I have been enjoying the realm of high speed internet, now that I'm visiting America. Just amazing what a person can waste her time looking at!
Latest discovery is Tiki! Now I have my two tiki mugs and a Filipino wood carving that could pass for tiki, and I spent some of my 21st birthday at the now defunct Tiki bar, Tahitian Hut. I have my copy of Taboo: the Art of Tiki. I have about three vintage Aloha shirts and a couple of awesome Hawaiian dresses from about 1964. You could say that I have a mild interest in the realm. But finding the Tiki Room has upped my interest. Uh oh. Like I need another hobby.
Ramba Zamba has some pretty good photos of Tiki culture from his trip to Bali. He really did a good job finding decor, artifacts, and art depicting or at least reminiscent of Tiki.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Bond Updated
Daniel Craig is the new James Bond, and the fact that the Broccoli family launches the new star in a remake of the very first 007 movie, might mean that they plan to remake every last one of the series.
Craig will never win the "sexiest man alive" title (Connery being the definitive Bond), but he does show an endearing human side to a role that has been played too cold (Timothy Dalton), too self conscious (Roger Moore), too simple (George Lazenby), too pretty (Pierce Brosnan), and too mean (Connery). His ears stick out, his haircut looks like something I'd give him in the dark with Kindergarten scissors, and his profile is downright thuggish. That said, I concede that he has an amazing pair of shoulders, a nicely muscular butt, and piercing iceberg eyes.
What really sets apart this Bond is his depth as a person. He's not just a character in a film. He's a complex dude with a past and an inner life, pegged beautifully by breathtakingly intelligent and refreshingly minimally chested Bond girl Vesper Lind (Eva Green). Their conversations go far beyond screenplays that had Moore spouting cheesy double entendres and Connery mutely rearranging shoulder straps like a horny high school kid.
Good supporting characters round out the new movie. Even Chester Gould could not have invented the creepy villain Le Chiffre, with asthma and scarred eye that weeps blood. He steals every scene in a way that Blofeld and Goldfinger cannot. Gamblers at the Casino Royale table are utterly intriguing, Judi Dench is an amazing M, and the actor who played the Swiss banker puts in a performance as memorable as Alan Cumming's in Eyes Wide Shut.
Really, though, this was a Baby Boomer's perfect Bond. We all grew up with 007. Men wanted to BE him, women wanted to meet him. We Boomers may be greying, but we're at the peak of our careers and many of us can afford leisure activities once reserved for the jetset. Thanks to the early Bond movies, we pursued recreational sex, got SCUBA certified, learned how to ski, and drove a cool sports car at some point in life. We are no longer impressed by movie scenes of these activities, because we know how to do all that shit. But the French art of free jumping? I'd love to meet a baby boomer who can do THAT. Now free jumping is impressive! And this Bond film begins with a dynamite sequence of matching that nimble art with braun, guns, and third world grit. So the effects and stunts guys really are hip to what's left in the realm of slick, sophisticated, and dangerous.
Um, wait! Did I say 'sophisticated?' That's the one place where they got it wrong. The product placement, branding, and many sets were under par for 2006. Bond asks for a Beefeater martini, but don't we REALLY think he'd specify Bombay Sapphire Gin if not Grey Goose Vodka? He says he wears an 'O-mee-ga' wristwatch, not a more classic Rolex. He convalesces at Lake Como (full of German boors nowadays) and vacations in horrifically tourist-crowded Venice. Production designers recoup points for the sailboat Bond takes past the Grand Canal, which would have been too slow and wimpy for Roger Moore vehicles.
And, speaking of vehicles, Bond pulls up to a Bahamian resort hotel in a light blue Ford. No, sorry, James Bond would never be caught dead in a Ford. That was just the worst product placement EVER, nearly offsetting the trademark Bond affliction of stocking the film with more luxury brands than any random chapter of American Psycho.
That's a category where this Bond severs with tradition. The guy has no class. Driving sexy chick Catarina Murino around in circles in the cool Astin Martin he just won off her husband is a perfect example of one kind of class (the casino, the car) mitigated by cheap behavior (seeking to impress a girl by driving like a maniac). It's every bit as bad as Lazenby's 007 making off with a Playboy centerfold (the clipping, not the model). Lazenby was just about everyone's least favorite Bond.
But back to the blond secret agent. Cute ass, well-fitting dinner jacket, and an awesome pair of cufflinks do not actually show class. Working out at the gym, a trip to Chinatown, and a sale at Macy's will put a fellow in touch with those items. Class doesn't come into play there. The film's sailboat bit and penchant for married women MAY put him in a higher class than the likes of me, as well as his I'm-not-asking-permission pursuit of Armenian bad guy Simon Abkarian and Bond's deferential posture to boss lady M after she catches him in her apartment. That's class. But there's just not a lot of it.
Ah, and the fact that this Bond is new to killing, & clearly can't do it without a few pangs of emotion, makes me nominate this screenplay for the best of the lot. Really, it's an up-to-date Bond, someone we boomers can still admire.
In all, sure, I recommend this Bond film as the one with the best treatment of women, the most realistic dialogue, and hippest stunts. Go see it.
Photos copyright imdb.com (with thanks)
Friday, November 24, 2006
Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes at Villa Aurelia
Okay, sorry to stalk and drool over movie stars' private lives, but guess where Tom and Katie had their "rehearsal dinner?"
At the American Academy in Rome's Villa Aurelia, yet no less!
Seems it was hosted by the bride's parents, as is traditional.
And, good for them, because there's no way the paparazzi can get even CLOSE to the beautiful villa.
At the American Academy in Rome's Villa Aurelia, yet no less!
Seems it was hosted by the bride's parents, as is traditional.
And, good for them, because there's no way the paparazzi can get even CLOSE to the beautiful villa.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Pre Thanksgiving Racists: Kramer & US Airways
This foggy morning, I am greeted with news of Islamic clerics humiliatingly taken from their US Airways flight. It's all very disgusting, beginning with the ignorance of some passenger who mistook the men's evening prayers for some kind of pre-terrorist action. Said passenger passed a note to a flight attendant, apparently containing the phrase "Arabic men." US Airways chose to remove the men from the flight, handcuffed by police.
This chain of events full of intolerance and (at the very least) ignorance, comes on the heels of Michael Richards' bizarre racist retorts to a heckler at a comedy club.
Where to start? People, this is the day before Thanksgiving. Three hundred odd years ago, Native Americans took pity on a small group of struggling Anglo pilgrims who'd finally been able to clear a little farmland, and introduced them to their own harvest festival of giving thanks. The pilgrims were so fed up with English persecution of their religious practices, they took a dangerous sea journey to arrive in the New World just as winter was setting in. In the end, more settlers from the continent would bring disease and slaughter to the Natives, in general thinking of these established tribes as little more than inconveniences to their manifest destiny.
That's the thanks they get for giving us every American's favorite family weekend, the day we reflect on our blessings, on our good fortune, and, sometimes, on those less fortunate. Perhaps it's also time to think about that aspect of the holiday in which generosity, being a good host, and the tenets of equality in our country's constitution. Not tolerance. Equality.
What can we do?
1. Boycott US Airways
2. Learn about the Muslim faith, its pillars and practices, its leaders, communicators and families
3. Invite someone new to your Thanksgiving table
4. Make a contribution to a charity that promotes racial and religious respect
5. Do something that brings a little harmony between yourself and someone of another race or religion.
This chain of events full of intolerance and (at the very least) ignorance, comes on the heels of Michael Richards' bizarre racist retorts to a heckler at a comedy club.
Where to start? People, this is the day before Thanksgiving. Three hundred odd years ago, Native Americans took pity on a small group of struggling Anglo pilgrims who'd finally been able to clear a little farmland, and introduced them to their own harvest festival of giving thanks. The pilgrims were so fed up with English persecution of their religious practices, they took a dangerous sea journey to arrive in the New World just as winter was setting in. In the end, more settlers from the continent would bring disease and slaughter to the Natives, in general thinking of these established tribes as little more than inconveniences to their manifest destiny.
That's the thanks they get for giving us every American's favorite family weekend, the day we reflect on our blessings, on our good fortune, and, sometimes, on those less fortunate. Perhaps it's also time to think about that aspect of the holiday in which generosity, being a good host, and the tenets of equality in our country's constitution. Not tolerance. Equality.
What can we do?
1. Boycott US Airways
2. Learn about the Muslim faith, its pillars and practices, its leaders, communicators and families
3. Invite someone new to your Thanksgiving table
4. Make a contribution to a charity that promotes racial and religious respect
5. Do something that brings a little harmony between yourself and someone of another race or religion.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Berkeley High, class of 1976
Okay, this weekend I attended the 30 year reunion of BHS graduates in the year 1976. Technically, I am in the class of 1977, because I was born in 1959 and started Kindergarten in 1964, but I decided to graduate early in '76.
That last year of school was a toughie, because, due to a long teachers' strike, I did not begin fall semester until well into October. I struggled with Algebra 3, quit attending the classroom sessions, but neglected to drop the course formally. Thus, I earned a "D" and pushed out my chances of getting into the University of California.
I WAS more timely in those matters such as getting my graduating picture into the yearbook, though. So, there sits my image in the 1976 tome, as if I'd always belonged to the cool class of Tom Schaaf, Timothy Hutton, Tom Levinson, Sabrina Stemley, Oriane Stender, Mordecai Duckler, and Liz MacDonough. Fooled everyone as usual and showed up at the clubhouse at Golden Gate Fields in time for no-host bar, caloric buffet, and a roomfull of people who needed reading glasses to peruse each others' name tags.
First contact was Margaret Leventhal, who looks the same but appears a good bit less butch than she used to, there in Mr. Panesanko's Advanced Biology class. She's a mom, now, too (got started twenty years later than I did), and she has a nice husband. Next, I ran into Bonnie Sand (that's Doctor Sand to you and me) and she linked me over to her ever-best-friend, Leslie Ross. Holy cow, Leslie went to Cooper Union! And she's working at Gulassa & Co in Seattle! Small world! Avram Siegal was there, too (the guy with the banjo), and he's managed to do the amazing: make money as a musician! Thanks for the glass of wine, Avram.
Utterly incredible to see John Stenmark, who seemed merely tall (not gigantic, as he appeared in high school). He's been living 20 years in Barcelona, of all places.
Renata Dowdakin said hello, but just to tell me that her brother wound up at the American Academy in Rome, at the time under my dad's directorship. She was one of at least a dozen women there who were remarkably well-preserved, fit, and beautiful. Winning the handsomest guy award was Don Teeter, trumpeter with the venerable BHS jazz band. Kind of fun to see one stoner guy who will go unnamed; he's a total "suit" now, strutting in with young eye candy on his arm. High tech jobs topped the career tally, including the principal's uber jock son, Eric Parker. I guess he lived in Singapore for a while, around the time I was in Honkers.
I missed the raucous display of dances, but I couldn't miss hearing "Don't Rock the Boat" and other disco disasters being broadcast at 100 dB. I think everyone was hoarse the next day, for we all had to shout to be heard. Finished up at midnight, chuckled all the way home. Sorry that quite a number of cool kids did not show up, but I can see that the $80 ticket price was an automatic filter.
In all, a fun reunion. Thanks especially to Bonnie and Leslie for showing up.
That last year of school was a toughie, because, due to a long teachers' strike, I did not begin fall semester until well into October. I struggled with Algebra 3, quit attending the classroom sessions, but neglected to drop the course formally. Thus, I earned a "D" and pushed out my chances of getting into the University of California.
I WAS more timely in those matters such as getting my graduating picture into the yearbook, though. So, there sits my image in the 1976 tome, as if I'd always belonged to the cool class of Tom Schaaf, Timothy Hutton, Tom Levinson, Sabrina Stemley, Oriane Stender, Mordecai Duckler, and Liz MacDonough. Fooled everyone as usual and showed up at the clubhouse at Golden Gate Fields in time for no-host bar, caloric buffet, and a roomfull of people who needed reading glasses to peruse each others' name tags.
First contact was Margaret Leventhal, who looks the same but appears a good bit less butch than she used to, there in Mr. Panesanko's Advanced Biology class. She's a mom, now, too (got started twenty years later than I did), and she has a nice husband. Next, I ran into Bonnie Sand (that's Doctor Sand to you and me) and she linked me over to her ever-best-friend, Leslie Ross. Holy cow, Leslie went to Cooper Union! And she's working at Gulassa & Co in Seattle! Small world! Avram Siegal was there, too (the guy with the banjo), and he's managed to do the amazing: make money as a musician! Thanks for the glass of wine, Avram.
Utterly incredible to see John Stenmark, who seemed merely tall (not gigantic, as he appeared in high school). He's been living 20 years in Barcelona, of all places.
Renata Dowdakin said hello, but just to tell me that her brother wound up at the American Academy in Rome, at the time under my dad's directorship. She was one of at least a dozen women there who were remarkably well-preserved, fit, and beautiful. Winning the handsomest guy award was Don Teeter, trumpeter with the venerable BHS jazz band. Kind of fun to see one stoner guy who will go unnamed; he's a total "suit" now, strutting in with young eye candy on his arm. High tech jobs topped the career tally, including the principal's uber jock son, Eric Parker. I guess he lived in Singapore for a while, around the time I was in Honkers.
I missed the raucous display of dances, but I couldn't miss hearing "Don't Rock the Boat" and other disco disasters being broadcast at 100 dB. I think everyone was hoarse the next day, for we all had to shout to be heard. Finished up at midnight, chuckled all the way home. Sorry that quite a number of cool kids did not show up, but I can see that the $80 ticket price was an automatic filter.
In all, a fun reunion. Thanks especially to Bonnie and Leslie for showing up.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Stuff One Forgets, Stuff One Remembers...
How did I forget this oddity from the night of October 12, last month?
I took a taxi from the Protestant Church in Legian after the terrorist bomb memorial there. The taxi driver was from Sumatra, interestingly. His English was not great, but certainly passable for a driver's work. Soon after we struck up a conversation, he passed back to me several sheets of paper for my perusal. He wanted to know what I thought of his new t-shirt design.
Now, for the life of me, I cannot remember the exact text that was printed on each of about fifty t-shirt mockups. All I can be sure of is that there were two words, and one of them was Sex. The other word was English, all right, but it made no grammatical sense to be paired with Sex. It was something like Sex Above or Sex Catching or Sex Frame or even Up Sex or Fever Sex or Very Sex or something incredibly stupid like that.
Friends, I was speechless. Yes, this motormouth had almost nothing to say. This was jaw-drop time. I leafed through his computer printouts of camo shirts, assymmetrical neckline shirts, babydoll shirts, tank tops, and any t-shirt you can possibly imagine, all with this inane and actually rather offensive message emblazoned in myriad fonts.
Here it was, the day that shook Bali to its very core. The day that a total of 202 partygoers and their drivers, waiters, bartenders, and entertainers were killed by a terrorist's bomb. The day we reflect on the tragedy, on intolerance and hatred, on war, and on the upheaval in the lives of victims' families.
I have always been one to say, "don't let the bad guys win by moping and pulling back inside yourselves. Get out there and flourish and prosper." Right after the bomb went off, or at least two weeks later, we went ahead with our open house, welcoming friends into our new Bali home. My reasoning was that life MUST go on. Living is the greatest revenge. BUT I also had the thought, right away, when Cakra told me about the bomb, that it was the work of Jamaiah Islamiah. (spelling). I thought that if someone wanted to make a statement against decadent infidel living, they'd hit a nightclub. It turned out to be true, sadly enough.
Now, I don't go in for the clubbing scene, but it's perfectly fine with me that we have a nightclub district (or two) for this sort of fun. There is nothing wrong with footballers going to a bar to celebrate sportsmanship, with girls going out dancing wearing skimpy outfits, or with people relaxing with a drink in hand. But some people find this so objectionable, so intolerable, that they feel compelled to kill them for doing this. That's disgusting.
I am not saying that we should listen to terrorists. But I am saying that for the divide to have become this great, for the hatred to have developed this perversely, it may be time to really reflect on what it is to get along with others. The boys growing up in Baashir's school are being taught that getting along with others is not as important as imposing a strict code of behavior on the world. There may, conversely, be something to think about vis-a-vis public drunkenness and carousing. The partyers at the Sari Club were certainly within the confines of an establishment purpose-built for drinking and dancing and maybe even picking up chicks. They did not "deserve" to suffer for this behavior. But it does make us think, "what are westerners capable of doing, or changing, to make this world a more harmonious place?" If we were better friends to other nations, other peoples, perhaps they would not mind so much that we like to drink and wear shorts and have premarital sex.
Anyway, back to the t-shirts. I told the driver, after some thought, after trying to compose a diplomatic response, after mourning dead night clubbers, the following... "There is only one kind of girl who would wear this shirt. Not everyone will want to have this message on their shirt." I think he got it.
I took a taxi from the Protestant Church in Legian after the terrorist bomb memorial there. The taxi driver was from Sumatra, interestingly. His English was not great, but certainly passable for a driver's work. Soon after we struck up a conversation, he passed back to me several sheets of paper for my perusal. He wanted to know what I thought of his new t-shirt design.
Now, for the life of me, I cannot remember the exact text that was printed on each of about fifty t-shirt mockups. All I can be sure of is that there were two words, and one of them was Sex. The other word was English, all right, but it made no grammatical sense to be paired with Sex. It was something like Sex Above or Sex Catching or Sex Frame or even Up Sex or Fever Sex or Very Sex or something incredibly stupid like that.
Friends, I was speechless. Yes, this motormouth had almost nothing to say. This was jaw-drop time. I leafed through his computer printouts of camo shirts, assymmetrical neckline shirts, babydoll shirts, tank tops, and any t-shirt you can possibly imagine, all with this inane and actually rather offensive message emblazoned in myriad fonts.
Here it was, the day that shook Bali to its very core. The day that a total of 202 partygoers and their drivers, waiters, bartenders, and entertainers were killed by a terrorist's bomb. The day we reflect on the tragedy, on intolerance and hatred, on war, and on the upheaval in the lives of victims' families.
I have always been one to say, "don't let the bad guys win by moping and pulling back inside yourselves. Get out there and flourish and prosper." Right after the bomb went off, or at least two weeks later, we went ahead with our open house, welcoming friends into our new Bali home. My reasoning was that life MUST go on. Living is the greatest revenge. BUT I also had the thought, right away, when Cakra told me about the bomb, that it was the work of Jamaiah Islamiah. (spelling). I thought that if someone wanted to make a statement against decadent infidel living, they'd hit a nightclub. It turned out to be true, sadly enough.
Now, I don't go in for the clubbing scene, but it's perfectly fine with me that we have a nightclub district (or two) for this sort of fun. There is nothing wrong with footballers going to a bar to celebrate sportsmanship, with girls going out dancing wearing skimpy outfits, or with people relaxing with a drink in hand. But some people find this so objectionable, so intolerable, that they feel compelled to kill them for doing this. That's disgusting.
I am not saying that we should listen to terrorists. But I am saying that for the divide to have become this great, for the hatred to have developed this perversely, it may be time to really reflect on what it is to get along with others. The boys growing up in Baashir's school are being taught that getting along with others is not as important as imposing a strict code of behavior on the world. There may, conversely, be something to think about vis-a-vis public drunkenness and carousing. The partyers at the Sari Club were certainly within the confines of an establishment purpose-built for drinking and dancing and maybe even picking up chicks. They did not "deserve" to suffer for this behavior. But it does make us think, "what are westerners capable of doing, or changing, to make this world a more harmonious place?" If we were better friends to other nations, other peoples, perhaps they would not mind so much that we like to drink and wear shorts and have premarital sex.
Anyway, back to the t-shirts. I told the driver, after some thought, after trying to compose a diplomatic response, after mourning dead night clubbers, the following... "There is only one kind of girl who would wear this shirt. Not everyone will want to have this message on their shirt." I think he got it.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Somebody Else Did All the Talking
So here's Buddha. Like me, he spent a little time in India.
Well, I just got back a couple of weeks ago. Buddha didn't have jet travel and a house waiting for him in Bali.
Great teacher, I see this image of you, and it makes me think about the problems of being misunderstood.
I know that you were a person of great accomplishments. You tried a number of ways to get out of the cursed cycle of Samsara. You found a workable method. You taught it to as many people as you could. This art tells me that you were in the Deer Park at Sarnath, and your hand mudra tells me that you were teaching. The muscular depiction of your body tells me of the aesthetics of the cultures that succeeded the era of your physical life. They liked the wrestler's body. Even Jain saints and Hindu gods have that body. A pleasing rendition of the human form.
I see that somewhere along the timeline, a thief came and hacked off the head that was meant to portray your great mind, your calm mood, and your very important image. People love pictures. People are compelled to illustrate. They like to have mementos and images. You left the earth asking that no one idolize or iconographize you, but it was only a matter of a hundred years before your followers couldn't resist making images of you.
Even today, people bow down to your image. I keep a number of artifacts of your image, nothing really valuable, but I like them. They make me think of you and your lessons. The image is instantly recognizable to people of many nations. In many ways, the image is more important to people nowadays, than your lessons.
You had something to say, it got reinterpreted and diluted, and maybe there's a little less of you around because of that.
I know what it's like to have something to say, but to have it sit silently tucked away somewhere. No one asked me, no one wanted to know. There was a lot of talk all around me, but I didn't say anything. My head may as well have been hacked off. I just sat there. I was misinterpreted.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Happy Diwali, 2006
Darjeeling is just as fun on Diwali as Aurangabad, 1997, or Jaipur, 2001.
These festive decorations made a foggy day an absolute delight!
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Remembering the 2002 Bali Bomb
So it was four years ago, the bomb that all but ruined the tourist industry in Bali, the bomb that killed 202 people from 22 countries.
I had to go pick up my man from the airport, so I just left several hours early and went straight to Kuta beach, site of the blast.
I was to learn something about how people choose to memorialize tragedies.
I wandered down to the area near the Hard Rock, where, crowded in a small swath of the wide sand beach, maybe 1,000 people were gathering for one of the memorials in the area. This was the Billabong Paddle for Peace rally. In this day and age, it is no big deal, I guess, for a peace rally or memorial to have a commercial sponsor. Oh well.
I was overdressed, as usual, in linen shirt and trousers, holding my sunblock umbrella against the setting sun. Everyone else was dressed for a beach party... bikinis, shorts, tattoos, etc. There were also about ten or fifteen local ladies in lacy kebayas and batik sarongs (pakaian adat). A number of kids raced around, scooping up flower petals and tossing them. Maybe 100 surfers sat in rank and file with their boards, festooned with flower petals and looking like some kind of warriors or human sacrifices... up higher on the sandy slope they did have a kind of altitude over the rest of us. I waited in the crowd, up near a white cloth "wall", taking in the ceremony. All seemingly very casual, but planned and orchestrated. To my embarassment, they played the Australian national anthem on the PA, followed by a highly sappy version of Waltzing Matilda, all verses, and then the great Aussie ballad True Blue.
Possibly the most obnoxious moment was courtesy of some helicopter company, which sent a copter roaring over to the ceremony area, hovering over the shore break at a frighteningly low altitude and even more frighteningly high decibel level. Drunk and carefree participants waved at the chopper like it was an angel from heaven, or at least a good pal.
Many of those present were drinking from bottles of Bintang Beer. Many gals (even, horrors, my age) were cavorting like pinup girls in revealing bikinis. I had invaded an Australian memorial! Kids let loose turtles in the sea, we were asked to introduce ourselves to the people around us, and there was a moment of silence at sunset, while the surfers who'd paddled out to form a circle just past the breakers, held hands.
I was moved by the beautiful sunset, by the candles we each were given, and by the 22 gongs for the 22 nations who lost people. But I felt like an intruder in a party to which I was not invited, when I had to sit through True Blue and the anthem. A strange mix of sombre sacred and party hearty profane.
Perhaps craving a show of dignity, I grabbed a juice at the Harris Hotel and went to the Legian Protestant Church to take in the ceremony there. Olga of the Bali International Women's Association had sent me an email notice of this memorial. And, all being welcome, I decided to go there and pay some Christian style respects to the innocents killed by the bomb.
The church service was on the order of charismatic Christianity, with lots of songs about love, no hymns, and a Power Point illustrative slide show to help us see the words of songs and prayers, in Indonesian as well as English, with dreamy renditions of nature, the bomb site, and Jesus. Christians from all over the island took part, and there was even an interpretive dance about faith in Jesus.
There was St Francis of Asisi's prayer, about being an instrument of God. Yeah, inspirational, I suppose, but very humble in that turn-the-cheek way. "Nothing we can do about it" was the attitude, and may as well take comfort in the fact that Jesus loves us, and so on. A sucker for dramatic lighting, I was moved by the candle lighting ceremony in the dimmed church (a cute white Balinese style structure without walls), but that darned synthesizer continued to wail music during our 2 minutes of silence.
Funny thing, the noise factor. I'm clinically 40% deaf, and yet I am keenly aware of the lack of true silence. The chopper, the synthesizer, dogs barking, chickens crowing... Bali may never find peace.
So really I got to see how amazingly different people can be in memorializing victims and remembering a tragedy. Both ceremonies taking a fairly light touch, despite the glaring overtones of Jesus and Australia. No acrimony toward the perpetrators, not even a hint of their horrible act of murder. I was not directly affected by the bomb at the Sari Club those 4 years ago, but I have always viewed the event with disgust. Sometimes anger, but I can imagine only a fraction of the anger that victims' families must feel. If I'd been simmering in vengeful and sorrowful thoughts for four years, would I take any comfort in an Aussie beach singalong and an evening of lightweight Jesus songs?
Strange capper to these events was watching a tape on the Discovery channel called Bombali, aired on our satellite network and taped by me so that I could watch it yesterday. Very unabashedly presenting the party and pickup scene at the Sari Club that fateful night.
Dig, the bombers were portrayed as misled robots in a ridiculous but well planned mini jihad against immoral white people, but there was no hesitation to show that the Sari Club was a good place for revelling football players to pick up cute young backpackers. Look, I feel it's anyone's right to go to bars and drink and even get drunk if you feel like it, which are actually big aspects of the Australian social life. If you go to a beach town and see a lively bar, packed with celebrants from a weekend of sporting events, why NOT go in? But to hear several interviews with witnesses and victims' families, many dressed as skimpily as western culture allows, was at moments a little embarassing.
Fact: there are a bunch of Muslims who think I'm immoral for having my wine with dinner last night, for wearing this sleeveless shirt today, and for not believing that there is one true God whose prophet was Mohammed. Fact: there are a bunch of Muslims who would like to see me dead for these things. Now, I weigh this against a personal belief that most Muslims are good people, and many probably think that as long as I don't go into their cities dressed like this or drinking like that, I'm okay.
But to see the Australian production, with no bones about the hard partying at the Sari Club, was to look at both sides of the event. I don't think this was intentional. But it made me think.
I had to go pick up my man from the airport, so I just left several hours early and went straight to Kuta beach, site of the blast.
I was to learn something about how people choose to memorialize tragedies.
I wandered down to the area near the Hard Rock, where, crowded in a small swath of the wide sand beach, maybe 1,000 people were gathering for one of the memorials in the area. This was the Billabong Paddle for Peace rally. In this day and age, it is no big deal, I guess, for a peace rally or memorial to have a commercial sponsor. Oh well.
I was overdressed, as usual, in linen shirt and trousers, holding my sunblock umbrella against the setting sun. Everyone else was dressed for a beach party... bikinis, shorts, tattoos, etc. There were also about ten or fifteen local ladies in lacy kebayas and batik sarongs (pakaian adat). A number of kids raced around, scooping up flower petals and tossing them. Maybe 100 surfers sat in rank and file with their boards, festooned with flower petals and looking like some kind of warriors or human sacrifices... up higher on the sandy slope they did have a kind of altitude over the rest of us. I waited in the crowd, up near a white cloth "wall", taking in the ceremony. All seemingly very casual, but planned and orchestrated. To my embarassment, they played the Australian national anthem on the PA, followed by a highly sappy version of Waltzing Matilda, all verses, and then the great Aussie ballad True Blue.
Possibly the most obnoxious moment was courtesy of some helicopter company, which sent a copter roaring over to the ceremony area, hovering over the shore break at a frighteningly low altitude and even more frighteningly high decibel level. Drunk and carefree participants waved at the chopper like it was an angel from heaven, or at least a good pal.
Many of those present were drinking from bottles of Bintang Beer. Many gals (even, horrors, my age) were cavorting like pinup girls in revealing bikinis. I had invaded an Australian memorial! Kids let loose turtles in the sea, we were asked to introduce ourselves to the people around us, and there was a moment of silence at sunset, while the surfers who'd paddled out to form a circle just past the breakers, held hands.
I was moved by the beautiful sunset, by the candles we each were given, and by the 22 gongs for the 22 nations who lost people. But I felt like an intruder in a party to which I was not invited, when I had to sit through True Blue and the anthem. A strange mix of sombre sacred and party hearty profane.
Perhaps craving a show of dignity, I grabbed a juice at the Harris Hotel and went to the Legian Protestant Church to take in the ceremony there. Olga of the Bali International Women's Association had sent me an email notice of this memorial. And, all being welcome, I decided to go there and pay some Christian style respects to the innocents killed by the bomb.
The church service was on the order of charismatic Christianity, with lots of songs about love, no hymns, and a Power Point illustrative slide show to help us see the words of songs and prayers, in Indonesian as well as English, with dreamy renditions of nature, the bomb site, and Jesus. Christians from all over the island took part, and there was even an interpretive dance about faith in Jesus.
There was St Francis of Asisi's prayer, about being an instrument of God. Yeah, inspirational, I suppose, but very humble in that turn-the-cheek way. "Nothing we can do about it" was the attitude, and may as well take comfort in the fact that Jesus loves us, and so on. A sucker for dramatic lighting, I was moved by the candle lighting ceremony in the dimmed church (a cute white Balinese style structure without walls), but that darned synthesizer continued to wail music during our 2 minutes of silence.
Funny thing, the noise factor. I'm clinically 40% deaf, and yet I am keenly aware of the lack of true silence. The chopper, the synthesizer, dogs barking, chickens crowing... Bali may never find peace.
So really I got to see how amazingly different people can be in memorializing victims and remembering a tragedy. Both ceremonies taking a fairly light touch, despite the glaring overtones of Jesus and Australia. No acrimony toward the perpetrators, not even a hint of their horrible act of murder. I was not directly affected by the bomb at the Sari Club those 4 years ago, but I have always viewed the event with disgust. Sometimes anger, but I can imagine only a fraction of the anger that victims' families must feel. If I'd been simmering in vengeful and sorrowful thoughts for four years, would I take any comfort in an Aussie beach singalong and an evening of lightweight Jesus songs?
Strange capper to these events was watching a tape on the Discovery channel called Bombali, aired on our satellite network and taped by me so that I could watch it yesterday. Very unabashedly presenting the party and pickup scene at the Sari Club that fateful night.
Dig, the bombers were portrayed as misled robots in a ridiculous but well planned mini jihad against immoral white people, but there was no hesitation to show that the Sari Club was a good place for revelling football players to pick up cute young backpackers. Look, I feel it's anyone's right to go to bars and drink and even get drunk if you feel like it, which are actually big aspects of the Australian social life. If you go to a beach town and see a lively bar, packed with celebrants from a weekend of sporting events, why NOT go in? But to hear several interviews with witnesses and victims' families, many dressed as skimpily as western culture allows, was at moments a little embarassing.
Fact: there are a bunch of Muslims who think I'm immoral for having my wine with dinner last night, for wearing this sleeveless shirt today, and for not believing that there is one true God whose prophet was Mohammed. Fact: there are a bunch of Muslims who would like to see me dead for these things. Now, I weigh this against a personal belief that most Muslims are good people, and many probably think that as long as I don't go into their cities dressed like this or drinking like that, I'm okay.
But to see the Australian production, with no bones about the hard partying at the Sari Club, was to look at both sides of the event. I don't think this was intentional. But it made me think.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
What I Wrote for the Bali Advertiser about Chris Kremmer and Eric Campbell
Christopher Kremmer and Eric Campbell are enjoying the popularity of their recent books, respectively Inhaling the Mahatma and Absurdistan. When these two world-class travelers sit down together October 2 at the Alila Ubud and compare notes, some rich tales will be traded. Anyone wishing to eavesdrop should be warned that tickets are selling like hot pakoras in Agra.
Kremmer is a former ABC reporter and now regularly writes for the Sydney Morning Herald focusing (sometimes very pointedly) on South Asian issues. Campbell began with the Herald and is now with the ABC as a foreign correspondent. They’ve been to many of the same places, have received notable awards, but the similarities end there.
Campbell’s aptly named Absurdistan fairly screams with the insanity, inhumanity, and horror of being in the world’s recent trouble spots. His memoir rather unceremoniously plops the reader onto a conveyor belt taking on a succession of corrupt Russian cops, Chinese propaganda in Tibetan monastaries, and courtly mass murderers. Campbell’s experiences are paced and described with both a matter-of-fact immediacy and an authentic sting of the kind of humor that keeps reporters from going crazy.
The book touts itself as a bumpy ride through some of the world’s scariest, weirdest places. Except for the adrenaline factor, this is nothing like a thrill ride. Although reporters have access to services (six armed bodyguards on a Balkans junket) and resources (flying on Vladimir Zhirinovsky’s jet), the work can be unpleasant at best. Though paid to travel and living on an expense account, a reporter goes where no one in his right mind would dare. Absurdistan is no just-back-report on a backpacker web forum. It’s the real unsavory deal.
Kremmer’s books are also born of the highly personal experience, but with a touch less frontline and deadline. set of circumstances. Campbell rushes from war zone to earthquake zone, falling in love on the fly and dealing with ridiculous nigglings from the home office. Kremmer’s journey in The Carpet Wars is by contrast a meandering stroll, full of delightful pit stops as agreeable as a cup of mint tea proffered in a fragrant souq. It’s detailed and descriptive, a tribute to the legions of men and women who have left their mark upon the carpets we can appreciate today.
Combining sober research with the warmth of personal contacts, Kremmer has become an expert on Afghan rugs, and his love for their craft and history is contagious. Kremmer exudes an infectious joy for factoids about dye technique and knots, and there’s a lot of poetry in his writing. He sees, in a sudden change in a rug’s color intensity, the story of a mother interrupted by a baby’s cry, leaving her wool overlong in the dye vat.
Kremmer’s sense of humanity brings readers a most reassuring message from his travels through an uneasy world. Armchair travelers who wouldn’t want to set foot in the Hindu Kush are at least able to channel the essence of the region through Kremmer’s wonderful writing. Not too different a task from that of our intrepid correspondent Eric Campbell, who keeps us informed as a witness to events in remote and dangerous places.
It will be interesting to see how Campbell and Kremmer will mesh in Ubud. We are lucky to have Kremmer’s generosity as a carpet trade insider, and Campbell’s tenacity for details surrounding his assignments. Each writer tells us more than just the facts, each man has his own passions and pain. Readers will find, in both men’s books, a sense of the undying spirit of humanity. The writers’ methods certainly differ, and therein lies the fascination.
Also by Christopher Kremmer: Inhaling the Mahatma, The Bamboo Palace.
Kremmer is a former ABC reporter and now regularly writes for the Sydney Morning Herald focusing (sometimes very pointedly) on South Asian issues. Campbell began with the Herald and is now with the ABC as a foreign correspondent. They’ve been to many of the same places, have received notable awards, but the similarities end there.
Campbell’s aptly named Absurdistan fairly screams with the insanity, inhumanity, and horror of being in the world’s recent trouble spots. His memoir rather unceremoniously plops the reader onto a conveyor belt taking on a succession of corrupt Russian cops, Chinese propaganda in Tibetan monastaries, and courtly mass murderers. Campbell’s experiences are paced and described with both a matter-of-fact immediacy and an authentic sting of the kind of humor that keeps reporters from going crazy.
The book touts itself as a bumpy ride through some of the world’s scariest, weirdest places. Except for the adrenaline factor, this is nothing like a thrill ride. Although reporters have access to services (six armed bodyguards on a Balkans junket) and resources (flying on Vladimir Zhirinovsky’s jet), the work can be unpleasant at best. Though paid to travel and living on an expense account, a reporter goes where no one in his right mind would dare. Absurdistan is no just-back-report on a backpacker web forum. It’s the real unsavory deal.
Kremmer’s books are also born of the highly personal experience, but with a touch less frontline and deadline. set of circumstances. Campbell rushes from war zone to earthquake zone, falling in love on the fly and dealing with ridiculous nigglings from the home office. Kremmer’s journey in The Carpet Wars is by contrast a meandering stroll, full of delightful pit stops as agreeable as a cup of mint tea proffered in a fragrant souq. It’s detailed and descriptive, a tribute to the legions of men and women who have left their mark upon the carpets we can appreciate today.
Combining sober research with the warmth of personal contacts, Kremmer has become an expert on Afghan rugs, and his love for their craft and history is contagious. Kremmer exudes an infectious joy for factoids about dye technique and knots, and there’s a lot of poetry in his writing. He sees, in a sudden change in a rug’s color intensity, the story of a mother interrupted by a baby’s cry, leaving her wool overlong in the dye vat.
Kremmer’s sense of humanity brings readers a most reassuring message from his travels through an uneasy world. Armchair travelers who wouldn’t want to set foot in the Hindu Kush are at least able to channel the essence of the region through Kremmer’s wonderful writing. Not too different a task from that of our intrepid correspondent Eric Campbell, who keeps us informed as a witness to events in remote and dangerous places.
It will be interesting to see how Campbell and Kremmer will mesh in Ubud. We are lucky to have Kremmer’s generosity as a carpet trade insider, and Campbell’s tenacity for details surrounding his assignments. Each writer tells us more than just the facts, each man has his own passions and pain. Readers will find, in both men’s books, a sense of the undying spirit of humanity. The writers’ methods certainly differ, and therein lies the fascination.
Also by Christopher Kremmer: Inhaling the Mahatma, The Bamboo Palace.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Puspa Spa Review
This is a complaining review. So if you don't like negative news, tune me out.
Just look at the name. I should have guessed.
Had a one and a half hour spa treatment today because I am up in Ubud scoring a workshop ticket and eating lunch at Nuri's.
I paid the usual sort of mid level spa rate... what, Rp90,000? But maybe I should have turned around and walked out the minute I saw that the massage tables don't have head support units for when the client is face down.
I did not mind the chipping paint on the ceiling, or the ubiquitous low budget tile floors. Climbing the steps to the third floor (yeah, tall palm trees), I actually sort of enjoyed the view of rooftops (and shorter palm trees) and the soccer pitch. The spa tubs looked clean enough. The toilet had been scrubbed. I was okay with all that. But when the masseusse started farting during my massage... well, there was no way the little tip tray was going to see any use.
Hey, I walked out of the joint feeling pretty relaxed. I mean, she was no pro, but it did make my muscles feel better. But, really, at my age, a gal starts to want therapy!
In my opinion, ambience is second to actual skill level in the masseusse. I used to get perfectly good 50,000 Rupiah massages from the girls at the grotty little Sanur Spa near the McDonalds. And that place looked like a low budget beauty salon, with greasy chairs in the waiting room and faded photos of 1980's big-hair do's. So, if Puspa had delivered a good product, I would have heaped the praise. Instead, I could have paid the same amount down the street at the Zen and had a similar massage (maybe even better, who knows) with a garden, flute music, mosaics, and welcome drink.
I think I ought to bring a fussbudget checklist with me, next time I want to scope out a new massage place.
Some suggested survey points:
1. Do the tables have head support?
2. Any sign that someone studied anatomy (muscle groups, etc)?
3. Do I get a private room?
Yes, this borders on one of those self-serving entries that is just a cranky ramble. Borders on it. Really, I just want to post my disappointment and suggest that massage-seekers try instead the Zen Spa or even Bodyworks.
Just look at the name. I should have guessed.
Had a one and a half hour spa treatment today because I am up in Ubud scoring a workshop ticket and eating lunch at Nuri's.
I paid the usual sort of mid level spa rate... what, Rp90,000? But maybe I should have turned around and walked out the minute I saw that the massage tables don't have head support units for when the client is face down.
I did not mind the chipping paint on the ceiling, or the ubiquitous low budget tile floors. Climbing the steps to the third floor (yeah, tall palm trees), I actually sort of enjoyed the view of rooftops (and shorter palm trees) and the soccer pitch. The spa tubs looked clean enough. The toilet had been scrubbed. I was okay with all that. But when the masseusse started farting during my massage... well, there was no way the little tip tray was going to see any use.
Hey, I walked out of the joint feeling pretty relaxed. I mean, she was no pro, but it did make my muscles feel better. But, really, at my age, a gal starts to want therapy!
In my opinion, ambience is second to actual skill level in the masseusse. I used to get perfectly good 50,000 Rupiah massages from the girls at the grotty little Sanur Spa near the McDonalds. And that place looked like a low budget beauty salon, with greasy chairs in the waiting room and faded photos of 1980's big-hair do's. So, if Puspa had delivered a good product, I would have heaped the praise. Instead, I could have paid the same amount down the street at the Zen and had a similar massage (maybe even better, who knows) with a garden, flute music, mosaics, and welcome drink.
I think I ought to bring a fussbudget checklist with me, next time I want to scope out a new massage place.
Some suggested survey points:
1. Do the tables have head support?
2. Any sign that someone studied anatomy (muscle groups, etc)?
3. Do I get a private room?
Yes, this borders on one of those self-serving entries that is just a cranky ramble. Borders on it. Really, I just want to post my disappointment and suggest that massage-seekers try instead the Zen Spa or even Bodyworks.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Cape Byron
I can see why Captain Cook was pretty excited about the Easternmost part of this continent!
I just got back to Sydney after visiting Byron Bay, the Marin County of Australia. Just imagine Malibu or Stinson with a population density closer to New Zealand's south island.
It was heavenly! (photos copyright echo.net.au)
I was there to visit writer Jane Camens, who's got a house set unbelievably between a jungle thicket of rubber trees and bottle brush trees AND the vast powdery stretch of Tallow Beach!
I mean, I love my occasional dawn stroll down Seminyak's hard packed strand, but to walk with Jane and Harry and Sasha the Viszla.. in the company of -what?- twenty other people on a five mile beach... well, it was mind bending!
I will write a little more, later on...
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Still in Love After 27 Years
Well, August 18 was my wedding anniversary.
The doctor who issued my blood test results for my marriage license in 1979 is probably dead, now, but I would like to give him a hearty "told ya so" for grumblingly chiding me for wanting to get married at the age of 20.
The man and I had been hosting our pals John and Lai Chee, up from Oz and down from S'pore, respectively. We were not about to let them leave us without one last snorkel. So off we went to the little cove at "Good Karma Bungalows" in Amed, where we had a greaaaat morning snorkel.
Back at the Shak we undressed like maniacs, showered quickly and took the obligatory photos of our group at the front gate. Then high tailed it to the airport for goodbyes.
It was time for lunch, so me and my husband of 27 years went to the little cafe of the Harris hotel in Tuban. Okay food, cute atmosphere, great restrooms. Then off to Uluwatu. We had not been back there since September of 1979! Some things never change: the topless girl on the beach. Some things do: concrete stairs down to the caves.
Just lovely to stand on the bukit and just watch the waves come in and watch guys catching them. We stood for a long time, just watching.
Uluwatu was a landmark. Lived here for 5 years and we still hadn't gone back there. I think we now have only three other spots in Bali to visit to completely revisit our honeymoon... the hot springs by the side of Lake Batur, Medewi beach, and the Sangeh temple full of monkeys. But Uluwatu gives you the magical feeling of being on the edge of Bali.
We have our own little tanjung at the Shak, but it is a different feeling. You feel like you are at the end of the world in Uluwatu. At our humble digs, the nearby islands and breaking waves across the land spit make you think that you are at a crossroads of forces, of sea routes, and winds. A convergence. Uluwatu is to surrender. TS is to participate. Both places magic, both held dear in our hearts.
Dinner at Hu'u, which would have been perfect if the bartender could fix me an "Angel Falls" at our table, and if the same jazz vocal CD wasn't playing over and over... But it was a good celebratory dinner. Great atmosphere, even with the odd jet airplane zooming overhead. Actually, that was pretty cool. I'd say it was an awesome day.
The doctor who issued my blood test results for my marriage license in 1979 is probably dead, now, but I would like to give him a hearty "told ya so" for grumblingly chiding me for wanting to get married at the age of 20.
The man and I had been hosting our pals John and Lai Chee, up from Oz and down from S'pore, respectively. We were not about to let them leave us without one last snorkel. So off we went to the little cove at "Good Karma Bungalows" in Amed, where we had a greaaaat morning snorkel.
Back at the Shak we undressed like maniacs, showered quickly and took the obligatory photos of our group at the front gate. Then high tailed it to the airport for goodbyes.
It was time for lunch, so me and my husband of 27 years went to the little cafe of the Harris hotel in Tuban. Okay food, cute atmosphere, great restrooms. Then off to Uluwatu. We had not been back there since September of 1979! Some things never change: the topless girl on the beach. Some things do: concrete stairs down to the caves.
Just lovely to stand on the bukit and just watch the waves come in and watch guys catching them. We stood for a long time, just watching.
Uluwatu was a landmark. Lived here for 5 years and we still hadn't gone back there. I think we now have only three other spots in Bali to visit to completely revisit our honeymoon... the hot springs by the side of Lake Batur, Medewi beach, and the Sangeh temple full of monkeys. But Uluwatu gives you the magical feeling of being on the edge of Bali.
We have our own little tanjung at the Shak, but it is a different feeling. You feel like you are at the end of the world in Uluwatu. At our humble digs, the nearby islands and breaking waves across the land spit make you think that you are at a crossroads of forces, of sea routes, and winds. A convergence. Uluwatu is to surrender. TS is to participate. Both places magic, both held dear in our hearts.
Dinner at Hu'u, which would have been perfect if the bartender could fix me an "Angel Falls" at our table, and if the same jazz vocal CD wasn't playing over and over... But it was a good celebratory dinner. Great atmosphere, even with the odd jet airplane zooming overhead. Actually, that was pretty cool. I'd say it was an awesome day.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
North Capitol
Beijing, baby! Smog, massive buildings, ring roads, pepper trees, everything grey dust gloriously interrupted by Yves Klein blue in a worker's uniform.
Just got back from the 798 Artists Space, which has expanded into a small city. Drooled over Hao Guang's stacks of old found pots, enjoyed his 799 Gallery, but best of all got to meet the man at work in his studio on an image of himself with a dog. He spoke to me in French, I spoke back in English.
Coup of the day was picking up a signed copy of Sheng Qi's Madness Appropriation. I mean, unfortunately, the whole area is overrun with cultural revolution imagery. When will this crap stop being chic? Sheng Qi, at least, is dealing with truth and pain. I loved that his gallery had not a closed or open sign, but a censored sign.
Just got back from the 798 Artists Space, which has expanded into a small city. Drooled over Hao Guang's stacks of old found pots, enjoyed his 799 Gallery, but best of all got to meet the man at work in his studio on an image of himself with a dog. He spoke to me in French, I spoke back in English.
Coup of the day was picking up a signed copy of Sheng Qi's Madness Appropriation. I mean, unfortunately, the whole area is overrun with cultural revolution imagery. When will this crap stop being chic? Sheng Qi, at least, is dealing with truth and pain. I loved that his gallery had not a closed or open sign, but a censored sign.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Typhoon Prapiroon Skims Hong Kong
... and don't we just love the clean air!
Wandering out this morning inadvertantly was a nostalgic trip down memory lane. The aftermath of any storm is always interesting, but a typhoon is almost a kind of ecstasy.
Ah, that was why I loved Hong Kong... the gardeners walking around in coolie hats and rubber boots... and a wife beater shirt and striped shorts... straight outta Lily Wong comics.
Thankfully no torrential rain like yesterday, but I suffered from out-of-shape legs... Jeeeez, did I really do that much walking when I lived here? Well, yes, I did. Bali life is so tame compared to all this. You know what they say about Bali Belly? The gastrointestinal ailment, usually a kind of food poisoning? Well, the real Bali Belly is the two or five or ten extra inches that the expat gets when he or she moves to the easy life of Bali. No exertion, no walking, and all the drinking, eating, and smoking that you can handle.
So I went to apply for the India visa (Mrs Gupta told me to get there to apply at 9 am, but those of us queuing at the Visa window were treated to a procession of Consular staff who began trickling in at 9:12 and were still sauntering in, in dribs and drabs, by 9:43, when I was handed my claim slip). Gupta herself didn't get there until 9:20, and I assumed she was needed in the back for pre-work chanting or to hear the "bureaocratic boost of the day." But when she emerged at 9:32, she began paper shuffling operations. Woops, forgot the receipt book. Back in three minutes. Maddening stuff.
Back in the hotel, my man says we can stay another night, that going to Macau is not really necessary, that he can make it a day trip. My dogs (Yankee slang) say, "yes, yes, stay Hong Kong." Here in our aerie above the harbor, all is wonderful.
The shopping list dwindles as I pick up Cuprinol, progest cream, all those amazing things not available in the land of begging to the Gods.
Wandering out this morning inadvertantly was a nostalgic trip down memory lane. The aftermath of any storm is always interesting, but a typhoon is almost a kind of ecstasy.
Ah, that was why I loved Hong Kong... the gardeners walking around in coolie hats and rubber boots... and a wife beater shirt and striped shorts... straight outta Lily Wong comics.
Thankfully no torrential rain like yesterday, but I suffered from out-of-shape legs... Jeeeez, did I really do that much walking when I lived here? Well, yes, I did. Bali life is so tame compared to all this. You know what they say about Bali Belly? The gastrointestinal ailment, usually a kind of food poisoning? Well, the real Bali Belly is the two or five or ten extra inches that the expat gets when he or she moves to the easy life of Bali. No exertion, no walking, and all the drinking, eating, and smoking that you can handle.
So I went to apply for the India visa (Mrs Gupta told me to get there to apply at 9 am, but those of us queuing at the Visa window were treated to a procession of Consular staff who began trickling in at 9:12 and were still sauntering in, in dribs and drabs, by 9:43, when I was handed my claim slip). Gupta herself didn't get there until 9:20, and I assumed she was needed in the back for pre-work chanting or to hear the "bureaocratic boost of the day." But when she emerged at 9:32, she began paper shuffling operations. Woops, forgot the receipt book. Back in three minutes. Maddening stuff.
Back in the hotel, my man says we can stay another night, that going to Macau is not really necessary, that he can make it a day trip. My dogs (Yankee slang) say, "yes, yes, stay Hong Kong." Here in our aerie above the harbor, all is wonderful.
The shopping list dwindles as I pick up Cuprinol, progest cream, all those amazing things not available in the land of begging to the Gods.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Seraya Fast Lane
Sometimes I miss Hong Kong. The buzz, the cool stuff to see and do, the nearly year-round hiking, finding old pots in village rubbish heaps, swimming laps in the big pool, walking, walking, cheongsams, tailors, ferries, friends, exhibitions at John Batten gallery, basso profundo frog talk on rainy nights, Singapore noodles, ten dollar wonton soup, Freddy, big rocks sticking out of hillsides, dancing to a good band at the Wanch, the skyline, grabbing a drink with friends before heading out to a movie or concert.
I just had a lengthy couple of conversations with HKU prof Paul Smethurst. I took two of his courses at HKU, and, although I hate postmodernism, he made me really understand it. In fact, we probably don't even see eye to eye on any number of scholarly topics, but he never gave me a bad grade. A prof who's a teacher, not a politician. And that's pretty cool!
Paul gives me props for telling him, "you're not getting any younger" back in 2000, when I first bought the Bali land. This made some impact on him, for he followed on down to Bali and got himself a nice little villa north of Seminyak. He's got something going up in the mountains, now, too. Wow! Dude loves his real estate!
So it got me thinking, as I'm telling Paul all about how I miss HK. But I have to admit that Bali has its own buzz. It's just a mellower buzz.
I certainly do my share of entertaining, here in the Shack. I had a few good friends down to celebrate the fact that it's a short snort to points west and south, now, thanks to the new bypass. What was going to be my big blowout party ended up being a little dinner. Big party must come later, when my friends are not suffering from Morning Sickness, broken cars, and other regrets.
But, yeah, I give a party here and the band plays or the girls dance, or both. Sure as hell didn't do that in either of our tiny apartments in Hongkers.
While I miss some of the really good rock bands of the bars of HK, I do get to got to the Denpasar arts festival and hear fusion bands (what that means is a synth, guitar, and drum set backing gong kebyar... but it can be very cool). I may not be able to strut around in a form fitted cheongsam here in Bali, but I do get to wear some nice Javanese sarongs. Laps in the pool... hell yeah, and the pool is all to myself now. Okay, the walking and hiking... there's the rub. Near equatorial sun makes hiking difficult. Here in Bali, you pretty much have to choose a mountain area, dawn hours, or (rare) shaded paths. The Bugbug hill is suitable for afternoon hiking because of the shade, but I do neighborhood walks in the dawn.
Okay, now my life has all this new stuff in it: teaching my cook new dishes, recipes, menus; doing Buteyko breathing exercises to minimize my sinus problems, yelling at the TV news (Israeli army & politicians get my loudest insults), working on my novel (which will undoubtedly make me a small fortune in royalties), and cleaning up the clippings and piles of crap. Bonus time is devoted to helping the schools around here (latest project is getting Pusat Pendidikan Lingkunan Hidup out here to teach the kids the basics of environmental health). We gotta get in the basics, like trash management, English, and reading. So libraries are my other favorite project. I am also working on the girls in the village, one at a time, to stay in school and not just get pregnant at age 15. It is all slow going, but Seraya will benefit. I help the Ubud Writers Festival with promotional materials. That is great fun for readers here, when all of our writers come and dazzle us each October, but the not-so-hidden agenda is the Saraswati Foundation, which helps kids learn, and they benefit from the festival.
Basically I've moved on from getting my kids through school to getting other kids through school. The world is a delicate place and it's wonderful to see how working delicately moves mountains. Too many people are overwhelmed by poverty and cruelty, and they won't do even one thing.
More on that in a moment.
So nice to sit here on the computer and listen to my husband mix the tracks of the traditional and not-so-traditional music and chanting of Dewa Balian. It will be a lovely CD when it's done.
I just had a lengthy couple of conversations with HKU prof Paul Smethurst. I took two of his courses at HKU, and, although I hate postmodernism, he made me really understand it. In fact, we probably don't even see eye to eye on any number of scholarly topics, but he never gave me a bad grade. A prof who's a teacher, not a politician. And that's pretty cool!
Paul gives me props for telling him, "you're not getting any younger" back in 2000, when I first bought the Bali land. This made some impact on him, for he followed on down to Bali and got himself a nice little villa north of Seminyak. He's got something going up in the mountains, now, too. Wow! Dude loves his real estate!
So it got me thinking, as I'm telling Paul all about how I miss HK. But I have to admit that Bali has its own buzz. It's just a mellower buzz.
I certainly do my share of entertaining, here in the Shack. I had a few good friends down to celebrate the fact that it's a short snort to points west and south, now, thanks to the new bypass. What was going to be my big blowout party ended up being a little dinner. Big party must come later, when my friends are not suffering from Morning Sickness, broken cars, and other regrets.
But, yeah, I give a party here and the band plays or the girls dance, or both. Sure as hell didn't do that in either of our tiny apartments in Hongkers.
While I miss some of the really good rock bands of the bars of HK, I do get to got to the Denpasar arts festival and hear fusion bands (what that means is a synth, guitar, and drum set backing gong kebyar... but it can be very cool). I may not be able to strut around in a form fitted cheongsam here in Bali, but I do get to wear some nice Javanese sarongs. Laps in the pool... hell yeah, and the pool is all to myself now. Okay, the walking and hiking... there's the rub. Near equatorial sun makes hiking difficult. Here in Bali, you pretty much have to choose a mountain area, dawn hours, or (rare) shaded paths. The Bugbug hill is suitable for afternoon hiking because of the shade, but I do neighborhood walks in the dawn.
Okay, now my life has all this new stuff in it: teaching my cook new dishes, recipes, menus; doing Buteyko breathing exercises to minimize my sinus problems, yelling at the TV news (Israeli army & politicians get my loudest insults), working on my novel (which will undoubtedly make me a small fortune in royalties), and cleaning up the clippings and piles of crap. Bonus time is devoted to helping the schools around here (latest project is getting Pusat Pendidikan Lingkunan Hidup out here to teach the kids the basics of environmental health). We gotta get in the basics, like trash management, English, and reading. So libraries are my other favorite project. I am also working on the girls in the village, one at a time, to stay in school and not just get pregnant at age 15. It is all slow going, but Seraya will benefit. I help the Ubud Writers Festival with promotional materials. That is great fun for readers here, when all of our writers come and dazzle us each October, but the not-so-hidden agenda is the Saraswati Foundation, which helps kids learn, and they benefit from the festival.
Basically I've moved on from getting my kids through school to getting other kids through school. The world is a delicate place and it's wonderful to see how working delicately moves mountains. Too many people are overwhelmed by poverty and cruelty, and they won't do even one thing.
More on that in a moment.
So nice to sit here on the computer and listen to my husband mix the tracks of the traditional and not-so-traditional music and chanting of Dewa Balian. It will be a lovely CD when it's done.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Happy Birthday, David M!
Okay, so this is my bro's 50th birthday. Leo Monkey... hmmm.
Davy is 50 and will be having a big party. Sorry to be missing it. We are on an austerity program and I won't be taking any extraneous trips for a while.
Davy has a BS from UC Santa Cruz in Natural History, one of the most time-consuming undergrad degrees around! He is a contractor in Oakland, CA, Master Builders. Save your jokes. We've already heard it.
I will next see my bro in New Delhi in October. Actually, I will see him on the flight from Singapore to Delhi. We will be met by The Original Binski, who is there learning Hindi and salting leeches from off of friends' legs. Check out her blog for more on that.
Then we catch up with Jim and Jay and all head for West Bengal and Darjeeling. I plan to toss the last little bits of my mom's ashes over along Observatory Hill, looking at Kanchenjunga. I am going to be glad to be rid of her ashes, because as long as they are in my possession, I am not letting her be her own being, on her own, a spirit and not a body. So there is a closure in going to Darj, a release of my mom's carnate self.
Davy is 50 and will be having a big party. Sorry to be missing it. We are on an austerity program and I won't be taking any extraneous trips for a while.
Davy has a BS from UC Santa Cruz in Natural History, one of the most time-consuming undergrad degrees around! He is a contractor in Oakland, CA, Master Builders. Save your jokes. We've already heard it.
I will next see my bro in New Delhi in October. Actually, I will see him on the flight from Singapore to Delhi. We will be met by The Original Binski, who is there learning Hindi and salting leeches from off of friends' legs. Check out her blog for more on that.
Then we catch up with Jim and Jay and all head for West Bengal and Darjeeling. I plan to toss the last little bits of my mom's ashes over along Observatory Hill, looking at Kanchenjunga. I am going to be glad to be rid of her ashes, because as long as they are in my possession, I am not letting her be her own being, on her own, a spirit and not a body. So there is a closure in going to Darj, a release of my mom's carnate self.
Friday, July 28, 2006
What I wrote about William Dalrymple for the Bali Advertiser:
Imagine this. Pursuing a career abroad, an Englishman comes to an Asian kingdom and is changed forever. The lifestyle, the warm weather, the color, the food, the unexpected delights win him over. He falls in love with a dark-tressed woman of graceful beauty. He changes his religion. He dresses like a native and adopts their manners and customs. He swears he’ll never go back.
Sounds like someone you know?
Not just another expat saga, it’s also the framework of a fascinating, true story of love, betrayal, and intrigue in colonial India: White Mughals by William Dalrymple, one of the writers par excellence who will grace Ubud at festival time.
Dalrymple first earned international accolades at the age of 22 with his richly evocative In Xanadu. His City of Jinns won him the 1994 Thomas Cook Travel Book Award, and he wrote and presented two documentary series for the BBC, Stones of the Raj and Indian Journeys.
The writer’s meticulous research and passionate feelings for India meld perfectly to bring readers into realms hitherto buried and forgotten. For White Mughals, Dalrymple drew from collections of correspondence (some in cypher) and massive piles of colonial records to synthesize history into a well-paced and nicely illustrated narrative novel. Set in a seductive world of mango orchards, carrot halwa, medicinal opium, remote forts, and boy servants, the intrigue and adversities of 18th century colonial India come alive in the hands of the reader.
White Mughals satisfies the interest of anyone who seeks to learn something of the era of Colonial Residents, cantonments, and Anglo-Indian gentleman poets. The level of detail in Dalrymple’s writing never mires the pace and flow of the book. Even his footnotes are fascinating and quite colorful, whether it is a two hundred year old description of mosquitos torturing the legs of guests under a dinner table, or accurate definitions of erotic yakshis and apsaras.
William Dalrymple will bring to the festival his rich knowledge of India’s past and present. His concentration on the country’s history and culture will nicely augment the words and views of our many invited writers from the subcontinent. Look for lively discussions, colorful readings, and the kind of magical serendipity for which the Ubud Writers Festival is becoming known.
Dalrymple enjoys his travels in India with a passion, lauding a street cook (whose simmering biryani is purportedly the best in Hydrabad) alongside his publishers’ names in the book’s acknowledgements. (Note to Festival Founder, gourmet restaurateur Janet deNeefe: so that’s why you love this chap)!
Also by William Dalrymple: From the Holy Mountain: A Journey in the Shadow of Byzantium and The Age of Kali: Indian Travels and Encounters.
Sounds like someone you know?
Not just another expat saga, it’s also the framework of a fascinating, true story of love, betrayal, and intrigue in colonial India: White Mughals by William Dalrymple, one of the writers par excellence who will grace Ubud at festival time.
Dalrymple first earned international accolades at the age of 22 with his richly evocative In Xanadu. His City of Jinns won him the 1994 Thomas Cook Travel Book Award, and he wrote and presented two documentary series for the BBC, Stones of the Raj and Indian Journeys.
The writer’s meticulous research and passionate feelings for India meld perfectly to bring readers into realms hitherto buried and forgotten. For White Mughals, Dalrymple drew from collections of correspondence (some in cypher) and massive piles of colonial records to synthesize history into a well-paced and nicely illustrated narrative novel. Set in a seductive world of mango orchards, carrot halwa, medicinal opium, remote forts, and boy servants, the intrigue and adversities of 18th century colonial India come alive in the hands of the reader.
White Mughals satisfies the interest of anyone who seeks to learn something of the era of Colonial Residents, cantonments, and Anglo-Indian gentleman poets. The level of detail in Dalrymple’s writing never mires the pace and flow of the book. Even his footnotes are fascinating and quite colorful, whether it is a two hundred year old description of mosquitos torturing the legs of guests under a dinner table, or accurate definitions of erotic yakshis and apsaras.
William Dalrymple will bring to the festival his rich knowledge of India’s past and present. His concentration on the country’s history and culture will nicely augment the words and views of our many invited writers from the subcontinent. Look for lively discussions, colorful readings, and the kind of magical serendipity for which the Ubud Writers Festival is becoming known.
Dalrymple enjoys his travels in India with a passion, lauding a street cook (whose simmering biryani is purportedly the best in Hydrabad) alongside his publishers’ names in the book’s acknowledgements. (Note to Festival Founder, gourmet restaurateur Janet deNeefe: so that’s why you love this chap)!
Also by William Dalrymple: From the Holy Mountain: A Journey in the Shadow of Byzantium and The Age of Kali: Indian Travels and Encounters.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Anita Desai
Here's what I've written and submitted to the Bali Adverstiser, in the regular column on the Ubud Writers Festival 2006:
Acclaimed author Anita Desai is guaranteed to add fuel to our theme Desa-Kala-Patra. Throughout her novels, short stories and children’s literature, Desai often focuses on the dilemma of identity and family relationships often in context with India’s recent social changes. Desai has received numerous literary awards and her work is touted by English professors from Princeton to the University of Hong Kong.
A sensitive heart and a bold hand synchronize in Desai’s work, giving the reader immensely rich reading experiences. Her created characters linger on in the mind, sculpted with substance, even in her shortest short stories. To read Desai is not to be overwhelmed in flowery descriptions, but to be allowed to observe salient moments of revelation and transformation. Preferring to reveal truth over sentimentality, Desai isolates the details that matter, with critics and admirers comparing her to some of the best modernist writers, including Virginia Woolf and T. S. Eliot.
Desai’s subjects are often seen captive in the walls of the home, or in a confining social convention, but she lets the reader see their hopes, pleasures, and compassions. Never claustrophobic, Desai’s characters’ domains and inner selves are given distinction and quiet dignity amidst an unyielding world. A tale about a going-away party, in her delightful Games at Twilight and Other Stories, to which many an expat can relate, is full of water metaphors to show a queasy sense of instability.
Having an affinity for both India and the west, Desai has a true familiarity with marginalization and dual ethnicity. Her mother was German, but adapted easily to life in India. The biggest difference between Desai’s parents and those in her neighborhood is that she and her sisters were encouraged to read the best English literature. Even as a 6 year old, she knew she would become a writer. Today, when she teaches creative writing, whether it be in New York or Cambridge, Desai emphasizes practice, in the same way that a musician must practice. But she also encourages reading itself.
Indian society is a popular subject matter today, and there are seemingly countless hot subcontinental writers. What really sets Desai apart is her deft use of language and ease with creating characters which ring true. Her writing is a popular scholarly subject, with just as many books about her work as books authored by her.
We’ll never see her work distinguished in the UK’s annual “bad sex in fiction” literary stakes (Salman Rushdie and Arundhati Roy have had that dubious honor). Desai has been shortlisted for the Booker Prize three times and can count Rushdie himself amongst her many fans.
Suggested pre-Festival reading from Desai: Games at Twilight and Other Stories, Clear Light of Day, Baumgartner’s Bombay, and Fasting, Feasting. Desai adapted her novel In Custody for the screen in the Merchant-Ivory production of Hifazaat; possibly can be found on DVD, but don’t bring a pirate copy to the book signing! A Festival lunch with Desai will be a sure sellout this October.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
What Joe Lavin Wrote, December 30, 2003
I just love to read bad sex scenes. The Brits have a great award for it, not that there's a prize or anything. Salman Rushdie and Arundhati Roy have been chosen in past years... what's the deal with Indian writers and bad love scenes???
I quote from Lavin's website:
At any rate, 'tis the season for wacky end-of-the-year awards. One of the most famous, the Bad Sex in Literature Award, was recently presented in London. Each year, Literary Review gives this award for the worst description of sex in a novel. Aniruddha Bahal won this year's prize for his novel "Bunker 13," which featured this stunning passage:
"Your RPM is hitting a new high. To wait any longer would be to lose prime time... She picks up a Bugatti's momentum. You want her more at a Volkswagen's steady trot. Squeeze the maximum mileage out of your gallon of gas. But she's eating up the road with all cylinders blazing. You lift her out. You want to try different kinds of fusion."
Interestingly enough, Bahal was also a finalist for the Bad Automotive Reviews in Literature Award, an equally prestigious though oft-ignored prize. Another passage contains this bewildering line: "Her breasts are placards for the endomorphically endowed." I don't even know what that means, but I bet it's got all those people over at yourdictionary.com really turned on.
http://joelavin.com/awards.html
I quote from Lavin's website:
At any rate, 'tis the season for wacky end-of-the-year awards. One of the most famous, the Bad Sex in Literature Award, was recently presented in London. Each year, Literary Review gives this award for the worst description of sex in a novel. Aniruddha Bahal won this year's prize for his novel "Bunker 13," which featured this stunning passage:
"Your RPM is hitting a new high. To wait any longer would be to lose prime time... She picks up a Bugatti's momentum. You want her more at a Volkswagen's steady trot. Squeeze the maximum mileage out of your gallon of gas. But she's eating up the road with all cylinders blazing. You lift her out. You want to try different kinds of fusion."
Interestingly enough, Bahal was also a finalist for the Bad Automotive Reviews in Literature Award, an equally prestigious though oft-ignored prize. Another passage contains this bewildering line: "Her breasts are placards for the endomorphically endowed." I don't even know what that means, but I bet it's got all those people over at yourdictionary.com really turned on.
http://joelavin.com/awards.html
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