Category Archives: Culture

Backpacking 201-Berlin 2

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Berlin still carries the burden of the wars and the wall. There is something ancient, sad and yet vibrant about this city. As if it hesitant to come to terms with the past and yet the future is calling. However, to my eye, this future is different for the politicians and different for the artists and other inhabitants.

A German born near Stuttgart, former West Germany,  said to me that Berlin is a poor city but it has culture that is enriching. Yet he prefers to live in Auckland because in Berlin everything is laden with layers of history and meaning which can be an encumbrance. New Zealand is not so ancient.

It has been sometime since I’v been back in Auckland and back to work. Berlin seems far away yet I can’t help thinking about the city and all that I saw and learnt. Particularly with the anniversary of the fall of the Berliner Mauer, the wall. Obviously people in  the West attach a greater significance to it than those of use born and brought up in the developing world. Where was I when the wall fell? In medical school away from Bombay, where television was a luxury…but I vaguely remember watching pictures of the wall coming down and all the hoo-haa about it on a programme called ‘The World This Week’. The wall did not mean anything to us, I bet not one person of my generation in India thought it would change the world. We were more interested in finishing studies and getting on with life-which was not supposed to change at all. We would get our degrees, get work, get married, have children…ho hum, now that I think of it. So I am intrigued when I listen to stories  about people who were affected by the divisions in post war Germany. Quite, quite rivetting.

When in Berlin I went through the entire exhibition of the Friedliche Revolution just outside Alexander Platz, goose pimples on my skin, marvelling at the power of the non-violence of people.  I thought about North Korea, Burma and other regimes, even our democratic India and her tribals being ousted for bauxite mountains…I formed a hypothesis. The Germans were able to resist in a peaceful way because they knew what democracy and freedom meant-they knew how to use the tools within this concept because they were educated, literate people…all the other examples I mentioned are of poor, illiterate people who I believe are deliberately kept so. Those helpless and hungry are unable to fight any battle. Others have to fight their battles and those others come with their own agenda and beliefs…sometimes it is mere PC-ism. One more thing I realised, going through the exhibition, was that the church played an important  role in the peoples’ resistance in DDR. Not a religious role but a support role where the people were offered space to have meetings and run underground papers. I can’t imagine any Hindu priest or temple offering similar support to any resistance movement unless there is the overt and covert Hindutva agenda attached to it.

The Germans I met and made friends with, the Germans I have conversations with, are all wonderfully over analytical and break their history, the wars, the genocide, the wall, communism and everything else to bits before creating a deeply complex picture of who they are. They want you to think of them as stiff upper lipped emotionless sorts who are also humourless. Not true. What I felt and feel instead is that after affecting the world in so many ‘negative’ ways, the Germans are afraid of their own power and thinking and what they can be capable of. They are warm, loving, funny, crazy, creative people. (Ok so call me a Deutsch-o-phile! :-)) The world will not let them forget what happened, what Germany did, which is interesting because maybe the U.S. and the U.K. and France might want to be reminded about their colonialism and arrogance too. And the Dresden bombings.

So, getting back to my favourite city, it was the first time I ever that I encountered the Roma gypsies. A bizarre experience. I could have been staring at me or another Indian! The first time I saw these dark, skinny women wearing long skirts and pushing prams I thought they were Turks. Germany has a large population of Turkish people. Then I came to know they were gypsy women beggars. Of course, I thought, now I know why they looked so… Indian. The Roma people came out of South Asia…it was fascinating though that a Western country, an economic powerhouse, would have beggars. 🙂 A friend informed me that they belonged to a begging syndicate and the police were helpless to do anything about it. Hmm. One day at Alexander Platz I heard a gypsy man play the accordion. It was a familiar tune, something I had heard before-many times. Something that was deep in my unconscious…reminding of home or a place I belonged to. Nostalgia stirred and my heart fluttered. How would I know of a tune played by a gypsy man? It haunted me for days, the tune. I’d recorded it while doing a story for my radio show and every time I sat down to edit I found myself listening to the tune. Perhaps it was from a film? Hindi film songs are notorious for appropriating and sampling. The image of Raj Kapoor playing the accordion in one of his films came out of the recesses of my brains…I listened to and watch Raj Kapoor’s songs from his old films onYoutube…it was the refrain from Mera Naam Joker! (listen in at 1.20m)

I do not want to think about the pathways by which this tune could have travelled from the Roma gypsies to an Indian film or even the other way round. Just marvel at it, at how stories, music, food, fashions and traditions might migrate from one part of the globe. At first belong somewhere, then nowhere and then again somewhere.

A trip to Berlin would not complete without a visit to the Stasi Musuem. The dreaded secret police of the DDR. I took the U-Bahn from Frankfurter Allee to Magdalenestrasse. The Stasi museum was in the building where the Stasi originally existed. A structure typical to the Soviet era. It was frightening to see how far political dogma could go into controlling people. The kind of spying that was done, the indoctrination of young people and the attempt at shutting out the world. It brought out for me the other extreme of the spectrum that is America and the media there, the capitalists, the neo-conservatives and fundamentalists doing it in the name of freedom and god.

I have so many memories of Berlin and there is so much more to do and see that I want to go back. Buy me a ticket, get me some work and I’ll pack my bags. Honestly! When I expressed my love for the stadt to a rickshaw driver as she cycled from Potsdamer Platz to Brandenburg Gate she asked, ‘Haff you been here in the vinter?’ 🙂

But seriously, it is a dream. To work and live in Berlin, to collaborate with the Germans because they make such great cinema, music and art and because my chaotic Indian attitude could fit in very well with German precision. Now I only need to figure out how and when, without actually saying good-bye to New Zealand.

Backpacking 201-Berlin. Part 1

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Pardon me while I gush. ‘Coz that is what one does of someone you love and love is blind and I fell in love with Berlin before I visited the stadt. Like an image that I built in my head, a fantasy and a dream. I’d always heard only good things about Berlin.  So knew the place but it turned out even better.

I felt it the moment I landed at Schonefeld Airport. At home. Like I had been here before; like my soul had wandered through and lingered a bit, a lot. This has happened to me once before when I was in Sikkim. A strong sense of deja vu and recognition; an intense feeling of belonging.

Ya so I am weird. I was a monk in my previous life who lived in the Himalayas but have come back to do some unfinished work before I attain nirvana.

To a touristy type or to many Indians Berlin is not on the map of places to visit. Why would anyone want to go to Germany!? For the arty types, fans of Western classical music (not me, I just about know the names of some composers but I do listen and have gone for concerts), for those on their Europe OE, Germany is a must-visit. And Berlin has this reputation of being a place for the creatives. I was not disappointed.

Schlafmeile is owned and run by Kiwi bloke Glenn Stevenson. It came highly recommended by German writer Ingo Petz who has written about Germans in New Zealand and also by a work colleague whose daughter stayed at the hostel. The Aotearoa New Zealand Cafe does the most amazing breakfast and burgers. The staff (or those that work there-they are my friends now) are warm and helpful.  And Glenn is an absolute hardcore Kiwi bloke from Masterton.  Loveable. I stayed in a five bed mixed dorm with room mates ranging from a Swiss girl to two Aussie teachers who worked in London to a Dutch girl and three Dutch guys who wanted to explore the night life in Berlin. Conversations with fellow travellers is an integral part of any backpacking trip and so it was with my room mates as well as those whom I encountered in the kitchen. Americans, Italians, Swiss, English and also Kiwis. The Dutch dudes asked me if the Flight Of The Conchords was really the fourth most famous group in New Zealand. They loved Jemaine and Brett. It was funny to see two Dutch guys grooving to Inner City Pressure on their i-pod and trying to do a Brett McKenzie. 🙂

So, Berlin. The first day I reached there was the Long Night Of The Museum. An extended evening that went into the next day 5am, a single ticket and free transport between as many museums as possible. And Berlin is full of them.  I catch a bus full of kindred museum nutters near the Berliner Dom and go the the Museum Of Kommunication and hang out there checking out the Deutsch postal system, the history, the changes and the meaning of communication. To me, post offices and related places are very attractive. The mere act of writing a letter and posting it signifies more than just a system. It is about human engagement and emotion. But more about that in another blog. That long night at the museums I revel in history, tradition and a simple night out.

The DDR museum comes highly recommended by Costa at the hostel.  There is a long queue to get in. Songs from the old communist country play on the PA system and the couple in front of me start dancing. They obviously grew up with that music. Inside is the story of the German Democratic Republic. The lifestyle, the food, the living, television, holidays, school, indoctrination…parents show their kids how they lived under a communist regime. One thing I learnt (among many) is that nudity was sanctioned by The Party, the DDR regime-because there was no money to manufacture swimwear. So summer time at the beach meant going naked. It was and is normal. If you ever see old Germans in skimpy swimwear then it is not ‘fashion’ or a ‘Western’ thing. Highly likely they are Ossies and forcing themselves to be ‘modest’ for the sake of others.

That was my introduction to be Berlin. I spent eight days in Berlin and everyday was an experience to savour. Not enough I can write in one blog. Except to end this one by saying that I got hit upon the most in Berlin. Men stopping me and talking to me, asking for my number, for my email and ‘get to know me’ 😉 I liked.  Ich leibe diese stadt even more for that.

Backpacking 201-Paris

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The first thing I see in Paris at  Du Nord station is a woman begging. I do not have the energy to notice if she could be East European or a generic looking French woman. I had boarded a train at 5.30am at King’s Cross Station and was too sleepy still. The second thing is what seems like a quarrel or argument between a passenger and those organising taxis for the new arrivals. This tall French African man, who was on my train and in the queue for taxis, suddenly gets out of the line and starts shouting Monsieur, Monsieur as he rushes towards the front of the queue. What followed was beyond my comprehension. Loud voices talking in French. Maybe it was just a normal conversation.  I mean we Indians and the Chinese gesture and talk loudly. Does that entail an argument? The third thing is the taxi ride through the streets of Paris. The shops are not yet open and it looks like Mahim the day after Novena at St Michael’s Church. My taxi driver changes lanes nonchalantly almost banging into a man on a scooter who then confronts him at the lights. C’est le Paree.

YHA offers a special package in Paris.  Two nights, three nights or four; free entry to various museums and a single ticket across all public transport. I have booked three nights at the Cite Des Sciences hostel. I reach the hostel at 9.30 the first morning and am told I cannot take my bag to my dormitory because the cleaners are in. I can only go there after 2pm. Yup in France the cleaning process goes on between 10am-2pm. So I go to the Louvre with two thailis – bags and leave my suitcase at reception.

I cannot add anything to what has already been said about the magnificence of the Louvre. The Mona Lisa is mysterious and myth adds to the mystery. She is just a tad too pale. The sculptures, the paintings, Napoleon’s apartment…it can all get crazy. I did not see it all and I would not recommend seeing it all in one day either.

When in Paris visit the Eiffel Tower. That is taken for granted. One evening I stand in a long line forced to listen to two yakkety American women go on and on about Parisienne women and their elegance. I thought the women in London dressed better than those in Paris. Quirky, individualistic fashion rather than enslaved to haute couture. It is always fascinating to listen to other people talk and on my way down from the top I try to understand what the Italian women are gossiping about. The view from the top of the Eiffel Tower is priceless (or 12 Euro).  My YHA package gives me free entry to Arc de Triomphe and a ride on the Seine.

My hostel is in a suburb called Hoche. It could be a busy suburb in Egypt/Morocco/any North African/Middle Eastern country instead of Paris. Very multicultural and full of different hues of brown skin. This is not the Paris sold to the world. This is the Paris that France has ignored. It is like these people live in France but are not French and the French do not want to acknowledge anything that is ‘not French’, whatever that means. The world is sold the myth of old Paree but that is a lie. On my first evening in Paris I travel to ‘China Town’ of which a Chinese student on the subway has told me about. There is none of buzz of Chintown in London or Melbourne and actually not even on the Paris map. The few ‘Chinese’ restaurants are run by Vietnamese. It takes me a while to figure out why Vietnamese. Because Vietnam was a French colony! D-uh! Back in town a bunch of French-African krumpers and poppers pump up the jam on the street. We never get to see these cultural titbits as ‘French’ do we?

But then I am in Paris because it a romantic city so I am not disappointed when I visit Montmartre. It is quintessential France. Just out of Abbesses station are cobbled streets, beautiful houses, cafes and old American gentlemen playing jazz music. I have a chat with one of the jazz players. Richard Miller plays the cornet and does the vocals for his band. He is a well travelled man and ‘too old to ask you out’, he says to me. Up the hill is the Basilica, the permanent Dali exhibition and streets to wander in. As I finally feel ‘paisa vasool‘ (got my money’s worth) I hear snatches of an old Hindi film song. It is surreal.  ‘Itni Shakti Hume Dena Data‘ from the film Ankush (1986) playing in a French Cafe. Curious, I hang around and have dinner. The French owner/manager downloaded it on his i-pod because he liked the song. We have a conversation about Hindi films and I recommend a few. If there is a place in Paris I want to live then it is Montmartre. I am snobbish that way. No ghettoes for me, thank you.

The Paris subways are different from the London Underground. The trains bounce,  creak and squeak as they turn around bends as if they could derail anytime. The stations are quite beautiful though and have artwork all over them. From the tiles to the paintings…Abbesses station has stunning paintings all round the stairwell. These subways are the place to see the people of Paris, I reckon. All colours except white. There are many Bangladeshis around. The first one I talk to is selling roses to commuters. I ask in English ‘Are you from South Asia?’. He does not understand. So I ask in Hindi, ‘India se hai?‘ He says ‘Haan’, yes. Kidhar se, I ask. Where from? Bangal se, he says. From Bengal.  Something about his accent makes me suspicious. Bangladeshi, I ask. Yes, he says. Imagine a Bangladeshi going bonjour…bonsoir to passers-by. I can’t help but ask the man, legal hai ki illegal? The man glowers indignantly. Legal, he says. (Yeah right, I think.)

I cannot fathom how France considers itself a world power or anything of import on the world or even the European stage. If there is one thing to learn from the French then it is how not to deal with migrants, particularly coloured people. And of course Muslims. Just how Sarkozy is dealing with the hijab/burkha is to be noted. Then the other thing is the work force and labour. I go to the post office one day to get a stamp so I can send a postcard to my father. It takes more than an hour to get one and would have taken longer if I had not done the Indian thing of just breaking the queue. France was almost annihilated in the world wars (if my history is correct), stupidly tried to sink the Rainbow Warrior…Napolean was so long ago…sure there is the storming of the Bastille and concepts like liberty etc. There were Foucault, Lefebvre and other thinkers…but what about the world now? France is a permanent member of the U.N Security Council but cannot deal with its own people who are ‘not French’. It does not gel. I mean no country has got it completely right and democracy comes with problems but they cannot be hidden under the garb of sophisticated ‘Frenchness’ ya? Maybe I am plain stupid and don’t understand complex world issues. Still, I would love to visit France again. Maybe I will see something new?

The Algerian, who runs the internet cafe down the road, and I have interesting conversations in my broken French whenever I go down there. He wants to know where I am from. Je suis Indian, je ne parle pas francais je parle l’anglais. But I am from New Zealand. People get confused. So far on my entire trip, I have been mistaken for a generic South American to Mexican and Maori-only because I said I am from New Zealand. Never Indian.  I don’t mind at all. It reiterates my deepest thoughts to me-that I can live anywhere in the world and do anything I want.  People are people and you are bound to find like-minded souls in this universe. So it will be in Berlin.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abbesses

Backpacking 201-London

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My flight from Shanghai to London was via Frankfurt. Michael Field, journalist and very-travelled man advised me that the route went over the Gobi Desert so I should ask for a window seat. And sure enough it was a spectacular sight from many miles high in the air.  Lots of red land rolling on endlessly. The rest of the journey was quiet. There was no in-flight entertainment and the red haired, unshaven Chinese girl next to me refused to talk either in English or in Chinese. She kept drinking the black, sweetened, aerated water available in red cans and then complained of a headache. It was okay though. Pudong airport had been a bit of an ordeal. I thought Indians were bad with standing in line, talking loudly and trying to get to the front. Wrong. There were these hep looking Chinese dames with lots of stuff constantly manoeuvring to get in front of me and I kept blocking them. Then of course my new suitcase was overweight so I had to transfer stuff into my new dotted handbag bought in anticipation of exactly this. After all that, when the bag went through the x-ray machine the women behind them summoned me and a whole lot of other passengers to figure out what the suspicious looking bottles were. Of course one will pack large toiletries in a suitcase ya? Talk about being overzealous! So I preferred the quiet time.

London has a contagious buzz and energy about it.  Non-stop motion and a lot happening at the same time with potential for more. I can see why for some people it is the centre of the universe. Culture and heritage confront you at every corner. Whether it was obtained from colonial plunders or from before is immaterial. It is the preservation of it all that is worthy of respect. The museums and the art galleries are proud institutions that allow much interaction with their customers, the public. It is impossible to see everything even in fifteen days and that was not my plan anyway. An important aspect of this journey/holiday is to figure out my place and space in this world. That of course did not stop me from doing the most touristy thing of visiting Madame Tussauds.  It is a glitzy, kitschy artificial atmosphere not to be taken seriously at all.

I stayed with friends in the City. Marylebone Road. Went running ever so often at Regent´s Park which was just behind the house. Baker Street was the Underground station I prefered to commute from. The same Baker Street where Sherlock Holmes resided. The first day I walked down the street it took me time to realise it was the Baker Street. The eureka moment passed and my cerebrum started eliminating numbers…where did Sherlock live? 55? 66? How could there not be any memorial or a statue…? Then I discovered it. 221B Baker Street that is now home to the Sherlock Holmes museum. Du-h!

So apart from the energy and the unbearable heat in the Underground, the next thing about London that hits you is the multiculturalism. It is everywhere and it is beautiful. It is more than a melting pot or `salad´. It is individuality and collective expression of something new. I guess I cannot express it in a more articulate fashion but for New Zealand to be anywhere at that level it needs to get out of the PC mediocre rut. (But more on that in another blog.) Of course this multiculturalism is not without problems. When you see black kids cycling late at night in Hounslow you can sense something is wrong. Or the amount of discussion on domestic violence means that there is a lot of it hidden too. There are ethnic gangs and other forms of dissatisfaction and disenfrachisement expressed by minorities that one would not want to see in New Zealand. Yet the creative explosion is quite something else. Something New Zealand ´ethnic  sector´ bureaucrats need to take note of and understand.

One day I visited Whitechapel to meet my friend who works at the Royal London Hospital. It was like being on the streets of Crawford Market/Bhendi Bazaar/Masjid in Bombay/Mumbai with the stalls and Bangladeshi readymade dress shops selling salwar kurtas, sarees and prayer clothes. I spotted the Imraan Travel Company And Money Transporter, there were restaurants selling ´Indian´ food and women in full black burkhas wandering around with kids in tow. Yet somewhere in the mix was a biergarten and people of all cultures and ethnicities comfortably hanging out. Brick Lane is very much part of the suburb although I did not visit.  There is a famous art gallery in there too. Once upon a time Whitechapel was a Jewish suburb. There still are quite a few Jewish families living there.  A Kiwi friend, who is actually a Briton of Indian origin, suggested I visit Southall too if only to see how waves of migrants move in and move out and leave remnants of their existence. These remnants are not destroyed but built upon and preserved to tell the story of that place. Apparently there aren´t that many Indians living in Southall anymore but more Africans and people from the middle east. I could not visit Southall.

London Chinatown is bang in the middle of the city. Gerrard St. Of course I passed through. It is a very commercial area and I was pleasantly surpised that it smelled like….well….China. And there was so many Chinese of course. Restaurants that look straight out of Kowloon and typical shops selling Chinese looking things. I discovered a Sikh behind a shop counter. Intigued, I went into the shop to ask him if owned the shop. He did! But I think he was embarrassed by my directness and curiousity and said no more. A Sikh selling little cheong-sams and other Chinese trinkets? It amused me and amazed me for the rest of the day. Imagine that! A business opportunity knows no ethnicity and colour eh? My brother-in-law had Chinese student waiters working in his Indian restaurant in Auckland and that was as far as I saw cross-cultural employment in niche ´culture´ business sectors. I like. I suppose next I could be selling sauerkraut in Berlin ya?

London can get addicting. Particularly the shopping. All Londoners are so well dressed-not fancy designer stuff but just putting together an ensemble that looks attractive and quirky that I am inspired. I am going to make an effort. And all the shopping helped. Perhaps I helped the economy along Oxford St. Topshop is quite the tops too.

I loved London. I shall visit again-for work, to shop and to just be at the centre of the universe.

Backpacking 201. First stop-Shanghai.

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I boarded an Air New Zealand flight on 7/08/09 from Auckland to Shanghai. Exhausted, tired, working until 8pm that night to finish all my tasks and make sure the cash flows in while I am away. My backpack was packed to the gills. Having graduated backpacking 101 on the YHA circuit and on my own in New Zealand it was time to try it overseas in mixed dorms. Shanghai was not originally in the plan but Auckland-London entailed a stopover in Shanghai so on the behest of my dear friend Rebecca ( “You must stay there!”) I re-budgetted and scrimped and saved some more to include it in the itinerary.  Although Professor Paul Spoonley did warn me that ‘Shanghai is not China’.

The Captain Hostel is on the Bund. A long way from Pudong International Airport. The instructions on the website were to take Bus 3 to Longyang Metro station and Line 2 to East Nanjing Road. Easy peezy except for the heat and humidity. I should be used to it. Grew up in Bombay! But. There is much transalation and sign language when I catch  and get off the bus. Ni shuo ying wen ma? (Can you speak English?) and shie shie (thank you) are going to be the two most common sentences I use during my time in Shanghai.  And duo shao qian? (How much?). You can bargain at departmental stores in Shanghai-at least on East Nanjing Road. I almost bought a frock for 150 yuan (cheap as!) until my dorm mate, a South African who teaches English in South Korea haggled with the saleswoman. So I bought the frock for 50 yuan. It took a black man to teach an Indian woman how to bargain :-), as my dorm mate told me.

Asia is Asia, bloody Asia. It is home-anywhere in bloody Asia. You see the people, you see what they are doing and it is reassuring. An old woman selling mogra by the underground Metro, loads and bundles balanced precariously on bicycles and lots of cycles, people crossing the road arbitrarily, utter disregard for traffic rules,  streetside vendors near railway bridges, pot holes, diversions, half destroyed abodes, labourers, construction everywhere, piles of rubble…dust, rain, heat. Chaos, confusion, humanity. Fast and slow all at once. Ancient and new all at once.

So is Shanghai except that I could not access Facebook or Twitter. And there are police everywhere. Police and what look like private security guards. The Chinese government must be spending tons of money on regimenting the country. There are no beggars in sight-although I caught a homeless man or two on camera. It is glitzy, glittering, wannabe sleek. All kinds of architectural styles sit by each other.  Classical, neo-classical, art deco, modern and even the crazy looking Oriental Pearl Tower. At night the Bund is like out of a scene from a film in Las Vegas with the deliberate spectacle of lights. During the day the structures look a bit more real. Yet. My camera could not capture the bizzare, surreal character of the Bund in Shanghai. A whole lot of Chinese gawp at the edifices too. A kind of reassurance about the enormity/greatness of China and her growing power. I see that at an exhibition at the Oriental Pearl Tower. The story of Shanghai told through waxworks and other life size models. Not much to say about the curating but the sub-text sure was overtly nationalistic. Great China, the sufferings of the past and how-we-overcame-the foreigner etc.  Still, for a two-minute tourist like me it was worth the 35 yuan. And the trip to the other, Pudong side of the Huangpu river, the walk to the tower, lunch at the streetside stalls…wu bo chi niu rou hi zhu rou (I do not eat beef or pork) I said to the stallkeeper, my accent not quite right. This time I saved myself from Hindu hell 🙂

For once I did not plan what I will do in which city through my travels. There was no fixed itinerary, no things-to-see…I just wanted to float around and do what I can. So I missed out on the Shanghai museum, the Dali exhibition and the French Quarter. Instead I simply wandered around observing the people and the buildings, the insatiable aspiration for all things consumer, the middle-class prosperity and the carefully hidden poverty. The Pudong side of the Bund is like another film set, like, I don’t know,  Dick Tracy perhaps. Or it could be like Nariman Point/Cuffe Parade in Bombay without the slums or the fishing boats. Of course there is horrible traffic and the masses and even a Hooters in the multinational outlet mix with foreigners (white people) cycling along in the middle of all that. A man, what looked like a Muslim minority (a Uigher?) person, was selling kebabs made on a portable coal barbeque, would not let me take a photo 😦

Public transport in Shanghai is so good that travelling everywhere is easy. The underground Metro is just superb and the Magnet train takes you from Longyang station to Pudong International Airport in 10 minutes.

I can see why the world is wary of China and her increasing power. The government can mobilise people ‘for the country’ very easily. The Shanghai Expo in 2010 is the next thing to showcase China and Haibao the mascot is everywhere. Even the roadside vendors sell little models every few metres on East Nanjing Road. There is a mass recruitment to speak English, from what I gather. How this model of  ‘capitalism within communism’ works and whether it will implode, whether the people of China will know anything better vis-a-vis freedom of expression and human rights, equality, making decisions for the self and the country without any pressure from the government or whether this kind of governance becomes the norm and acceptable to other countries on the anti-Western bandwagon is the subject of another blog. Whatever it is, I shall definetely visit China again. The people are warm and lovely and there is so much more to see. A road or rail trip through rural China is on my wish list now.

My Annual Indulgence

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The New Zealand International Film Festival started on 9 July. It is my biggest annual indulgence. I spend time and money watching what I love. Movies. All kinds of movies, from all parts of the world and across genres.  One year I watched thirty-eight films. This year I am being a very good girl and watching only twenty-one.  I have a well-set process by which I go about organising myself around the festival.

1- I get the programme and go through all the films. Mark the ones I want to see. The first wish list usually has fifty to sixty films on it. That is impossible to do-even if I camp out on Queen Street.

2- So I cull the list keeping films that might not come back through theatrical release, are interesting documentaries, big name works that I have to see, the HOMEGROWN section of short films and Asian films. (I love Korean cinema and Japanese animation.)

3- I co-ordinate screening sessions with my ‘free’ time which means I might have to drop a film or two.

4- I buy tickets.

Industry guild members get discounts hence so do I, being a member of the NZ Writers Guild (and Women In Film And Television, NZ).

Have just come back from the HOMEGROWN WORKS ON FILM session. Tonight I will watch TEZA.

Last night I saw John Woo’s RED CLIFF, the international version. Thoroughly enjoyed it. Apart from the blockbusting spectacle (and some corny moments in the script), it was the male star cast that drew me to it. I am a huge fan of Tony Leung. He is always such a pleasure to watch on screen.  A fine actor and a good looking man. Then of course there are the gorgeous Takeshi Kaneshiro and Chang Chen.

So ithas been a good start. Reiterating the magic of movies; why I do what I do; the art and craft of storytelling. Sitting in the dark theatre as the titles come on and reels unroll. The start of my annual indulgence until 25 July 2009. That night I’ll close it THE GOLD RUSH on live music.

The music in my life

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To keep it brief-there has been such an outpouring of emotion over Michael Jackson’s death-there is nothing more I can say.

Just that growing up in Bombay, India, in the eighties, MJ was my first exposure to seeing a black American singer on stage. I know the politics and the power structure of that now. Why it is important to have with us the music of Michael Jackson and Prince. It is a reminder of the need for representation and to reiterate your place in the world. Through visibility, music and storytelling. Michael Jackson did what a lot of African American singers before him could not do. Not even Isaac Hayes. Living here in New Zealand I understand that better. Sometimes I wonder if we Indians are ever going to get that kind of music that goes beyond the purity of Lata Mangeshkar. No doubt that Lata is the Nightingale of India and her contribution to popular (and classical) Indian culture is immense but I crave for the complexity and ambiguity that talks about current India. Globalisation, aspiration, poverty, fanaticism and spirituality. I hope it will happen one day-for in my gloom and looking at videos on Youtube that is all I can think of. So in conclusion here is the video of the theme music from SHAFT (Issac Hayes) and MJ doing his version of Ain’t No Sunshine. RIP. Love always.

Respect.

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Fifteen days into the new year and I read about the resolutions everyone has made. I haven’t made any. One day is the same as another right? One year is the same as another except that we get older…and wiser perhaps? 2008 was an interesting year for me personally. A lot happened. I travelled quite a bit and started this blog amongst other things. My road trip over NYE 2008 was the most liberating experience of them all. It all started with my need to just be alone and reflect. Not necessarily at my Vipassana centre. So I planned the trip. Sort of.

31/12/08

I pack my car boot with my tent, sleeping bag, lots of food, walking shoes, hiking boots, my plastic Bata chappals Bata Sandak(that only ‘maids’  wear, according to my desi friends), my jandals, warm clothes, summer clothes, swimming togs, ‘brolly and a big bottle of sunscreen. Got the map, lots of cds, cassette tapes, the petrol tank is full, checked the pressure in the tyres, two cameras, mobile phone, charger, batteries, flashcards and water. It is 2.45ish. I am heading to Waharau Regional Park on the south-east of Auckland, just on the other side of the Hunua Ranges. It is a ninety minute drive and I don’t want to risk NYE traffic headed wherever on the highway. I have checked out all my routes over Google Maps and Google Earth. I know exactly where I am going. I am pleasantly surprised to find complete absence of traffic. Maybe people have left in the morning? The weather is glorious. I look forward to camping out by myself. Never heard of Waharau before I called Auckland Regional Council to book a place at Awhitu Regional Park past Manukau. It is full they say but there is space at Waharau. Yeah cool I say. Costs $10 to stay overnight. I am game to change of plan and easy with a different location. Isn’t life about things never going according to plan? So I drive along, excited. Along highway 2 , taking the Mangatangi exit towards Kaiaua,through pastoral New Zealand. Suddenly…JFC!!!!! The water shows up on the horizon Beckoning from afar. I can’t wait to get to Waharau. It is now about 5pm. The Auckland Regional Council booking office emailed me a code for the padlock on the gates to the camping grounds. I struggle to pen it until this dude comes along and rescues me. He has to go in too. (I like being rescued by handsome dudes, I tell myself. Maybe some damsel-in-distress situations might hit bullseye in 2009?) Once inside a find a place to set up the tent, put it up and go for a walk/hike-a short one. I want to get back and read. I take more photos and think. That is all I will do through my road trip. Take photos and think. Take photos and think. Or read or drive. I like it that I don’t have to work so I can think about anything else but work. Just dreamin’, that’s what I do as I walked through the bush marvelling at the ferns and the various reproductive systems of them. Spores 🙂 I get back to the tent, eat leftover fried rice I’d carried with me and lay back on the chatai to read. It is still daylight and very quiet. Other campers do fry-ups, play badminton and listen to music. Suddenly the sun goes down and it becomes cool. I get inside by sleeping bag, within the womb of the tent, and fall asleep right away.

1/01/09

The new year has begun. It is 6.30am, the sun shines, the birds tweet, the world is up and getting about. I pack up the tent, slap on the sunscreen and head out. It is a big day and I have to reach Waitomo before 11.30 to begin my Blackwater Rafting adventure at 12 noon. I have never driven so far out of Auckland on my own.  I just don’t know how long it will take me to get to the other side of the country. So back on highway1 past Ngaruawahia on to highway 29. That is a good short cut because going through Hamilton takes up more time. It is hot and I am hungry. I have not really had breakfast so I keep munching on baby carrots, plums, bird food (my healthy mixture of pumpkin and sunflower seeds roasted with red chilli powder), drink heaps of water and hope to reach Waitomo on time. New Zealand is such an interesting country. You can go from the east coast to the west coast in just a few hours. You can see hills and dales and treacherous country all at once.  It shines bright under the sun, without the ozone layer. I reach Otorohanga. No time to check out the town but I do notice the flower baskets hanging outside the shops and a big sign that says Kiwiana with a picture of the Buzzy Bee.  I keep on driving until I reach Waitomo.

I feel like Indiana Jones coming out of the caves. I have plunged into cold water, jumped off waterfalls, floated along underground streams, banged my helmeted head against stalagmites and wondered at the surreal beauty of the glow worms. Green things seeming to hang and glow from…ummm… nothing! No sfx can create this! Now it is time to go for a walk in the bush.  No rush to reach New PLymouth. It takes tow and a half hours from Waitomo with plenty of daylight. Besides, I don’t want to drive in the heat. The first day of the year and it is unbearably hot. That is the sign of a good summer? The bush is cool and soothing.

Back on highway 3 I am cruisin’. Faraway pine trees stand out in a silhouette on the horizon towards Awakino. Until I get my first, fleeting glimpse of the Tasman Sea. I gasp. OMG! The drive is curvy now. I really must pay attention to the road but I also want to see the Tasman Sea again. As if in answer to my prayer I only see water from Awakino onwards. The Tasman Sea is so different from the Pacific Ocean. One is blue and deceptively calm, the other full of waves and froth. I stop at Mokau for a stretch.  From here through Urenui onwards there is no break until New Plymouth. I have to cross the gorge and go through steep roads in the  mountains. I am tired and a big tanker tailgates me. I don’t understand drivers that tailgate. Why? Especially if the next bend says 25k and you are on my arse wanting me to go faster. I don’t want to die dude.

Kraftwerk play on the cd. AU-TO-BAH-NNNN. Electronic music on the New Zealand highway. Yeah! I also recommend Latin Jazz and of course good old Hindi films songs. Mere haathon mein nau nau chudiyan hai…reverberate through the mountains, pile on the colour. I see Sridevi do her thing 🙂 The tanker still breathes down my neck. I am mad at it but road rage is a tool for the impatient. I am going to learn to be patient this year. It is not a new year’s resolution exactly but….

2/01/09

New Plymouth. I am at my flatmate’s parents home. I was meant to go for a hike on Mt Taranaki Egmont. The weather is shite. So Jennifer, my flatmate’s mum and I go into town.  To Puke Ariki, the museum cum library (on the other side). The Maori section is well laid out. I like museums and art galleries. Something about the past, something about the future..It is windy and raining. The New Plymouth waterfront is pretty cool. Better than the Auckland waterfront-any day. So far I have seen the Wellington waterfront and the NP waterfront and both are better than Auckland. There is just no character to the Auckland waterfront. The apartment buildings are un-aesthetic monstrosities and one can’t take a walk along the ocean anyway. There is a great coastal walkway in NP.  The buildings are interesting too. That apart NP is a small town. I can’t imagine living here. Only five cinema theatres. That is a good reason for my mental death. All establishments are closed too-this second day of 2009. Everyone is on a summer holiday. We go back home and I take a siesta.

It is still early in the day to just layabout. I go back into town and to Govett-Brewster Art Gallery. The home of Len Lye. Entry is free. Unlike Auckland where we have to pay to get into the museum and the art gallery. I guess the scale and scope are different? I mean I have to pay to see some exhibits at National Gallery Of Victoria, Melbourne but I have to pay to get into Auckland Art Gallery, period.

Later that I go to Pukekura Park for the Festival Of Lights. Overflow, a rock group, plays cover versions. Not quite the head banging I expected, yet… It is an open, free event for families. Only in New Zealand can you see groups of people bringing out their mats and picnic blankets, smiling and giving space to each other.. There are babies in prams and hyperactive little girls who sing loudly to all cover versions of AC/DC. Or is it Metalhead? I have seen rock nerds in movies but for the first time ever I see them in real life. Middle-aged men, some balding,  do the air guitar and head banging oblivious to everyone else. It is sweet and funny. I go closer to the stage. They have their wives/partners and indulgent kids singing along too. Good on them!

3/01/09

The weather still Scheiße. It will be worse on the mountain. So I stay put and read my book. ‘The World Is Flat’ by Thomas Friedman. I am bored by the avo. There has got to be something to do! It is not raining any more but the sun continues to hide behind the clouds. I drive to Oakura. I want to get into the water. Surf’s up as the wind blows and the flags are close to each other. I stare at the grey water. WTF! I change into my togs, slap on sunscreen and dive into it with the boogie board. The water is surpringly warm and every time I get out of the water the cold wind bites  into my skin. Still…

4/01/09

Early morning in the ‘Naki. It is a bright, beautiful sunny day. Just as I had prayed for the previous night. You can’t come to New Plymouth and not go up the mountain ya? It is my last day this side of Aotearoa. I want to get back into my work in Auckland tomorrow. And I am going to get my wish of going hiking on Mt Taranaki Egmont. I pack my stuff into the car, bid farewell to Jennifer and Peter and drive towards the mount as it summons me. Towards Egmont village I proceed. Suddenly-the mountain looms large. OMG! How beautifully imposing is that? Not quite as majestic as the Himalayas yet regal in its own way. I can’t wait to get up and go on my hike. It is a winding road towards the Egmont Visitor Centre, through Egmont National Park.

You have to take all precautions when going on an adventure. If the weather is bad, don’t do it; if the conditions are treacherous, don’t do it. Stick to the designated path. Equip yourself with water, food, suncreen, proper shoes, protective gear…the sun drops down here and it becomes cool. Etc. I go into the visitor centre and enter my details in ‘the book’. Just in case I get lost they know where I went and what time. In case the situation is dire they know whom to contact.

A friend of my flatmate who is a regular on Mt Taranaki Egmont has suggested the Maketawa Hut Loop. First through the bush towards the hut where one can stay overnight or more, up towards the summit but not quite and then back down a gravel path made for 4-wheel drives. I love walking in the bush. This vegetation is so ancient, it whispers secrets I can’t decipher. I can peek up at the summit as I tramp on. The clouds form a curtain around it. When I was at the foot of the Kanchenjunga in Pelling, West Sikkim, the mountain was swaddled by clouds. A local told me then that she (the mountain is a deity for the locals) would reveal herself only when she wanted to.  Past Maketawa Hut, into the sparse new vegetation so different from the bush, I climb in hope the volcanic deity will reveal himself to me. (This mount is a man ya?) But nah. Not this time. I take photos, chat with other hikers (so many Germans…) and go down the gravel road. At least I had an adventure. Now to drive back to Auckland.

On my way home I stop at Otorohanga for a quick visit to the Kiwi House and for the first time ever see a live Kiwi bird. Very cute.

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I am back.  I realise that I am such an integral part of this world, this universe. I have the power and ability to make change, to sustain resources, to make sure I leave behind a beautiful, peaceful world for those after me-however transient everyone’s journey on this earth. Respect of and immersion into this universe, the laws of nature is what will make it a better place. Peace. Now to make some money.

Frogs In A Pond-1

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Raj Thakeray has done it again! We, the Marathi people, dither between agreeing with the ‘Mumbai-being-taken-over-by-the-North-Indians’ idea and abhorring the methodology of getting rid of them. Before I pontificate there are a few things to clear. My current city of residence is Auckland, New Zealand. I choose to live here. My hometown is Bombay/Mumbai. I am a daughter-of-the-soil. Hardcore. My grandfather was born in Bombay in 1899. He was a municipal corporator in the Bombay Municipal Corporation in the first post-independence elections. There is a street junction named after him. My father was involved with the Sanyukta Maharashtra movement. I was born in Bombay/Mumbai and have lived almost all my life in the family home at Girgaum (where my grandfather lived since 1928). I also spent some years in Dadar. Both Maharashtrian enclaves. Most of my family and friends live in Bombay/Mumbai. Serious, white collar middle-class. Yes. Mee Marathi. I belong to the state of Maharashtra; I am a Bombayite, Mumbaikar. But it is only one part of my identity; of who I am. In this post-globalised world, where mobility and migration are taken for granted, I am many things; I have multiple identities.

Unfortunately, like all fundamentalists, Raj Thakeray believes in the concept of a singular identity. He also believes in fanning the insecurity of his own people to enable his rise to power. How visionary is that? To generate fear in your own people; to take them backwards and create hatred for other people because they are ‘taking over’? Why just him, the government of Maharashtra has abdicated its responsibility towards its people in the name of populism and with an eye on the next state and Lok Sabha (general) elections. Raj wants power, the government wants to get back into power, they both want to eliminate Uddhav Thakeray from the race…so why not sacrifice Mumbai Aai, Mother Mumbai? She does not have a voice anyway. I am intimate with many of those bang in the middle of this madness. All sons and daughters of Maharashtra. The lone voice of sanity I spoke to and who can possibly take action is also relatively helpless because there are forces she cannot control. Such an emotive issue this is. If I was in Girgaum at this moment the discussion would be all about the bhaiyyas who ran away back to North India. Jai Maharashtra!

Instead I am going to try and analyse the problem. Purely from the point of view if being a migrant, from being a Bombayite and a generally opinionated person 🙂 It is very complex from my p-o-v and not just about North Indian migrants. It is about the Indian democracy, the bureaucracy, the attitude of the Indian public to democracy; it is about caste, community, culture, aspirational values, money and the Indian politicians.

In a crazy, chaotic, multilingual, multicultural democracy like India where Indians can travel to and live in any part of the country it becomes more complicated. There are bound to be tensions and problems within the diversity and between people of different states. Such is the structure of India.

Those North Indians that come to Bombay are ready to do any job and work any number of hours and anywhere in the city. They come because there is absolute poverty in their states. Maharashtrians on the other hand rarely travel outside Maharashtra. I generalise here because even within Maharashtra there are regional differences. The Kokanis, those from Vidarabha, from Pune-side etc etc.  But we Maharashtrians are relativey unambitious, unadventurous, keeping our heads down, nine-five kind of people. Many of us are lazy too. And we complain a lot. On the positive side we have great wit, humour, theatrical traditions and we are a progressive, socialist kind of people who treat women well. Of course there will be friction.

Then there is the lack of infrasctructure in Bombay. The state ignored her, the centre ignored her and the people-the locals-the sons and daughters of the soil showed no sense of ownership. That Bombay has problems of gigantic proportions is not new. How much can one milk a strip of land made from seven islands along the Arabian Sea? There is no place for expansion, there is the Land Ceiling Act (now repealed) and greedy politicians who don’t love the city. Rarely have the people of Mumbai protested against all this. Oh there have been bandhs and rail rokos and other kinds of mob protests against the ruling government (and mostly instigated by Shiv Sena) but not a civil discussion about how things can change/should be changed. Democracy in India is about ‘civil disobedience’ and this civil disobedience is about riots and vandalism; about beating up people. We lack a sense of history and heritage as well.

That money rules Mumbai is also not new. How many Maharashtrians can afford a place in their own city? How many Maharashtrian ‘developers’ exist? (That Raj Thakeray and Manohar Joshi are developing the Kohinoor Mill Compound in Dadar is interesting-wonder who many ‘marathi mansa’ will be able to afford flats there?) Besides the city has always been built ad hoc. None of the old textile mill compounds now being developed have allowed for green spaces or to accomodate redundant textile mill workers and their families-who incidentally are part of the mobs that Raj incites. They look at the highrises and resent the outsiders. It is human nature. Even I get irritated at the Marwaris that are now buying the chawls in Girgaum and converting them to ‘vegetarian only’ building societies. Only because they have the money to buy prime South Bombay land.

Also we Mumbaikars have rarely tried to own our city. It is always someone else’s fault. The bhaiyyas now sell fresh fish door to door because the native fisherfolk of Mumbai don’t do it any more. Their young ones are now at university. That is just how the social order changes with time. When the Shiv Sena was ruling the state after the 1992-93 riots, ‘the boys’ were given licences and permits to run their street food stalls. Pav Bhaji, Vada Pav, Chai…the staple diet of the man on the street and employment for ‘the boys’-the locals. All Mumbaikars know and I have it from the mouth of those-that-pay-obeisance-to-the-Thakerays ‘the boys’ rented these food stalls to others (South and North Indians) and are back to being unemployed. That is how the social order is maintained ya? Through laziness. So that ‘the boys’ can hang out at the galli nakas and be ready to beat up anyone at the drop of a hat. Now that is hard work!

Because Indian democracy is crazy the way it is and the bureaucracy and politicians deliberately maintain the divide between them and the ‘common man’, the regular citizen is unable to engage with the powers-that-be. On the other hand we common citizens merely vote and leave the rest to the government thinking it is the government’s job to make things happen. It is a bad situation. And then we have those that are the frogs in a pond. Those who never get the bigger picture because all they want is power and money. Like all Indian politicians.

(There’s more to come in another blog.)

What I learnt in Melbourne

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This blog is long overdue. I know the elections of the world are around the corner and the elections of this little country called New Zealand are on 8th November…there is much happening everywhere. The ‘ethnics’ in South Auckland are unhappy with the way their problems are being handled. Deliberate ghettoisation and fragementation of communitites, pitting one against the other…as a friend mentioned. Hmmm…now where have we heard it before? Divide and rule? Anyway, there is much to write about if I want to. Elections are always exciting times but really I leave it to the experts. I know I will vote and for whom I am going to vote. Then maybe I shall make noise another day. This blog is about my trip top Melbourne almost a month ago. What with crashing hard drives and looming deadlines it has been tough to find time to blog. I want to discpline myself and blog at least once in fifteen days…maybe after the elections?

Right now it is all about what I learnt in Melbourne. I love Melbourne. This was my fourth trip to the city. I love hanging out at Federation Square, taking the local public transport-bus/train/tram to different parts of the city and just walking in CBD. I love sitting by the Yarra on South Bank and see the world go by. Yeah I love Melbourne. This time I encountered a very interesting person with a very interesting family history that is deeply connected to the world of Indian cinema. It is not a story that I can tell-yet. All I can say is that I was privileged to see the private collection of a person that brought out fond childhood memories for me. Those days of watching ChhayaGeet/Chitrahaar on Doordarshan and Sunday evening Hindi films when that was the only entertainment in good old India. Might sound boring now but looking back I think it gave us (or at least me) a sense of history. That is why when I saw this collection of pictures, photographs and movies I knew how important this story is and why it needs to be told. A story that spans continents and is full of high drama. A story that is like a typical masala Hindi film with action, emotion, drama, comedy, tragedy, romance, colonialism…get the gist? A story that has affected the lives of the most unlikely people. I know, intriguing. But in today’s time when the meaning of ‘Bollywood’ is usurped by capitalists and those-that-want-us-to-be-exotic or those-that-want-us-to-consume only, when you don’t know where you come from this identity-defining story can give the shivers. I then looked up Youtube for old Hindi film videos and-thanks to those passionate people out there who have uploaded absolute gems. Remember this song from ACCHUT KANYA? Did we get bored of this on ChhayaGeet or what? Now I taught it to my nieces. This story also has the strangest connection to a British music composer of Indian origin. To digress a bit there is this generation of musicians in the UK who have been inspired by Indian film music. Stuff that teens today may not know that comes from way back. Just one example. This song from the film YAHUDI made by Sohrab Modi (Minerva Movietone) was remixed by Nitin Sawhney for THE NAMESAKE into a completely different context and it worked!

I also saw an amazing exhibition at the National Gallery of Victoria. This place never fails to surprise me. Last time I visited Melbourne I saw the Guggenheim Collection and this trip I got a glimpse of Art Deco from all over Europe, from America and also Australia and New Zealand. I love Art Deco. There are many buildings in Bombay inspired by the concept. Heritage structures that might not survive if Raj Thakeray and other forces have their rule over the city. Anyway I did not know that Art Deco had a nationalist basis and in spite of being called only decorative, I could see the colonialism in the concept too. The Egyption inspired Cartier jewels and the Japanese inspired furniture, the African inspired clothes…then France had a major Art Deco exhibtion in Paris in 1925. This confirmed France’s place in the world as a premier ‘arts’ nation.

The streets of Melbourne are so vibrant and multicultural that it sort of belies the ‘White Australia’ that is portrayed in the Australian media. It may not be officially so now but television in Australia is all about blokes and big haired blondes that speak and behave ‘Stralian’. There is no place for other migrants that may have built the nation. Apparently Melbourne has the highest number of Greeks outside of Greece. But do we see them on the telly?  Or so many Italians that live in Melbourne? The culture on television is all ‘Anglo’ and ‘Stralian’. In Auckland, on a daily basis, I see Maori every where. I see them on television too. On the ‘white’ channels and on Maori Televivion but I saw maybe two aborigines just once on my first trip to Melbourne. Shuffling through the streets, in rags and smelling of alcohol; a defeated attitude to them. This is what Australia has done to her natives. I saw them and was struck with guilt for my middle class, post-colonial existence that allows me an education and mobility across the world. I wonder if third world migrants to Australia ever think of the aborigines or how systematic suppression, racism and colonialism has destroyed one of the oldest peoples in the world?

I try and learn something new everyday. I learnt on my various trips to Melbourne how all the people of the world are connected to each other and to the past. What happens in one part of the world affects people somewhere else maybe decades later. What the Western world does to stay in power, what parochial politics does to local people has resonance somewhere else. We may have our cultures, religions and languages; we may have our countries but we have this world, this universe and sisterhood first.