One day from Jubail to Al Khobar……………thoughts drifting
Riding down the highway
Heavy Metal Thunder
Looking for adventure
And whatever comes my way
Yeah yeah, enough of that shite. My little Honda Accord is out of gas, so I slide into a gas station and off the engine (mentally switching off the Harley as well).
Fill please, and 50 litres later, 20 Riyals. Whew, a bank breaker. The Saudi Riyal is linked to the US Dollar at a rate of $1 equal to 3.75 SR. That’s a whopping $5.33 to FILL the tank. Yep full as in brimming, from empty as in “damn I need gas quick”.
When oil reached $140 a barrel, I was amazed. Working in the oil industry and knowing the true cost of a barrel of oil, I wondered where the rest of the cost came from for the extra $135 each barrel was fetching.
Figure that all “goods”, which oil is, are comprised of a labour and materials cost on which the “honest” trader affixes his/her margin (read profit) to arrive at a price that the market should think is good value.
The costs never rose with any significance. Labour fluctuated about 10% over the period and machinery of extraction and refining has stayed pretty much stable.
Someone told me supply and demand was to blame. Demand far outstripped supply. And that’s what made it so expensive. Boo hoo. Put your hand up if you didn’t get your oil? Deafening silence there eh? EVERYONE got oil.
So a funny thing happened when financial markets crashed. Oil prices dropped to $45 a barrel. Excuse me? So supply now overwhelms demand? That’s a staggering 65% of prior heavy metal users who said “er, no thanks, don’t need ANY oil at the moment, but thanks for asking”. I wonder where these people live?
Keynesian economics and its fundamental use of supply/demand theory is of little use in manipulated markets.
The real question we should be asking is not what caused the price to fluctuate, but what have the oil companies done with all the money? Yes the Money honey.
This should be followed swiftly, before those who really have the money start flying out on corporate jets to “meetings”, with a “who the fuck, as in governments, allowed this manipulation to happen?”
When you start to add up all the bloated (no other word for it really) profits pirated from oil over the last 2 years, is it any surprise that some poor unfortunate who struggles to pay an over extended mortgage is blamed for a financial world crisis? Mortgage meltdowns?
Sure I believe it, just like Iraq had WMD and Iran is full of bogeymen.
Several things we should consider in order to remain civilisations:
We are societies not economies.
Corporations should be banned outright, they have no purpose to be, other than to add cost to your labour and consolidate this “extra value” into the hands of a very small number of people. Just because you “own” stock doesn’t mean it has value or that you get to say how the corporation conducts itself.
Energy in all its forms needs to be taken away from corporations and put back into the hands of democratically elected governments. Get off your ass, take an ACTIVE political stance.
The same amount of money that was in circulation is still in circulation. Credit Crunch? What a giggle.
If you think a CEO is a hero and worth more money than the janitor, ask yourself the same question when the toilets need cleaning.
The only thing in this world that has true value is YOU. Everything between YOU and a buyer adds zero real value.
Piracy is still punishable by death in most places.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
An Encounter
Picture this.
A gleaming white limo pulls up onto the busy sidewalk scattering shoppers in all directions.
Out jump 3 guys in dark suits and sun glasses one hand in suit pockets. An all white suited guy emerges, dappa, unaware of the commotion. I suppress a giggle, surely this is a film scene being enacted before me. No cameras and here come the Police. Tokyo’s finest shuffle down the street, take one look at the white suited figure and run, yes run, in the other direction.
Royalty?
The car stays parked on the sidewalk, its in front of Tokyo’s most up market café in the Omotosando district near Harajuku, at which I am sitting with an American Photographer friend of mine (drinking espresso of course, did you need to ask?).
“Oh oh, it’s Mori san standby” says my American friend, I suppress a giggle at the entourage looking like all time bad actors in a D grade gangster movie, Mori san in white at the center. They sit at the table next to us and nod in our direction. I focus the camera and then think better of it as I ask my friend “who are these guys and who is the clown dressed in the all white suit?”
Yakuza.
My friend turns round and smilingly says “Hey Mori san, come say hi to my Australian photographer friend”
Oh no, now we are in for it. Mori stands, the black suits look uneasy, he casually strolls over and in good enough English says “You are friend of Randy? Welcome to my city”. He sits down. Waitresses appear, falling over themselves to get whatever he wants, the café owner appears, sweating, nervous, fluttering.
He asks me a few banal questions then asks to see my photos at which I pull out the trusty Mac, fire up and our real conversation begins.
He’s a talkative yet authoritative character. We drink espresso and smoke cigars (Cohiba Siglo’s my favourite). When he needs a light he flicks his fingers and one of the black suits snaps to attention with a lighter, bowing formally as he lights the Bosses cigar ever so ritually. We talk about photos, photography, the world, coffee, cigars and after an hour or so, we are “mates”, regular buddies just doing coffee on a Sunday afternoon, except for the getups and the ever present mobsters hovering, plus the obsequious fans who keep coming over to formally bow, not to mention the big limo parked across the sidewalk.
Eventually, he rises to leave. There is no bill for the afternoon. He reaches into his jacket and hands me a business card. Not just any card but hand made paper with his name and clan written in calligraphy and chopped with his personal seal. The phone number is on the back. “Miko san, you may go anywhere in my city, show this card and you will be made welcome”.
“Thanks Mori my friend, here’s mine, and you are welcome in my city whenever the mood strikes you to visit me in Bangkok.”
The entourage departs, frankly I don’t quite understand what I have just witnessed and still find it a little comical.
It’s not till later that I understand when I get a very strange reaction as I show a waiter the card and ask for a translation. The waiter goes white, disappears very quickly and is extremely reverent for the rest of the night.
Weeks later I discuss the incident (for wont of a better word) with a media friend of mine who has lived in Tokyo for over 20 years.
“Ahh the Yakuza” he says, the real Japan. Mobsters who not only do crime, prostitution and drugs as the least, but they “know” people and are the oil between the gears, the advisors and fixers for big industry. Need some dirt on a rival, Yakuza are the boys to help out. Need some girls for a little soiree? Something else not quite legal? Yep Yakuza to the rescue.
Employ their labor? Yakuza control most of the labor unions and this is why Japan has so few labor strikes.
These are the guys who do all the dirty work for industry. They are the modern day Ninja, an indispensible part of Japan. Their clans and code of honour are legendary and on subsequent meetings with Mori san I learn of an older more formal strata of society, bound by deep rituals and respect for hierarchy to the point of self destruction if that’s what it takes.
Mori is a killer, I can see it in his eyes, i have no doubt he wouldn't hesitate. He is also the number 3 man for Tokyo, and I never treat him lightly nowadays no matter how he dresses.
He is good conversation over coffee though.
I carry his card with me everywhere to this day. Well, you just never know eh?
A gleaming white limo pulls up onto the busy sidewalk scattering shoppers in all directions.
Out jump 3 guys in dark suits and sun glasses one hand in suit pockets. An all white suited guy emerges, dappa, unaware of the commotion. I suppress a giggle, surely this is a film scene being enacted before me. No cameras and here come the Police. Tokyo’s finest shuffle down the street, take one look at the white suited figure and run, yes run, in the other direction.
Royalty?
The car stays parked on the sidewalk, its in front of Tokyo’s most up market café in the Omotosando district near Harajuku, at which I am sitting with an American Photographer friend of mine (drinking espresso of course, did you need to ask?).
“Oh oh, it’s Mori san standby” says my American friend, I suppress a giggle at the entourage looking like all time bad actors in a D grade gangster movie, Mori san in white at the center. They sit at the table next to us and nod in our direction. I focus the camera and then think better of it as I ask my friend “who are these guys and who is the clown dressed in the all white suit?”
Yakuza.
My friend turns round and smilingly says “Hey Mori san, come say hi to my Australian photographer friend”
Oh no, now we are in for it. Mori stands, the black suits look uneasy, he casually strolls over and in good enough English says “You are friend of Randy? Welcome to my city”. He sits down. Waitresses appear, falling over themselves to get whatever he wants, the café owner appears, sweating, nervous, fluttering.
He asks me a few banal questions then asks to see my photos at which I pull out the trusty Mac, fire up and our real conversation begins.
He’s a talkative yet authoritative character. We drink espresso and smoke cigars (Cohiba Siglo’s my favourite). When he needs a light he flicks his fingers and one of the black suits snaps to attention with a lighter, bowing formally as he lights the Bosses cigar ever so ritually. We talk about photos, photography, the world, coffee, cigars and after an hour or so, we are “mates”, regular buddies just doing coffee on a Sunday afternoon, except for the getups and the ever present mobsters hovering, plus the obsequious fans who keep coming over to formally bow, not to mention the big limo parked across the sidewalk.
Eventually, he rises to leave. There is no bill for the afternoon. He reaches into his jacket and hands me a business card. Not just any card but hand made paper with his name and clan written in calligraphy and chopped with his personal seal. The phone number is on the back. “Miko san, you may go anywhere in my city, show this card and you will be made welcome”.
“Thanks Mori my friend, here’s mine, and you are welcome in my city whenever the mood strikes you to visit me in Bangkok.”
The entourage departs, frankly I don’t quite understand what I have just witnessed and still find it a little comical.
It’s not till later that I understand when I get a very strange reaction as I show a waiter the card and ask for a translation. The waiter goes white, disappears very quickly and is extremely reverent for the rest of the night.
Weeks later I discuss the incident (for wont of a better word) with a media friend of mine who has lived in Tokyo for over 20 years.
“Ahh the Yakuza” he says, the real Japan. Mobsters who not only do crime, prostitution and drugs as the least, but they “know” people and are the oil between the gears, the advisors and fixers for big industry. Need some dirt on a rival, Yakuza are the boys to help out. Need some girls for a little soiree? Something else not quite legal? Yep Yakuza to the rescue.
Employ their labor? Yakuza control most of the labor unions and this is why Japan has so few labor strikes.
These are the guys who do all the dirty work for industry. They are the modern day Ninja, an indispensible part of Japan. Their clans and code of honour are legendary and on subsequent meetings with Mori san I learn of an older more formal strata of society, bound by deep rituals and respect for hierarchy to the point of self destruction if that’s what it takes.
Mori is a killer, I can see it in his eyes, i have no doubt he wouldn't hesitate. He is also the number 3 man for Tokyo, and I never treat him lightly nowadays no matter how he dresses.
He is good conversation over coffee though.
I carry his card with me everywhere to this day. Well, you just never know eh?
Friday, November 21, 2008
Toki-o!!!
Ah.................... So.
Japan
I blame TV really. Hours upon hours of it. Nowadays a cult series. The Samurai starring Shintaro.
The Samurai was produced by the Senkoska Film Company. It was a black and white show about Shintaro, an heroic Samurai warrior and his never-ending battles with black pyjama-wearing Ninja assassins, who would throw stars at him and yell out ‘Shintaro - you die", but Shintaro always defeated his enemies with his sword. The Ninjas' were martial arts experts; could move in the blink of an eye, leap 10 metres into the air into trees backwards to escape attack and could stick to ceilings like flies, where they would hide when Shintaro entered his house.
Shintaro was assisted by ‘Tombei The Mist’ and together they fought against the bad Black Ninjas and their arch enemies including ‘Kongo of Koga’ and ‘Garidoshi’ with his assistant ‘Onime the Bat’. Shintaro also had a boy companion named ‘Shusaku’.
The series was set in 17th century Japan and was a combination of pantomime, violent action, brilliant sword play and magicianship. Part of its popularity was due to the poor dubbing of English voices over the Japanese soundtrack. Shintaro often moved his mouth for long speeches and the English audio would deliver one or two words. Similarly, fearsome Ninja would often move their lips for short words and the English audio would gush out complete sentences.
What more could a young boy want? Gone were the military toys bought by Dad and Uncles and Grandma and Santa (that fat bastard who dresses as a Coca Cola can) was soon delivering black ninja outfits replete with plastic samurai swords and throwing stars. What a hit. Gangs of violent youth dressed in black battling with the goofy kids swathed in the goodies white across acres of neighbourhood lawns, yelling battle cries in some form of TV language, Shintaro you die.
No wonder its a fucked up world eh? We all grew up with an expectation that Shintaro (or Batman or Superman or Santa) would always win no matter the odds. And the guys in black were always the bad dudes. We learnt to respect violence as a righteous tool. Such a naive attitude we walked forward with.
My youth carried on with the study of Judo, all driven by my early conditioning, all driven by a boys want of adventure. All sanctioned by righteous societal violence.
Ah..................So
Japan.
By the time I got there, I couldnt save it. Where was Shintaro's castle and the forests and streams? How could such an ugly formless drab olive grey city have taken its place? Where were the Samurai and their creed of Budo that drove the feudal Japan I had prepared for. Only over time would I come to understand. Meanwhile, in my usual fashion I stumbled forward.
The first thing that perplexes you is the automation. It sneaks up on you, soon becoming a major part of your day. You walk to a shop. A solar powered electric door opens and a robot will greet you with a bow and an "ohaiyo gozaimast" or good morning. No wait, its not a robot but a kid dressed in some bizarre coloured uniform ritually greeting you. You nod back, they bow twice more, you nod again, they bow again and wait a minute, wait a minute......... stop nodding, the mission is to buy cigarettes, at this rate its gonna take some time. Fix the kid with a steely glint and curtly say "Marl borr oh", the kid spins off shouting "Marl Borr Ohhhhhh" and deftly flicks the cigarettes into a plastic bag, neatly ties it closed and then bowing, presents it to you. Be careful here. Never nod in acknowledgement, one bow or nod from you, means two back, it can take hours to break the cycle. Leave the shop, marvel at the electric door and the solar power unit crammed in above it. Note that you have more coins in your pocket than you did when you walked in. Appreciate that you dont know how, accept that Japan needs coins for anything below a 1000 Y denomination. Then introduce yourself to the automated coffee vending machine. Damn, never seem to have enough coins. Machines have no sense of humour.
The second thing you notice is that everything is soooooo compact. As in sardine can packed, as in live on top of each other in tiny tiny rooms packed. As in I have never seen so many people crammed on a train packed, packed, trust me, packed. Whoa its packed. Tokyo has an official population circa 12,000,000. However, most stats forget to mention that Yokohama also has roughly the same amount of people as do other old city gates of Tokyo nee Edo and combined the real population is around 35,000,000. Thats a lots of train rides each day. Thats a lot of solar powered electric doors opening and closing, and thats one hell of a lot of neighbours. Its kinda hard to be different when you are competing against 34,999,999 others. You really have to have a good act.
I observe a lot of people same dressed, same facing, same housing, same same. Bleak rows of apartment blocks all the same olive grey. Shop fronts which are mirror images of the previous suburb. Everything is automated, faceless, there to serve. The society itself is punctual, ritualised and forever trying to be more gracious. Always queued at a vending machine.
There is comfort in conformity. It doesnt challenge. Its my opinion that its a form of servitude. Some may say humble, others lazy even more might say its a hopelessness. In Tokyo, it belongs.
I observe pockets of resistance in the form of colour and music. Bizarre colour. Bizarre music. Localised outbursts of individualism. Extreme to the point of shock. Gothic clockwork like replica women competing for attention with bizarre theatre performances, struggling rock quartets and wannabee rockabilly's. Such is the circus of Tokyo. Where a thousand villages join to make one of the worlds oddest cities.
Remarkably, at the end of this protest, everyone catches the train home. Back to the clockworx.
Its not until I find a dusty copy of Hagakure - The Book of the Samurai (well an old internet copy anyway), that I begin to make sense of this place and rediscover the path of Shintaro and Tombei. You see, they never left. Just a curving of the path. Its from Hagakure that i steal the following excerpt from chapter 1.
We all want to live. And in large part we make our logic according to what we like. But not having attained our aim
and continuing to live is cowardice. This is a thin dangerous line. To die without gaining one's aim is a dog's death
and fanaticism. But there is no shame in this. This is the substance of the Way of the Samurai. If by setting one's heart
right every morning and evening, one is able to live as though his body were already dead, he gains freedom in the
Way. His whole life will be without blame, and he will succeed in his calling.
A man is a good retainer to the extent that he earnestly places importance in his master. This is the highest sort of
retainer. If one is born into a prominent family that goes back for generations, it is sufficient to deeply consider the
matter of obligation to one's ancestors, to lay down one's body and mind, and to earnestly esteem one's master. It is
further good fortune if, more than this, one has wisdom and talent and can use them appropriately. But even a person
who is good for nothing and exceedingly clumsy will be a reliable retainer if only he has the determination to think
earnestly of his master. Having only wisdom and talent is the lowest tier of usefulness.
Woo. Heavy. Time to relook at Shintaro the selfless who with righteousness lived as though his body was already dead fearlessly facing down his masters foes (oddly his master was never revealed on the program although he definitely did serve a force of good, I was a kid but i remember this, and by the way, who is your master?). He was nimbly aided by the lesser righteous and athletically clever Tombei. The theme was, on reflection, servitude. Packaged nicely with the spirit of adventure to get the attention of any young boy. If one did service, one was meritorius, pure, white. The guys in the nasty black suits were the misfits, the outcasts the individuals who simply couldnt shut up.
I look around again at the crowded street. Everywhere I look I see Shintaros and Tombeis (and whatever their sisters names were) wandering the streets to work dressed in the same selfless gracious uniforms, themselves selfless and gracious. The art of the sword is a ritual thing. There is also an art of the bus driver, an art of the convenience shop attendent all of which are based on selflessness.
The nasty black Koga Ninja types hang in corraled areas such as Shibuya, Ebisu and Harajuku. Gothic in their clockwork.
Me personally? I always wore black.
For an extensive photo collection on Tokyo, go here http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikonokuro/sets/72157607405259245/ and also here http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikonokuro/sets/72157605580785757/
Japan
I blame TV really. Hours upon hours of it. Nowadays a cult series. The Samurai starring Shintaro.
The Samurai was produced by the Senkoska Film Company. It was a black and white show about Shintaro, an heroic Samurai warrior and his never-ending battles with black pyjama-wearing Ninja assassins, who would throw stars at him and yell out ‘Shintaro - you die", but Shintaro always defeated his enemies with his sword. The Ninjas' were martial arts experts; could move in the blink of an eye, leap 10 metres into the air into trees backwards to escape attack and could stick to ceilings like flies, where they would hide when Shintaro entered his house.
Shintaro was assisted by ‘Tombei The Mist’ and together they fought against the bad Black Ninjas and their arch enemies including ‘Kongo of Koga’ and ‘Garidoshi’ with his assistant ‘Onime the Bat’. Shintaro also had a boy companion named ‘Shusaku’.
The series was set in 17th century Japan and was a combination of pantomime, violent action, brilliant sword play and magicianship. Part of its popularity was due to the poor dubbing of English voices over the Japanese soundtrack. Shintaro often moved his mouth for long speeches and the English audio would deliver one or two words. Similarly, fearsome Ninja would often move their lips for short words and the English audio would gush out complete sentences.
What more could a young boy want? Gone were the military toys bought by Dad and Uncles and Grandma and Santa (that fat bastard who dresses as a Coca Cola can) was soon delivering black ninja outfits replete with plastic samurai swords and throwing stars. What a hit. Gangs of violent youth dressed in black battling with the goofy kids swathed in the goodies white across acres of neighbourhood lawns, yelling battle cries in some form of TV language, Shintaro you die.
No wonder its a fucked up world eh? We all grew up with an expectation that Shintaro (or Batman or Superman or Santa) would always win no matter the odds. And the guys in black were always the bad dudes. We learnt to respect violence as a righteous tool. Such a naive attitude we walked forward with.
My youth carried on with the study of Judo, all driven by my early conditioning, all driven by a boys want of adventure. All sanctioned by righteous societal violence.
Ah..................So
Japan.
By the time I got there, I couldnt save it. Where was Shintaro's castle and the forests and streams? How could such an ugly formless drab olive grey city have taken its place? Where were the Samurai and their creed of Budo that drove the feudal Japan I had prepared for. Only over time would I come to understand. Meanwhile, in my usual fashion I stumbled forward.
The first thing that perplexes you is the automation. It sneaks up on you, soon becoming a major part of your day. You walk to a shop. A solar powered electric door opens and a robot will greet you with a bow and an "ohaiyo gozaimast" or good morning. No wait, its not a robot but a kid dressed in some bizarre coloured uniform ritually greeting you. You nod back, they bow twice more, you nod again, they bow again and wait a minute, wait a minute......... stop nodding, the mission is to buy cigarettes, at this rate its gonna take some time. Fix the kid with a steely glint and curtly say "Marl borr oh", the kid spins off shouting "Marl Borr Ohhhhhh" and deftly flicks the cigarettes into a plastic bag, neatly ties it closed and then bowing, presents it to you. Be careful here. Never nod in acknowledgement, one bow or nod from you, means two back, it can take hours to break the cycle. Leave the shop, marvel at the electric door and the solar power unit crammed in above it. Note that you have more coins in your pocket than you did when you walked in. Appreciate that you dont know how, accept that Japan needs coins for anything below a 1000 Y denomination. Then introduce yourself to the automated coffee vending machine. Damn, never seem to have enough coins. Machines have no sense of humour.
The second thing you notice is that everything is soooooo compact. As in sardine can packed, as in live on top of each other in tiny tiny rooms packed. As in I have never seen so many people crammed on a train packed, packed, trust me, packed. Whoa its packed. Tokyo has an official population circa 12,000,000. However, most stats forget to mention that Yokohama also has roughly the same amount of people as do other old city gates of Tokyo nee Edo and combined the real population is around 35,000,000. Thats a lots of train rides each day. Thats a lot of solar powered electric doors opening and closing, and thats one hell of a lot of neighbours. Its kinda hard to be different when you are competing against 34,999,999 others. You really have to have a good act.
I observe a lot of people same dressed, same facing, same housing, same same. Bleak rows of apartment blocks all the same olive grey. Shop fronts which are mirror images of the previous suburb. Everything is automated, faceless, there to serve. The society itself is punctual, ritualised and forever trying to be more gracious. Always queued at a vending machine.
There is comfort in conformity. It doesnt challenge. Its my opinion that its a form of servitude. Some may say humble, others lazy even more might say its a hopelessness. In Tokyo, it belongs.
I observe pockets of resistance in the form of colour and music. Bizarre colour. Bizarre music. Localised outbursts of individualism. Extreme to the point of shock. Gothic clockwork like replica women competing for attention with bizarre theatre performances, struggling rock quartets and wannabee rockabilly's. Such is the circus of Tokyo. Where a thousand villages join to make one of the worlds oddest cities.
Remarkably, at the end of this protest, everyone catches the train home. Back to the clockworx.
Its not until I find a dusty copy of Hagakure - The Book of the Samurai (well an old internet copy anyway), that I begin to make sense of this place and rediscover the path of Shintaro and Tombei. You see, they never left. Just a curving of the path. Its from Hagakure that i steal the following excerpt from chapter 1.
We all want to live. And in large part we make our logic according to what we like. But not having attained our aim
and continuing to live is cowardice. This is a thin dangerous line. To die without gaining one's aim is a dog's death
and fanaticism. But there is no shame in this. This is the substance of the Way of the Samurai. If by setting one's heart
right every morning and evening, one is able to live as though his body were already dead, he gains freedom in the
Way. His whole life will be without blame, and he will succeed in his calling.
A man is a good retainer to the extent that he earnestly places importance in his master. This is the highest sort of
retainer. If one is born into a prominent family that goes back for generations, it is sufficient to deeply consider the
matter of obligation to one's ancestors, to lay down one's body and mind, and to earnestly esteem one's master. It is
further good fortune if, more than this, one has wisdom and talent and can use them appropriately. But even a person
who is good for nothing and exceedingly clumsy will be a reliable retainer if only he has the determination to think
earnestly of his master. Having only wisdom and talent is the lowest tier of usefulness.
Woo. Heavy. Time to relook at Shintaro the selfless who with righteousness lived as though his body was already dead fearlessly facing down his masters foes (oddly his master was never revealed on the program although he definitely did serve a force of good, I was a kid but i remember this, and by the way, who is your master?). He was nimbly aided by the lesser righteous and athletically clever Tombei. The theme was, on reflection, servitude. Packaged nicely with the spirit of adventure to get the attention of any young boy. If one did service, one was meritorius, pure, white. The guys in the nasty black suits were the misfits, the outcasts the individuals who simply couldnt shut up.
I look around again at the crowded street. Everywhere I look I see Shintaros and Tombeis (and whatever their sisters names were) wandering the streets to work dressed in the same selfless gracious uniforms, themselves selfless and gracious. The art of the sword is a ritual thing. There is also an art of the bus driver, an art of the convenience shop attendent all of which are based on selflessness.
The nasty black Koga Ninja types hang in corraled areas such as Shibuya, Ebisu and Harajuku. Gothic in their clockwork.
Me personally? I always wore black.
For an extensive photo collection on Tokyo, go here http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikonokuro/sets/72157607405259245/ and also here http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikonokuro/sets/72157605580785757/
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Return to the Kingdom
Hello, how much is this bag?
Sorry I don’t know I am a customer like you
Sorry forgive my assumptions,
Its OK, are you from Australia,
Did my accent give me away?
Yes I thought I recognised it.
Have you been there,
Yes many times, though a long while ago, nice place, interesting people, the only city I haven’t done yet is Sydney,
Oh you should check it, its where I am from and probably the best place visually.
Hmmm I have a plan to go back early next year and stay around the the harbour, it looks great.
Yeah it is and has some great restaurants there too with great views of the opera house, you should enjoy it. Fascinating place to wander around the streets there.
My only worry is Is it safe?
Safe? Yes yes of course it is.
He smiles infectiously
I am sorry, but i have heard stories about safety of tourists there, i was just wondering
Its Ok, be comfortable, you will be fine
Are you Saudi?
Yep born and bred in this area,
Where you working,
Oh up at Jubail,
SABIC or ARAMCO?
SABIC
Interesting.
Shaking hands, very nice to meet you,
Yes you too I wish you well,
Thanks be well.
There it is again. Eye to eye with a terrorist. In fact, just a plain individual like me out to buy a bag in a little souk (market) in a city called Al Khobar in the heart of darkness, Saudi Arabia.
The streets teem with people literally bustling on the Friday afternoon, the one day off a week, the Saudi Sunday. Its hot and sweaty but I don’t notice as I stare wide eyed at the quantity of boutiques and small shops selling anything and everything. I sip an espresso. The Mullah calls, the street stops literally as the faithful go to prayer, everyone else just sits where they are and waits. All the shops are shuttered closed whilst the shoppers wait for the faithful to return so the orgy of buying can restart.
The melody of the Mullahs song is slightly incongruent with the fashionable streets, one suffers the other I guess. I am searching for the old Saudi I knew from years ago. It’s a struggle. I am confounded with alley after alley of “modern” concrete shop houses. It looks just like India, nah not really its cleaner, but all the shopkeepers talk with a wobble to the head and grin at the mention of cricket, allowing me to escape with outrageous bargains whilst we debate the worlds best batsmen and the worlds worst bowlers. I am beginning to wonder if modernism has overtaken the humble Bedouin trader until……. Hello how much is this bag?
Ahead of myself I get. It’s a week ago, and I am interrupted from a quaint little Italian restaurant (for which someone else is kindly picking up the check) to be asked to pack and ride over the border to the Kingdom, but!!!!…… I exclaim, I am doing dinner, no problem, we will wait, erm…. OK, its gonna be kinda late when I arrive isn’t it? No problem take it easy in the morning. I acquiesce, I am Saudi bound.
Propaganda is an amazing thing. Simple things like a border entry become major stressors when you consider all the things I have been warned could go wrong. Its as though the well wishers and advisors have become soothsayers of doom, and as I am speeding towards what will be my certain death, the “border”, knowing that its all nonsense, my heart starts to speed up and in my mind I start to rehearse my answers to the inevitable Saudi police interrogation. With my failure to provide correct answers, I further rehearse who I can call to get me out of some nasty Saudi gaol. This is plain silly.
Kathump kathump, here we go.
Immigration Official: Hi. First entry to Saudi.
Me: Yes.
Immigration Official: Go to the Police station over there for fingerprinting.
Me: Yes Sir.
Overhead strip lights bleed onto a desk around which an argument is developing about some poor soul standing rather shamefaced at a window facing a small camera and a small glass fingerprint capturing device. They look over at me and sneer, then frown, then argue some more. The place looks like it was recently bombed. I am alone.
The officer (I know he is the officer because he is sitting at the desk), approaches me. I trepidate.
Hi, just one moment, everyone is changing shift, you know what its like.
Oh yes no problem quavers me. I am not in a hurry. Its OK,
I will do this, he says as he fumbles to turn on the camera, I help, we are friends. He guides me through the fingerprints. Thank you and welcome to Saudi Arabia. Please go now to customs.
Back to the car, we (my Indian driver whose head wobbles alarmingly and whose English is limited only to cricket commentary) head through to the customs section. We are directed to park. I am still nervous, what do I have that can be used to make bombs or worse still, could be found offensive to Islam in my bag. The customs guy looks in the trunk, waves hi and then lights a cigarette while shooing us away. He returns to his banter with the next customs official and we quickly disappear into the night.
I calm. I am in Saudi. The drive across the causeway to the Kingdom from Bahrain has only taken 30 minutes. What was it I was concerned about again?
One hour later, I am safely deposited in the hotel.
So I strike up a casual conversation with a guy in a bag shop. The concern in his voice when he asked me if my hometown was safe was real. What propaganda had he heard I wonder. And what really is the purpose of such disinformation. I was a little bemused and quite surprised by his question. I cant think why anyone would consider that we in the liberated free world of the west would live in other than absolutely safe conditions or why we would not welcome visitors to our proud shores. Can you?
I picture my new friend from the souk standing shamefaced at the immigration desk in Sydney airport. I wish him well.
Sorry I don’t know I am a customer like you
Sorry forgive my assumptions,
Its OK, are you from Australia,
Did my accent give me away?
Yes I thought I recognised it.
Have you been there,
Yes many times, though a long while ago, nice place, interesting people, the only city I haven’t done yet is Sydney,
Oh you should check it, its where I am from and probably the best place visually.
Hmmm I have a plan to go back early next year and stay around the the harbour, it looks great.
Yeah it is and has some great restaurants there too with great views of the opera house, you should enjoy it. Fascinating place to wander around the streets there.
My only worry is Is it safe?
Safe? Yes yes of course it is.
He smiles infectiously
I am sorry, but i have heard stories about safety of tourists there, i was just wondering
Its Ok, be comfortable, you will be fine
Are you Saudi?
Yep born and bred in this area,
Where you working,
Oh up at Jubail,
SABIC or ARAMCO?
SABIC
Interesting.
Shaking hands, very nice to meet you,
Yes you too I wish you well,
Thanks be well.
There it is again. Eye to eye with a terrorist. In fact, just a plain individual like me out to buy a bag in a little souk (market) in a city called Al Khobar in the heart of darkness, Saudi Arabia.
The streets teem with people literally bustling on the Friday afternoon, the one day off a week, the Saudi Sunday. Its hot and sweaty but I don’t notice as I stare wide eyed at the quantity of boutiques and small shops selling anything and everything. I sip an espresso. The Mullah calls, the street stops literally as the faithful go to prayer, everyone else just sits where they are and waits. All the shops are shuttered closed whilst the shoppers wait for the faithful to return so the orgy of buying can restart.
The melody of the Mullahs song is slightly incongruent with the fashionable streets, one suffers the other I guess. I am searching for the old Saudi I knew from years ago. It’s a struggle. I am confounded with alley after alley of “modern” concrete shop houses. It looks just like India, nah not really its cleaner, but all the shopkeepers talk with a wobble to the head and grin at the mention of cricket, allowing me to escape with outrageous bargains whilst we debate the worlds best batsmen and the worlds worst bowlers. I am beginning to wonder if modernism has overtaken the humble Bedouin trader until……. Hello how much is this bag?
Ahead of myself I get. It’s a week ago, and I am interrupted from a quaint little Italian restaurant (for which someone else is kindly picking up the check) to be asked to pack and ride over the border to the Kingdom, but!!!!…… I exclaim, I am doing dinner, no problem, we will wait, erm…. OK, its gonna be kinda late when I arrive isn’t it? No problem take it easy in the morning. I acquiesce, I am Saudi bound.
Propaganda is an amazing thing. Simple things like a border entry become major stressors when you consider all the things I have been warned could go wrong. Its as though the well wishers and advisors have become soothsayers of doom, and as I am speeding towards what will be my certain death, the “border”, knowing that its all nonsense, my heart starts to speed up and in my mind I start to rehearse my answers to the inevitable Saudi police interrogation. With my failure to provide correct answers, I further rehearse who I can call to get me out of some nasty Saudi gaol. This is plain silly.
Kathump kathump, here we go.
Immigration Official: Hi. First entry to Saudi.
Me: Yes.
Immigration Official: Go to the Police station over there for fingerprinting.
Me: Yes Sir.
Overhead strip lights bleed onto a desk around which an argument is developing about some poor soul standing rather shamefaced at a window facing a small camera and a small glass fingerprint capturing device. They look over at me and sneer, then frown, then argue some more. The place looks like it was recently bombed. I am alone.
The officer (I know he is the officer because he is sitting at the desk), approaches me. I trepidate.
Hi, just one moment, everyone is changing shift, you know what its like.
Oh yes no problem quavers me. I am not in a hurry. Its OK,
I will do this, he says as he fumbles to turn on the camera, I help, we are friends. He guides me through the fingerprints. Thank you and welcome to Saudi Arabia. Please go now to customs.
Back to the car, we (my Indian driver whose head wobbles alarmingly and whose English is limited only to cricket commentary) head through to the customs section. We are directed to park. I am still nervous, what do I have that can be used to make bombs or worse still, could be found offensive to Islam in my bag. The customs guy looks in the trunk, waves hi and then lights a cigarette while shooing us away. He returns to his banter with the next customs official and we quickly disappear into the night.
I calm. I am in Saudi. The drive across the causeway to the Kingdom from Bahrain has only taken 30 minutes. What was it I was concerned about again?
One hour later, I am safely deposited in the hotel.
So I strike up a casual conversation with a guy in a bag shop. The concern in his voice when he asked me if my hometown was safe was real. What propaganda had he heard I wonder. And what really is the purpose of such disinformation. I was a little bemused and quite surprised by his question. I cant think why anyone would consider that we in the liberated free world of the west would live in other than absolutely safe conditions or why we would not welcome visitors to our proud shores. Can you?
I picture my new friend from the souk standing shamefaced at the immigration desk in Sydney airport. I wish him well.
Friday, October 10, 2008
The Isle of the Dead
Heathrow. Six in the morning. I am freezing and hurry through check in to the warmth of the inner hearth known quaintly as the departure lounge.
What seems like aeons later, I sit in a metal tube facing a cotton clad seat for nearly seven hours, dozing, being jolted awake by violent winds, before returning to shallow sleep.
I awaken, and step from the tube onto the bright sands of the desert. The heat is welcomed. It rolls in waves beckoning me to lighten my English morning (mourning) clothes.
This is the Isle of the Dead, so named from Sumarian times as the place of burial for their nobility.
Bahrain as its called nowadays is an intriguing little place joined at the navel with Saudi Arabia to the west by a road causeway.
It is touted as a swish financial hub and its reason de etre is as a safe money haven for the Saudi Elite.
Little could be further from the truth.
When it was the Isle of the Dead it was a tropical paradise. A jewel like island in an azure sea surrounded by brilliant reefs of coral. No longer.
With the oil riches of the Saudi's gaining ridiculous proportions throughout the last and this century, Bahrain has become more of a vassal state to its western neighbours unfulfilled appetites constrained at home by the feverish swirl of Islam.
What started as a handful of sleepy banks, and the odd tourist hotel catering to the sex trade mostly, has become a full blown testament to an excessive worship of consumerism.
It rivals the world in boutiques per square kilometre. Five star hotels abound and one can find drink and loose women without much search. All this interspersed with the occasional mosque.
So what do I hear you all say? So what indeed. But here is the problem.
Its a small island. The traffic crossing the border grows and grows. The greed of the people grows and grows to match the appetites from the consumptive set. The wannabe consumer kings and queens. The island grows and grows. The coral reefs shrink and shrink as land reclamation projects and more glass towers are deemed necessary. Who needs reefs when gold is king?
Well, as it happens, idyllic jewel like tropical garden islands do. As this is what gave the islands interior it source of fresh water in the form of a ground aquifer filtered by the reefs from the aforementioned azure sea.
I stand now in a flat and featureless desert. All I see is sand and Chanel Boutiques.
If I was one of the Sumarian dead who paid in advance for the heavenly resting place, I would be looking to get a refund.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Maybe It's Because I am not a Londoner
I stand in a men's toilet. The plumbing is straight and gleams. It doesn't smell. It hits me, I am not in Asia anymore.
I emerge into a sunny street scene, there are many people, black, white, brown, yellow, all bustling with unknown purpose. Bright coloured shop facades watched over by authoritarian architecture brim with all manner of goods and people. Cafes abound and are well patronised by the urban set. Could be any major city in the world, except there is a conservativeness, tradition and restraint evident in each direction.
I am in London.
A city of great history. The repository of the vast British Empire of old. Its Military underpinnings evident in its statues and monuments. The stoic never give in attitude of its people and long entrenched social strata are betrayed by its outward appearance no matter which street or park I wander. Whilst it is enchantingly manicured, the city reeks of omniscient power, obvious is its military heritage and colonial achievements. Imposing is a word which springs to mind whilst sitting on the banks of the Serpentine watching its human ebb.
Its people are a curious mix. From centuries of conquest, the streets flow with the conquered of all colours and demeanour. Its original denizens range from the educated gentrified upper and middle classes to the under world like average working man, all stratified, all bearing different badges of their societal rank.
Three tribes become obvious
The tops of the trees are populated with a well mannered and quiet spoken group, who are unfailingly polite and gracious in demeanour both appearance wise and actual. The dress code is conservative, yet conversations are politically metro. Quite an obvious disparity considering the avant guard nature of the society in popular (especially music) culture and its proximity to the haute fashion worlds a simple channel crossing away. And yet, everyone looks like they aspire to be an old aunt or a cardigan clad uncle. The High Street fashion windows reflect an old maiden outlook, slightly sterile, definitely nothing riske.
It's when you interact with this group that you realise the connection between the words polite and political. The intrigue of the court comes to the fore, never outwardly expressed yet always behind the smile and polite nods. One feels as though speaking in a straight line would expose one's lack of educated gentility, standing one apart from the ruling classes. And so friendly banter seems to take on a circular bureaucracy after which the non astute player (me) is left to ponder and strain at the limits of perception.
This group once (maybe still does) ruled the world. And yet, they are so self sufficient as only an island country can be, that I am left to wonder why they ever bothered to leave for foreign shores.
Maybe the weather?
I land in great sunshine and wander and photograph the streets in what can only be described as a glorious climate. Two days later I am wet, shivering and now have a full understanding of the term "a bitter wind blows".
Maybe the food?
Outside of the pub roasts and fish and chips, there is nothing, repeat nothing of consequence to offer world cuisine. Maybe all the conquering over the centuries was a crusade for spice.
The second grouping of the classes is most obvious at the "football match". Cages separate each teams supporters. Yes cages, to prevent violence during the game. It is chilling to watch one race of people divided only by a bus line hurl the most foul abuse at each other over a game of football. Lucky the cages are in place.
The violence then overflows to the many pubs and streets around the original arena, causing large numbers of Police to be in attendance in full riot gear.
And these are not testosterone over dosed kids gone errant making all the noise, but men and women of all ages. Bewilderment as to why is an understatement from my end.
Maybe this was a more true reason why the English have been involved in most of the intra planetary wars, I mean, what exactly should one do with these people? Unleash them on someone else's football team of course. And if said intended war partner was "sans" a football team then is this not just cause for a good conquering?
Group three is invisible to the average Londoner. When I point them out, the average Londoner replies politely with an "oh I never noticed". Indeed.
To me this group stands out for two reasons.
First thing I notice is Chinese, Indian and African people whom I have met in their home countries, speaking to me in broad cockney (London) accents. At first I try not to giggle as its really not congruent. A bit like me speaking in a cockney accent, its all too theatrical.
The second reason I notice them is perhaps the most bewildering. They are happy. They smile and say hi and seem to have all of the good food and best fashion sense.
And yet they are ruled by the court intrigue brigade and rash violent lager louts are ever hovering. They are still the most socially happy grouping despite not having football teams at home and dominate the streets of central London on any weekend. This is where London gets it colour and vibrance as a city.
Despite the bleak and powerful outreach of the English exterior, the streets are filled with trappings of empire in the form of slick and red colourful Chinese restaurants, Indian take aways and wonderful African art in dance and music leaving one to wonder who conquered who?
For all who aspire to a taste of tradition served with a dash of the fruits of empire, London is THE place.
Avoid all the chicken shops and make sure you take an umbrella though.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Desert Prequel
Picture this. Sand. Red sand. As far as the eye can see. In the distance is a column of smoke doing its best to emulate Tolkiens Mount Doom. It leaves a smoke trail which drifts across...... the sand.
Its 1999, and I have arrived in Saudi Arabia. The mysterious desert kingdom. I am here to fix the local refinery in Riyadh (Al Riyadh - The Garden...... someone has comedy here). And yes that Mt Doom emulator in the distance IS my sick refinery.
Riyadh is a modern city built by American contractors around the time of the major oil expansion projects of the 70's and 80's. It has modern high rise, banks, shops, MacDonalds and all other necessities of life for modern existence.
The only remaining part of the old city, which the new one bulldozed into the red sands (piles of the ensuing trash are still there on the outskirts of the city), is the Old Souk. A market of great character, full of spice sellers, carpet shops and piles and piles of old "junk" left by either the Crusaders or the Saracens (no no not the football teams, the real ones from the Fairy Stories). Chain mail shirts, swords, genie lamps, you know, that kind of junk.
Its in this Souk that I meet Abdullah the carpet trader and am awakened to the Muslim world of Arabia.
Abdullah is a simple guy. His Grandfather used to buy carpets from village artisans in Afghanistan and travel overland by camel to sell them in this very souk in which we now stand. He greets me always with the obligatory kiss on the cheek and sends his boys running for Mint Tea. My comfort is always his first concern, I am always his guest and his questions as to my well being and happiness are always real. I see it in his eyes. Eyes never lie.
The Souk is driven by songs of offers (literally sung by old men dressed in robes walking the little alleys) and the wonderful smell of spice, frankincense and Mir. Sandalwood (the real stuff not the little spray bottles) is sold by the kilogram as an air freshener. Transactions happen by the second. Bargaining is furious and poetic as hardships of the day are parleyed into deals by swaying motions of the body and head by robe swathed men sitting on deep cushions.
Five times a day The Mullah calls. The Souk grinds to a halt whilst the faithful duly trot off to wash and pray, and then within seconds, again, on opening, the sway, the nod, the handshakes, the smiles...... cash flows, goods come and go. Centuries pass like this.
My first meeting with Abdullah is basically me browsing his shop. I do this often over the next month until I finally buy one. A small one. Its Afghan, tribal, a little rare. I look at it now as I write, still fascinated by its warmth. He had kept this carpet for me. It was the last of only 10 made and he felt that I should be the owner. I didnt know this at the time, only months later did he reveal. There was never any push from him. When i first saw it, it was love at first sight. He knew it, bundled it up and put it at the back of the shop with my name on it, unbeknownst to me. The day I decided to look again, I asked him if I could buy it by putting a deposit down and pay it off. He gave me the carpet on the spot, wouldn't take any money down. You see, in the Souk, your word and your handshake is your contract and bond. He trusted me. I am not Moslem.
My team grows at Mount Doom. We are a mixed bunch. Nasty boys from Newcastle and the odd (mostly me) Australian. We live in the same complex, work hard by day to impossible deadlines and party hard at night in the various hidden and very very illegal bars and clubs. Not even cinema is allowed in Saudi Arabia. Funny, Cable TV is everywhere and its Johnny Walkers fifth largest consumer for Black Label.
One night, we buy our first bottle of Siddihki ("My Friend" is the literal translation from the Bedouin). Siddhiki is almost neat alcohol distilled by the Bedouin (you remember them, the guys who ride camels and live in funky tents in the desert, the real Saudi people). It had been a long day and tomorrow was off. We were supposed to cut it with water (water it down). But....... it was a long day and the party that night was snappy, lots of bring your own food and good music however woefully under-catered for in terms of Jeddah Gin or the Home Brew Beer, but we did have a bucket-load of coke. So who needs to water it down? Perhaps I should mention here that Riyadh is renown for having the worlds biggest camel market.
The week before on a visit to the carpet shop in the Souk, we all picked up the obligatory white robes and head dress of the fashionable Arab male. The dish dash, the scarf/head dress and the camel hobbling tie (yes thats what the black circlet on the head dress is really for). Like a group tattoo sort of thing, we all had to have the same as our uniform marking our time together in the Kingdom. Too many of us wanted to change the colour of the headscarf from the red/white Saudi standard. We did. Democratic debate ensued settled by violence as is the norm in the west and we chose a grey and white check pattern with a slight orange cast to the edges. very fetching,
This particular party night was fancy dress.
All started well. Convivial. Food. Jeddah Gin. Music. Food. Home Brew. Shit no food. Coke is discovered in a huge vending machine. Siddikhi. Siddhiki. Turn that damn music down its 2 AM, Siddhiki. Who needs coke anyway, Siddhiiiiikkkiiii. What time is it and why is the damn sun rising?
Did I mention that Riyadh has the biggest camel market in the world? It opens at 5 AM, just as the sun rises.
The red sand. Camels as far as the eye can see. Big ugly ones. Small ugly ones. Brown, Grey, White and Dappled ones. Fat ones and thin. The market trades. It hustles. The Wall Street of camels. Mint tea is everywhere against the backdrop of the theatre of the bargaining.
A commotion. A car pulls up and 7 huge and sweaty wild eyed robe covered head dress wearing unshaven suicide bomber lookalikes issue from its side. They take a defensive field position demonstrating to all their military origins. A ripple passes through the thronged market. The suicide bombers march in formation from camel stall to camel stall interrogating the owners in question of the chattel on offer in broken (very very broken) Arabic. Their leader is relentless in bargaining and sways to the ritual dance of the old desert. He is obviously the veteran of many carpet purchases and soon has an audience of camel traders involved in a group self heal on advanced pricing negotiations.
Who are these people disturbing the throb of our markets, upsetting its ancient rhythmic flow. They wear the head scarf of the Jordanian Freedom Fighters Movement and march like a military squad. Their commander barks orders and frowns at his subordinates who are seemingly edgy, very edgy. They smile infrequently. Their language, guttural and terse, spoken loudly, is so strange.
A small white camel. A price is agreed, a deal is struck. Looking eye to eye, with a handshake the values are exchanged. Camel for Money, Money for Camel. The theatre of the bargaining appreciated by both sides, its actors all take bows over Mint Tea.
Sand. Red sand. The desert. Add now the sun. Its mid morning and I am standing in the middle of this really foul smelling camel market holding onto the reigns of this equally (compared to me) silly looking white camel. The Siddhiki really isnt my friend I am rapidly discovering, and nowhere in sight is a hangover clinic. My boys have all passed out in the truck. Cept me and this stupid looking camel. Ever heard of the term Post Decisional Dissidence? It hits me like a cruise missile, strikes me unawares physically like a Naval bombardment from some far off flotilla.
Hmmmm, hello, excuse me, "wanna buy a camel"? This goes on for what seems like a year. During which, I meet interested buyers from Afghanistan (Taliban no less), Iraq, Jordan, and the ever present Yemeni's. I trade and trade. I drink lots of Mint Tea but have forgotten now how to sweat its so hot. Finally I have a deal. But he has no money. Can he secure the camel with a down-payment and bring me the money later? I look him in the eyes, he has no sly intent, I shake his hand and give him the reigns. Somebody brings me Mint tea and welcomes me yet again. Within 20 minutes my man appears and with a smile and the obligatory blessing from his god hands me the money.
Time to escape. Yet another 30 minutes throbs past as everyone in the market, entertained by our cultural stumblings wants to shake hands with the troop commander. No one has other than a smile or quick laugh in their eyes. We depart for the nearest dispensary, self medicate, and retire from camel trading permanently.
Two weeks later somebody asked us why we chose the head scarf of the Jordanian Freedom Fighters Movement. Did we? Stumble in good faith and you will never fall. Kind people will always catch you before you hit the ground and indulge you.
September the 11th 2001. I cant reconcile the people I met eye to eye with the picture painted by the media. Just cant. Still cant. Did the entire population of the Kingdom get replaced after I left? My mind cannot see Abdullah with a backpack of bombs attached. Nor can i envision the camel market erupting in a gun battle or metal detectors placed in strategic, corralled entry points at the Souk.
Abdullah, we looked eye to eye and I promised one day I would return. Its 2008 and I am inbound. I hope you all are still there.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Limena Per favor
Contradictions.
Societal, visual and commercial.
Its these anthropological head on crashes that can make life entertaining for some and entirely bewildering and frustrating for others. Sometimes we can see both sides, other times we rage against the black or the white depending on our stance of the day, week, month.
Societal, visual and commercial.
Its these anthropological head on crashes that can make life entertaining for some and entirely bewildering and frustrating for others. Sometimes we can see both sides, other times we rage against the black or the white depending on our stance of the day, week, month.
Let me explain.
A long flight in the cocoon of the modern airline wormholes brings me to ........... South America. Finally..... light, fragrance and well..... generally cha cha cha. Just what I expected. Except.
Picked up, shipped downtown, sound, colour, light, aroma, yes real aroma of wonderful food, spice and the sea. Oh yes and noise..... the ever present dance of Machismo and La Chica moves by me in a blaze of fashion and twirl.
Days pass and I awaken from that slumber called jet-lag. I am surrounded by some of the most eloquent trappings of civilisation. Lima, capital city of Peru. Buildings designed by artists stand on every street. Some are so interesting and curious as to cause 30 minute pauses in my wanderings while i just try and take in all the subtleties that the artist envisioned. The shapes, the colours, the flourishes none are block built all are unique. What an architectural jewel by the sea. Except.
I cant speak Spanish unfortunately. Most Limenas cant speak English. Especially taxi drivers and shop keepers. Its through this common ignorance that we learn just how friendly and substantial people can be. I have had some very interesting conversations (I cant think what else to call them) with total strangers in very odd places from street wanderings to plain old taxi rides all in odd language combinations and hand movements with lots of nodding and smiling. Never, ever did I feel awkward or threatened, in fact I must say that the hospitality of the average Limena is just so comfortable. You are assumed to be part of their family until YOU prove otherwise. My kinda people. Except.
The Costa Verde, the Bay of Lima, pinioned on a christian cross and a shopping mall built into a cliff (two religions side by side competing or an alliance?). By day the shopping mall beckons with the allure of slick advertising and coffee smells, by night the beacon of the lit cross shines on you to ensure that you dont sin. Meanwhile, Limenas dance, and dance, and dance. Except.
What should be a wonderful place, a city of light and deep culture, a gateway to a magical place has a major issue.
Fear.
Small word, big impact on everyday life.
Security guards are everywhere. Taxis lock their doors when you get in to keep you safe. Beautiful buildings are constrained with barbed wire and 9 foot high fences, most of which are electrified. The longer I stayed, the more infectious this virus became.
My 30 minute stops of architectural wonder became muted by the possibility of electric crucifixion, Conversations became terse as I held closely to my bag to keep would be snatchers away. Simple taxi rides became stressful in coping with the machismo persistence of the drivers and the near miss traffic always guarded should they turn down a dark street. Ahhhh....... I should have left after the first month, before the wonder inoculation wore off.
The Inca's used to not have locks on their doors. They had no concept of theft. They used gold for the creation of art due to its enduring nature as opposed to its value as a precious metal. They also placed high value on people instead of things. Their families were huge, many times many extended. And surprisingly peaceful. They actually knew each other. A very interesting culture to explore in both its traditions and amazingly artistic architecture. And today its called Peru. The food still exists, the music is so varied you cant help but dance, the art of life still observable and the people so warm and emotionally expressive. Incas still live here.
So where did the fear come from?
Days pass and I awaken from that slumber called jet-lag. I am surrounded by some of the most eloquent trappings of civilisation. Lima, capital city of Peru. Buildings designed by artists stand on every street. Some are so interesting and curious as to cause 30 minute pauses in my wanderings while i just try and take in all the subtleties that the artist envisioned. The shapes, the colours, the flourishes none are block built all are unique. What an architectural jewel by the sea. Except.
I cant speak Spanish unfortunately. Most Limenas cant speak English. Especially taxi drivers and shop keepers. Its through this common ignorance that we learn just how friendly and substantial people can be. I have had some very interesting conversations (I cant think what else to call them) with total strangers in very odd places from street wanderings to plain old taxi rides all in odd language combinations and hand movements with lots of nodding and smiling. Never, ever did I feel awkward or threatened, in fact I must say that the hospitality of the average Limena is just so comfortable. You are assumed to be part of their family until YOU prove otherwise. My kinda people. Except.
The Costa Verde, the Bay of Lima, pinioned on a christian cross and a shopping mall built into a cliff (two religions side by side competing or an alliance?). By day the shopping mall beckons with the allure of slick advertising and coffee smells, by night the beacon of the lit cross shines on you to ensure that you dont sin. Meanwhile, Limenas dance, and dance, and dance. Except.
What should be a wonderful place, a city of light and deep culture, a gateway to a magical place has a major issue.
Fear.
Small word, big impact on everyday life.
Security guards are everywhere. Taxis lock their doors when you get in to keep you safe. Beautiful buildings are constrained with barbed wire and 9 foot high fences, most of which are electrified. The longer I stayed, the more infectious this virus became.
My 30 minute stops of architectural wonder became muted by the possibility of electric crucifixion, Conversations became terse as I held closely to my bag to keep would be snatchers away. Simple taxi rides became stressful in coping with the machismo persistence of the drivers and the near miss traffic always guarded should they turn down a dark street. Ahhhh....... I should have left after the first month, before the wonder inoculation wore off.
The Inca's used to not have locks on their doors. They had no concept of theft. They used gold for the creation of art due to its enduring nature as opposed to its value as a precious metal. They also placed high value on people instead of things. Their families were huge, many times many extended. And surprisingly peaceful. They actually knew each other. A very interesting culture to explore in both its traditions and amazingly artistic architecture. And today its called Peru. The food still exists, the music is so varied you cant help but dance, the art of life still observable and the people so warm and emotionally expressive. Incas still live here.
So where did the fear come from?
Some could say Spain brought it, others that its part of 21st century life. More people would say its the recent (20 years ago now) terrorists of the Shining Path (most of whom now run large mining corporations and drive Mercedes Benz automobiles).
Personally, I am unconvinced by all of these explainations. I base this on my warm experience of the people i met and shared with and their irrational belief in this urban myth of danger which is very pervasive in their day to day life. Its confirmed by church missives and the other church missives of advertising and TV Media. For what? I did wander the streets, with a $2500 dollar camera in my hand wearing a Rolex watch. Dark streets too, late at night. All the wrong places. My Limena friends were horrified, constantly warning me of the danger to life and limb.
I retook the wonder pills, the ones that help you realise that 99.99999999% of everyone you meet is just a normal person going about their normal business with no intent of harm whatsoever.
Personally, I am unconvinced by all of these explainations. I base this on my warm experience of the people i met and shared with and their irrational belief in this urban myth of danger which is very pervasive in their day to day life. Its confirmed by church missives and the other church missives of advertising and TV Media. For what? I did wander the streets, with a $2500 dollar camera in my hand wearing a Rolex watch. Dark streets too, late at night. All the wrong places. My Limena friends were horrified, constantly warning me of the danger to life and limb.
I retook the wonder pills, the ones that help you realise that 99.99999999% of everyone you meet is just a normal person going about their normal business with no intent of harm whatsoever.
I evaded all of the assassins. Was this luck? I had some wonderful conversations again. And my camera got mucho work.
Limenas I am still your fan.
Meanwhile, that Cross shines down on the bay every night pointing at the non righteous.
Oh, one last thing plagues me. In a land of such machismo (sure its a legacy of Spanish invasion), why are all the Traffic Police women?
Limenas I am still your fan.
Meanwhile, that Cross shines down on the bay every night pointing at the non righteous.
Oh, one last thing plagues me. In a land of such machismo (sure its a legacy of Spanish invasion), why are all the Traffic Police women?
The entire Lima and Andes photo set is here http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikonokuro/sets/72157605581850831/
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Where Do the Children Play
Sometime in 2008
Cambodia - A Border Crossing
So, I have been asked to submit a photo essay by a European magazine on the subject of Asian cross border trade. No problem. Grab Camera, mount the horse, and head straight for Cambodia.
First, just a little background history for the young (although many of the elders could do with a refresher as Cambodia was one of those significant events that was neatly washed away by the media).
Cambodia was the original centre of the Ankor Kingdom. Most people have heard of Ankor Wat (The Angkor Temple) but few are aware of the vast city which to this day is still discernible "off the tourist path" overrun by jungle. Wikipedia has some very cool information on this place at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angkor
The significance of this city, its fall and the subsequent total demise of its people is in itself a crime of humanity equivalent at least to the fall of the great Inca empire. Although, as its not in our backyard and they dont speak English, who after all gives a toss? Care to name 3 cities in Cambodia for me?
Lets roll forward to the 60's and 70's of last century. Vietnam. America's war. Too much lost by Americans to be covered in this little blog. Lots gained by the industrial military complex, but thats also another story which has been well covered in depth by many.
So here is little Cambodia. A sleepy little place of rice and elephants, all of a sudden thrust into the view of the "Great" Powers, namely America, Russia and China. Money flows. Excesses abound. All the time the average Cambodians life is not so remarkably different from the days of the Great Khmer empire. The money created great polarities of political "direction". Money begets arms begets tragedy. Cambodia becomes of strategic value, unfortunately that value was considered far greater than the value of Cambodians generally and the resulting civil wars and period of darkness under the
vicious Khmer Rouge rule are truly a blight on human history and our callous ability to turn a blind eye for some obscure diplomatic reasoning and once again leave the average Cambodian to the sword. Watch the Killing Fields for a reality check, and be aware that this movie was substantially toned down to what the average Cambodian faced.So having turned our backs on them, when the Vietnamese "intervened" to stop the Khmer Rouge, we were of course "outraged" at the nasty Vietnamese invading another sovereign nation, .... see we told you the dominoes would fall, didnt we?
Vietnam however prevailed, and the ensuing "tragedy" of the Khmer Rouge being holed up on the Thai borders in refugee camps became a charitable cause for many in the west. Save the refugees!!!! The true facts were a little different though. Across the border came teak and gems in quite horrifyingly vast quantities and through the kindness of the various humanitarian oriented regional and world governments came...........land mines. Yes, land mines in similiarly vast and horrifying quantities. We didnt want anymore dominoes to fall did we? Of course not.
Cambodia has one of the highest statistics for laid land mines. If you are a simple rice farmer tending your fields, what do you know? If you are "lucky" you just donate a hand or a leg to the legacy of the Domino Theory. Unlucky? No Dad to keep you fed. Who reads statistics anyway?
So here I stand at the border market. Its shabby and temporary like all regional border markets. I see and photograph smiles and colour.
But what is it thats really there?
I see kids begging and hauling. I see men without bits they should have. I am both sad and happy for them. They are the lucky ones and against all the odds thrown at Cambodia, they survive.
My sadness stems from two questions:
1. Why do we allow people to exploit children? Are we not all Human?
2. Why are land mines allowed to exist at all?
Can anyone help me with the answers?
The full photo set titled The Elephant Kingdom can be found here http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikonokuro/sets/72157606959910464/
Friday, September 19, 2008
First
I want to use the net to capture my minds eye as I wander and photograph verbally.
Hopefully, I have something to say
Miko
Bangkok
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
