NAGOYA Curry

The English version of the air stewardess' announcement before takeoff "In the event of a collission, air masks will drop from above your head" was almost as scary as when flying with Korean Air a few years previous when the pilot himself spoke with his loose understanding of the difference between "l" and "r"..."Radies and Gentremen, this is your Pirate speaking, welcome and enjoy your Fright"!! English as a second language jokes aside, the best announcement was probably when flying from Tucson to Phoenix, Arizona, "In the VERY unlikely event of a water landing...in the desert....your seat cushion can be used as a flotation device...."

So, you'll never guess where I am....I'm sitting just outside of the automatic sliding glass doors which are shaking from the extra bass of Bollywood R&B, of the Sports Bar which belongs to the nephew of my late Indian sarangi teacher, in downtown Nagoya, Japan. It was a rather last minute trip, I had been planning to return to China while my visa is still good, along with my new Scottish jazz guitarist, and wend my way to Yunnan Province in the far southwest and meet musicians in Dali, then head back north to Xinjiang to Kashgar and over the border into the hidden paradise of Hunza where a whole town of musicians is awaiting. But the plan had to change...perhaps for reasons too complex and related to the web of human destiny for me to ever comprehend.

The too cool for their own hairdoo Indian bro`s are very busy entertaining, so I`ve been left to my own and have basically discovered "shopping" as consolation to this. The magic hues of purple that were all the rage in Milano last winter have reached the Orient, and I managed to find some very impressive sales going on.... Trying things on, the store employees make a ceremony out of taking items off the hanger and handing them over to customers in the dressing room. After buying items, the clerk then walks the client to the entrance and on the portal hands over the finely wrapped and sealed bag. Walking into a restaurant, for hot sake and salty chicken wings, guests are "announced" with a frenzy of yelling by every employee ("foreigner has come into our restaurant and sat down in the front left side table, welcome, welcome" repeated 4 times over).

The most perplexing news to report is that my very dear Japanese artist friend whom I met when I was first in Japan in spring 1997 on tour with a small group of shakuhachi (Japanese bamboo flute) players from NY (I played sarangi and sang a song with dulcimer that had a verse in Japanese translated by Hide (the Newburgh poet and artist) that people sang along with, and played Darius and Ron`s crystal bowls).....this is a long run-on sentence to say that Nakae San, perhaps the most interesting person I have ever had the honor of knowing, is now looking on from the stars. It feels surreal to be in Japan without him, it is not Japan to me anymore. He had dubbed me "Comet Angel" which I use as my stagename and website URL, and carved a stone time capsule for me which was cemented into the front portal of his traditional house in Kyoto, it has been 10 of the 20 years til opening Christmas 2018. When he first sent me pictures of the time capsule I thought he was crazy, but I was touched and decided to create a celebration and invite all friends in my life to come to Kyoto for the opening and celebrate friendship.

I believe before returning to dig into the Korean World Music House project in Chungju, I will go to Kyoto to meet Minooka San and visit Nakae San`s resting place and pray at the Shinto forest shrine famous for it`s endless towering orange gates, Fushimi Inari, eat some ice cream, and perhaps climb Mount Fuji very slowly over the course of a couple of days with my Australian friend, Brad, who was my first roommate in Korea when I moved to Seoul to be a "music teacher" in 2002 - he was the "art teacher" but unofficially we were both simply baby-sitters trying to keep the kids from hurting each other as we sat around waiting for our boss to call in friend after friend to borrow enough money to pay our salary.

From Strikers Sports Bar and Grill, Iqbal`s spicy curry bar in Nagoya....sending love....

What Did I Say?

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!)

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/

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....

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!

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

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.