|
Main
Getting to know the world itself and all kinds of other stuff
Well, it's that time again - as the year 2007 draws to a close, we look to the future. And one thing is for sure: the primary foci of this weblog, Pakistan and China, were hardly out of the news this year and won't be in 2008 either.
 For China especially, 2008 is the crunch year. The Olympics have acquired a kind of existential significance, and their success or failure have become intertwined with China's contemporary sense of its national identity.
Unfortunately, I can't see the games being the resounding success that the CCP hopes for. Chinese athletes will probably haul in the most medals, but with the enormous pressures upon them there will inevitably be doping scandals. Other athletes will scorn the terrible pollution; tourists will be messed about, pushed, shoved and spat around (most Beijingers will behave admirably, but it'll still be the negatives that get remembered); and journalists will lament the restrictions on free reporting. Few Chinese yet realise how things will be perceived, and it will come as a shock.
Most of all, this most political of sporting events will inevitably be deeply politicised. There will be incidents: medal-winners standing up for Tibet, Taiwanese declarations, perhaps even Uyghur violence. Expect 888 to be a very interesting moment in the definition of the new China.
Turning to Russia, there Putin will remain in control, despite the appointment of a new president in Medvedev - little more than a deputy, really, But I have confidence in Putin: he is not stupid, and will not wish relations with the EU and NATO to deteriorate further. Things were getting silly, what with all this missile defence rubbish, not to mention Litvinenko and Lugovoi, and in 2008 Russia will attempt to repair some of the damage - though not with Britain, who will be the main losers.
Meanwhile, it will be a period of reflection for the EU itself, as the member states attempt to digest the implications of the Lisbon Treaty. Expect at least one ratification to fail.
 There is at least reason to positive about the Middle East. Iraq has calmed in 2007, though of course it's not the end by any stretch of the imagination. We are also thankfully unlikely to see action against Iran either. Bush desperately needs a positive legacy to speak of, so with elections in full swing at home he and his cronies may attempt at least to broker a compromise solution. Does he have what it takes? We shall see.
But there are clearly going to be fireworks in Pakistan. Far too early to tell how things will pan out, but it probably won't be good. This writer is already predicting a Balkanisation of the country: that may be going too far, but with the conflicts in NWFP and Balochistan likely to gain pace as society fractures after the elections then the prospects for stability are low. Great map too - worth examining to see what it suggests about Iran and Iraq and all
It is almost certainly the end of the road for Musharraf, and with Bhutto gone there will be a power vacuum. Power vacuums mean conflict, as we have seen in Iraq. But the West and India have meddled enough in Pakistan - it is up to them.
Recognition of global turmoil as the basic challenge of our time requires confronting complexity. That is the weakness of the issue insofar as the American political scene is concerned. It does not lend itself to sloganeering or rouse the American people as viscerally as terrorism. It is more difficult to personalize without a demonic figure like Osama bin Laden. Nor is it congenial to self-gratifying proclamations of an epic confrontation between good and evil on the model of the titanic struggles with Nazism and Communism. Yet not to focus on global turmoil is to ignore a central reality of our times: the massive worldwide political awakening of mankind and its intensifying awareness of intolerable disparities in the human condition
Zbigniew Brzezinski, The Choice: Global Domination or Global Leadership
Travel did many things to a person, but the one thing it did most successfully was break a person down. Admittedly, my travel experiences were not very representative. My experience with travel was Central Asia. Central Asia, then, broke a person down. It did so first by exhilaration. Was this place real? Was I really here? It did so next by exhaustion. Nothing was easy, and each hassle and bribe and malfunction and injustice took something of one's spirit, bent it, made it meaner. Then came the most brutal breakdown of all: the knowledge of how easily one could live within that meanness.
Tom Bissell
Chasing the Sea
Rising China, Shining India; the quagmire in the Persian Gulf and America’s Global War on Terror. These are some of the focal points of international politics in 2007, and none of them exist in isolation.
For the giant populations of Asia to continue their slow grind out of poverty requires economic growth; industrialisation and development must be fuelled. Both China and India are increasingly dependent on oil and gas imports, and in order to safeguard their futures energy security is vital. So each needs to command new sources and new ways of bringing in fossil fuels.
There are some vital strategic areas that can serve as transit routes in both China and India’s energy security policies. Thus geopolitics return to the historical heartland of Kipling’s Kim – the territory now known as Pakistan. It is as if the original Great Game has gone back to square one, only with some fresh rules and new players.
This thesis aims to examine the geopolitical implications of developing Pakistan as an ‘energy hub’, and to analyse the impediments to its fruition and the interested parties’ strategies for seeing it through. And, whereas other studies tend to focus on individual factors at work, it aims instead to critically observe them in the context of the situation as a whole.
Bound copies are available at lulu.com for around $10 plus P&P; downloadable PDF files are free of charge. Click here to access the virtual storefront.
This work is made available on the understanding that it will not be copied, plagiarised or otherwise reproduced without the explicit consent of the author.
India will soon be the world’s fifth largest consumer of energy. And there is probably one major reason for this: aircon.
Unless you have visited India in the summer months, you won’t appreciate the significance of aircon, but I certainly do. Despite its responsibility for the enormous energy deficit, aircon is perhaps now the ultimate giver of health and life to the rising middle classes.
The other night the electricity failed again, for around four hours, and the invertor didn’t hold enough charge to get through the night. It was miserable. Such is the power of aircon – once you have it, you can’t live without it. The contrast between my father’s non-aircon house and my cousin’s more expensive and modern dwelling couldn’t be greater.
Much as I hate MacDonalds, aside from the clean toilets and the absurdly smart security guards in their jat-moustaches and white spats, the saviour of Connaught Place is MacDonalds and its aircon. Ironic in a country where beef is not available.
So as the economy continues to boom, so the god of aircon will continue to ascend through the pantheon. Borne on his conveyance, the sacred refrigerated soft drink, his influence will only grow stronger as time passes.
I used to have an unshakeable faith in karma and the laws of the dao. For evey action, I once thought, there must be an equal and opposite reaction. As long as you do the right thing, you’ll be fine; but every moral outrage will come back to haunt you.
I’m not sure I believe in that anymore. Having circumnavigated the Dalai Lama’s residence not once but three times – an act that is supposed to gain one’s soul immeasurable merit – plus spun all the prayer wheels and donated to beggars all around, I still missed the bus tonight, leaving me stranded for another day.
It was an easy mistake to make. I arrived before time at the bus stand where I was dropped off on Sunday, only to discover too late that the bus picks up 200 metres down the road, out of the line of sight. I then compounded this error by trying to catch up with the bus in Dharmasala itself, but missed it again leaving me stuck at the town’s chaos station until nightfall.
Then again, there are worse places to be stuck. McCleod Ganj itself has nothing much to offer beyond the Tibetan temples and curio shops, but the true value of the trip has been to escape the oppressive heat and boredom of Delhi in a landscape far, far removed from the depressingly clinical flatness of Holland. The only thing to do here is to put on your shoes and walk, and that’s what I’ve done.
I’ve missed the hills, and I’m glad to be here.
“How can you govern a country that has 500 types of cheese?” Charles de Gaulle once lamented. But if France is hard to rule, then imagine a subcontinent that has 300 million gods. De Gaulle didn’t have an answer to that one.
I’ve never really believed in what must be an apocryphal figure, but out of that pantheon there must be a divinity for almost everything. For example, there has to be a god of diarrhoea. There must be. I’ve worshipped at his temple often enough on my visits here in the past, and have spoken to him on the porcelain telephone on many an occasion.
It’s a source of some disappointment, therefore, that so far on this trip I have hardly suffered at all. But for a couple of minor bouts of no more than a morning or so there’s been nothing. I’ve been avoiding meat, I must admit, and the shits do seem to be tied up with ‘non-veg’ food.
But in any case it’s so damn hot I’m hardly eating anything at all. I’ve currently resorted to fulfilling my nutritional needs via fizzy drinks, of which I’m now consuming an unpardonable litre to a litre-and-a-half per day. There must be a god of Coke, Thums Up and Limca too, I reckon – they’re certainly earning their keep.
'Travellers' never fail to amuse me. They loaf around in their dreadlocks, tattoos and baggy pants in a desperate effort to be different and just end up blending right into their own little crowd. Nowhere more so than here in India, the hippie capital of the known universe.
But when push comes to shove, say when a bus is a couple of hours late as tend to happen in Asia once in a while, this bunch will kick up a fuss like ther's no tomorrow. "Chill out, man," I feel like saying, "It's all good, don't mean nothin'." There's more of them than me though, so I keep my trap shut in case all that peace and love turns into an angry punch-up.
Anyway, made it in the end. The bus came, the flies went away, and despite more rupturous dissent when a group of Tibetans from a refugee colony outside Delhi boarded and took all the best seats we got here earlyish this morning. I promptly disappeared and found a decent hotel at half-rate, which makes up for having been done over for the price of my bus ticket on Janpath back in ND.
Home of the Tibetan Government-in-Exile, McLeod Ganj sits among the hills near Dharamsala at 1,750m above sea-level. Here you'll find a Little-Tibet without-Tibet, somehow more engaging yet altogether false compared to the real thing. I'll stay here a couple of days, though - it'll do me good.
Right. I'm sick of sitting in my father's dusty flat on the outskirts of Delhi, where there aren't even any shops, let alone things to do. No TV, no radio, and I've nearly read my 700-page novel. Interviews went well, but more on that later once the telephone gets reconnected and I have Internet again. Apart from that I am climbing the walls in serious need of therapy.
Off to Dharamsala for a few days it is then. See you later...
Nothing works here - not water, not electricty, not transport, not nothing. My laptop and phone line are down, hence the lack of updates. Hopefully the situation may be rectified by next week.
On a lighter note, I'm off to Dharamasala on Saturday for a couple of days, so should have some pics and stories after that.
In Europe you are so used to the electricity coming on at the flick of a switch and water flowing at the turn of a tap you don’t even think about it. Even in Shanghai I had utilities 24/7. No worries. But here it’s different. Here you have to work.
The day begins at 6.30am, like or not, since the mains water only operates during limited periods of the day. Since it’s been 30 degrees all night and there’s no aircon as promised, (in fact not even an aircon brochure anywhere to be seen, despite my father’s assurances) you haven’t slept anyway, so it’s no big deal.
Turn on the motor via the switch in the bathroom, assuming electricity is functioning. Run downstairs to the bottom water tank, where there are three valves which must all be turned in the correct direction for the tank to fill with water. Once the mains shuts off, you can then pump water up to the top tank on the roof, which provides the majority of day-to-day water use.
This is assuming that you have even half a clue about how the system works. If you don’t, and it hasn’t been demonstrated to you, there is nothing for it but experimentation of the all the different combinations of the valves and motor, none of which work leaving you without water for washing up, showering or flushing the toilet for the rest of the day. Discover at a later date that one of the valves was bust anyway, making all of the above academic.
This is not impoverished rural Bihar; this is a middle-class suburb of New Delhi, the national capital.
At least there is a solution to the three-to-four times daily power cuts: each household possesses an invertor, basically a battery that charges up if the electricity is working and runs the lights and fans if it is not.
However, this invertor is not strong enough to keep the fridge going, so anything within is in a permanent flux of thaw and cool which in 40 degrees of heat can’t be good for sanitation.
I can’t live here. There’s a difference between being a whinging softie and just failing to accept that things need to be this way. I don’t accept that it needs to be this way, not here, not now in 2007. It was like this in the 80s and nothing has changed at all.
The images of India you see on TV are false. The only way to live comfortably here is to be incredibly filthy rich. The rest suffer in uneasy silence – and that’s not even including the billion poor for whom conditions are infinitely worse. If this is shining India, then there is no hope.
6.12 am. Ding Dong!
Me, Phil: (Opening door) Namaste…
Lakshmi, Housemaid: Namaste. (goes about business)
L: Something something something panee something something?
P: Er… panee? (go to turn on water)
L: Something something something kanna hayng?
P: Haa, kuch kanna….
L: Something something something…
P: (shrug pathetically)
L: Something something something something something
P: (shrug)
L: (getting frustrated) Something something something something something something something something something kanna hayng?
P: Haa, kuch kanna…
L: Something something something…
P: I’m terribly sorry, you see I don’t speak any Hindi. Mayng Hindi ne hee balta hoong.
L: Something something something something something something something something something (shrug, goes off to prepare breakfast)
Continue for two days.
 India. How can you romanticise a place do relentlessly romanticised by so many others before oneself? Yet the temptation remains, and even as I write the cries of the muezzin drift in their eerie song over the city as it prepares again for rest. But I am in no mood for romance tonight, because in the midst of a billion people and their loves and lives there is no room for anything but lonely contemplation of what India is and what it will never become.
I arrive minutes before the stroke of the midnight hour, dumped unceremoniously into the night by KLM’s sterile efficiency of in-flight movies and boxed-up dinners. Eight hours of Germany’s geometric order and Uzbekistan’s barren expansiveness before the darkness creeps up; and in between them more clouds than one can see beyond, as viewed from the sky behind the aircraft’s wing. My cousin and father are there to receive me, patiently waiting for the airport to disgorge its new arrivals from its bowels, and we ride in near silence through the still-bustling streets, each quiet for his own reasons of fatigue.
I try to sleep, but in the heat and unfamiliarity sleep does not come because she is not there and because I know now that she cannot be again.
In the morning, I awake to countless instructions. This is how the water works, an obscure contraption that needs careful control of the system of pumps; here is the refrigerator, the bathroom, the cupboards, locks and bolts. My father wears again the army shirt and slacks he wore last night in anticipation of his trip to Calcutta this afternoon; he thinks they are practical, but they don’t suit him.
It had rained the last day, and it offers some respite as the heat begins to build again. The expected rickshaw wallah is not there, and must we persuade another to take us to the office which he does in a half-resentful flood of sweat. At one point the ground is so bumpy I must get out and push. But eventually my father’s business in the office is done and we return for a moment, only for him to turn straight around and head for Calcutta.
So having come all this way to where I belong and am yet so alien, I am alone again. My cousin takes me for lunch, though work delays him by a couple of hours, and we eat quickly outside in a flurry of somnolent flies. A ride around the locality orients me to the neighbourhood’s landscape of idenikit tenement houses and shining new developments, all of which seem only half complete. And then again I am alone in the dusty apartment on the edge of the city, with the Yamuna river curling alongside redolent with the stink of a million other lunches and dinners and loves and lives. This is India; I am back.
 It's amazing how at home I feel in New York. It's not that things are exactly the same - they are not - but yet somehow the 'melting pot' seems to take in every aspect of the other cities I've lived in and blends them into one.
In New York you have it all: the bustle and imperial grandeur of London; the brownstone architecture and flashy skyscrapers of Shanghai's east and west riverbanks of the Bund and Pudong; even some of the old world charm of Amsterdam, at least in the Village.
The subway took all of an hour to get to grips with, and navigating the grid system was a piece of cake. The ethnic mix reminded me of London too, though elements of Chinatown were, of course, pure Puxi.
Perhaps most of all, New York had that easy familiarity of an old friend I had grown up with - over 30 years of TV. Every inch of the city has been immortalised on celluloid, and it was as if I had never been anywhere else. Such is the impact of popular culture.
Lastly, the media. This place is self-obsessed. On any one of four or five rolling news channels today, the airwaves were jammed with non-news of Cory Lidl's unfortunate light aircraft crash into an upper East Side tenement block. North Korea? Fuggedabahdit.
On the other hand, strolling past Ground Zero on Wednesday did give me an uneasy sense of unreality. How must it have looked to those who witnessed the attacks? I imagined myself watching in slow motion as the planes made impact and realised just how much that day affected the national psyche of this place.
There are few Republicans to be found in New York, but they are not the only Americans.
Dutch Multiculturalism in Question
A draft report of proceedings in New York, by Jessica Serraris and Philip Sen.
Those who managed to get in – people were literally lining up around Washington Square to attend the debate at NYU’s Tischman Auditorium – were warned that they’d hear some views that would be “a little more direct than Americans are used to”. They were not to be disappointed.
Integration and its Discontents
Students, professors, journalists and VIPs alike gathered to see arguably one of the most celebrated Dutch women in recent history. The notoriously outspoken Ayaan Hirsi Ali had been invited to discuss the dark side of Islam and Dutch multiculturalism, and along with former EU commissioner FFrits Bolkestein and writer Bas Heijne she certainly managed to captivate the audience.
But the debate was deeply one-sided. If Heijne was supposed to counter the rightist views of the other two, he did not live up to the task. Perhaps the debate would have benefited had a prominent and outspoken Muslim been invited to the stage too. Still, what ensued was otherwise a representative discussion on Holland’s controversial and divisive integration issues. After Professor Tony Judt's introduction, in which he set recent upheavals (including two political assassinations) into context, it was time to hear the speakers make their cases. It soon became clear that there would be more than one star of the show.
Read on below.
Continue reading "Religion and the Limits of Tolerance" »
Well here I am. Flags flying everywhere, and no white people on the metro. Those are the two things that have struck me most of all so far, but I haven't had time to fully get to grips with the place yet. A light plane hit a building on the upper east side today too, but I was nowhere near. More later.
Flying out this morning for the Faith and the State debate with Ayaan Hirsi Ali, Frits Bolkestein, Bas Heijne and Tony Judt. Will report back as soon as possible...
 It's not in my usual remit, but the Economist article reprinted below strikes a timely chord.
I used to believe that the Netherlands, and Amsterdam in particular, were havens of peace and harmony in a seething sea of troubles. Safe, if sordid, Holland was 'fluffy'. No longer. After Pim Fortuyn and Theo van Gogh, things won't be the same again.
The apartment complex I've just moved into - in fact the whole area I now live in - is populated predominantly by Turkish-origin and other Muslims. The guy who cut my hair was Moroccan. The woman in the launderette is Kashmiri. And there's a definite tension between the austerity of the hijabs I see among my neighbours and the swinging sexuality of the city centre's red-light district.
The contrast couldn't be greater: it's a tale not just of two cities but of two worlds.
The Economist draws our attention to two books upon this subject - one by Ian Buruma (co-author of Occidentalism) on the death of Theo van Gogh; the other by celebrity politico Ayaan Hirsi Ali, who effectively brought down the Dutch government this year.
Murder in Amsterdam, will deal with the murder; the other is a collection of essays primarily on the plight of Muslim women.
I'd better get hold of a copy; in October I'll have the chance to meet Ayaan Hirsi Ali at a debate at NYU's Remarque Institute having won an essay competition on 'Faith and the State'. That'll be going up soon on a dedicated documents page.
The Economist, however, summarises the basic idea pretty well. It's got to be give and take - it's got to be a bit of both:
Ms Hirsi Ali is a fierce opponent of multiculturalism. She believes it is wrong and even dangerous for the tolerant and liberal to accept the intolerant and illiberal. And she thinks the West should not be afraid to proclaim the superiority of its system.
Yet attempts to coerce Muslims into adopting Western values risk a backlash. Europe needs to come to terms with Islam as a European religion. It is also striking, as Mr Buruma notes, that the most radical Muslims are not immigrants, but the second generation: those born in Europe who grow up disaffected, rootless and (all too often) jobless. These are the people who must be persuaded that they have a stake in a modern, liberal democracy. For the Netherlands, as for all of Europe, that requires better education, better housing, lower crime—and more job opportunities.
Maybe so. There has to be a carrot - but there has to be a stick too.
Continue reading "Dutch Courage, Dutch Fears" »
Due to moving house in Amsterdam and the entailing period offline, there will probably be few posts between now and the beginning of September. Normal blogging should resume about then.
Philip
 It's 1 July - halfway through the year and time for a revamp.
As this blog has evolved, it's become increasingly clear that the sources I use - The Guardian, BBC News Online and The Economist - despite their excellent journalism traditions are very 'British'. And that's not what this website is about.
I've therefore decided to add a new source - Asia Times Online - which, while it doesn't have the pedigree of the others, is certainly a portal for some serious voices from and about Asia. Take, for example, this story on 'Petro Hysteria' (reproduced below).
Hopefully this new source will add balance to the site as it progresses.
I've also redesigned the banner to better reflect the themes of the blog - the War on Terror, the quest for oil and especially the role of China and India in all this.
Finally, I've adjusted the sidebars a little, but that's by the by.
Let me know what you think!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Update: As of 18 July 2006, the interface was upgraded to Movable Type 3.31, complete with tagging. Check out the tag cloud to see more...
Continue reading "Site Revamp" »
 If you want evidence that not everything you read in the press is correct, look no further than this. The ignorance diplayed by CBS and AP here is quite phenomenal. Courtesy of Dave, who sent this screenshot in case the error is corrected...
To us it's just funny, but to a Chinese nationalist this would be enough to kick off a riot.
 It's really starting to feel like the summer of '69, not that I have any nostalgic feelings for Woodstock nor was even born then. I'm taking about the music with a political message. In stark contrast to the Right Brothers (assuming they weren't ironic) now comes this protest song from Nerina Pallot.
With lyrics like this:
If love is a drug, i guess we're all sober
If hope is a song, i guess it's all over
How to have faith when faith is a crime?
I don't want to die
If God's on our side, then God is a joker
Asleep on the job, his children fall over
Running out through the door and straight to the sky
I don't want to die...
...who needs Joni Mitchell? However - and I do know it's a protest song - I think the chances of Nerina Pallet getting shot in her safe cozy living room in Jersey is highly unlikely, no matter how much it might worry her. Unless she goes on tour in Baghdad, which I can't see either.
More lyrics below...
Continue reading "Battle of the Bands" »
After a whole lot of messing around, I'm now back online - watch this space from now on.
I won't be around for a couple of weeks now, so won't be able to write much about this year's Davos meetings. Suffice it to say - it'll be worth coming back to.
Bye for now, and see you in Amsterdam in early February.
Check out the photos - uploaded at http://www.philip-sen.com/india.html
Say so myself, but I'm gradually getting better and better...
This evening being my last in India, and with time running short, we took a trip to the Swaminarayam Akshardham Temple on the eastern outskirts of New Delhi. Having seem it many times from the toll road, I had little idea of what to expect inside.
If you've ever tried to imagine what Angkor Wat might have looked like when it was first put up, look no further than here. Inaugurated as recently as November 2005, every inch of this stunningly constructed complex is packed with carvings. No less than 15,000 artisans spent four years chipping away at sandstone blocks, and the result is absolutely exquisite, if a little over the top.
The main temple is surrounded by a frieze depicting the elephant in mythology and folklore; the interior is a virtuoso display of religious art; and there are fountains and gardens too. And this is just the free part - there's a raft of other exhibitions and filmshows to keep you occupied for an entire afternoon at least.
Yet the whole experience left me just a little confused. If the time, effort, money and sheer organisational skill that went into this were to go into the rest of New Delhi, it would become the world's number one city by next week.
It can be done. India has the people and it has the skill. It just can't be bothered. That's a shame.
 It's always strange revisiting the places of your youth. This was where I used to play the first couple of times I came to Delhi, aged six and 10, back in the 1980s when things were somehow different.
I worried that it no longer existed; the auto driver had serious issues finding it, but maybe that was because he was from Bihar and knew little more of Delhi's geography than I. When we finally got to the right street, I hardly recognised the place and even ventured into the ashram next door by mistake.
Finally, I found it. It was strange. I don't remember ever stepping inside the temple itself before today, and it took me a while to find the stone animals in the gardens. Maybe it's because I'm a few feet taller, but they just didn't look the same. They were my favorite things about India when I was a child, but now they just seemed a bit sad and unloved.
Built in the early 20th century, the temple works on the understanding that it is open to all castes. Inside, paintings embedded in the walls illustrate teachings from the Hindu scriptures in both Hindi and English. I didn't recognise a thing.
But just as I was leaving it all came together. I glanced across at the big stone tiger, and upon its neck was a small boy, about 10, enjoying the ride. Beside it two more boys were sliding down the polished marble slope beside the stairs, and I even discovered again the dragon's mouth that leads into the cool interior of the grotto.
All things come full circle, in the end.
 Not far from Nehru Place in south Delhi is the Baha'i Temple, an exquisite creation of modern architecture that could fairly be said to rival the Taj Mahal - given a few centuries to mellow it.
I knew very little of the Baha'i faith before, and was interested to be given a leaflet by one of the attendents.
Apparently, the principles of Baha'ism are as follows:
The oneness of mankind.
Universal peace upheld by a world government.
Independent investigation of truth.
The common foundation of all religions.
The essential harmony of science and religion.
Equality of men and women.
Elimination of prejudice of all kinds.
Universal compulsory education.
A spiritual solution to the economic problem.
A universal auxiliary language.
All well and good - in fact I broadly agree with pretty much everything there aside from the 'spiritual' solution to the 'economic problem'. Economic problems need economic and political solutions, I'm afraid; it may do sometimes, and I've seen it, but at the end of the day religion doesn't always fill rice bowls.
On the other hand, being a cynical 21st century urbanite, I'm not going to actually convert and follow the faith just on a cursory reading of the principles. And maybe it's just me, but I thought there was something a little strange, if not creepy, that most of the women attendents (who I presume to be Baha'i followers) were pretty young Europeans.
Far be it from me to make any rash suggestions, but this one fact raised my suspicions a little. It just seems so bourgeois. So middle class. So faux alternatif.
Not that I'm not bourgeois or middle class myself, but that's by the by. Never mind.
Seen it all now. The area into which my Dad has just moved, Kalkaji in South Delhi, is meant to be one of the city's better-class suburbs.
Yet today we were attacked by monkeys!
A family of dirty brown urban rhesus macaques. The male is pretty big and ugly - it looks like he's been hit in the face by a cricket bat.
As if it's not enough with all the cows, dogs, wild pigs (like we saw in Khajuraho) and the like, it would be nice to be able to hang out your washing without it being trashed by malicious primates, and even better to feel safe when you step out onto the balcony...
 There is a reverence involved in the art of spotting a tiger in the wild; a reverence, should I say, mixed with more than a little fear.
The Gypsy landrovers used for the safaris in Corbett Park are well built but open-topped; though this affords the best view, it leaves you feeling just a little vulnerable. Not to mention surprisingly cold, especially in the bitter climate of Kumaon in winter and before dawn.
But there is little if any danger today. Even though in the far east of Kumaon a human fatality was recently reported, in the words of Jim Corbett: A man-eating tiger is a tiger that has been compelled, through stress of circumstances beyond its control, to adopt a diet alien to it. Thus not all tigers are maneaters.
Indeed, it is the case that they are in more danger from mankind than we from them. Witness the savage depletion of Indias tiger population in recent years in order to fuel the market for Chinese traditional medicine and the illegal fur trade. Even the national parks are not free of poachers and despite the authorities best efforts, news of dead tigers continues to make the Indian papers.
Continue reading "In Search of Tigers" »
 Im tracking a tiger, a large male by the looks of it. You can tell by the breadth and shape of its footprints or pugmarks; even to my untrained eye the trail is clearly visible in the soft sand by the riverbed. Our guide speaks to us in hushed tones. The anticipation is palpable. We are within sniffing distance for sure.
But all of a sudden the tracks veer off into the undergrowth where the jeep cannot follow. Therell be no sightings today, it seems. Theres still time yet, though: its just seven am and with the veil of mist lifting from the forest around us its inhabitants are slowly beginning to stir.
This is tiger country. Indias recently-formed Uttaranchal province borders Nepal to its east and Tibet to the north, and the part of it were in was made legendary by one man, his guns and most importantly, his notebook.
Continue reading "In Search of Jim Corbett" »
Its both an advantage and a headache of India that, with such a huge population, the wealthier classes can make use of the masses as servants and helpers.
In one way its a method for keeping the poor in employment, but in another it reinforces the unhealthy system of caste and social immobility. And finally, it really can be a pain.
Todays adventure began smoothly enough. My cousin Bacchu hired a driver and a car to take us to Corbett Park: it seemed a relatively simple and economic method compared to the rigours of tackling Old Delhi station.
However, halfway through the journey we began to feel suspicious. The driver had merrily sped past an obviously-marked turning for Corbett Park, and my assumption that he knows what he is doing eventually began to crumble.
By the time we reached Haldwani and our man began asking for directions to Naini Tal significantly out of the way of our intended destination I knew something had gone wrong.
Of course, the driver spoke no English, as had been promised: for all I know he had not even been told the correct place to go to.
The problem with hiring people is that if you need something done properly, you have to do it yourself. Ironically this is one of the major difficulties in India. The attitude of my family is very much that there are jobs for us, and there are jobs for other people but this is not helping me get from A to B, or even get food when I want, get my washing back when I need it etc. etc..
I really do feel like a bumbling colonialist all of a sudden.
Every unmarried young man in India wants to be a Bollywood star.
Its obvious in the way they dress all flared collars, loud shirts, stonewashed jeans and winkle-picker shoes, not to mention the assortment of Travolta-esque slicked-back hairstyles.
This is all very well, but in a society where arranged marriage is the norm, attitudes towards women are not what they are in the West,
It wasnt our imagination tonight that Simona was attracting a lot of unwelcome and frankly intimidating stares from a group at the table beside us. We were all set for an enjoyable New Years but felt that it might be better instead to leave the restaurant, eat elsewhere and head back to the hotel.
Its a strange place where scantily-clad screen stars can bump, grind and gyrate to their hearts content, but are not allowed to kiss; and where young men, like everywhere else, yearn to emulate their movie idols, yet are not really allowed to date.
 Its easy to label Khajuraho for its erotic (read explicit) sculptures, and indeed this is probably the main draw for most visitors. But the town is not a UNESCO World Heritage inscribed site for nothing, and the temples are so much more than kinky renditions of acrobatics from the Kama Sutra.
 Its astonishing how well preserved the buildings are. Compare them to Angkor or Ayutthaya and the difference is obvious and then note that the architecture in Khajuraho dates from about 1000AD, a full three to five centuries earlier than the masterpieces of Southeast Asian civilisations.
Then again, once youve seen one, youve seen them all. Khajuraho is certainly breathtaking (or shocking, depending how deep your blue-rinse runs) but a lot of the sculpture is pretty much the same, mass produced, even. Nevertheless, when you tire of temple gazing, the resident langur monkeys will keep you entertained too.
 Matru, the owner of Hari Chandra ghat, a wiry old man with three days of fuzzy stubble and ochre-yellow eyes and teeth, is telling us about karma. What he really wants is for us to visit his silk shop, but for now karma is the topic of conversation.
Before us, covered by cloth and saffron garlands, lies a dead body on a wooden litter. We saw them earlier, someones mother, father, brother, sister, husband or wife, borne unceremoniously atop an autorickshaw through the tangle of traffic in the streets behind us.
The corpse is attended only by men. Matru throws back his shawl and explains to us no women are allowed among the mourners.
There is still the danger of suttee, he says. Even now. Sometimes the woman will throw herself on the pyre so we do not allow women close enough to the flames.
Continue reading "Varanasi: Karma" »
 I had been warned about Varanasi. Its incredibly dirty, they said. Full of filth and squalor! Dont go there! I dont know why you want to go there, said another. Youll get loads of hassle. There is no spirituality there, only cheats.
Of course, none of them had ever been to Varanasi, Benares, the holy city on the banks of the great Ganga. And the blacker a place is painted, the more you appreciate its true colours once you arrive. So we went anyway.
At five in the evening, as the dusk draws in and the light over the river fades to a beige shadow, the bells of the temple at the summit of Kedarghat begin to toll.
Continue reading "Varanasi: an Impression" »
 No trip to India is complete without coming here.
Of the hundreds of guides to places to see or things to do before you die, all are agreed on the Asian continents number one attraction. Agras exquisite dome of inlaid white marble must be one of the planets most recognised and admired feats of architecture - and probably the most enigmatic monument to romance ever created.
Agra is not all about the Taj Mahal, of course; the nearby fort is another marvel of the Mughals ambition and achievements and there are countless other attractions to occupy you for a couple of days at least.
Its also the jump-off point for a visit to Fatehpur Sikri, another of the areas UNESCO World Heritage inscribed sites, a majestic sprawl of buildings and monuments built by the great Emperor Akbar.
 But we dont have time, and after all, why rush it on Christmas day? Like the best present ever, its almost impossible to take our eyes off it. Even the crowds dont get in the way.
The Taj Mahal is incapable of disappointing, but people always are. Graffiti has been etched into the marble tiles beside the main dome as recently as the 1990s. Its sad.
Even outside the enclosure of the Taj Mahal, India remains a land of stark contrasts. Amid the breathtaking beauty youre just as likely to find the scams, fakes, squalor and filth that are the blight of many travellers experiences, if not more so its all part of the mix.
 Be on your guard, then, but also remind yourself that Agra is still one of the few places on Earth where you truly can touch the face of eternity.
'A Teardrop on the Cheek of Time' - Rabindrath Tagore
  If I hadn't taken the snaps, you wouldn't be able to picture this.
Imagine a train carrying at least a thousand people pulling into a station. The train turns around in half an hour so another thousand are waiting to board.
On the platform are carts full of baggage and goods, interspersed by porters with heavy and bulky loads carried Indian style on their heads. The platform itself looks like an earthquake has just visited; covered in rubble, steel cables and stone chippings, parts of the surface are literally undulating a couple of feet above the rest.
It took me 25 minutes - I timed it - to get from 50 or so yards from the train to the top of the stairs. I was pushed, shoved and jostled; at one point station officers (the only time they ever appeared) got concerned about the stampede and forced people off the stairs, resulting in me travelling backwards.
It's all very well to laud India's economic development, but in the 11 years since I last visited things have got worse. The population has increased by the size of Europe - 300 million. It's not sustainable. It doesn't work.
A rare chance today to see local democracy in action.
Purely by chance, while checking out the last of Bhimtal's resorts, the YMCA, I stumbled upon a meeting of the local panchayats, the village councils that are at the core of grassroots politics. Advocated by Gandhi, in a system as complex as India's it's possibly the most relevant aspect of government to the average person's daily needs.
The meeting was chaired by World Vision, an NGO/charity woring for rural development, and each of the five councils was assisted by academuc delegates from the local university.
 Though proceedings were conducted in Hindi, I caught the gist of what was going on - a discussion of the ambitions and aspirtations for the local economy with reference to agriculture, social empowerment etc..
World Vision is a Christian organisation, and I am naturally suspicious of religious charities, but like Rama Krishna seems to be doing a good job. There again, I was a bit surprised when the meeting concluded with prayers... yet it's not seen as unusual in India for people to follow parallel spiritual paths that merge Hindu and Christian ideals. The number of convent schools, for example, shows the extent of this cross-pollination.
And on the way back, this woman walking in front of me illustrated clearly the kind of lives that people live around here, and why local development is so necessary.
 Took the opportunity today to travel to Nainital, the district capital. Considerably larger and busier than Bhimtal, it's something of a tourist hotspot though at this time of year it's relatively quiet.
Nainital has many things Bhimtal has not. It has restaurants and shops; it has tourist agents and activities; a cable car takes you to the top of the hill for snow views; and it has colonial history and a place in local legend and myth.
On the other hand it's become something of a tacky sprawl of holiday industry staples like pony rides and yachting, and today every other person seemed to be half of a honeymooning couple.
 One of the great things about in India is that around every corner a surprise lies in wait - for example this huge Hanuman figure I discovered while walking from Bhimtal to nearby Naukuchiatal.
 I'm spending four days here in order to reconnoitre the plot of land my father owns in the industrial estate and get to know the area in general.
It's a sleepy-ish tourist resort set around Bhim Tal lake itself - Bhim is a character from the Mahabharata of Hindu legend, one of the Pandava brothers. According to the legend he was fathered by the lord of the wind and was one of the mightiest warriors to serve Krishna in battle.
Circled by a string of luxury hotels, pursuits in Bhimtal consist mainly of fishing and boating. But right now it looks like I'm the only tourist in town.
 Having recently written something of a brickbat review on The Rough Guide to China for The Sunday Times, now's my chance to redress the balance.
The company has just launched this site in conjunction with the UK government's Department for International Development (DFID). I haven't seen the book itself, but if it's free - why not order it?
http://www.roughguide-betterworld.com/
 I wasn't sure what to expect when I mounted Dr Mandal's motorbike, wrapped up well for the cold that hits you at high speed in the shade of the forest, but the experience was a pleasant surprise.
We stopped at the roadside and the monk descended to greet us. He wasn't the bearded, bedraggled sadhu I expected (like Rama Krishna himself, above), but a young man of thirty five in a clean white robe topped with the region's typical woolly 'monkey hat' (see the picture below).
Twenty minutes walk up the path and we were at the ashram. Beside it was an orchard, now devoid of fruit in the wintry sunlight, and the monk's own quarters, a small glass-panelled hut contained in a wide patio area.
I know very little of Hinduism, but on mantlepieces, bedroom posters, restaurant shrines and phut-phut dashboards I had noticed a few recurring images. I learned that the people depicted are 'saints', gurus of a kind, and one of these was Rama Krishna.
Continue reading "Ram Krishna Mission" »
Nice to see my contribution to Been There in The Guardian today. Today Bangkok, tomorrow Shanghai and Hong Kong?
There is a hotel on the road to Mukteshwar called 'The British Retreat'. Dominated by the Indian Vetinerary Research Institute (IVRI), a campus of greying Edwardian buildings in much the style of The Far Pavilions, at the centre of the town there is even the old officer's club.
 Here you can play billiards with the octagenarian caretaker, a toothless old chap who will play shots to rival Hendry yet gracaiously let you win. The trophies on the mantelpiece are engraved with the names of champions at the table and on the golf course and alternate from year to year from English to Indian: Manning; Sengupta; Fields; Singh.
Yet beneath the eccentric veneer, and the magnificent Himalayan vistas, this is not the greatest place to live. My niece has a nasty cough but there nearest doctor is a two hour drive away. The Victorian house is airy and full of character, but when night falls the only warmth comes from a dwindling supply of logs and to use the toilet at night is an arduous experience.
The children at the village school - the new building is half completed, so they learn outside in the warmth of the morning sun - were pleased to meet me, and hear a few words from one who came from so far. But eventually these children will be gone; their mothers hanker for the conveniences of the cities; and gradually Mukteshwar station is closing down.
Another lesson learnt: I am not as fit as I think I am. And probably never was.
At the foot of the hill straddled by Mukteshwar itself sits Kapileshwar, home of a revered seventeenth century temple. With not much else to do I thought I'd go take a look.
The descent was easy: three hours through jungle trails, the stones scattered across the path flecked with mica, silicon deposits, which give them a silvery sheen. With many of the animals seeking warmer weather elsewhere it was quiet, but for the occasional encounter with local people going about their daily business. Once my guide and I crossed paths with a squadron of Kumaoni women, the saffron colours of their saris standing out against the dull winter greens of the vegetation.
The temple itself was worth the trek down the hill, with a frontispiece decorated with a carved lintel plus engravings of elephants and lingas. A pair of curious local children came to check me out, adding extra interest to the photos (these will be developed and posted later).
The sting in the tail was getting back up the hill. It swiftly became obvious that I was not capable of managing the gradient, and even with my guide Chorta carrying my bag I had to stop every few steps. I began to worry that I wasn't going to make it.
To make matters worse, we ran out of water and I was unable to communicate with Chorta that we needed to backtrack to the roadside stalls we had seen (not that they sold anything other than chai anyway). Eventually, as I painfully tottered my way along, a passer by was able to run up to Mukteshwar and brought back a bottle of water.
However embarrassing, the experience brought home to me just how tough conditions are here in the Himalayan foothills. I'm just a city boy and to the Kumaoni people who climb these hills every day, burdened with firewood and water pots, I raise my hat.
View from Mukteshwar Mandir; IVRI campus main building.
 At an altitude of 2800 metres, Mukteshwar offers unrivalled views of Nanda Devi and Trishul to the north, while all around the rolling beauty of the Himalayan foothills is in evidence.
 I awoke at 5.00am with a blast of lights in my face. Nope, Indian train travel isn't as great as I remembered.
The couple who I was sharing the compartment with were clearly honeymooners on their way to a romantic holiday. The man sported the very latest camera phone. There's clearly money here, just as in China, and lots of it.
At Kathgodam I disembarked and was met by the driver. For a while, we had an additional passenger - Monica, a TV news anchor from Channel Seven. It turned out that she had studied journalism at Cardiff University at the same time as I. Small world.
The drive was not a fun one, a serious of hairpin bends taken at full speed. A seasickness tablet taken on an empty stomach failed to do the job and I had to stop the driver twice for a puke break. When it comes out bright yellow, you know that there's little left to go. Fortunately I got to Mukteshwar soon after.
Though I was laid up for much of the day, I had enough time to get a little tast of the town I last came to in 1994. Great to see my cousin Dr Arnab Sen again, now a prominent vetinarary researcher, and meet his wife Rai and six-year-old daughter Rim-Chim.
It was one of those times when a picture would have been priceless, but I was too scared to bring out my digital. Not my camera, I should say, a borrowed one, so best not to lose it...
I'd been bombarded with nervous advice about how to handle the Indian railway system but being 'an experienced traveller' expected to take it all in my stride.
Not a chance.
For the first ten minutes I humped my overheavy bags around searching for the departures info board, only to find it in the place I had started from. Heading for the platform it said, I found it swamped with people: sitting on bags; sleeping; drinking tea; loading and unloading baggage carts. It was mayhem. I could hardly move.
There were announcements in English on the PA system, but they were incomprehensible. Not a single railway attendent was to be seen. Eventually, prompted by a call from my cousin, I asked what was going on. The platform was occupied by another train that was delaying my train, they said, so at least I was in the right place.
When the train finally showed up, it was another mad dash through a jumble of people doing the same to try to find my carriage. On the way there I was knocked and jostled more than I'd ever been in China. Then to cap it all, once I'd finally settled in, the aircon got turned up to full blast and I shivered through the night.
Let this be a warning to me!
Switch on the TV or open a newspaper or magazine and what you see or read are events and themes in isolation. Each exists by itself: you watch a programme or read an article and that's it. Nothing more. Over.
 Surf the Internet, on the other hand, and everything is interconnected, part of the overarching phenomenon known as the World Wide Web. And that is a lot more like real life. Things don't happen on their own. They happen for a reason, often a multitude of reasons and they are driven by a host of differing influences.
War, the nineteenth century strategist Karl von Clausewitz once wrote, is a continuation of politics by other means. It is a bold statement of the most simple but the most profound and important of connections. This blog is about war and politics, but more specifically about the inextricable links and parallels between the events we see unfold every day. The things that the papers don't always pick up on, or that the networks don't have time to run.
So, in the true pre-commercial spirit of the Internet, what I aim to write here is not conventional journalism: but maybe journalism by other means.
You can read more about the idea behind this blog on the about page. In summary, my interests are in the global politics that lead to the breakdown of diplomacy and the advent of war, plus the technology and operations of war itself.
And since the events that we know of occur only on this one planet, I also aim to examine the broader contexts of environmental issues - since the depletion of our natural resources and environment are perhaps the biggest single threat that 'the international community' - if such a thing exists - will have to face. If only they would see it.
My personal background is in defence and technology journalism, but in a larger sense I consider myself not a subject of the country I live in but a citizen of the world. In many ways, I am a product of globalisation - born to an Asian father in North America, yet raised in Britain as a European.
I have two passports, Canadian and British, I am entitled to a special 'Person of Indian Origin' permit and for the last couple of years I lived in a country and among a culture quite alien to my own, China. Other than my interests and my general journalistic skills, these are my only qualifications - but that's the beauty of blogging. You don't need to be an expert, just an observer.
My areas of interest are thus these three continents - North America, Europe and Asia - and the relations between them. South America and Africa are not specifically covered (other than under the 'Unrepresented' and perhaps the 'Travel and Miscellany' categories), not because they are unimportant, but in order to keep some kind of focus.
In brief then, I aim to examine the news and events of the day in context, viewing them not in isolation but paying attention to the wheels within wheels that turn to drive the world we live in. As the motto reads, I study war and peace that my sons may study mathematics and philosophy. As a private individual I acknowledge that I don't stand a chance of changing the world, but it's my generation that's got to at least start.
Many thanks for reading, and welcome again to the weblog.
|
|
