, though some stretches we drove quite fast to avoid. The highway was a dirt track with occassional stones laying at the side to prevent the car from going over the cliffs. I felt extremely safe, though, in the care of our driver, Ehsan. The bridges were all Chinese style, as they were built by chinese workers, every few tiny mountain towns we passed had cemetaries for the chinese laborers who had lost their lives while working on completing the highway.
Four or five winding hours later we arrived in Karimabad. Though Margret had been talking about the altitude since last january, I had no idea what it would mean to be at high altitude. But, when we arrived I finally got a hint of what it means to "be HIGH". Ehsan told us not to sleep for at least 2 hours, so we would start to adjust to the height. It was torture to stay awake, every cell of our bodies wanted to lie down. A piercing headache started in, and when I tried to walk my feet would cross and I would start laughing, not able to form a clear sentence. Altitude works like inertia, seems like nothing is happening, but something is naturally happening.
After finding a cobbler to fix my beautiful new orange embroidered sandals which had already broken, we headed onto the Karakoram Highway...the Old Silk Road. The mountains rising around us were breathtaking, with the wind blowing through the blue WWII jeep with the japanese engine, and the air smelling of mountain sage, we drove on and on until we could see snow on the peaks. Luckily there had not been rain recently, so the chance of landslides and falling pieces of mountain were not as likely, though some stretches we drove quite fast to avoid. The highway was a dirt track with occassional stones laying at the side to prevent the car from going over the cliffs. I felt extremely safe, though, in the care of our driver, Ehsan. The bridges were all Chinese style, as they were built by chinese workers, every few tiny mountain towns we passed had cemetaries for the chinese laborers who had lost their lives while working on completing the highway.
Four or five winding hours later we arrived in Karimabad. Though Margret had been talking about the altitude since last january, I had no idea what it would mean to be at high altitude. But, when we arrived I finally got a hint of what it means to "be HIGH". Ehsan told us not to sleep for at least 2 hours, so we would start to adjust to the height. It was torture to stay awake, every cell of our bodies wanted to lie down. A piercing headache started in, and when I tried to walk my feet would cross and I would start laughing, not able to form a clear sentence. Altitude works like inertia, seems like nothing is happening, but something is naturally happening.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
FLY TO THE MOON
I feel as though I've flown to the moon....gray mountains shooting up and down the skyline amazing, absolutely amazing....arrived safe in gilgit and heading north....
more soon
more soon
Monday, September 24, 2007
Mind My Knees
I'm very blessed to be writing from a little nook of paradise here in lahore, blessed to have been received by my friend of many lifetimes, rajil, and brought to our private castle, the Deaconess House on the premises of st. Hilda's.
And I am blessed to still have 2 knee caps.
It was just when I was feeling immortal, amazed that no matter how close we got to passing cars and donkeys and motorcycles, and bicycles, and pedestrians and narrow street stores, that my legs cleared the space and I remained there on Rajil's motorcycle. It's always when you're thinking how amazing it is everything is perfect and this hasn't happend and this hasn't happened - stop thinking about what hasn't happened, that which you don't want to happen. In the glory dream of feeling immortal, having my ordinary fears and tensions stripped from me in the excitement of teh cool night air and the ride on the bike, my right knee was bashed into a white car. We weren't going fast at all, it wasn't that bad, just a lesson to me..stop thinking about falling and wow i haven't fallen yet, and think' beautiful weather, nice road, blue sky... everytime we weave through the traffic piles stopped at the lights, my knees squeeze tight to rajil and he laughs, and inevitably I laugh, and it's really amazing to be alive and experience every moment!
more about paradise here later...if time permits...otherwise I'm soon off to the hills for a couple of weeks.... love out to you all, send some comments so i know you're out there!!!
And I am blessed to still have 2 knee caps.
It was just when I was feeling immortal, amazed that no matter how close we got to passing cars and donkeys and motorcycles, and bicycles, and pedestrians and narrow street stores, that my legs cleared the space and I remained there on Rajil's motorcycle. It's always when you're thinking how amazing it is everything is perfect and this hasn't happend and this hasn't happened - stop thinking about what hasn't happened, that which you don't want to happen. In the glory dream of feeling immortal, having my ordinary fears and tensions stripped from me in the excitement of teh cool night air and the ride on the bike, my right knee was bashed into a white car. We weren't going fast at all, it wasn't that bad, just a lesson to me..stop thinking about falling and wow i haven't fallen yet, and think' beautiful weather, nice road, blue sky... everytime we weave through the traffic piles stopped at the lights, my knees squeeze tight to rajil and he laughs, and inevitably I laugh, and it's really amazing to be alive and experience every moment!
more about paradise here later...if time permits...otherwise I'm soon off to the hills for a couple of weeks.... love out to you all, send some comments so i know you're out there!!!
Friday, September 21, 2007
Zebra Roundabouts
arriving in Delhi - Some things are new here, all the airport control guys with their heads buried in glowing cellphones sending SMS text messages to their secret lovers...maybe that's why our plane was parked in the "wrong spot" and we had to get taxied back to the landing strip and get shuttled from thjere, and so why that blast of the 1st breathe in India off the plane, less filtered than usual, the thickness of powdered marble and a hundred thousand mini-fires burning colored plastics and paints with some rose petals thrown in here and there.
All the prices duct taped over at the prepaid taxi stand, printed receipts with #'s bearing little resemblance to the price I was asked to pay. And the tiniest tax I'd ever seen with a driver insisting on an added night fee and me insisting back at him in Hindi that he stop joking and drive. I was envisioning my friend Amber (ranee)with me trying to make up a new Bollywood song to respond to the taxi driver, thinking up words to rhyme with "chinta" (cheap/rip off) and "chinta mat karo" (don't cheat me)
Every sidewalk curb was painted in yellow and black stripes for miles and miles, as if fat zebras were lined up asleep aong the roadside. it seemed we could have been going in circles with all the round-a-bouts [by the way according to the delhi times paper, some 15,000 words have now lost their hyphenation due to the invasion of sms grammar] wheels screaching as they seemed to take the driver by surprise ever time, luckily we were in luck with all the red lights - not that we missed them, but that no vehicles were traversing the intersections when we sailed right through the reds.
In the airplane while we were 're-parking' I fell asleep and dreamt I was with my parents and brother in a small car, to pass on the narrow lane we went into a small ditch upon a precipice, we watched two other cars plunge off and tumble over the side and way down. I got out of the car, my brother was going to figure out how to back out.
As if driving through a war-torn neighborhood of crumbling buildings, lights flickering in murky shops (though Nizamuddin was still hopping at that hour all bright lights and hundreds of men in little caps filtering in and out the restaurants across from the mosque entrance), I found my way to my friend Bindiya's house. She and I settled into her brother's huge bed (he and his wife in London for the year) and she filled me in n life as it had passed for her since we met 19 months earlier. Though it was past midnight I wasn't spared looking through at least one of her brother's wedding albums. And when it finally seemed all topics had been fully exhausted she started to tell me of her 'amour eternel' a recent love affair that came about through her work with a foreign consulate. Fascinating! She quickly ran to find a small stash of love letters, so I would look at the handwriting and tell her what I saw. A dashing blue-eyed pilot from Normandy nearly 40 yeatrs her senior who has fallen so deeply in love with her he seems ready to do anything to create a life with her. She's not quite ready, days from finalizing a divorce with her Bollywood studio owner 1s husband from mauritius. And, her father has yet to hear anything about this kindling love.
As for the weather, while the sun does not seem to be scorching, every single pore is dripping. I think my very fat cells must be melting and I'll have lost pounds by evening (speaking of amber, we used to joke about creating a weigh loss program that includes travelling in india - but it really would work).
My first day was Friday, I got up with bindiya, ironed, had chai and paratha with aloo. She left for the office and I tried to leave but every excuse I could think of to go outside was countered by her father. I need a SIM card for my mobile phone 'my wife has one extra SIM, no need to buy one, she will give you when she comes at 2'. I need to just go buy some soap and toothpaste. ' no need, I have some here for you, just take this' Defeat, I suddenly felt trapped and after minutes of jittery wonderment I marched up to the 4th floor rooftop where he was watering plants to announce I was going out for a few minutes.
I called the instrument maker who will Go-willing, delivewr a sitar and sarangi which I will then take to pakistan with me tomorrow. he said 3 or 4, so I hope he comes by 5 or 6, but think that is even stretching it. And I bought tooth-paste, some fancy, expensive Ayurvedic blend that tastes medicinal. I was exhausted before I had walked around the block, as if I'd been out there for days. there were lots of people and cars and motorcycleas making their way through the world all around me, it all ssemed to be in slow motion and i hummed to myself to keep the sanity as I casually shuffled along, matching the genetral gait as if it was my actual 'walk' to begin with.
Arriving back at te house i realized the electricity was out, and that menat no matter how manyu times I pushed the 4 bells, no one would hear and come unbolt the door for me. The guy at the corner clothing sore adjoining the house said to pound on the door, but I knew it would hurt my hand and not reach to the roof anyway. so i waited, and he came down by chance eventually, as I melted into the dirt-laden stoop; and inside I went, to sit and fan mysel with a woven straw stick type of thing, watching the calendar of the drowning tiger.
There was a sudden deluge of rain in the evening so Bindiya ad I did not head out to lajpat nagar as planned for shopping. nizam sahib did come basically at 5:30; a nice man, interestingly slow roundabout droll. The sarangi he made is very different than the last one, it has a fish and ornate work, though not ivory and not varnished, some nice things, and a great heavy bow. some 'doctor' friend of bindiya's wanted to take us out for dinner, but we ended up at some fancy scmancy neon bar with pounding music, cigarette smoke, lots of whiskey and loads of guys too cool for their own shirts. I had to go to teh lobby to wait for them at the 3rd ropund of my virgin fruit punchy. Perhaps it was the mix of wasabi green peas and mojitos that had bindiya up in the loo in the middle of the night, between bouts of flinging her arms over me and pushing me to the very edge of my side (oh the joys of indian family life - I guess though, we could have fit 2 or 3 more people in the bed, so nothing to complain of). I woke up listening to pavarotti's 'ave maria's and pasquale's 'te voglio bene' on the ipod joe has graciously lended me. I cought the morning sun on the rooftop and called my friend gokul in bangalore - we had met 9+ years back in albany waiting for the bus when I asked if he spoke hindi and would mind helping to teach me as the bus headed on towards bennington.
At the airport I was stopped before immigration to identify my bags, when I pointed out the sitar and the huge bag with a fiberglass sarangi case inside, I was interrogated about my profession. I said I'm a student. "what do you study?" "medicine" it was the right answer, I guess if i had said music that they would have denied me my instruments; not sure why but that's the feeling I got. The flight was packed with hundreds of men, and a couple of women. The actual boarding gate #3 was closed off until it was past boarding time, and we were metal-detected and patted down a second time 1/2 way through the gate before actually stepping on the plane. Somehow my ticket was in business class. The very movie-character-fit young woman sitting next to me called over to the stewardess, 'who is flying', demanding, to the bewilderment of the stewardess, the names of the pilots. On towards sunset we flew.
All the prices duct taped over at the prepaid taxi stand, printed receipts with #'s bearing little resemblance to the price I was asked to pay. And the tiniest tax I'd ever seen with a driver insisting on an added night fee and me insisting back at him in Hindi that he stop joking and drive. I was envisioning my friend Amber (ranee)with me trying to make up a new Bollywood song to respond to the taxi driver, thinking up words to rhyme with "chinta" (cheap/rip off) and "chinta mat karo" (don't cheat me)
Every sidewalk curb was painted in yellow and black stripes for miles and miles, as if fat zebras were lined up asleep aong the roadside. it seemed we could have been going in circles with all the round-a-bouts [by the way according to the delhi times paper, some 15,000 words have now lost their hyphenation due to the invasion of sms grammar] wheels screaching as they seemed to take the driver by surprise ever time, luckily we were in luck with all the red lights - not that we missed them, but that no vehicles were traversing the intersections when we sailed right through the reds.
In the airplane while we were 're-parking' I fell asleep and dreamt I was with my parents and brother in a small car, to pass on the narrow lane we went into a small ditch upon a precipice, we watched two other cars plunge off and tumble over the side and way down. I got out of the car, my brother was going to figure out how to back out.
As if driving through a war-torn neighborhood of crumbling buildings, lights flickering in murky shops (though Nizamuddin was still hopping at that hour all bright lights and hundreds of men in little caps filtering in and out the restaurants across from the mosque entrance), I found my way to my friend Bindiya's house. She and I settled into her brother's huge bed (he and his wife in London for the year) and she filled me in n life as it had passed for her since we met 19 months earlier. Though it was past midnight I wasn't spared looking through at least one of her brother's wedding albums. And when it finally seemed all topics had been fully exhausted she started to tell me of her 'amour eternel' a recent love affair that came about through her work with a foreign consulate. Fascinating! She quickly ran to find a small stash of love letters, so I would look at the handwriting and tell her what I saw. A dashing blue-eyed pilot from Normandy nearly 40 yeatrs her senior who has fallen so deeply in love with her he seems ready to do anything to create a life with her. She's not quite ready, days from finalizing a divorce with her Bollywood studio owner 1s husband from mauritius. And, her father has yet to hear anything about this kindling love.
As for the weather, while the sun does not seem to be scorching, every single pore is dripping. I think my very fat cells must be melting and I'll have lost pounds by evening (speaking of amber, we used to joke about creating a weigh loss program that includes travelling in india - but it really would work).
My first day was Friday, I got up with bindiya, ironed, had chai and paratha with aloo. She left for the office and I tried to leave but every excuse I could think of to go outside was countered by her father. I need a SIM card for my mobile phone 'my wife has one extra SIM, no need to buy one, she will give you when she comes at 2'. I need to just go buy some soap and toothpaste. ' no need, I have some here for you, just take this' Defeat, I suddenly felt trapped and after minutes of jittery wonderment I marched up to the 4th floor rooftop where he was watering plants to announce I was going out for a few minutes.
I called the instrument maker who will Go-willing, delivewr a sitar and sarangi which I will then take to pakistan with me tomorrow. he said 3 or 4, so I hope he comes by 5 or 6, but think that is even stretching it. And I bought tooth-paste, some fancy, expensive Ayurvedic blend that tastes medicinal. I was exhausted before I had walked around the block, as if I'd been out there for days. there were lots of people and cars and motorcycleas making their way through the world all around me, it all ssemed to be in slow motion and i hummed to myself to keep the sanity as I casually shuffled along, matching the genetral gait as if it was my actual 'walk' to begin with.
Arriving back at te house i realized the electricity was out, and that menat no matter how manyu times I pushed the 4 bells, no one would hear and come unbolt the door for me. The guy at the corner clothing sore adjoining the house said to pound on the door, but I knew it would hurt my hand and not reach to the roof anyway. so i waited, and he came down by chance eventually, as I melted into the dirt-laden stoop; and inside I went, to sit and fan mysel with a woven straw stick type of thing, watching the calendar of the drowning tiger.
There was a sudden deluge of rain in the evening so Bindiya ad I did not head out to lajpat nagar as planned for shopping. nizam sahib did come basically at 5:30; a nice man, interestingly slow roundabout droll. The sarangi he made is very different than the last one, it has a fish and ornate work, though not ivory and not varnished, some nice things, and a great heavy bow. some 'doctor' friend of bindiya's wanted to take us out for dinner, but we ended up at some fancy scmancy neon bar with pounding music, cigarette smoke, lots of whiskey and loads of guys too cool for their own shirts. I had to go to teh lobby to wait for them at the 3rd ropund of my virgin fruit punchy. Perhaps it was the mix of wasabi green peas and mojitos that had bindiya up in the loo in the middle of the night, between bouts of flinging her arms over me and pushing me to the very edge of my side (oh the joys of indian family life - I guess though, we could have fit 2 or 3 more people in the bed, so nothing to complain of). I woke up listening to pavarotti's 'ave maria's and pasquale's 'te voglio bene' on the ipod joe has graciously lended me. I cought the morning sun on the rooftop and called my friend gokul in bangalore - we had met 9+ years back in albany waiting for the bus when I asked if he spoke hindi and would mind helping to teach me as the bus headed on towards bennington.
At the airport I was stopped before immigration to identify my bags, when I pointed out the sitar and the huge bag with a fiberglass sarangi case inside, I was interrogated about my profession. I said I'm a student. "what do you study?" "medicine" it was the right answer, I guess if i had said music that they would have denied me my instruments; not sure why but that's the feeling I got. The flight was packed with hundreds of men, and a couple of women. The actual boarding gate #3 was closed off until it was past boarding time, and we were metal-detected and patted down a second time 1/2 way through the gate before actually stepping on the plane. Somehow my ticket was in business class. The very movie-character-fit young woman sitting next to me called over to the stewardess, 'who is flying', demanding, to the bewilderment of the stewardess, the names of the pilots. On towards sunset we flew.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Italians Talk with their Hands
stopover in Milano - Waiting in Milano Malpensa Airport to board my flight to Delhi, through the window pane to the other waiting room an Italian business man prototype of my friend Katie's younger brother Billy. Thickly-knit brows as he clasps the phone to his left ear, his right hand bounces back and forth, here and there filling out every quickly spoken syllable as though his hands initiated the words and they coultn' be poignant enough. A surprise moment of inspection as he hoticed his nails growing through the wait to board. How great to see such expression!
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
My Sweet ChiChi Chihuahua
As I set off on my journey wednesday, so too did my grandparent's sweet mexican chihuahua ChiChi set off on her journey to join my grandma May and grandpa Joe in paradise. She was perhaps 18 years old, always well fed and always ready to be more well fed, the best guard dog imaginable, never complained, and passed peacefully in her hometown cornwall-on-hudson. She was a great joy in our household, she loved when i came to visit - perhaps towards the end it was all of the massage and shiatsu techniques I used to help her 'upper-cross syndrome' and 'depleting jing'. Over the past few months when she developed extreme edema in her abdomen and legs, I was able to help her and even had dreams about which accupressure points and methods to use for her. and, I had a feeling she might pass right after my graduation from school and as i left. it was similar with my grandmother's passing, the night before i was about to leave for a trip abroad. so, ChiChi joins me on my journey also, and she is in for a lot of good food here too!
as I looked up the spelling for chihuahua, I realize in chinese it could be translated as "life energy, flower, flower", how lovely!
as I looked up the spelling for chihuahua, I realize in chinese it could be translated as "life energy, flower, flower", how lovely!
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Going Where??!!
Flying Wednesday (Gods willing) to Delhi, India...
-then to far Northern Pakistan and far Eastern China, crossing borders...
-to Oman for Eid celebrations with my dear friend Ma'at,
-back to Pakistan to study music with Ikhlaq's humbly renowned father, Ustd. Imdad Hussain
-back to India to continue sarangi lessons and ...shopping!
-to Europe - Italy to see maternal family, Switzerland to sing for a benefit and sit by the snowy lake, Belgium to record and experience production wonders of Daniel
Yes, all of my angels are coming with me!! And, the spirits of many friends and family members. Amongst angels and ancestors (my Grandma May will definately be with me; this trip is my graduation gift, after all!), also two friends who recently passed (a Bennington mentor, Willie Finckel, and a musical instrument repairing genius who said he always wanted to go to India to see the factory for some special Indian motorcycles, Gary Emmons).
If my stories leave you thirsting for more, you can read up further on places I'll be with the same guide I'll be using, world66.com!
Enjoy....
-then to far Northern Pakistan and far Eastern China, crossing borders...
-to Oman for Eid celebrations with my dear friend Ma'at,
-back to Pakistan to study music with Ikhlaq's humbly renowned father, Ustd. Imdad Hussain
-back to India to continue sarangi lessons and ...shopping!
-to Europe - Italy to see maternal family, Switzerland to sing for a benefit and sit by the snowy lake, Belgium to record and experience production wonders of Daniel
Yes, all of my angels are coming with me!! And, the spirits of many friends and family members. Amongst angels and ancestors (my Grandma May will definately be with me; this trip is my graduation gift, after all!), also two friends who recently passed (a Bennington mentor, Willie Finckel, and a musical instrument repairing genius who said he always wanted to go to India to see the factory for some special Indian motorcycles, Gary Emmons).
If my stories leave you thirsting for more, you can read up further on places I'll be with the same guide I'll be using, world66.com!
Enjoy....
Saturday, August 18, 2007
My VOICE, my MYSPACE
In case your city is not on my tour itinerary....and you miss my voice singing you to a calm and peaceful sleep....
www.myspace.com/cybelesong
www.myspace.com/cybelesong
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