Democracy on the ropes...

Zdravstvoytye iz Bishkek! Greetings from Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan! As most of you know I have been settled here for about a month here in lovely, green Bishkek, the capitol city of this mountainous Central Asian republic. Lots to catch up on, so here we go....

Last Saturday, May 27th, I observed a political demonstration in the central Ala-Too Square (named after the majestic 4000+meter Ala-Too mountain range looming over the city to the south (Ala-Too means colorful mountains)). The demonstration was organized by the main opposition parties to the current governing party run by President Bakiev and Prime Minister Kulov, who came to power after the March 24th "Tulip" Revolution of 2005. The revolution ousted the former President Akayev, whose initially democratic and reform-minded tenure in office, which began following the collapse of the Soviet Union, soon became very corrupt. Akayev used his power to enrich his family and cronies, and even siphoned off all of the 'rent money' paid by the Pentagon for the use of the nearby Manas air base by the U.S. Air Force, including the jet fuel revenues which he sold at triple the market rate. Thank your senators for that fine waste of U.S. taxpayer money. Sick of their corrupt government, reform-minded activists and other political opportunities took to the streets, starting in the southern cities like Osh, and soon the streets of Bishkek boiled over with revolution. Akayev and many of his cronies were chased out of the Kyrgyz "White House" and out of the country, with few casualties fortunately, but quite a bit of looting of businesses perceived to be owned by Akayev's family. Internationally monitored elections brought a new regime to power with high hopes for real democratic and economic reforms, elimination of endemic corruption, and a crackdown on rising ethnic mafias that operate in different regions of the country. So it goes in the Who's ode to revolution, Won't Get Fooled Again, "Meet the new boss, same as the old boss." So it goes in Kyrgyzstan. Newly-elected President Bakiev's government has been achingly slow to implement much needed reforms, and indeed seems to be taking over Akayev's corruption racket quite handily. Bakiev's son now owns a monopoly cement enterprise, and Bakiev has links to some very shady criminal figures, including the recently murdered Kyrgyz crime boss Ryspek Atkembaev, who was living under Presidential protection at Bakiev's retreat at Lake Issyk Kul. It was a professional hit in broad daylight in front of a mosque near Bishkek. Rumors of suspects and motives have been swirling around freely in the central asian conspiracy vortex, but most are certain the real answer will not be found, just as investigations into the deaths of several parliamentarians last year have been stifled by the government. Amidst this political chaos, there is still some hope. There is a free press, though Bakiev has been threatening to shut down the main indepedent media company, Pyramid Media. And there is an organized opposition and well-established civil society as well. And most people I've spoken with do not trust this president more than the last one and ardently wish for change, but as well most people just want to make a better living than what's available now. The gap between the wealthy elite and the rest of the country is quite stark, and Kyrgyzstan does not share the same natural resource wealth (i.e. oil and gas) that is greatly improving the lives of their Kazakh cousins to the north, who don't enjoy nearly as many political freedoms as the Kyrgyz.
So as the first anniversary of the Tulip Revolution came and went with few discernable changes, it is easy to understand why apathy toward politics has begun to spread. Despite this, tens of thousands have come out in support of the "For Reform" opposition rallies on April 29th and May 27th of this year. Fears of violence by agitators trying to hurt the image of the movement and provoke harsh responses by government forces never materialized at either event. Instead they were quite festive events, with the usual blustery political speeches, along with some entertaining songs, poetry and prose mocking the current administration. As well there was a large diversity of supporters, young and old, earnest university activists and concerned world war II veterans. Finally a list of demands for the government was announced at the end of the rally, which can be viewed here .
I met a young lawyer from the Justice Department whose uncle was a parliamentarian and guest speaker at the rally. He spent time studying in the United States and expressed awe and respect for the American judicial and political system. Flawed as it is at times, he knew it was something his country should strive to achieve. I asked him if he thought the rally that day was a success and he said, "Maybe. We cannot have more demonstrations with no results. The people will become frustrated, and maybe again, they will march on the White House..."

A Kyrgyz armored vehicle parked in Ala-too Square. The Kyrgyz government tried to block the opposition rally on the square by proclaiming the same day the Army and National Guard Day Parade will be held, though the holidays were actually several days later. Fortunately, the government relented and allowed the rally instead.

Reform supporters... with cool shades...


A sign on a port-o-let asking President Bakiev's son Max, 'what about cement for the people!"

Never too early for civic education in Central Asia!

The local free press getting into the action.

A young journalist with Pyramid Media getting the message from the people.

"No Room for Max!" the President's son suffers at the hands of another slogan...


It was hot, but not too hot to keep the oldtimers away from cheering on democracy.


The wide view of Ala-Too Square, with the Erkindik (Freedom in Kyrgyz) statue and the National Museum providing the backdrop.

More pensioners out in support of democratic reform. Some wore their military medals. The traditional hat they wear is called a kalpak.
More photos of the rally here...

Goat Carcass Polo-Feel the Excitement!

After I inquired repeatedly about attending an ulak-tartysh match, or Kyrgyz polo (called buzkashi in Tajikistan and northern Afghanistan), my girlfriend’s driver, Asanbek, finally alerted us to an upcoming game on Saturday at the Gippodrom on the western edge of Bishkek. Asanbek is a wise and jovial Kyrgyz man, but despite having earned a Ph.D. in Agronomy, he chose to take up the more lucrative profession of driving taxis in Bishkek. Asanbek kindly escorted us to the match, though he seldom attended them himself. I was personally relieved to find out he would join us at the stadium. After hearing stories about this violent sport, especially the more chaotic version of buzkashi in Tajikistan, where the rushing tide of riders often spills over the sidelines and into the crowd, I was preparing myself for vodka-fueled mayhem both on and off the pitch.

As we found our seats in the far end of the stadium away from the packed center section, I soon realized this might be a more civilized event than I imagined. Alcohol was not permitted as far as I could tell, and a family atmosphere prevailed. In fact, so many kids swarmed about the railing along the field, one poor policeman had the unenviable job of clearing them off, only to watch them swarm back minutes later at the other end. Soon the drama along the fence line was overshadowed by a sudden burst of cheers and whistles from the crowd as two horses broke into view and raced along the near side of the pitch, one sporting a male rider and the other a female rider. The male rider took a staggered start behind the female rider and his goal was to catch her before she crossed the baseline of the pitch at the other end. According to tradition, if the male rider catches the woman, then he has won the right to kiss her. This race was repeated going the other direction, but the man took a head start this time. If the woman catches him this time, she earns the right to slap him on the face with her horsewhip. Of course this was only a dramatization of a nomadic tradition, but the crowd cheered them on with abandon as if they all came today just to see the guy get whipped in the face. And today our bloodthirsty crowd was not let down, and our male rider went home with a stylish welt across his cheek.

Soon the two teams took the field, riding single file towards the centerline from opposite ends. This was a big match-up featuring two of the top ulak teams in Kyrgyzstan, and the stakes couldn't be higher. Of course pride and honor was on the line, but so was a cache of Chinese-made televisions, DVD players and portable stereos for the winning team. In other countries, the victor's spoils include silk cloaks, cash and guns. The riders then streamed toward the far side of the pitch and arrayed themselves by team facing the crowd. As each rider was introduced, his horse stepped out front then quickly stepped back into line as applause rang out. In short order the starting teams took to the field while the substitutes stayed saddled on the far sidelines.

The ball, or "boz", in this case was a goat carcass, though at times calf or sheep carcasses are used depending on what's available. Ancient lore says the the game was introduced when Genghis Khan ruled the Central Asian steppes, but instead of a goat carcass, human carcasses were used instead, something that was in no short supply once Genghis and his boys visited your town. For our match here in modern day Bishkek, one lucky goat was selected the day before the match and slaughtered, having it's head and lower legs cut off and the stumps sewn up tight. Next, the carcass is soaked in cold water for 24 hours to toughen it up. At kickoff time the carcass is dropped in the center of the pitch and upon the ref's signal, two herds of pumped-up riders converge on the carcass as each team attempts to take possession of the boz. This is where the acrobatics and feats of strength begin, because the rider must reach down and pick up this 50-80 lb. lump of flesh, pull it up and hold it with one hand, with the horse whip in mouth and the other hand on the reins while trying to ride toward the opponents goal as other riders smashed and rammed into him.

Of course, no fists or elbows can be thrown intentionally, but there is no way to stop such motions in the maelstrom of man, horse, saddle, dirt, goat, snorting, grabbing, tugging, straining and whipping. Broken noses, tenderized faces, broken arms and legs, occasionally death by trampling are all risks these riders face with only padded shorts, athletic tape and WWII-era pilot helmets as protection. Mercifully, nobody died for a DVD player today, but we did see one poor rider sitting in the ambulance holding up a badly mangled hand as a doctor attempted to apply a splint. He should at least get a Wung Shi CD player for his sacrifice.

Essentially, the game is quite simple. The winning team is the one who scores the most points by dropping or tossing the boz into the opponents goal, which is a raised circular pit made of dirt, reinforced with car tires. But the speed, the brutality, the incredible feats of strength and horse riding skills all combine to make it one hell of a sport to watch. It's a real adrenaline rush to stand along the fence at the center line and feel the pounding of the hooves, hear the grunts and screams of the riders and horses alike, and see the sweat and dirt kicked up as the rider holding the boz is able to break free from the congealed scrum and dash down the sideline toward glory. Basically, if you like rugby, polo, football, rodeo and ultimate fighting, you’ll love ulak.

For more pictures of the goat-tastic action, click here.

24 hours in Istanbul

Our 24 hours in Istanbul was a tantalizing appetizer of this amazing city. Thanks to our jet-lagged bodies and brains, we managed to only find time to explore the Sultanahmet area, which contains the iconic Blue Mosque and it's elder sibling, the Hagia Sofia Mosque. Standing in between both mosques, both during the day and especially at night is truly breathtaking. It's especially nice to eat dinner and sipping Turkish wine at the Cozy Cafe on the top floor while gazing at the majestic Blue Mosque lit up at night under a full moon. But be sure to take at least 4 or 5 days to explore the buzzing bazaars and neighborhoods of Istanbul, and be very careful with the taxi drivers, especially in front of the Hagia Sofia. One of them took us on the classic 'too much traffic, we go the other way' route which double the price, then tried to pull the old switcheroo by taking our 50 Lire note and showing us a 5 Lire note saying we gave too little. Yet it was so obvious my verbal lashing made him give it back immediately. But we won't let this scoundrel ruin our memories of Stambouli, we shall return!
More photos here...

Life and Death in Banaras, Part II

Doms, people of the undertaker caste, prepare a corpse for cremation by first soaking it with Ganges river water, at the Manikarnika Ghat, Varanasi.

Just before sunrise at Assi Ghat, Varanasi.

Sunrise at Assi Ghat, Varanasi. (for amazing photos of Varanasi, see Steve Plattner's gallery.


On March 7th, one week after I left the amazing city of Varanasi, several bomb blasts ripped through the Cantt train station and the Sankat Mochan Hanuman temple near Assi Ghat. I was at or near both bomb sites just a week earlier. The line between life and death in this ancient city is blurred beyond belief. Twenty or more people died from these blasts, allegedly linked to terrorists trying to sow the seeds of communal violence between Hindus and Muslims. So far the good people of Banaras have united and resisted this cynical plan. My thoughts and prayers go out to Banarsis and hope to return again soon to share in their joy for life.

Life and Death in Banaras

2.26.06 Varanasi
Well, my time in India is almost at an end. My posts have been few and far between this month. Part of the reason is that internet is not as pervasive as we're used to, and part of the reason is that life here is too interesting to want to take a digital break. I've immensely enjoyed my recent adventures: careening across the Punjabi plains in a rattletrap govt. bus, gazing upon the awe-inspiring Golden Temple of Amritsar, bathed in lights and the full moonlight; paragliding in Pakistan with a former pakistani paratrooper; seeing firsthand the incalculable destruction of the Kashmir Quake in Balakot, where 3 out of 4 citizens were buried alive, where the stories of the survivors inspire dread and amazement; skiing down the carve-ariffic slopes of Petalsu amidst the humbling and drool inducing jagged peaks of the Upper Kullu Valley Himalayas; dancing the night away to the non-stop Bharati folk tunes at the Iceland Hotel with India's future generation of ski bums; dipping in the scalding hot temple bath at Vashisht; and eating the best food in the world, every day.
And I can't say yet if I'm ready to return. So many new sensations and impressions. India cannot be understood until you walk down the dusty alleyways, hopping over the piles of fresh cow dung, through the putrid clouds of open sewers, relieved by the clouds of sweet incense, assaulted by the onslaught of lawless traffic, unrelenting horn blasts and bell clangs, avoiding oncoming or road-blocking water buffalo, numb to the million voices trying to hook you into their scheme: "Hello Sir" and "Rickshaw sir" and "Which country from sir?" and "You need boat ride?" and "hello friend, where you going friend?" never ceasing, day or night. The loudspeakers blaring hindu prayers, sikh prayers, muslim prayers, politicians prayers, lottery prayers. The air pollution, sometimes downright head-shrinking, the Karachi kough, the dust-filled nostrils, the dried out eyeball shredding contacts, the sense of dread. Haven't even really talked about the grinding poverty, in your face, hand reached out, "two rupees sir," then fingers clamped in a feeding motion to the mouth, big white eyes peering up at you through the dark grime on their faces, the filth in their ratty unkempt hair, some offer puja candles on the ghats, some do back handsprings for your delight, some do nothing but look like the world will never give them a chance in their short miserable lives. how can i shut them out, all of them? but you do, you have to in order to survive. you can only offer prayer, some kind of loving smile, maybe play with them a bit to take their minds off everything.
Yet everywhere you look simultaneously there are reasons to smile... joyful schoolkids playing cricket in any open space they can secure, colors, colors everywhere, bright green and yellow sarees, orange scarves, royal blue veils, purple bougainvillea blossoms, orange marigold garlands, white tikka powder on the dark sahhu's forhead, glorious magenta varanasi sunrises, sapphire blue Ganges (from afar, up close it looks rather chunky with green algae blooms along the shore), awe-inspiring himalayan peaks, massive stone teeth dark blue sky, coated in a mantel of glorious, river feeding, scorching plains quenching snow, the red turbans of the holy men lining the galis of godoulia, and the rows of red carrots punctuating the sea of colors along the food stall street. The cacophonous symphony of voices uttering prayers ad nauseum in between foundation shaking gong blasts in the Tibetan Buddhist Temple at Sarnath, the site of the Buddhas first sermons. The simple joy of crunching a fiery hot pani puri in your mouth, and the sublime joy of sharing the Havla with good friends at the gurudwara.
This country is so fantastically different from our own, every day lasts a lifetime here. And every day floats in the air, sometimes like the intoxicating, life-giving whiff of jasmine, sometimes like the achingly familiar smell of barbecued flesh swirling around the cremation ghats. Yesterday I sat and watched several bodies get cremated along the Manikarnika Ghat. the charred and stiff outstretched arm of a passed soul quickly grabbed my morbid attention. you could hear the flesh sizzle. you could smell the familiar barbecue flesh smell, like the smell of any chicken or steak you throw on the grill. i may never eat barbeque again. but besides that earth-shattering revelation about the smell of seared flesh, there was something overwhelmingly calm about the whole scene, the grieving families, the immediate sight of a human souls departure from life cycle to another. Today is Shivratri, the Hindu celebration of Lord Shiva's dance of creation, the Tandava. Many hindus will be visiting the temples around this ancient city today, performing puja as they fast all day long and keep vigil at their nearest temple or home lingum shrine. The Shiva Lingum, in case you're not up on your Hindu mythology, is the symbol of his phallus, a symbol of Lord Shiva and his creative and destructive powers and of his power over all other gods. Home versions of the lingum are often in the form of vaguely phallic shaped stone with a basin around to collect the offerings slathered on top or laid about its base. Here are some ways Shiva is honored today:

On the day of Shivratri, the lingam is bathed with the five sacred offerings of a cow, called the panchagavya - milk, sour milk, urine, butter and dung. Thereafter the five foods of immortality - milk, clarified butter, curd, honey and sugar - are placed before the lingam. Dhatura and jati, though poisonous fruits, are believed to be sacred to Shiva and thus offered at his temple. Eleven is considered to be the sacred number of the Lord. Devotees keep a fast (vrat) on Shivratri and observe strict rules, for vardan (boon).

Another way Banarsi's young men (of which there seems to be a bottomless supply) celebrate this holy evening in this holiest of cities is by drinking bhang lassi's (ganja infused milk drinks) and roam about the streets in gleeful packs, singing, cheering, taunting, fondling each other. The ghats and galis become the scene of an intimidating brew of testosterone, cow dung and millions of misquitos and moths. Such was the scene last night around the Assi Ghat, the southern most among Kashi's ghats. Throngs of young men pulsed in the streets, swarmed the steps, danced on the dust and dung covered ghats, and I couldn't move any faster to get up and out of that scene and into the trance-inducing atmospherics of the Dhrupad Mela music festival, one of the finest music festivals I've ever attended. No more than 200 people come in and out of the performance tent perched atop the Tulsidas Ghat, the haunting, shamanic vocals of the dhrupad style, the hypnotic drone of the veena, the tenpura, the sitar, the body-swaying punches and rolls and evershifting rhythms of the tabla drums, inducing deep trances in all listeners, only broken up an hour later by the end of the song or the cackling screech of the rhesus monkeys twirling atop the surrounding buildings. The scene at dawn, with the dying wails of the dhrupad singer ushering in the sun and a new day, the early risers taking their daily bath the ganges, the blast of furnace warmth blowing in from the Gangetic plains, chasing off the evening cool, chasing off the swarms of moths.

India is a visceral experience like no other. It fully deserves a lifetime of exploration, but even then don't expect to understand it. From the Jain priest marching naked down the street with his hair pulled out and his shouting entourage shepharding his barefoot trek across the Jain holylands of Bihar and Uttar Pradesh, to the annoying habit of throwing all the trash out in the streets, in the parks, out their cars, anywhere but the trash bin, if there is one. India seems stuck in time, the Mughal era, the era of Ashok, the era of harrappan dawn. Yet it's moving fast into the future, fumbling and groping and bribing it's way into the modern digital world. A billion people are caught in between, and there are a billion stories to be told. Thanks for sharing the journey.

Catching up...

The following posts are 'catch-up' entries from the past two weeks...

Blog post 1/23/06: Inshallah….

Which means: “God willing…”

“Inshallah in a few minutes we will be landing at Lahore International Airport…” announced the flight attendant on Pakistan International Airways so non-chalantly. ‘Inshallah?’ I asked my neighbor… ‘This is a Boeing 737! There’s no ‘God-willing’ about it, this bird will land!” I demanded… Of course I knew Inshallah was a common part of speech in Muslim countries, but perhaps it was just the beginning of many cultural clashes to come, perhaps many more than in India…
Well, Allah got us down to the ground alright, albeit with a bit of a jolt and bounce routine before we docked at the jetway, and the airport sparkled with that freshly built airport look and smell, making Delhi’s International airport look like a crumbling warehouse well beyond it's prime... and yes, most men here were wearing traditional dress, Shalvar Kamiz, the long pajama top with loose leggings and vest topped off with a woolen vest or jacket, with optional Pashtun-style flat wool cap, or the more decorative Sindhi skull cap. With my slacks and western sportcoat, as formal as i get dressed, I easily stood out as a foreigner, despite my growing beard.
With luggage retrieved and a minimum of security on the way out of the baggage claim(quite surprising considering the unending series of luggage checks, ticket checks, passport checks and patdowns we had to undergo at the Delhi airport) we soon met our Fulbright Pakistan partners and Pakistani SATTP teachers who kindly gave us each a rose, and we were soon shepherded into our awaiting transport. Our Indian teachers were loaded onto a 'Coaster' bus, while Judy, Pat and I were loaded into a small van that would take us to the Pearl Continental HOtel, chosen because it met State Dept.'s standards of security provision. As we drove out of the new airport, onto reasonably well paved and clean streets towards Lahore, through rather posh Cantonments (military housing) with neat and tidy shopping strip malls near the intersections, I still couldn't tell I was Pakistan, aside from the Urdu script adorning the signs. A few km's later we pull into the swanky Pearl Continental and walk into an extravagant atrium lobby (after walking through security screening at the front door) complete with Thai restaurant, upscale shopping mall, gigantic tropical fish tank, palm trees and glass elevators soaring up to the 8th floor, or Executive floor, and as it happened, our floor. Still not sure I was actually in Pakistan, the bellboy pushed open the door to my suite, inserted my card key into the wall mounted key slot, which engaged the power in my room, mood lights flash on, extravagently decorated queen sized bed walkin closet full shower jacuzzi bath bidet marble tiled oak desk hewlett packard flat screen monitor computer internet enabled 26" screen television satellite channels complimentary mini-bar and what song should start pumping out of the stereo as I stroll into this nest of homogenous global executive travel luxury? Why, the Bee Gees hit "More than a Woman!!??" Stunned by this orgy of homogenous global executive travel luxury with a twist of disco, I sat down and turned on the tv, and what is the first channel to pop up on the tv in my first hour in Pakistan? Fox News: George Bush: "Town Hall" Speech at Kansas State University. Where am I? Chicago? Houston? Can't be Lahore, Pakistan... Several free bags of nuts and mango sodas later, I just gave in and savored the luxury, hell, it was paid for! oops, dinner at the Thai restaurant in five minutes...

Oh, a quick bit on the Bush speech and his so-called "Question and Answer" session: Complete Horseshit. Before Q&A began, I was hopeful that it might actual be a real q and a session, with some reasonably critical questions to keep bush on his toes. Hell, here we are with our Teacher Training Project, encouraging critical thinking and questioning of authority in countries where it's not only against tradition, but can be downright life-threatening to do so, yet in one of the free-est societies on earth the GOP/Fox News/Christian Right Corporation has turned our population into a brain-dead flock of sycophantic sheep. And after all, Bush is essentially a lame duck president, he can coast the last few years (just like he's coasted through the first five) and not care about popularity polls, so why not allow a modicum of critical thinking at his public addresses. Not a chance. from the outset the questioners spent their first five minutes gushing about Bush's wonderful policies protecting americans, vomiting up their undying love for him and testifying to his almighty greatness on par with Christ, and then lobbing big fat mushy softball questions for Bush to belt out of his little league park. These willing executioners came up with (or where planted with) such hard-driving questions like how to protect the American Beef industry, how to get support for his failed social security privatization scheme, how it should be every American's patriotic duty to wire-tap themselves and snitch on their neighbors, etc., etc., etfreakingcetera. I was shocked, I was pissed, I was just utterly befuddled as to how dumb and robotic so many Americans have become under this administration. Don't these lobotomized republican patsies realize how much hatred of America Bush has stirred up around the world. It has reached historic levels. Bush has single-handedly made us more unpopular in the world than at any time in our history. Never before have so many people hated us. Well done, well done. That takes a lot of effort, thanks for all your sweat and toil on our behalf George. Maybe it took leaving America to realize how Orwellian our country has become. Inauguration Day in January 2009 cannot come any faster. Allah help us.

1/24/06 – fear and loathing in Lahore…
woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head…walked to the window and pulled back the curtains to reveal… yes, I’m in Pakistan…. Haze, palm trees, minarets in the distance, the wailing calls to prayer floating on the polluted morning breezes blowing along the old Mall Road...

As I stride toward the front door of our grand hotel, slightly nervous to tarry forth into the land of purity (the literal translation of Paki-stan), anti-american demonstrations and Osama bin Laden, the absurdly tall uniformed guard at the door sees my half-eaten apple in hand and tells me if I eat apples and drink milk I'll grow big and strong. Taken aback by his levity, i barely was able to squeak out a lame repsonse: "Is that your secret big guy?" He chuckled, and so I felt a bit buoyed as i left the warm embrace of the machine gun toting armed guards and metal detectors and undercarriage mirrors and stood on the edge, the edge of the sidewalk along the famous Mall Road, ready to bound across the median-interrupted four lanes of traffic to the grounds of the Government Staff College where our Workshops were being held. Two things halted my progress at the edge of the Mall Road. the Lahori air rivaled, nay, surpassed the foul-ness of the dusty dirty Delhi air. I couldn't believe it, but it was true. It was 9am and the smog was thick enough to cut with a knife, and the smell was a tasty bouquet of burnt garbage, pure diesel, and burning garbage. Maybe it was a bad day, or bad week. Whatever, my lungs were tempered by my week in Delhi, let's just cross the bloody road, ok? Wait, is it possible Lahore traffic is even more reckless than Delhi traffic? crazed auto rickshaw drivers, crazed bus drivers, crazed truck drivers, crazed cyclists, crazed car drivers, all driven mad by rush hour and the mad scramble to claim any open piece of road, lane markers be damned! lanes? there are no lanes in South Asia. Lane markers are a complete waste of paint. It's just a game of poll position and bumper cars and honk your horn ad nauseum. It is a miracle there aren't any more cases of road rage here. I guess that comes from years of living in a society where things have barely worked for years (though they seem to work more nowadays, recently publicized cases of road rage in Delhi point to how people are getting used to things working). I mean to say, low standards. Americans have such high standards for process, order, positive outcomes. when things don't go right, when they go awry, when you get cut off, indignant rage boils to the surface of the average american. Here, it's just life, keep driving, keep claiming your own piece of road or you'll be driven off. and honk a lot.

anyway, enough. bas. our morning meeting with our teachers and the USEFP staff soon degenerated into a mad scramble fest to compile and submit presentation handouts to go to the printer in time. USEFP had to relocate their operations from Islamabad to a small office at the staff college in Lahore, so a bit of dissarray was expected, but it really became a scramblefest to get ready today, especially with the entire afternoon planned for sight-seeing. With our last minute changes submitted, we quickly jumped on the buses (a no-no we later found out from the USEFP director, considering the 'security situation," all govt. sponsored American staff were to ride in the USEFP private car, not on the tour bus with the rest of the teachers.) and our bus crawled through the crowded streets of old Lahore, much like the overcrowded bustling streets of Chandni Chowk in Old Delhi, chaos reigned and traffic crept. Finally we pulled into a cramped parking lot and we exited the bus and walked toward a side street. With my shades on and my german accent ready, I was felt sufficiently on edge to detect any danger, any 'security' compromised street scene. I soon relaxed when we entered a cavernous entrance to a building guarded by an AK-47-bearing security guard. A calm prevailed as we entered into a peaceful oasis from the chaos of the city, a former Havaili, or arsenal, used by the British and turned into a home for the former governor of Balochistan and the grandfather of our USEFP director, Shelale. A marvelous courtyard soon revealed itself, centered around a fountain and several sets of broad and flat cushioned benches. Through the archway to the right was a smaller courtyard and a lavishly decorated parlor, replete with antique rifles and swords, bronze urns, chests, wall hangings, a veritable post-Mughal paradise for the British-Raj era Lahori privelaged class, tastefully maintained in all it's glory.

I posed with my Pashtun teacher friend Itbar, both of us mugging with ancient guns like a pair of wild west bandits, While on the walls were photos of Shelale's grandfather in his prime standing with Pakistani dignitaries, including the national poet hero Iqbal, and the future Quaid-e-Azam (father of the Pakistan nation) Jinnah. then i found the secret staircase to the rooftop.. aha, now that's a view, more rooftops as far as the eye could see, laundry lines, honks galore emanating from the streets outside, the red minarets of the majestic Bhadshahi Mosque rise in the hazy distance. Mr. Sharma and Aziz and I take a few fun photos and they head down as I savor the view, reminding me of my epic walk along the outer walls of Old Jerusalem. Now this is an ancient city, it just reeks of history, of waves of conquerers and empires risen and fallen, of spiced meats cooking on streetside grill for centuries in the same way... speaking of meats, a delicious feast prepared for our group down in the dining room, dusty, crudely taxidermied trophy deer heads perched along the walls gazed upon our majestic feast of dhals and chicken and mutton dishes... piping hot naan, yogurt sauces, mint chutney, a feast for the ages... then too soon we had to shuffle back into the shadowy streets, past staring eyes of questionable intent, and quickly back aboard the bus. damn these state dept. guys make you paranoid.

our bus dives back into the traffic madness of lahore, past the Minar-e-Pakistan, the tower commemorating the spot where the Pakistan Resolution was signed, marking the birth of the partition. soon we weaved through a narrow gate and into a grand square surrounded by high fort gate on one side, the the grand Bhadshahi Mosque on the other, and another grand Sikh Gurudwara (temple) at the other side. We were now at the last nexus of the fallen Mughal empire. Our first stop, a tour of tomb of the Pakistani national hero, the poet Iqbal.. i was heartened to see many pious Muslims praying at the tomb of this great poet. How many Americans pray at Robert Frost's grave I wonder?
soon we are beset by beggars of a most aggressive kind.. "Hut, Hut..." (go away) our guides exhort to these poor souls... I had somehow come to assume there would be no beggars in a Muslim society, that their generous Zakats (alms) must care for all, but in a poor country like Pakistan I guess no amount of charity can care for all... Hell, rich america can scarcely care for all of our indigent fellow citizens...
now a few steps along the main square and up the steps to the imposing entry of the mosque. then, my paranoia, which had started to subside after nearly a full day in Pakistan without bodily threat or harm, coagulated into throbbing ball in my chest as I tried to remove my shoes at the Mosque entrance. ‘are you british?’ i heard the menacing voice of man sitting behind me. my immediate reflex was to turn toward him to check him out and before I could say, "no, I'm american," my internal security guard pulled on the brakes and i merely muttered a "no." Shit, why did he ask that? was he really checking to see if i was a brit, or was he trying to see if i'm american? then out of the corner of my eye I saw him pull a small microphone up to his mouth and say "Check," followed by a few words in Urdu. oh god, i thought, is he al qaeda operative giving the green light for a suicide attack? is he an ISI agent keeping tabs on my every move? chest throbbing, my friend Mr. Sharma pulls me aside and whispers: ‘beau, you see I think it’s best you don’t reveal your identity... just don't say anything..." oh god, i thought, this is it. i'm about to become a scrolling headline on CNN/alJazeera/FoxNews. I saw the mosque as a sanctuary and made a b-line for the inner courtyard.... fear and loathing in the masjid… ok, just listen to the tour guide, get absorbed in the historical facts, forget about it, they won't hit us in the mosque, it's unthinkable... then i did. the grandeur, the calm, the overwhelming sense of peace and humility assuage my fear and loathing, temporarily anyway... capacity for 75,000 faithful muslims praying at once, my god that must be a sight on Eid al Fitr. we walked into the main atrium under the dome, where the ingenious Mughal architects built everything with aesthetics and acoustics in mind. in fact, if you stood in one corner facing the wall and whispered, someone on the exact opposite corner could hear you loud and clear... ha! prehistoric cell phones!! now everyone with camera phones were taking snaps of us enjoying this stunt... a calming stroll about the mosque soon gave way to the fear again. would they be waiting for us? waiting to walk up and pull the pin? i gingerly step through the main gate, pretending to look about in reverence and awe at the filigreed marble work and intricate paintings on the walls of the gate. suddenly a man grabs my arm and I jump around in terror..."Sir, sir" he states as he points at my pocket... my wallet was sticking out and his kind soul was warning me to take care of it... phew... my pulse slows down a bit...

now on to the Lahore fort, a massive complex where Shah Jahan ruled the Mughal roost, coasting into the massive gateway on the back of an elephant, all the way up to the remnants of the royal court where the once awe-inspiring Sheesh Mahel (house of mirrors) stands, now covered by scaffolding as a UNESCO funded restoration project works to restore it's grandeur. Built by Shah Jahan to appease his high maintenance wife and love of his life, Mumtaz. I want to walk on clouds, she proclaimed, so Shah jahan installed a marvelous floor of marble of the striated variety that looks as if one is really walking on clouds... "I want you to reach up into the heavens and bring me a star!" she demanded, and lovelorn Shah Jahan built the Sheesh Mahel, so that when candles were lit in the right places, the reflections in the mirrors gave one the feeling they could reach any star in the room... and also spotted was the site of the royal throne, where the once mighty Koh-i-noor diamond sat entrenched above the Mughal emperor's head, and kindly 'borrowed' by the British emperors 127 years ago, and now it sits cozily in Queen Elizabeth's crown... will it ever be returned to it's home? many south asian politicians claim they will bring it home from the UK, but it may have to be over the Queen's dead body.. our day of paranoia and history concluded around a beautiful banyan tree in the middle of the fort, once lovingly encircled endlessly by the long gone buddhist pilgrims of the region. ahh, just what i needed after my first day in Pakistan... meditation under a Bodhi tree....

off to dinner that night with our group of teachers to a traditional restaurant called the 'Village', but before our bus could leave the grounds of the Staff College, Judy, Pat and I were pulled off the bus by our Fulbright Pakistan Director and told we are not to ride in private cars, buses or taxis as it violates State Dept. security directives... instead we were loaded into the Fulbright-owned SUV and taken to the restaurant with the Fulbright driver. hmmm, what's a more likely target, an SUV loaded with white people, or a big bus loaded with south asian teachers and a few white people sprinkled amongst the crowd? this whole security thing is a bit illogical...

Because of our group arriving so late, some of us were diverted to another restaurant with a massive buffet of Pakistani delights, all kinds of sheesh kabob and karahi meats, a smorgasbord of meats. if India is the vegetarians paradise, then pakistan must be the meat-lovers paradise... the best part was watching the naan bakers roll and flatten the dough, then they reached it inside a giant urn shaped earthen oven heated by a fire underneath and they slapped the doughy naan against the inside of the urn and let it stick on the sides until it came out steamy and toasted, naan perfection.. during dinner i finally got to know nisar ahmed, sher daraz khan and inayat ali khan, from Swat and the Khyber Pass area in the Northwest Frontier Province near afghanistan, they were three of the 'fallen angels' as they described themselves, teachers from pakistan who were selected to join us in washington, but were denied visas for various reasons, usually due to their status as single males and/or having relatives in the u.s., thus posing as a flight risk... This was a shame because I found these guys very smart and passionate, highly educated and very serious about the importance of teaching english in that restive part of Pakistan. Inayat expounded on TS Elliot and hemingway, impressing me with his ability to quote whole poems and passages of american poets and authors. nisar shared the joys of Kashmiri chai, or Pink tea, a very coveted and expenisive style of tea, infused with dried fruits and some spices, very tasty. But just as our conversations peaked and our comraderie gained momentum at the dinner table, our special driver arrived and we had to leave the group standing in the parking lot while our ‘car’ picked up us endangered Americans...

back in my executive suite... withdrew the curtains while Crescent moon hangs low in the night sky, palm trees sway below... now I feel like I’m finally at home in Pakistan…

The Road less traveled...

Judy, Beau and Zeenat in front of the stunning and space age looking Faisal Mosque in Islamabad.

Photo update: I know these posts have been few and far between, and you're mostly dying to check out the photos more than my pointless ramblings, but now you're in luck Pat, Beau and Judy fans... all of the photos taken thus far are now available to see at my Fotki.com public photo gallery at http://public.fotki.com/barentg/.
I didn't have time to add descriptions or cull the poor images, but you'll have plenty of good ones to keep you busy. Please keep checking back there for further updates as Judy and I are both on the road for several more weeks, though soon to be parted... enjoy!

Itbar, Pat, Judy, Sumaira, Aneela, Aziz and Beau share one final snap in front of the Pearl Continental hotel in Lahore.

A brief article on the workshops in the Jan. 26th edition of the Lahore English newspaper. Others reported seeing Judy on the evening news as well. Go Team SATTP!

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood... thus begins Robert Frost's famous poem about taking the road less traveled by making all the difference in life... i discussed this poem with Syed Inayat Ali, one of the 'Fallen Angels,' the male Pakistani teachers originally selected to join us in Washington last summer, but for one frustraingly absurd reason or another had their visas delayed or denied by the state dept. and could not go. Fortunately, these kind and bright men were able to join us in Lahore for the Winter Workshops last week, and we were happy at least to get acquainted with them in Lahore. Inayat Ali is very smart and philosophical young man, a huge fan of TS Elliot among others, and we discussed this Frost poem and how neither of us could remember exactly how it began as we walked with SATTP fellow and good friend Itbar Khan and another 'Fallen Angel' from Peshawar, Sher Daraz Khan back to my hotel, the luxurious Pearl Continental, located across the famous Mall Road from the Government Administrative Staff College where our participants stayed and where our workshops were held. These kind Pakhtun gentlemen from the restive Northwest Frontier Province (home of Osama most likely, home of the mostly lawless Federally Administered Tribal Areas, extreme distrust of the federal government, blood fueds, very conservative social and religious traditions, and unparalleled natural beauty and renowned hospitality... sounds like Montana...) escorted me back to my hotel Friday night, and we enjoyed a night cap of glasses of fine bottled water in my room along with several good laughs and stories. One Pashtu story they shared said that Pashtuns are so hospitable that they will walk their guests nearly all the way back to their house to make sure they arrive home safe. But, the story goes, the host, upon guiding the guest back to his house expresses his fear of traveling back home alone, so the guest escorts the host back to his house. Once back to the hosts house, the guest expresses fear of traveling back to his house, and this will continue ad nauseum until the sun comes up... that's how hospitable Pashtuns, or Pathans, can be. I offered to walk my departing friends back to their staff college dorms, but they laughed and declined the offer for fear of staying up all night long living out the joke.

Anyway, I went to sleep that night, tortured by the fact that I had to leave this fascinating country so soon, without ever really seeing it except from the window of our maximum security 5 star hotel, or from the plush grounds of the Staff College or from the passenger seat of the chauffered SUV we were forced to ride around in because it was 'too risky' to have us ride with the rest of our teachers on the chartered bus. The next morning, after devouring my first real hearty breakfast during a meeting with Judy, Pat and South Asia RELO Richard Boyum, I returned to my room, took a long hot shower in my marble tiled five star bathroom with footbath/bidet, and then got on the phone with Pakistan International Airlines and posponed my return flight to Delhi scheduled for that afternoon and reserved a seat on the flight with Judy to Islamabad. Road less taken here I come!!!
AFter a few sad goodbyes, and a few hopeful "i'll see you soon's" at the Staff College, I ventured back across the uncharacteristically calm Mall Road (site of sunday's Lahore Marathon, controversial for their decision to segregate the sexes during the race, and for the threat of extremist hooligans declaring their intent to beatup women who dare disgrace themselves by running in the race), which could take up to five minutes to cross due to never ending volumes of chaotic lahore traffic, and returned to the hotel, where Judy had just returned from a last minuted carpet shopping adventure and Pat was pulling her hair out wondering if she would ever make her 2.30 flight. With a few of our Pakistani friends remaining behind to see us off, we took the photo you see above.
Safely at the airport twenty minutes later, we bid a frantic Pat goodbye, I buy a thirty dollar ticket to islamabad at the ticket counter, share a nice chat and tea service with another Fallen Angel, Nisar Ahmed, who was on our flight to Islamabad, and who never fails to mention Charlton Heston and the Ten Commandments movie and the wondrous beauty of costar Judith Anderson. And yes, he mentioned the Ten Commandments again at the airport, though Judy and I pretended not to know what he was talking about. We did listen intently to his method of comparing the works of western poets like Frost and Elliot with the ideas expressed in the Holy Kuran to draw the interest of his english students at his school in the Swat region. He says it's very successful and we look forward to hearing more details about which passages and poets he uses, marvelous idea...
after a brief puddle jump on an old Fokker prop plane we land in islamabad and take in the blessedly cleaner air. We are soon whisked away to the gorgeous five star maximum security Serena Hotel in Islamabad, but not before forcing our car through throngs of families and friends swarming the airport driveway to welcome their begarlanded loved ones returning from their Hajj in Mecca, quite a sight indeed. It seemed as if we'd never see the light of day so many people were miiling about and blocking the way. Though the mood was festive, it was definitely not a place to roll down my window and start yelling, "Long LIve George Bush!" Instant stonings would have befallen us... anyhoo, back at the Serena, owned by the benevolent and tasteful Pamiri philanthopist and bazillionaire Aga Khan, Judy soon discovered her reservations were not in their system and they claimed the hotel was overbooked until FEb second. Well, some artful cajoling from our USEFP savior Shelale Abbassi set them straight and they suddenly 'found' an open 'Executive Suite'... not bad, not bad... two rooms, beautifully appointed, one a sitting room with satellite tv, free internet hookup for the laptop, free mini bar, and a huge tray of complimenary pistacios, cashews and almonds... damn, we've really been roughing it out here! after a delicious buffet meal eaten under the influence of live tabla and sitar music in the restaurant downstairs, Zeenat Tariq, one of our teachers, and her lovely family picked me up and drove me to there lovely house in the posh F Sector of Islamabad. They welcomed me into their home as a family member and i somehow found room for a second late night dinner of minced mutton and potatos and delicious and tender chapathis.. mmmm.. after a nice chat and several power yawms we all retired, and i fell into my first good, deep sleep in a long time... on the road less taken, and despite the latest state dept. travel warning asking Americans to 'defer travel to Pakistan due to terrorist activity', i feel this path chosen is going to make all the difference...

Delhi belly...

Judy, Shannon, Pat and I at the Qutb Minar site in New Delhi.

Beautiful Humayun's Tomb in New Delhi, a fine example of Mughal architecture, though built with red sandstone, considered to be a precursor of the white marble Taj Mahal..

Emily, Trevor and I reunite halfway around the world at the Sweets Corner restaurant down the street from my hotel in New Delhi. Trev and Em departed for the snowy slopes of the Himalayas in Manali. I will join them in just over a week!




Sea-Chickens in the Superbowl!!!!
A giant shout out goes to our beloved Seattle Seahawks and to the people of the Pacific Northwest and Seahawk fans around the globe, who have suffered incalculable distress, melancholia, and suicidal tendencies over the past 30 years of the team's existence when season after season brought disappointment and heartbreak. I daresay this news means f-all to people in south asia, where Cricket seems to dominate every conversation, sports page and television newscast.

Well, the inevitable happened saturday night. Though I'm known among close friends for my ability to forcefully distend my abdomen so I look like I'm pregnant, my bloated belly saturday night was beyond my control. The ameoba's took over my gastro-tract and had a party so raucous that all other guests were forced to leave. I'll leave it at that. Needless to say, Sunday was a waste, as I was wasted with fatigue and fever... but thanks to lots of water, sleep and a miracle pill called Levaquin (thanks Dr. Nick!) I'm on the up and up today, just in time to fly to Lahore, Pakistan this evening. If we're lucky we'll catch the tail end of the anti-american protests filling the streets of Lahore with thousands of angry young men venting their rage at the Great Satan, but mostly angling for a few brief seconds of fame on CNN or Al-Jazeera. Should be interested times in Lahore. I'll file a report from the hotel tonight, apparently our hotel there has a real 'Business Center'...

Well, our time here in Delhi has been fascinating. The workshops last week went very well, with a passionate and enthusiastic group of participating english teachers from around India contributing to it's success. Of course none of this would have gone off well without the dedication and passion of our own SATTP fellows, and the tireless staff at the U.S. Educational Foundation-India (USEFI).

When we finally got some free time to enjoy the sights and sounds of Delhi, we found ourselves blown away by the grandeur, and even the grotesqueness of all aspects of life here... oh no, time is cut short again.. our taxi to the airport is here...

More from Lahore!!

And finally, a happy XXth birthday today to my dad, Barry Gordinier. Not sure he can read this up at Sun Peaks resort in eastern B.C., but keep on making those turns on the hill dad!

Back Online!

Me in front of the Lotus Temple, a gorgeous Baha'i temple in New Delhi
Some students at the Kendriya Vidyalaya school put on an enchanting play for us!

Namaste! Sorry for the delay in posting everyone, it's been a bit more challenging than I anticipated accessing the internet here in Delhi. In fact it's been a bit of a cosmic joke played on me... We're supposed to have internet at my hotel... but not once has it been working when I've checked. We were supposed to have internet at the conference center where we had our workshops, but everytime i went to use their business center it was down. I came to the Khan market to use a cybercafe and it had closed before i got there! i now have some time to post, and now the cybercafe is closing!! i'll post many more stories and pictures later tonight if possible now that the the first workshop has come to an end and we have some time to breathe a bit. In short, India is amazing, bombarding the senses at every turn. The sights, from the Taj Mahal, to the Qutb Minar, to the chaotic bazaars of Old Delhi, to the chaotic streets where an everyone for themselves survival of the fittest mentality exists... elephants, camels, cows, not uncommon sights in traffic as well.. to the heartbreaking scenes of crippled street children begging for alms at your car window at the stop light, to the grand majesty of the Red Fort along the Yamuna river and the glorious Rajpath, the central boulevard of the city where Ghandi's funeral procession took place in front of millions in 1948. alright, more to come, but in the meantime, enjoy some pics...

Off to the land of curries and pekoras! Namaste South Asia!

top photo: A farewell dinner (ok, mostly for Tuya before her return to Kyrgyzstan) at Indique...
Bottom photo: Tara and Beau say adios!
While Em and Trev said farewell to family and friends with a farewell bash to end all farewell bashes, complete with keg-stands and civil disturbances, my farewell gathering was a relative tea party, but surrounded by my good DC friends and a cameo from none other than La Chilena mas 'chill' and old school friend, Tara Hayes, who could ask for more?... Ok, off to the sub-continent, first stop, New Delhi for the first South Asian Teacher Training Project Winter Workshop 2006. I'm very excited to see my teacher friends from last summer, recall the good times, meet their families, and get to see their cultures and countries up close. I have a feeling I'll experience a lot of India 'up close.' We'll arrive Saturday at 1am, then whammo, India will hit me like a sonic boom! what to do first? probably sleep... then wander through the sea of humanity out on the streets, savoring the sights and sounds and scents, all in the grand pursuit of finding a bar that will air the Seahawks playoff game! ok, maybe it's a longshot in New Delhi, but ya gotta believe, it's the Sea-flea's year! Alright, more from India!