I'm a sucker for resolutions and reflections. Even though many people talk about it only being a date in the calendar, for me New Years is a hugely symbolic time to do both of these R's.
In just under a month in Vietnam we'll be experiencing 'Tet', the Vietnamese lunar new year. This new moon'll be a much more auspicious time to manifest I'm sure, so perhaps I'll leave my resolution making until that time. However, I feel the time is ripe for a fair bit of reflection on this amazing year.
I do believe that this year has been the best year of my life so far. The older I get, the more amazing the world seems to me. Is this normal? Who knows... normality's never been a favourite word of mine anyway. Here are some other words to sum up 2011:
Seemingly endless Kiwi summer - lazy barefoot days, two months of farewells, tear-jerking weddings and music making.
Snakes in the bushes in Queensland - time spent with my nephew and niece reading Richard Scarry on repeat and running Thomas the Tank Engine endlessly around on his tracks.
Finding a Sanctuary in Thailand - literally - 'The Sanctuary' of Haad Tien beach (on Ko Pha Ngan island), an incredible getaway filled with yogic delights.
Cambodian compassion - the beauty of Siem Reap contrasting with gritty Phnom Penh and that haunting museum of torture that reminded me just how little the world has learnt from war.
Saigon the first. I kinda liked it actually... I seemed to gloss over the pollution and traffic congestion.. funny how things are always different when you're on holiday.
Return to India...
Geez, you can NEVER Write about India in a sentence. My words are: annoying-as-hell-at-first, I'd-changed-a-lot-in-the-five-years-since-I'd-been-here, big-lack-of-peace-within, HIMALAYA, transformative, PEACE again, Russian and Ukranian whanau, Bhagsu community - alchemical...
Holland and Germany (Bavaria). Old friends and their families, enjoying the luxury of the first world again - fresh sheets and clean air never felt so good...
Ljubljana. Even writing the name makes me romantic. One of my favourite places on the planet. I don't know why... quiet river, good memories, bridges to play music on, lovely Slovenian folk... I would love to find a teaching job in this place one day...
Croatia. Alternately masculine and meaty, and beautiful and gentle. Best and worst busking experiences (best = Korcula. Worst = money hungry Dubrovnik)
Italia. Bella bella! Bari, Roma, Siena, Verona, Venizia. Pizza! Spaghetti Pomodoro! Bellissimo!
Austria - gallavanting with a fire pixie from my past. Fun times! And swanky busking near a touristic lake polluted with yachts. Good for my pockets though, so, can't complain.
London town - Vauxhall, Clapham, Chiswick... and some other places I've forgotten. Beautiful reconnections with friends, especially my Russian soulmate.
Brighton for three weeks - well, HOVE, actually... good busking, unwanted attention from all the mad hatters on George Street, and a home away from home at 'Small World' festival. Living off my earnings and totally close to the edge of life... wondrous but scary at times.
Portugal - roadtripping without a map with Vladi, both literally and figuratively, barefeet on the dashboard and arms out the window. It's HOT HOT HOT. And an amazing two weeks together, writing music in the parks and drinking endless cups of tea.
London, Brighton, Scotland again. More cups of tea, and my final goodbyes because the money has more than run out this time and it's high time to get a job somewhere in the world. I'm choosing SAIGON, and two months in, I'm happy with my choice.
In the present again, at my office desk in Saigon. Working through the Christmas holiday but I don't mind too much because it's been a good year, a damn fine one actually, and although I've glossed over the details there is much in my heart that I will never succeed in translating. I love where I'm at in my life and I look forward to 2012 whole heartedly. And if I could choose a few words for the coming year, I would choose: CONSCIOUSNESS, MOTIVATION and MOJO. I've been such a cruiser for ages, I think it's time to get a bit more hip to the possibilities of being alive. They are limitless...
Monday, December 26, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Just getting along.
It's so much easier to write when you're travelling. There are new things to see every day, interesting anecdotes, chance encounters with new friends... all of the same things that are possible wherever you are in fact. Now that I've been here (Saigon) for two months, things are becoming more ordinary and I sometimes struggle for new material.
That's why I love travelling. With no ties or responsibilities, the world is limitless once more - there are no deadlines and few decisions to make other than what to eat for lunch every day.
But this is not how life is all the time necessarily, or how I would even like it to be - I love working and feeling more settled (from time to time). I have noticed lately however, that with this settled feeling comes a kind of complacency and a sense of 'just getting along'. There's nothing wrong with this, but I do sometimes miss the creative outbursts that used to colour my days in India earlier this year. I guess this means I just have to try harder, right?
Earlier this year I decided to turn this blog into a book, at some point. The idea seemed so simple back then, but I have not even begun to put that process in motion - I don't even have my own computer! I am sure there will be a time for more serious writing in the next few months and am under no illusion about the work and discipline involved in it... until that more committed time, my posts will probably continue to be sporadic.
But! I DO have something to write about today! I have really turned my Saigon situation around in the last two weeks, going from my tiny $8/night hotel room in the noisy soup of Bui Vien (backpackers area) to my beloved alleyway at 18a Nguyen Thi Minh Khai. I am finally enjoying walking around the streets in the weekends - midday on Saturday or Sunday is a perfect time to do this as most people are sleeping off their lunch. Yesterday, as I was walking into town from my alleyway (a 40 minute walk), I passed by the beautiful Notre-Dame-esque cathedral, the widely paved streets and green parks, and began to realise that... heaven forbid... that I have not just learnt to 'put up' with this place but am in fact starting to be wooed by its urban charm. Part of me almost doesn't want to admit this to myself, as if clinging to the sense of not liking a place would inflate my ego and sense of righteousness or something... as if starting to enjoy this place would serve as a complicit acceptance of Saigon's shocking pollution and traffic problems... all very interesting observations. I think that whenever we oppose something in life, it's to do with defending our false sense of our own 'identity' (which is actually ever changing and doesn't really exist!)... the reason why neighbouring countries are rivals is always about making themselevs right and others wrong... when you think about it, it's kind of ridiculous...
Anyways, I'm getting off track with all this philosophising... So I was walking yeterday at lunchtime, watching the blue shirted cyclo drivers snooze in their carriages and the even more impressive balancing acts of xe om (motorbike) drivers managing to sleep with one eye open, perfectly balanced on their steeds whilst still managing to offer their services to any would-be tourist who happened to be passing. I love it how people here seem to sleep anywhere... the woman in her hammock on the side of a busy road... my co-workers on their office desks with their heads crooked in their office sleeves at lunchtime... my students who pile 30+ in a room on the floor for a quick kip before another 4 hours of lessons... and as well as being able to enjoy my face-masked city walks, I've also become used to the weather - wither that or it's actually cooled down since I've got here. Gone are the days of overly sweaty foreheads and attractive pit-stains - yuss!
And last night I even managed to get out of the city, quite spontaneously. It was after a friend's 21st and we'd all heard tell of a music festival going on somewhere near the city. After jumping in a taxi adn managing to somehow help our driver navigate the forty minute journey, we got there - I have no idea where it actually was geographicaly, but I just know that being in a palce with so much grass and breathing the clean air felt amazing!
The music was allright as well - I'm not massively into house or trance and know very little about all the different sub-genres, but I just know that I loved the last guy's set anyway, and at 4am we were still up for more. It felt kind of nice to recognise certain faces in the crowd - lots of long-terms travellers/teachers/ex-pats - as wel as spot a few hippy types in there as well. Made me feel at home...
We got lost on the way back into town afterwards, thanks to our Irish friend who didn't know the way to his own house so we ended up back in sleazy Bui Vien again for breakfast. I tell you, fried rice had never tasted so good... and instead of xe-omming it up I opted to walk home in the breaking dawn and watch Saigon wake up around me.
You wouldn't have guessed that some poeple were still up from the night before - at 6 am the parks were filled with ladies doing their morning exercises. As I heard the exercise tape from a hidden speaker I realised I could count to 20 in Vietnamese with them. I passed the school I teach at every weekday and saw full fledged games of badmington going on in a court opposite, the participants full of energy at this early hour. The street cart owners wre just beginning to lay out their magazines / coconuts / sandwich fillings and I saw lots of men crouching low at plastic tables slurping their breakfast Pho. The streets were almost empty and a;though I still clutched my bag tightly to me, the thought of getting my purse stolen seemed less of a possibility at this gentle hour. Once home, after smiling at the early monring flower sellers and fruit merchants, I fell asleep straight away in my room with a clear and happy heart.
I remember just a few weeks ago despairing and wondering where the sense of peace and contentment that came so easy to me for much of this year had gone. I really wondered what was wrong with me - why I was struggling to meditate and even to simply feel happy. Now that it's over, it doesn't seem so bad and I'm beginning to get some of the sense of peace and mystery of the world back again. Really, there is beauty everywhere - even in this urban jungle. I may curse capitalism and Western influence at times, but really - we are all still people and all of us still connect to this at times, whether we realise it or not. The best glimpses of humanity I've seen lately have been at these quiet times - the early dawn and the sleepy afternoons, where people are just doing the things that make them human. Not trying to be anything other than what they are, not wanting for anything - 'just getting along' I suppose, which is what I'm learning to do: get on with things, and to enjoy every minute of a life which is becoming more normal every day, but no less beautiful.
That's why I love travelling. With no ties or responsibilities, the world is limitless once more - there are no deadlines and few decisions to make other than what to eat for lunch every day.
But this is not how life is all the time necessarily, or how I would even like it to be - I love working and feeling more settled (from time to time). I have noticed lately however, that with this settled feeling comes a kind of complacency and a sense of 'just getting along'. There's nothing wrong with this, but I do sometimes miss the creative outbursts that used to colour my days in India earlier this year. I guess this means I just have to try harder, right?
Earlier this year I decided to turn this blog into a book, at some point. The idea seemed so simple back then, but I have not even begun to put that process in motion - I don't even have my own computer! I am sure there will be a time for more serious writing in the next few months and am under no illusion about the work and discipline involved in it... until that more committed time, my posts will probably continue to be sporadic.
But! I DO have something to write about today! I have really turned my Saigon situation around in the last two weeks, going from my tiny $8/night hotel room in the noisy soup of Bui Vien (backpackers area) to my beloved alleyway at 18a Nguyen Thi Minh Khai. I am finally enjoying walking around the streets in the weekends - midday on Saturday or Sunday is a perfect time to do this as most people are sleeping off their lunch. Yesterday, as I was walking into town from my alleyway (a 40 minute walk), I passed by the beautiful Notre-Dame-esque cathedral, the widely paved streets and green parks, and began to realise that... heaven forbid... that I have not just learnt to 'put up' with this place but am in fact starting to be wooed by its urban charm. Part of me almost doesn't want to admit this to myself, as if clinging to the sense of not liking a place would inflate my ego and sense of righteousness or something... as if starting to enjoy this place would serve as a complicit acceptance of Saigon's shocking pollution and traffic problems... all very interesting observations. I think that whenever we oppose something in life, it's to do with defending our false sense of our own 'identity' (which is actually ever changing and doesn't really exist!)... the reason why neighbouring countries are rivals is always about making themselevs right and others wrong... when you think about it, it's kind of ridiculous...
Anyways, I'm getting off track with all this philosophising... So I was walking yeterday at lunchtime, watching the blue shirted cyclo drivers snooze in their carriages and the even more impressive balancing acts of xe om (motorbike) drivers managing to sleep with one eye open, perfectly balanced on their steeds whilst still managing to offer their services to any would-be tourist who happened to be passing. I love it how people here seem to sleep anywhere... the woman in her hammock on the side of a busy road... my co-workers on their office desks with their heads crooked in their office sleeves at lunchtime... my students who pile 30+ in a room on the floor for a quick kip before another 4 hours of lessons... and as well as being able to enjoy my face-masked city walks, I've also become used to the weather - wither that or it's actually cooled down since I've got here. Gone are the days of overly sweaty foreheads and attractive pit-stains - yuss!
And last night I even managed to get out of the city, quite spontaneously. It was after a friend's 21st and we'd all heard tell of a music festival going on somewhere near the city. After jumping in a taxi adn managing to somehow help our driver navigate the forty minute journey, we got there - I have no idea where it actually was geographicaly, but I just know that being in a palce with so much grass and breathing the clean air felt amazing!
The music was allright as well - I'm not massively into house or trance and know very little about all the different sub-genres, but I just know that I loved the last guy's set anyway, and at 4am we were still up for more. It felt kind of nice to recognise certain faces in the crowd - lots of long-terms travellers/teachers/ex-pats - as wel as spot a few hippy types in there as well. Made me feel at home...
We got lost on the way back into town afterwards, thanks to our Irish friend who didn't know the way to his own house so we ended up back in sleazy Bui Vien again for breakfast. I tell you, fried rice had never tasted so good... and instead of xe-omming it up I opted to walk home in the breaking dawn and watch Saigon wake up around me.
You wouldn't have guessed that some poeple were still up from the night before - at 6 am the parks were filled with ladies doing their morning exercises. As I heard the exercise tape from a hidden speaker I realised I could count to 20 in Vietnamese with them. I passed the school I teach at every weekday and saw full fledged games of badmington going on in a court opposite, the participants full of energy at this early hour. The street cart owners wre just beginning to lay out their magazines / coconuts / sandwich fillings and I saw lots of men crouching low at plastic tables slurping their breakfast Pho. The streets were almost empty and a;though I still clutched my bag tightly to me, the thought of getting my purse stolen seemed less of a possibility at this gentle hour. Once home, after smiling at the early monring flower sellers and fruit merchants, I fell asleep straight away in my room with a clear and happy heart.
I remember just a few weeks ago despairing and wondering where the sense of peace and contentment that came so easy to me for much of this year had gone. I really wondered what was wrong with me - why I was struggling to meditate and even to simply feel happy. Now that it's over, it doesn't seem so bad and I'm beginning to get some of the sense of peace and mystery of the world back again. Really, there is beauty everywhere - even in this urban jungle. I may curse capitalism and Western influence at times, but really - we are all still people and all of us still connect to this at times, whether we realise it or not. The best glimpses of humanity I've seen lately have been at these quiet times - the early dawn and the sleepy afternoons, where people are just doing the things that make them human. Not trying to be anything other than what they are, not wanting for anything - 'just getting along' I suppose, which is what I'm learning to do: get on with things, and to enjoy every minute of a life which is becoming more normal every day, but no less beautiful.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
A New Neighbourhood Makes All the Difference
It only took me seven weeks... but I really do think that my negative opinion and experience of Saigon is beginning to change. Overnight.
On Friday afternoon, after battling to be heard over the ceiling fans and general noisy school atmosphere (and smoky school atmosphere - I saw one of the teachers climbing the stairs to his classroom with a lit fag in his hand - a far cry from NZ's smoke free schools!) my throat is wrecked from teaching 12 year olds how to punctuate correctly. Despite my desire to go back to my hotel and sleep off the week, I allow myself to get pulled out for a 50c can of beer down an alleyway ten minutes from work that I never knew existed. We arrive in a swarm, five female whiteys all working for the same company and each pull up a plastic chair at the local 'bar' while Emma (the ringleader in the know) opens the fridge herself and begins handing out the 'BaBaBa' beers. A Vietnamese fella in a singlet is hanging around smiling while his three beautiful young daughters flounce about, climbing on and off the laps of the ones who got there before us, who all seem to live in this strangely quiet alleyway.
There are four of us all completely sick of living in the land of backpacker sleaze known as Pham Ngu Lao. Now that I've moved and been gone a day, I wonder how I could have stayed there so long, but I suppose it was because a) it was what I knew how to do b) it was easy and cheap, which I needed at the time and c) I really hate hotel / house hunting. But in hindsight, I now know that this was what was making me so miserable about being here.
Besides the traffic and the pollution, that is - moving hasn't changed those things, although they are much less noticeable down my new alleyway, which is too narrow and filled with roadside juice/beer/noodle soup joints for bikes to drive too quickly. The alley is also void of hawkers trying to sell you sunglasses every two minutes, or pester you about motorbike rides, and you are much less likely to get ripped off.
Most long term ex-pats in Saigon tend to opt for apartments because of the lounge factor, but from now on our lounge would be the plastic chaired roadside bar where everyone seemed to meet in the evenings ater work - within ten minutes we had made five new friends and gained valuable information about where to go for everything we needed - except vegetarian food. However, thanks to international veggie website www.happycow.net I soon found three decent local places to chow down in my new 'hood. With a shop selling guitars and pick-ups (which I need in order to do any more gigs here), 50 cent baguette stands, laundromats where a kilo of laundry will cost you 40 cents and where all shopowners will bring out complementary iced tea, this is a local alley in which prices have remained thus. Apparently there have been a handful of foreigners here for a year or so, but not too many to create another Pham Ngu Lao - the alley is too small for that anyway.
It's amazing how much a new home has changed me - I feel like I have an entirely new perspective on where I'm living. Until now I'd been hating on my city in a major way, and it's interesting that things just seemed to be going wrong for me again and again - in hindsight I know it's because I was attracting that kind of business - losing my wallet (or getting it pickpocketed - still don't know...), getting shortchanged and nearly run over - with my attitude. I hope I never forget this again. I probably will, but if so, I hope I can manage to maintain a better balance and acceptance of everything - all of a sudden I am somewhat ashamed of my feelings of helplessness in the past weeks. It's astounding what can change in just an evening...
Now that I'm away from the tourists I'm experiencing a different kind of behaviour from the locals as well. Yesterday, as I explored my new surroundings and tried to find somewhere to eat I was having my usual difficulty crossing the road, until a local man came up and gestured that I should follow him as he stepped out and wove his way through the moving bikes. I think I was much better at this when I first arrived actually, but for some reason I've developed a bit of anxiety about it lately and always sigh with relief when I finally get across safe. Sometimes I feel like living here has taken years off my life! So, the roads haven't changed, but the kindness of strangers has.
Last night, sitting around the plastic table littered with cans one of my new neighbours, a New Yorker named Chris, asked me how long I was planning on staying here. I told him definitely no longer than May when the school year finished, and he just looked at me, smiled and said he looked forward to having this conversation again in May to see how things had changed. I still don't know what makes so many people fall in love with this place - it hasn't QUITE happened to me yet - but let me say that Saigon and I are now in a 'courting' phase. Who knows - maybe we'll discover that we do like each other after all.
On Friday afternoon, after battling to be heard over the ceiling fans and general noisy school atmosphere (and smoky school atmosphere - I saw one of the teachers climbing the stairs to his classroom with a lit fag in his hand - a far cry from NZ's smoke free schools!) my throat is wrecked from teaching 12 year olds how to punctuate correctly. Despite my desire to go back to my hotel and sleep off the week, I allow myself to get pulled out for a 50c can of beer down an alleyway ten minutes from work that I never knew existed. We arrive in a swarm, five female whiteys all working for the same company and each pull up a plastic chair at the local 'bar' while Emma (the ringleader in the know) opens the fridge herself and begins handing out the 'BaBaBa' beers. A Vietnamese fella in a singlet is hanging around smiling while his three beautiful young daughters flounce about, climbing on and off the laps of the ones who got there before us, who all seem to live in this strangely quiet alleyway.
There are four of us all completely sick of living in the land of backpacker sleaze known as Pham Ngu Lao. Now that I've moved and been gone a day, I wonder how I could have stayed there so long, but I suppose it was because a) it was what I knew how to do b) it was easy and cheap, which I needed at the time and c) I really hate hotel / house hunting. But in hindsight, I now know that this was what was making me so miserable about being here.
Besides the traffic and the pollution, that is - moving hasn't changed those things, although they are much less noticeable down my new alleyway, which is too narrow and filled with roadside juice/beer/noodle soup joints for bikes to drive too quickly. The alley is also void of hawkers trying to sell you sunglasses every two minutes, or pester you about motorbike rides, and you are much less likely to get ripped off.
Most long term ex-pats in Saigon tend to opt for apartments because of the lounge factor, but from now on our lounge would be the plastic chaired roadside bar where everyone seemed to meet in the evenings ater work - within ten minutes we had made five new friends and gained valuable information about where to go for everything we needed - except vegetarian food. However, thanks to international veggie website www.happycow.net I soon found three decent local places to chow down in my new 'hood. With a shop selling guitars and pick-ups (which I need in order to do any more gigs here), 50 cent baguette stands, laundromats where a kilo of laundry will cost you 40 cents and where all shopowners will bring out complementary iced tea, this is a local alley in which prices have remained thus. Apparently there have been a handful of foreigners here for a year or so, but not too many to create another Pham Ngu Lao - the alley is too small for that anyway.
It's amazing how much a new home has changed me - I feel like I have an entirely new perspective on where I'm living. Until now I'd been hating on my city in a major way, and it's interesting that things just seemed to be going wrong for me again and again - in hindsight I know it's because I was attracting that kind of business - losing my wallet (or getting it pickpocketed - still don't know...), getting shortchanged and nearly run over - with my attitude. I hope I never forget this again. I probably will, but if so, I hope I can manage to maintain a better balance and acceptance of everything - all of a sudden I am somewhat ashamed of my feelings of helplessness in the past weeks. It's astounding what can change in just an evening...
Now that I'm away from the tourists I'm experiencing a different kind of behaviour from the locals as well. Yesterday, as I explored my new surroundings and tried to find somewhere to eat I was having my usual difficulty crossing the road, until a local man came up and gestured that I should follow him as he stepped out and wove his way through the moving bikes. I think I was much better at this when I first arrived actually, but for some reason I've developed a bit of anxiety about it lately and always sigh with relief when I finally get across safe. Sometimes I feel like living here has taken years off my life! So, the roads haven't changed, but the kindness of strangers has.
Last night, sitting around the plastic table littered with cans one of my new neighbours, a New Yorker named Chris, asked me how long I was planning on staying here. I told him definitely no longer than May when the school year finished, and he just looked at me, smiled and said he looked forward to having this conversation again in May to see how things had changed. I still don't know what makes so many people fall in love with this place - it hasn't QUITE happened to me yet - but let me say that Saigon and I are now in a 'courting' phase. Who knows - maybe we'll discover that we do like each other after all.
Friday, November 18, 2011
'sbeen something of a rough week. Getting ripped off in my local shop, having my wallet disappear within a matter of minutes on a quiet(er) street the following night (I'll never know what really happened),realising I'm almost maxed out on my credit card and that my first proper pay check will only just cover the repayments, leaving nothing left for a deposit on an apartment... financially, it's not been a great time for me lately! But tonight, Friday, 'teacher's day' (which is actually on Sunday although kids and schools have been celebrating all week),I'm post five-course dinner at the school for the gifted where I work in which I could only eat sticky rice and lettuce, drink beer and represent the pasty faced teachers in the karaoke, and I'm actually feelin' okay! (They tell me the deer, squid and other meaty delicacies were delicious. Pretty amazing treatment in a third world country, don't you think?!)
This leads me to wonder if my problem with Saigon up until now has, in fact, been not enough beer?! For, two nights ago, after all my financial woes were woven, I went for a beer with a workmate in the same restaurant that saved my ass after my wallet went missing on Tuesday (they took me in, made me drink iced tea, waited for my hysteria to calm the hell down). As we walked home afterwards, I noticed that the traffic didn't even make me flinch. Oh, the numbing beer factor... so good at the time, although within an hour I'd lost my sense of taste and smell and wanted to fall asleep by 8.30 - just can't drink very much these days. It's a good thing.
Anyway, tonight I feel some sort of majesty and sense of the mystery of it all returning to my life. I ate my favourite dish of vermicilli noodles with spring rolls (rice and lettuce not really cutting it to be honest...) and stared at the lizards climbing the peeling walls, looked out at the makeshift kitchen twenty metres from where I sat with crates of local produce hanging in baskets form the bamboo ceiling, and realised that actually, life's not too bad after all... Even though I love to complain about this place - and wouldn't choose to live here again given the chance - I look around me and see xe om (motorbike) drivers earning a few dollars per day, children going to school for ten hours a day, six days a week without a complaint, and Vietnamese teachers earning a tenth of what I earn. It all kinda puts things into perspective and all of a sudden I feel ashamed for my hysterical rants about the polluted, maniacal motorcycling nature of this place. Yeah, it's true that it isn't really the place for me, and that I should have known better before buying a ticket here, but the truth is that I can't really afford to leave just yet, having got myself into this rather crap financial situation by choosing to have the year of a lifetime and gallavanting around the world until the very last minute (and cent), credit card be damned...
So, I suppose I'm learning to live with the consequence of my actions just now. And, slowly slowly, learning to deal with the noise of 10,000 motorbikes screaming around the streets at 2 a.m when Vietnam has won the football, learning to cope with the corruption of this place and the sleazy backpacker scene - learning to ADAPT, really... It really is the best thing one can do.
I'm excited about possible future ventures. Working in Jordan or Lebanon or another part of the Middle East.. or even India (just caught the end of a documentary on Indian private schools)... and visiting my homeland sometime after May next year for a while... There are definitely things to work towards at the moment, while I learn to live IN the moment and ENJOY the moment more... it has been so easy all year to do this and it is only now, when I am struggling again for the first time in a long while, that I remember how easy it is to preach presence and peace and harmony, but how much harder it is to practise these things in times of despair. BUT... I know I am strong enough to do so.
SO, I'm off to sleep off this beer haze and dream of brighter and more positive futures... and to do my best to appreciate what I do have rather than moan about what I'm missing. All very humbling stuff.
Enough said. It's bedtime. Time to climb the stairs back up to my fourth floor hotel room and earplug out the nighttime concerto of bikes, dogs and hawkers. Night night everyone xx
This leads me to wonder if my problem with Saigon up until now has, in fact, been not enough beer?! For, two nights ago, after all my financial woes were woven, I went for a beer with a workmate in the same restaurant that saved my ass after my wallet went missing on Tuesday (they took me in, made me drink iced tea, waited for my hysteria to calm the hell down). As we walked home afterwards, I noticed that the traffic didn't even make me flinch. Oh, the numbing beer factor... so good at the time, although within an hour I'd lost my sense of taste and smell and wanted to fall asleep by 8.30 - just can't drink very much these days. It's a good thing.
Anyway, tonight I feel some sort of majesty and sense of the mystery of it all returning to my life. I ate my favourite dish of vermicilli noodles with spring rolls (rice and lettuce not really cutting it to be honest...) and stared at the lizards climbing the peeling walls, looked out at the makeshift kitchen twenty metres from where I sat with crates of local produce hanging in baskets form the bamboo ceiling, and realised that actually, life's not too bad after all... Even though I love to complain about this place - and wouldn't choose to live here again given the chance - I look around me and see xe om (motorbike) drivers earning a few dollars per day, children going to school for ten hours a day, six days a week without a complaint, and Vietnamese teachers earning a tenth of what I earn. It all kinda puts things into perspective and all of a sudden I feel ashamed for my hysterical rants about the polluted, maniacal motorcycling nature of this place. Yeah, it's true that it isn't really the place for me, and that I should have known better before buying a ticket here, but the truth is that I can't really afford to leave just yet, having got myself into this rather crap financial situation by choosing to have the year of a lifetime and gallavanting around the world until the very last minute (and cent), credit card be damned...
So, I suppose I'm learning to live with the consequence of my actions just now. And, slowly slowly, learning to deal with the noise of 10,000 motorbikes screaming around the streets at 2 a.m when Vietnam has won the football, learning to cope with the corruption of this place and the sleazy backpacker scene - learning to ADAPT, really... It really is the best thing one can do.
I'm excited about possible future ventures. Working in Jordan or Lebanon or another part of the Middle East.. or even India (just caught the end of a documentary on Indian private schools)... and visiting my homeland sometime after May next year for a while... There are definitely things to work towards at the moment, while I learn to live IN the moment and ENJOY the moment more... it has been so easy all year to do this and it is only now, when I am struggling again for the first time in a long while, that I remember how easy it is to preach presence and peace and harmony, but how much harder it is to practise these things in times of despair. BUT... I know I am strong enough to do so.
SO, I'm off to sleep off this beer haze and dream of brighter and more positive futures... and to do my best to appreciate what I do have rather than moan about what I'm missing. All very humbling stuff.
Enough said. It's bedtime. Time to climb the stairs back up to my fourth floor hotel room and earplug out the nighttime concerto of bikes, dogs and hawkers. Night night everyone xx
Friday, November 11, 2011
One month in... (still in Saigon, Vietnam)
I reached my month's anniversary of being here the other day. Can't say I've fallen in love with the city yet, and don't know if I ever will, but I am starting to live with certain aspects of Saigon life a wee bit better.. like the noise, for example...
Whether it be a whole class of Vietnamese 11 year olds performing an ear-splitting dance routine in their breaks, or another teacher making himself heard over the tug-of-war by shouting into a microphone, or the incessant hooting, tooting, throttling, pulsating cacophony of motorbikes 24 hours of the day and night, there is rarely a peaceful moment in this city, it seems...
Except during lunchbreak. Here, the city stops sometime between 11.30 and 2, eats their main meal of the day, and SLEEPS... Shops close... shop keepers ignore you.. even the men selling sunglasses on the street (8 of them approached me as I ate breakfast this morning! EIGHT!!!) take a break. Even our air conditioned office is eerily quiet after we pick through the dubious yellow lunch trays (tofu for the vegetarians every bloody day of the week - I've gone off it for good now) and settle in for a rest. My Vietnamese co-workers all pull their soft toys out, use them as pillows on their desks or just slump down into their seats, put their heads back and open their mouths for a sleep they're used to having since birth.
My afternoon classes begin at 1.50 pm, right after nap time is over. It takes a while to get the classrooms back to normal - for all the sleeping mats to be folded away into the cupboard, the desks to be put back, the heavy teacher's desk to be dragged back into the room... and while the children are rubbing sleep from their eyes and devouring their leftover lunch, some are frantically memorising their spelling words so they'll get ten out of ten, even if they have no idea what the words mean... I'm struggling with this cultural love of memorising and rote learning. When I ask for volunteers to read aloud something we're studying, I get a seas of hands and a show of reading as quickly as they can to prove their cleverness. When I stop the kids after every paragraph and ask them what has just happened in the story, the sea of eager faces suddenly turns blank. It seems they know their letters and how to read, but have no idea what the words mean.
I have to hand it to them though. At school 9 hours a day, 6 days a week, and learning in a language foreign to them. Keeping all this in mind, they're doing amazingly! And yet, I wonder how they'll cope with the Cabridge English exams they'll eventually sit. Even at the gifted school where I teach every afternoon, regurgitating knowledge has been given paramount importance. Frustrating to say the least, but we'll get there...
I teach at one other school three mornings a week, with kids at a much lower level. They greet me every morning with a "GOOD MORNING MISS SHARON" spoken very mindlessly and in unison, to which I reply "Good morning class, how are you?" before a very collective "WE ARE FINE THANK YOU, AND YOU?" comes back at me. This class doesn't understand much of what I'm saying, but there are small victories - like the kid who has been named 'Harry Potter' being able to string a few letters together on his own. As I congratulate him he looks up at me with big hopeful eyes and asks 'Stick-er?' , a most important word for these kids who work so hard and get little acknowledgement from their Vietnamese teachers who control with the cane alone(in general, I'm sure there are some exceptions...). At first I wondered why the kids were sitting stock still and listening while their other teachers wrote in perfect cursive letters on the blackboard with their backs turned, and where I was going wrong, until someone told me about the quality of the punishments.
I've taken to teaching through a microphone myself sometimes when my voice is tired and I love it, no longer competing with the noise from the ceiling fans or drills going off in various parts of the school, OR the monsoon - it hit the other day halfway through an afternoon class and the noise was deafening as sheets of rain pounded the open air school, past the three floors and down onto the stone courtyard where teachers conduct activities (through microphones) in breaktimes.
It hit last night too as I ate, the gunfire of the thunder no longer making me jump. After waiting for half an hour and failing to hail down a taxi, I decided to leg it and had my clothes clinging to me within seconds. I eventually found a roadside stall who sold me a flimsy polkadotted plastic raincover for 7000 dong (about 40 US cents). No raincoat could prepare me for crossing the streets though - the water was halfway up my calves and I tried not to think about cockroaches (one ran up my arm the other day!!!) or the rats whose sewer homes had been flushed out once again.
Anyway, being here is still a valid experience even if I'm not having the time of my life. Career wise it's fantastic, I'm still loving the job and the teaching - but lifestyle-wise, gimme clean green New Zealand any day. I'm hungering for some BEAUTY and REAL greenery, not the skinny parks filled with exercise machines and statues. Someone told me that every foreigner here is here for a reason and I'm certainly not here to enjoy the aroma of pollution, or risk my life crossing the road every day or fight off the cockroaches. I'm going to stick it out until May, learn as much as I can about teaching English as a foreign language, enjoy simple pleasures such as fresh coconuts and origami cranes from students, and practise being content...
Whether it be a whole class of Vietnamese 11 year olds performing an ear-splitting dance routine in their breaks, or another teacher making himself heard over the tug-of-war by shouting into a microphone, or the incessant hooting, tooting, throttling, pulsating cacophony of motorbikes 24 hours of the day and night, there is rarely a peaceful moment in this city, it seems...
Except during lunchbreak. Here, the city stops sometime between 11.30 and 2, eats their main meal of the day, and SLEEPS... Shops close... shop keepers ignore you.. even the men selling sunglasses on the street (8 of them approached me as I ate breakfast this morning! EIGHT!!!) take a break. Even our air conditioned office is eerily quiet after we pick through the dubious yellow lunch trays (tofu for the vegetarians every bloody day of the week - I've gone off it for good now) and settle in for a rest. My Vietnamese co-workers all pull their soft toys out, use them as pillows on their desks or just slump down into their seats, put their heads back and open their mouths for a sleep they're used to having since birth.
My afternoon classes begin at 1.50 pm, right after nap time is over. It takes a while to get the classrooms back to normal - for all the sleeping mats to be folded away into the cupboard, the desks to be put back, the heavy teacher's desk to be dragged back into the room... and while the children are rubbing sleep from their eyes and devouring their leftover lunch, some are frantically memorising their spelling words so they'll get ten out of ten, even if they have no idea what the words mean... I'm struggling with this cultural love of memorising and rote learning. When I ask for volunteers to read aloud something we're studying, I get a seas of hands and a show of reading as quickly as they can to prove their cleverness. When I stop the kids after every paragraph and ask them what has just happened in the story, the sea of eager faces suddenly turns blank. It seems they know their letters and how to read, but have no idea what the words mean.
I have to hand it to them though. At school 9 hours a day, 6 days a week, and learning in a language foreign to them. Keeping all this in mind, they're doing amazingly! And yet, I wonder how they'll cope with the Cabridge English exams they'll eventually sit. Even at the gifted school where I teach every afternoon, regurgitating knowledge has been given paramount importance. Frustrating to say the least, but we'll get there...
I teach at one other school three mornings a week, with kids at a much lower level. They greet me every morning with a "GOOD MORNING MISS SHARON" spoken very mindlessly and in unison, to which I reply "Good morning class, how are you?" before a very collective "WE ARE FINE THANK YOU, AND YOU?" comes back at me. This class doesn't understand much of what I'm saying, but there are small victories - like the kid who has been named 'Harry Potter' being able to string a few letters together on his own. As I congratulate him he looks up at me with big hopeful eyes and asks 'Stick-er?' , a most important word for these kids who work so hard and get little acknowledgement from their Vietnamese teachers who control with the cane alone(in general, I'm sure there are some exceptions...). At first I wondered why the kids were sitting stock still and listening while their other teachers wrote in perfect cursive letters on the blackboard with their backs turned, and where I was going wrong, until someone told me about the quality of the punishments.
I've taken to teaching through a microphone myself sometimes when my voice is tired and I love it, no longer competing with the noise from the ceiling fans or drills going off in various parts of the school, OR the monsoon - it hit the other day halfway through an afternoon class and the noise was deafening as sheets of rain pounded the open air school, past the three floors and down onto the stone courtyard where teachers conduct activities (through microphones) in breaktimes.
It hit last night too as I ate, the gunfire of the thunder no longer making me jump. After waiting for half an hour and failing to hail down a taxi, I decided to leg it and had my clothes clinging to me within seconds. I eventually found a roadside stall who sold me a flimsy polkadotted plastic raincover for 7000 dong (about 40 US cents). No raincoat could prepare me for crossing the streets though - the water was halfway up my calves and I tried not to think about cockroaches (one ran up my arm the other day!!!) or the rats whose sewer homes had been flushed out once again.
Anyway, being here is still a valid experience even if I'm not having the time of my life. Career wise it's fantastic, I'm still loving the job and the teaching - but lifestyle-wise, gimme clean green New Zealand any day. I'm hungering for some BEAUTY and REAL greenery, not the skinny parks filled with exercise machines and statues. Someone told me that every foreigner here is here for a reason and I'm certainly not here to enjoy the aroma of pollution, or risk my life crossing the road every day or fight off the cockroaches. I'm going to stick it out until May, learn as much as I can about teaching English as a foreign language, enjoy simple pleasures such as fresh coconuts and origami cranes from students, and practise being content...
Monday, October 31, 2011
Little pieces of Saigon
ME
I'm feeling pleasantly upbeat tonight, after almost three weeks of internally moaning to myself about being here. Just ain't my city, ultimately, although I do really think that me and Saigon can learn to get on once I adjust to the heat and learn to ignore the pollution. It doesn't help that I'm living in a hotel room and have to wait another month for a full paycheck to be able to afford a deposit for a better place. Oh well. Serves me right for living on a dream so long in Asia and Europe this summer, surviving off of human kindness and my credit card. Wouldn't change a thing about it. Anyway it seems that the little things, this week at least, are paying off. A gig to go to tomorrow (on a school night!!) and a muso to meet that wants to put a band together (it might go nowhere, but it could go somewhere...), a nice day at work... good music in my ears as always (listening to lots of Beatles and Lennon at the moment). A papaya for breakfast. I thought it was high time I wrote about some of the things, little and big, that are making my world what it is at the moment...
MY 'HOOD
I live on a small side street off of Bui Vien, which is Saigon's answer to Khao San road in Bangkok. It's actually pretty quiet, and has no chickens on it as far as the eye can see - I overheard a work mate's conversation about getting woken every morning at 4am by his neighbour's roosters, and I don't envy him... Every morning at 7.30 I walk out, grab my shoes from the rack downstairs and wait for my local 'xe om' driver (motorbike taxi) to finish his smoke (as if the pollution ain't enough, right??) and whisk me off to work, expertly weaving through the traffic, driving on the footpath against the flow on a one way street if need be - it's just what you do here... I keep meaning to take some photos of all the beautiful high heeled women riding to work every morning, but I'm not that balanced yet - don't want to stop traffic by making an ass of myself and falling... We fly by various parks with their early morning jazzercise classes and locals with their limbs flying on the free-for-all cross training machines that line the precious green spaces, until he drops me at the door of 41 Duong Nguyen Thi Minh Khai about ten minutes later (luckily I live pretty close to my work).
THE OFFICE
I never thought I'd be working in an office again, but I suppose it's just like a really big teacher's work room, with little cubicles and photocopiers and the like. It's not bad at all really, and we get free lunch (of questionable quality) every day - mine usually consists of some fake meat substitute with rice, only slightly wilted greens and this kind of clear soup thing in a sealed plastic bag which I'm still not sure what to do with - I just mix it in with my rice and hope none of the Viets are looking strangely at me... where I sit I am surrounded by them and they are sweet, always smiling and doing their best to include us in their celebrations - offering us their gelatinous desserts coated in coffee flavoured jelly (weird...) or plasticky rice paper to chew before the yellow lunch trays are delivered. Everyone eats at their cubicles (the kitchen is tiny) before the Vietnamese in the room drop their heads onto their desks for an hour or so and take their accustomed siesta. I usually try to attempt a walk in a park nearby but just end up sweating and that's never a good look for a teacher...
SCHOOLIN' IT
All the teachers work in various schools across town and I'm lucky enough to be limited to two, one of which is designed for gifted children. We either climb in the company minibus or get taxied to the door, although most of the people I work with have joined the motorbike squad and make their own way there. As far as teaching goes, it's really so cruisy - every afternoon (and three mornings a week) I teach a 2 1/2 hour class to 11 or 12 year olds, all with English names. I have no idea where they got them but I do wonder, teaching two boys called 'Messy', one 'Strawberry' and one 'Harry Potter'. Seriously!!! If I'm lucky my classroom will have air conditioning, but sadly, not a whiteboard in sight - it's chalk all the way baby... my hands feel disgusting by the end of 2 1/2 hours.
The kids are mostly really well behaved although I'm still learning to get used to the sheer amount of surrounding noise - as I teach, various gongs are being hit for classes to have their breaks at different times, and teachers are speaking through loud speakers, and drills are going off... I found out today that I could ask for a microphone if I wanted to, and as crazy as it may sound, I'm considering doing it - it's just really hard to be heard over the cacophony. I've noticed that the kids I teach are really good at rote learning, and can read whole pages aloud without understanding a bit of them, so I'm constantly stopping to explain this or that. Thinking for themselves seems to be a problem, which is worrying considering the schools will be putting them through Cambridge English exams eventually.. oh well! We do the best we can... They call me 'Miss Sharon' mostly, or 'teeee-cher!' and I'm hoping to have the same classes until the end of the school year in May. The best thing is that I never have to take work home with me - the scheduled hours are plenty, especially considering I never teach two classes in a row - I don't know if anybody does?
THE AFTERWARDS
To be honest, the afterwards is still what I'm figuring it out at the moment - after working all day I'm either exhausted or unsure of where to go in this fumy city so I usually head back to my hotel warren. I miss walking, actually! Not really something I want to do much here... but I know there are places that do yoga classes and the like, I just need to muster the energy to find them. I can honestly say that this is the most physically alone I have felt in my life, in a city of 6 million people! But it's not necessarily a bad thing - its just the beginning of a new phase. And everything changes so quickly - ridiculously quickly - that it's useless to feel any kind of up or down, really... things transform in an instant. What's the point of labelling onesself as being lonely or unhappy - or ecstatic and over the moon for that matter? More and more these days, I'm discovering equilibrium, and being content to be on the outskirts for a short while. George Bernard Shaw once said "Just do what must be done. This may not be happiness, but it is greatness" and I've always admired that quote - right now, what must be done for me is get outta debt, and any fun I might have I'm going to see as an added bonus. Simultaneously in my ears as I write, a folk singer named Peter Mulvey is singing "It's just your tender blindspot, and from that tender blindspot you will grooowww..." Perfectly put I think - for there is a time for everything - to be broke, to be rolling in it, to be partying, to be monk-like, to sleep, to dream... and I am happy, or rather, content with this strange period of my life, which will probably change the minute I walk out of this internet cafe. Bring it on, I say - life, and whatever it holds...
I'm feeling pleasantly upbeat tonight, after almost three weeks of internally moaning to myself about being here. Just ain't my city, ultimately, although I do really think that me and Saigon can learn to get on once I adjust to the heat and learn to ignore the pollution. It doesn't help that I'm living in a hotel room and have to wait another month for a full paycheck to be able to afford a deposit for a better place. Oh well. Serves me right for living on a dream so long in Asia and Europe this summer, surviving off of human kindness and my credit card. Wouldn't change a thing about it. Anyway it seems that the little things, this week at least, are paying off. A gig to go to tomorrow (on a school night!!) and a muso to meet that wants to put a band together (it might go nowhere, but it could go somewhere...), a nice day at work... good music in my ears as always (listening to lots of Beatles and Lennon at the moment). A papaya for breakfast. I thought it was high time I wrote about some of the things, little and big, that are making my world what it is at the moment...
MY 'HOOD
I live on a small side street off of Bui Vien, which is Saigon's answer to Khao San road in Bangkok. It's actually pretty quiet, and has no chickens on it as far as the eye can see - I overheard a work mate's conversation about getting woken every morning at 4am by his neighbour's roosters, and I don't envy him... Every morning at 7.30 I walk out, grab my shoes from the rack downstairs and wait for my local 'xe om' driver (motorbike taxi) to finish his smoke (as if the pollution ain't enough, right??) and whisk me off to work, expertly weaving through the traffic, driving on the footpath against the flow on a one way street if need be - it's just what you do here... I keep meaning to take some photos of all the beautiful high heeled women riding to work every morning, but I'm not that balanced yet - don't want to stop traffic by making an ass of myself and falling... We fly by various parks with their early morning jazzercise classes and locals with their limbs flying on the free-for-all cross training machines that line the precious green spaces, until he drops me at the door of 41 Duong Nguyen Thi Minh Khai about ten minutes later (luckily I live pretty close to my work).
THE OFFICE
I never thought I'd be working in an office again, but I suppose it's just like a really big teacher's work room, with little cubicles and photocopiers and the like. It's not bad at all really, and we get free lunch (of questionable quality) every day - mine usually consists of some fake meat substitute with rice, only slightly wilted greens and this kind of clear soup thing in a sealed plastic bag which I'm still not sure what to do with - I just mix it in with my rice and hope none of the Viets are looking strangely at me... where I sit I am surrounded by them and they are sweet, always smiling and doing their best to include us in their celebrations - offering us their gelatinous desserts coated in coffee flavoured jelly (weird...) or plasticky rice paper to chew before the yellow lunch trays are delivered. Everyone eats at their cubicles (the kitchen is tiny) before the Vietnamese in the room drop their heads onto their desks for an hour or so and take their accustomed siesta. I usually try to attempt a walk in a park nearby but just end up sweating and that's never a good look for a teacher...
SCHOOLIN' IT
All the teachers work in various schools across town and I'm lucky enough to be limited to two, one of which is designed for gifted children. We either climb in the company minibus or get taxied to the door, although most of the people I work with have joined the motorbike squad and make their own way there. As far as teaching goes, it's really so cruisy - every afternoon (and three mornings a week) I teach a 2 1/2 hour class to 11 or 12 year olds, all with English names. I have no idea where they got them but I do wonder, teaching two boys called 'Messy', one 'Strawberry' and one 'Harry Potter'. Seriously!!! If I'm lucky my classroom will have air conditioning, but sadly, not a whiteboard in sight - it's chalk all the way baby... my hands feel disgusting by the end of 2 1/2 hours.
The kids are mostly really well behaved although I'm still learning to get used to the sheer amount of surrounding noise - as I teach, various gongs are being hit for classes to have their breaks at different times, and teachers are speaking through loud speakers, and drills are going off... I found out today that I could ask for a microphone if I wanted to, and as crazy as it may sound, I'm considering doing it - it's just really hard to be heard over the cacophony. I've noticed that the kids I teach are really good at rote learning, and can read whole pages aloud without understanding a bit of them, so I'm constantly stopping to explain this or that. Thinking for themselves seems to be a problem, which is worrying considering the schools will be putting them through Cambridge English exams eventually.. oh well! We do the best we can... They call me 'Miss Sharon' mostly, or 'teeee-cher!' and I'm hoping to have the same classes until the end of the school year in May. The best thing is that I never have to take work home with me - the scheduled hours are plenty, especially considering I never teach two classes in a row - I don't know if anybody does?
THE AFTERWARDS
To be honest, the afterwards is still what I'm figuring it out at the moment - after working all day I'm either exhausted or unsure of where to go in this fumy city so I usually head back to my hotel warren. I miss walking, actually! Not really something I want to do much here... but I know there are places that do yoga classes and the like, I just need to muster the energy to find them. I can honestly say that this is the most physically alone I have felt in my life, in a city of 6 million people! But it's not necessarily a bad thing - its just the beginning of a new phase. And everything changes so quickly - ridiculously quickly - that it's useless to feel any kind of up or down, really... things transform in an instant. What's the point of labelling onesself as being lonely or unhappy - or ecstatic and over the moon for that matter? More and more these days, I'm discovering equilibrium, and being content to be on the outskirts for a short while. George Bernard Shaw once said "Just do what must be done. This may not be happiness, but it is greatness" and I've always admired that quote - right now, what must be done for me is get outta debt, and any fun I might have I'm going to see as an added bonus. Simultaneously in my ears as I write, a folk singer named Peter Mulvey is singing "It's just your tender blindspot, and from that tender blindspot you will grooowww..." Perfectly put I think - for there is a time for everything - to be broke, to be rolling in it, to be partying, to be monk-like, to sleep, to dream... and I am happy, or rather, content with this strange period of my life, which will probably change the minute I walk out of this internet cafe. Bring it on, I say - life, and whatever it holds...
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Here and Now - Saigon at last...
This blog entry is named after the fact that for the past few weeks I've been attempting to catch up with all I didn't write about over the past months. Twas an admirable effort, but one which I'm abandoning as of HERE AND NOW , BABY! Cause it's time to put the presence back in the present, dig?
SO... for the past two weeks I've been learning to like Saigon after a rough start here, arriving half heartbroke and... well, broke, actually. Totally void of any 'real' money, a fact which I have been lucky enough to fix straight away with a job offer that came flying in at exactly the right time. Anyway, it was hot, the pollution gave me asthma, I knew absolutely nobody here... and coming as I did from the summer of my life, I didn't take to it too well...
But enough of that! I am here NOW and started teaching in local schools today, employed through a well paying company who taxis me to my classes and gives everyone free lunch (admittedly of varying quality...). After three days of induction and loads of time to plan I walked into my first classroom of smiling bespectacled Vietnamese faces (about a third of the kids in my class wear glasses, and another third need to - I've been told it's the lack of Vitamin A in the diet because eyesight is pretty bad in general... correct me if I'm wrong here!) and taught a two and half hour session on Frankenstein. Such a cool and gory tale, particularly the graphic novel the kids have been doing...
Surprisingly enough, it IS actually 'real teaching' that I'm doing. I had imagined myself teaching 5 years olds how to sing the alphabet, but I've been put with kids aged about 11-13, most of whom have a pretty good grasp of the English language. SO I'm teaching what I would teach to a normal intermediate age. Horror, folk tales, non fiction, autobiography... exciting stuff, particularly as I've now tested my brain function and am happy to say that after a ten month break from teaching, my brain does still work! And I'm so glad now that I'm back in the classroom. It wasn't until I got back here that I realised how much I missed it.
Because, to be honest, I've hardly given it a second thought these past few months, completely on holiday on all levels and loving it. And although I adored my last school and my three years there, I did suffer from stress quite a lot. It's my personality - intense and somewhat highly strung, brain going 100 miles a minute and stopping me sleeping at night with thoughts about how I could modify lessons for my five classes, what I could do, some behavioral issue that was going on and how I could fix it... All of this stuff has been coming back for me this week, all of the waking up in the middle of the night too unfortunately.. but thankfully the work I am doing here is so stress-free that I am gradually learning that there's nothing to wake up for.
I've also realised that I really love teaching - I love it! But seriously, I don't know if I would go back to full-time teaching in New Zealand or any other Westernised nation again. I'd do it part time of course... but I don't know if I could 'fulltime myself' again. Some things are just not suited to some people, and I just feel like I compromised my own enjoyment of life too much when I was working 60 hours a week. Honestly, I've still been having the same old anxiety dreams of not being able to control students and missing classes for the past ten months of holidaying! It's unbelievable...
So here I am in this nice air-conditioned office, planning my lessons before I am chaffeured across town to teach. I never teach more than one class at a time, which means that even though I often teach 2 1/2 hour sessions, at least I have time after each class to go back and debrief with myself. I teach 8 long sessions a week to four different classes in two different schools, always with a Vietnamese assistant in the class which I don't use cause the kids are all well behaved, if a little noisy. And they WANT TO LEARN!! It's so wonderful... even though they have difficulty thinking for themselves, they are total sweethearts and call me 'Miss Sharon' or 'Teeecher!'
So, even though this city is disgustingly smoggy from the thousands of motorbikes that crowd the roads... I think I can learn to like it more and more. Exhausted after work every day, I catch a 'xe om' (motorbike taxi) home each day and am whizzed through the rush hour traffic, getting an adrenalin rush through my face mask (you need one here, believe me...). And when the monsoon hits, I love it...
The Vietnamese staff in our office are so cute, all curling up and going to sleep on their lunchbreaks despite the airconditioning (old habits die hard...) and they seem so happy with their lives. Outside perspective of course, but I see it in the kids I teach too - there is none of the surliness I was used to, or the refusal to work... there are many many reasons for this of course, and they're not all good - I bet some of them are threatened if their marks aren't good enough... but my point is, in a nation that has been so screwed over in the past, people still seem happy with what they've got, which is much less than what we Westernites have come to expect and whine about when we don't receive. None of my students complain about being given homework, or having 2 1/2 hour classes, or about going to school from 7- 4.30, six days a week! It's just an accepted part of 'the way things are' here, one which I think everyone could learn from - not that quantity equals quality by any means, I'm more getting at the ability to just get on with things whilst still keeping a smile on ones face...
Anyway, it's the end of my first week of full time work and I'm exhausted so am going to sign off. I've been in bed before 9pm every night this week and, besides waking up in the early hours of the morning (old habits die hard...) am having no problems falling asleep even with the traffic noise coming through the toilet paper stuffed into my ears (note to self: buy proper ear plugs this weekend). I'm yawning as I write this, so I know it's time to get back to my cute little top-floor $8 a night hotel room.
xxxx
SO... for the past two weeks I've been learning to like Saigon after a rough start here, arriving half heartbroke and... well, broke, actually. Totally void of any 'real' money, a fact which I have been lucky enough to fix straight away with a job offer that came flying in at exactly the right time. Anyway, it was hot, the pollution gave me asthma, I knew absolutely nobody here... and coming as I did from the summer of my life, I didn't take to it too well...
But enough of that! I am here NOW and started teaching in local schools today, employed through a well paying company who taxis me to my classes and gives everyone free lunch (admittedly of varying quality...). After three days of induction and loads of time to plan I walked into my first classroom of smiling bespectacled Vietnamese faces (about a third of the kids in my class wear glasses, and another third need to - I've been told it's the lack of Vitamin A in the diet because eyesight is pretty bad in general... correct me if I'm wrong here!) and taught a two and half hour session on Frankenstein. Such a cool and gory tale, particularly the graphic novel the kids have been doing...
Surprisingly enough, it IS actually 'real teaching' that I'm doing. I had imagined myself teaching 5 years olds how to sing the alphabet, but I've been put with kids aged about 11-13, most of whom have a pretty good grasp of the English language. SO I'm teaching what I would teach to a normal intermediate age. Horror, folk tales, non fiction, autobiography... exciting stuff, particularly as I've now tested my brain function and am happy to say that after a ten month break from teaching, my brain does still work! And I'm so glad now that I'm back in the classroom. It wasn't until I got back here that I realised how much I missed it.
Because, to be honest, I've hardly given it a second thought these past few months, completely on holiday on all levels and loving it. And although I adored my last school and my three years there, I did suffer from stress quite a lot. It's my personality - intense and somewhat highly strung, brain going 100 miles a minute and stopping me sleeping at night with thoughts about how I could modify lessons for my five classes, what I could do, some behavioral issue that was going on and how I could fix it... All of this stuff has been coming back for me this week, all of the waking up in the middle of the night too unfortunately.. but thankfully the work I am doing here is so stress-free that I am gradually learning that there's nothing to wake up for.
I've also realised that I really love teaching - I love it! But seriously, I don't know if I would go back to full-time teaching in New Zealand or any other Westernised nation again. I'd do it part time of course... but I don't know if I could 'fulltime myself' again. Some things are just not suited to some people, and I just feel like I compromised my own enjoyment of life too much when I was working 60 hours a week. Honestly, I've still been having the same old anxiety dreams of not being able to control students and missing classes for the past ten months of holidaying! It's unbelievable...
So here I am in this nice air-conditioned office, planning my lessons before I am chaffeured across town to teach. I never teach more than one class at a time, which means that even though I often teach 2 1/2 hour sessions, at least I have time after each class to go back and debrief with myself. I teach 8 long sessions a week to four different classes in two different schools, always with a Vietnamese assistant in the class which I don't use cause the kids are all well behaved, if a little noisy. And they WANT TO LEARN!! It's so wonderful... even though they have difficulty thinking for themselves, they are total sweethearts and call me 'Miss Sharon' or 'Teeecher!'
So, even though this city is disgustingly smoggy from the thousands of motorbikes that crowd the roads... I think I can learn to like it more and more. Exhausted after work every day, I catch a 'xe om' (motorbike taxi) home each day and am whizzed through the rush hour traffic, getting an adrenalin rush through my face mask (you need one here, believe me...). And when the monsoon hits, I love it...
The Vietnamese staff in our office are so cute, all curling up and going to sleep on their lunchbreaks despite the airconditioning (old habits die hard...) and they seem so happy with their lives. Outside perspective of course, but I see it in the kids I teach too - there is none of the surliness I was used to, or the refusal to work... there are many many reasons for this of course, and they're not all good - I bet some of them are threatened if their marks aren't good enough... but my point is, in a nation that has been so screwed over in the past, people still seem happy with what they've got, which is much less than what we Westernites have come to expect and whine about when we don't receive. None of my students complain about being given homework, or having 2 1/2 hour classes, or about going to school from 7- 4.30, six days a week! It's just an accepted part of 'the way things are' here, one which I think everyone could learn from - not that quantity equals quality by any means, I'm more getting at the ability to just get on with things whilst still keeping a smile on ones face...
Anyway, it's the end of my first week of full time work and I'm exhausted so am going to sign off. I've been in bed before 9pm every night this week and, besides waking up in the early hours of the morning (old habits die hard...) am having no problems falling asleep even with the traffic noise coming through the toilet paper stuffed into my ears (note to self: buy proper ear plugs this weekend). I'm yawning as I write this, so I know it's time to get back to my cute little top-floor $8 a night hotel room.
xxxx
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Shuffling along in Saigon
WELL, this is interesting. I'm LOST in the middle of Ho Chi Minh city in peak hour traffic. AGAIN! And not only that, but the daily thunder and lightning have begun to rumble and flash in the smoggy sky above me, pregnant with its daily monsoon. Leaving me feeling rather foolish in my slippery shoes.
Inwardly cursing my love of colour co-ordination which has influenced this impractical matter, I quicken my pace and search the street signs for a familiar syllable or two. I vaguely know where I am at least - I'm on a huge street that I had a job interview on this morning. It's close to a huge park, but I'm just not yet sure which end of it I'm at, or whether I'm walking in the right direction.
I'd been doing so well, too. My sense of direction has been so lacking for much of my life that I'd taken to chanting in my head mantra-like whenever I took a turn "right then left then back, right then left then back" but somewhere along the way I forgot how many lefts and rights I was up to, stopped and ate some spring rolls with noodles, and found myself at once in another district to the one I thought I was in and surrounded by 10,000 motorbikes all trying to get home from work before the skies opened.
Anyway, I'm on Nguyen van Thi street(or something similar...) and pretty sure I'm going the right way when the little droplets of rain I've been ignoring suddenly become BIG and MANY. I've never been caught till now, and have often wondered what happens to the throes of bodies on bikes congesting the road. It seems they are all prepared and seem to somehow co-ordinate a huge group pulling over to the side of the road, all pull full body rain coats out of secret motorcycle pockets and then jump back on board and assume their place in the traffic chain.
I find a balcony to shelter under, although it's attached to a starkly lit bright white cafe with various fishy meats hanging up - to dry??? - on hooks outside the 'shop', and motorbikes and other vehicles are coming onto the pavement now to try and sneak up the traffic chain. Across the road is a "Lotteria", Vietnam's version of McDOnalds and I vow not to give in and take shelter there. I wait it out a bit longer, enviously watching a local dude hail down the only free taxi while nearby shopkeepers expertly bundle their wares into plastic sheets and wrap themselves tighter in their tee-shirts.
I give in. I approach the Lotteria, wringing out my face mask as I go, and enter even though I feel disgusting and it smells like deep fried hell. EWWW. Even before I went veggie I hated the smell of these places and now is no different. But I've got a camera in my non-plastic handbag so right now I'm choosing practicaility over morality, and it's either the Lotteria or the anonymous fish factory - both are reeking.
It's SO WEIRD!!! So brightly lit, red and white and kind of fake-happy, with a technicolour menu and uniform plastic chairs. I point to the least fried looking thing, a kind of a green tea shake, probably made with soya milk anyway and tiptoe (carefully) upstairs to find a good vantage point at least.
It's not too bad actually. I sip away and write this down and I see that already, the monsoon is getting over itself. Such violent rain, every day, for months, but over and done within 5 or 10 minutes if we're lucky... I can tell that the rains have calmed the atmosphere down somewhat - it'd been my hottest day here so far, with my only good interview / teaching shirt now in dire need of wash. I'd shopped for about two hours today in search of more suitable things to wear teaching, but try as I might I just ain't Vietnamese size baby, so it's proving to be quite a challenge. After a week here I'm well aware that my 8 months of carefree travelling have come to an abrupt end, especially when my potential employer laughs when I ask her whether my (rather smart looking!) black flip flops would be okay for the classroom. THEY'RE GOOD ENOUGH FOR NEW ZEALAND SCHOOLS, LADY! I want to tell her but instead smile sweetly and play the good teacher game, hoping she'll give me the job.
Back in the present moment, it's stopped enough for me to leave the scent of grease behind, and I see that I've just turned down the right road so should be home in ten or so minutes. Time then for me shuffle off into the night then, VERY CAREFULLY in my impractical shoes. I'm inching down the street the way the locals do when they cross the road in rush hour traffic - one step at a time. Kind of a good metaphor for me at the moment, having just overcome my shock at being here in such a strange hot place after the summer of my life. After almost despising this place for my first few days I think I can begin to like it little by little... as it is now though, I'm stuck between two hyperactive young men playing virtual football and calling across me to each other in this crappy internet cafe, masters on the keyboard but each with a sniffing problem which is driving me crazy, so I better wrap this up and inch myself home...
blessings...
xxxx
Inwardly cursing my love of colour co-ordination which has influenced this impractical matter, I quicken my pace and search the street signs for a familiar syllable or two. I vaguely know where I am at least - I'm on a huge street that I had a job interview on this morning. It's close to a huge park, but I'm just not yet sure which end of it I'm at, or whether I'm walking in the right direction.
I'd been doing so well, too. My sense of direction has been so lacking for much of my life that I'd taken to chanting in my head mantra-like whenever I took a turn "right then left then back, right then left then back" but somewhere along the way I forgot how many lefts and rights I was up to, stopped and ate some spring rolls with noodles, and found myself at once in another district to the one I thought I was in and surrounded by 10,000 motorbikes all trying to get home from work before the skies opened.
Anyway, I'm on Nguyen van Thi street(or something similar...) and pretty sure I'm going the right way when the little droplets of rain I've been ignoring suddenly become BIG and MANY. I've never been caught till now, and have often wondered what happens to the throes of bodies on bikes congesting the road. It seems they are all prepared and seem to somehow co-ordinate a huge group pulling over to the side of the road, all pull full body rain coats out of secret motorcycle pockets and then jump back on board and assume their place in the traffic chain.
I find a balcony to shelter under, although it's attached to a starkly lit bright white cafe with various fishy meats hanging up - to dry??? - on hooks outside the 'shop', and motorbikes and other vehicles are coming onto the pavement now to try and sneak up the traffic chain. Across the road is a "Lotteria", Vietnam's version of McDOnalds and I vow not to give in and take shelter there. I wait it out a bit longer, enviously watching a local dude hail down the only free taxi while nearby shopkeepers expertly bundle their wares into plastic sheets and wrap themselves tighter in their tee-shirts.
I give in. I approach the Lotteria, wringing out my face mask as I go, and enter even though I feel disgusting and it smells like deep fried hell. EWWW. Even before I went veggie I hated the smell of these places and now is no different. But I've got a camera in my non-plastic handbag so right now I'm choosing practicaility over morality, and it's either the Lotteria or the anonymous fish factory - both are reeking.
It's SO WEIRD!!! So brightly lit, red and white and kind of fake-happy, with a technicolour menu and uniform plastic chairs. I point to the least fried looking thing, a kind of a green tea shake, probably made with soya milk anyway and tiptoe (carefully) upstairs to find a good vantage point at least.
It's not too bad actually. I sip away and write this down and I see that already, the monsoon is getting over itself. Such violent rain, every day, for months, but over and done within 5 or 10 minutes if we're lucky... I can tell that the rains have calmed the atmosphere down somewhat - it'd been my hottest day here so far, with my only good interview / teaching shirt now in dire need of wash. I'd shopped for about two hours today in search of more suitable things to wear teaching, but try as I might I just ain't Vietnamese size baby, so it's proving to be quite a challenge. After a week here I'm well aware that my 8 months of carefree travelling have come to an abrupt end, especially when my potential employer laughs when I ask her whether my (rather smart looking!) black flip flops would be okay for the classroom. THEY'RE GOOD ENOUGH FOR NEW ZEALAND SCHOOLS, LADY! I want to tell her but instead smile sweetly and play the good teacher game, hoping she'll give me the job.
Back in the present moment, it's stopped enough for me to leave the scent of grease behind, and I see that I've just turned down the right road so should be home in ten or so minutes. Time then for me shuffle off into the night then, VERY CAREFULLY in my impractical shoes. I'm inching down the street the way the locals do when they cross the road in rush hour traffic - one step at a time. Kind of a good metaphor for me at the moment, having just overcome my shock at being here in such a strange hot place after the summer of my life. After almost despising this place for my first few days I think I can begin to like it little by little... as it is now though, I'm stuck between two hyperactive young men playing virtual football and calling across me to each other in this crappy internet cafe, masters on the keyboard but each with a sniffing problem which is driving me crazy, so I better wrap this up and inch myself home...
blessings...
xxxx
Monday, October 17, 2011
August = South Austria, London, Brighton
It's been five years since I last saw my fire twirling friend and journeyed through Slovenian forests together but his pixie face hasn't changed a bit. We fill in the gaps as we drive from the train station in Villach, Austria to his farmhouse 45 minutes away and once I'm there I'm amazed at how good it feels to be in a HOME again after a month of hostels and B&B's of varying qualities.
Bhak's cooking is as good as ever - we eat fresh guacamole, vegetable rice and halva at 2 a.m, my friend still a night owl. We do get come rest though, important because we both have gigs busking in a swanky tourist town the following evening - he has organised fire shows there and managed to get me a slot too. Easiest 60 Euros I've ever made, all given willingly by smiling strolling tourists staring at the beautiful lake view - beautiful that is, until an enormously ugly hired out yacht docks near me, blasting terrible techno and bearing revolving disco lights and hysterical drunk people using their money in the worst way possible - is this what we call status these days?? Can't they see they're embarrassing themselves and polluting everyone's ears, shrieking between disco thuds? They almost drown Bhak out too so he turns his own soundsystem up, something the hotel manager nearby doesn't like too much. His show is amazing, all energy and dragon fire breath resulting in a full magic hat at the end of it.
A few days later I find that my flight to London is coinciding with the riots going on there in early August. Mia, who I'm staying with for the first night, assures me not to worry and meets me at Liverpool Street station before we catch a bus to her home suburb.. of Tottenham!! (one of the areas of unrest for those not in the London know). It's all quiet here on a Tuesday night however though, the streets eerily deserted and shops shut early just for safety's sake.
She takes me around the city the next day and I'm pleasantly surprised to find that the riots haven't dampened London's spirit too much - we sit in Hyde Park drinking hot chocolate (she) and wine (me, the lush), and the sun is out and everyone is smiling and happy.
I catch the tube right across town to Vauxhall, to visit my blue eyed Russian friend from India - 30 minutes from north to south all underground, it's quite amazing really - and the night that follows is huge: 3 of his friends are around playing music and it's an absolutely amazing evening. I'm at home straight away in this 5th floor apartment with a view of Battersea power station (from the Pink Floyd 'Animals' album cover) and a very cool and hyperactive cat chasing everything that moves in between songs... we sing everything we know from "Sweet Dreamas are made of this" to "Go Lassie go" to "Cum on Feel the Noize" and "Let it Be". Eclectic and so wonderful.
I end up staying four nights, visiting other friends in between but always coming back for more music and beauty. On my last day there, I walk with my Russian to Clapham. We lie on the common there to sleep off our deli lunch (and cake - there is always cake where he is concerned) and I get a strange sensation that angels are beating their wings on us - it's all very soft and floaty and magical in my half conscious state and makes me wonder at the significance of this meeting. It just feels to me like there's something more to explore here... and I leave reluctantly to spend my last night in London in my Kiwi friend's dirty squat near King's Cross before jumping on a train to Brighton the following morning. Luke and Emma are there by now and have a house to themselves to sit for three weeks, so it's perfect. They assure me the busking is great and they turn out to be right, which is lucky as it's my sole income by now.
Brighton is wonderful: stoney beach dotted with sunbathers and families, garish pier in which I discover the joys of the penny arcade, burned out memories of the old pier whose remains still stand rusting in the sea, fat seagulls eyeballing the salty vinegary chips on their way into tourist's mouths. AND the busking is better than good - it's possibly the best place I have ever played and I make 40 pounds in just over an hour in Hove, Brighton's neighbouring city (not really neighbouring, they're right next to each other and are pretty much the same thing. The city is known as 'Brighton and Hove') . I discover that Nick Cave, Paul McCartney and David Gilmour all apparently live in Hove, but try as I might I never see any of them ; ) Instead of rockstars, all the attention I get busking seems to be from the local madhatters who all seem to hang out on George Street in Hove all day long. One short man with a combover, too-high trousers and thick, thick glasses stoops along, periodically throwing pound coins into my case and spitting out such inspired advice as "not bad for a beginner" or "You're allright, but you're using too much vibrato". He starts to inch closer whenever I sing a Joni Mitchell / Dylan / Cohen number and knows all the words too, correcting me whenever I get them wrong. He comes back again and again, buying me some glucose tablets cause he thinks I look tired (!!Just tired of you, brother!!) and proclaims that he's going to write a song about me. It never appears and I never see him again in the weeks that follow, but I don't mind ; )
A man in black known as Ben sketches me twice and tries to engage me in his philosophies about withcraft. A dude with a head injury and a backpack containign everything he currently owns tells me I've stolen his spot, although the long street is empty and there is plenty of room for other buskers (who all, by the way, adhere to an unspoken busker's etiquette of not playing too close to one another). On my final outing, a heavy set man swollen with alcohol shuffles along dragging a child's toy police scooter behind him and sits behind me, producing a small djimbe drum from the depths of his black coat and begins to play along with me, in time I might add! When he introduces himself as Keith Moon I know it's time to split, particularly because the police have approached him and he proudly shows off his new wheels (the toy police car) to them. As I'm packing up, another wild eyed, big haired oddball strolls up and lets me in on a little something behind his hand when he whispers to me that "that man behind you.. is not really a busker!!! Hes a BEGGAR!!!" as if it's the most amazing thing in the world. Thanks dude, and thanks Hove, you've been kind to me - seriously, it has been; there may be a large amount of mental illness there by the looks of things but they are all harmless and I feel very protected by the punters in the local cafes.
Halfway through my stay there, our friend Ricketts drives us in his super cool 70's campervan to Small World festival about an hour out of Brighton - it's in the Kent countryside I think... Small World is a travelling festival that has a tent at bigger festivals such as Glastonbury and Bestival, and this is their own end of year knees-up. It's cooler than I ever imagined - reminds me of Luminate festival in New Zealand but in a much wilder way - these English know how to party!! Not that we Kiwis don't, just that we're not quite as...umm...outlandish (meant in the best possible way - I absolutely loved Small World and can't wait to go back one day). I love it all and meet many amazing movers and groovers there... all the 'streets' are given thoughtful names such as 'Harmony Terrace', and Small World is famous for having a mostly solar powered stage, so I'm quite at home with all the hippies. Other travelling tents are there too, 'Full Circle' sells good veggie tucker and has a hilarious sign that I have on facebook somewhere, advertising their "vegan wholegrain organic lesbian freetrade inner contemplatory probiotic ethical karmically cleansing recycled compostable alkalising carbon neutral shamanic" food in the best tongue-in-cheek way possible. Love it!
I am lucky enough to get a slot on the main stage, thanks to my friend Luke and it's an honour to be part of this institution in a small way - the audience is so receptive even though I am nervous - still not used to miked gigs. The street is where I do my best, I reckon... I discover some incredible musical acts here - a Welsh band named 'Heal the Last Stand' who look like they're right out of the 60's, singing about peace and love and stuff, and doing the coolest cover version ever of 'Grease', only changing it to 'Peace is the word, is the word, is the word..' They are unbelievably cool (groovy, even!) and I'm an instant fan.
We leave the four day festival reluctantly, although I feel I'll be back next summer somehow... it's just too good to miss! Highly recommended to all - lots of accordion jams around the bonfire, lots of playing dress-ups and other general playfulness.
With Daisy (who owns the house we're sitting) due to come back from the States, we're all left without a home once again, all three global wanderers and all teachers too interestingly enough... I plan to head up to Scotland via a small stop in London to visit the blue-eyed Russian. It's a connection worth exploring, so I mail him to see if he'll be around for the two days I'm planning to stop over there. It's a plan I think might just work, although it seems that there are other things in store for me...
Bhak's cooking is as good as ever - we eat fresh guacamole, vegetable rice and halva at 2 a.m, my friend still a night owl. We do get come rest though, important because we both have gigs busking in a swanky tourist town the following evening - he has organised fire shows there and managed to get me a slot too. Easiest 60 Euros I've ever made, all given willingly by smiling strolling tourists staring at the beautiful lake view - beautiful that is, until an enormously ugly hired out yacht docks near me, blasting terrible techno and bearing revolving disco lights and hysterical drunk people using their money in the worst way possible - is this what we call status these days?? Can't they see they're embarrassing themselves and polluting everyone's ears, shrieking between disco thuds? They almost drown Bhak out too so he turns his own soundsystem up, something the hotel manager nearby doesn't like too much. His show is amazing, all energy and dragon fire breath resulting in a full magic hat at the end of it.
A few days later I find that my flight to London is coinciding with the riots going on there in early August. Mia, who I'm staying with for the first night, assures me not to worry and meets me at Liverpool Street station before we catch a bus to her home suburb.. of Tottenham!! (one of the areas of unrest for those not in the London know). It's all quiet here on a Tuesday night however though, the streets eerily deserted and shops shut early just for safety's sake.
She takes me around the city the next day and I'm pleasantly surprised to find that the riots haven't dampened London's spirit too much - we sit in Hyde Park drinking hot chocolate (she) and wine (me, the lush), and the sun is out and everyone is smiling and happy.
I catch the tube right across town to Vauxhall, to visit my blue eyed Russian friend from India - 30 minutes from north to south all underground, it's quite amazing really - and the night that follows is huge: 3 of his friends are around playing music and it's an absolutely amazing evening. I'm at home straight away in this 5th floor apartment with a view of Battersea power station (from the Pink Floyd 'Animals' album cover) and a very cool and hyperactive cat chasing everything that moves in between songs... we sing everything we know from "Sweet Dreamas are made of this" to "Go Lassie go" to "Cum on Feel the Noize" and "Let it Be". Eclectic and so wonderful.
I end up staying four nights, visiting other friends in between but always coming back for more music and beauty. On my last day there, I walk with my Russian to Clapham. We lie on the common there to sleep off our deli lunch (and cake - there is always cake where he is concerned) and I get a strange sensation that angels are beating their wings on us - it's all very soft and floaty and magical in my half conscious state and makes me wonder at the significance of this meeting. It just feels to me like there's something more to explore here... and I leave reluctantly to spend my last night in London in my Kiwi friend's dirty squat near King's Cross before jumping on a train to Brighton the following morning. Luke and Emma are there by now and have a house to themselves to sit for three weeks, so it's perfect. They assure me the busking is great and they turn out to be right, which is lucky as it's my sole income by now.
Brighton is wonderful: stoney beach dotted with sunbathers and families, garish pier in which I discover the joys of the penny arcade, burned out memories of the old pier whose remains still stand rusting in the sea, fat seagulls eyeballing the salty vinegary chips on their way into tourist's mouths. AND the busking is better than good - it's possibly the best place I have ever played and I make 40 pounds in just over an hour in Hove, Brighton's neighbouring city (not really neighbouring, they're right next to each other and are pretty much the same thing. The city is known as 'Brighton and Hove') . I discover that Nick Cave, Paul McCartney and David Gilmour all apparently live in Hove, but try as I might I never see any of them ; ) Instead of rockstars, all the attention I get busking seems to be from the local madhatters who all seem to hang out on George Street in Hove all day long. One short man with a combover, too-high trousers and thick, thick glasses stoops along, periodically throwing pound coins into my case and spitting out such inspired advice as "not bad for a beginner" or "You're allright, but you're using too much vibrato". He starts to inch closer whenever I sing a Joni Mitchell / Dylan / Cohen number and knows all the words too, correcting me whenever I get them wrong. He comes back again and again, buying me some glucose tablets cause he thinks I look tired (!!Just tired of you, brother!!) and proclaims that he's going to write a song about me. It never appears and I never see him again in the weeks that follow, but I don't mind ; )
A man in black known as Ben sketches me twice and tries to engage me in his philosophies about withcraft. A dude with a head injury and a backpack containign everything he currently owns tells me I've stolen his spot, although the long street is empty and there is plenty of room for other buskers (who all, by the way, adhere to an unspoken busker's etiquette of not playing too close to one another). On my final outing, a heavy set man swollen with alcohol shuffles along dragging a child's toy police scooter behind him and sits behind me, producing a small djimbe drum from the depths of his black coat and begins to play along with me, in time I might add! When he introduces himself as Keith Moon I know it's time to split, particularly because the police have approached him and he proudly shows off his new wheels (the toy police car) to them. As I'm packing up, another wild eyed, big haired oddball strolls up and lets me in on a little something behind his hand when he whispers to me that "that man behind you.. is not really a busker!!! Hes a BEGGAR!!!" as if it's the most amazing thing in the world. Thanks dude, and thanks Hove, you've been kind to me - seriously, it has been; there may be a large amount of mental illness there by the looks of things but they are all harmless and I feel very protected by the punters in the local cafes.
Halfway through my stay there, our friend Ricketts drives us in his super cool 70's campervan to Small World festival about an hour out of Brighton - it's in the Kent countryside I think... Small World is a travelling festival that has a tent at bigger festivals such as Glastonbury and Bestival, and this is their own end of year knees-up. It's cooler than I ever imagined - reminds me of Luminate festival in New Zealand but in a much wilder way - these English know how to party!! Not that we Kiwis don't, just that we're not quite as...umm...outlandish (meant in the best possible way - I absolutely loved Small World and can't wait to go back one day). I love it all and meet many amazing movers and groovers there... all the 'streets' are given thoughtful names such as 'Harmony Terrace', and Small World is famous for having a mostly solar powered stage, so I'm quite at home with all the hippies. Other travelling tents are there too, 'Full Circle' sells good veggie tucker and has a hilarious sign that I have on facebook somewhere, advertising their "vegan wholegrain organic lesbian freetrade inner contemplatory probiotic ethical karmically cleansing recycled compostable alkalising carbon neutral shamanic" food in the best tongue-in-cheek way possible. Love it!
I am lucky enough to get a slot on the main stage, thanks to my friend Luke and it's an honour to be part of this institution in a small way - the audience is so receptive even though I am nervous - still not used to miked gigs. The street is where I do my best, I reckon... I discover some incredible musical acts here - a Welsh band named 'Heal the Last Stand' who look like they're right out of the 60's, singing about peace and love and stuff, and doing the coolest cover version ever of 'Grease', only changing it to 'Peace is the word, is the word, is the word..' They are unbelievably cool (groovy, even!) and I'm an instant fan.
We leave the four day festival reluctantly, although I feel I'll be back next summer somehow... it's just too good to miss! Highly recommended to all - lots of accordion jams around the bonfire, lots of playing dress-ups and other general playfulness.
With Daisy (who owns the house we're sitting) due to come back from the States, we're all left without a home once again, all three global wanderers and all teachers too interestingly enough... I plan to head up to Scotland via a small stop in London to visit the blue-eyed Russian. It's a connection worth exploring, so I mail him to see if he'll be around for the two days I'm planning to stop over there. It's a plan I think might just work, although it seems that there are other things in store for me...
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Early European days - Holland, Germany, Slovenia, Croatia, Italia (July/August)
(Written from Vietnam three months later, monsoon rains abided but still glued to this internet chair)
AMSTERDAM
The usual hazards of cows and Punjabi laden jeeps have turned into trams and bicycles, all of which are operating on the wrong side of the road. I stay with Saskia and her mother in the nearby village of Aalsmeer and within hours of arriving am cruising the canals on her friend's boat and drinking local beer. I first met Saskia whilst busking in Budapest five years ago - she approached me and we ended up playing together before I moved to her much nicer guesthouse and we hung out for a few days, so it's great to see her again, and especially being a traveller herself, she knows what it's like to readjust to a place. Quite simply, I am loving the clean! And little things like there always being toilet paper in the bathroom, and an abundance of fresh salad vegetables that I don't have to worry about bacteria hiding in.
I turn 32 on the 4th and after a typically Dutch breakfast of bread, cheese and Fruchtenhail (sugary fruit hail), head into the capital to do a spot of busking. But things have changed since I last played here five years ago (yes, it has been five years since I went anywhere in Europe. Once in New Zealand, it's hard to leave the pond, being so far away...) and it seems that busking is not allowed now! Someone tells me this whilst throwing me two euros during my first song ('Angel From Montgomery' by John Prine) and I thank him but decide to play the innocent tourist card if caught.
Which I am, the following day, by two kindly horsedrawn policewomen, damnit. Oh well. I take the train to Utrecht to catch up with Annemiek and play for half an hour in the busy streets there. The busking, my living for the moment, seems to be going pretty well when the police don't catch me, te he! Although it's probably fine to do in Utrecht.. no-one bothers me anyway...
GERMANY
Visiting Doro's family in Hildesheim is always a treat - they are lovely and their house is simply amazing. We walk the sausage dog ("Daschund!" as Helgard would say, thinking Paula would be horrifed to hear herself described so) around the rivers and parks before heading to Bavaria the following day on a family holiday.
Bavaria is all onion-headed churches and Jesuses on the cross to the untrained eye. Once I stay there a few days I get to know the Bavarian reservation and seeming unfriendliness - just another culture, probably the furthest possible one from India... but the landscapes are beautiful, and we stay in a family farmhouse close to a gorgeous swimmable lake and unwind as much as possible (unwind from the holiday?? Now there's a thought..) Every day around 3 pm we go for a family walk or drive and always find a place to eat cake and iced chocolate in - I protest at first, but when in Germany... ; ) Doro's folks don't want us to leave when we do, bound for three weeks in Slovenia / Croatia / Italia, but although the Bavarian nature is beautiful, we're excited for the unknown...
LJUBLJANA, AGAIN
... which begins in my favourite capital city in the world! I discovered this place five years back and fell in love with it, returning twice before I left Europe for good. Thankfully it is just as cool this time around. Amazing cafes, the Ljubljanska river, super chilled vibe.. we visit Metelkova Mesto on our first night, the famous squat-turned-fully functioning artist's community and get drunk on some very bad red wine as well as a bottle of Malibu that some Belgian dudes returned from a climbing holiday have in their bag. Who'd guess we were both professional teachers in our thirties??!! Not a soul...
The busking in Ljubljana is difficult at first, due to the fact that there are so many others out there on the streets, but I do have an amazing solo busk one day where I play to the prime minister of Slovenia! I had just met Josip, a very Paulo Coelho looking fellow who I'd been talking to in between songs about life and the spiritual journey (NO rolling of the eyes please!) when a bit of a procession rocks up to where I'm playing, right by one of the famous bridges over the Ljubljanska. Josip's eyes widen and he tells me to play something special for the prime minister, but although I play 'Waiting on an Angel' by Ben Harper I don't think anyone cares too much: all of his cronies are too busy taking photos and protecting him from harm, as if any would come to him in this peaceful wee country?!?! Who knows though... anyway, it's still an absolute pleasure to play for him and the general public, and I do pretty well from it before I leave to meet the grumpy Doro who is fed up of drinking coffee by herself... we are planning to busk together but haven't quite got it sorted yet...
That night we are walking home when yet another Belgian couple approaches, telling me they'd seen me singing today and could they buy us both a drink? I accept and end up having an amazing night with them and some locals, and even do an impromptu gig in the graffitti laden outdoor bar, borrowing a beautiful nylon strung number to do so. Three Irish girls are there too and it's one of those great traveller moments where everyone becomes instant friends - all of the three Irish girls are wearing green tee-shirts funnily enough, as is the Belgian girl whose fiancee has just proposed to me as well. Hilarious... they are staying in the same hostel as us so walk me home to creep into a darkened dorm with a sleeping Doro inside...
CROATIA - KORCULA AND DUBROVNIK
Croatia is stunningly beautiful, and on the island of Korcula we meet an Italian couple who lead us to an incredible double room with a balcony, not a stone's throw from the beach opposite, in a house owned by a local woman who speaks only Croatian and Italian. We manage to communicate however, and end up staying there three days because of this room as well as the fact that busking here is a hit...
I go out by myself at first and have a great night, meeting a bunch of Polish teenagers on holiday, one of whom plays 'Nothing Else Matters' for me to sing along to. It's a great moment... and the following night, Doro and I go out together after a quick harmony practise on the balcony. It's actually really amazing to play street music with another person - we work out some mean harmonies and get a great response from the crowd especially when we do our angelic Nirvana impressions, singing 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' and 'Lithium' in perfect harmony. Korcula is good for us; busking wise things just get better and better and by the third night we're raking in the kuna and drawing good audiences too (we always make sure we find a place where people can sit down and watch). I guess this is why Dubrovnik comes as such a disappointment...
Sure, it is a beautiful city but, writing this two months later, I don't have many good memories of this place. It's money hungry and we can feel dollar signs in people's eyes. The beaches are filled with 'beautiful people', and although the water is clear and sparkling, I don't really rate it as a city. It's too soulless, and has no time or space for such scruffy looking buskers (sorry Doro, I'm speaking for myself here). It seems that playing on the street is near impossible - we have one good night on a bridge leading into the old town at night, but mostly people walk past us, blinded by the beauty of the white marbled city (yes, it is a stunner of a place, aesthetically at least). Relief comes when, after our first failed musical mission, we go to commiserate with a glass of wine at a bar we passed earlier, and end up being persuaded to play for a free bottle by a table of locals who'd seen us earlier. It's an amazing place - Du'Vino wine bar, run by an Australian who knows his stuff when it comes to wine. In fact, it's the best drop I've had in ages, and we return every night that we're there, doing two impromptu gigs there to an audience that gives a damn. It's a redemption of sorts, and I'm very grateful to meet both Sasha the owner and Kruno, a local street musician that actually makes a living off busking and selling CDs - he dresses up like a villager (?? a Village person?? Ha he'd be horrified to hear that...) and is amplified, as well as being sponsored by the Council to be there and he deserves it - he's got a great thing going on.
ITALIA
During the 8 hour ferry from Dubrovnik to Bari in the south of Italy, it strikes me that we have arrived in a new country before we even seen the land. Families are clustered together singing loud songs and speaking fervently to one another in a language very different from the Slavic tongues I have become used to. My travelling companion and I have a huge argument on the boat and to be honest, it's the first time I can argue with someone while all the while knowing it will be allright - I have known Doro for ten years and she is more like a sister. Anyway, we each stare at the sea and grump away to ourselves, and eventually it passes and we get off the boat to a new land.
Bari is a sweet town, hot and cheap and friendly. We spend an evening and morning there before taking a train to Rome, and spend it eating gelato, ravioli, and hiding from the heat...
Rome is a trip. I'm too hot and bothered to properly enjoy it, and our hostel is the worst I've ever stayed in - broken air-con, outside noise,and inside noise from three drunken Spaniards who arrive at 3 am and proceed to giggle to each other whilst opening and closing every plastic bag they own. So, in our only full day in the city we spend much of it resting in the shade, avoiding the heat of the crowds and I don't actually end up seeing many 'sights' as such. I'm cool with this though. We busk once and it goes okay... someone who I'm assuming must have been a Kiwi hears our medley of Pokarekare Ana / Te Aroha and gives us a tenner. Sweet! And we meet a troupe of Spaniards all dressed up to the nines and wielding about 6 guitars between them. They're a university band from home who are going around the restaurants playing for customers and passing a hat around - this is where the money is, but both of us are too chicken to follow suit. Instead we make enough money to pay for our gelato habit and take the bus home, a bus which seems to be free, at least no-one ever asks us for tickets all the times we ride it and we never enquire. Oh well...
We train on to Siena, an incredibly beautiful town which is a sight for tired Roman eyes. We LOVE it! Although, sick of noisy hostels (our age is hitting us, and it is a good thing) we have booked a B&B that although gorgeous, is run by some helluva temperamental Italian women, all 'Ciao!' and smiles one minute before rapping on our door in the morning barking at us to get up for breakfast! Hilarious really, although we don't think so at the time... Thankfully they are only there in the mornings, so we are left mostly in peace.
The busking is great in Siena, and we play for hours, three nights in a row, until the police drive slowly past and give us the old finger wag before pointing at their watch to signal that it's after 11. Great times... Siena is so beautiful, all rustic stone and old temples. We discover an ancient chapel one day dedicated to Saint Catherine, a local saint who had her first sacred vision at 6 years old, in 1353. I sit alone on a wooden pew there, breathing in the ancient wooden-ness while a black nun in brilliant blue prays silently nearby. We differ in our religions but have the same god heart, and it's so, so beautiful. We are surrounded by friezes depicting life back then, and in the pictures I see local women tugging at each others skirts and whispering behind each others palms and can almost feel the petty quarrels they would have had back then, so similar to the ones we all have in our human lives now, and I feel that not much has changed really. Despite all of our technological advances, unless we really go inside ourselves, we can't really expect to evolve much on a human level. Wars are still going on, history is repeating itself. But I for one choose consciousness over disillusionment, so don't get down about it - I draw my hands together in prayer position, giving thanks to whatever god led us here today.
Verona, Verona, home of Romeo and Juliet and a whole lot of beautiful buildings. Being two months later, this depiction is all far too brief and I feel I haven't yet done the beauty of Italy justice. Verona for me was the ultimate in crumbling beauty. My jaw was constantly dropping at every crumbling Veronese frieze and we played music outside the 'House of Juliet', historically where the Capulet family actually did live in times gone by, and now probably the biggest tourist hotspot, where thousands came every day to pose on 'Juliet's balcony', to get their photo taken with a gold statue of Venus (I think?) and to declare their love for someone on the graffitti wall, covered in grotesque hearts and arrows in red and blue marker. On our final night playing music there, a man comes out from one of the touristic shops selling synthetic love hearts and shapely red balloons and gifts us an embroidered card (red, of course) reading 'Gracias'... particularly poignant as it was our last night together before going our separate ways in Venice the next evening, and it still lives in my guitar case now.
Yes... not 24 hours left together now, we train to Venice, our final stop before Doro flies home to Germany and I take the train up to Southern Austria to catch up with Bhak. We spend half a precious hour of our short day queuing up to stow our luggage in the train station for the day. It's damn expensive too, but I do a doubletake when the man who has just taken my pack returns, smiling and beckoning to me. I go with him to the back room, and can't quite work out what we means at first when he points towards a corner where moaning sounds are emanating. Then I realise they are actually coming from my pack! And I bend over laughing when I realise that somehow in the journey from my back to the back room, the portable tape recorder in my luggage has switched itself on, and my old Hindustani singing lessons are replaying themselves and there is NOTHING devotional about the way they sound! I can't quite feel the sacredness of the 'Om' right now, and I share a laugh with the porter before delving into my stuffed pack to rectify the situation.
Yeah, we see Venice on this day, and it's as beautiful as I imagined, as well as super dooperly touristic and somewhat disillusioning in this sense. My best memories of Venice though are the three hour lunch we had together, two bottles of wine in the sun and our last big sisterly slurred conversation after a whole month together, and a rather tipsy boat ride back to the station to get our luggage and say our goodbyes. Quite simply it is an amazing last day, and we play together on the bridge to the busstop for old times sake, made about two euros (again from a Kiwi who heard our Maori songs)and waved goodbye.
Alone again for the first time in a month, I board the train to Villach, hoping that Bhak would be there to pick me up from the station at 1 a.m (he was) and what kind of magic was waiting for me in Austria...
AMSTERDAM
The usual hazards of cows and Punjabi laden jeeps have turned into trams and bicycles, all of which are operating on the wrong side of the road. I stay with Saskia and her mother in the nearby village of Aalsmeer and within hours of arriving am cruising the canals on her friend's boat and drinking local beer. I first met Saskia whilst busking in Budapest five years ago - she approached me and we ended up playing together before I moved to her much nicer guesthouse and we hung out for a few days, so it's great to see her again, and especially being a traveller herself, she knows what it's like to readjust to a place. Quite simply, I am loving the clean! And little things like there always being toilet paper in the bathroom, and an abundance of fresh salad vegetables that I don't have to worry about bacteria hiding in.
I turn 32 on the 4th and after a typically Dutch breakfast of bread, cheese and Fruchtenhail (sugary fruit hail), head into the capital to do a spot of busking. But things have changed since I last played here five years ago (yes, it has been five years since I went anywhere in Europe. Once in New Zealand, it's hard to leave the pond, being so far away...) and it seems that busking is not allowed now! Someone tells me this whilst throwing me two euros during my first song ('Angel From Montgomery' by John Prine) and I thank him but decide to play the innocent tourist card if caught.
Which I am, the following day, by two kindly horsedrawn policewomen, damnit. Oh well. I take the train to Utrecht to catch up with Annemiek and play for half an hour in the busy streets there. The busking, my living for the moment, seems to be going pretty well when the police don't catch me, te he! Although it's probably fine to do in Utrecht.. no-one bothers me anyway...
GERMANY
Visiting Doro's family in Hildesheim is always a treat - they are lovely and their house is simply amazing. We walk the sausage dog ("Daschund!" as Helgard would say, thinking Paula would be horrifed to hear herself described so) around the rivers and parks before heading to Bavaria the following day on a family holiday.
Bavaria is all onion-headed churches and Jesuses on the cross to the untrained eye. Once I stay there a few days I get to know the Bavarian reservation and seeming unfriendliness - just another culture, probably the furthest possible one from India... but the landscapes are beautiful, and we stay in a family farmhouse close to a gorgeous swimmable lake and unwind as much as possible (unwind from the holiday?? Now there's a thought..) Every day around 3 pm we go for a family walk or drive and always find a place to eat cake and iced chocolate in - I protest at first, but when in Germany... ; ) Doro's folks don't want us to leave when we do, bound for three weeks in Slovenia / Croatia / Italia, but although the Bavarian nature is beautiful, we're excited for the unknown...
LJUBLJANA, AGAIN
... which begins in my favourite capital city in the world! I discovered this place five years back and fell in love with it, returning twice before I left Europe for good. Thankfully it is just as cool this time around. Amazing cafes, the Ljubljanska river, super chilled vibe.. we visit Metelkova Mesto on our first night, the famous squat-turned-fully functioning artist's community and get drunk on some very bad red wine as well as a bottle of Malibu that some Belgian dudes returned from a climbing holiday have in their bag. Who'd guess we were both professional teachers in our thirties??!! Not a soul...
The busking in Ljubljana is difficult at first, due to the fact that there are so many others out there on the streets, but I do have an amazing solo busk one day where I play to the prime minister of Slovenia! I had just met Josip, a very Paulo Coelho looking fellow who I'd been talking to in between songs about life and the spiritual journey (NO rolling of the eyes please!) when a bit of a procession rocks up to where I'm playing, right by one of the famous bridges over the Ljubljanska. Josip's eyes widen and he tells me to play something special for the prime minister, but although I play 'Waiting on an Angel' by Ben Harper I don't think anyone cares too much: all of his cronies are too busy taking photos and protecting him from harm, as if any would come to him in this peaceful wee country?!?! Who knows though... anyway, it's still an absolute pleasure to play for him and the general public, and I do pretty well from it before I leave to meet the grumpy Doro who is fed up of drinking coffee by herself... we are planning to busk together but haven't quite got it sorted yet...
That night we are walking home when yet another Belgian couple approaches, telling me they'd seen me singing today and could they buy us both a drink? I accept and end up having an amazing night with them and some locals, and even do an impromptu gig in the graffitti laden outdoor bar, borrowing a beautiful nylon strung number to do so. Three Irish girls are there too and it's one of those great traveller moments where everyone becomes instant friends - all of the three Irish girls are wearing green tee-shirts funnily enough, as is the Belgian girl whose fiancee has just proposed to me as well. Hilarious... they are staying in the same hostel as us so walk me home to creep into a darkened dorm with a sleeping Doro inside...
CROATIA - KORCULA AND DUBROVNIK
Croatia is stunningly beautiful, and on the island of Korcula we meet an Italian couple who lead us to an incredible double room with a balcony, not a stone's throw from the beach opposite, in a house owned by a local woman who speaks only Croatian and Italian. We manage to communicate however, and end up staying there three days because of this room as well as the fact that busking here is a hit...
I go out by myself at first and have a great night, meeting a bunch of Polish teenagers on holiday, one of whom plays 'Nothing Else Matters' for me to sing along to. It's a great moment... and the following night, Doro and I go out together after a quick harmony practise on the balcony. It's actually really amazing to play street music with another person - we work out some mean harmonies and get a great response from the crowd especially when we do our angelic Nirvana impressions, singing 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' and 'Lithium' in perfect harmony. Korcula is good for us; busking wise things just get better and better and by the third night we're raking in the kuna and drawing good audiences too (we always make sure we find a place where people can sit down and watch). I guess this is why Dubrovnik comes as such a disappointment...
Sure, it is a beautiful city but, writing this two months later, I don't have many good memories of this place. It's money hungry and we can feel dollar signs in people's eyes. The beaches are filled with 'beautiful people', and although the water is clear and sparkling, I don't really rate it as a city. It's too soulless, and has no time or space for such scruffy looking buskers (sorry Doro, I'm speaking for myself here). It seems that playing on the street is near impossible - we have one good night on a bridge leading into the old town at night, but mostly people walk past us, blinded by the beauty of the white marbled city (yes, it is a stunner of a place, aesthetically at least). Relief comes when, after our first failed musical mission, we go to commiserate with a glass of wine at a bar we passed earlier, and end up being persuaded to play for a free bottle by a table of locals who'd seen us earlier. It's an amazing place - Du'Vino wine bar, run by an Australian who knows his stuff when it comes to wine. In fact, it's the best drop I've had in ages, and we return every night that we're there, doing two impromptu gigs there to an audience that gives a damn. It's a redemption of sorts, and I'm very grateful to meet both Sasha the owner and Kruno, a local street musician that actually makes a living off busking and selling CDs - he dresses up like a villager (?? a Village person?? Ha he'd be horrified to hear that...) and is amplified, as well as being sponsored by the Council to be there and he deserves it - he's got a great thing going on.
ITALIA
During the 8 hour ferry from Dubrovnik to Bari in the south of Italy, it strikes me that we have arrived in a new country before we even seen the land. Families are clustered together singing loud songs and speaking fervently to one another in a language very different from the Slavic tongues I have become used to. My travelling companion and I have a huge argument on the boat and to be honest, it's the first time I can argue with someone while all the while knowing it will be allright - I have known Doro for ten years and she is more like a sister. Anyway, we each stare at the sea and grump away to ourselves, and eventually it passes and we get off the boat to a new land.
Bari is a sweet town, hot and cheap and friendly. We spend an evening and morning there before taking a train to Rome, and spend it eating gelato, ravioli, and hiding from the heat...
Rome is a trip. I'm too hot and bothered to properly enjoy it, and our hostel is the worst I've ever stayed in - broken air-con, outside noise,and inside noise from three drunken Spaniards who arrive at 3 am and proceed to giggle to each other whilst opening and closing every plastic bag they own. So, in our only full day in the city we spend much of it resting in the shade, avoiding the heat of the crowds and I don't actually end up seeing many 'sights' as such. I'm cool with this though. We busk once and it goes okay... someone who I'm assuming must have been a Kiwi hears our medley of Pokarekare Ana / Te Aroha and gives us a tenner. Sweet! And we meet a troupe of Spaniards all dressed up to the nines and wielding about 6 guitars between them. They're a university band from home who are going around the restaurants playing for customers and passing a hat around - this is where the money is, but both of us are too chicken to follow suit. Instead we make enough money to pay for our gelato habit and take the bus home, a bus which seems to be free, at least no-one ever asks us for tickets all the times we ride it and we never enquire. Oh well...
We train on to Siena, an incredibly beautiful town which is a sight for tired Roman eyes. We LOVE it! Although, sick of noisy hostels (our age is hitting us, and it is a good thing) we have booked a B&B that although gorgeous, is run by some helluva temperamental Italian women, all 'Ciao!' and smiles one minute before rapping on our door in the morning barking at us to get up for breakfast! Hilarious really, although we don't think so at the time... Thankfully they are only there in the mornings, so we are left mostly in peace.
The busking is great in Siena, and we play for hours, three nights in a row, until the police drive slowly past and give us the old finger wag before pointing at their watch to signal that it's after 11. Great times... Siena is so beautiful, all rustic stone and old temples. We discover an ancient chapel one day dedicated to Saint Catherine, a local saint who had her first sacred vision at 6 years old, in 1353. I sit alone on a wooden pew there, breathing in the ancient wooden-ness while a black nun in brilliant blue prays silently nearby. We differ in our religions but have the same god heart, and it's so, so beautiful. We are surrounded by friezes depicting life back then, and in the pictures I see local women tugging at each others skirts and whispering behind each others palms and can almost feel the petty quarrels they would have had back then, so similar to the ones we all have in our human lives now, and I feel that not much has changed really. Despite all of our technological advances, unless we really go inside ourselves, we can't really expect to evolve much on a human level. Wars are still going on, history is repeating itself. But I for one choose consciousness over disillusionment, so don't get down about it - I draw my hands together in prayer position, giving thanks to whatever god led us here today.
Verona, Verona, home of Romeo and Juliet and a whole lot of beautiful buildings. Being two months later, this depiction is all far too brief and I feel I haven't yet done the beauty of Italy justice. Verona for me was the ultimate in crumbling beauty. My jaw was constantly dropping at every crumbling Veronese frieze and we played music outside the 'House of Juliet', historically where the Capulet family actually did live in times gone by, and now probably the biggest tourist hotspot, where thousands came every day to pose on 'Juliet's balcony', to get their photo taken with a gold statue of Venus (I think?) and to declare their love for someone on the graffitti wall, covered in grotesque hearts and arrows in red and blue marker. On our final night playing music there, a man comes out from one of the touristic shops selling synthetic love hearts and shapely red balloons and gifts us an embroidered card (red, of course) reading 'Gracias'... particularly poignant as it was our last night together before going our separate ways in Venice the next evening, and it still lives in my guitar case now.
Yes... not 24 hours left together now, we train to Venice, our final stop before Doro flies home to Germany and I take the train up to Southern Austria to catch up with Bhak. We spend half a precious hour of our short day queuing up to stow our luggage in the train station for the day. It's damn expensive too, but I do a doubletake when the man who has just taken my pack returns, smiling and beckoning to me. I go with him to the back room, and can't quite work out what we means at first when he points towards a corner where moaning sounds are emanating. Then I realise they are actually coming from my pack! And I bend over laughing when I realise that somehow in the journey from my back to the back room, the portable tape recorder in my luggage has switched itself on, and my old Hindustani singing lessons are replaying themselves and there is NOTHING devotional about the way they sound! I can't quite feel the sacredness of the 'Om' right now, and I share a laugh with the porter before delving into my stuffed pack to rectify the situation.
Yeah, we see Venice on this day, and it's as beautiful as I imagined, as well as super dooperly touristic and somewhat disillusioning in this sense. My best memories of Venice though are the three hour lunch we had together, two bottles of wine in the sun and our last big sisterly slurred conversation after a whole month together, and a rather tipsy boat ride back to the station to get our luggage and say our goodbyes. Quite simply it is an amazing last day, and we play together on the bridge to the busstop for old times sake, made about two euros (again from a Kiwi who heard our Maori songs)and waved goodbye.
Alone again for the first time in a month, I board the train to Villach, hoping that Bhak would be there to pick me up from the station at 1 a.m (he was) and what kind of magic was waiting for me in Austria...
Back on the blog, and learning to bridge the worlds
Hmmm... I see that somehow over three months have passed since I've made an entry... how could this be, I wonder?? Although I know that it was Europe that did it...
When in India one has so much more time to write, it seems... and now that I am back in Asia, swapping India for Vietnam (Ho Chi Minh / Saigon), and I seem to be stuck in this internet cafe while the monsoon buckets down in the street outside (very interesting - this is the first time it's hit and I haven't been trapped inside a hotel room. I'm interested to see that there are still motorbikes around, although the riders seem to be more often than not covered head to toe in some kind of blue plastic...), it seems that the time to write again has... arrived!
So how shall I begin? I have no idea whether I'll be able to capture the events of the past three months now that they are well and truly in the past... but I might touch on a few things. It seems fitting to write about how I left India all those months ago (... three...) and how the world I was in started to change right in front of me.
Early July. I reluctantly leave the Bhagsu valley and all its nurturing late night jam sessions and take the usual shitty night bus to Delhi. Particularly shitty I remember as it leaked on a couple of Portuguese travellers I met there, and the drivers did nothing but laugh for the first hour and then begrudgingly sellotape up some cardboard... but what to do? This is India...
Anyway, I had expected my one day in Delhi to be the usual hot, bored day of somehow surviving the humidity, catching up on sleep and late minute shopping. I never meet anyone in Delhi - why should this day be any different? But, ever since what I consider a definite 'soul-evolution', for want of a better word, in the Himalayas this year, it seemed that life just didn't work in the same way anymore. A bunch of Bhagsu-ites that were all flying out the following day were congregating in the aptly named 'Nirvana' cafe so we spent a good few hours reminiscing about the place, swapping a wee bit of gossip (tis true) and preparing ourselves for the culture change in front of us. Someone mentioned that like it or not, Europe (where most of us were headed) was going to knock this peace out of us eventually and from this conversation onwards I became determined not to let this happen. I mean, it's all inside of us, right? Surely we can't cling to the bosom of India forever... there comes a time when we have to step back into the world, and I chose to do so whole heartedly.
Anyway, regardless of my determination to hold my peace, I couldn't argue that things were starting to change before we had even left India. It turned out that one of the Bhagsu-ites was on my flight so we shared a cab to the airport at around 2 in the blurry-eyed morning and actually had a great airport experience together. Normally something I do alone, like the last day in Delhi, my world was changing and I was finding I didn't need so much alone time anymore... anyway, there was a point where I realised that we were leaving India before we even left India so to speak... I'll just retrive my journal entry from the time in order to convey it better...
"Your pending balance 340"
Oh, my final impressions of India.
I sit with Adam in the super bland "Costa Coffee" and drink the shittiest and most expensive chai I have EVER had! Just a teabag in water with some frothy milk and no masala to speak of. I am aware that we are about to re-enter the world of chains and brands, which modern India seems to be trying to emulate in the worst way possible. I want to take it by the scruff of its devotional neck and beg it not to change, but I know it will. I know there will always be the chai walla on the side of the road, which has been my reality for the past three months, and we joke about the unlikelihood of one of these guys setting up shop in the Delhi International airport, serving their sweet milky spiced chai out of little clay cups as a kind of Indian farewell, bit we both know it will never happen.. they would never afford the rent for starters! Such a shame. Airports are so soulless and culture-void... so bland, so monochromatic.
And this world is where I am going to, but I am determined to hold my own in the midst of it. I sit and look at the fading henna on my hands - a chessboard pattern covers much of my left palm while vines grow up the fingertips. My right palm is much darker and here a small flower adorns the centre with lacey patterns emerging in bright henna orange all around it. I wonder what people in Europe will think of this... but I don't care. I am bound for another world... and although I welcome it, I know that it's gonna be a change that won't always come easy.
When in India one has so much more time to write, it seems... and now that I am back in Asia, swapping India for Vietnam (Ho Chi Minh / Saigon), and I seem to be stuck in this internet cafe while the monsoon buckets down in the street outside (very interesting - this is the first time it's hit and I haven't been trapped inside a hotel room. I'm interested to see that there are still motorbikes around, although the riders seem to be more often than not covered head to toe in some kind of blue plastic...), it seems that the time to write again has... arrived!
So how shall I begin? I have no idea whether I'll be able to capture the events of the past three months now that they are well and truly in the past... but I might touch on a few things. It seems fitting to write about how I left India all those months ago (... three...) and how the world I was in started to change right in front of me.
Early July. I reluctantly leave the Bhagsu valley and all its nurturing late night jam sessions and take the usual shitty night bus to Delhi. Particularly shitty I remember as it leaked on a couple of Portuguese travellers I met there, and the drivers did nothing but laugh for the first hour and then begrudgingly sellotape up some cardboard... but what to do? This is India...
Anyway, I had expected my one day in Delhi to be the usual hot, bored day of somehow surviving the humidity, catching up on sleep and late minute shopping. I never meet anyone in Delhi - why should this day be any different? But, ever since what I consider a definite 'soul-evolution', for want of a better word, in the Himalayas this year, it seemed that life just didn't work in the same way anymore. A bunch of Bhagsu-ites that were all flying out the following day were congregating in the aptly named 'Nirvana' cafe so we spent a good few hours reminiscing about the place, swapping a wee bit of gossip (tis true) and preparing ourselves for the culture change in front of us. Someone mentioned that like it or not, Europe (where most of us were headed) was going to knock this peace out of us eventually and from this conversation onwards I became determined not to let this happen. I mean, it's all inside of us, right? Surely we can't cling to the bosom of India forever... there comes a time when we have to step back into the world, and I chose to do so whole heartedly.
Anyway, regardless of my determination to hold my peace, I couldn't argue that things were starting to change before we had even left India. It turned out that one of the Bhagsu-ites was on my flight so we shared a cab to the airport at around 2 in the blurry-eyed morning and actually had a great airport experience together. Normally something I do alone, like the last day in Delhi, my world was changing and I was finding I didn't need so much alone time anymore... anyway, there was a point where I realised that we were leaving India before we even left India so to speak... I'll just retrive my journal entry from the time in order to convey it better...
"Your pending balance 340"
Oh, my final impressions of India.
I sit with Adam in the super bland "Costa Coffee" and drink the shittiest and most expensive chai I have EVER had! Just a teabag in water with some frothy milk and no masala to speak of. I am aware that we are about to re-enter the world of chains and brands, which modern India seems to be trying to emulate in the worst way possible. I want to take it by the scruff of its devotional neck and beg it not to change, but I know it will. I know there will always be the chai walla on the side of the road, which has been my reality for the past three months, and we joke about the unlikelihood of one of these guys setting up shop in the Delhi International airport, serving their sweet milky spiced chai out of little clay cups as a kind of Indian farewell, bit we both know it will never happen.. they would never afford the rent for starters! Such a shame. Airports are so soulless and culture-void... so bland, so monochromatic.
And this world is where I am going to, but I am determined to hold my own in the midst of it. I sit and look at the fading henna on my hands - a chessboard pattern covers much of my left palm while vines grow up the fingertips. My right palm is much darker and here a small flower adorns the centre with lacey patterns emerging in bright henna orange all around it. I wonder what people in Europe will think of this... but I don't care. I am bound for another world... and although I welcome it, I know that it's gonna be a change that won't always come easy.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Last days in Bhagsu
The valley is filled with musicians and it seems I have been lucky enough to meet and play with some truly beautiful ones. Every night in my last week is filled with various jam sessions - huge tribal jams / dance offs at 'Sky Pie', casual relaxed Punjabi-lassi inspired jams at Roza cafe or small scale sessions at 'Sky HIGH', the latter of which often ends up turning large-scale much to the chagrin of the non-musos staying there...
As stated, there are loads of musicians around, but I have a core crew in a few of them. Matt, a sitar player from Florida, is one of the first players I meet that I truly gel with. He is tall, curly haired and never to be seen without either his sitar or a guitar strapped to his back. I first meet Matt at Roza cafe on the full moon, or see him at least, playing with Vladi and Lapsang, a guitarist and flute player respectively. Their music is beautiful that night, but I remember being 'on a mission' to get to another full moon party - a musical evening at Shivam's house - and don't remember staying around too long despite the beauty wafting out of those instruments. As I leave I lament my evening's commitment and vow to make NO future plans unless I have to - it's very hard to walk away from such beauty.
Anyway, I first play with Matt and Vlad a few nights after the full moon, at 'Roza'. Our first jam is actually quite a healing experience for me as I'd had a kind of a crazy evening prior to this, and nothing feels better than to sit and sing my heart out to their improvised licks. The three of us seem to run into each other a lot in the coming days - usually at 'Roza', and we sit and eat breakfast together and philosophise. I am quickly told the story of what happened after their legendary full moon jam and hear of Vlad falling down a cliff right after he warned the others not to get too close to the edge! Well, the others are laughing away so I feel free to join in - it is pretty funny... especially because his precious guitar was unharmed.
Another wonderfully talented man I love playing with is Shyan, always armed with his array of flutes in various keys. Sometimes I try to mirror what he does on flute with my voice - our jams are always beautiful. Peter is another flute player, and Shreeti box player, and 'Halluci' player (an instrument that truly sounds like its name!)who travels with about twenty kilos of instruments, building them as he goes... ahhh, it's a good life we all lead... as we are all taking singing lessons from Manoj, a wonderful teacher based in Varanasi most of the year, the idea gets bandied about to all go and live there and study music together. WHY NOT??!! I'm currently entertaining this notion of moving to Varanasi in time for Christmas (after earning some money teaching somewhere first...) to study for three months or so. How amazing would it be though, to all live in a big house together, play music every day, in one of the craziest cities in the world?!
So, it seems it's mostly men that I've been jamming with, although Uma joins us for a few nights, her freestyling lyrics an inspiration to me - totally free, she raps about being the queen of the world (making us all keel over in laughter), being limitless and ever-changing and sharing a house with some funky monkey junkies - actually, that last one was Peter and I, very funny... and Selina from South America joins us for my last couple of nights as well - a full power goddess woman who I totally connect with vocally. We harmonise together, and sometimes shriek a bit, and end up dancing to the music we're creating, letting our inner banshees out - hooray!! I am LOVING these musical nights...
Although not everyone is. I must admit we get kind of carried away one night when it is raining and the sound of the monsoon covers our volume. There are dozens of people all crammed onto a verandah near 'Sky High' and by the time the rain dies down we have forgotten about the time, the djimbes have started up again and unfortunately we have to be told by a pretty upset neighbour whose sleep has been interrupted by our bangin'. I feel terrible about this, and wonder not for the first time what the locals think of us - we must seem to take over their beloved valley for up to six months of the year in high season. They have to put up with djimbes banging at unruly hours, mad trance parties, blissed out hippies climbing up and down the mountains all through the night... I mean, we have a pretty amazing life here in Bhagsu, but I think we should remember those that have lived here all their lives. Food for thought anyway...
Actually, it's reasonably common for police to come and close things down anyway, something I found out on my final night - I had invited people to come and play at 'Marley cafe', but because of getting my hands hennaed by my lovely guesthouse maitre-dee, I was over an hour late so we didn't start playing until after ten o-clock, the official closing time around these parts. Sure, we were playing quietly (I wasn't going to take any chances after our 3 am finish a few nights before), but we were soon plunged into darkness when the cafe owner turned out all the lights and shushed everyone. Expecting to hear a simple conversation between a police officer and the owner, we were all shocked and horrified to hear the sound of someone being pretty heavily beaten up, just on the other side of the canvas covering. As soon as it was safe to leave we did, there being nothing we could do (after seeing my rickshaw driver get beat up by police in Delhi, I knew they wouldn't listen to us if we told them to stop). We later found out that it wasn't because of us, but rather that the police had been videoing someone smoking charas through a guesthouse window, and a worker had thought that they (the policeman) was a common thief. So, the worker hit the policeman, not knowing who they were, and a heavy beating and an arrest followed. We're all pretty bummed out by this time, me especially, having invited everyone to this cafe to play some music! But unfortunately this stuff happens all over India... we visit the next morning to see how things are, but who knows... who can win when facing the Indian police?!?
Suprisingly, we do end up having one more beautiful jam for last night, all cramming into Dipender's room (he owns a guesthouse near 'Sky High), and even more suprisingly, we manage to keep it really quiet, and disturb nobody. For me it's a really nice warm up to my upcoming 'busking tour of Europe' as I play song after song for everyone towards the end of the night - Leonard Cohen, Simon and Garfunkel, Beatles... we all finally leave around 3 a.m, completely satisfied, completely happy...
SO, I leave Bhagsu in the best possible place - completely inspired, and very creatively... I really feel like this bunch of musicians I will see again, for sure... I catch my night bus to Delhi reluctantly, but also knowing that all things must come to an end as well, and that there are bound to be many more beautiful experiences ahead of me in Europe, a land completely different to the one I have been living on for the past three months, but a canvas waiting to have new musical stories painted on. Life is changing for me now as I move to new lands, but not for the first time I say bring it on, sweet universe... bring it on indeed...
As stated, there are loads of musicians around, but I have a core crew in a few of them. Matt, a sitar player from Florida, is one of the first players I meet that I truly gel with. He is tall, curly haired and never to be seen without either his sitar or a guitar strapped to his back. I first meet Matt at Roza cafe on the full moon, or see him at least, playing with Vladi and Lapsang, a guitarist and flute player respectively. Their music is beautiful that night, but I remember being 'on a mission' to get to another full moon party - a musical evening at Shivam's house - and don't remember staying around too long despite the beauty wafting out of those instruments. As I leave I lament my evening's commitment and vow to make NO future plans unless I have to - it's very hard to walk away from such beauty.
Anyway, I first play with Matt and Vlad a few nights after the full moon, at 'Roza'. Our first jam is actually quite a healing experience for me as I'd had a kind of a crazy evening prior to this, and nothing feels better than to sit and sing my heart out to their improvised licks. The three of us seem to run into each other a lot in the coming days - usually at 'Roza', and we sit and eat breakfast together and philosophise. I am quickly told the story of what happened after their legendary full moon jam and hear of Vlad falling down a cliff right after he warned the others not to get too close to the edge! Well, the others are laughing away so I feel free to join in - it is pretty funny... especially because his precious guitar was unharmed.
Another wonderfully talented man I love playing with is Shyan, always armed with his array of flutes in various keys. Sometimes I try to mirror what he does on flute with my voice - our jams are always beautiful. Peter is another flute player, and Shreeti box player, and 'Halluci' player (an instrument that truly sounds like its name!)who travels with about twenty kilos of instruments, building them as he goes... ahhh, it's a good life we all lead... as we are all taking singing lessons from Manoj, a wonderful teacher based in Varanasi most of the year, the idea gets bandied about to all go and live there and study music together. WHY NOT??!! I'm currently entertaining this notion of moving to Varanasi in time for Christmas (after earning some money teaching somewhere first...) to study for three months or so. How amazing would it be though, to all live in a big house together, play music every day, in one of the craziest cities in the world?!
So, it seems it's mostly men that I've been jamming with, although Uma joins us for a few nights, her freestyling lyrics an inspiration to me - totally free, she raps about being the queen of the world (making us all keel over in laughter), being limitless and ever-changing and sharing a house with some funky monkey junkies - actually, that last one was Peter and I, very funny... and Selina from South America joins us for my last couple of nights as well - a full power goddess woman who I totally connect with vocally. We harmonise together, and sometimes shriek a bit, and end up dancing to the music we're creating, letting our inner banshees out - hooray!! I am LOVING these musical nights...
Although not everyone is. I must admit we get kind of carried away one night when it is raining and the sound of the monsoon covers our volume. There are dozens of people all crammed onto a verandah near 'Sky High' and by the time the rain dies down we have forgotten about the time, the djimbes have started up again and unfortunately we have to be told by a pretty upset neighbour whose sleep has been interrupted by our bangin'. I feel terrible about this, and wonder not for the first time what the locals think of us - we must seem to take over their beloved valley for up to six months of the year in high season. They have to put up with djimbes banging at unruly hours, mad trance parties, blissed out hippies climbing up and down the mountains all through the night... I mean, we have a pretty amazing life here in Bhagsu, but I think we should remember those that have lived here all their lives. Food for thought anyway...
Actually, it's reasonably common for police to come and close things down anyway, something I found out on my final night - I had invited people to come and play at 'Marley cafe', but because of getting my hands hennaed by my lovely guesthouse maitre-dee, I was over an hour late so we didn't start playing until after ten o-clock, the official closing time around these parts. Sure, we were playing quietly (I wasn't going to take any chances after our 3 am finish a few nights before), but we were soon plunged into darkness when the cafe owner turned out all the lights and shushed everyone. Expecting to hear a simple conversation between a police officer and the owner, we were all shocked and horrified to hear the sound of someone being pretty heavily beaten up, just on the other side of the canvas covering. As soon as it was safe to leave we did, there being nothing we could do (after seeing my rickshaw driver get beat up by police in Delhi, I knew they wouldn't listen to us if we told them to stop). We later found out that it wasn't because of us, but rather that the police had been videoing someone smoking charas through a guesthouse window, and a worker had thought that they (the policeman) was a common thief. So, the worker hit the policeman, not knowing who they were, and a heavy beating and an arrest followed. We're all pretty bummed out by this time, me especially, having invited everyone to this cafe to play some music! But unfortunately this stuff happens all over India... we visit the next morning to see how things are, but who knows... who can win when facing the Indian police?!?
Suprisingly, we do end up having one more beautiful jam for last night, all cramming into Dipender's room (he owns a guesthouse near 'Sky High), and even more suprisingly, we manage to keep it really quiet, and disturb nobody. For me it's a really nice warm up to my upcoming 'busking tour of Europe' as I play song after song for everyone towards the end of the night - Leonard Cohen, Simon and Garfunkel, Beatles... we all finally leave around 3 a.m, completely satisfied, completely happy...
SO, I leave Bhagsu in the best possible place - completely inspired, and very creatively... I really feel like this bunch of musicians I will see again, for sure... I catch my night bus to Delhi reluctantly, but also knowing that all things must come to an end as well, and that there are bound to be many more beautiful experiences ahead of me in Europe, a land completely different to the one I have been living on for the past three months, but a canvas waiting to have new musical stories painted on. Life is changing for me now as I move to new lands, but not for the first time I say bring it on, sweet universe... bring it on indeed...
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Bhagsu in the Monsoon
The monsoon has officially come to Bhagsu. For the past three day, I have awoken to thick foggy skies rather than my usual view of the lush green valley below. The first rain usually begins as I do my asanas on my small blue yoga mat in the upstairs room, and if I'm lucky, the sun will come out momentarily in an hour or two, giving people the opportunity to emerge from their various mountain hideouts (guesthouses/cafes).
Actually, that's a lie. There is no regularity to the rain. It just comes. But for the past few days, it has stayed for longer, a pattern which is not likely to change for a while.
Ridiculously, I have no raincoat or umbrella. Usually this is not a problem as I am loaded up with books to read when the rain comes and I'm still in my room, or if I'm outside I can duck into one of the many warm Bhagsu cafes with similarly unprepared travellers... Toady was the first day I got caught out, having braved the rain enough to run a few minutes to Roza cafe for breakfast. Luckily Sahil lent me his only-slightly-broken unmbrella to whip down the hill to my singing class, and I have been down here ever since, as today this water is just not ceasing. It's okay. I love it, and the fact that it makes us slow down and relllaaaax even more.
For I have realised something. I've been here three weeks or even more now, and have only a few days left until I need to take my Delhi night bus and my plane to Amsterdam. What a change this will be... but anyway, back to my realisation. After three weeks here, and after four months on the road, I finally feel like I'm learning to truly leeeeet gooooo.... a deeper level of relaxation is coming in. Looking back, I've always had some kind of objective for my day, and certain 'things to achieve' so to speak. How liberating, then, to fnially let go and just BE. You'd think I would have realise this already, after four months away. How interesting then, how long it's taken me to transofrm my Western view.
In 'the West' (generic term for countries not like India), we live our lives with such expectation - with goals, onjectives, attachments. Even our personal development is often laden with ideas of where we want to 'get to' or how we can make ourselves more of a person we want to be. A friend of mine told me yesterday "Why are you always 'on your way' somewhere? You need to calm down , girl. Everything is inside of you". How right he was. For me anyway, it's been highly liberating to just STOP and let life happen. I know I have the luxury of doing this at the moment - no kids, no responsibilities... so I'vwe decided to mike it, baby, for all it's worth, and ENJOOOOOYYYYY (Indian saying) even more.
Right, enough lyrical waxing. Here's some of the cool stuff that's been going on in the Valley of late.
Two beautiful jams, one two nights before in Roza cafe, and last night in 'Sky High' where a small circle of flute, singing, sitar, guitar and tabla turned into an even bigger circle of harmonies, spoons tapping on glasses and a rather hyperactive puppy wagging its tail and trying to chew everything (tabla and flute case, beer glass, everyone's feet) in sight.
My amazing yoga / meditation practise. I've taken some classes, but mostly I just love practising in my room, holding my asanas long, long, long, and watching my mind get quieter and calmer. It's amazing. Pretty much impossible to put into words, so I'll leave it at that.
Sometimes I wish I could stay longere her, but my visa is up, and Europe is calling. Soon it will be time to take to the streets with my guitar in hand and let my voice fund me for a while. I have much to take away with me. A lot has 'sunk in' for me here in this valley. Now it will be up to me to integrate it into a diferent enviornment and away from the nurturing land of India - my home, always...
Actually, that's a lie. There is no regularity to the rain. It just comes. But for the past few days, it has stayed for longer, a pattern which is not likely to change for a while.
Ridiculously, I have no raincoat or umbrella. Usually this is not a problem as I am loaded up with books to read when the rain comes and I'm still in my room, or if I'm outside I can duck into one of the many warm Bhagsu cafes with similarly unprepared travellers... Toady was the first day I got caught out, having braved the rain enough to run a few minutes to Roza cafe for breakfast. Luckily Sahil lent me his only-slightly-broken unmbrella to whip down the hill to my singing class, and I have been down here ever since, as today this water is just not ceasing. It's okay. I love it, and the fact that it makes us slow down and relllaaaax even more.
For I have realised something. I've been here three weeks or even more now, and have only a few days left until I need to take my Delhi night bus and my plane to Amsterdam. What a change this will be... but anyway, back to my realisation. After three weeks here, and after four months on the road, I finally feel like I'm learning to truly leeeeet gooooo.... a deeper level of relaxation is coming in. Looking back, I've always had some kind of objective for my day, and certain 'things to achieve' so to speak. How liberating, then, to fnially let go and just BE. You'd think I would have realise this already, after four months away. How interesting then, how long it's taken me to transofrm my Western view.
In 'the West' (generic term for countries not like India), we live our lives with such expectation - with goals, onjectives, attachments. Even our personal development is often laden with ideas of where we want to 'get to' or how we can make ourselves more of a person we want to be. A friend of mine told me yesterday "Why are you always 'on your way' somewhere? You need to calm down , girl. Everything is inside of you". How right he was. For me anyway, it's been highly liberating to just STOP and let life happen. I know I have the luxury of doing this at the moment - no kids, no responsibilities... so I'vwe decided to mike it, baby, for all it's worth, and ENJOOOOOYYYYY (Indian saying) even more.
Right, enough lyrical waxing. Here's some of the cool stuff that's been going on in the Valley of late.
Two beautiful jams, one two nights before in Roza cafe, and last night in 'Sky High' where a small circle of flute, singing, sitar, guitar and tabla turned into an even bigger circle of harmonies, spoons tapping on glasses and a rather hyperactive puppy wagging its tail and trying to chew everything (tabla and flute case, beer glass, everyone's feet) in sight.
My amazing yoga / meditation practise. I've taken some classes, but mostly I just love practising in my room, holding my asanas long, long, long, and watching my mind get quieter and calmer. It's amazing. Pretty much impossible to put into words, so I'll leave it at that.
Sometimes I wish I could stay longere her, but my visa is up, and Europe is calling. Soon it will be time to take to the streets with my guitar in hand and let my voice fund me for a while. I have much to take away with me. A lot has 'sunk in' for me here in this valley. Now it will be up to me to integrate it into a diferent enviornment and away from the nurturing land of India - my home, always...
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Full Moon Eclipse in Upper Bhagsu
It's midnight; the moon has another hour in which to disappear and I have as much time to write by its light. High in the Bhagsu Valley, various sounds emanate. Birds burning the midnight oil chirp quietly amongst themselves. The distant sounds of drumbeats echo across to my perch, mixing with the laughter of the late night cafe dwellers. The occasional whoop and moon howl are carried to me on the windless night, although this moon is gentle; there are no loud trance parties anywhere near us. I think others have traveled to Manali and the Parvati Valley for such occasions and I'm glad for the gentle peace that remains. Possibly it's the guesthouse I'm at; the two Frenchies, a Venezuelan and I are more content to sit and watch the moon before getting a reasonably early night, than to stay up all night jamming. A dog barks and I see the white patches of a cat quicken their pace on the lawn below. I want to stay up until I can write no more.
I have just come from Shivam's full moon musical celebration, where a wonderful harmonium player jammed with various drummers and the orange clad baba from down the hill whose voice crescendoed as they sang some devotionally rockin bhajans while we sipped chai and lemon ginger honey. I joined in and felt my whole body vibrate with the sounds within and around me, although I knew none of the words. All the while, Shivam sat on his orange blanket, twisting his hands into various mudras and swaying his body devotionally, stopping occasionally to pay homage to the many portraits of his teacher that adorned the walls.
Such are the contrasts in this valley - you can find anything you want really. On my walk to Shivam's, I was tempted to stay in Roza and be part of an impromptu sitar and flute concert - instead I drank one of their famous masala chais before trekking up, and up, and up. Others told me about a rooftop party somewhere to the left of me, while the more adventurous had opted to trek to Triund and sleep in a cave to see the eclipse from there.
Back in the present moment, the moon is a crescent for a while before turning into an orange pac-man. There are no clouds around for him to eat though - by this time Federico has come home and is amazed to learn of the disappearing moon - we watch awefully (as opposed to awfully) from the steps below my room, wondering aloud whether or not the moon will reappear, and from which direction...
At 1.15 I give up and make for my bed, happy to have watched the moon nearly disappear from view. I leave the tiny orange sliver to disappear completely and curl up in my puddle of blankets, asleep instantly in the small family house...
I have just come from Shivam's full moon musical celebration, where a wonderful harmonium player jammed with various drummers and the orange clad baba from down the hill whose voice crescendoed as they sang some devotionally rockin bhajans while we sipped chai and lemon ginger honey. I joined in and felt my whole body vibrate with the sounds within and around me, although I knew none of the words. All the while, Shivam sat on his orange blanket, twisting his hands into various mudras and swaying his body devotionally, stopping occasionally to pay homage to the many portraits of his teacher that adorned the walls.
Such are the contrasts in this valley - you can find anything you want really. On my walk to Shivam's, I was tempted to stay in Roza and be part of an impromptu sitar and flute concert - instead I drank one of their famous masala chais before trekking up, and up, and up. Others told me about a rooftop party somewhere to the left of me, while the more adventurous had opted to trek to Triund and sleep in a cave to see the eclipse from there.
Back in the present moment, the moon is a crescent for a while before turning into an orange pac-man. There are no clouds around for him to eat though - by this time Federico has come home and is amazed to learn of the disappearing moon - we watch awefully (as opposed to awfully) from the steps below my room, wondering aloud whether or not the moon will reappear, and from which direction...
At 1.15 I give up and make for my bed, happy to have watched the moon nearly disappear from view. I leave the tiny orange sliver to disappear completely and curl up in my puddle of blankets, asleep instantly in the small family house...
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Mcleod Ganj sunset, and last night's gig
I'm sitting in an internet cafe when all of a sudden a huuuuge commotion is occuring in the street outside... At first I am determined not to involve myself and continue tapping away at the typically sticky keyboard, but the sound increases and I wonder if someone's been hurt on the street outside. All of a sudden I find myself abandoning my chair and nosying it up with the locals lining the pavement. It always amuses me how people do this in Inda: how anyone's business is everyones...
However, this time we have more cause for concern - some dude with an American accent is SHOUTING his head off... screaming and carrying on about the motorbikes on the road.. from what I glean it seems one has run over his foot, and a HUGE part of me sympathises even though he is making a huge scene and continue his tirade about India as he walks up and down the street. These roads ARE insane and have changed a lot in the five years since I've visited last, with taxis and rickshaws and vans and motorbikes jostling for space with pedestrians, cows, dogs and children. From the way the man is carrying on I had wondered if someone had been killed, but it seems everyone else is fine...
I guess he has just expressed what I feel sometimes, albiet in an extreme way... weekends in both Bhagsu and McLeod are crazy, with many Punjabi weekenders competing for space here, their home state but a few hours away. Last night, from the serenity of Upper Bhagsu, where you have to walk up a steep road and then varying quantities of steep stone steps depending on which cafe you wish to frequent, a gentle Punjabi gentleman approached me asking if he could speak to me. I managed to swallow my inner cynic about what was going to follow and was pleasantly suprised at his genuine interest at why so many travellers come here...
I told him that the magic of the hills should speak for itself, but upon reflection I guess that being only a weekender he wouldn't have time to envelop himself into the community up here. Last night this same community, out of which an AMAZING Arabic-esque reggae traveller band has formed, put on a concert at Horizon cafe. The place was PACKED despite the 150 rupee entry fee (first entry fee for a gig up there yet I heard, although it was worth ten times as much and I had no qualms about opening my wallet to support wonderful musicians like them).
From their very first song they had wooed the crowd, actually even before they started they had the crowd wooed, with many of their friends filling the first two rows... they are 6 or 7 guys, I lost count, all beautiful both inside and out... the djimbe player reminds me of my friend Iain, and I want to show him a photo of him. They have the same brown smiling eyes and soul of a musician I think. The Israeli (I think???) singer has a white cloth wrapped around his dark hair. He closes his eyes and sings Arabic sounds to make ones soul swoon. Mine is unabashedly following suit on the dance floor. As is everyone elses! They play a slow song and we soon we all have our arms around each other, regardless of whether we know each other or not. It doesn't matter. I have my head on a strange man's shoulder at one stage and it all feels perfectly natural.
The singer in the middle of the stage (three of them at least are singing...) is something of a Spanish / South American rapper/freestyler and he is AMAZING! Doo wopping away in a way only he knows how to do right now, COMPLETELY one with the music - as they ALL are. It's great! The tall Frenchie at the back plays the clarinet in a Middle Eastern style, while behind the stage a guy in white they just refer to as 'Bagi' is holding his arms out in a V to the crowd as if to bless them. I am digging his energy - I am also in white and am feeling the same things - LOVE for everyone. SNAP! The energy of the crowd lifts me and I wonder how we are ever going to let this band go. They play for over an hour, an hour and a half, I don't know... and only stop when the resturanteers concur with police rule about no live music after about 11 and they play their final song unplugged after much shushing of the crowd, who are COMPLETELy hyped up by now. The last song is beautiful, although we're not fooling any noise police with all our voices joining in for the simple but beautiful chorus: "Your eyes are the window to my soul..." I could cry, but I'm too ecstatic and overexcited to produce tears.
Afterwards I meet and hug the guy I shared a shoulder with earlier, and there's talk of various afterparties at the waterfall or up the valley, as well as the invitation "EVERYONE COME TO MY HOUSE!!" from one rather beautiful dude (also in white). I'm a little bit ungrounded to say the least after all of this and retreat home, as I have realised lately that even though there are SO MANY beautiful people about, I am a loner after all and yearn to be 'home' in my beautiful space. Just when I thought I was sick of my own company it seems I wasn't and that there is much to be gained from silent time. The air is cool and I walk up the steps slowly, savouring the night. I won't forget the gig, and I'm sure there will be facebook photos from someone still able to be in control of their camera - my flailing limbs certainly weren't capable of capturing the moment in a frame other than that of my moving memory.
I'm still awake at 3 a.m that night when the rains start, and I hear the whooping somewhere distantly down the valley of the waterfall trance partygoers. I open my curtains and stare out for a minute before curling deeper into my blanket, happy for peace after the party...
However, this time we have more cause for concern - some dude with an American accent is SHOUTING his head off... screaming and carrying on about the motorbikes on the road.. from what I glean it seems one has run over his foot, and a HUGE part of me sympathises even though he is making a huge scene and continue his tirade about India as he walks up and down the street. These roads ARE insane and have changed a lot in the five years since I've visited last, with taxis and rickshaws and vans and motorbikes jostling for space with pedestrians, cows, dogs and children. From the way the man is carrying on I had wondered if someone had been killed, but it seems everyone else is fine...
I guess he has just expressed what I feel sometimes, albiet in an extreme way... weekends in both Bhagsu and McLeod are crazy, with many Punjabi weekenders competing for space here, their home state but a few hours away. Last night, from the serenity of Upper Bhagsu, where you have to walk up a steep road and then varying quantities of steep stone steps depending on which cafe you wish to frequent, a gentle Punjabi gentleman approached me asking if he could speak to me. I managed to swallow my inner cynic about what was going to follow and was pleasantly suprised at his genuine interest at why so many travellers come here...
I told him that the magic of the hills should speak for itself, but upon reflection I guess that being only a weekender he wouldn't have time to envelop himself into the community up here. Last night this same community, out of which an AMAZING Arabic-esque reggae traveller band has formed, put on a concert at Horizon cafe. The place was PACKED despite the 150 rupee entry fee (first entry fee for a gig up there yet I heard, although it was worth ten times as much and I had no qualms about opening my wallet to support wonderful musicians like them).
From their very first song they had wooed the crowd, actually even before they started they had the crowd wooed, with many of their friends filling the first two rows... they are 6 or 7 guys, I lost count, all beautiful both inside and out... the djimbe player reminds me of my friend Iain, and I want to show him a photo of him. They have the same brown smiling eyes and soul of a musician I think. The Israeli (I think???) singer has a white cloth wrapped around his dark hair. He closes his eyes and sings Arabic sounds to make ones soul swoon. Mine is unabashedly following suit on the dance floor. As is everyone elses! They play a slow song and we soon we all have our arms around each other, regardless of whether we know each other or not. It doesn't matter. I have my head on a strange man's shoulder at one stage and it all feels perfectly natural.
The singer in the middle of the stage (three of them at least are singing...) is something of a Spanish / South American rapper/freestyler and he is AMAZING! Doo wopping away in a way only he knows how to do right now, COMPLETELY one with the music - as they ALL are. It's great! The tall Frenchie at the back plays the clarinet in a Middle Eastern style, while behind the stage a guy in white they just refer to as 'Bagi' is holding his arms out in a V to the crowd as if to bless them. I am digging his energy - I am also in white and am feeling the same things - LOVE for everyone. SNAP! The energy of the crowd lifts me and I wonder how we are ever going to let this band go. They play for over an hour, an hour and a half, I don't know... and only stop when the resturanteers concur with police rule about no live music after about 11 and they play their final song unplugged after much shushing of the crowd, who are COMPLETELy hyped up by now. The last song is beautiful, although we're not fooling any noise police with all our voices joining in for the simple but beautiful chorus: "Your eyes are the window to my soul..." I could cry, but I'm too ecstatic and overexcited to produce tears.
Afterwards I meet and hug the guy I shared a shoulder with earlier, and there's talk of various afterparties at the waterfall or up the valley, as well as the invitation "EVERYONE COME TO MY HOUSE!!" from one rather beautiful dude (also in white). I'm a little bit ungrounded to say the least after all of this and retreat home, as I have realised lately that even though there are SO MANY beautiful people about, I am a loner after all and yearn to be 'home' in my beautiful space. Just when I thought I was sick of my own company it seems I wasn't and that there is much to be gained from silent time. The air is cool and I walk up the steps slowly, savouring the night. I won't forget the gig, and I'm sure there will be facebook photos from someone still able to be in control of their camera - my flailing limbs certainly weren't capable of capturing the moment in a frame other than that of my moving memory.
I'm still awake at 3 a.m that night when the rains start, and I hear the whooping somewhere distantly down the valley of the waterfall trance partygoers. I open my curtains and stare out for a minute before curling deeper into my blanket, happy for peace after the party...
Friday, June 10, 2011
Dharamkot Dawn
(Title and geographical note: Dharma Sala, where I'm staying, is a big town in the state of Himachal Pradesh that I never actually go into. Instead, a few kms up the valley lies an area called Mcleod Ganj, home of the Dalai Lama as previously mentioned and refuge to many Tibetans illegally crossing the border. I have yet to research the reasons why this place got chosen for Tibetan settlement, but I don't blame them - it is rich with beauty. Bhag Su is a smaller area up from Mcleod Ganj, although both are pretty touristic now, so Dharamkot, another are even higher in the valley, is where a lot of travellers seek refuge from the hubbub of... other travellers! Just to orientate you...)
6.30 a.m. On the road since 5 after waking, shaking, from possibly the most intense dream I've had in my LIFE! (death, earthquakes, knowing I needed to throw my body off a cliff for the survival of others. Holy crap, right? I spent breakfast discussing the finer nuances and symbols with similarly cosmic travellers, tee hee... new life, taking a leap of faith perhaps? As I'm doing, as best I can...)
Anyway, at 5 the dawn was teasing the inky blue sky outside and it called me to be out in it rather than in my warm bed surrounded by nightmarish residue. I pack my bag and flip-flop out. Bhag Su was still sleeping, but after covering my nose in the open toilet section of road right outside my guesthouse entrance (EW, India...) I begin the slow climb up the valley. Even in its slumber I could sense the different energies of the various sections: Lower BhagSu with its upmarket hotels and German bakeries, and more traveller oriented Upper Bhag Su. I walk past 'Haifa cafe', 'Zion Cafe' and 'Reggae cafe' one after the other and take the windy mountain path up, where civilised concrete transformed into roughly hew granite steps. I pass the Agama and Siddartha yoga centres and wonder to myself where the heck this cultish Osho place I've heard about might well be...
After paying my respects at a small white stone temple (all gods are one to me now - I worship all temples, mosques, cathedrals, synagogues. Mountains, waterfalls, big solid rocks like the one I am writing from), I see a girl I met yesterday, the tortoise shell of her pack keeping her head down as she hightails it to catch a bus to an organic cheese farm in Manali. It's 5.30, but I am wide awake, wish her well and walk on.
"Free Palestina" is sprayed aside a stone shed wall, and a psychedelic van adorned in Hebrew scripture sits waiting for the day to begin. The birds around me are waking me at least - today I've beaten the birds! Unheard of...
I'm kind of on a vague mission to find the Tushita meditation centre in Upper Dharamkot. The path winds up and occasionally forks into two - I choose instinctively and go up, up, up...
A BEAUTIFUL elderly Tibetan man in the maroon robes of a monk walks by, seemingly astonished to see another soul at this hour.
"Live here?" he asks, smiling a child-pure smile
"No. I live down. Today only walking" I speak back in the broken English that has become my every day speech.
"You journeying?" he enquires. I'm always journeying, I think!
"Yes, I go up," to which he shakes his head and laughs amusedly
"LIVING here?" I enquire back
He points to his right and replies "small house" and carries on with a twinkling eyed nod.
Up I go. A stone lingam, like a cairn about 2 metres high has been lovingly built on the roadside. I photograph it and try to capture myself in the image as well. Me and Shiva, huh? Beautiful.
It's 6 by this point and I can't find Tushita, beginning to feel tired and my Kapha laziness getting the better of me. so I justify to myself that I've still got to walk 4 hours uphill to Triund later today. The dogs are waking up and bark in choruses down below.
Down I go. More and more I lose the present moment and start to dream, losing the path and almost walking into someone's home at one point. I try a second, third time and again lose myself, rolling my eyes out loud at my directionless self. Giving up, I cross country it and at one stage lay my hand on a rock for support only to find small brown maggot like creatures dead in a cluster beneath me. Ew, India, I think, although the Hindu in me sees their sacredness. I wipe my hand off grassily and move on, more carefully this time.
These words are calling me to write them so I seek out a rock, climb aboard and get to the end of this sentence.
It's 7. The early morning magic has changed to a gentle peace in these Tibetan hills. Always, the peace of the Dalai Lama pervades everything, although his Mcleod Ganj home is another world away down the hill.
A crow cries, my eyes sag, and I'm hungry for banana porridge. I'm outta here...
...(took me ages!)
... and now, scribing this down at 3 pm, I still haven't got to the village of Triund... perhaps tomorrow...
6.30 a.m. On the road since 5 after waking, shaking, from possibly the most intense dream I've had in my LIFE! (death, earthquakes, knowing I needed to throw my body off a cliff for the survival of others. Holy crap, right? I spent breakfast discussing the finer nuances and symbols with similarly cosmic travellers, tee hee... new life, taking a leap of faith perhaps? As I'm doing, as best I can...)
Anyway, at 5 the dawn was teasing the inky blue sky outside and it called me to be out in it rather than in my warm bed surrounded by nightmarish residue. I pack my bag and flip-flop out. Bhag Su was still sleeping, but after covering my nose in the open toilet section of road right outside my guesthouse entrance (EW, India...) I begin the slow climb up the valley. Even in its slumber I could sense the different energies of the various sections: Lower BhagSu with its upmarket hotels and German bakeries, and more traveller oriented Upper Bhag Su. I walk past 'Haifa cafe', 'Zion Cafe' and 'Reggae cafe' one after the other and take the windy mountain path up, where civilised concrete transformed into roughly hew granite steps. I pass the Agama and Siddartha yoga centres and wonder to myself where the heck this cultish Osho place I've heard about might well be...
After paying my respects at a small white stone temple (all gods are one to me now - I worship all temples, mosques, cathedrals, synagogues. Mountains, waterfalls, big solid rocks like the one I am writing from), I see a girl I met yesterday, the tortoise shell of her pack keeping her head down as she hightails it to catch a bus to an organic cheese farm in Manali. It's 5.30, but I am wide awake, wish her well and walk on.
"Free Palestina" is sprayed aside a stone shed wall, and a psychedelic van adorned in Hebrew scripture sits waiting for the day to begin. The birds around me are waking me at least - today I've beaten the birds! Unheard of...
I'm kind of on a vague mission to find the Tushita meditation centre in Upper Dharamkot. The path winds up and occasionally forks into two - I choose instinctively and go up, up, up...
A BEAUTIFUL elderly Tibetan man in the maroon robes of a monk walks by, seemingly astonished to see another soul at this hour.
"Live here?" he asks, smiling a child-pure smile
"No. I live down. Today only walking" I speak back in the broken English that has become my every day speech.
"You journeying?" he enquires. I'm always journeying, I think!
"Yes, I go up," to which he shakes his head and laughs amusedly
"LIVING here?" I enquire back
He points to his right and replies "small house" and carries on with a twinkling eyed nod.
Up I go. A stone lingam, like a cairn about 2 metres high has been lovingly built on the roadside. I photograph it and try to capture myself in the image as well. Me and Shiva, huh? Beautiful.
It's 6 by this point and I can't find Tushita, beginning to feel tired and my Kapha laziness getting the better of me. so I justify to myself that I've still got to walk 4 hours uphill to Triund later today. The dogs are waking up and bark in choruses down below.
Down I go. More and more I lose the present moment and start to dream, losing the path and almost walking into someone's home at one point. I try a second, third time and again lose myself, rolling my eyes out loud at my directionless self. Giving up, I cross country it and at one stage lay my hand on a rock for support only to find small brown maggot like creatures dead in a cluster beneath me. Ew, India, I think, although the Hindu in me sees their sacredness. I wipe my hand off grassily and move on, more carefully this time.
These words are calling me to write them so I seek out a rock, climb aboard and get to the end of this sentence.
It's 7. The early morning magic has changed to a gentle peace in these Tibetan hills. Always, the peace of the Dalai Lama pervades everything, although his Mcleod Ganj home is another world away down the hill.
A crow cries, my eyes sag, and I'm hungry for banana porridge. I'm outta here...
...(took me ages!)
... and now, scribing this down at 3 pm, I still haven't got to the village of Triund... perhaps tomorrow...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)