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.

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.

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?

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.

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?

The entire Lima and Andes photo set is here http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikonokuro/sets/72157605581850831/

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/

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