In my life, I had sought out other parts of the world—Patagonia, Assam, the Yangtze; I had not realized that the dramatic desert I had imagined Patagonia to be was visible on my way from Sedona to Santa Fe, that the rolling hills of West Virginia were reminiscent of Assam and that my sight of the Mississippi recalled other great rivers. I'm glad I saw the rest of the world before I drove across America. I have traveled so often in other countries and am so accustomed to other landscapes, I sometimes felt on my trip that I was seeing America, coast to coast, with the eyes of a foreigner, feeling overwhelmed, humbled and grateful.
A trip abroad, any trip, ends like a movie—the curtain drops and then you're home, shut off. But this was different from any trip I'd ever taken. In the 3,380 miles I'd driven, in all that wonder, there wasn't a moment when I felt I didn't belong; not a day when I didn't rejoice in the knowledge that I was part of this beauty; not a moment of alienation or danger, no roadblocks, no sign of officialdom, never a second of feeling I was somewhere distant—but always the reassurance that I was home, where I belonged, in the most beautiful country I'd ever seen.
Go read.
And perhaps, until I do the same in my home country, the most beautiful country I'd ever seen is likely to remain America.
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Back with a conversation in Xinjiang
Now that you are all convinced how much I love Bill, I am back. Not sure how long this will last though. First up, a post I wrote a few weeks ago during all that rioting in Urumqi.
“Have you seen the film ‘Braveheart’?” Rahman asked me.
I turned around, the picture in my camera frame forgotten. The one and a half millennium old earthen Buddhist stupa that had been the sole object of my attention for the past few minutes was now proving to be less interesting than Rahman’s question. It wasn’t the question per se; it was the incongruity of it in the setting we were in that attracted my attention.
We were baking in the 40 degrees Centigrade sun, in the well-preserved ruins of the Silk Road town of Jiaohe, middle of nowhere, Xinjiang, Western China. Jiaohe, built on a large islet in the middle of a river, has a history going back over 2000 years, and was an important oasis town on the old Silk Road. It was abandoned after an uninvited visit by Genghis Khan in the 13th century. For the past hour or so, we had been traipsing among the remains of aristocratic residences, granaries, government offices, temples and stupas in this ancient town.
Braveheart?
We had obviously talked about Bollywood in the first ten minutes of our meeting. I have long ago come to terms with the fact that regardless of the part of the world I find myself in, I cannot disown Bollywood any more than an American can disown Disneyland. Perhaps Rahman was drawing a connection between Mr. Gibson and Mr. Bachchan?
The expression on my face must have given away my bewilderment because Rahman was quick to respond.
“You are from England, aren’t you?”
“Not really. I live in London. And yes, I have seen the movie” I answered, even more baffled.
“Don’t you think the film is great? I have seen it more than twenty times”. His eyes shone as he said this, and the practiced smile that he had adopted all morning gave way to a more unrestrained, excited grin.
It was slowly dawning on me. I had met Rahman that morning, at the railway station at Turfan, where he had picked us up. He was to be our translator and guide in Turfan and Urumqi. He came across as suave and competent; his career as a national guide seemed to be taking off. His English was the best I had heard in the country so far. But despite the careful attention that he paid to what we wanted to see and do, he had seemed to hold back. Until now, that is.
Perhaps he had had to make sure that he could talk to us safely. He had quite easily figured out life stories on our way here; he seemed to have convinced himself that we were harmless. Or maybe he was just the kind of chap who takes a little time to warm up. With a little help from Bollywood, Peter Hopkirk and Victor Mair, it looked like he was finally letting his guard down. Either way, I was now keen to see where this conversation would go.
“Yes, it is a well made movie” I said, encouragingly.
But it did not look like Rahman needed any more encouragement.
“It is the same story here, don’t you see? It is no different. Han Chinese and us Uighurs. The same imperialism”
“Really?”
“Of course! An American friend gave me the DVD. I have seen it so many times. It is my favorite film ever”
“Surprise, surprise! The Americans at it again!” Bill muttered. Rahman, not privy to Bill’s views, continued.
“I think we should make films like that here. People will learn more about their history and culture”
I considered telling him the differences between the real William Wallace and the one played by Mel Gibson in the movie, but decided against it. If Hollywood, with all the power that is vested in it, succeeded in instigating some old-fashioned nationalistic feelings in this remote part of the world, who was I to object?
But Rahman had opened a door, and I was not willing to let it shut easily. In my past few weeks in the country, almost all of which had been east of Xinjiang, I had not met a single person who had not been overtly respectful of the regime. It was not surprising that murmurs of dissent would be heard more vocally in Xinjiang, and its Southern neighbors in the plateau where the Han Chinese are not a majority.
“You think that without movies like this, people will forget their history and culture?”
“If the government has its way, it is quite possible. We have to learn Chinese as our first language. It is an alien language, and most of our people dislike being forced to learn it. The company I work for deals easily with foreign names from every part of the world, but cannot say or write my name without mangling it completely. And you have heard about the razing of the Old Town, I gather?”
He was referring to Kashgar, the western most border town which we were to visit next. The historic Old Town of Kashgar is now being torn down, ostensibly to make it earthquake-safe. The residents are being asked to move to apartments far away from their current residences and work places.
“Yes” I replied. “But it is not just Kashgar, is it? Every town we have been in China has been modernized by moving people out of where they live”
“I want modernization and development. But Kashgar is our heart. All of us trace our ancestry one way or other to Kashgar. Tearing the town down is not a wise decision”
He seemed certain of it and I did not want to dwell on so sensitive a subject.
“Uighurs are still a majority in Xinjiang?”
“In Xinjiang, yes. But not in Urumqi, the capital city of Xinjiang. Urumqi is two-thirds Han Chinese. The government encouraged Han Chinese to migrate just like in Tibet to ensure that our communities are broken up, and then they can wield power. Tibet gets all the attention in the international press, but our situation is no different. I wonder why nobody cares about us” His frustration was evident.
“Hmm. The perception of Buddhism generally…” I started. But Rahman was having none of it.
“Yes, we live right next to Afghanistan. And yes, we are Muslim. But how many Uighur fundamentalist-terrorists have you heard of, other than the uncharged handful at Guantanamo?”
“True enough. So the Uighur people do not want to be part of China?”
Rahman did not seem to have been expecting this. He thought for a while before he answered. He spoke slowly, as if measuring each word.
“I do not think that is the case. We might have fought for independence decades ago, but that is now history. But if I am a Chinese citizen, I do not want to be an ‘Other Nationality’. You know, that is what they call us – Other Nationalities. I live in Urumqi, which has seen unprecedented development in the last decade. I am happy about that, and I want that for the non-Han Chinese areas of the city and for the rest of Xinjiang. But on our terms, not forced to vacate our towns so that they can divide us, control us, and build monstrosities on land taken away from us”
The sun was making its way straight up above the stupa as I chewed on his words. We were at a high but narrow section of the islet by now. From the cliff, I could see the river on both sides with grape vines taking over the river banks - an incongruous stretch of lush green surrounding the dry baked earthen town. I wondered if he wasn’t being a little too honest, too open.
“Rahman, are you supposed to be talking to us about this?” I asked him. He laughed.
“Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to without getting into trouble with the authorities. But today I can. That, in this country, is development”
“Have you seen the film ‘Braveheart’?” Rahman asked me.
I turned around, the picture in my camera frame forgotten. The one and a half millennium old earthen Buddhist stupa that had been the sole object of my attention for the past few minutes was now proving to be less interesting than Rahman’s question. It wasn’t the question per se; it was the incongruity of it in the setting we were in that attracted my attention.
We were baking in the 40 degrees Centigrade sun, in the well-preserved ruins of the Silk Road town of Jiaohe, middle of nowhere, Xinjiang, Western China. Jiaohe, built on a large islet in the middle of a river, has a history going back over 2000 years, and was an important oasis town on the old Silk Road. It was abandoned after an uninvited visit by Genghis Khan in the 13th century. For the past hour or so, we had been traipsing among the remains of aristocratic residences, granaries, government offices, temples and stupas in this ancient town.
Braveheart?
We had obviously talked about Bollywood in the first ten minutes of our meeting. I have long ago come to terms with the fact that regardless of the part of the world I find myself in, I cannot disown Bollywood any more than an American can disown Disneyland. Perhaps Rahman was drawing a connection between Mr. Gibson and Mr. Bachchan?
The expression on my face must have given away my bewilderment because Rahman was quick to respond.
“You are from England, aren’t you?”
“Not really. I live in London. And yes, I have seen the movie” I answered, even more baffled.
“Don’t you think the film is great? I have seen it more than twenty times”. His eyes shone as he said this, and the practiced smile that he had adopted all morning gave way to a more unrestrained, excited grin.
It was slowly dawning on me. I had met Rahman that morning, at the railway station at Turfan, where he had picked us up. He was to be our translator and guide in Turfan and Urumqi. He came across as suave and competent; his career as a national guide seemed to be taking off. His English was the best I had heard in the country so far. But despite the careful attention that he paid to what we wanted to see and do, he had seemed to hold back. Until now, that is.
Perhaps he had had to make sure that he could talk to us safely. He had quite easily figured out life stories on our way here; he seemed to have convinced himself that we were harmless. Or maybe he was just the kind of chap who takes a little time to warm up. With a little help from Bollywood, Peter Hopkirk and Victor Mair, it looked like he was finally letting his guard down. Either way, I was now keen to see where this conversation would go.
“Yes, it is a well made movie” I said, encouragingly.
But it did not look like Rahman needed any more encouragement.
“It is the same story here, don’t you see? It is no different. Han Chinese and us Uighurs. The same imperialism”
“Really?”
“Of course! An American friend gave me the DVD. I have seen it so many times. It is my favorite film ever”
“Surprise, surprise! The Americans at it again!” Bill muttered. Rahman, not privy to Bill’s views, continued.
“I think we should make films like that here. People will learn more about their history and culture”
I considered telling him the differences between the real William Wallace and the one played by Mel Gibson in the movie, but decided against it. If Hollywood, with all the power that is vested in it, succeeded in instigating some old-fashioned nationalistic feelings in this remote part of the world, who was I to object?
But Rahman had opened a door, and I was not willing to let it shut easily. In my past few weeks in the country, almost all of which had been east of Xinjiang, I had not met a single person who had not been overtly respectful of the regime. It was not surprising that murmurs of dissent would be heard more vocally in Xinjiang, and its Southern neighbors in the plateau where the Han Chinese are not a majority.
“You think that without movies like this, people will forget their history and culture?”
“If the government has its way, it is quite possible. We have to learn Chinese as our first language. It is an alien language, and most of our people dislike being forced to learn it. The company I work for deals easily with foreign names from every part of the world, but cannot say or write my name without mangling it completely. And you have heard about the razing of the Old Town, I gather?”
He was referring to Kashgar, the western most border town which we were to visit next. The historic Old Town of Kashgar is now being torn down, ostensibly to make it earthquake-safe. The residents are being asked to move to apartments far away from their current residences and work places.
“Yes” I replied. “But it is not just Kashgar, is it? Every town we have been in China has been modernized by moving people out of where they live”
“I want modernization and development. But Kashgar is our heart. All of us trace our ancestry one way or other to Kashgar. Tearing the town down is not a wise decision”
He seemed certain of it and I did not want to dwell on so sensitive a subject.
“Uighurs are still a majority in Xinjiang?”
“In Xinjiang, yes. But not in Urumqi, the capital city of Xinjiang. Urumqi is two-thirds Han Chinese. The government encouraged Han Chinese to migrate just like in Tibet to ensure that our communities are broken up, and then they can wield power. Tibet gets all the attention in the international press, but our situation is no different. I wonder why nobody cares about us” His frustration was evident.
“Hmm. The perception of Buddhism generally…” I started. But Rahman was having none of it.
“Yes, we live right next to Afghanistan. And yes, we are Muslim. But how many Uighur fundamentalist-terrorists have you heard of, other than the uncharged handful at Guantanamo?”
“True enough. So the Uighur people do not want to be part of China?”
Rahman did not seem to have been expecting this. He thought for a while before he answered. He spoke slowly, as if measuring each word.
“I do not think that is the case. We might have fought for independence decades ago, but that is now history. But if I am a Chinese citizen, I do not want to be an ‘Other Nationality’. You know, that is what they call us – Other Nationalities. I live in Urumqi, which has seen unprecedented development in the last decade. I am happy about that, and I want that for the non-Han Chinese areas of the city and for the rest of Xinjiang. But on our terms, not forced to vacate our towns so that they can divide us, control us, and build monstrosities on land taken away from us”
The sun was making its way straight up above the stupa as I chewed on his words. We were at a high but narrow section of the islet by now. From the cliff, I could see the river on both sides with grape vines taking over the river banks - an incongruous stretch of lush green surrounding the dry baked earthen town. I wondered if he wasn’t being a little too honest, too open.
“Rahman, are you supposed to be talking to us about this?” I asked him. He laughed.
“Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to without getting into trouble with the authorities. But today I can. That, in this country, is development”
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Chotu, Motu, BM in Beijing: Olympic Glory
Still Day 2. This time we are on a taxi (Day One was all about public transport; Day 2 we had just discovered that taxi drivers understand maps, so we were taking full advantage of this discovery) to the Olympic stadias. Our driver proudly pointed out the Bird's Nest to us as we got off the highway. We were all suitably impressed. Little did we know about the Kafkaesque adventure that was awaiting us here.
BM: "Bill, you know the drill. Here's the camera"
BM poses and Bill plays cameraman while I walk ahead to what looks like the entrance.
"I am so hungry. You think we will get food inside?"
"I am hungry too. I can see some food stalls already"
"Cool. You think we should go in and get a tour?"
"Why not?"
"Okay, there are people inside. Let me see where the entrance is"
"There are no directions anywhere but it says Entrance E"
"Yeah, but I see no open gate"
"There are security guards there. That must be the entrance"
"No, nothing open here. I think we have to go to the next gate. Maybe this is the VIP entrance"
So we start walking. This Bird's Nest thingy might look like a small thing on TV but trust me, it is not. It takes a while to get from one gate to another. The weather and the wind wasn't helping either.
"Man, I am so hungry"
"Hey, there's the Water Cube"
"Oh cool, we should go there also"
"Of course, of course, Phelps ki jai" (BM)
"Alright. Lets do this then - lets go inside the Bird's Nest first and come out and get food and then head to the Water Cube"
"Ya ok"
Bill: "This gate isn't open either"
"You've got to be kidding me"
"Serious. Look for yourself"
"Shoot. Next gate then"
"I guess so"
Ten minutes later we were in front of the third gate. By this time we have gone halfway around the building. Closed.
"Maybe there is no way in"
"There are people inside"
"Hmm"
"Maybe they get there on a chopper. Sure there's a pad inside"
"Could be"
"What's the plan people? I am so hungry"
"Why don't we go to the food stalls and get some food and then come back?"
"I am not coming back. I am happy just seeing the Water Cube"
"Actually so am I. I got some good shots, good enough"
So our tired and thirsty travellers headed to the broad avenue between the two stadiums which seem to have a few booths. BM takes her time as she is shooting Water Cube in every angle possible and every lamp post in sight.
"These are selling phones"
"Oh fuck"
"Why can't they have food here? This is like the middle of nowhere"
"That seems to have some food, lets go see"
The one food stall has instant noodle boxes and what looks like baguettes with cholocate sauce inside.
"You think that's chocolate?"
"What else can it be?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"No, but lets get it anyway. I am going to faint if I don't have something soon"
We eat. It is chocolate sauce but as to be expected, not good chocolate sauce but were too hungry to complain. BM notices a mermaid sculpture and runs to take picture. She poses and asks Bill to do his thing. As is usual, a few locals want picture of mermaid + BM + themselves. BM obliges. Once this is over, we walk to the Water Cube.
"Yes, the entrance is open! yippee!"
"Yeah there's even security check and stuff. This place is more guarded than Tiannamen dude"
"Looks like it only"
We get closer to the Cube. Visitors (all local) are queueing up to get through the security check. I suddenly notice two young men on my right, they seem to have come from nowhere. I look closely. It might be more than ten years since I have gone to a movie theatre in India, but I have spent enough time at KG and Central and Karpagam (all Coimbatore establishments) to recognise black ticket vendors. I turn to one.
"Tickets lady, how many?" One whispers.
"They are actually selling black"
"In front of these scary looking guards, yes"
"Yeah man. Lets just go get proper tickets. Who knows these might not even be real"
"True" (Huge mistake, needless to say)
We turned left and walked towards the direction where people with tickets were coming from.
"You cannot buy tickets here. Far away" One of the black ticket men said. We said No thanks and continued walking. After about ten minutes, we realised what was going on. It is like the queues at amusement parks. You think you are there but no, once you make a turn you realise you have another turn to go. So we walked for another twenty minutes.
"We should have bought tickets from those chaps"
"Yeah. What's the point now?"
"Hmm. I don't even want to go inside anymore. If we don't see a ticket booth in the next five minutes, I am out of here"
"Yeah? Which way will you go? Do you see any taxis or buses here?"
I look around. No. Nothing. Just these buildings. Which look nice and all but we were trapped.
BM: "You can check out any time you please..."
"There's a reason why everyone here looks so pained"
"Hey, hey there. I see it"
BM ran. Bill followed. I stayed put. They can go get tickets. Since we have to walk back this way I wasn't going anywhere. Two minutes. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Where the hell were these people? I started walking towards the booths. More scary secuity guards with huge rifles. Something is wrong. No. They are on their way back.
"What happened? Long queue?"
"No ya. There were more secutiry guards than people"
"What took so long?"
"They didn't let us go buy tickets without checking us thoroughly"
"What nonsense?"
"Dude, by now nothing about this place surprises me"
We walked back. Half hour later we were at the entrance to the Cube. We showed our tickets and went through the security check. Yes, again. Five cartoon men in front of the Cube.
"Hey look at these cartoon things" BM started shooting. "Bill here take picture of me with one no?" She handed Bill her camera.
Moi: "You want pictures with these things? Where do you think you are Disneyland?"
"30 RMB. We have to make it pay" She went towards the charaters. The cartoons were just saying good bye to the people in front of us and were turning our way. They all walked towards us, excitedly. What we (in our determination to get value for 30 RMB + plus all the pain we had to endure) hadn't thought of was that we were more of an attraction for them than they were to us. One of then came and shook and hand. Another one shook Bill's hand and said "Hello". Mine hugged me. Bill's hugged him. He smiled and tried to take picture of BM.
"Hey, where is she?"
"There, behind that one. Its dancing with her" Orange cartoon was twirling BM around.
Bill took picture.
"Guys, this guy is not letting me go"
We laugh.
"I am serious. I am trying to get out of its grip"
"Turn around this way. This angle is good"
"Bill, enough of picture. Come save me!"
Bill to the rescue. Knight-in-Slacknerny-tshirt walks over to BM and the cartoon (in the process of molesting her). Cartoon sees Bill and lets her go. However, wait, twist in plot. Cartoon next to me has caught hold of me by now. It tries to twirl me around.
"People....." Knight turns around. Laughs. I break free and run into the Water Cube. BM had already taken this course a few seconds ago. Bill joins us a minute later.
"What the hell was that?"
"I hope we aren't going that way on our way back"
"You forget, we aren't going back. This is it. We can't leave"
"True enough"
Oh, there was nothing much inside. You are better off seeing the pool on your TV. Our ticket also promised us a restaurant and a bar which was a popcorn stall and well, vendor selling water. Also, in the restrooms, the stall I went to had no toilet paper and BM had to pass some under the stall from the adjacent booth. That's when realisation struck. We were in real China. This place wasn't ready for foreign tourism yet; by the summer it would be but for now, our experience is all very authentic. We are one among the billion.
BM: Good time to put up 798 Art post / pictures. Together, they will make so much sense. Really.
Oh, before I go, bonus picture: You should be able to see more than one nest if you enlarge.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Chotu, Motu, BM in Beijing: Red Sunrise
I am conflicted between going about this in a chronological manner and just posting about random events. Bill is convinced that I will never have the enthu to complete this if I start from Day 1, so he thinks I should just do random days. The dutiful spouse that I am, I shall listen to him and do short, random snippets which are more manageable. So here people, flag hoisting in Beijing (Day 2).
Day before we are supposed to leave for Xian. We woke up at the crack of dawn, actually, before the crack of dawn to see...hold your breath...the flag hoisting at Tiananmen Square. Whose brilliant idea was this, you ask? BM's of course. Because she was so totally jetlagged and couldn't sleep after 3 in the morning, she made us wake up at 4 to go see this flag thingy. By the time we got a taxi to the Square, there were already busloads of people there. There was also some military presence as to be expected in the form of a few yawning men in proper outfits standing around the flag pole. The section was roped off and us spectators have to stand about 30-40 metres away.
"You think we blend in?"
"Do you see anyone other than Han Chinese people in the crowd?"
"But still..."
"Do you see any Beijinger? They are all from the provinces"
"I am a provincial too. I am not like you cosmopolitan people from Bombay and Bangalore"
"Maybe you should go mingle with your provincial friends and see if you blend in"
"Sure" I said and left the other two and walked off by myself to join the provincials. This was Beijing in March, so it wasn't exactly warm and after a few minutes, my teeth started chattering. But still, I was right behind the rope and had an unobstructed view of the flagpole. My provincial friends were all around me, at times pushing me against the barrier that I was sure that the yawning soldier staring intently at me was going to pull out his rifle and shoot but thankfully did not happen.
Then I saw Bill pushing his way through the crowd.
"What is the idea?"
"I just thought I would come meet your provincial friends"
"Right...dude"
"What?"
"Did you see who? Someone touched my hair"
"Don't be silly"
"I am serious. They touched my hair"
"If I were BM, I would say that they are all jealous of your wavy hair and want to touch it to see if its real"
"And since you are not BM..."
"I think you are imagining things...dude, here they are"
Sure enough, there were about a dozen soldiers coming out of the main gate of the Forbidden City (this is the one with the Chairman's picture that we are used to seeing in the news) and walking towards the flag pole. They marched this way and that way for a few minutes before going up to hoist the flag.
"This is what she wanted to see?"
"Jetlag. Don't blame her"
"If you say so"
The flag starts climbing up.
"What?"
"Hmm"
"What are you mumbling?"
"Nothing"
"Quiet. Everyone is quiet"
"You don't find that strange?"
"Why would I find that strange?"
"The flag hoisting!"
"So?"
"Don't you feel like singing Jana Gana Mana?"
"No, as strange as it may seem, I don't feel like singing Jana Gana Mana when I see the Chinese flag go up. Maybe those of us from certain states..."
"Says the Bong"
"Not the point"
"Agree. The point is nobody is singing national anthem or waving flag. Something is wrong"
"Nothing is wrong. They are not used to it"
"How can they not be used to it? Its their national flag being hoisted"
"Yeah, why don't you teach them to sing their national anthem?"
"Oh shut up. You are useless"
"That I am"
By this time, the flag was all the way up to where it was supposed to be.
The crowd was slowly dispersing. We looked for BM and found her posing for someone else's family album. This obviously would be a recurring theme. The way back to out hostel was uneventful except for the fact that we discovered why we lost a War.
"This long jacket these military men are wearing - it sort of looks funny on them"
"What do you mean?"
"You don't think so? Probably some Russian influence. Because the Russians have long jackets doesn't mean these people should have"
"Why not? It is winter"
"Yeah, but this is not Moscow. It is not that cold here"
"But this is a big country, you know"
"The US of A is a big country too. The point is it does not get colder than this in this country"
"Right. Up there in some of the tallest mountains in the world, it absolutely does not get colder than this"
"Oh, there"
"Yeah, there"
BM now: "Why do you think we lost the war?"
Bill being helpful: "Because we did not have long uniforms"
"Exactly"
Poor me: "Never heard that one before"
"Its true. Its also why my mother fasts on Fridays"
"Wait, where did that come from?"
"Shastri was then PM and he said on radio that our soldiers need socks. He then requested everyone to eat one less meal on Fridays to help the troops. My mother started fasting then and even now, she fasts on Fridays"
"She knitted socks too, I am guessing"
"Of course. But we did not have long jackets. So we lost"
"Shastri wasn't PM in 62"
"He was PM and he came on radio"
"Different war with a different country"
"Perhaps. But why do you think we lost the war?"
"It must have been the long jackets only"
"Of course it was"
The rest of the way back to our hutong was spent in thoughtful silence.
Coming up next: How we got molested by cartoon characters in front of the Water Cube
Day before we are supposed to leave for Xian. We woke up at the crack of dawn, actually, before the crack of dawn to see...hold your breath...the flag hoisting at Tiananmen Square. Whose brilliant idea was this, you ask? BM's of course. Because she was so totally jetlagged and couldn't sleep after 3 in the morning, she made us wake up at 4 to go see this flag thingy. By the time we got a taxi to the Square, there were already busloads of people there. There was also some military presence as to be expected in the form of a few yawning men in proper outfits standing around the flag pole. The section was roped off and us spectators have to stand about 30-40 metres away.
"You think we blend in?"
"Do you see anyone other than Han Chinese people in the crowd?"
"But still..."
"Do you see any Beijinger? They are all from the provinces"
"I am a provincial too. I am not like you cosmopolitan people from Bombay and Bangalore"
"Maybe you should go mingle with your provincial friends and see if you blend in"
"Sure" I said and left the other two and walked off by myself to join the provincials. This was Beijing in March, so it wasn't exactly warm and after a few minutes, my teeth started chattering. But still, I was right behind the rope and had an unobstructed view of the flagpole. My provincial friends were all around me, at times pushing me against the barrier that I was sure that the yawning soldier staring intently at me was going to pull out his rifle and shoot but thankfully did not happen.
Then I saw Bill pushing his way through the crowd.
"What is the idea?"
"I just thought I would come meet your provincial friends"
"Right...dude"
"What?"
"Did you see who? Someone touched my hair"
"Don't be silly"
"I am serious. They touched my hair"
"If I were BM, I would say that they are all jealous of your wavy hair and want to touch it to see if its real"
"And since you are not BM..."
"I think you are imagining things...dude, here they are"
Sure enough, there were about a dozen soldiers coming out of the main gate of the Forbidden City (this is the one with the Chairman's picture that we are used to seeing in the news) and walking towards the flag pole. They marched this way and that way for a few minutes before going up to hoist the flag.
"This is what she wanted to see?"
"Jetlag. Don't blame her"
"If you say so"
The flag starts climbing up.
"What?"
"Hmm"
"What are you mumbling?"
"Nothing"
"Quiet. Everyone is quiet"
"You don't find that strange?"
"Why would I find that strange?"
"The flag hoisting!"
"So?"
"Don't you feel like singing Jana Gana Mana?"
"No, as strange as it may seem, I don't feel like singing Jana Gana Mana when I see the Chinese flag go up. Maybe those of us from certain states..."
"Says the Bong"
"Not the point"
"Agree. The point is nobody is singing national anthem or waving flag. Something is wrong"
"Nothing is wrong. They are not used to it"
"How can they not be used to it? Its their national flag being hoisted"
"Yeah, why don't you teach them to sing their national anthem?"
"Oh shut up. You are useless"
"That I am"
By this time, the flag was all the way up to where it was supposed to be.
The crowd was slowly dispersing. We looked for BM and found her posing for someone else's family album. This obviously would be a recurring theme. The way back to out hostel was uneventful except for the fact that we discovered why we lost a War.
"This long jacket these military men are wearing - it sort of looks funny on them"
"What do you mean?"
"You don't think so? Probably some Russian influence. Because the Russians have long jackets doesn't mean these people should have"
"Why not? It is winter"
"Yeah, but this is not Moscow. It is not that cold here"
"But this is a big country, you know"
"The US of A is a big country too. The point is it does not get colder than this in this country"
"Right. Up there in some of the tallest mountains in the world, it absolutely does not get colder than this"
"Oh, there"
"Yeah, there"
BM now: "Why do you think we lost the war?"
Bill being helpful: "Because we did not have long uniforms"
"Exactly"
Poor me: "Never heard that one before"
"Its true. Its also why my mother fasts on Fridays"
"Wait, where did that come from?"
"Shastri was then PM and he said on radio that our soldiers need socks. He then requested everyone to eat one less meal on Fridays to help the troops. My mother started fasting then and even now, she fasts on Fridays"
"She knitted socks too, I am guessing"
"Of course. But we did not have long jackets. So we lost"
"Shastri wasn't PM in 62"
"He was PM and he came on radio"
"Different war with a different country"
"Perhaps. But why do you think we lost the war?"
"It must have been the long jackets only"
"Of course it was"
The rest of the way back to our hutong was spent in thoughtful silence.
Coming up next: How we got molested by cartoon characters in front of the Water Cube
Sunday, April 26, 2009
More Foreign Devils at Mogao
Bill provides some well-needed distraction - An account of visit to Mogao Grottoes outside Dunhuang. TR's account here
Mogao, on the banks of a stream behind the sand dunes close to Dunhuang has a big set of caves with paintings and sculptures of the Buddhists. Built between the fourth and tenth centuries AD, there are almost 500 caves here (At least officially, as our guide later pointed out. Included in the count are tiny crevices you can barely stick your head in, but also huge caves that can comfortably fit about a hundred people). There is much to interest tourists, whether religious Buddhists, especially from Japan, or secular visitors who would like to admire paintings of the Buddhist symbols. These paintings, comparable to the ones in Ajanta, have the usual Buddhas and Boddhisatvas, and also heavenly guards, apsaras, princes, worshippers, musicians, and dancers. Some, especially the early ones, are obviously Indian in origin, with large faces and clothing similar to Gandharan art. Others are equally clearly Chinese, with motifs from the Tang dynasty, the high point of Chinese art from the seventh century. The additional claim to fame of the Mogao caves, and why it created such a huge interest in the early twentieth century, is the treasury of scrolls and manuscripts found hidden in one of the caves by one Abbot Wang, and subsequently carted off by Aurel Stein, Paul Pelliot, Albert von Coq, and others, in an incident which more than anything made the Chinese give them the title of Foreign Devils.
We reached there at about nine in the morning, when everything was just getting started. Our regular guide could not go inside with us. Mogao has its own set of specialist guides, who have to accompany you. In high season each of them may lead a group of twenty or more, but at this time we had one guide all to ourselves. This turned out to be someone quite formally dressed in a blazer, even in the heat, with a permanent smell of tobacco on him. Every time we got out of one of the caves and started walking to another, he would light up again. He also had a strange accent, somewhat British, and a very British sneer permanently on his lips. One of the first things he asked was "Are you religious?", and our "No, not really" got his sneer to relax a bit. Throughout the next two hours he would get ever more disdainful whenever he discussed religion. Reminded us of a very entertaining guide in Vatican seven years ago but that story, some other time.
We started off with a walk to one end of the almost mile-long set of caves. The front had been renovated and protected in the early 60's with a concrete front and steel doors on each cave, giving the place an aura of a prison or a old-school hotel, very different from what Stein and that gang would have seen. Beside us was the bed of the river that created and sustained this community, now dry because it had been diverted by irrigation works.
First stop was the cave with the largest of the Buddha statues, about 36 feet in height. Around its feet was a dark tunnel ("for going round clockwise, don't you have the same thing in India?"), and what looked like shallow steps. These turned out to be the floor from different centuries, excavated in layers. We now got interrogated about Indian religion, the differences between Hinduism Indian Buddhism, and the Chinese versions of Buddhism. We told him what little we knew, and he was very amused by Buddha being considered a reincarnation of Vishnu.
The next cave was of a large sleeping Buddha, (we told him about Ananta Shayanam Vishnu, which pleased him), surrounded by statues of worshippers from different lands (a multicultural assembly, with many skin colours, hairstyles and clothing styles represented). We were also introduced to the Buddhas other than Gautama Sakyamuni, in particular, Amitabha Buddha, guardian of Paradise (somewhere vaguely west of China). "Have you heard of Amitabha Mantra? For Chinese people it is very easy to get to Paradise, you just have to recite Amitabha, Amitabha, Amitabha... Perfect religion for lazy people!" This sounded good to us, but BM was already covering all bases by kneeling (this would be a recurring theme throughout our travels, she would be kneeling at anything remotely resembling a Buddha, and there were, oh, only about a thousand of these in the next week. This was her idea of a fitness program, we reckoned). This of course made our guide's lips curl up again.
A later cave had a large set of paintings depicting the life and times of the Buddha. "Here his mother dreams of a white elephant, and next day she gives birth from her armpit, ha ha ha!" "And then here he is meditating, and some, ah, ladies, are trying to distract him" (The, ah, ladies in question were the famed apsaras, we think). "They are drawn nude, very Indian influence, wouldn't you say?" (much head scratching followed). "And then he preaches to a big assembly of monks and tigers and lions, for a touch of realism, ha ha" "And later in life, when his mother is dying, he returns to fulfil his family responsibilities, very Chinese now, all family values". (So the primary difference between the two countries is that Indians are libertine nudists, and Chinese are family oriented people, go figure).
The next cave had a very feminine-looking Buddha. "This was built during the Tang dynasty, when the Empress was giving money, and many images were built to look like her". "Which Empress? Wu Zetian?" (Wu Zetian is famed as being the only woman who sat on the throne in the two thousand years of Chinese imperial history, as opposed to many others who preferred to be the power behind the throne while not formally taking the title). "Ah yes, you have heard of the empress Wu Zetian of course. She killed off all her family and opponents, the Bloody Empress as we call her". "And this is different how from the other emperors?" Needless to say, our man wasn't happy, but didn't say anything more. Girl power is not a big win, it seems.
Next we started on the controversial caves. First up was a smallish cave guarded by very Indian looking Dwarapalas. These Dwarapalas, threatening as they were with their swords and sticks, hadn't managed to stop one Harvard professor, the ill-famed Langdon Warner. (Before our guide could explain the Warner story to us, our Ms. Know-It-All blurted out the name and started telling us the story. This was strange as she knew very well that not only were we familiar with the story but we had just this morning re-read the TR-nama in preparation for Mogao. We both glared at her and she shut up. For a while.) By the time he turned up in the 1920's, the treasure trove of documents had disappeared to London, Delhi, Paris, Berlin, Moscow and Beijing. But he had a new plan, that of taking back the murals themselves. His secret, "modern" formula for removing the murals did far more harm than the centuries of wind and sand, destroying the adjacent paintings quite effectively. The mural actually removed is now in the Sackler wing in Cambridge, MA.
The next stop was a low-slung building, not a cave, which used to be the hapless Abbot Wang's residence, and is now a museum attempting to explain what happened. The good abbot had discovered a cave-in leading to a bunch of documents, and had started selling them by ones and twos to refill his rather empty coffers. Word got around, and the officials stopped him from selling, but not before the word had reached one Aurel Stein, explorer. Stein rushed to Mogao, and talked the abbot into letting him look at the documents, and for a small amount, remove what turned out to be a "few cartloads" of ancient manuscripts. Analysed later, this turned out to be a rich treasury in several old languages, and made Stein's name. A few years later, Paul Pelliot, a French explorer and expert in Chinese history, followed. Where Stein had picked documents essentially at random, Pelliot knew his ancient China and its languages, and managed to take away the most historically significant documents. Later pickings were by other "foreign devils" such as Albert von Le Coq, Count Otani, and others, followed much later by a deputation from the Beijing national museum who managed to find only the last remaining and comparatively insignificant documents. The story was told in Chinese and English, complete with photographs and reproductions. The English translation at least was very restrained, and almost polite to all the above, all except the American Langdon Warner, who "mercilessly destroyed and stole the murals". Either overt anti-Americanism, or the fact that he actually destroyed murals. Also in the museum was reproductions of some documents, where we could identify a few Pali and Sanskrit ones among the Tibetan, Persian and other languages.
Finally, we ended up in the "library cave" itself. Small little nook in the wall, with no trace left anymore of having preserved thousands and thousands of rolled-up manuscripts for ten centuries, or the explorers and archaelogists who scraped through them a hundred years back.
Done with the grottoes, we walked back slowly to the entrance. Our guide asked us what parts of China we had seen and where we were going next. In particular, what did we think of Beijing? We tried to be neutral, saying it was a big city like any other, very developed. This started off a mini-rant. "I think we are developing too fast, destroying all that we had before. Our system of government, you know. I am sure India is developing too, but you must be preserving the character of your cities". We told him our big cities do not give off any more vibes of being Indian than Beijing does of being Chinese, it's all a case of grass being greener.
Changing the subject completely, he started quizzing us about higher education. "There's a university which holds a national exam, isn't there? Very difficult to pass, I have heard?" I got passed the conversational baton immediately, and told him about the JEE. "Yes, yes, the IIT, don't all students go immediately to the US afterwards?" I hemmed and hawed, telling him, "No, nowadays many do stay back,.." when BM and Veena helpfully butted in with "he went to the US". "Yes, I have heard, when someone passes, their parents have a grand feast for the entire village". This left me speechless, deciding to ask my parents as soon as possible why I (and the whole of Bombay) got cheated out of a feast.
We ended off with a trip to a more modern exhibition hall outside the caves, built to approximate some of the caves that are closed off to the public. The building is very flat and blends in with the surroundings, almost like a Lloyd Wright creation transplanted to the other side of the globe, but the caves are not very impressive, being similar to the ones we had seen. The last look was of the thousand-handed Buddhist goddess ("we have female Buddhas too, in India Buddha is always male, right?") Guan-Yin Boddhisatva, Goddess of Mercy, originally the Indian or Tibetan (male) Avalokiteswara.
Mogao, on the banks of a stream behind the sand dunes close to Dunhuang has a big set of caves with paintings and sculptures of the Buddhists. Built between the fourth and tenth centuries AD, there are almost 500 caves here (At least officially, as our guide later pointed out. Included in the count are tiny crevices you can barely stick your head in, but also huge caves that can comfortably fit about a hundred people). There is much to interest tourists, whether religious Buddhists, especially from Japan, or secular visitors who would like to admire paintings of the Buddhist symbols. These paintings, comparable to the ones in Ajanta, have the usual Buddhas and Boddhisatvas, and also heavenly guards, apsaras, princes, worshippers, musicians, and dancers. Some, especially the early ones, are obviously Indian in origin, with large faces and clothing similar to Gandharan art. Others are equally clearly Chinese, with motifs from the Tang dynasty, the high point of Chinese art from the seventh century. The additional claim to fame of the Mogao caves, and why it created such a huge interest in the early twentieth century, is the treasury of scrolls and manuscripts found hidden in one of the caves by one Abbot Wang, and subsequently carted off by Aurel Stein, Paul Pelliot, Albert von Coq, and others, in an incident which more than anything made the Chinese give them the title of Foreign Devils.
We reached there at about nine in the morning, when everything was just getting started. Our regular guide could not go inside with us. Mogao has its own set of specialist guides, who have to accompany you. In high season each of them may lead a group of twenty or more, but at this time we had one guide all to ourselves. This turned out to be someone quite formally dressed in a blazer, even in the heat, with a permanent smell of tobacco on him. Every time we got out of one of the caves and started walking to another, he would light up again. He also had a strange accent, somewhat British, and a very British sneer permanently on his lips. One of the first things he asked was "Are you religious?", and our "No, not really" got his sneer to relax a bit. Throughout the next two hours he would get ever more disdainful whenever he discussed religion. Reminded us of a very entertaining guide in Vatican seven years ago but that story, some other time.
We started off with a walk to one end of the almost mile-long set of caves. The front had been renovated and protected in the early 60's with a concrete front and steel doors on each cave, giving the place an aura of a prison or a old-school hotel, very different from what Stein and that gang would have seen. Beside us was the bed of the river that created and sustained this community, now dry because it had been diverted by irrigation works.
First stop was the cave with the largest of the Buddha statues, about 36 feet in height. Around its feet was a dark tunnel ("for going round clockwise, don't you have the same thing in India?"), and what looked like shallow steps. These turned out to be the floor from different centuries, excavated in layers. We now got interrogated about Indian religion, the differences between Hinduism Indian Buddhism, and the Chinese versions of Buddhism. We told him what little we knew, and he was very amused by Buddha being considered a reincarnation of Vishnu.
The next cave was of a large sleeping Buddha, (we told him about Ananta Shayanam Vishnu, which pleased him), surrounded by statues of worshippers from different lands (a multicultural assembly, with many skin colours, hairstyles and clothing styles represented). We were also introduced to the Buddhas other than Gautama Sakyamuni, in particular, Amitabha Buddha, guardian of Paradise (somewhere vaguely west of China). "Have you heard of Amitabha Mantra? For Chinese people it is very easy to get to Paradise, you just have to recite Amitabha, Amitabha, Amitabha... Perfect religion for lazy people!" This sounded good to us, but BM was already covering all bases by kneeling (this would be a recurring theme throughout our travels, she would be kneeling at anything remotely resembling a Buddha, and there were, oh, only about a thousand of these in the next week. This was her idea of a fitness program, we reckoned). This of course made our guide's lips curl up again.
A later cave had a large set of paintings depicting the life and times of the Buddha. "Here his mother dreams of a white elephant, and next day she gives birth from her armpit, ha ha ha!" "And then here he is meditating, and some, ah, ladies, are trying to distract him" (The, ah, ladies in question were the famed apsaras, we think). "They are drawn nude, very Indian influence, wouldn't you say?" (much head scratching followed). "And then he preaches to a big assembly of monks and tigers and lions, for a touch of realism, ha ha" "And later in life, when his mother is dying, he returns to fulfil his family responsibilities, very Chinese now, all family values". (So the primary difference between the two countries is that Indians are libertine nudists, and Chinese are family oriented people, go figure).
The next cave had a very feminine-looking Buddha. "This was built during the Tang dynasty, when the Empress was giving money, and many images were built to look like her". "Which Empress? Wu Zetian?" (Wu Zetian is famed as being the only woman who sat on the throne in the two thousand years of Chinese imperial history, as opposed to many others who preferred to be the power behind the throne while not formally taking the title). "Ah yes, you have heard of the empress Wu Zetian of course. She killed off all her family and opponents, the Bloody Empress as we call her". "And this is different how from the other emperors?" Needless to say, our man wasn't happy, but didn't say anything more. Girl power is not a big win, it seems.
Next we started on the controversial caves. First up was a smallish cave guarded by very Indian looking Dwarapalas. These Dwarapalas, threatening as they were with their swords and sticks, hadn't managed to stop one Harvard professor, the ill-famed Langdon Warner. (Before our guide could explain the Warner story to us, our Ms. Know-It-All blurted out the name and started telling us the story. This was strange as she knew very well that not only were we familiar with the story but we had just this morning re-read the TR-nama in preparation for Mogao. We both glared at her and she shut up. For a while.) By the time he turned up in the 1920's, the treasure trove of documents had disappeared to London, Delhi, Paris, Berlin, Moscow and Beijing. But he had a new plan, that of taking back the murals themselves. His secret, "modern" formula for removing the murals did far more harm than the centuries of wind and sand, destroying the adjacent paintings quite effectively. The mural actually removed is now in the Sackler wing in Cambridge, MA.
The next stop was a low-slung building, not a cave, which used to be the hapless Abbot Wang's residence, and is now a museum attempting to explain what happened. The good abbot had discovered a cave-in leading to a bunch of documents, and had started selling them by ones and twos to refill his rather empty coffers. Word got around, and the officials stopped him from selling, but not before the word had reached one Aurel Stein, explorer. Stein rushed to Mogao, and talked the abbot into letting him look at the documents, and for a small amount, remove what turned out to be a "few cartloads" of ancient manuscripts. Analysed later, this turned out to be a rich treasury in several old languages, and made Stein's name. A few years later, Paul Pelliot, a French explorer and expert in Chinese history, followed. Where Stein had picked documents essentially at random, Pelliot knew his ancient China and its languages, and managed to take away the most historically significant documents. Later pickings were by other "foreign devils" such as Albert von Le Coq, Count Otani, and others, followed much later by a deputation from the Beijing national museum who managed to find only the last remaining and comparatively insignificant documents. The story was told in Chinese and English, complete with photographs and reproductions. The English translation at least was very restrained, and almost polite to all the above, all except the American Langdon Warner, who "mercilessly destroyed and stole the murals". Either overt anti-Americanism, or the fact that he actually destroyed murals. Also in the museum was reproductions of some documents, where we could identify a few Pali and Sanskrit ones among the Tibetan, Persian and other languages.
Finally, we ended up in the "library cave" itself. Small little nook in the wall, with no trace left anymore of having preserved thousands and thousands of rolled-up manuscripts for ten centuries, or the explorers and archaelogists who scraped through them a hundred years back.
Done with the grottoes, we walked back slowly to the entrance. Our guide asked us what parts of China we had seen and where we were going next. In particular, what did we think of Beijing? We tried to be neutral, saying it was a big city like any other, very developed. This started off a mini-rant. "I think we are developing too fast, destroying all that we had before. Our system of government, you know. I am sure India is developing too, but you must be preserving the character of your cities". We told him our big cities do not give off any more vibes of being Indian than Beijing does of being Chinese, it's all a case of grass being greener.
Changing the subject completely, he started quizzing us about higher education. "There's a university which holds a national exam, isn't there? Very difficult to pass, I have heard?" I got passed the conversational baton immediately, and told him about the JEE. "Yes, yes, the IIT, don't all students go immediately to the US afterwards?" I hemmed and hawed, telling him, "No, nowadays many do stay back,.." when BM and Veena helpfully butted in with "he went to the US". "Yes, I have heard, when someone passes, their parents have a grand feast for the entire village". This left me speechless, deciding to ask my parents as soon as possible why I (and the whole of Bombay) got cheated out of a feast.
We ended off with a trip to a more modern exhibition hall outside the caves, built to approximate some of the caves that are closed off to the public. The building is very flat and blends in with the surroundings, almost like a Lloyd Wright creation transplanted to the other side of the globe, but the caves are not very impressive, being similar to the ones we had seen. The last look was of the thousand-handed Buddhist goddess ("we have female Buddhas too, in India Buddha is always male, right?") Guan-Yin Boddhisatva, Goddess of Mercy, originally the Indian or Tibetan (male) Avalokiteswara.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Its obv the thought that counts
At the Summer Palace in Beijing. You will have to click and enlarge.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
A short love story (for Luddo)
since he is asking for it.
Xi'an. Where it all begins. Where all roads would lead to if history were written in the East.
We were on our way into the city after seeing the terracotta army. Our guide Echo who would have made an excellent drill inspector has already informed us that this is nap time and she would not like to be disturbed. Bill happily dozes off. I look out of the window. BM starts fidgeting.
"What?"
"What do you think is considered handsome in this country?"
"Come again"
"Its not a difficult question"
"I know. But why would anyone have such a query?"
"I want to know. My Chinese colleagues at work think someone is handsome, I don't think so"
"Why don't you ask Echo? Obviously I can't provide you with an answer"
"She said she wants to sleep"
"Nonsense. Echo - we..BM has a question for you"
Echo wakes up with a start and turns around. "Sure. How can I help?"
"Do you think Takeshi Kaneshiro is handsome?"
"Dude, he is not even Chinese"
"He is half Chinese" She turns to Echo. "I am trying to figure out who is considered handsome here"
"Yes, he is cute"
"Not handsome?"
"I don't think so. But I am from the South"
"What does that got to do with Takeshi Kaneshiro being handsome?"
"In the South, we prefer milky men"
"Milky!"
"Yes, milky intellectuals. In the North, women prefer strong men with moustaches who are generous"
"Generous? You mean rich?" I couldn't help myself.
"Rich too. I prefer milky intellectuals who are rich"
"Those exist?"
"I haven't found one yet"
"If you do, let us know. We could do with a few"
"What about women? What kind of women are considered beautiful?" BM again. For some reason, she had to analyse this thing to death.
"Hmm..." Echo is thinking now.
"Do you like Gong Li?"
"No" Echo replies immediately.
BM turns to me. "She is like the Aishwarya Rai of China. Everybody casts her in movies but she cannot act"
"Gong Li is just another model / actress. She is okay but not beautiful" says Echo.
"All my colleagues love her"
"Yes, all men love her"
"That makes sense. So what kind of women are preferred in China?"
"Dude, you just asked her that"
"No, I asked who is considered beautiful. Now I am asking what kind of women are generally preferred"
"I wasn't aware you were on a groom hunt"
Echo: "It depends on what the man is looking for"
"Oh"
"Most men prefer stable wives who are kind and considerate and intelligent"
"I see"
"Who will take care of the house work"
"Of course"
"But if they are looking for a short love story..."
"A short love story?"
"Yes, like in the movies, then they prefer a vase"
"A what?"
"A vase. However you say it"
"Oh, like that"
Needless to say, since then, every time we encounter a vase, we feel like we should take it away and offer it to people looking for a short love story. This special Ming one for Luddo-san, may he have a lovely short love story.
***
Bonus: One more love story.
At the terracotta place. We were walking from Pit 1 to Pit 2. Echo is telling us about the men excavated from Pit 2. I was walking a few steps ahead of the three and could hear only parts of the conversation.
"The most well preserved exhibit is from this pit. He is exhibited outside the pit in a glass case and you can even see colours on his body"
"Cool"
"Yes, the kneeling archer is quite famous"
I stop dead in my tracks. Turn around. Bill is walking faster. He smiles.
"Kneeling archer. That's what she said"
"Oh. That makes sense"
BM: "What did you hear?"
"That only"
"Liar. Bill, you tell"
"The love of her life only"
"I thought that was you"
"Eeeks! No way"
"Dude, chill. I heard Newland Archer"
"Ah"
"So I started imagining Daniel Day Lewis with this terracotta warrior headgear"
"Man, that is cool"
"I know"
Xi'an. Where it all begins. Where all roads would lead to if history were written in the East.
We were on our way into the city after seeing the terracotta army. Our guide Echo who would have made an excellent drill inspector has already informed us that this is nap time and she would not like to be disturbed. Bill happily dozes off. I look out of the window. BM starts fidgeting.
"What?"
"What do you think is considered handsome in this country?"
"Come again"
"Its not a difficult question"
"I know. But why would anyone have such a query?"
"I want to know. My Chinese colleagues at work think someone is handsome, I don't think so"
"Why don't you ask Echo? Obviously I can't provide you with an answer"
"She said she wants to sleep"
"Nonsense. Echo - we..BM has a question for you"
Echo wakes up with a start and turns around. "Sure. How can I help?"
"Do you think Takeshi Kaneshiro is handsome?"
"Dude, he is not even Chinese"
"He is half Chinese" She turns to Echo. "I am trying to figure out who is considered handsome here"
"Yes, he is cute"
"Not handsome?"
"I don't think so. But I am from the South"
"What does that got to do with Takeshi Kaneshiro being handsome?"
"In the South, we prefer milky men"
"Milky!"
"Yes, milky intellectuals. In the North, women prefer strong men with moustaches who are generous"
"Generous? You mean rich?" I couldn't help myself.
"Rich too. I prefer milky intellectuals who are rich"
"Those exist?"
"I haven't found one yet"
"If you do, let us know. We could do with a few"
"What about women? What kind of women are considered beautiful?" BM again. For some reason, she had to analyse this thing to death.
"Hmm..." Echo is thinking now.
"Do you like Gong Li?"
"No" Echo replies immediately.
BM turns to me. "She is like the Aishwarya Rai of China. Everybody casts her in movies but she cannot act"
"Gong Li is just another model / actress. She is okay but not beautiful" says Echo.
"All my colleagues love her"
"Yes, all men love her"
"That makes sense. So what kind of women are preferred in China?"
"Dude, you just asked her that"
"No, I asked who is considered beautiful. Now I am asking what kind of women are generally preferred"
"I wasn't aware you were on a groom hunt"
Echo: "It depends on what the man is looking for"
"Oh"
"Most men prefer stable wives who are kind and considerate and intelligent"
"I see"
"Who will take care of the house work"
"Of course"
"But if they are looking for a short love story..."
"A short love story?"
"Yes, like in the movies, then they prefer a vase"
"A what?"
"A vase. However you say it"
"Oh, like that"
Needless to say, since then, every time we encounter a vase, we feel like we should take it away and offer it to people looking for a short love story. This special Ming one for Luddo-san, may he have a lovely short love story.
***
Bonus: One more love story.
At the terracotta place. We were walking from Pit 1 to Pit 2. Echo is telling us about the men excavated from Pit 2. I was walking a few steps ahead of the three and could hear only parts of the conversation.
"The most well preserved exhibit is from this pit. He is exhibited outside the pit in a glass case and you can even see colours on his body"
"Cool"
"Yes, the kneeling archer is quite famous"
I stop dead in my tracks. Turn around. Bill is walking faster. He smiles.
"Kneeling archer. That's what she said"
"Oh. That makes sense"
BM: "What did you hear?"
"That only"
"Liar. Bill, you tell"
"The love of her life only"
"I thought that was you"
"Eeeks! No way"
"Dude, chill. I heard Newland Archer"
"Ah"
"So I started imagining Daniel Day Lewis with this terracotta warrior headgear"
"Man, that is cool"
"I know"
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Notes
Okay people, we are back. Lots and lots of stories. I managed to fill in 86 pages in my journal and so you shall not be spared. Though in the interests of laziness, I shall probably do only conversations. For pictures and explanations, you can pain BM.
But before we begin, random trip notes in no particular order:
1. Recurring theme #1: Reconstruction and resettlement under banner of development. People moved from city centres to somewhere relatively far away as ancient buildings are constructed in city centres. Scary the first time we encountered it but very used to it by the end of the trip. There seemed to be no discrimination between provinces in this regard.
2. I can die happy now that moi makes an appearance in at least 43 family albums across China. Thats about 25% of pictures I was asked to be in. BM is all jealous that she got asked only 62 times.
3. The further West one goes, stronger the opinions. Foreign devils and Revolutions talked about more, invasions not so much, rather, not at all.
4. Recurring theme #2: TR aka Monkey King. The holy book is called TR-nama (see picture below). BM and Bill are Peter and Paul and two more devoted followers, you shall not find.
5. Ethnic minorities aka Other nationalities. This nation comprises of a number of nationalities. Anyone who is not Han Chinese is other nationality.
6. Recurring theme #3: Over-ordering food. The amount of food we wasted could have fed the whole of the Western Regions.
7. We learnt from (the totally entertaining) China Daily that expat husbands are no longer wanted in the country. 'Normal guy' is in demand in the current economic climate.
8. While on the subject, we were also told that in Northern China, macho and generous men are preferred. In the South, milky, intellectual men are quite the rage. There's still some hope for pimping out Bill, I guess. Just need to move to Southern China.
9. BM wants to be Empress at Jiayuguan Fort - BM Zetian! Bill wants to be General. The plan is for Bill to write proposal for funding to build a fort to test security of programming languages or something. Lost on me. But I was told I will be given money to travel and build caves. Happiness.
10. Nobody asks us for food preference in airplanes. By default, they gave us food marked "Muslim". Not that we are complaining.
11. Freedom above all. Freedom to get lost in a country where you don't know a word of the language, freedom from translators and drivers. BM and Bill even did a celebratory dance on the train to celebrate new found freedom on the night train back to homebase Beijing.
12. Last day in China, our food consists of Subway sandwich, Haagen Daas scoop and a burger. Freedom indeed!
13. Recurring theme #4: Street and Subway cleaning. If you have over a billion people who need to have jobs, perhaps this is the way to do it. Clean everything every five minutes.
I am looking through my journal and there are far too many, so I shall stop here for now and do this properly over the next few days..weeks..err..months.
Oh, wait, before I go, pictures for people. More (and better ones) over at BM's as and when she posts.
For Space Bar
A hutong Cat for the Cheshire Cat
For Feanor - this counts as translation too, no?
For Luddo - BM has the engine I think
For TR - Original plan was to bury this in Chini Bagh but in the interest of time, left at hotel in Kashgar
For Anoop
For Szer
Falsie: Of course you aren't spared. BM's got a long list of pictures in your honour. Wait.
??!: You are just too difficult. I have gone through my entire set and can't find one for you unless I stretch it really far. I have delegated job to BM now.
But before we begin, random trip notes in no particular order:
1. Recurring theme #1: Reconstruction and resettlement under banner of development. People moved from city centres to somewhere relatively far away as ancient buildings are constructed in city centres. Scary the first time we encountered it but very used to it by the end of the trip. There seemed to be no discrimination between provinces in this regard.
2. I can die happy now that moi makes an appearance in at least 43 family albums across China. Thats about 25% of pictures I was asked to be in. BM is all jealous that she got asked only 62 times.
3. The further West one goes, stronger the opinions. Foreign devils and Revolutions talked about more, invasions not so much, rather, not at all.
4. Recurring theme #2: TR aka Monkey King. The holy book is called TR-nama (see picture below). BM and Bill are Peter and Paul and two more devoted followers, you shall not find.
5. Ethnic minorities aka Other nationalities. This nation comprises of a number of nationalities. Anyone who is not Han Chinese is other nationality.
6. Recurring theme #3: Over-ordering food. The amount of food we wasted could have fed the whole of the Western Regions.
7. We learnt from (the totally entertaining) China Daily that expat husbands are no longer wanted in the country. 'Normal guy' is in demand in the current economic climate.
8. While on the subject, we were also told that in Northern China, macho and generous men are preferred. In the South, milky, intellectual men are quite the rage. There's still some hope for pimping out Bill, I guess. Just need to move to Southern China.
9. BM wants to be Empress at Jiayuguan Fort - BM Zetian! Bill wants to be General. The plan is for Bill to write proposal for funding to build a fort to test security of programming languages or something. Lost on me. But I was told I will be given money to travel and build caves. Happiness.
10. Nobody asks us for food preference in airplanes. By default, they gave us food marked "Muslim". Not that we are complaining.
11. Freedom above all. Freedom to get lost in a country where you don't know a word of the language, freedom from translators and drivers. BM and Bill even did a celebratory dance on the train to celebrate new found freedom on the night train back to homebase Beijing.
12. Last day in China, our food consists of Subway sandwich, Haagen Daas scoop and a burger. Freedom indeed!
13. Recurring theme #4: Street and Subway cleaning. If you have over a billion people who need to have jobs, perhaps this is the way to do it. Clean everything every five minutes.
I am looking through my journal and there are far too many, so I shall stop here for now and do this properly over the next few days..weeks..err..months.
Oh, wait, before I go, pictures for people. More (and better ones) over at BM's as and when she posts.
For Space Bar
A hutong Cat for the Cheshire Cat
For Feanor - this counts as translation too, no?
For Luddo - BM has the engine I think
For TR - Original plan was to bury this in Chini Bagh but in the interest of time, left at hotel in Kashgar
For Anoop
For Szer
Falsie: Of course you aren't spared. BM's got a long list of pictures in your honour. Wait.
??!: You are just too difficult. I have gone through my entire set and can't find one for you unless I stretch it really far. I have delegated job to BM now.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Chotu Motu in Paris I: At the Pantheon
Chotu Motu walking in Latin Quarter somewhere.
"Oh there you see it"
"What do I see?"
"That dome"
"What about it?"
"We are going there"
"Don't think its on our way"
"Just a few minutes off"
"But its uphill and we are carrying stuff. Can't we do this later?"
"No, I have missed it so many times already. This time I have to go see it. I will carry your bag if you want"
"Are you offering to carrying my backpack?"
"Its not that heavy"
"You are serious!"
"Of course I am. Give na"
"Dude, what is this place?"
"What place?"
"That dome place. Some church type thing no"
"Oh, I see. That explains the indifference. That's the Pantheon"
"Which I thought we saw in Rome like ages ago. Wasn't that when you started crying?"
"What nonsense?"
"I remember this very clearly. You started swearing and crying because you read somewhere that Bernini melted the bronze at the Pantheon for that altar piece at the Vatican"
"The bastards! That still makes my blood boil"
"Bill darling, anything that makes your blood boil is serious entertainment for me. Is there anything similar in this Pantheon? Then we will surely go see"
"Dude, you really don't know"
"Don't know what?"
"About this Paris ka Pantheon"
"I know its like the Abbey where everyone is buried and all. So what? I have no intention of paying good money to see junta ka graves all over the city[1]"
"Who wants to see graves? We are nearly there now. Chal"
"This is slightly scary. I have never seen you so enthu about anything"
"Don't be scared. Come, lets go in"
"Dude, its like some 8 euros. At current exchange rate, that's 8 quid. I don't want to see graves and I have seen way too many basilicas to last me a lifetime. I see a Boulangerie right here. Maybe I will wait here"
"Will you shut up and come up?"
At this point, I was too curious to give up. So I trudged up the stairs to the basilica. Pantheon. Whatever. Chotu bought tickets. This obviously is a totally new experience for me - Chotu buying anything. I was speechless. I followed him inside. He stopped and I promptly bumped into his backpack.
"Can't you like..?" It was evident that he couldn't really hear anything. He was staring at something at the centre of the cathedral. Intently. I stared at him for a moment and then turned to look at what he was looking at.
Dang! Enlightenment! Totally forgotten this thing was at the Pantheon. Anyway, might as well make full capital out of it.
"What is it?"
"Hello?"
"Can you hear me?"
"What is that contraption doing in a cathedral?"
Chotu heard me this time.
"What do you think it is?"
"Its like a giant well, let me think now..."
"Don't go there. Not the time for profanity"
"Profanity? I was going to say pendulum. What's profane about that?"
"The hell you were"
"Of course I was"
"Don't you think its time you shut up?"
"Are you going to wait for an entire hour?"
"Half an hour at the least"
"Okay, I might as well go see some graves"
"I can't believe you don't want to see this"
"Who said I don't want to see it?"
"You are going to see some silly graves you just said"
"But I am seeing this. I will come back and see it on the same plane once the earth rotates around itself for a while. What I don't want is to sit around and worship it"
"Whatever"
So I went off and saw some graves. Funny things they have done - like putting Voltaire and Rousseau right across from each other. After death do us part types. And obviously, first (only?) woman resident.
When I came back from the crypt, Chotu was still sitting there staring at the pendulum.
"We can go now"
"If you want to do puja and all, go ahead"
"Its only a pendulum", Chotu said and walked towards the door.
"I wouldn't have known. For a while, I thought you had gotten religion"
"Come on now"
"Seriously dude. Next I know, you would start reading the book"
"I don't read books where I need Google for every line. Its not like the Name of the Rose or anything"
"I know"
"But this is about middle school physics. This kind of religion is what we need, don't you see?"
"If you say so. Dude, look, Rue laplace!"
"What? Place is a square. There is no rue called la Place"
"Not La Place. Laplace. Rue Laplace. We are in the univ area now"
"Why does that name seem vaguely familiar?"
"Vaguely familiar. The man who just had an orgasm just by looking at Foucault's pendulum is asking me who Laplace is. Do I have to remind you of Fourier and Laplace transforms now?"
"Oh that chap. That's what you EE people do. Not us"
"Right"
"We don't do much with Laplace. Anyway, now that you have proved your geekery...."
"My geekery?! I don't remember anything other than the names. And if I may remind you, I wasn't the one who was worshipping Foucault's Pendulum like a moment ago!"
"You don't understand. This is not about geekery"
"No?"
"No. This is about what you can do with these big places of worship which do not serve any ostensible purpose. Its about how a secular outlook can transform even the most useless of places to be centres of scientific learning. Every kid who goes into that building will have an understanding, a real one, of the world around him. That is cool. Whatever you think of it"
Yes, that's one of the longest Chotu has ever spoken. So I am speechless again for a moment.
"You do realise that what you arguing for and are so happy about is the Revolution?"
"If it takes a revolution, it takes a revolution. I have no issues with that"
Ah. Finally, the Bong speaks. And all I had to do was to get him to Paris.
Bonus picture: Chotu Motu on stilts in Paris. (Feanor: That is NOT romantic, just tall)
[1] Famous last words. That is precisely what we ended up doing. More grave stories coming up soon.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Postcard from Plzeň
Because nobody wanted it. And I am too lazy to re-write it to make anyone want it. Plus I promised you all that I would furnish details of moi's many alcohol adventures. And because someone needs to convince Cat that the place exists.
The Czech Republic holds the interesting distinction of being the country with the highest per capita consumption of beer in the world. Wikipedia informs me that at 157 litres / year, the Czechs are way ahead of the Irish who come in second with 131 litres. Most of what the Czechs drink is a pale lager or rather the mother of all pale lagers, the Pilsner Urquell. The city of Pilsen (Czech: Plzeň) in western Bohemia is home to the brewery which invented the pale lager. Car aficionados no doubt recognize Pilsen as being the home of the much-seen cars on desi highways in recent years, the Skoda. As LP informed me, car and beer don’t usually mix, but don’t mention that when you are in Pilsen.
We took the bus to Pilsen from Prague, arguably the most beautiful city in Bohemia if not in all of Europe. For the casual visitor, Prague is all about the Castle’s amazing gargoyles, lovely church steeples and gold-tipped Hussite spires. For the culturally inclined, there is no dearth of intellectual tradition - this is after all the city of Kafka and Kundera, of Hrabal and of a young Forman, and of the playwright-President Vaclav Havel. Pilsen, on the other hand, seemed gritty, more an industrial town than a cultural centre, and the people not as friendly; in a sense closer to their German neighbours than their fellow countrymen in the east. It took all the German we knew and a bit of luck in the form of a Pilsner Urquell truck that we ran after to find our way to the brewery.
There were three Swedes (I am actually not making this up) in addition to the two of us in the English tour that was just starting. As we were waiting for the last two people in our tour to arrive Jan, our tour guide told us the history of how at the end of WW2, the American soldiers had already liberated Pilsen a couple of days before the Red Army reached Prague. However, they waited in Pilsen instead of continuing on to Prague in deference to their Soviet Allies who were making their way to Prague from the east. This is why Pilsen celebrates Liberation Day two days before the rest of the country. Jan explained that since then, the Americans had never turned up on time for anything just as the last two people on our tour, the American couple, joined us.
The tour began with a video of the history of the brewery – in the 1800s, every building in the city centre had a brewing license. However, the citizens were not happy with top-fermented beers because of their low quality and short storage life and decided to incorporate a brewery to produce bottom-fermenting beer. The Bavarian brewers were considered the masters in bottom fermentation and therefore they hired Josef Groll, a brewer from Bavaria. In 1842, Groll produced the first batch of Urquell beer, but distinct from the Bavarian ones because of the use of soft Bohemian water, pale malt local to the region, and bitter hops from Saaz. From such humble beginnings, Pilsner Urquell has gone on to become the signature lager, the flagship brand today for the SABMiller brewery group with many copycat products trying to cash in to the Pilsner name[1].
We visited the new, state-of-the-art bottling plant (latest German technology we were told) where thousands of bottles and cans were making their way through conveyor belts. The capacity was 60,000 bottles an hour and they work around the clock. In addition to cans and bottles, kegs are filled with unpasteurised beer to supply to the local pubs. We were then taken to the brewing plants – the old brewery has been converted into an exhibition hall and a new plant built next to it. Jan walked us through the process of making the lager – malt, water, hops and yeast are all that goes into it. Both barley for the pale malt and hops is local to the region and there were samples for us to taste. The hops were bitter, way bitter than any bitter-gourd I’ve been made to have but the after taste makes it worth the effort.
We then walked to the new brewing plant to see the mashing process - the malted grain is mixed with water and heated to break down the starch in the grains to sugars. The malt extract, called wort is boiled, and hops added at this stage to give the beer its bitterness and aroma. Once the wort is whirl pooled and cooled, the yeast is added and the fermentation process begins. For the lager, bottom fermenting yeasts are used, and these eat less sugar, produce a cleaner taste and have a longer storage life. When the sugars have been completely digested, the beer is cooled to freezing, and conditioned for 5 or 6 weeks. This beer is then filtered to remove any yeast and hops before it is sent to the packaging plant for pasteurisation and bottling.
At this point, Bill and I reckoned that we were nearly at the end of the tour and as we had a train to catch (to the next beer town actually), we told Jan that we would be leaving and promised him that we would have Pilsner Urquell in the next pub we are at. Jan asked us to wait a few minutes more. So we walked down with him to the old and dank fermentation cellars. Temperature controlled rooms and tanks are used for this purpose nowadays but these hand-built cellars are still used to make a few barrels of beer the old way just for the tour groups and for the brewery museum. This beer comes straight off the barrel, and is unfiltered and unpasteurised and more importantly, is not available anywhere else in the world. In Jan’s words, “this is the real thing”. We immediately took the largest glass possible, got it filled, raised the glasses with a “Skol” to the Swedes, and promptly drank it all up. We missed the train to Cesky Budejovice that day and had to wait a couple of hours for the next train but I wasn’t complaining. The tiny bits of hops along with the heavenly pale lager were definitely worth missing a couple of trains.
[1] I know. It is intentional alright? I have been told that this can count as relationship building. If I manage to sell work, I reckon I can expense my Czech trip. So yeah, no snarkiness on this one. Be nice.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
In which Chotu Motu go see Stalin's boots in Budapest
People, another Bill post. Well, I had to rewrite parts but its mostly Bill.
Budapest. Day Two. Bill is diligently reading city guide.
"Ha, this guidebook is funny"
"I will let the LP people know"
"I mean seriously. They have these random things that they claim we have to see. Something about the relics of communism in a field somewhere"
"What is funny about that?"
"Apparently they took all big big "monuments" from their Communist days and stuck them all somewhere outside town and now people go there and pay to see these things"
"What, where? Let's go!"
"It's too far. And doesn't sound like there's much to see"
"Okay, lets not go then"
"Why not? There is a special tourist bus that will take us there"
"I thought you said there's nothing much to see"
"Yeah. Well. Not like we have hajjar other things to do. Besides don't you want to see this?"
"I do. But just wanted to make sure you do too. Because I know how you will spin this later"
"I am not evil like you"
"Yeah right. Where is this bus?"
The one tourist bus had already left from Deak Ter. But as you all know it takes a lot more than a silly tourist bus to make our intrepid travellers give up on Communist relics.
"We can take public transport. Lets go ask the bus station"
"How good is your Magyar?"
***
"So the place is an hour away, and requires three changes of bus to get there. Why are we going there again?"
"People's transport to see the peoples' relics. It's so appropriate."
"Yeah, yeah, you card-carrier. I'm sure this is some kind of pilgrimage to you."
"Yeah, Sabarimala only this is for me. And who you calling card-carrier?"
"You only. You and your family card-carrier"
"I come from a family of large land owners. Trust me, if anyone's family is Communist here, its surely not mine"
"Yeah yeah"
"Well, I am not the one here who is related to Olof Palme"
"Olof Palme is no Communist"
"I know. But how are you related to Olof Palme?"
"I am not related to Olof Palme"
"If you say so. Anyway, my grandfather did not head the Communist part of Britain"
"Mine neither. Rajani Palme is from some long lost branch of family that no one knows about"
"Nonsense. Your aunt in Stockholm told me all about your family's past. Come on Billster, embrace your roots"
"Go away"
"I will. Here's the bus"
***
Which is how we ended up trudging up the hill to Memento park. (Chotu Motu being Chotu Motu promptly got down one stop before the Park and had to walk) Sort of like going to Tirupati, except there are no crowds. Only some picnickers, enthusiastic American tourists, and of course card-carrying people from Bamse's own land.
The top of the hill is an enclosed park, with cars whizzing by outside. Next to the motorway are the imposing boots of Stalin, announcing the beginning of the park. These tower over the onlookers, giving a sense of how big the entire statue would have been, before the students took an axe to it in 1956.
Next to a statue of Lenin looking very solemn and wise is the ticket seller. There's also a souvenir shop, selling T-shirts advertising the "3 terrors" (Mao, Stalin and Lenin). All very capitalist, making money off communist relics by converting it to a show.
As we enter, there's a Trabant standing alone in a field. Looks remarkably well-preserved, for a people's car that was synonymous with cheap and unreliable construction.
Then there are statues of workers announcing victory, and some farmers standing tall with pride. There's a whole section of forgotten men, Russian and Hungarian party workers and leaders. And of course, some who are not forgotten, at least in some parts of the world.
(Aside. Feanor: Doesn't this last but one picture remind you of the one you shot near Temple? Connected, you reckon?)
"Hey look, there's the bearded men! Both Marx and Engels, together. Quick, take a photo"
"For when you are standing for elections? That picture is worth a thousand votes"
"Exactly. Don't you want one too, when you are standing in Bengal elections?"
"I don't plan to stand for elections in Bengal. Or anywhere"
"But we need picture of you with this big, strong chap here"
"Why?"
"How will I win election then? If you are not there to show support"
"Bill showing support actually doesn't work that well. Ask Hillary"
"It works in Malluland. Especially when Bill is from Bengal"
"Yeah yeah, we know that's why you married me"
"Of course"
***
No, not the End yet. It does not end until a couple of shots are downed. All pictures taken, red stars on the garden duly noted, we took the buses back to the city. We stepped out of the last bus back on Deak.
"Dude, look at that: Festival of the Hungarian Spirit"
"Hmm, sounds like something that would have been home in the Memento Park. Workers of Hungary, unite"
"Maybe they will have some good folk dance and music. Let's go!"
Turned out they meant Hungarian spirit in the literal sense, being Palinka, the local schnapps. Our workers from Kerala and Bengal had appropriately heady shots. Viva Liberty!
Budapest. Day Two. Bill is diligently reading city guide.
"Ha, this guidebook is funny"
"I will let the LP people know"
"I mean seriously. They have these random things that they claim we have to see. Something about the relics of communism in a field somewhere"
"What is funny about that?"
"Apparently they took all big big "monuments" from their Communist days and stuck them all somewhere outside town and now people go there and pay to see these things"
"What, where? Let's go!"
"It's too far. And doesn't sound like there's much to see"
"Okay, lets not go then"
"Why not? There is a special tourist bus that will take us there"
"I thought you said there's nothing much to see"
"Yeah. Well. Not like we have hajjar other things to do. Besides don't you want to see this?"
"I do. But just wanted to make sure you do too. Because I know how you will spin this later"
"I am not evil like you"
"Yeah right. Where is this bus?"
The one tourist bus had already left from Deak Ter. But as you all know it takes a lot more than a silly tourist bus to make our intrepid travellers give up on Communist relics.
"We can take public transport. Lets go ask the bus station"
"How good is your Magyar?"
***
"So the place is an hour away, and requires three changes of bus to get there. Why are we going there again?"
"People's transport to see the peoples' relics. It's so appropriate."
"Yeah, yeah, you card-carrier. I'm sure this is some kind of pilgrimage to you."
"Yeah, Sabarimala only this is for me. And who you calling card-carrier?"
"You only. You and your family card-carrier"
"I come from a family of large land owners. Trust me, if anyone's family is Communist here, its surely not mine"
"Yeah yeah"
"Well, I am not the one here who is related to Olof Palme"
"Olof Palme is no Communist"
"I know. But how are you related to Olof Palme?"
"I am not related to Olof Palme"
"If you say so. Anyway, my grandfather did not head the Communist part of Britain"
"Mine neither. Rajani Palme is from some long lost branch of family that no one knows about"
"Nonsense. Your aunt in Stockholm told me all about your family's past. Come on Billster, embrace your roots"
"Go away"
"I will. Here's the bus"
***
Which is how we ended up trudging up the hill to Memento park. (Chotu Motu being Chotu Motu promptly got down one stop before the Park and had to walk) Sort of like going to Tirupati, except there are no crowds. Only some picnickers, enthusiastic American tourists, and of course card-carrying people from Bamse's own land.
The top of the hill is an enclosed park, with cars whizzing by outside. Next to the motorway are the imposing boots of Stalin, announcing the beginning of the park. These tower over the onlookers, giving a sense of how big the entire statue would have been, before the students took an axe to it in 1956.
Next to a statue of Lenin looking very solemn and wise is the ticket seller. There's also a souvenir shop, selling T-shirts advertising the "3 terrors" (Mao, Stalin and Lenin). All very capitalist, making money off communist relics by converting it to a show.
As we enter, there's a Trabant standing alone in a field. Looks remarkably well-preserved, for a people's car that was synonymous with cheap and unreliable construction.
Then there are statues of workers announcing victory, and some farmers standing tall with pride. There's a whole section of forgotten men, Russian and Hungarian party workers and leaders. And of course, some who are not forgotten, at least in some parts of the world.
(Aside. Feanor: Doesn't this last but one picture remind you of the one you shot near Temple? Connected, you reckon?)
"Hey look, there's the bearded men! Both Marx and Engels, together. Quick, take a photo"
"For when you are standing for elections? That picture is worth a thousand votes"
"Exactly. Don't you want one too, when you are standing in Bengal elections?"
"I don't plan to stand for elections in Bengal. Or anywhere"
"But we need picture of you with this big, strong chap here"
"Why?"
"How will I win election then? If you are not there to show support"
"Bill showing support actually doesn't work that well. Ask Hillary"
"It works in Malluland. Especially when Bill is from Bengal"
"Yeah yeah, we know that's why you married me"
"Of course"
***
No, not the End yet. It does not end until a couple of shots are downed. All pictures taken, red stars on the garden duly noted, we took the buses back to the city. We stepped out of the last bus back on Deak.
"Dude, look at that: Festival of the Hungarian Spirit"
"Hmm, sounds like something that would have been home in the Memento Park. Workers of Hungary, unite"
"Maybe they will have some good folk dance and music. Let's go!"
Turned out they meant Hungarian spirit in the literal sense, being Palinka, the local schnapps. Our workers from Kerala and Bengal had appropriately heady shots. Viva Liberty!
Saturday, May 31, 2008
In which Motu (nearly) causes an international incident by breaking into the German embassy
(SB, will you talk to me now? Please.)
Prague. Across from the lovely Grand Hotel Europa building on Vaclavske Sq.
"We have to go in here"
"Its a shopping mall"
"I know"
"We are shopping?"
"Not as far as I know"
"So what are we doing in a shopping arcade?"
"The guidebook says there's some cool stuff in there"
"Wow, you actually read the guidebook?"
"I am not that useless"
"Yeah right"
"Shh. Here, look"
"Hmm..what is this supposed to mean?"
"David Černý. He doesn't really explain. This particular one is supposed to the current Vaclav dude on an upside-down horse. As opposed to the original Vaclav on his proper horse outside"
"Interesting"
"Yeah. There's more stuff by this chap. Like crawling babies on TV tower. And there is one inside the German embassy"
"Inside the German embassy?"
"Yeah. In the gardens. Its a Trabant on four legs signifying the East Germans who took refuge in the embassy in 1989"
"Can we see this thing?"
"I guess we can go there and find out"
"I guess. How far is it?"
"Mala Strana. Far. But walkable"
"Lets go"
Obviously, we got sidetracked. A hidden garden and a cubist lampost just off the Sq which no one was interested in, a Japanese restaurant tucked away in a side street, alleys with teeny views of the buildings of Old Town Sq, the very crowded and touristy Old Town Square, the very very crowded Charles Bridge, a quiet cafe with breathtaking views of the bridge and the Castle not to mention the friendly Czech at our adjacent table who gave us restaurant recommendations in Jewish town, the water-wheel, the Lennon wall all happened before we found ourselves climbing up this quiet, hilly road in Mala Strana.
"You sure its here?"
"Yeah, see all the flags. We are in the diplomatic quarter"
"If you say so"
"There, the German flag"
"Huge building"
"Yeah"
"How do we get to the garden?"
"How do I know?"
"Dude, we are here to see this Trabant"
"I know but wait...hang on. I think we keep climbing"
"But the embassy is here"
"Yeah but the garden is right behind up the hill. Here, see the map. So if we climb up and look down we should be able to see it"
"You sure about this?"
"Do you have a better idea?"
A few minutes later we cross the embassy building and find ourselves next to a childrens' park. We double back through the park to the the hedges that go around the embassy building.
"There, there it is"
"Hang on, let me take a picture"
"You can't take a picture"
"Of course I can"
I drop my backpack, put the camera around my neck and start climbing.
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to take a picture"
"These are hedges. They can't hold your weight and anyway there is no grip"
"You know what? I am short and you are Bong. Unless you can drink up some magic portion and get to what the world considers normal height, this is my best bet. So give me a hand and shut up"
"Whatever you say darling"
"It is working. I got two decent pictures"
"Cool"
"Dude, there's a woman walking towards us"
"What?"
"She is waving and saying something"
"What is she saying?"
"You are the one who knows German, not me. I think she means no photos"
"Get down now"
"She might just be saying hello"
"She is German for God's sake. How many friendly Germans have you met in your life?"
"Okay I am coming down"
Scramble down. Pick up backpack. Run for five minutes. In rush, forget that we actually have to go downhill and run uphill instead. Which ended up being just as well as we got the most picture perfect view of the city on a hill that we (mostly) had all to ourselves. End of story.
Coming up in this series: Chotu Motu go to see Mayor of Adrspach
Prague. Across from the lovely Grand Hotel Europa building on Vaclavske Sq.
"We have to go in here"
"Its a shopping mall"
"I know"
"We are shopping?"
"Not as far as I know"
"So what are we doing in a shopping arcade?"
"The guidebook says there's some cool stuff in there"
"Wow, you actually read the guidebook?"
"I am not that useless"
"Yeah right"
"Shh. Here, look"
"Hmm..what is this supposed to mean?"
"David Černý. He doesn't really explain. This particular one is supposed to the current Vaclav dude on an upside-down horse. As opposed to the original Vaclav on his proper horse outside"
"Interesting"
"Yeah. There's more stuff by this chap. Like crawling babies on TV tower. And there is one inside the German embassy"
"Inside the German embassy?"
"Yeah. In the gardens. Its a Trabant on four legs signifying the East Germans who took refuge in the embassy in 1989"
"Can we see this thing?"
"I guess we can go there and find out"
"I guess. How far is it?"
"Mala Strana. Far. But walkable"
"Lets go"
Obviously, we got sidetracked. A hidden garden and a cubist lampost just off the Sq which no one was interested in, a Japanese restaurant tucked away in a side street, alleys with teeny views of the buildings of Old Town Sq, the very crowded and touristy Old Town Square, the very very crowded Charles Bridge, a quiet cafe with breathtaking views of the bridge and the Castle not to mention the friendly Czech at our adjacent table who gave us restaurant recommendations in Jewish town, the water-wheel, the Lennon wall all happened before we found ourselves climbing up this quiet, hilly road in Mala Strana.
"You sure its here?"
"Yeah, see all the flags. We are in the diplomatic quarter"
"If you say so"
"There, the German flag"
"Huge building"
"Yeah"
"How do we get to the garden?"
"How do I know?"
"Dude, we are here to see this Trabant"
"I know but wait...hang on. I think we keep climbing"
"But the embassy is here"
"Yeah but the garden is right behind up the hill. Here, see the map. So if we climb up and look down we should be able to see it"
"You sure about this?"
"Do you have a better idea?"
A few minutes later we cross the embassy building and find ourselves next to a childrens' park. We double back through the park to the the hedges that go around the embassy building.
"There, there it is"
"Hang on, let me take a picture"
"You can't take a picture"
"Of course I can"
I drop my backpack, put the camera around my neck and start climbing.
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to take a picture"
"These are hedges. They can't hold your weight and anyway there is no grip"
"You know what? I am short and you are Bong. Unless you can drink up some magic portion and get to what the world considers normal height, this is my best bet. So give me a hand and shut up"
"Whatever you say darling"
"It is working. I got two decent pictures"
"Cool"
"Dude, there's a woman walking towards us"
"What?"
"She is waving and saying something"
"What is she saying?"
"You are the one who knows German, not me. I think she means no photos"
"Get down now"
"She might just be saying hello"
"She is German for God's sake. How many friendly Germans have you met in your life?"
"Okay I am coming down"
Scramble down. Pick up backpack. Run for five minutes. In rush, forget that we actually have to go downhill and run uphill instead. Which ended up being just as well as we got the most picture perfect view of the city on a hill that we (mostly) had all to ourselves. End of story.
Coming up in this series: Chotu Motu go to see Mayor of Adrspach
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