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Cricket In India

It’s said cricket is a religion in India. It seems to be the one thing that all Indians can embrace. Separated by language, by caste, by religion, cricket serves as a common language, a thread tying communities together, be they Hindu, Muslim or Sikh. It also acted as a bridge for me, making a conversation easy to start, a disagreement easier to smooth over, a transaction easier to conduct. We encountered cricket everywhere. The first day in Dehli, we saw young men in white playing backyard cricket under the shadow of Humayuan’s Tomb. The day was hot, the setting epic and I stopped momentarily to watch these men play, amongst the dogs, pigeons and chipmunks, hopeful that they would maybe call me up for a hit. Later, we saw games played near the Jami Masjid, the largest mosque in the capital. In Agra, we met a Sikh jeweler who said he was a friend of David Boon’s, an Australian cricketer most famous for his drinking of over 60 cans of beer on a Sydney-London flight. I asked him if it was true “Yeah, mate” he replied in a thick Aussie accent, “Boonie’s a big drinker”. In Jaipur, I chatted cricket to our tuk-tuk drivers. Shane Warne, great Australian bowler and notorious womanizer, played for the team based in Jaipur. “Did Warne text your wife when he was here”, I asked, hoping that I hadn’t crossed the line. I hadn’t or at least he wasn’t perturbed enough by it to want to lose a fare. 

Above: Cricket outside the Jama Masjid.

In Udaipur, I got my first chance of a game. Myself and one of my travelling companions played some street cricket with Danish, the son of the hotel owner where we were staying. Apparently, he had played age group cricket for Rajasthan, he may have been lying but he did look like a handy bowler. We played in a square with the famous lake forming one of the boundaries. Groups of smaller children sat interested on the sidelines, I’m sure hoping for a call up just like I had in Dehli. We played 6 a side, with a composite ball and Danish’s bat, a gift bought for him by some Danish tourists. The game was consistently stopped by lost balls, which went over fences, onto roofs, into shops or on unfortunate occasions the dump near the lake or even more unfortunately into the open sewers that ran down one side of the square. Here, the younger spectators proved their worth, pulling the ball out from the sewers and giving it a wipe with a towel so as to remove the gunk before passing it back to us for the game to continue. This may have been the root of my subsequent food poisoning.

The trek around India had been planned around arriving in Chandigarh so that we could watch the first day of the second test between India and Australia. Initially, it seemed my chances of procuring tickets weren’t good. People either said that I couldn’t buy them, that the game was sold out or that only Indians could buy them. In Amritsar, the city before Chandigarh, I asked the hotel manager if he could make enquires. He said that of course he could but it was no surprise to me when he told me the next day that there were no tickets. The man wouldn’t do anything without an ulterior motive, reminding me of a bearded lizard, his eyes hungry for new ways to nickel and dime tourists.

Discouraged by these answers, I resolved to wait until we arrived in Chandigarh to get tickets. Whether legit or black-market, it didn’t matter. I was prepared to pay an elevated price for the tickets, if need be. The day we arrived in Chandigarh, I took a tuk-tuk by myself down to the ground. The others wanted to rest up, we had been traveling pretty intensively and this was a rare afternoon off. I walked around for 20 minutes, being misdirected to the ticket office, which I finally stumbled on not inside the ground but outside.  There was only a short queue for tickets, a good sign that there were still tickets available. After a short wait, it was my turn. Approaching the ticket box, I could see a big pile of tickets. I knew that the lizard king of Amritsar had been lying. My fear of not getting tickets was exposed to ridicule. Unlike in New Zealand, I could only buy tickets for the full five days, costing 1040 rupees, which come to 22 US dollars. The five of us were all on a tight budget and I remembered that the others didn’t share my enthusiasm for the great game so I enquired if they were any cheaper tickets. “Of course”, said the ticketmaster, “there are general admission, chair block for 300 rupees”. “Sounds perfect but is there no way to just buy tickets for the first day”, I enquired, out of hope more than anything. I got the expected answer but 300 rupees was still a reasonable price to pay.

 Behind me, an older English woman enquired about the tickets, surprised as I had been by the fact that you couldn’t buy individual day tickets. It was her that planted the seed to what eventually led to my downfall. “I’m sure you could sell them off, the tickets for the days you don’t want”. Genius, I could make some money back for my friends. This was a mistake. It all started out OK though. I sold my first two tickets without a hitch, for a discounted price of 50 rupees, cheaper than what I paid for them. A boy in a wheelchair was next in line. This is when it all started to turn to custard. The crowd (for by this stage, the foreigner selling cheap tickets had drawn quite a crowd) started handing money over, snatching at tickets, I was pushed and jostled. Then come the hands. I had money in a money belt that I kept in my underpants. Hands there. I had put the tickets I want to keep down the back of my shorts. Hands there. Hands were on the tickets I was selling and hands were on the money I had got for selling the first few tickets. With what felt like 30 pairs of hands on me, I tried to break free from the melee. Cops still by idly across the road, barely 10 metres from this commotion. I yelled stupid made up insults like cow eater to try to offend the violators. The old English lady and her husband, perhaps feeling guilty that they has started this sequence of events, tried to come to my aid but the crowd wasn’t bowing to age. I made the decision to cut my losses and ran away from the crowd, to regroup and re-gather my thoughts, away from the melee. I had lost 3 of the first day tickets, which I would have to purchase again. All of the 20 tickets that I had been trying to sell had been taken, along with the money I had raised from selling the first few tickets. I did have just enough money to pay for the auto-rickshaw home and to re-buy the stolen tickets. I returned to the line, indignant at my treatment and bristling with anger. Those people that I recognized as some of my assaulters I glared at. Some of my fellow ticket buyers felt sorry and tried to comfort me. They said things like “this is not your country sir, this is India and India has no rules.” This didn’t really improve my mood, well intentioned or not. I waited in line to purchase my tickets, gave the unwanted tickets away to a polite teenage boy (my foray into the black-market was very short-lived) and got back to the hotel to relay my story to the others on what turned out to be quite an eventful night.

Above: Boys before the cricket.

Trying to forget my foray into the black market, I awoke the next day ready to actually see some cricket. The sun was out, promising a full day of play. Sensing that the others weren’t that keen to spend a whole day at the cricket, I promised that we could sit back, enjoy the sun and the cricket and have a few quiet beers. Fosters beer signs were everywhere around the ground and while not the best beer, there’s almost nothing better than watching cricket on a hot day with a cold beer.  We made a couple of banners “I support two teams- New Zealand and anyone playing Australia” and “I’m Canadian eh, what the hell is cricket”, hoping that it would get us on T.V. At the ground, security was tight and our rickshaw could only get us within 500 metres of the ground. People were selling Indian flags, one of which I bought. Others offered face painting or had wristbands and bandanas for sale. The locals cheered at our Australian bashing banner, which was good as people before seeing it probably suspected us of being Australian. Australians jeered us. Contrary to what I was told the day before about India being a land of no rules, it turns out that India is actually a land of many rules. The first checkpoint saw us lose the Canadian banner, presumably because it said ‘hell’. Next, we were told no cameras. The pole from my Indian flag I had just purchased was confiscated. Finally, the girls weren’t allowed to take in their handbags. They retreated to find a hotel that would look after the bags while Chris and I continued on. After a couple more pat downs to make sure we didn’t have any concealed poles, obscene banners or cameras, we made it into ground. In the space of 24 hours, India had gone from no rules to the most bureaucratic, red tape loving nation on Earth.

Above: Mary with the Aussie bashing banner.

Inside the ground, I noticed four things. First of all, there were was hardly anyone in the ground. I had expected it to be near capacity. Instead, there were perhaps only 3000 people there. Most were school children bussed in from the surrounding area. They got in for free but had no money and were given no food or water. Second of all, we were the only foreigners in the cheap seats. All of the other foreigners had, maybe wisely, paid for tickets that were under shade. Thirdly, the Fosters beer was not beer at all, it was Fosters water. The ground was dry, it was like Prohibition from the 30s. Last of all, I noticed everyone had cameras. Everyone but us. The over-earnest security meant that we had missed the toss but the crowd informed us that India were to bat. Which was good because Sachin Tendulkar, the favourite son of Indian cricket, was only 30 runs away from becoming the highest run-scorer in test history. India made good progress and the crowd was in a good mood. They enjoyed the cricket but found the foreigners in the cheap seats more entertaining than the sport. They loved our sign and anti-Australian sentiments. They loved our poor attempts at speaking Hindi, Urdu and Punjabi. They delighted in our bhagra dancing in celebration of an Indian boundary (These poor attempts at dance not only impressed our fellow spectators but was sufficiently good enough to attract the attention of the TV crews). They especially loved the girls. Indian men have a way with women, but its not necessarily a good way. The banned for us cell phones were out in force taking pictures and videos of the foreigners, sometimes covertly and at other times, very obviously. Akon’s hit I wanna **** ya was played to the girls as a kind of electronic, none too subtle, serenade. 

Unlike crowds in New Zealand, where opposition players get given a high level of vitriol, usually about their pedigree, their partner or their sexuality, the Australian players were confronted by bouts of non-ironic applause. The worst abuse I heard dished out all day was “Mitchell Johnson and Johnson Baby oil”, a far cry from the “Brett Lee’s a wanker” chants that reverberate around New Zealand stadia.

Above: On T.V

The abuse may not have been taxing but the Indian sun was, and my fellow travelers, newcomers to the sport of cricket, weren’t having as much fun as me. This is where the lack of Fosters really hurt me. Lunch break was a welcome interlude for them, the girls taking refuge from the Akon-playing shifty men in the cool, comparatively clean bathroom. Chris and I spent the time chatting with the locals, which further increased our notoriety. Being a foreigner is one thing, one who likes hanging out the locals is another. Our notoriety spread. Pleas for photos and company increased exponentially. We received requests to come and sit with such and such a group of supporters, doing half hour stints with the different factions. People would get jealous if we seemed to favour certain groups of people. Things could have turned ugly. Some relief came at the fall of the 2nd wicket. This meant Tendulkar would be batting. As a result, interest turned away from the foreigners and turned back to the cricket. Tendulkar, more than usual, bore the weight of the nation on his shoulders. Showing few signs of nerves, he moved through to 12 when his progress was interrupted by the tea break. (Yes, cricket has breaks for lunch and tea). I went for drinks for the group, returning to find our group in a human tsunami of a photograph for a local paper. Not people to let the chance of getting in the local rag, 50 or so locals swarmed them, falling over them, groping them. For all of my attention seeking, I was pleased to be absent from this group shot. After this photographic orgy, play resumed and shortly after tea, Tendulkar scored the runs to become the highest run maker in test history. 15 minutes of fireworks followed, noisy although ineffective in the bright, mid afternoon sun. 15 minutes of the nation celebrating their favourite son’s triumph. Andy Warhol once said everyone would get 15 minutes of fame. I’m happy enough to have witnessed a small piece of history with a small cameo featuring on Indian T.V.

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Noble quests for dead Communists

The pharaohs pioneered a primitive form. Walt Disney, Timothy Leary and L. Ron Hubbard were rumoured to have been but weren't. Lenin, Stalin, Ho Chi Minh, Mao and Kim Il Sung have been. We will wait and see what happens to the bodies of Kim Jong Il and Fidel Castro when they leave this mortal coil. I'm talking about the phenomenon of body preservation. The communists have a pretty good monopoly when it comes to modern leaders whose bodies have been preserved for future generations to venerate. Lenin, of course, was the first to be embalmed in 1924. Stalin was embalmed in 1952 but his body was removed from public display and buried in 1961 in the Kremlin grounds. Ho Chi Minh followed in 1969, Mao in 1976 and Kim Il Sung in 1994.

 Several trips we have been on have had the viewing of these bodies on the itinerary. The first such occasion was in Hanoi, where we went to see the body of Uncle Ho. His mausoleum was based on Lenin's in Moscow, which also unfortunately happened to be where his body was. The week that we were in Hanoi overlapped with a week Ho Chi Minh had made a posthumous mercy dash to Russia for repairs, necessary for keeping a body pristine in viewing conditions in a climate as warm and humid as Vietnam. We could still witness the daily changing of the guard where somber soldiers marched. In what seems to be a repeating occurrence, Ho Chi Minh had stated his wish was to be cremated, with his ashes to be scattered around Vietnam. It was said that he preferred cremation because it would be "more hygienic than burial and would also save land for agricultural purposes". However, as has been the case for many leaders throughout history, his will was ignored, his body preserved and a mausoleum built to house his body, all against his wishes.  

Above: Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum in Hanoi. 

Missing out on seeing Uncle Ho, we decided to try our luck with Chairman Mao when we went to Beijing the following year. Like Ho, Mao had always expressed his desire not to be embalmed and displayed, signing papers to that effect as far back as 1956. In spite of his standing in The Communist Party, or perhaps because of it, he was not cremated on his death in 1976. Instead, he was embalmed, with his body placed on display in a purpose built mausoleum in Tiananmen Square. The mausoleum was built using materials sourced from throughout China; granite from Sichuan Province, porcelain plates from Guangdong Province, pine trees from Yan'an, saw-wort seeds from Xinjiang, earth from Tangshan, coloured pebbles from Nanjing, milky quartz from the Kunlun Mountains, pine logs from Jiangxi Province, water and sand from the strait of Taiwan and even rock samples from Mount Everest. As big as a logistic problem sourcing this material from around China would seem to be, the biggest problem involved making a crystal coffin, suitable for viewing the body. At the time, China couldn't make such a casket, the Soviet Union could. Due to the Sino-Russian split, China couldn't ask Russia for help. Instead, using designs from Lenin's casket in Moscow and looking at the Soviet designed coffin that was intended for Sun Yat-Sen, a lot of expenditure and a prolonged and frustrating development phase, Mao's final casket was reverse engineered, made and prepared. Unfortunately, the week we were in Beijing corresponded with the Communist Party Congress and we couldn't see Mao. It also meant we didn’t have to wait in line in the cold for several hours, waiting with tour groups of Chinese coming to pay their respects, with rented flowers and forced tears. It did mean that we were 0 from 2 when it came to seeing dead Communist leaders.

Above: Mao's Mausoleum, Beijing.

 With a trip to Russia in 2009, I came to the third city that housed an embalmed communist leader. Would I get to see Lenin’s body in Moscow? Lenin was the first of the leaders to be embalmed and displayed. When he died in 1924, the Soviet government allegedly received more than 10,000 telegrams asking that Lenin’s body should be preserved for future generations. With such an outpouring of emotion, who could refuse the people such a wish?  His body was preserved in a hastily put up mausoleum made of wood. This mausoleum was eventually replaced with one made of stone, when it was decided to display Lenin’s body for the foreseeable future. In the Red Square, Lenin has laid for nearly 100 years, apart for four years when he was removed in the 2nd World War due to the threat of Nazi occupation of the Soviet capital. Stalin’s body was also embalmed and placed beside Lenin’s in 1953 but was removed in the early 1960s. His body was buried in the grounds of the Kremlin. The gods of fate smiled upon me in Moscow. It may have been bitterly cold but Lenin’s body was open for viewing during the time we were there. All that it needed to view the body was patience enough to wait in-line for an hour and a half. I was accompanied by curious foreigners and Russians alike. Small groups were allowed into the mausoleum where you go down a few steps of stairs before you reach the inner sanctum. Lenin’s final resting place is solemn but not overly so, perhaps a reflection that he is from a bygone era, a fallen ideology, a curiosity in modern-day capitalist Russia.  You get a quick look at the famed revolutionary lying in his crystal casket. Obviously, videotaping and photography are not allowed and guests are expected to show an appropriate level of decorum. His body looks waxy, an appearance that has often led to accusations that the body is actually a fake, made from wax. Lenin’s embalmers maintain that the body is real and that it is Lenin’s, and that they have to moisturize and inject preservatives into the body daily. Lenin’s body receives intensive treatment annually to keep it in good condition. Throughout the year, blemishes are removed with hydrogen peroxide or a diluted mixture of acetic acid. As Russia moves forward from its turbulent communist past, that was ushered in by Lenin, there are moves that his body, like Stalin’s, should be removed from his sarcophagus and buried, a move that would no doubt be unpopular with foreign visitors looking forward to seeing a reminder of the Cold War. Ultimately, the decision will lie with the Russian people; how they want to celebrate their communist legacy and heritage will determine the fate of Lenin.

Above: Lenin's mausoleum, Moscow.

 I may never get to Pyongyang, where Kim Il Sung, the fourth embalmed leader, lies. Even though I live less than 200 kilometres away, entry to the country is obviously restrictive and the cost of travelling to North Korea is prohibitive. If I did make it, I would fancy my chances of seeing him; foreign guests are often taken to the mausoleum, although entry is by invite only (can’t have any old pleb or peasant viewing the Great Leader). Kim Jong Il may be the nominal leader, but Kim Il Sung is still the eternal President of the country he founded. Emotions still seem to run high when it comes to the Great Leader, something that is still exploited by the regime. One friend who did make it up to North Korea was invited to the spectacle. Outside, greeters would tell patriotic stories of the Great Leader, working and manipulating the crowd until emotions were unhinged. Tears flowed, breasts were beaten. Inside, Korean visitors bowed at the four corners of Kim Il Sung’s glass sarcophagus, where his head lies on a Korean-style pillow and he is covered by the flag of the Workers Party of Korea. Foreign guests were encouraged to do likewise, to offer homage to a man seen as diabolical in the West but a man thought highly off in the DPRK.

Above: Crowds outside Kim Il Sung's Mausoleum, Pyongyang.

Its strange that the bodies of these men, all of whom caused the deaths of many, some of them who caused the deaths of millions, are kept in such a state, while the bodies of their victims are often uncared for. In some cases, they remain undiscovered, left anonymously in mass graves for future generations to discover. Maybe one day, post reunification of the Koreas perhaps, I will get to North Korea. Hopefully, the South won’t seek to destroy all evidence of the painful divide, maybe Kim Jong Il will even be lying in state beside his father. Its something I would like to see. It was an odd thing seeing Lenin, almost 100 years after his death,  lying seemingly without blemish or decay, in a tomb that echoed those used by the pharaohs. Sometimes the more things change, the more things really do stay the same.

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Rhino-Yes, Tiger-No

One of my ambitions as a child had been to go to a tiger park in India. While some kids are obsessed with toys or cars, I was obsessed with animals (but not in a bestiality way). I would spend hours at my grandparents place, going through their encyclopedias, sorting the animals out into families and orders. I spent my pocket money, not on lollies or toys (although I did have a good GI Joe collection) but on nature books. And my favourite animal as a kid was the tiger. Now, I was going to India for six weeks and I had to try and schedule tiger viewing at a national park in. The only thing was that I was travelling with 4 other people, none of them as interested in tigers as me. And tiger reserves in India tend to be quite a way off the beaten track. So I decided in the end, that I wouldn’t try and go to a tiger park in India. I would go in Nepal instead.

Chitwan was Nepal’s first national park and was declared a UNESCO World heritage site in 1984. It is home to about 100 tigers but is most famous for its population of Indian rhinos, of which there are around 300 of in the park. The lodge we were staying at for three nights provided us with a guide, Laxman (or as we nicknamed him, Very Very Special, after the Indian cricket player VVS Laxman). In the lodge book, guests had recorded seeing tigers and rhinos, which Laxman confirmed. Laxman proved to be very knowledgeable, which was good because our safety and chances of seeing the wildlife depended on him. The first morning, we took a thirty-minute dugout canoe down the Rapti River, on the look out for crocs, birds and mammals.  The canoe was so low to the water that you felt that any movement, extravagant or even subtle, might start water pouring into the vessel. Once that happened, it didn’t take much imagination to see the dugout capsized and us in the drink. That didn’t eventuate and apart from some beautiful kingfishers and a couple of peacocks, not much was seen on our meandering canoe journey.

Above:Dugouts like the ones we used to go croc spotting.

After a relaxing if not a little tense 30 minutes, we pulled into the bank, where we disembarked, ready to start a jungle walk. Laxman explained to us the procedure if we saw a rhino “stand still”, a bear “don’t worry” and a tiger “if it has a shiny coat, don’t worry, if it has a dull coat, run”. The rationale was that a tiger with a shiny coat is well fed whereas a cat with a dull coat may be sick, wounded or old and thus more likely to see humans as prey. Whilst good advice, it seemed a little scary, especially considering that Laxman only carried a rotten looking stick with him. There was no rifle, no firearm for protection. Within 5 metres of the bank, Laxman stumbled upon a tiger print. It seemed so soon into our walk, with his instructions still above his head like a speech bubble, that my first thought was that he was joking. But he wasn’t. Right there, in the mud, was a pretty fresh looking tiger print. My second thought was that he planted it, maybe through the means of some ingenious tiger print stamp. In hindsight, I doubt this but at the time, it seemed surreal that less than a minute into our walk and just after his safety speech, he had found evidence of the animal we most wanted to see. I won’t lie here and say I wasn’t more than a little nervous that we might encounter a tiger. Its one thing to see a tiger in the zoo and admire its grace and power but another thing to think that any moment you might come around a tree and come face to face with one. I was actually scared now, although I didn’t admit it to anyone at the time. I was conflicted, half of me wanted to see a tiger (but only a shiny coat tiger) and the other half was happy enough with the spoor and didn’t want to see the actual beast in the flesh The tension did add to the hike though. I’ve never felt so alert on a hike before. I was tensed, ready for action. It heightened your senses, so even now I have quite clear recollections of the sights, sounds and even smells of the Nepalese jungle. We walked for about an hour. There were no sightings of the tiger that had left the track for us so conveniently. After, we were out of the bush, I was disappointed we hadn’t run across it. In the bush, I was relieved we hadn’t.

Above: Tiger print in the mud.

Later in the day, we took an elephant safari. This was a much safer option than traipsing around the forest (at least I thought so until watching a clip on YouTube of a tiger attacking people on an elephant). People ask why you would pay to view animals in a national park where you can play less and get guaranteed sightings in a zoo. Well, I would say that the reasons are two-fold. First, while zoos serve an important function in conservation and education, nothing really beats seeing animals a natural environment. And secondly, it’s the chance encounters, the anticipation that around the corner might be a great sight that makes a safari much better than going to the zoo.  There is the anticipation and then the satisfaction when you finally see an animal, in particular one of the bigger beasts. And so it was when we got our first rhino sighting. Our elephant stepped out of the forest and into a clearing. In the clearing, we saw a rhino with her baby. 

Above: Indian Rhino with baby.

The beauty of an elephant safari is that you can get quite close to the rhino, the pachyderm presence seemingly calming to the other animals. We spent a bit of time observing these rare animals, watching them graze before they slowly retreated back into the forest when they bored of our company. Nothing really beats seeing such animals in their natural environment. Of course, we kept on hoping to see a tiger but I was content with the rhino viewings. Rhinos in Asia suffer the same fate as African rhinos. With their horns highly prized in Eastern medicine and a civil war in Nepal, the numbers had dropped but about 300 are found in and around Chitwan, which is about a tenth of all wild Indian rhinos in the world. It was amazing to see them; hopefully our generation won’t be the last that gets to enjoy their splendor.

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Following in the footsteps of Moses, maybe.

When people think of Egypt, Christianity isn't the first image that pops into people's minds. After all, Egypt is the Arab world's most populous country and is home to a rich Islamic tradition. Its not an uncommon sight to see men walking around with bruised foreheads, a byproduct of prayer and a physical sign of faith . Yet, up to 10% of Egyptians are still Christian, with a claim to both Africa's oldest church and ecclesiastical school. Coptic Christians, as Egyptian Christians are known, have a long and proud history. Christianity first appeared in Egypt in the 1st Century AD and became the dominant religion by the 3rd Century, replacing the old Egyptian and Roman parthenon. In the 6th Century, Islam come to Egypt and slowly over time, through conversions, forced and voluntary alike, Islam became the dominant religion in the country. Copts have retained their traditions and history. Many Copts can be identified by a small cross tattooed onto the hand or wrist. They have some claim to be the true descendants of the pharaohs (the last true Egyptian tongue was spoken by Copts into the 19th Century, although the mother tongue of almost all Egyptians, Christian or otherwise, is now Arabic). A disproportionate amount of power and money was in the hands of Copts, although this power has been negated by the Pan-Arab and Islamic views of governments in Egypt of the past 60 years. Many Copts have fled Egypt, due to discrimination. The Coptic community has been attacked physically, with infrequent killings and bombings by Islamic groups, through legislation where construction and repair of churches is held up by red tape and in government, where few Copts are to be found in positions of power. Despite the current situation where Islam is the dominant religion of the country, Christianity has played a large role in the country and in turn is mentioned several times in the Bible. The place of Mose's discovery and the place where Jesus, Joseph and Mary found refuge in Egypt are all in Coptic Cairo, a small, historic area of Cairo with several churches. We were lucky enough to go to Coptic Cairo on the day of Coptic Christmas (the Coptic calendar is different than the one we use), and it was great to be able to sit and watch the conregrations enjoying their holy day. The Red Sea, of course, plays a major role in the Bible as does another account involving Moses, that of Moses receiving the 10 Commandments from God. This happened at the top of Mount Sinai, now a popular destination for pilgrims and travellers alike.

It's not at all certain that Mt Sinai is the mountain spoken off in the Bible, the Talmud and in the Koran. Initially, it was said another neighbouring mountain was in fact the mountain of Moses before this was changed to Mount Catherine (the tallest mountain in the area). It wasn't until the 15th Century that Mount Sinai was finally designated as the mountain of lore. Still, the debate ranges and some say that the real "Mt Sinai" is more likely to be located in the northern Sinai peninsula or even in Saudi Arabia. In keeping with the biblical traditions of Egypt, I decided that our group would be hiking to the top of Mt Sinai to see the sunrise. To say that this was a popular move would be a push. There were several voices (bear in mind, we were only a group of 6) raised in dissent. Part of the problem was to get to the peak by sunrise meant starting the trail by 3am and since we were about 2 hours from the start of the trail, it meant getting picked up at 12:30. Another problem was the hike itself with at least a couple of unenthusiastic walkers in our group. It also meant a day away from the Red Sea and the fun times in Dahab. All in all, it would be fair to say that this idea was not at all appreciated by most. However, with no deserters, we arrived at the start of the trail at about 2:30am. Of course, it is pitch-black. Luckily, we get assigned to a group, with a guide who has a torch. Just, in case, we get lost, our group's word was Mish Mish, which I think means Apricot but is also slang for pussy and we were later told in Cairo that is also used as either a gay slur or as a way of gay introduction. Either way, I'm sure the guide was taking the piss when he made us the mish mish group. The hike is up a trail used by donkeys and camels, who can carry lazy tourists most of the way to the top. Its not lit, s we made our way  by moon and starlight plus the occasional torch which illuminated it enough for us to see the way. Every 20 minutes or so, we would hear crys of Mish Mish and wait for our group to meet up with our guide. The walk up the trail is pretty easy, a series of switchbacks covered in camel dung, until we reached Elijah's hollow, where there was time for a warming cup of tea and a chance to recoup before the last 750 steps to the top. These last steps to the summit were a little harder than the trail, highlighted by the death from cardiac arrest of a Nigerian man climbing up the next day.

Above:Camels can carry the unwilling up the mountain but I think walking is the better option unless you are used to camel riding.

At the top, we had to find a hollow to hide ourselves away. 2, 200 metres above sea level and you can feel every metre of it. The wind, although not strong, was bitterly cold. We huddled together like a pack of huskies, trying to keep warm and preserve any body heat that escaped. We hired some blankets of dubious hygiene, decades of dirt and sweat seemed to cling to the threadbare surface (its debatable if the blanket was composed more of dirt than material). Unquestionably, there would have been all manner of disease, of ticks of all species specificity. Whatever their quality (or lack thereof), the blankets kept us warm for the 45 minutes we sat waiting for the sun to rise.

Above: Huddled at the top, trying to keep warm.

In the interim, a church group from Korea sang hymns from on top the same chapel. A French group held a prayer group. To me, it was a place of historical importance (of a dubious nature), something I did out of interest. The singing and prayers reminded me of the fact that for many, it was more than just a walk and a chance to watch the sunrise, it was an important pilgrimage site and allowed them to connect with their god, with their belief. When the sun did rise, it was almost religious in nature. For what seemed like an eternity, the sun seemed to be peeking out over the horizon, only for a false dawn. Finally, the sun could be seen, its rays changing the colours of mountains, bringing valleys out of the shadows. The complaints from the others petered out as the sun slowly warmed us up, allowing us to discard our blankets. We spent a half hour at the summit before making our way slowly down the 750 steps with several hundred other people.

.

Above: Sun is up and illuminating the peaks and plateaus below.

 On the way down, we decided to take the alternative route, the steps of Penitence, 3750 steps carved out from the rocks by monks. On the way, light came over the rocks in spectacular fashion, no more so as it come through natural arches or ancient gateways. The light seemed so pure that it was easy to think that this was confirmation of the divine history of the mountain. From here, you can see down the valley to the the monastery of St Katherine's, who was martyred in Alexandria on what is now known as a Katherine's wheel. Her relics, a cache of some of the world's earliest icons and an extensive library are found on the grounds. Another big draw card is a cutting of the famous burning bush which still flourishes in the monastery to this day. My team, satisfied and relieved in equal amounts, were now able to say that they had spent a night on Moses's Mountain. A little hollow maybe, but a journey I recommend.

Above: On the way down, the light was awesome.

I wrote this after watching the turmoil on Egypt's streets. The Egyptians are guardians of a rich civilization, that rates as the most important of its time. Everyone knows of the most famous sights, the Pyramids, the sphinx, the Valley of The Kings but every day spent in Egypt is like a highlights package. Monuments that would be game breakers in many countries are relegated to third rate status there. The natural environs range from the peaks of the Sinai peninsula to the underwater wonders of the Red Sea to the desert. It is a fantastic country. Egyptians have spent the majority of the last 3000 years under foreign rule (dating from the time of the Greeks) and more recently, under autocratic rule. They deserve the opportunity to live in a way that they wish and in a way that promotes their heritage and history. People in Egypt have been kind to travellers, now people that have travelled to Egypt can repay the favour by supporting the struggle of the Egyptian people

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Hiking in the Korean hinterlands

Cities don’t come much bigger than Seoul. And when you live in such a big city, you tend to get a little bit blinkered. After all, what could possibly be happening in another part of Korea that I couldn’t get in Seoul. But at heart, I’m not a city slicker, I’m a small town boy and part of my soul cries out for solitude that can be gained by reconnecting with nature. Fortunately and somewhat surprisingly given how populated Korea is, there are many opportunities to get out and about. Unfortunately, at times it seems that half of Korea shared the same idea. Walking tracks are not the place of quiet they are in New Zealand. Here, people swarm, people talk on cell phones, people sing, people listen to music on radios. After a few solo hikes, I planned a big trip with a few friends to Seoraksan National Park, one of the country’s premier parks and home to the third highest peak in South Korea. With three million visitors a year, it’s not exactly a retreat but the views were said to be breathtaking, particular as we were going in autumn when the leaves were changing colour.  

 Koreans tend to take hiking very seriously. A typical Korean hiker would be wearing Gore Tex boots, polyprop long sleeved shirt and undergarments. They would have a cap and a hat and two types of gloves. They would have on dri fit clothes, one if not two retractable walking sticks (this always gave me stick envy), a back pack replete with bear bells full of supplies for any conceivable event bar a nuclear strike; nutrition bars, candy, kimchi, soup, meat, ramen, a torch, a head lamp, a gas stove with spare gas cylinders, spare pairs of everything, sun glasses, four litres of water, ion replacement tablets, medicine and bandages for any ailment and probably a bottle of soju, Korea’s famous liquor, to celebrate reaching the summit. It’s fair to say that in comparison to Korean hikers, I was under prepared. I wore jeans (with shorts underneath in case I got too hot) and a pair of very worn gym shoes. My only concession to proper hiking gear was a long sleeved striped polyprop shirt. I, in comparison to the Koreans, didn’t prepare for any likelihood of failure. After all, it was only a 9 hour walk. I’ve done 5 day hikes in New Zealand with less equipment than these people carried for a day hike. It is quite possible in hindsight that I underestimated the mountain. One should never underestimate a mountain.

 As well as the leaves changing, so was the temperature. Rapidly going downhill. Realization two was that one should never underestimate how cold things can get on a mountain. It was still double figures in Seoul most days so we didn’t think too much of it. We were going to climb to the top, camp out, drink some whiskey and then climb back down the next day. Thankfully, when we arrived at Seoraksan, we altered our plans as we determined we could do the walk in a day if we got up early enough. And who really wants to camp out when you can go out for beers afterwards?   

  Above:Seoraksan, one of Korea's most beloved parks.

 We started off in the early morning, all of us in high spirits, several of us just in jeans.  Of course, I had forgot to pack a hat or a pair of gloves. The first kilometre or so was a nice, easy walk through pristine forest, past babbling brooks and small waterfalls. Chipmunks played in among the roots. Bear warning signs were posted (a few bears still live in the area but are shy and rarely seen). Restaurants were sprinkled throughout this section, to reward those who made the effort to get out and about something nice to eat whilst taking in the environs. The craggy peaks the park are known for could be glimpsed at times, through the trees and when the clouds shifted. We came to a small lookout with a restaurant that sold the last beer before the walk to the summit began in earnest. Good to know, we thought, we will be back later. Somehow, this is when things started to turn to custard. At a fork in the road, three of us stopped, talked about and made a group decision about which way to go. Turns out we choose the wrong way. The others continued on their river path, following it for another 2 kilometres or so before starting their uphill climb. They waited for us but when we didn’t catch up, they continued without us. We had now split into two groups, heading in completely opposite ways. Cell phone coverage was patchy at best. The way we went called for a strenuous hike up steep flights of irregularly spaced stairs. We kept up a mean pace for a start, trying in vain to catch the others. Soon, sweat was pouring off me. The temperature was falling, just as fast as my heart rate was rising. We soon realized that we were on our own as our questions to the Korean hikers if they had seen any other foreigners on the trail were all answered negatively. We made the decision to continue up our trail, albeit at a slower pace. Every step uphill became a battle, a battle against the mountain, the climate and myself. The other two managed a little better than me and every time I caught up with them when they were having a break, it was time for them to go, go before the cold made them stiffen up. My muscles began to cry out for oxygen, to cramp up on every step. Anguish in my thighs, in my calves.  I have never been so miserable in my life. Each step up the mountain was agony but somehow one step followed the other. I was determined that I would win out over the mountain and my body.

Later on in our journey, we were joined by an elderly Korean man, well versed in hiking and dressed like most Korean hikers who looked as if they were planning to circumnavigate the Antarctic. How I wished I looked like that. Here, I was, bare headed, gloveless, dressed in jeans and covered in sweat that clung, frozen to my body. I was suffering badly from cramps, he looked like he was out on a Sunday stroll. His thermometer read -10 degrees Celcius; when we started out, it had been 11 degrees Celcius. Add in the wind chill factor and I could see I was in trouble. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to be rescued because of my stupidity, my under preparedness. By now we had been walking for about five hours and we were approaching the summit. My leg cramps had eased a little and now I was concerned about one of my friends who seemed to be having massive cramping issues of his own. The old man we were with also turned out to be a proficient masseuse, and gently massaged my friend’s legs, his upper and inner thighs. After not getting the right result, he quickly slide my friend’s pants down to his ankles and started spraying on an aerosol, while simultaneously massaging his bare legs. If I wasn’t in such a poor shape myself, I would have found this hysterical. A combination of massage and spray seemed to do the trick.

Above: Warming up at the top. Chris looks concerned.

 With my friend’s legs better and our spirits uplifted from the unsightly spectacle, we powered our way to the top. Then, it was my turn to be pitied. Two Korean men must have noticed my shivering and blueness in my face. I must have looked like death for them to get the confidence to approach me. They pulled me over to warm my hands by their little portable gas cooker, boiled me up some ramen in a packet which they made me put down my jacket in an effort to warm me up. They gave me a cup of tea. It worked; the heat from my chest ramen and tea drove my core temperature up enough to stave off the hypothermia which I must have been close to getting. I fumbled with my heart felt thanks, too cold to talk. I found a pair of socks that I put onto my hands that acted as substitute gloves. I felt like a billion dollars. It’s amazing what reaching the summit does to your psyche, what getting your hands warmed around a small gas cooker and a packet of ramen shoved by your chest can do. Energized, we paused for photos before the ice cool wind on the summit gave us a reason to make a hasty exit off the mountain. Maybe, I owed my life to a humble packet of noodles. I will never look at them in the same way again. Four hours later and the descent achieved, that first beer that I purchased from the shop down at the river, just after the missed turnoff, was the best tasting beer I have had in my life. For a minute, it seemed to ease away all my aches and pains, at least until I stood up again. I learnt several lessons that day, most importantly, to paraphrase George W, never misunderestimate a mountain.

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Crazy Horse Memorial-a long time coming.

Above: A model of the Crazy Horse sculpture with the monument in the background.

Crazy Horse was more than a figure; he was a symbol of resistance and of courage for the Lakota people who called South Dakota home. So it’s fitting that the hills of the region will one day be decorated with a large figure of this legendary man. In hills already famous for its four large busts of presidents that look down from Mount Rushmore, this statue of Crazy Horse will be much larger than the famed Rushmore sculptures.  Whereas the heads of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and Roosevelt are 18m tall, the head of Crazy Horse alone is 27metres in height. The overall dimensions are 195 metres wide and 172 metres high. When finished, it will be the world’s largest sculpture. The strange thing is that it is not certain that the sculpture will ever be completed. It has been under construction from 1948 and its creation is one hell of a story of perseverance.

The story of Crazy Horse is linked to that of sculptor Korczak Ziolkowski, who was commissioned by Chief Henry Standing Bear in 1939 to build a statue that would show “that the red man has great heroes, too”. While other areas had better stone for sculpting, the Sioux leaders decided that it would be more appropriate to carve in the sacred Black Hills, an insistence that has led to some controversy in later times. Ziolkowski started work in 1948, working on it until his death in 1982. At the time of his death, it looked to a layperson that no real progress had been done, although a lot of blasting had happened to clear the way for more fine-scale sculpting. Perhaps to give the project a recognizable face, Crazy Horse’s head was finished in 1998 (something that Ziolkowski didn’t want to happen but it does make the project much more marketable). Reading about Ziolkowski, you get the impression that the project consumed him. He worked tirelessly on it and is buried in a tomb at the base of the mountain. His wife and ten children were actively involved in the sculpture. After his death, his wife acts as the director and seven of his ten children are actively involved in either the carving or in the Crazy Horse Memorial Foundation.

Part of the slowness in completing the sculpture has been a lack of funds. Federal funding grants of 10 million dollars have been turned down on two occasions due to fears that acceptance of grants would also mean acceptance of conditions that might dilute the education and cultural goals of the Foundation. Other than the sculpture, there are plans for a Native American University to be established on the grounds (the university started last year), for cultural centres to be established and maintained and for a large museum celebrating Native American heritage to be opened. Money has been raised through visitor entrance fees and through donations. Machinery has been donated to the memorial for use on the project.

While its attentions would appear noble, there has been controversy over the project. There are no known photos of Crazy Horse and it seems as if photography was something he seemed to take measures to avoid. Therefore, is producing a massive likeness of him honouring his legacy and wishes? Of course, without a photograph, can we even be sure that it is his likeness? His body was deliberately buried in a way that his grave could not be found (there have been at least four locations identified as potentially being his grave). Is this sculpture a giant tombstone? Again, is this against the wishes of the man who wished to remain anonymous in death? Proponents of the monument would argue that Crazy Horse was chosen as a representative of all Native Americans and that it acts as a metaphoric tribute to all Native Americans, especially to those who died protecting their land, lifestyle and culture from the advances of Western Civilization.

I visited the memorial in 2008 and it was already an impressive sight. The museum and craft shops were up and running and work on the university had begun. A model of the sculpture stands outside, giving the visitor an impression of how impressive it will be when finished (a trip back to see it when it is finally finished is a must do). Crazy Horse sits on his horse with a figure pointing out over the Black Hills, indicating the lands he talks about in his famous quote “my lands are where my dead lie buried." At night, you can go to see a laser show that documents a story about the Native American people and about their grievances of how they have been affected over the last 500 years of interaction with the outside world. It makes for an entertaining hour, although surprisingly given the content of the show, it ends with a rendition of “Proud to be an American”. (This was probably inevitable, given the amount of times I heard this song played in my trip around the States). It seemed strange to me that these proud people who have had land taken from them, have been vilified, suffered great losses and breeches of trust would choose to end a show highlighting their culture with this song. I guess it shows that even when wronged, people still have the right to express their patriotism.

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Rat spotting in Bikaner

India is many things to different people. It is a country rapidly evolving, yet at the same time, deeply traditional – a country of extreme poverty and the extremely rich, of new money and money so old that it has grey hair. Bombings in Mumbai are perpetuated by unwelcome guests to the country, while elsewhere guests are welcomed at mosques, temples, shrines and at the place of Buddha’s enlightenment. Visitor’s reactions to India are split  -- partly repulsed by the poverty, partly fascinated by the buildings and the history. It is indeed a land of contrasts; the most beggars in the world and the most millionaires, perfume shops compete with the odours of open sewers. All things, beautiful and ugly, exist in the same place, seemingly independent but maybe also very dependent on this juxtaposition. India may always be like this.

The viewpoint of the admittedly widening Indian middle class would differ from this way of thinking. To them, India is rapidly developing, bridging the gap between developing to developed. The same people take pride in India’s nuclear and space programs. The same people criticize authors like the writer of the novel “White Tiger” and dismiss concerns raised over the Dehli Commonwealth games. They would argue such comments are only made by foreign panderers and internal agitators, who present a view of India that is quickly sinking from view but the West still believes.  But for all the development, for the glitz and glamour of Bollywood, of the IPL, for all the money, for most Indians, the reality of their life is more similar to Slumdog Millionaire than it is to the latest Bollywood flick. They still deal daily with poor hygiene, the lack of infrastructure, the lack of opportunity to receive higher education. The caste system, officially renounced, is still active, especially in discussions of rites of passage like weddings. In Rajasthan, there have been recent accounts of enforced sati (the burning of the wife on her husband’s funeral pyre) reported. Honour killings are still commonplace here. Literacy, while improving (notably in socialist-controlled parts in the country) is still low, particularly for women. Rajasthan has one of the lowest literacy rates in the country.

We had travelled through Rajasthan for about three weeks, spending time in the pink city of Jaipur, ridden camels in the desert near Jaisalmer, admired the Lake Palace of Udaipur and wandered around the fort and maharajas palace in the blue city of Jodhpur. Last stop in the state was Bikaner, a dusty, desert, frontier town. The main attraction here was the Karni Mata Temple at Deshnoke, 30 kilometers out of town, about an hour on a tuk-tuk. This temple has become somewhat of a draw card on the Rajasthan loop. The draw card of Karni Mata is definitely not the temple itself, a rather scruffy, somewhat bedraggled looking building. Rats were the sole reason to be here. Commonly known to travelers as the rat temple, Karni Mata is a place where the lowly rat is King or Queen, where the rat is worshipped and fed. The rats are worshipped as the reincarnated son of Karni Mata, a Hindu sage who was herself the reincarnation of the goddess Durga. Outside, beggars go hungry around the outskirts of the temple while inside rats feast.

  The rat temple has been featured on New Zealand TV, a weird homage to the rodents that are vermin everywhere else. Spending time in India does lend itself to multiple sightings of rats, as they are all over railway stations throughout the country. Here, rats are not persecuted, but feted, held in adulation. The most auspicious rat was a white rat. Seeing this guy was considered especially good karma. Another way to obtain good karma was to eat food tainted by rat saliva. I have to hope my karma stocks were high, as this way of obtaining karma was unlikely to happen. In the entranceway of the main temple were stacked stocks of fruit, rice and coconuts that pilgrims could buy and give as offerings to the rats. Musicians played, partly busking, partly in worship.

  As we entered the building, rats became quickly apparent. Some were obviously sick, some were dead but most were active, drinking from the many trays of sugared water that lay around the temple grounds. The rats didn’t seem to mind the people, nor the people mind the rats. In fact, it almost seemed normal that these animals, usually considered reprehensible, were the focus of worship. As we walked around, we saw rats hanging from the walls, from doors, doorknobs and doorframes. Others were content to laze about in the open, with none of the constant scurrying associated with rodents. It paid to tread carefully. If you trod on a rat and killed it, you are supposed to replace it with a gold one (not gold coloured but a rat made from gold).

In one corner, there was a flurry of activity. A group of worshippers clustered, the white rat had been found. Once found, the poor creature was hounded. If a sighting was auspicious, imagine how much karma could be bought with a simple touch. Of all the rats, the white one was the only one that seemed agitated, fleeing under a table like a publicity shy celebrity hiding from the paparazzi. It eventually managed to find a hole in which to hide itself, much to the disappointment of the collected crowd. Deprived of the white rat, the locals turned to the next best thing; a group of tourists. We were inundated with requests for photos, mostly from young men, who were clearly not just taking photos of us and with us but  taking the opportunity to record videos of us. I guess for them after the white rat left, the big prize remaining in the temple was the foreign women and to a lesser extent, the foreign men. While this transfer of interest was taking place, I imagined myself as the white rat, bewildered and confused by the attention. Am I really that much different that people would want my photo or clandestinely take a video of me?

The thing is that maybe we are that different. Foreign tourists like us must seem like the end point that lower to middle class Indians aspire to, representatives of a end-point that middle and upper class Indians think that India is obtaining. These same people would decry Western portrayals of India as cliché and bound in half-truths but who must know that there is still much to do before India can reach its full potential. Maybe in the way that the white rat was desirable, what we represent is desirable. Our presence serves as a reminder to what India could be, if it wasn’t so crippled by its contrasts. The white rat promises a better life through karma. Are we the white rats promise?.

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Cage Diving

Above: Check out the teeth on this guy.

Cage diving was always been something I was going to do in South Africa. It would be on my bucket list I guess, if I knew exactly what that term meant. The only issue was that I wanted to find a responsible tour operator, not a gung ho cowboy who throws a couple of goat carcasses into the ocean and waits for the sharks to come, disregarding any environmental or ecological concerns. And it begs the question, who wants be in a small cage surrounded by great whites in a feeding frenzy anyway? A bit of research (thanks to the wife) and we found an operator whose environmental credentials I was happy with.

We were diving out of Gansbaai, which has assumed the mantle of the cage diving capital of South Africa and is the best place on Earth for tourists to see great whites. Gansbaai is a small town three hours or so from Cape Town and is like any other small town from around the world in that when it finds something to embrace, it doesn’t let go. The association Gansbbai has with sharks is a long running one, although initially it was through a shark liver oil factory in the 1940s. Now, the emphasis is very much focused on live sharks and reminders of sharks are omnipresent here in this town of 7000. At the Great White House, (the home of our tour operator), a quick video and a Q&A session sufficed for our training and we soon boarded the boat to find ourselves some great whites. Sharing Jaws quotes, the passengers were excited but subdued.  For some, this may have been conquering a fear or phobia, for others something to fill in a holiday, for others offering a chance to do something they had been wanting to do for a long time. Whatever the motivation, everyone was tense, hopeful that today wasn’t going to be one of those rare days were no or few sharks are spotted on the dive. Since it was summer, we didn’t head to the famous Shark Alley (the sharks can only be bothered hunting there when the seal pups head out in the winter) but to a spot not actually that far off quite a picturesque yellow sand beach. This proximity to the beach reminded me of helicopter pictures taken in Durban where there were as many large sharks on the beach side of the shark nets as on the open ocean side. It also serves as a reminder that great whites don’t see us as a food source. They are in fact discerning diners preferring prey that is not encased in a wetsuit and armed with a surfboard. Most attacks occur when sharks are just taking a preliminary nip at us to see what we are. It’s just unfortunate that those nips are conducted with huge jaws, meaning that even these investigative bites often cause wounds that are fatal.

When we got to a spot the crew deemed suitable, they chummed the water, not with goat carcasses but with fish liver oil extract, a way to entice the beasts without actually feeding them. 15 minutes later, we had our first shark sighting. Nothing really prepares you for the majesty and grace of your first Great White sighting. Virtually unchanged for millions of years, it is one epic hunting machine. The sharks (we saw eight different sharks during the day) would sometimes hover around the boat, chasing the fish heads or the seal decoy thrown from the boat on a rope, much like a dog chases a bone. The decoys were dragged towards the people waiting in the cage, sometimes causing the shark to lunge in a last minute attempt to snatch their prize with teeth bared right in front of the cage as if it were attacking the divers. Only once did one of the great fish succeed in catching the fish heads before they were hauled onboard. I felt satisfaction on behalf of the shark, gloating at its victory over the puny fisherman.

When it came to our time in the cage, I descended into the cage, thick wet-suit on to combat the cold and with last minute and redundant reminders to keep limbs inside the cage. Surprisingly, given that I was going to be sharing a space with earth’s most feared predator, I was not at all apprehensive, not as nervous as I felt I should have been. Despite their reputation, all I could see that day was a supremely designed creature, ultimately adapted to their environment. We hung in the cage until the sharks approached. A crewman would yell instructions “Shark, left” or “Shark, right”. We would dive (great whites are scared off by bubbles so this was all free-diving) and watch the shark, sometimes as it swam by harmlessly, sometimes as it attacked the decoys and by proxy the cage, teeth bared as it lunged at the fish heads. Again and again, the sharks would come, meaning that our run was the most frenetic 30 minutes that any group enjoyed in the cage. Wanting more but chilled by the cold Atlantic waters, I clambered back on board, still buzzing from what I had witnessed.

Shark diving was not as I imagined. It didn’t set the pulse racing as adventure sports do. Instead, it was serene, almost peaceful. Don’t think for a minute that I underestimate the power or danger of these animals. They could just as easy remove a human leg as we could swat a fly. But when protected by a cage and a mask, one can appreciate the rugged beauty, the pureness of their movements and also the fragility of their existence. Remember no matter how much we may fear sharks, sharks have much more to fear from people. The more people that can see sharks as they are, instead of as a caricature, the greater the chance sharks have of survival.

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Vettori's fourth innings blues

Given Daniel Vettori's long-standing role as saviour of New Zealand cricket, as a Black Caps fan, asking questions of him leaves a vaguely treacherous aftertaste in your mouth. For a while not so long ago, he acted as captain, selector and premier all-rounder, such was his standing in the game. With the bat, he has perhaps over-achieved with 6 test centuries, often made as a recovery from unpromising positions, including one in the recently completed test against Pakistan. And with ball in hand, he has been New Zealand's premier spin bowler for over a decade. For much of that time, he has also been New Zealand’s best bowler of any category (only Cairns and Bond could be said to have performed better than him over this period). He's acted as both an attacking weapon and as a stock bowler, often performing both roles at the same time, given that the New Zealand attack has often been mediocre. Bowling is his core skill, the one that he was picked for, the only New Zealand spinner of note since his debut. As a one-day bowler, his credentials are unquestionable. His change in pace, length and drift as well as a well-disguised arm ball make him a parsimonious and dangerous bowler in the shorter formats of the game, highlighted by his well deserved world #1 ranking in ODIs. In tests, it’s a different story. Without the need to try and attack him, the subtleties that are so effective in the one-day game prove ineffective in tests. Basically, Vettori is unable to get out top-order batsmen unless they attack him. Vettori himself has acknowledged that test match bowling is something that he needs to work on.  While he has taken over 340 test wickets to go with his 4000 odd runs, he has often failed in the primary role of the spinner, to win matches by running through a team on the fourth and fifth day. The latest example of this was the 2nd test between NZ and Pakistan. He bowled 34 overs in Pakistan's second innings, on a wearing fifth day track that Pakistan's part timers had managed to extract considerable turn from. While he went for fewer than 2 runs an over, he picked up only one victim, late in the day. This lack of success at being able to run through teams is what means Vettori is only merely a very good test cricketer, not a great one.

Above: A sight not seen enough in the fourth innings. Vettori celebrating a wicket.

If we look at his spin bowling contemporizes, there are five spinners with over 300 test wickets (Vettori, Warne, Muralitharan, Kumble and Harbhajan). All have a much greater success in the fourth innings than Vettori. There can be arguments made to defend him, like he plays for a weak team who seldom score enough runs to pressure the opposition, that his style of bowling is more based on drift and changes in pace than extravagant turn and he lacks quality bowlers who can help him (either another spinner like Kumble had with Harbhajan or a quality fast bowler like Warne had with McGrath or Gillespie). It can even be argued that his style of bowling is not well suited to New Zealand pitches (where he has played about half his tests) or for that matter pitches around the world which have generally been flat and batsmen friendly. They are all valid points but they still do not hide the fact that he has failed to win matches for New Zealand, even when all these factors are taken into account. The other four spinners mentioned above all have a better average in the fourth innings than their overall average. On the other hand, Vettori averages five runs a wicket more in the fourth innings than his overall average and has a strike-rate of 90 compared to a career strike rate of 78, which means he has to bowl 15 overs on average to pick up a wicket in the fourth innings. That he has maintained the mantle of New Zealand’s premier spinner for so long highlights the lack of real spin talent in this country. No challengers look likely and no-one competes with his first class record. While he may be less than potent at test level, he’s still remains New Zealand’s best option.

 Records in the fourth innings

 Vettori in 25 fourth innings has 33 wickets at an average of 39.03 and a strike rate of 90.3. (Overall average 33.98 at 77.8).

 Warne in 53 fourth innings captured 138 wickets at an average of 23.14 at a strike rate of 52.9. (Overall average 25.41 at 57.4).

 Muralitharan in 35 fourth innings captured 106 wickets at an average of 21.01 at a strike rate of 50. (Overall average 22.72 at 55).

 Kumble in 35 fourth innings captured 94 wickets at an average of 22.39 at a strike rate of 51.8. (Overall average 29.64 at 65.9).

 Harbhajan in 27 fourth innings captured 43 wickets at an average of 27.62 at a strike rate of 66.9. (Overall average 31.85 at 67.3).

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Bath house Blues

Bathhouse blues

Bath houses are a big deal in Korea. Open 24 hours, found in any significant sized settlement around Korea, advertised by an easily recognizable neon sign of three flames, they offer comfort and fun in a cleansing ritual for the whole family. Of course, the family has to have their fun segregated if they want to enjoy the tubs. Why? Because the bathhouse is something performed naked. There’s nowhere to hide. You’re left exposed and isolated, subject to looks and sideways glances, murmurs and shared moments in the bathtub. People of all ages there to enjoy the ambience. Generations of men sharing time with their sons and grandsons, conducting and finishing business deals. Tales of adultery and gossip, talks of national and even international importance have all been conducted inside the walls of a bathhouse.During my first time at the bathhouse, I was naturally extremely shy, using my towel strategically to preserve my modesty. I was paranoid, thinking everyone was checking out the anatomy of a foreigner. All bits the same, tick. Naked, stripped down to my most base human form, I was forced to watch the equally naked Korean men, hoping I would learn by osmosis, correct sauna etiquette. Random people would be my guide in this intricate ritual. They would guide me in a process where I couldn’t afford to err; I couldn’t afford to break some formal rule of bath housing. This I assumed would be fatal. I wanted to avoid a dressing down from a naked middle-aged man, not knowing where to look. Stories I had heard from Japan about breaches in bathhouse behaviour tormented and teased my brain. In the end, like many things, it didn’t seem that formal. You had to shower before entering the hot pools. You could do this by standing or sitting on small stools, letting the water cascade over you as you scrub away your daily grime. Only after you felt clean and pristine, having scrubbed away the top two layers of skin, could you then proceed to the pools. You had the choice between three hot pools of different temperatures, a cool pool and an extremely hot sauna. The best combination seemed to be alternating between cold and hot pools, going into hotter pools each time before finishing off by staying in the sauna as long as you could endure. I couldn’t do more than 2 minutes in this room when I first started but by the end could muster the strength to do several.While the first time was awkward, I soon got to enjoy my irregular forays to the bathhouse, especially in the wintertime. I got over my modesty issues quickly. In fact, I noticed that I was a star in the bathhouse. I don’t want to use this as a format to perpetuate any stereotypes nor is it intended as a ego booster. Let’s hypothesize Korean men are growers not showers. Certainly, they are growers of a copious down low fro. But rightly or wrongly, I came to think of myself as a King of the bathhouse. I walked with a conscious, some would say arrogant strut around the bathhouse. I welcomed the stares, secure in my self worth. I got used to talking to the men there, used to keeping my eyes at an appropriate level. I never went with any of my foreign friends apart from one time, afraid of losing my status, being outshined.One man I befriended at my local bathhouse at the gym was a Korean man we dubbed Tony Soprano. Tony Soprano was a well-built man who wore plenty of bling. He was always at the bathhouse even when I went at random times. When I asked him his occupation, he replied none. He had tattoos. He was buff. All these things added up made us think he was a Korean gangster, the equivalent of the yazuka in Japan. Hence the mafia honorific of Tony Soprano. We spoke in a mishmash of Korean and English in our infrequent conversations. One of these conversations stands out from the rest. It started out in the sauna at our gym, following the format of our previous conversations, small talk about how I found Korea, the weather etc. Then after ten minutes of talk, he must have felt he had gained my confidence. Pointing at my groin, he said “very big, very nice.” A little taken aback and aware that bathhouses have a reputation of being a gay pickup place (and I wasn’t ready to be the love object of a muscular Korean gangster). I was flustered and flummoxed. I felt red, redder than the steam would make me. I blurted out, hoping to defuse the situation, pointing quickly to his muscles “very big, very nice”. OK, not exactly a putdown if he was flirting but in my defence, I was in shock. Tony, empowered by my response, carried on. “Sexy time with wife, how many times a week”. Still feeling awkward but now also intrigued in the direction of the conversation, I answered “ 4 or 5 times”. He told me he had ‘sexy time” at least ten times a week. With a broad smile on his face, he then asked “sexy time how long”. I gave him a number that he seemed impressed with. “Me 2 minutes”. Then he pointed at my penis and asked me what it was in English. I told him penis and then he said “long penis long time” Then self deprecatory, he said of himself “small penis small time”. He carried on talking; telling me that his wife was boring in bed but his younger “wife”, who I presumed was a mistress, was a tiger. Then he made me swear that I wouldn’t tell anyone at the gym about his second wife, whom he said was also a member of the gym. He did this by doing a pinkie swear, making us wrap our pinkie fingers together. Picture this if you want, two large men sitting naked in the sauna, wrapping pinkies and solemnly swearing to not reveal acts of adultery. Then he excused himself and retired to the changing room. I took some time to recover my dignity before doing the same. Very strange, very strange indeed.

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Bath houses- a female perspective.

I described the male perspective before. But the female point of view is just as strange in its own way. Of course, I can’t tell that firsthand. So I’ll allow my friend, Melanie to tell that side of the bathhouse story in an email she wrote after going to the bathhouse for the first time with Mary. Here it is.

~PARENTAL GUIDANCE ADVISED.  This story contains nudity and graphic detail.  But it is kind of funny, if you can get past all that!- Hey All!

  One of our Korean friends mentioned to us…”You haven’t been to Korea if you haven’t been to a Bathhouse!”  These Bathhouses, or saunas, are all over Korea.  When I inquired what a bathhouse was, I was told that it usually had a pool or two of mineral water, and a sauna, and the better ones had a spa treatment area.Cha-ching!  This sounds like Moose Jaw!  I’m in!! And it is cultural - how much better can you get?

Mary, my Kiwi friend (here with her husband Keith - they are from the Southern part of the South island of New Zealand - it took me a while before I could understand a thing they were saying), said she’d take me. She had gone before with another teacher, and she thought I’d like it.When I asked what I’d need to take with me, Mary replied that they would provide what you need.  I’m thinking bathing suit, cover up, towel - Oh no,she says - they give you a towel.  I should have picked up on this subtle clue. So we pay our 6000 won (roughly $6 US) and head in.  Women are on the 3rd floor, men on the 5th, and a mixed, clothed relaxation room is on the fourth. We went to the 3rd!When we got off the elevator, it opened into a big change room.  It was very posh - a little snack and juice bar, a big screen TV, a lounge area. And then, like a pie in the face, it hits you - naked!  Naked!  NAKED!  Everyone is naked.  The lady doing her hair - Naked (not even any underwear for modesty?  NO!  Naked!)  The ladies sitting on the couches in conversation?  Naked!  The chick watching the terrible Korean soap opera on the big screen?  NAKED!  (And by the way, not sitting very lady like, either!) I shoot Mary a NASTY look.  She laughs!  I shoot her another nasty look. I contemplate my choices.  No bathing suit necessary, I guess!   Naked is the word of the day. So.  Mary and I, when in Rome, and all … get ready.  Or un-ready, as it were.

 The only two white folk there, I might add.  Do you think anyone noticed? Oh, did I mention that Mary is a natural redhead?!!  Right-o.  With a big dragonfly tattoo on her arse.  And I have this tan from Bali still - so it looks like I have a bathing suit on. It became apparent that we were the freaks at the party. Nevertheless, we headed into the pool area.  There were three circular pools, about 12 feet in diameter - naturally, as we were single minded in our determination to get out of the NAKED and into the water, we chose the closest pool.  It was not until after we plunged in the pool that we read the temperature to be 40.8 degrees Celcius.  Choice - Naked, or boiled todeath?  Naked won this round. We were careful about our next choice, but it seemed clear, so to speak.  The second pool was 39.5 degrees, but had clear water.  The third pool was 38 degrees, which certainly seemed reasonable, but the water was like a Pine sol neon green!  Pool number 2 won out - but only for a minute.  But now the choice was naked, boiled, or disinfected.  We chose disinfected this round. So although the water was questionable, at least we could stay submerged in the pool to our necks for some time and get a chance to look around.  It was quite a lovely place, with a beautiful stone mosaic on the walls but once again I’ll remind you - everyone was naked! 

 There were three pools, and also three saunas.  (One read the temperature to be 82 degrees Celcius - that cannot be healthy, naked or clothed.)  At the other end, there were 56 little sit down shower stalls (I counted so as to avoid looking at all the Naked around!)  In the middle there was this elevated area by the pools where women appeared to be sleeping naked - like lizards - under these red heat lamps.  It kind of looked like they were orders at acafe counter ready to be taken away by some giant waiter! “Can I get a naked 75 year old Korean at table 4, please?” “Certainly - we have two choices available - naked medium sized, or naked large.” Then at one corner of the room, there was an area with 4 massage-like tables.  I asked Mary about this and before I knew it, she had handed our locker keys to one lady - who appeared to be an employee of the bathhouse. I could tell this because she was wearing the bathhouse uniform - black panties.  She and her colleague were the only non-naked ones in the place,and they only barely qualified. Mary said that they would be giving us a scrub.  Mary went first, and I contemplated my options.  I could take off, but unfortunately, Black Panties now had my key.  Maybe she wouldn’t find me.  Right - because I blend in with the rest of the clientele. Before I had formulated my escape plan, Black Panties came over and called me out of the pool.  Naked wins again!  She indicated that I hop onto the rubber coated massage table, and then proceeded to pour a pail of water over me!  Mary was at the next table, laughing.  Mary is a bitch. Then, Black Panties proceeded to attach a couple of scrub pads to her hands. And then proceeded to scrub!  And scrub!  And scrub!  Like she was getting melted cheese off a frying pan.  Like she was digging out burned casserole from the corners of a dish!  And let me tell you, she got into the corners.  I have never been scrubbed in some of those corners.  In fact, I have had relationships less physical.  Black panties got to 3rd base on our first date! She scrubbed for 35 minutes.  She scrubbed my back, my front (oh, yes, the girls got scrubbed too), she scrubbed my sides, and then got back into the corners. My Bali tan is now completely gone.  So are all my inhibitions about NAKED.  But my skin is exfoliated like NEVER before.  I think we’re going back next week!

 Only in Korea.

Love, Melanie

Mary and Melanie did indeed attend the week after and several times after that. Mary had her own unfortunate experiences to describe in a story involving Black Panties and BPs friend. She was getting a scrub when BPs naked friend came over for a chat. BPs friend was of course naked but unusually given the location, also consuming a banana. Anyway, her presence seemed to disturb Mary. Like a dog sensing fear, BPs friend then proceeded to disturb Mary more. Like a shark tearing at the dignity of normal civility, the banana found itself no longer being consumed but mashed into an entirely different orifice altogether, not one generally used for the of eating banana. If she wished to disturb the delicate psyche of a feeble foreigner, she succeeded. Mary was left embarrassed. But BP’s friend didn’t believe in taking cultural prisoners. She believed in sudden immersion, possibly causing death. There was a male version of the scrub although I never got the satisfaction of a scrotal scrub. It was recommended to me by a friend as the perfect way to start a big night out. Whenever, I asked the pool attendants claimed ignorance. And for some reason, I asked repeatedly. Why? In the name of culture? Maybe. To get the perfect smooth skin that Mary would come home with? More likely. But, mostly out of curiosity. It’s kind of like when I get a massage in South East Asia, I always wanted the masseur to ask if I wanted a happy ending. Not because I wanted to take them up on their offer (I wouldn’t) but because it would be a story to tell. Everything considered, it was probably for the best that the scrubber could never be roused whenever I asked. Maybe he would have offered a happy ending!!

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VIP Night In Agra

Behind the mosques and temples, the tigers and the Taj Mahal, beyond the food, beyond the smells and sights of India, the thing that lasts in the memory most about India is the mass of people. People are everywhere, from all walks of life. As a tourist however, it is important to remember that most of the people you meet are in the tourist industry -- the auto rickshaw drivers, the motel and guesthouse owners, the shopkeepers, the street touts and even many of the beggars. Their job, no, their livelihood, depends on getting you to separate with your hard-earned cash, at a highly a marked-up price. So, it’s a refreshing change to be offered the chance to get out and meet the rest of India: the factory workers, the restaurant owners and waiters, the doctors, the teachers. Whatever their vocation, they aren’t involved in actively taking your money and as a tourist in India that is a very welcomed change. With that in mind, some of our group jumped at the chance offered by Mr. Sandeep Arora, the owner of our guesthouse, to come along as the VIP foreign guests to a local festival. Later that evening, we found ourselves hurtling down Agra’s narrow back alleys in Sandeep’s car. Soon into the ride, we were startled to discover that we were hostages.

“Yes,” Mr. Sandeep said, “tonight you are my hostages. You can’t leave, you know, until I’m ready. Then you can go.”

"Okay," I replied, “as long as we’re home by tomorrow at noon.”

“No problem," said Mr. Sandeep with a smile.”Unless I kill you!”

This was a little disconcerting but I guessed the affable entrepreneur was just bluffing. Perhaps he was mindful of the recent bomb-blasts in Dehli and Jaipur.  So far, Agra had been spared but the bombings had caused small shockwaves to ripple through tourist circles; he quickly made an effort to smooth over any fears, and ceased any talk of murder.

“Don’t worry,” he assured us, “in this case, you will be my cultural hostages.”

Although I believed the sincerity of his assurances, I felt that my life was  in the hands of a man who believed that every Hindu deity was in charge of traffic. Our car fought against a deluge of auto-rickshaws and motorbikes, camels and cows. Children played on the side of the street, some stopping to stare at the passing foreigners, others even brave enough to wave. Through our open window, we heard snatches of English: What’s your good name? Where are you from? But we were moving too fast to reply.

On the way to the festival, Mr. Sandeep explained that we would be attending the largest carnival in Northern India. All of Agra’s two million-plus inhabitants seemed to be out – men in western clothes, most women in their colourful saris. The carnival was celebrating the marriage of Ram and Sita, billed as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to watch a page from the mythological history of the Ramayana. Mr. Sandeep said we would be the honoured first-ever foreign guests to the festival; he had been able to arrange this because he was a member of the carnival’s organizing committee. He said that he had personally vouched for our safety. All we had to do in return was spread the word of the carnival to the outside world, as well as offer our constructive criticism and feedback about the event. As we sped along the streets of Agra, a dirty looking industrial city which would be bypassed by tourists altogether if it wasn’t for the pull of the Taj Mahal, we looked at shots on his digital camera of candid moments with his family, and a behind-the-scenes-view of the carnival preparation.

            Soon, we approached the festival area. There were countless strings of coloured lights draped across the road like the Christmas lights you might see in the West. We pulled up to a road-block patrolled by a couple of armed soldiers and blocked by a bamboo barricade. Mr. Sandeep exchanged a few words in rapid-fire Hindi with the soldiers but it looked like he was going to suffer a serious loss of face. The soldiers wouldn’t let the car through, even after Mr. Sandeep’s repeated requests.

“But here are the foreign VIP guests,” he pleaded.

The soldiers were adamant; no cars allowed. Faced with humiliation, Mr. Sandeep tried another tack and phoned the carnival headquarters. He must have got the right answer because seconds later a message was broadcast over the loudspeakers: Hindi, Hindi, Hindi, Foreigner VIP guests, Hindi, Hindi. The soldiers were rebuked; Mr. Sandeep was vindicated. The barrier lifted and the car merged with all the foot traffic heading towards carnival centre. Throngs of pedestrians pressed against the car, slowing us down to a crawl. The crowd waved and cheered at our car, wrongly assuming that we really were VIPs, instead of three semi-anonymous travelers from New Zealand.

            Eventually, we arrived at our destination, a palace made from bamboo and plywood, covered in mirrors and broken CDs to enhance its sheen. This structure, although temporary, was an impressive sight, standing about 40 metres high and 100 metres long. Mr. Sandeep led us onto the palace stage where Ram and Sita’s thrones sat. Next, we were introduced to the camera-crew of Moon TV, a pan-Indian television channel, who asked us how it felt to be the first foreign VIP guests to attend the festival. We answered their questions:  how honoured we were, how wonderful the carnival was, and so on. The interview finished and we were whisked away to meet and greet the local dignitaries, including the municipal congressman.

 After the meet-and-greet, we walked along the street and it was clear that Mr. Sandeep was serious about his guarantee for our personal safety. Crowds of children gathered around us, but they didn’t ask us to buy anything. Instead, they wanted a touch, a handshake, a photo snapped on a cell phone, stored for eternity. Groups of young, married women snatched sideways glances at us from under their sari, averting their eyes if we attempted contact. Young men approached, maybe to practice their English or out of goodwill, asking our names and the names of our home countries. Soon, Mr. Sandeep was ushering us away and we were back in his car, this time to drop his kids at home.

His house was large, with eight bedrooms on two floors. We sat with him and his kids, drinking chai and sampling Indian sweets. The kids soon left for bed and Mr. Sandeep took us back to the carnival. When we arrived, the streets were really pumping – a genuine carnival atmosphere with many games, some familiar, others foreign. We drove past people selling balloons, fruit, and ice creams. People waved at us as we passed; our presence was known to them from an announcement that was reported every now and then on the loud speakers. We stopped at occasional points of interest, only to get out of the car and find ourselves as the point of interest. At one stop, we pushed past the safety rope, right to the front, to watch as the inconsolable Sita passed by on a float, surrounded by dancers and with an accompanying brass band, seemingly incongruous with the otherwise subcontinent feel of the carnival. People threw gifts on the float, fruit, as well as flowers and boxes of fruit juice, which we, unfortunately, had drunk in ignorance. No one seemed to mind our mistake; certainly no-one had the bad manners to mention it. After all, there was only room for good vibes on this carnival night and the other revelers thought our drinking of the bride’s drink was nothing more than innocent mistake. Everyone went out of their way to make us welcome. Two young boys attached themselves to us and explained the significance of the float, the importance of what Sita was wearing, and what the dancers were doing, with snippets of Hindi mythology. A couple of attractive female soldiers came up to ask our impression of the night. Elderly men approached us to shake our hands and pass-over sickly sweet candy. We drove the streets a little more before retiring home. Mr. Sandeep was anxious to hear our impressions. We informed him that we enjoyed our night greatly, especially for the strangeness of being revered VIP guests. Mostly, I think I enjoyed meeting Indians in real India, a side of India that many visitors don’t get to see. An India removed from tourism where foreigners and Indians can share in a cultural exchange without money being exchanged. On the way home, Mr. Sandeep said he hoped we had a great time to which we all responded with a resounding yes. Mr. Sandeep had been our cultural guide; he opened new doors for us and made us part of a very special event. It highlighted that sometimes highlights of trips are ones that you least expect, that sometimes you have to follow a path even though your brain is screaming alarm bells. It can be difficult to trust people, but sometimes you have to trust and hope things will turn out for the best. This night was one of those occasions.

Above: Sita, the bride and star of the festival.

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South Korean Doves.

There were three men in a restaurant, a North Korean, a South Korean and an American. Shortly after they arrive, the waiter comes over and says to the trio “Sorry, tonight there’s no steak. There’s a shortage of meat”. The South Korean replied, “What’s sorry?”. The North Korean asked “what’s meat?’ and the American said, “what’s shortage”.

The split between North and South Korea is very real and not a laughing matter. It is more than  just a division on a map. Economically, socially and politically, the two nations have pulled apart, especially with the past 20 years. Until 1976, North Korea was better off than its capitalist brother but since that time, the South has pulled far ahead. The North has been run into the ground by an out of touch government whose stocks have fallen further since the fall of communism in the Soviet Union and elsewhere. The regime has managed to find money to buy top quality overseas produce, bring a whiskey factory piece meal from Scotland and spend a small fortune on producing propaganda art films, but has neglected to ensure its general populace has enough food to survive. This had lead to several famines; the worst of them in 1994 that may have killed up to 3 million people and led to reports of cannibalism in the rural landscape. Driving at night back from Seoul to Paju, my home about 5 kilometres from North Korea illuminates the divide, literally. On the south side are lights, lights that illuminate the south,including the independence highway that would link Seoul with Pyongyang. A lack of lights across the river shows more than the darkness hides, a lack of lights highlighting the electricity and infrastructure problems that plagues the North.

Living so close to the border has meant I keep a very interested eye on the news. Recent events such as the torpedoing of the South Korean warship, the Cheonan, by North Korea, which led to the loss of life of 46 South Korean seaman and the recent shelling of Yeonpyeong Island, have put the peninsula back into the spotlight that it is seldom far out of. As of yet, the South has shown considerable restraint in its dealings with the North. The only real casualty has been the South Korean Defence Minister Kim Tae Young, who resigned over complaints that he was too slow to act after the shelling of the island. The question to ask is why is the South showing such restraint? Many other countries antagonized to the same extent would have responded with more than economic sanctions and tersely worded diplomatic messages. So why haven’t the South responded more vigorously? Why hasn’t the conservative Lee Myung Bak government been more assertive?

One of the main reasons would be that the South Korean government wants reunification but only at a pace it can dictate. What the South fears the most is a quick collapse of the North Korean regime. This would spell economic disaster for South Korea. Imagine what would happen after reunification when 5 million poor North Koreans flood into Seoul, taking cut price jobs, the 3D (dirty, dangerous and undesirable) jobs. The economy of the South would stagnate and recede, the wealth of the North would be slow to increase. The example of East and West Germany is often used to demonstrate the difficulty of unifying two countries, joint by a common culture and language but separated by ideology and personal wealth. Only now have East and West Germany became equitable and that took 18 years. The wealth gap between North and South Korea is much larger than that which existed between East and West Germany at their time of unification. Recent polls have indicated that South Koreans are increasingly less likely to want to pay a significant reunification tax; the ties between the two are becoming loose. Direct relatives divided by the DMZ are becoming fewer as the years of division go by (its 60 years this year since the start of the Korean War), although such meetings between siblings divided by war and time are heart wrenching. Koreans I have spoken to, from co-workers to students to generals in the South Korean Army, all express reservations about a possible reunification. The only positive thing I’ve heard is that reunification would mean the vast amount spent on the military in both countries could be slashed.

What about other players in the area? China may view North Korea as a spoilt child but it doesn’t want an end to the regime. For one, North Korea is one of the few Communist states still left (and its brand of nepotistic Stalinism is probably the most pure of all the remaining Communist countries). China doesn’t want its people to witness the collapse of another communist state. Just like South Korea, China would worry about an influx of North Koreans into China (the Chinese border area is a Korean autonomous zone with a pretty porous border). Another reason is that a unified Korea would mean a potentially strong country and close ally of America at its back gate.

America doesn’t necessarily want the regime to fall. Who knows what that would mean for North East Asia? Japan probably wouldn’t mind a weaker South Korea, given the competitiveness of South Korea now in areas where Japan has been dominant for decades. It also would get rid of an openly hostile and anti-Japanese regime in North Korea. The North Korean regime no doubt knows that none of the key players (South Korea, China or America) are really dedicated to bringing them down. So they can play a bit, push here and worry here, safe in the knowledge that any reaction will probably be slight and tempered by the fact that no one wants them to fall over. The people who probably most desire change are the people who have the most to gain but are also the people that we know the least about. The North Korean public have lived under this strange form of hereditary communism, seeing the leadership pass from father to son and after the recent anointing of Kim Jong Un, it would seem to grandson. Ultimately, it will probably be their desire to reunify that will one day led to the reunification of the peninsula.

  Above: The torpedo that sank the Cheonan, now displayed in the National War Memorial in Seoul. 

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Musuems in Asia

Through my travels in Asia, I’ve come to really enjoy visiting museums. They range from the stuffed animal fetish of the National History Museum in Ulaanbaatar to the grand museums of the palaces of Rajasthan. I like them for the information but love them for the misinformation they give. The most extreme example of this would be the museum at the Yasukuni shrine. This shrine is controversial because as together with all of Japan’s war dead, the souls of 14 Class A war criminals have been dedicated there. Visits by Japanese Prime Ministers honouring the war dead (and by extension, these executed war criminals) have been met with disapproval and protests from neighbouring Asian countries, in particular Korea and China. The museum and shrine has therefore become a centre point for extreme right wing groups in Japan. The museum contains many gems. For example, the Japanese followed military rules to the letter in Nanking (according to the museum, there was no Rape of Nanking). Japan’s role in World War II is held up as a brave struggle to overthrow Western colonial oppression and unite the peoples of Asia under the enlightened stewardship of Imperial Japan. Japan’s often bloody suppression of China and the rest of Asia is recast as brilliant military campaigns in which people welcomed the Japanese as liberators instead of conquerors. Japan also inspired independence movements from Morocco to India, Angola to Papua New Guinea and inspired the views and beliefs of Gandhi, Mandala and Martin Luther King Jr. Pearl Harbour was the inevitable conclusion of American embargos on Japan.

Another museum that rates a mention would be one in Ho Chi Minh City. Called the War Remnants museum, it documents the ‘terrible wrong doings of the US Government” during the American War (as the Vietnam War is known in Vietnam). Of course, the US government were involved in some terrible atrocities but the museum conveniently overlooks any wrong doings by North Vietnam and concentrates solely on the mass evil of America and its capitalist puppet South Vietnam.  We see images of fetuses warped by exposure to Orange Agent, Vietnamese pushed alive out of US military helicopters, of GIs grinning manically with ears of Vietcong as trophies.

Of course, not all museums are as unbalanced as these two. The national war memorial in Seoul encompasses a sprawling museum that details warfare from Paleolithic times, through Mongol and Japanese invasions, through the times of Chinese pre-eminence. And then several rooms dedicated to the detailing of the Korean War. Koreans have seen a lot of war and thrown out a lot of conquerors. In a way, they are the Poland of Asia stuck between two major powers, always trying to balance its own desire against the ambition of its more powerful neighbours. So it’s appropriate that they have a large war museum. The museum dedicates several rooms documenting the Korean War, spending time describing in detail such military maneuvers like the Incheon invasion. I particularly enjoyed the weapons display as well as the military vehicles spread around and outside the memorial. I enjoyed the museum, only disappointed that it wasn’t as outrageous as some of its Asian counterparts. It was surprisingly balanced for a country still at war and with deep-rooted negative feelings towards its neighbours, in particular Japan.

The most balanced museum of all was the one that could have been the most biased and nationalistic. The Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum talks about the atomic bombing of the city, presenting its horror in a thoughtful and thought-provoking manner. The necessity to bomb Hiroshima is presented with both sides of the debate given airtime. Basically, one side argues that Japan was on its last legs and that there was no need for the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. This side maintains that the bombing was done for political reasons, to show the power of America in a post-WW2 environment. It is also argued that the expense of the Manhattan project was such that America wanted to try out its weapon and see how effective it was. Hiroshima was chosen partly because it was largely untouched by Allied bombing and also because the city lies in a valley which would amplify the effect of the bomb. The other side would argue that Japan was prepared to fight on and that a full-scale invasion of Japan would have cost the lives of many hundreds of thousands of Allied troops and many more Japanese, both civilian and military. The truth probably lies somewhere in between. Japan was interested in fighting on so it could gain a more sympathetic surrender. However, the declaration of war by Russia on Japan meant that such a prospect was unlikely. Undoubtedly, America gained a lot politically from the bombing as well as invaluable data on its costly enterprise. The Museum manages to present both sides of the argument. There are so many heart wrenching moments, the pictures of women with kimono patterns burnt into their back, pictures of children orphaned by the bomb, people throwing themselves into the river, the watch that stopped at the exact time of the bombing. It is an extremely poignant and eye-opening museum, done in the best of taste. It just goes to show that not all museums in Asia are unbalanced.

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Best of 2010

My best of 2010, my favourites that garnered multi-plays on my iPod. That's a lot of mys.

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Helicopter- Deer Hunter

Starting off with an effect that could be from a dub album, a watery sounding drum machine that carries on to form the nucleus of the song, Deerhunter's first single from Halcyon Digest proved to be a stunner. Bradford Cox, who seems to be everywhere (as well as Deerhunter, he moonlights as Atlas Sound), produces a great vocal performance, soulful and plaintive. . After reading his Wikipedia entry, which talks about his identifying with Edward Scissorhands and the loneliness of his teenage existence, one lyric, “No one cares for me, I keep no company”, almost sounds autobiographical.

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Fever Dreaming- No Age

While nothing hit me as much as Eraser of No Age’s first album Nouns, Everything in Between sees a step up in song writing. The melodies that threatened to poke out previously are brought closer to the surface and everything is just a bit more polished, a little more layered. Songs like Skinned have a crunchy Velvet Underground feel while Fever Dreaming is an urgent piece of melodic punk complete with screeching guitar. Many reviewers compared it to the Ramones. I don’t quite see it like that that but it’s a tight song. The assimilation of influences is one of the key aspects of many of the artists on this list and most, if not all, have found the level of homage to be original rather than imitators. In an age, where no much music can be truly original, it is the ability to repackage the old and familiar that makes or breaks music.