Travel notes from my year in India (2004): Hampi. 7 of 16

There is an image in my mind of a magical distant world, mysterious and beautiful. A place far away from what I am used to, both in space and time. I had never seen it, just a mental creation after innumerable books and movies and stories. Until last morning, when I woke up to realize that it was here, all around me, real.

A lazy river slowly crawling like a snake through lush green rice fields, in turn surrounded by banana plantations, then palms, and finally the orange desert with immense granite boulders that have been shaped in surreal round figures by 3 billion years of wind. In the middle, the small village of Hampi, former residence of the Vijayanagara empire some 600 years ago. The magnificence of this rich distant time still easy to picture, like an image out of focus, through the hundreds of stone temples that hide throughout the landscape in a desperate attempt to resist the inevitable return of the stone to the earth. Many had to go through the humiliation of losing their former glory and accept new roles as staples, bus stops, schools, and farmer homes. Still better than the rest of their colleagues, which can only claim to be a home for the monkeys.

So here I am, under the shade of a huge mango tree, panting as my little sports watch informs me that it is again 38 degrees Celsius. Impossible to walk around in this heat; all I can do is to lay still and drink liters of water to avoid dehydration while I wait for the sun to become a bit more forgiving. Even the monkeys find it too hot to bother me. Only the local children seem to find the energy to run after empty bicycle tires. Occasionally farmers also walk by with heavy loads of bananas or dry wood. The black buffaloes hide under the trees and stare at the local ferry crossing the river: an over-sized round bamboo basket with up to 15 people inside moving like a merry-go-round that has escaped from her master.
 I smile at the little tourist restaurant that boasts Italian food such as 'spageti con basilica', 'pasta-al-amatucian', and 'lasania with tometo chease'. Not surprisingly the place is pretty empty. The owner looks with a little envy at his competitor across the street that has decided to narrow it down to only Israeli food and therefore is completely full of young kids complaining in Hebrew about how the service is not the same as back at home. I rent an Enfield motorcycle that must date before the British left this place and where everything seems to have been intentionally placed in the 'wrong' place: back brake on the left, first gear up, ignition key under the engine, light switch in the center….

I am heading for the Hannuman (the monkey God) temple. It will not be an easy journey: the bridge across the river is not finished yet and thus I will have to ride down a steep dirt track, cross the river on the big bamboo basket (considering my bike must weight close to 180 Kg., the ferry is VERY close to sinking), then up another hill. The final 'coup de grace' is the 586 steps that lead to the top of a large granite mountain that floats alone in a sea of deep green fields. And it is still 38 C.

Panting, I make it up in time to witness the game of shadows all around me: first those of the palm trees slowly munching the farmers, then the larger ones from the boulders eating entire fields, and finally those from mountains swallowing entire portions of the landscape.

I sit on the highest rock to be the last to be eaten by the shadow of a distant mountain chain. A monkey sits next to me and imitates my leg position.

Past, present, and future are all in front of me. So much so that I do not notice everybody else leaving, or the stars starting to twinkle. I am returned to this earthly dimension by the call of a priest from the temple. He has been observing me and has decided that I shall be their guest for the night. Without a word of English, I am introduced to everybody: the big Yogi, his 'second in command',

8 other disciples, 2 female temple keepers. We smoke together, we laugh at each other and at our own clumsiness, we perform evening prayers, play drums, smoke again, laugh again.

Without hesitation, a large meal is placed in front of me. Then we all head out. The monkeys have left for the night. I am offered a mattress, a blanket, a pillow. We lie in a circle, enjoying the nightly breeze and staring at the moon and stars, slowly falling asleep. I am the last one, and also the first one to get up in the morning, not wanting to miss even a moment of the return of the sun. The sky slipping from black to blue to red to yellow, the birds awakening with loud songs, the monkeys re-appearing. A bit of satisfaction in seeing that they are also panting! One of them decides to ride on my shoulder while I run around taking photos from all angles; she is utterly amused at me.

The priests get up one by one and greet me with a smile of complicity. I enter the temple with the sparkle of joy in my eyes and breakfast is placed silently in my hands.

I am asked to sit next to the Yogi, we converse with our eyes and hands. Slowly, to my surprise, the temple fills with hundreds of villagers. They fall on their knees, kiss the feet of their spiritual leader, and touch my own (better safe than sorry?). Prayer starts, with chanting and drumming. A woman falls in a trance, dancing wildly with both her body and her eyes. Nobody seems to notice. Then we sit and the Yogi starts giving personal advice. A young priest asks me to take some photos of his master as he scolds the village mayor for taking advantage of a poor farmer. I make a mental note not to walk around too much in this village. Only I do not know which village they are from!

As I admire the Yogi's ability to treat everyone the same beyond surface masks of status, sex, skin color, I understand that I have been welcomed for who I am inside, not what I carry with me on the outside. I part with the same simplicity: a hug, a comment on how I will always be welcomed by them, a blessing for my journey.

I return to Hampi and am instinctively drawn to the main temple, where I start chatting with the caretaker of the local elephant: a 16 years old cute female teenager that likes to play with my camera bag. I am invited to join them for the morning bath in the river the next day. Another invitation I cannot refuse, another early rise.  That is how I find myself celebrating my birthday knee-deep in water with a 6 tons cutie that shakes her legs when you brush her under the belly as she lies on her back. And that is when I come to another realization: life gives us only and as much as we are ready to receive.

That is how I know that I shall continue to follow my hearth with confidence that there is a path waiting for me. Even and especially when I cannot see it. I walk blindfolded and confident into the embrace of Gaia, the mother earth. The future is to remain unknown, the past gone, the present shining in all his glory.

Travel notes from my year in India (2004): Go Karna. 6 of 16

February 13

Another full moon is approaching. It is a critical time around here as tension builds up with rumors spreading like wild fire on the location of the next secret rave. After a few days there seems to be converging agreement: three days non-stop party in Go Kharna. Which happens to be some 200 miles south of where I am. It is too far to go by bike on local back-roads. A few beers and a solution is found: five of us will share the exorbitant cost of renting the Jeep of the local farmer (10 USD/day). We all decide to leave on Thursday by lunchtime to do the 3 to 4 hours journey in daylight. Of course with the herculean task of finding a spare T-shirt for each of us we do not seem to be able to be all together in the same place until 7:00 PM, road trip official start time. What really lies ahead of us becomes apparent after:
The Jeep turns out to be a 40 years old Mahindra with a maximum speed of 80 Km/hr. (which we luckily only reached once), windows that do not pull up, doors that do not lock, approximate steering, and noisier than a WWII fighter plane,
It takes us over than two hours to do what is normally an easy 30 minutes ride to Vagator, where the 'highway' starts.

The road that the map proudly presented as a high speed inter-state wonder is really not different at all from any other back-road: wide enough for just one truck, which is scary enough when they come full speed towards us with their headlights on (always) and leave us blindly hoping there will be no lingering signposts when we are forced to pull off the road. Somehow some time in the middle of the night we reach the border to the next state, where obviously the police stop us and with the excuse of an expired pollution control stamp and the usual scarring techniques they wait for some money. Shantanu saves the day storming in with his press card and his father's name. It works, we get through and within a few more hours we reach the village of Go Kharna. Half asleep we attempt to overtake what seems to be a big truck. Only there is another one ahead. And this one is REALLY big, the wheels alone being more that five meters tall. In shock we stop to discover two traditional religious wood chariots: they are over 500 years old, just parked on the side of the road waiting for the procession next week when the entire village will come together to pull them with gigantic ropes. They are both intricately carved and about three stories high.

A brief stop at the beach for sunrise, where once again in wonder we stare at the entire village proceeding in rigorous ranks to bath in the ocean, performing morning prayers, and then disappearing.

We finally reach Om beach, our destination, at midday on Friday. A mere 17 hours after we left. The place is amazing, the beach in the actual shape of an Om sign, isolated and with clear transparent waters. Some 3,000 of us slowly converge here from all directions throughout the day. The gypsy tribe reassembling, coming from all over the world, many sharing the same bit of discomfort when having to describe where they are really from. We grow in number and excitement through the day. By sunset, when the music is supposed to start, there is a definite vibe. Which will have to be harshly transformed a few hours later, when the music does not start (the inexperienced Israeli organizers forgot to pay the local police).

Not surprisingly, this time the trip back only takes us five hours. Uneventful, except for an engine breakdown right at the same border checkpoint. It turns out to be a very simple matter and we are able to kiss the ground of our 'home' in Goa soon after sunset. Our friends await us with a welcoming glass of Rum & Coke and a grim on their faces: the best full moon party turned out to be just next door at 'Buterfly' (yes, it is spelled with only one t), a full 30 seconds walk!

Travel notes from my year in India (2003): Goa. 5 of 16

December 31

Here I am sitting on a beach in Goa looking at the sunset, in this day both meaningless and loaded with expectation. It is windy and the Arabian sea is ruffled. The waves and the reflection give life to a golden snake, continuously swirling towards me in a familiar movement: the same I saw the moon create in Big Sur this summer. The sun rushes ahead, eager to bring this last day to you, the ones I love, so far away. Soon this same sky, now so passionately colored, will become transparent and reveal once again the enormous emptiness and darkness of the universe around us.

What a kind miracle that such terrifying isolation should be hidden from us during our active day by such an elegant blue blanket. The same one that keeps us alive. The same one that also regularly disappears in itself to still remind us of where we stand. The way we have converted sunsets from the panic of the disappearance of life light and color to romantic and reflective is utterly similar to all the other 'conversions' we do unconsciously every day. Fear is intrinsic to our existence. The more we hide it from ourselves, the more we fall down the cave. And do we really want to spend this brief moment of existence in a hole, where all we see are the infamous reflections on the walls? At the same time I ask myself how many more times I will have the strength to intentionally destroy the comfortable cocoon I have had to rebuild so often already. How many times will I have the courage to stand in naked isolation in dark night, knowing full well that every time it will be darker and colder than the previous? Only I need to remember how every sunrise is equally more piercing of true clarity. Is it thus the ego or the fear that I need to chase? So far I have only really acknowledged both the power and the links between the two. I see now the ego driving me around all day, the flirtatious mind desperately active in hiding both the night and the sunrise.  How I wish at times that I could skip a few cycles and jump ahead to the next chapter! It might not be about the destination, but the journey sure is rough at times.

 

January 7
 
What is 'real'? We arbitrarily set reality and imaginary apart in an illusion of control. We choose to believe that the 'real' is scientific, conscious, controllable, and predictable. But of course it is not. So we narrow our focus more and more, sinking deeper and deeper in a dark hole that is more unreal than any reality could ever be.  We negate all that is there to help us: our dream, feelings, visions, fantasies. The moon is just a big rock, a butterfly is only an insect with big wings, and a 'moment' is nothing but a moment.

The unconscious retreats and becomes our own enemy, chasing us with doubts and fears and dissatisfaction. We intellectualize and rationalize even more, hoping in a relief, but to no avail. Some choose to retreat, to hide behind all sorts of distractions.  Most, when confronted with a crack in their 'reality', choose the blue pill: forget all about it and go back to somewhere where the crack cannot be seen. I chose to jump in the dark, eat the red pill, the one with no return path, slipping right through and into the crack. I am piercing through the layers of our collective conditioning, in awe of a fluid space, all of a sudden free of borders and walls. I surrender, and in so doing I am freed. Partly. That is how I find myself in Goa. The full moon rave at the beach, by the temple, under the palms. There is a fully dressed cow dancing to the beat of trance music. Yes, she is truly shaking on all four legs, following the rhythm of the music.

I close my eyes and the music takes forms, in shapes and colors that my body instinctively follows. At sunrise the party moves inland, in a bamboo forest at the bottom of a valley. And goes on until sunset. I meet Lorenzo, American, tanned, tattooed, in his late 40's. He has also been to Esalen and Burning Man (a new community in the making!). And his wife, who's name I did not understand, beautiful, young, delicate. We share a moment in time, deep strong brief. We part as brothers, maybe never to meet again. And it is OK.

 

January 15
 
I have decided to join a Yvengar yoga intensive course and am lucky to find place in one of only 4 Tee-Pee's that are within the complex that sits under the palms, caught between the sea and a river. The location is stunning, in splendid isolation. An island of peace in the craziness of Goa. After a few days I enter for the first time in some of those 'impossible' asanas. A sense of accomplishment: at least the body is responding! That night the moon smiled at me in her reflection from the river, the shadows of the palm trees bowing respectfully.  The class (there is about 30 of us) is a muesli mix of ages, accents, personalities, and life histories. I met Chris, he tells me about the sexual habits of a famous writer. I feel an initial sense of disenchantment, almost betrayal. But after further consideration I realize that I am placing a moralistic and conditioned judgment on his sexual life.

I am caught in the old paradigm that a 'spiritual' person should have a monastic life, that enlightenment only comes through privation, sacrifice, suffering.  I share my thoughts with Chris and in reply he tells me about his latest research on sexual behaviors in the stone age. Apparently the ratio of testicular volume to body mass is a sure indicator if an animal species is monogamous or not. Of course I ask, and it turns out that humans are somewhere in between.

I argue that we are different because of our consciousness. He counter-argues that consciousness gives us the power to love, which is different from our natural sexuality. We end up disagreeing a bit on whether it is possible to love one person but fuck many. But then again... Looking back in history, it is true that monogamy has mostly been driven by need, and that the wealthier members of most communities always seem to have been polygamous.  Also, I have reached some time ago the conclusion that love is not an institution, nor any of the many forms of dependency (father/mother figure, need of affection or security, etc.). But rather the conscious decision by two individuals to follow the same path for a period of time. Together, but still respecting the individual identities. So, if we are truly free of all conditioning and dependencies, can this go as far as been monogamous emotionally but not physically? Most would agree rationally that jealousy is a form of possession, but is a long step to actually not feel the pain at the idea of our loved one being fucked by someone else! In my personal case I feel like monogamy has been a social conditioning, while polygamy has been a parental conditioning. And the path forward is impossible to predict, control, or judge.

January 22
 
Midnight, riding on my motorbike back to my Tee-Pee tent. A long ride back in the complete darkness of Indian back-roads. The sky is full of stars, there is no moon, and the air is warm. All of a sudden I am on the long bridge over the river, the one that took 12 years to build. Orange lights on high poles disappearing in the distance. Nobody else on the road. Two realities mixing together: that one of other such bridges back 'at home', and the one I am supposed to be in. Where such bridges are an abnormality, an exception that is there to catch me off-guard in my perception of space and time. Four cows sleeping in the middle of the road bring me back.

February 03

Surf Club, my local hangout bar here in Arambol since a couple of weeks. Communities and friendships start fast here. It is sunset; I am lying on a hammock. The two local waiters are playing pool in the background. The palm leaves all around us slowly turn into intricate golden patterns with the last sun rays. Time is different here. Well, so is space. What a folly to live in the belief of one singular and linear reality.  Then suddenly everybody leaves for some birthday party. I will follow, later.

Travel notes from my year in India (2003): Mumbai. 3 of 16

December 22

Where do we go when we dream? Where is that imaginary space built with the memories and images of our past? I might have found mine, thousands of miles away, tucked into the late night of the streets in Bombay. Four in the morning, warm and humid, an orange light blending colors into a monochromatic fantasy. Very surreal, reminiscent of a Fellini movie. The line of time gone bye messing up with the one yet to come. Large trees with roots hanging from the branches bring back scenes from childhood readings (Salgari, Kipling). Old black cab cars parked at every corner, with blue and red neon lights inside and the drivers sleeping in the back seats. Memories from a time when cars were not just cars. Old, very old merry-go-rounds beg the night to take them away, to give them the rest they have earned with so many turns. Big swings that are asked to look like ancient roman boats, feeling lonely so far from home. Old colonial houses tired of dressing up for visitors that never seem to notice. A fugitive of the night passes by pushing an electric toy car. Then suddenly someone pulls my shirt from behind: "Would you like to see my trained monkey dance for you?"

Travel notes from my year in India (2003): Rishikesh. 2 of 16

I am at peace with the world today, as I walk the tiny streets of Rishikesh, a small village at the foot of the mountains. The sun is slowly rising and conquering the Ganga river, monkeys are peaking through the glass doors of the 'Cyber Gafe', the owner is singing loudly some Hindi song. How peaceful it all is, after over 2 weeks in Delhi, with all the excitement and noises and activity! And truly exciting it has been: I could not have dreamed of a better host than my friend Shivina! Looking back, I had the opportunity to mingle with fashion top models, chat with the latest Bollywood movie stars, dance with the maharajah's, sit with the VIP's at the Polo finals, discover the secret underbelly of the city, and meet some really wonderful people along the way.

You can probably imagine my thirst for some more introspective silence after such a rush of amazing adventures. That is how I found myself getting up at 5:00 AM (NOT usual for me since the long gone days of corporate life!) to start the long journey: taxi to the train station, train to Haridwar, local bus to Rishikesh, rickshaw to the upper part of town, then long walk across the bridge to find the hotel (well, at least it seemed long with my heavy backpack).

But let's go in order. 


First the train. Interiors all of the same color: seats, walls, ceilings, doors. Lost somewhere between a gray and a light green. The kind of color you still see in old hospitals in Italy and on WWII ships in the US. Vaguely uncomfortable. I sit next to 2 Tibetans, only one speaks (good) English. We talk for a while about the Tibetan cause, people, history. Until he shares that he is part of a militant group, in favor of guerrilla violent actions to reach independence. At which point I feel it is time to kindly disengage and start enjoying the scenery (on the other side...). Funny how familiar seems this landscape escaping in front of me. So very similar to the planes of Piemonte, where I was driving less than a month ago. But then some very Indian reminders. Like men pissing against the walls, everywhere, proudly looking at me. Or the cow dung, dried in neat round tiles and piled up in small towers on the side of the roads.

The bus ride costs me 15 Rs. (about 30 cents US), it lasts about 2 hours. A young Canadian girl sits next to me, scared to travel alone. She has just arrived in India, she has that panic in her eyes... When the bus overtakes other cars at high speed in the middle of a mountain turn, she grasps the seat in front of her, sweat dripping on her chin. While I listen to music and enjoy the ride, I can't help but smile, remembering my own terror on that first rickshaw ride... As time passes, I become so much more aware of colors and smells and feelings and thoughts. Is it true that the real essence of life is savored in wondering, travel, uncertainty, growth? Is Bruce Chatwin right with his analysis of the roots of unrest in our western world? Or is travel one more escape from the self, a feeding of the Ego?

 

December 05

Sitting at a rooftop cafe, I enjoy the scenery bathed in the warm yellow tones of the afternoon sun. It is pleasantly warm. The Ganges, here still clean and white from the glaciers, is very calm. It has been only two days and I start already to recognize the local characters: the old man sitting at the same spot every morning to ready his newspaper, the local Baba still trying to sell me some hashish, the schoolgirls in bordeaux uniforms crossing the pedestrian suspension bridge, the same cow always blocking the way on the bridge, the same 3 monkeys sitting on the cables waiting to steal some food. I am alone, but less and less lonely.

I realize now just how much I have been escaping loneliness up to now. A busy and stressful job, feeding my arrogance (I am changing things, I am smarter, I make money, I can work harder than 'them', I reply to emails at 2:00 AM and on Sunday's, ...). Sports and other activities: snowboarding (everybody goes in winter!), biking, fitness, barbecue's, dinners, bars, fixing the house, dinners in front of the TV, surfing the web. And so on. And on. And on.

So loneliness is being alone and feeling bad about it. While aloneness is being alone and feeling good about it, at peace with myself. Like I feel now. Not that I am quite there yet. I cannot claim enlightenment! I still miss my friends, making love, a juicy steak. I still plan my days. But I can start to have glimpses of inner peace. There is such a powerful beauty in sitting in meditation on a white beach on the riverside of the Ganges. With nowhere to go. And nothing to do. It is just astonishing how we cloud ourselves with goals, ideals, thoughts, worries. We search left and right, when all we have to do is sit!

 

December 09

I rent an old Indian Vespa and head up the mountains, as the sun is still finding his way down the valley. It is cold, but I am so fascinated by the rays piercing through the foliage and glowing in the morning mist, that I do not care (too much). There is only me on the road. And the monkeys, of course. I cross a really big black one, with a white face. Big enough to scare me away.

As the road winds up the mountain, flirting with the Ganges, I get a bit worried of the huge vertical drops. In a few places the road just collapsed down some 200 meters. Which would not be a problem, if it was not for the occasional truck coming down at full speed and not being impressed at all by my little scooter. Which leaves me with less than a meter between the big noisy monster and emptiness. Comfortable enough for the other motorcycle drivers, less for me!

Fortunately I have plenty of road signs to bring a smile back. Green signs in a green world, with magnificent hand writing and warnings like: "Be Soft On Curves" (my favorite, also in the version "Go Soft On Curves"), "Speed Thrills But Kills", "Horn Please" (before every town), "Drive Slower, Live Longer", "Hurry Makes Worry" (I appreciate the universal nature of this one), "If Married Divorce Speed". I squeeze between the ever increasing number of dhobi of the road (there are men sweeping the street!) and some 70 Km. later I reach Devprayag, a small village where two rivers merge and the Ganges officially starts.

As I walk the omnipresent suspension bridge, I start conversing with a sannyasi (monk). Of all that I have crossed in the past weeks, this one really seems to glow from inner peace in his eyes. He decides that I should be blessed by the river, so he brings me to the water and makes me repeat a long prayer in Hindi, followed by offering of flowers and rice. As fascinating as the moment is, it would not be so amazing if it was not for the striking coincidence of my reading just those days of the "Bhagavad Gita".

So I am almost not surprised when I run into a chanting and prayer session by a large group of young children in orange robes, the evening of the same day back in Rishikesh. And it almost feels natural when the day after the lead monk invites me to perform the sunset prayer with him, in front of all his disciples. Once again, none of those events is exceptional per se. It is that they are happening to me now, just as I am plunging into the sacred scriptures. In such rapid succession. I could be cynical and attribute it to my presence in Hindu pilgrimage sites. But I rather sit and meditate on the power of our thoughts in making events happen, situations come together, increasing our awareness.

 

December 13

A blind man in Rishikesh approaches me in a restaurant to ask for help with his email. The next day I spend a few hours typing messages to his friends, then we go for lunch and he tells me his story. When he was 11 he was in a car accident, in which he lost both his parents and his vision. The rest of his family decided he was too much of a burden and closed their doors. So from an early age he had to decide if he wanted to accept the position society was giving him (beggar on the street) or fight an uphill battle. By the time we met he was in his mid forties, well dressed and wealthy, a writer traveling around India and the world. Alone. With a disillusioned but very positive vision of life.

You cannot even start to imagine how hard it is to travel in India alone and blind. The taxi's charging you tenfold (how can you check?) or giving you the wrong change, the porters walking away with your bags, the ashrams (equivalent to our religious convents) refusing you access because you are "bad luck". His stories go on and on. I experience it myself, when we make the trip back to Delhi by bus the day after. Like the bank that did not give him access to his account because he confused his bank statement with another piece of paper of the same size. Or the ashram that only accepted not to charge him double after I (the Westerner) argued against it (he later told me that they most probably will not let him stay there again because of that).

So long for the kind Hindus and the spiritual places we supposedly go to learn from. Even the two German tourists in their 'peace and love' clothes initially refuse to help him get to his hotel when we get off the bus. It is exactly next door to where they are staying, while miles away for me. They probably think it is a scam to rip them of their old and worthless bags. After all, if he is really blind, why is he so well dressed? This man gave me one of the biggest lessons, both when he asked me to leave because he wanted my friendship and not my pity, and through his inner peace and kindness in front of constant abuse.
 

Travel notes from my year in India (2003): Delhi. 1 of 16

I have indeed finally arrived in India. I got into Delhi airport at 1:00 AM of Saturday. Interesting, shocking arrival. I get off in a first lounge with white marble everywhere. Very nice. Then I proceed to what I initially thought to be the exit, a room with some shops for taxis and buses and tours and a few guys asking me if I need a ride. I think: this is not so bad. Then I realize that this is only a 'pre-chamber' and exit to the main room, where there must have been 200/300 people screaming, pushing, showing me signs I cannot read. I think: oh, oh. And that is when I realize that even this is only a 'pre-chamber', people had to pay to get in here. So I finally leave the airport building to find a real ocean of people waiting. This is where the real fun starts: about 20/30 taxi drivers simultaneously pulling me, my jacket, my backpack, my suitcases in all different directions. Nobody knows where my hotel is, but they are all ready to take me there! Quotes fluctuate between 400Rs. and 4,000Rs. I settle for 700. Then we find out that my hotel is actually 60 Km outside of town! It is a resort in the middle of nowhere, with a swimming pool filled with... sand.

Then there is my best adventure. On Monday I am finally ready to move to a more reasonable guest house in town and later have lunch with a friend. I leave 2 hours before, for what should have been a 30 min. drive. Between Indian time and a few other adventures (a guy at the first hotel that did not understand credit card payment and send killers to chase me on the road), I end up not having the time to go to the guest house to change in proper attire and need to go to the lunch appointment directly. Only to find out that it is within the President's estate, that the husband is in full formal military uniform, and that they have a special guest for the day: the maharajah of Jaipur. That must have been my most embarrassing moment in a (very) long time. Lesson learned: Indians in India are NOT like Indians in California...

OK, then off to the old Delhi bazaar. Yes, the one I read about in '1001 Nights' and Kipling and Salgari and all the other books. But nothing could have prepared me for this. Even Burning Man was kids stuff in comparison! The chaos! The beauty! The smell! The crowd! The everything! I take a rickshaw (bicycle taxi) to go back, it takes us over 1 hour to do less than 1 mile, between cows happily munching in the middle of the road, cars driving full speed in the wrong direction (to avoid traffic, the bigger one wins here, and I am not the bigger one), and some ladies in beautiful dresses chatting (in the middle of the road, of course).

As you might have guessed, there is some initial culture shock. Especially after an extended 'stop-over' in Europe, visiting well-off family and friends! It is hard to adjust. I see the guy pushing my rickshaw and feel like getting off to help him push when going uphill. I see a 2 year old child playing in the garbage and want to stop to take her out. I see a man kicking a woman that is carrying what seems like 40/50 Kg. of stones on her head and want to go and kick the man. But there are so many examples, I realize I can't take it all on me. I feel guilty for my own luck and wealth, I am reminded of how blinded we are 'back at home' of how we really are a minority. Very arrogant in our ignorance, very lost deep into our self-created strangling web.

Two images come to my mind.

The first one is the afternoon walks in the Lodhi gardens. They use "recycled" water for the park grounds. The smell is quite pungent, in sharp contrast with the magical beauty of the stone walls of ancient temples coming to life in the warm winter afternoon light. As everywhere else, the stares, the constant stares from everybody. None of that terrifying but somehow also comfortable indifference we are so used to back at "home". So much coming out of those stares: curiosity, flirting, greed, sympathy.

Then the tailor. I need a formal Indian dress for the upcoming wedding. My friend arranges a custom fit (what else?) with her tailor, the one that all her maharajah friends use. He should be in Delhi on that day, we call him, he is already almost back home in Jaipur. He turns his car around and drives some two hours back to come to my guest house and take my measurements! All this service for a set (jacket, trousers, shirt) that will cost me somewhere around 100-200 USD!

Yesterday I had another moment of actualization. While visiting an amazing Muslim tower built in 1246 BC (Qutab Minar) some guys asked me to take a picture. I grab the camera telling them where to stand, then I realize that what they really wanted was for me to be IN the picture.

And it went on all day, one group after the other: the girls giggling and smiling, the guys asking me for pictures. Initially I checked my clothing for some bird pooh I might not have noticed (I was resting under a tree). Then I wondered if I was experiencing reversed racism. This time I was the minority.

Unsettling, once again.

Multiple Awards at 'Color Awards' Competition

I just found out from a friend that I got a bunch of awards at the recent international coveted 'Color Awards' (no pun intended). Can you believe they do not even send you an email to let you know when you are selected?!? 

So drinks on me next time we get together!

Here are the awarded images:

 

2nd Place in 'Silhouette' with an image from Tucson (AZ), from one of my long trips across the US Southwest. Those in turn are somewhere between a silent meditation and an homage to the childhood trips I would do with my mother and brother.

 

Nominee in 'Portrait' with my fire spinning buddy from Koprivnica in Northern Croatia (they actually put up an entire Renaissance fair for me to photograph: one off the dream list!)

 

Nominee in 'People' with fishermen on the Drava river in summer

 

Nominee in 'People' with an image of a welder inside the 'Viro' sugar factory in Northern Croatia. Incidentally, this image is also featured this month on ViewFind in an amazing article.

 

Nominee in 'Nude' with a portrait of Julia

 

Nominee in 'Nature' with an image from my regular trips through the US Southwest (this one in Utah). This image is now part of my just released new series '(Dis)Connected'

 

Nominee in 'Nature' with an image of reflections in the Lofoten islands in Northern Norway

 

Nominee in 'Architecture' with an image from the 'Viro' sugar factory in Croatia (this one also featured on ViewFind article)

 

It would seem that each image I submitted was selected as either 'Nominee' or 'Winner', which marks a new record for me!

A Night in the ER

January 4th & 5th

Four days into the new year and here we are already back in the UCSF Parnassus hospital ER (Seonok has intense abdominal pain and fever). After an hour drive in the rain, it is now 7:30 pm. 

One hour goes by before we even have the emergency 'triage', 8 hours or more wait time for a doctor, no beds available. This is not a war zone in a third world country, but it might as well be. 

In the waiting area with us in the late night: 3 same-sex couples, one old Chinese couple, 3 old women alone in their wheelchairs staring at the walls, five homeless (one of which is shacking uncontrollably), and a dude with blue hair and painted nails that looks like he just got beat up at a rave. All of us shoulder to shoulder on small chairs, coughing and sneezing. The smell of sweat and sickness overpowers the deodorants and strong air conditioning. And by the way, has anybody told site maintenance that summer has past, it is close to freezing outside, and heating might be much more appreciated inside the building at 11:00 pm?

Doctors and nurses walk by like construction workers at the end of their shift: dirty, bored, red eyed, dragging their feet, avoiding any contact. I get the feeling that they would show more interest in us if we were a group of stray cats, or cows with bowel movements? This must be how compassion dies, by slowly building an invisible wall of indifference. 

A homeless decides to cross the room to come sit next to me. A very pungent smell of alcohol and urines hits me as he leans over to whisper in my ear 'I had to move, some of these people really stink!'. He then removes one shoe only and within minutes is snoring on my shoulder. 

An old lady falls off her wheelchair and sits on the floor right next to a nurse that keeps talking on his cellphone. I go to help her and the nurse acts like he just noticed. 

More homeless walk in, there are about 10 now. It is cold and raining outside, only cold inside. Everyone is shivering, us included. AC still blasting. In a society that glorifies individualism, selfishness is the inevitable byproduct and no pity is reserved for the sick, the weak, the homeless. 

Midnight and after considerable negotiations, diplomacy and bargaining we are finally admitted in (four hours 'early'). Now we are inside the ER: blood, pain, fear and boredom in the eyes of those in the beds, lined along all the corridors. But hey, it's warm! And a lot more humane. Finally real nurses ready to help. I start to get the feeling they keep the waiting area cold on purpose, to make it unbearable for anyone to be there. 

It is 1:00 am when we finally meet the first doctor, for about 4 minutes. Then a long wait for the blood test results, while muted screams of pain surround us from every side. Then on to the CT scan with the Russian technician. Then back to waiting. A lot of waiting.

It has been eight years since we were hit by a drunk driver and yet the painful memories overwhelm both of us like it was just a few days. 

3:00 am and I am getting sleepy, down to taking selfies in the corridors corner mirrors. The loud beeping of some alarm being ignored is echoing in my head, 20 minutes ago another one started. Feeling like 'The Shining', slowly going insane. 

4:00 am and Seonok is finally sleeping peacefully in her cot. Me on the plastic chair on the other hand... Can you believe there is no coffee or food or vending machines at all? Luckily I had a coffee 16 hours ago! We as a society think it is normal to spend billions to develop phone apps and gadgets nobody needs but cannot afford one coffee machine every 30 nurses on night shift?

At 6:15 the nurse drops by to tell us that Seonok will be moved to a different hospital in a few hours, and that the small caffe is finally open. Warm drink feels amazing. Cancel all appointments for the day, then R&R is over: back to the chair designed by the (unknown) fan of de Sade. Or just an accountant somewhere in the Midwest trying to save a few cents in all the wrong places. 

Another hour goes by. The beeping is back. 

Then another hour goes by. 

Finally around 9:30 an ambulance brings her to Mission Bay hospital, treatments are performed, in a few days she should be back on her feet. The new hospital feels totally luxurious.

The great mystery of life: one moment celebrating with friends, the next fighting pain. No matter how many plans we might make and how strongly we feed our own illusions, the truth is none of us has any control. Existence above survival is somewhere between meaning and celebration, neither alone will get us there.  

Jumping Off the Pirate Ship

I am fascinated by the latest book I am reading (‘The Meaning of Human Existence’ by Edward O. Wilson): ants communicating with an alphabet of some twenty pheromones dialed at different intensities and combinations, butterflies that see ultraviolet light, elephants that talk at frequencies below our hearing range, birds that sense the earth magnetic fields, plants that talk to each other. There seems to be immense realities that we are just starting to discover, dimensions of our own world we did not even know existed, surrounding us every moment. I am in awe at the inter-connectedness of EVERYTING. The two cypresses in front of me might be whispering love poems through the embrace of their roots, while the cicadas’ hiding in the branches seem to be battling sex wars fought with tunes and pitches. The little bird puzzled by my presence feels the call of the sky through the slight breeze that carries the scents of many more worlds, all unknown to us.

The destruction of industry during the somehow recent homeland war here in Croatia has given a little repose to nature. An ephemeral instant, already vanishing in front of my eyes: oil from the giant yachts starts to coat the sea waters in the tiny harbors, plastic bags and bottles invade the inlets and coves, the sea is emptied to feed the masses of tourists, each one feeling entitled in his or her own way. There is the father of two that has been coming to this place for many years, the group of young Spanish girls discovering independence for the first time, the teenager fueled by hormones heading to the ‘Ultra’ music festival in the next town, the old fisherman smoking with his pals at the park bench, the Russian sex doll kissing a man twice her age that buys her jewelry and vacations on a boat the size of a couple of average homes. We all feel the center of the universe, blind and deaf to all realities but one. But really, who needs another financial executive, or another flavor of Fruit Loops, or another Netflix or Uber or Pokemon Go?

Individualism and personal freedom if left unchecked inevitably lead to greed and resource consumption. Collapse is closing in each day. It will be just like the Easter island (I am sure the guy that cut the last tree thought that was HIS tree), except now at a global scale. I confess I had my part in this, working for years for a large corporation that pushed me with a golden stick to ‘turn a blind eye’ to my moral, social, political, ecological values. But since leaving some 13 years ago I have stubbornly refused to continue to be part of the problem. The first response has been to jump off the ‘pirate ship’, to seek peace and answers within myself, to find ways to live a peaceful life without hurting anyone else. But recently I have started to wonder if I can continue to whisper in a world that screams. The same goes with my photography, in which my ‘complex simplicity’ philosophy just seems to go un-noticed most of the time (although to my critics I grant that I still have some ways to go). The answer I seem to be finding in this place is a stronger call towards my conscious community. I am not talking about another ego-inflating workshop or ‘consulting’ business or ‘community-based’ start-up or NGO. My answer might simply be to bring people together, to build awareness and discuss issues, to shed my/our masks and attempt to create authentic connections. If there is one lesson I have learned in California it is that I feel much closer to the meaning of life when I am running around naked in nature with other beautiful strangers then when I sit in a conference room devising ways to ‘increase internet traffic’ and make more money. Or put differently: I rather walk around with my camera doing the work than build Instagram followers and talk about the work. So forgive me if I do not post as often as you expect me to and if I do not call or email you every other week. But our door (that is: the real, physical one) will always be open to you, as long as you approach us with the same integrity.

Superficiality of the Big City

A glance at the stream of postings on social media will quickly show you that the focus is on immediacy and superficiality for very fast consumption; ‘likes’ are focused on happy couples, cute pets, little kids, food dishes, and vacations. Any text longer than a paragraph tends to go unread. I do appreciate the connectivity that tools like Facebook allows, but if it is to become our main source of information, then the emerging consumption model has big consequences on our capacity for complex thoughts and ideas. Is it the natural result of our urban lifestyles? I myself find it harder to read books or to meditate when I am at home. The challenge, at least for me, is that faster pace and more options do not equate with higher contentment. Here I am on a small island far far away, with very limited connectivity, and after the first few days of restlessness a ‘new’ peace emerges. I find myself shying away from big crowds, busy restaurants, fancy bars. The whole social show that might normally fascinate me now starts to feel foreign. It makes me wonder if in our big cities we are all gradually becoming superficial, one click at the time?

On the other hand, it might just be me: my several brushes with death and my almost constant ‘not fitting in’ might be the roots for the need to always look around the next corner with the thirst for something more. And it is not easy: I just wrapped up a very successful show of my work and I am already obsessing about what comes next, I rip myself apart regularly, not a week goes by that I do not want to throw all my work away and start fresh and/or get a meaningless but steady job. I thank (and resent) the incredible friends that keep me on this path; providence always seems to throw me a bone when I most need it, and so forward I go. I am never more keenly aware that fear, doubt, pain are the foundational building blocks for courage, drive, pleasure.

Yesterday I was reflecting on how in the USA we are at risk of electing for president a criminal ego-maniac because we lost faith in the system: we sit feeling powerless and angry and disenfranchised, witnessing the whole elections process as one big sad reality TV show. Thus we become easy preys to those that see the world as their own.

My father recently reminded me that wisdom lies in between the brutality of poverty and the dumbness of wealth. So what happens when the middle gets squeezed too thin? Historically the two extremes end up crashing into each other. Looking at the news this past week I am left wondering if this might already be happening. The only path forward I can see is a stronger engagement with our family, peers, and local community: I now believe that a sense of belonging brings a sense of meaning, which in turn brings the courage (and desire) to stand up for what is right.

Three Huge Shows Coming to Croatia!

 

Nicolò will be showing two different series, together for the very first time; ‘Once we were here‘ and ‘Rest Areas of US South West’.

There will be 45 large prints (36″ wide) displayed at the show.

This show will then move to three different cities in Croatia:

  • May: Koprivnica art museum
  • July: Split (Diocletian’s palace, set of ‘Game of Thrones’ TV series)
  • September: Virovitica Art Museum

Projects will also be featured June this year at the 24th general conference of the International Council of Museums in Milan, IT.

Nicolò will be providing a workshop: Photography in the Age of Social media, and give several talks, including the Antun Nemcic Gostovinski’ Elementary School as well as developing a new project: Croatian Castles.

Art And Artisans: Photography, Portraiture And A New Way Of Seeing

MAR 13, 2012

Art And Artisans: Photography, Portraiture And A New Way Of Seeing

Text by SinhaRaja Tammita-Delgoda

Images by Nicolò Sertorio

 

The light streams in through a darkened window, lighting up a block of wood. Embedded within the wood is a shining circle of silver. A long finely pointed pin in his hand, a man is tracing patterns on the metal. He is peering closely in concentration, totally wrapped up in his work.

Putting the pin down, he takes up a light hammer and a thick, solid chisel. Relying purely on his eyes and his hands, he begins hammering out the patterns he has just traced. A light tapping sound fills the room. The noise is constant and repetitive, yet the hands do not tremble and the fingers remain steady. As the hammer rings out, the patterns take shape before our eyes.

Beside the man, lies an open wooden toolbox. It is a glimpse into his craft and his life. Spilling out is a collection of saws, chisels, nails and razors. In the softness of the morning light the lines stand out sharply, an amalgam of different shapes and forms. Some of the tools have cutting edges, others are long and pointed; some have blunted points and flattened ends, one or two are shaped like keys. It is a way of working and a way of life which has not changed for centuries, a culture which is still alive today.

E. N. Wimalasooriya is one in a long line of hereditary craftsmen. For generations his family have been the metal workers, silversmiths and jewelers of Sinhalē, the last independent kingdom of Sri Lanka. Known to outsiders as the Kande Uda Rata, “the Land above the Mountains,” to its own people it was Sinhalē, the last bastion of more than 2,000 years of culture and tradition. A hidden, guarded realm, surrounded by rugged mountains and steamy tropical jungles, it lay at the very heart of Sri Lanka. For nearly three centuries, the people of Sinhalē held the Portuguese, the Dutch and the British at bay. In 1815 the ancient kingdom was betrayed to the British by its own nobility. Today this whole region is known as Kandy, British shorthand for Kande Uda Rata. Wimalasooriya is a quiet, gentle man, soft spoken and unassuming. He is a master craftsman, yet he is humble to a fault. Shy and hesitant before the camera, he mumbles “There is nothing special about me, there are so many others.” His life has always been his work and he has been working since he was seventeen. He is now in his sixties but his teacher, he tells us, is still alive and working. Wimalasooriya’s workshop adjoins his home, which lies next door. Everything he needs is within arm’s length or walking distance. He does not have to go out and sell, people come to him. He is very much his own man. He cannot be hurried, he works at his own pace and names his price. He is so trusted that quantities of gold, silver and precious stones are left with him for months on end. With quiet pride he tells us that no one has ever been able to point out any mistakes that he has made.

Wimalasooriya’s only child is his daughter. Although not yet twenty one, Ashani is a school teacher. Her world is one of books, children and classrooms. Yet she has inherited his ability to draw, capturing curving, complex patterns with easy skill. As her father gets older it is she who does the sketches. “Yes”, Ashani admits with a shy smile, like him, now she can draw almost any pattern. One day perhaps, it will be she who carries on the traditions.

Photographer Nicolò Sertorio, an Italian and an American had never been to Sri Lanka before. Although he had spent several months in India, for him Sri Lanka was a very different experience. The picture of this part of the world, he observed, had come mostly from photojournalists and tourists. The photojournalists often saw only struggle, conflict, poverty, war and disaster. Tourists however, often saw the beauty but what they really focussed on were the differences. Things often seemed so strange and so foreign that this was all they saw. People were not connecting with the person anymore.

Nicolò recalls one of his first impressions of India. “Hundreds and hundreds of rickshaws massed together.” His first thought was survival. “How can we get home safely? How can people live like this? How can they make sense of it? How can I make sense of this?” It took several months before he could accept what he saw as a part of a way of living. “As I started to talk to people, I began to see beyond the superficial. Only then did I begin to see the rhythms and the stories, to understand them as a different way of life.” Only then did he become aware of how much time and how much desire it took to go beyond the superficial. “It also took opportunity.”

Guided by his friend, Sri Lankan artist and designer, Nisansala Karunaratne, Nicolò set out to explore the art and traditions of Kandy. Struck by the differences between the worlds, he wanted to portray the craftsman in a new light. The question he asked himself was how could he convey it visually. “In America we watch television every day but we don’t really see.” There is a form of indoctrination in the filtering of any image. America is such an overwhelmingly visual society, so full of television, film and vivid color that the eye has become habituated and desensitized. “In a way we have to see again, to distance ourselves from habituation and preconception.”

Nicolò began to think about using portraiture as a way of seeing. Portraiture in the western style was usually very high end. It was very visual and technically very well executed.

“It is well lit and well done, so that we focus only on the person, not the environment. What I wanted to do was to take out the environment. To remove the element of judgment, to create a visual image which would connect eye to eye.”

****

Not far away from the silversmith’s home, hidden away in a maze of leafy overgrown lanes, was another village of craftsman. This area was home to the weavers of Sri Lanka’s famous Dumbara mats. They too had once been royal craftsmen. Before 1815 they had made wall hangings and mats at the direction of the king to decorate his kingdom. The material which they use is hemp.

Once the leaves and stalks have been gathered together, they are scraped against a log with a wooden tool. The scraping removes the fleshy part of the leaf, leaving a yellow green fibre. The fibre is then oiled and brushed and spun into a thick, fluffy thread, like cotton. This thread is then woven on a small simple loom which is placed on the floor.

This is one of the most traditional of crafts. It is a long and painstaking process. Sitting on the floor, the weaver’s concentration is intense as he picks out the lines with a very fine needle. Long years of poring over his work have meant that he too has to wear spectacles. Inch by inch the mat takes shape and the design starts to appear. It can take anything between three to ten days to make just one mat.

Like the silversmith, Dharmadasa also works at home. His features are sharp and his face alert. He too seems to be well into his sixties. Starting just after he left school, he had learned his craft from his father. In the tradition of most Kandyan craftsmen, his family were also farmers and like his father before him, Dharmadasa still farms his lands. His mats have won him national recognition and today he works with some of Sri Lanka’s finest designers. Now he has begun teaching his son, so that he can pass the custom on.

The weaving of cloth was once widespread throughout the provinces of the Kandyan kingdom. Today it is only practiced in the remote hamlet of Talagune, hidden away amidst the mountains and valleys of the Kandyan countryside. Narrow winding roads climb up and down the side of rocky peaks, passing through forests, gushing streams and gleaming paddy fields; even today Talagune seems lost in time.

This is the one and only village which has been weaving since royal times. Whole pieces of cloth are woven on large wooden looms. They are worked by pedals, whose movement throws the shuttle across the loom. This too is a farming society. Unlike the craftsmen of medieval Europe, the artisans of Kandy did not live in towns, they had no shops and did not work for hire. Sirisena and his family still work the paddy fields which lie nearby.

His grandfather had taught Sirisena to weave. He has been weaving since he was sixteen. Both his sons, Chandana and Saman, had learned from him. One of them, Saman, had lost his leg in Sri Lanka’s long, unending war against the Tamil Tigers. During wartime, there had been little work and they had all had to do other things. Saman had joined the army and gone off to the war. Although he could no longer use the looms, he works on the smaller pieces, such as wall hangings and table mats. Since the end of the war in 2009, things have changed. “Now there are lots of people coming.”

As the pedals are worked, the clanking begins and the bars begin to move. Glistening, brilliant threads are thrown to and fro across the wooden beams, creating dazzling geometric forms. The pace of work is leisurely, everyone stops to chat and there are peals of laughter. In the background is the sound of the radio.

The colors may vary but the designs remain traditional. The old is used to cater for the new. However, to weave just one piece could take as much as five and a half days. “It all depends,” says Sirisena. Many of the designs are still unique. Up till now, he says no one has been able to do them on a machine. Nisansala asked about the design which Nicolò had commissioned. “When could he have it?” Sirisena smiled. “I’ll give it to you when it’s ready.”


SinhaRaja Tammita-Delgoda

Writer, historian and art historian, SinhaRaja Tammita-Delgoda is an authority on the art and culture of Sri Lanka. He is the author of several books and numerous articles on India and Sri Lanka.