tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-123047122024-03-13T20:25:06.400+05:30chutney spears - An insult to intelligenceA blog for my thoughts which are not fully thought through.Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.comBlogger438125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-3831607565006869222015-08-02T07:46:00.000+05:302015-08-02T07:46:11.274+05:30The all star Filipino Women's Boxing Team<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijwmxzabimMIchVnRmqjjpvappMarGr1cdNSsr3sF35zrIw034UI5y8tC_pU6hUCuMn1To48q1wUzbshamurSCXWMIG1xS3aHTcSy-0tlCxsa3sw6rqI6yLXUBvTmrEEvkMyDzmw/s1600/P7291239.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijwmxzabimMIchVnRmqjjpvappMarGr1cdNSsr3sF35zrIw034UI5y8tC_pU6hUCuMn1To48q1wUzbshamurSCXWMIG1xS3aHTcSy-0tlCxsa3sw6rqI6yLXUBvTmrEEvkMyDzmw/s320/P7291239.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big Boss Patricio Gaspi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPmJ-gHwWDyLn63CINPCAM8I6Yp3htJdtMN4IujRnp9EbbzDbfksMlevHq3iLGf8-sGNAsHp1Bktm-pYY7MylJb5EOh-4xaVaLS6J4zWtYtaGYlJ3rwnGigJ1Sbo30oVqjoR1mIA/s1600/P7291246.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPmJ-gHwWDyLn63CINPCAM8I6Yp3htJdtMN4IujRnp9EbbzDbfksMlevHq3iLGf8-sGNAsHp1Bktm-pYY7MylJb5EOh-4xaVaLS6J4zWtYtaGYlJ3rwnGigJ1Sbo30oVqjoR1mIA/s320/P7291246.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The coaches Roel Velasco (Centre), Mel Briz (Right)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDaIW1H0goM2fdpkP2Ys-emqHiaASUORXG_sv5zEsOSbEgxp6c9S12-JD_IYZRrUcqcCzbhvdV5VlYSQubu_Ueg1CtSdJeGhYhSG6fKYNMHxXKdzbppJdv_68aaEj3F69IETNSUw/s1600/P7291270.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDaIW1H0goM2fdpkP2Ys-emqHiaASUORXG_sv5zEsOSbEgxp6c9S12-JD_IYZRrUcqcCzbhvdV5VlYSQubu_Ueg1CtSdJeGhYhSG6fKYNMHxXKdzbppJdv_68aaEj3F69IETNSUw/s320/P7291270.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Irish Magno</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4SJ9cQz0sxQ_95EvVuQMQtEa58so6zM7kEh24-LykHz_qHOfVR8CIpudNCG_dGOswPTn3wQRWUz0aUsXttN0agC_-LhDejAN25qZB2wABZZIytQ5BwWp_8q7Sj0xA86We0AEYQQ/s1600/P7291278.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4SJ9cQz0sxQ_95EvVuQMQtEa58so6zM7kEh24-LykHz_qHOfVR8CIpudNCG_dGOswPTn3wQRWUz0aUsXttN0agC_-LhDejAN25qZB2wABZZIytQ5BwWp_8q7Sj0xA86We0AEYQQ/s320/P7291278.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Juniors</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI67hRVjYjgPvgcit1370lEHNniKO4fAZIUyXHNKARVJQWHb9eo6RQHymJHPm2w8sOedhs2EUQfyzyvILIwje1k_nH8oFcFbyKzlb4cxHz93K0-TmwZf1vNzIZxWJszBg9f51Uyw/s1600/P7291305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI67hRVjYjgPvgcit1370lEHNniKO4fAZIUyXHNKARVJQWHb9eo6RQHymJHPm2w8sOedhs2EUQfyzyvILIwje1k_nH8oFcFbyKzlb4cxHz93K0-TmwZf1vNzIZxWJszBg9f51Uyw/s320/P7291305.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Champions - Nesthy Peticio (Left) and Josie Gabuco </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-26575964450796523172015-07-20T18:35:00.001+05:302015-07-20T18:36:18.711+05:30Join my speech in Manila, The Philippines <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidauPzQW3X9FDnAmK6K7-n51CbC0As1Q3G9KlxwIm4mViZ7PHS7q_HpPOcHwT55t1Tnn50iX3N1cVNxOsg0fd6s63DDzWaZ73LzavKXxOrIokqd6ZUIaX6NDGenMpjtc0a_oSMBw/s1600/SD+speech+Manila.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidauPzQW3X9FDnAmK6K7-n51CbC0As1Q3G9KlxwIm4mViZ7PHS7q_HpPOcHwT55t1Tnn50iX3N1cVNxOsg0fd6s63DDzWaZ73LzavKXxOrIokqd6ZUIaX6NDGenMpjtc0a_oSMBw/s640/SD+speech+Manila.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-88750281965528065232015-02-01T07:32:00.002+05:302015-02-01T07:32:21.017+05:30Where the sea and the city tell each other stories: Makassar<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jalan Nusantara</i>, or Archipelago Road,
how aptly named! At Makassar, this road divides the two worlds of stories, the
land and the sea. On one side is Makassar port, one of the busiest in
Indonesia. On the other is a row of cafes, karaoke bars, hotels and restaurants;
shutters down during the day, and at night, barely lit, revealing themselves as
brothels. These two worlds meet every night after a long day of anxious waiting
when sailors and young ladies, both groups who have arrived from all over the Indonesian
archipelago, disappear in the arms of each other.</div>
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It is nine in
the evening and Jalan Nusantara feels ominous with the constant barrage of
monstrous trucks carrying the impenetrable realms of containers. The ladies,
with fresh make-up, have just begun to come out from the dark, sitting
themselves on a long row of plastic chairs that have now lined Jalan Nusantara.
In Indonesia, commercial sex workers are known as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pekerja Seks Komersial</i> or PSKs, a name that seems straight out of
Carl Linnaeus’ book. They are now sitting themselves in rehearsed postures of
crossing their legs, baring one to catch the light from the streetlamps.
Makassar is one of the few cities in the world where, as was common in much of
the world before, ports still attract brothels. </div>
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I see sailors
attempting to make the dangerous crossing of Jalan Nusantara through the plying
trucks. From across the road, the women begin whistling and clapping at him. The
sailors, in small groups of two or three, are halting, sprinting, halting, dodging
and jumping as the women cheer them on. Once on the other side, they have a
smile that soon turns shy. The girls call out to them. The sailors walk on for
a while, avoiding making eye contact, till a bold female hand holds their hands
and pull them in. One woman gets up and grabs the hand of a sailor and pulls
him in. Isn’t she a teenager? Her co-workers push the other men in too who
don’t resist. </div>
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I wonder if
the sailors and the PSKs tell each other stories; stories from the sea, of
mysterious creatures, countless stars, near-miss accidents, and weeks and
months spent away from the comforts of home; and stories from the land, of youth
and families left behind, of the range of body odours they have encountered, of
the never-sleeping fear of the unknown, or of hopes still alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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The PSKs and
their agents are calling after me too. But I am not a sailor and my heavily
insured life is too sterile, my stories bleached of much of the pains of life. One
man, probably the manager, screams and points at the girl sitting next to him,
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stock Baru</i>,” new stock. Where would
she be from? PSKs usually work in cities far away from home to hide their
identities. Red light areas all over Indonesia are known to run exchange
programs for PSKs so that local customers get acquainted with new people. </div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I keep walking. Suddenly one man opens a door to reveal a dazzling world
of lights and women scantily clad, seated in stacks. They look like lifeless
mannequins; staring vacantly towards me or are they longing for the door that
just opened out! Like a man possessed by a messianic duty, I run from Jalan
Nusantara, gasping, my heart as heavy as a container truck.</span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-24750453984083961442014-12-19T08:24:00.001+05:302014-12-19T08:24:06.441+05:30An epic task of making the oceans sweeter: Salt farmers in Jeneponto, Indonesia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<h1>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Toc405983532"><span class="notranslate"></span></a></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">I have always had a sweet relationship with salt. Blame it on
culture. Both my parents had migrated to India from East Pakistan, now
Bangladesh, where people like their food a little saltier than rest of
humanity. We, East Bengalis, can live happily ever after eating just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Panta Bhat</i></span></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[1]</span></b></span></span></i></span></span></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate"> with salt every
day. At home, my mom’s culinary advice has always been, “If you ever forget
whether you have already put salt in the dish, remember this; to err on the
side of caution, just add in more salt.” My father used to eat a handful of
salt with every meal before his heart protested at the age of eighty-two. At
that time, the words that shook our family most was, “Doctor asked him to eat
less salt.” And when my sister, a doctor herself, reminds him of this, he will
always say, “How can you forget Gandhi?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How can you forget Dandi March</span></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[2]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">? How can you forget
what we suffered for a fistful of salt?” And every time the little salt pot was
removed from our living room because of aesthetic reasons, somehow, it always
found its way back. So when I first saw the wide expanse of salt farms on the
way from Makassar to Jenepento in South Sulawesi, Indonesia, I could barely
contain my thrill.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">I saw acres upon acres of simmering white fields, divided
into squares, with tiny mounds of salt heaped along their edges. Scrawny men
moved around, carrying loads of salts in baskets jumping from the two ends of the
beams over their shoulders, springing up and down in light footsteps, looking
like mysterious musical instruments. Other men followed their own rhythm,
scratching the salt gently from the ponds with wide scrapers, creating those small
white hills. Rickety windmills talked to them like cranky old women. I wanted
to jump out into the fields. I wanted to talk to these salt farmers. But as I had
a meeting to attend, I promised to myself, “I will have you come back here
soon.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Back in my hotel, I can’t get Jeneponto out of my mind. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think of the episode of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Samudra Manthan</i> from Hindu mythology where the demons and gods
collaborated to churn the ocean and extract the elixir of life. Statues and
murals commemorating this episode can be seen all over Indonesia, a country
with a Hindu past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Samudra Manthan</i> was inspired by real
life, as most myths are, wasn’t it based on these churners of the sea, the salt
farmers?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">The next day, I gang up with two local travel bloggers from
Makassar, Daeng Ipul and Ahmad. But unfortunately, today is the beginning of
the rainy season that also marks the end of the salt-farming period in
Jeneponto. The rains toned down their intensity as we went farther away from
Makassar. Jeneponto after all, is unusually arid, sandwiched between regions
receiving heavy rainfall. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">It is one of the poorest regions of Indonesia. Given its arid
climate, the largely agricultural population barely manages to scrape through
by cultivating corn and extracting salt. Emigration from Jeneponto is therefore
rampant, to Makassar and other parts of Sulawesi. And Jeneponto is the land of
horses. The first sign that you have reached Jeneponto is the sight of chopped
horse heads in street-side butcher shops, still smiling an eerie smile, standing
firm next to big chunks of its own meat on the table. Men in straw hats ride
leisurely past these stalls on horseback.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">As the rains have begun, the salt farmers are relaxing today.
We meet a group of people idling at a thatched shed in front of their house. As
is always possible in Indonesia, we crash into the conversation and make
ourselves comfortable in the shed. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">They are a family of salt farmers. Daeng Situju, the man of
the house, is seated with his wife, his mother and his baby girl. Situju is
wearing a cap, a well-bleached blue PVC jacket and denim shorts. He is lean but
his face is a little bloated, sporting a faint Hitlerish moustache. Daeng
Situju has just turned fifty. His wife looks much younger. She has curly hair
and is wearing a floral gown. Everyone in the family have healthy copper skin.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Daeng Situju spreads out his life as a salt-farmer to us, “You
see these bags of salt. They are fifty kilos each. Each bag can fetch ten to
fifteen thousand rupiah</span></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[3]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">. If your field is farther
away from the road, your salt fetches much less. But the price is never stable.
This year it has gone as low as seven thousand rupiah. Only once, we had a good
time. In 1999, when Habibie</span></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[4]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate"> had briefly banned
salt imports to Indonesia, I could get a hundred thousand for fifty kg.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Indonesia, despite spanning over 17,000 islands and a vast
expanse of oceans, imports almost half its consumption of salt. Salt for
industrial use constitutes the bulk of the imports as local production is
deemed to be of poorer quality. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">A middle-aged lady called Daeng Bunga and her daughter join us.
They are the neighbours. Lady Bunga has a piece of cloth wrapped over her head
like a turban. She must have been carrying something heavy just now. Her
daughter is wearing school uniform. The bamboo shelter is getting crowded with
eight of us. Everyone except the kids and the grandmother want a chance to
speak. We ask them why the price of salt fluctuates so much. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Daeng Bunga says, “Our fate is tied to Madura</span></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[5]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">. If they produce
more, the prices come down. When they produce less, it goes up. We have absolutely
no control.” Situju nods.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Situju’s wife says, “It’s not just that. We also don’t have any
control of how much we can produce. It depends on hot and cold. Hot wind comes
from the hills; cold wind comes from the sea. If the hot wind is stronger,
there is more evaporation. More evaporation, more salt. June to October is
usually the best time for hot wind. But then there is the sun and the clouds,
hot, cold. How can we control these ‘holts’ and ‘colds’?” Situju nods
vigorously.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">This has been an especially bad year for salt farmers and
prices have hit rock bottom due to abundant production in Madura. The
government had advised salt farmers to hoard salt and release it during the
months of January to March when prices tend to be higher. However, the farmers
had to offload all the salt even at low prices because the peak production
period was during the festival of Hari Raya</span></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[6]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate"> when farmers need
more cash at hand.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">The conversation reminded me of my friends who worked as
traders in financial firms, a profession used to complaining about ‘no control’
when things are going bad. I have been forced to memorize the only thing they could
talk about in any conversation, “Don’t ask me how I am. The world is in a mess.
Tsunami in Japan, flooding in Thailand, hurricanes with fancy names. Then these
wars in Libya and who knows where.Two years of my life gone. And now, the
bloody Fed stopped QE. Then this war in Syria is like so normal. And then Putin.
And then, China slows down feeling so proud about it. Why did they have to
select just this time to cut down corruption? Luxury sector gone. Tourism gone.
Mexico also gone. Modi, Jokowi all talk talk talk. And tell me, what was the
need for this election in Japan now? People still ask us for returns. Tell me,
do I have any control?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Our salt farmers look a lot more cheerful. Situju tells me,
“Well, I have been a salt farmer for fifteen years. So I have seen enough.” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">But Daeng Bunga and Situju’s wife unleashes a volley of
complaints against the government. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">“Nobody cares about the salt farmers,” Situju’s wife says. “In
2012 there was a big tidal flood. All our salt was destroyed. The government
said they will give us some compensation and took our names and signatures. Not
a single Rupiah has come in since then.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">“Well, once I did get some support from the government to buy
the windmills,” says Situju.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">But Daeng Bunga cuts him, “But do you remember that time when
the government said they will take us to Madura and train us in salt farming?
Who are they to train us? We have been doing this over generations. And who did
they take? Did they take any real salt farmer? Only the people close to the
government for a free trip.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Situju’s mother goes inside the house with the baby girl to
make more space for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I take a break
to look at the salt fields. The sea has been lured in here and then tamed; waves
turned into ripples. The squares used as the den for the sea are fifteen metre
by ten metre each. Rows of windowless thatch houses serve as warehouses at the
back. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Situju explains the production process, </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">“The land has to be compacted by hand so that salty water
doesn’t seep into the ground. Then we flood a container pond with the sea water
for three days. This water is then moved to the smaller squares. The salt
begins to crystallize around the corners of these squares. If the sun and wind
is good, I can collect salt from these ponds every two days. We don’t process
the salt here. We just wash them a bit.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">“But sometimes, if weather is not right, we have to wait for up
to a month to produce the first salt,” Daeng Bunga interrupts. “Those times, we
have to borrow money at 50% interest to stay alive. The men here also have to
look for work in Makassar or in the corn fields here.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">“I own 2.8 acres of salt fields here,” says Situju. “But
there are people who will rent this land for salt farming. Then there are the
labourers. They do all the hard work for farming the salt. We split the sale in
the ratio of thirty to the land owner, seventy shared among the labourers.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">I ask them where the labourers come from. The ladies respond,</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">“They all come from the hills. They are even poorer than us.”
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">There are around five hundred families of salt farmers in
Jeneponto. Everyone sells their salt to one man.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">“We have been selling to John since I have known,” says
Situju.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“When times are good, John can
buy up to 20 trucks of salt in just one day.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Indeed, other than horse heads, the road through Jeneponto is
lined with sacks of salt, heaped up like pillows, waiting for John. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">We ask them what happens during the rainy season.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">“During the four months of rain, from December to March, we
grow shrimps and small fish called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bolu</i>
in these salt pounds,” says Situju. “We buy the fry from Takalar. These fish
like brackish water.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Situju’s wife adds, “But again, sometimes the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bolu</i> babies die instantly after we
release them in these fields. We call sea water as hot water and rain water as
cold water. Bolu likes the right mix. Remember what I told you; hot, cold”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Hot air, cold air, hot water, cold water; life for a salt
farmer is swings in the rhythm of hot and cold. In Bahasa Indonesia, salt is
called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘garam’</i>. I have always found
this peculiar because in many Indian languages, ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">garam’</i> means hot. I self-congratulate myself on having understood this
unproven relationship partly.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">The ladies seem to have mastered the art of salt farming
better than Situju. So I ask them, “Do women also work in the salt fields?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">They expose their teeth, “No, no; we don’t do any salt
farming,” says Bunga. “It’s a man’s job. We do all the housework.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Situju’s wife puts in an addendum, “Let’s put it this way. We
ladies support the salt farmers.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">I ask Situju how he got into salt farming.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">“Who wants to be a salt farmer? I had a bachelor’s degree in
socio-politics from a university. I wanted to be a civil servant. I took the
exam and even paid a bribe to a person who promised me success. But then I saw
that I had failed. I didn’t even get my bribe money back. So I returned to run
my father’s salt farm.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Daeng Situju has five children; all of them are going to
school. We ask them what plans they have for their children. Situju says, “Of
course, young people don’t want to do this. But if they can’t get a job like
me, what other job can they do?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Daeng Bunga adds her view, “How can you even consider salt
farming a job? It’s the last option. Only those struck by fate become salt
farmers.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">I take a peek at Situju’s house. It looks like any lower middle
class family’s residence in Indonesia; clean, tidy, whitewashed rooms with the
singular highlight of such houses, one ornate wooden sofa. We walk around his
warehouses. There are holes on the thatch roof from which rain water keeps
dripping on to the salt. At another warehouse with metal roofing, about fifty
open top bags of salt are waiting for John. The grains are big, almost like
rice. I take a little taste when no one is looking.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">I was expecting the farmers to have skin problems from
handling all the salt. But Situju’s skin is smooth as a dolphin’s. When I ask
about this, the ladies answer together, “The salt is good for skin. That’s the
only benefit of being married to a salt farmer.” Situju nods vigorously.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">His wife says, “It’s like medicine. When we have itchy skin,
we just rub some salt on it.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">I asked Situju if salt farmers have their own harvest festival.
“No,” he says, “We just celebrate when the corn farmers celebrate.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">At this point, I have this sudden urge to do my own Dandi
March. I step on the raised ground forming the boundaries between the salt
ponds. The soil is soft and and my first step takes my leg deep inside. I am
not prepared for this. The next step goes even deeper. The heaps of salt are
just a hundred metres away from me. I must move on. But I feel like I am
walking on quicksand. My legs feel as heavy as an elephant’s. Somehow, one more
step; and deeper; an unholy mess. Everyone is looking at me quietly. I must not
give up. But this isn’t for any noble cause like Gandhi’s was. I turn back.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Before saying farewell, we ask them if they think their
fortunes will improve with President Jokowi. Daeng Bunga laughs out loud, “It
doesn’t matter who comes to power. We will always remain salt farmers. We will
always hope against Madura.” Everyone joins in her laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">As we head back to Makassar; the rain intensifies. There is a
kilometre long jam because of a fallen tree. This appears to be the wedding
season and many grooms are stuck on this road. They step out of their cars to
talk to one another. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">The contrast between Jeneponto and Makassar couldn’t be
starker. Makassar is the poster child of the new Indonesia on the slides in investor
forums. It is a town of cranes punching the earth and shaping it into glass
towers. It is where the rich and famous of Indonesia have been busy buying
their second homes and setting up enormous box-shaped malls. But Makassar is
also made of Jeneponto. Every construction worker I meet, every taxi driver,
pedicab driver, and servers in roadside eateries; are from Jeneponto. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">Andi has been driving taxi in Jeneponto for the last two
years. He is sixty years old but his skin is not as smooth as Situju’s
family’s. Andi’s family is still in Jeneponto. I ask him why he didn’t become a
salt farmer. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">“I used to be one. But it is not possible to run a family
with that income. After the floods, I became a taxi driver. Income is uncertain
but a lot more certain than a salt farmer’s. And I can sleep in my taxi to save
money. I go back home every three months. The salt farmers back there think I
am rich. Sometimes I drive them around Makassar for fun; their mouths open when
they see all these buildings,” he grins.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">I ask the same question to Diki, a server in a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nasi Goreng</i> </span></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[7]</span></span></span></span></span></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">stall near Rotterdam
Fort. Diki is in his early twenties and has a anime character hairstyle.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Toc405983532;"><span class="notranslate">“Two of my brothers are still doing it. But we are six
siblings. There are not enough salt farms to give us work. And it is not worth
it. Imagine working in the fierce sun day after day. So I moved to Makassar
along with my sister and two younger brothers. My brothers work as construction
workers over there,” he shows me the strip where many high-end riverfront
residences are being built.” Makassar has the highest property prices in
Indonesia after Jakarta.</span></span><span class="notranslate"> “My sister is a
pengamen</span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[8]</span></span></span></span></a><span class="notranslate">.
She knows English songs.” After sometime, Diki fetches his sister Beth. She is
short and has a tomboy look. She sings a heavily improvised version of James
Blacks, ‘You’re Beautiful’, for me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="notranslate">After <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Samudra Manthan</i>, the Gods managed to
trick the demons and snatch all the elixir</span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftn9" name="_ftnref9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[9]</span></span></span></span></a><span class="notranslate">. The demons thereupon were condemned to a life depleted of all
mojo. I search for this elixir at the places of the Gods, the rich and mighty
of Makassar. At the finely-appointed supermarkets, it is hard to find salt.
Only after asking the staff, I could find a few packets, delegated to the
bottom of far-away shelves. It is after all a low margin product. The price of this
commoditized elixir; 6,000 to 10,000 Rupiah for a kilo; still ten times higher
than what Daeng Situju was getting. Could it be possible that the myth of
Samudra Manthan was crafted only to justify the life of a salt farmer?</span></div>
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;">
<br clear="all" />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[1]</span></span></span></span></a> Rice mixed with cold water</div>
</div>
<div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[2]</span></span></span></span></a> Dandi March, or Salt
March, was a key moment in India’s independence movement. In 1930, in protest
to Britain’s imposed salt monopoly on India, Mahatma Gandhi, together with
thousands of protesters, walked for twenty four days to reach the salt pans
near Dandi. Gandhi, reportedly, picked up a handful of salty mud at the site as
a show of his symbolic defiance of tax laws imposed on Indians for producing
salt in India. </div>
</div>
<div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[3]</span></span></span></span></a> 1 US Dollar was 13,000
Rupiah at the time of my visit</div>
</div>
<div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[4]</span></span></span></span></a> President of Indonesia
during that period</div>
</div>
<div id="ftn5" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[5]</span></span></span></span></a> Madura is a<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> small island near East Java. This
arid island is the largest producer of salt in Indonesia.</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn6" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[6]</span></span></span></span></a> <span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The Muslim festival of Eid al-Fitr</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn7" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[7]</span></span></span></span></a> <span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Fried Rice</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn8" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[8]</span></span></span></span></a> <span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Street musician</span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn9" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=12304712#_ftnref9" name="_ftn9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-SG; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">[9]</span></span></span></span></a> Vishnu, one of the most powerful
Hindu Gods transformed himself into Mohini, a very beautiful woman, and lured
the demons to part with the pot of elixir. She then began distributing the elixir
only among the Gods. Rahu, one of the demons suspected what was happening and
transformed himself to look like a god and get in the queue. Just when he was
about to drink the elixir, the Sun and Moon Gods identified him and raised a
ruckus. Mohini became Vishnu again and attacked Rahu but since the elixir had
reached the throat, Rahu survived as a head without a body. Hindus believe that
the solar and lunar eclipses are thus caused by Rahu taking revenge
periodically. </div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-10950609370013841372014-12-13T08:28:00.003+05:302014-12-13T08:28:27.692+05:30My open letter to open letter writers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The culture of writing open letters has taken India by storm. What essentially began as a subculture among unknown IIT graduates (remember those 'Open Letter from an IITian to Shivaji Das'), has now been taken over by celebrities. That is somewhat understandable because Open Letters are highly secure, the recipient can never get the contact details of the sender, so no chance of receiving Tution and Insurance agent fliers. Open Letters also solve the problem of having to know and write down the detailed address of the recipient. <br /><br />So while the Indian Postal Service still rules the roost with more than 50 million letter deliveries a day, open letters are catching up fast [over 3 million open letters in circulation in India if Google Search is God].<br /><br />But a stinky reality of this open letter obsession is that if no open letter has been addressed to you, you are a complete nobody. So friends please write me a one. I was kidding earlier about that open letter to me. I am still waiting for one at my mailbox.</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-51095171947676947792014-09-14T13:52:00.000+05:302014-09-14T13:52:11.840+05:30Jamming with Nepalese security guards in Malaysia <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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A little shy, a little hesitant, quite a bit out of place;
they are conspicuous with their uniforms; sometimes a cowboy attire, sometimes
wearing a fluorescent volunteer jacket, or a white shirt with shoulder straps;
security guards from Nepal are conspicuous all over Malaysia. They form the
frontline, and the rear-guard; in shopping malls, condominiums, parking lots,
and corporate towers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
At the rear gate of my friend’s condominium in Kuala Lumpur,
one of them asks me who I want to meet. He is Niroj, 25, lean, with cropped
hair, small eyes, sharp but small nose, and a deep tanned skin. He is from
Phulwa, a village near the Indian border and the Indian resort town of
Darjeeling. He has been in Malaysia for more than a year. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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“I work 12 hours every day, seven days a week. There are no
holidays for us,” Niroj is already smiling and friendly. He works from 8AM to
8PM, and his shift pattern changes every fifteen days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Niroj is keen to share all, “I came here after paying
200,000 Nepalese Rupiah to the agent in Nepal. Here I get 1500 Ringgit every
month as salary. Then my boss also gives me 200 ringgit for food and 100 for
calling home. And I get a dormitory nearby. Every month, I send home 500
ringgit.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“And how much is your salary in Singapore?” Niroj asks
innocently. I have always heard this question from migrant workers, right after
they had candidly disclosed theirs without me asking for it. And like always, I
don’t return back the honesty. I cook up a number. Niroj also says what I
always hear after this, “It is very good, brother.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Niroj used to work as a policeman in Nepal. Under Malaysian
law, only Malaysians and Nepalese men were allowed to work as security guards.
And only those Nepalese men who had been in the army or police were eligible.
Every year there are stories about migrants from other countries such as
Pakistan or Bangladesh working as security guards under the radar, sometimes
using fake identity cards. There are reports of there being anywhere between 10,000
to 70,000 Nepalese migrants working as security guards in Malaysia</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I ask Niroj why he left the police. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“I ran into some problems with my friends there,” he lowers
his head. Out here, in this gated condominium, his demeanour had shed all
semblance of authority a policeman naturally gains on the job. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Niroj talks about Indian movies. “That’s how I picked up
Hindi.” It was rather good, better than most people’s I had come across in Nepal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“I get to speak often in Hindi here. So many residents in
this condo are Indians.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“I can stay here for another two years. May be I can save
enough to get married. If I can’t, I will have to apply again.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
It is getting dark. Niroj turns on the light in the one
square metre room built for guards at the gate. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Do you like my office? Is your office nicer? Must be, I
have no chair” says Niroj. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“But I don’t have all these pictures,” I say, referring to
the posters of eleven headed Hindu goddesses he has on the walls. “These are
not mine. My boss is a Hindu man. But it’s good this way. There was a
Bangladeshi guard here sometime back. He was Muslim but would not mind these
pictures. He was a good man. I heard he was caught and sent back.” The
Malaysian authorities often conduct checks to fish out migrants working
illegally as guards.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Late in the evening, I am sitting by myself in a desolate
Indian Muslim restaurant in the business district. A somewhat overweight Nepalese
guard enters, looks around with a faint smile, and then serves himself a big
pile of rice and dal (lentil soup). He sits behind my table. His face is from
somewhere halfway between the highland and the plains. I can’t help asking him
about his choice of meal. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“I eat this every day,” Ram Bahadur unleashes a big laugh,
“Because in Nepal we always eat dal-bhat.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I watch him eat silently; such a look of content; he has created a small
transient Nepal blanket around him at that moment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
In the morning, I look out for Niroj. But it is 8AM and I
get to watch the change of guards ceremony. The new comer, Khagendra, takes off
his denim jacket. Niroj puts in a denim jacket. Khagendra puts on a cap. Niroj
takes off his cap. Niroj hands over his walkie talkie to Khogendra. The
ceremony is over. Both of them live in the same dormitory.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“What will you do now?” I ask Niroj.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Just go home, eat, wash clothes, sleep, then cook, get
ready to come here. There is nothing much we can do. Every day is like this.
But it is all good. Our boss is good.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The new guards settle down; three of them, moving from front
gate to back gate and then around the compound. Khagendra is now at the rear
gate. But seeing us talk, another guard joins in. He is Lalim. Both Khagendra
and Lalim are in there mid-thirties and have come around Kathmandu. Lalim looks
like a copy of Niroj but Khagendra has more lowland features. They have been
working in Malaysia for over five years with breaks in between. They used to be
in the Army but had left it after a short stint.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Khagendra says, “The Maoists were after us. I couldn’t take
it anymore. They came only when they knew that we were outnumbered and they
could kill us all. At the army, every day was full of anxiety. When will they
come? Tomorrow?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“I had a wife and a daughter. And the pay was not worth it. I
couldn’t stay long.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I ask him about the contrast in his work here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“You are right. Hardly much work here. See, we need to be
really good at pressing this button to open the gate, like this,” he has a
smirk on his face as he presses the button a few times, each time with a
bizarre beep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“And, we also need to know how to give a good salute when
one of the resident’s cars passes by,” he gives me a demo. I realized that I
got some pleasure from that. Outside of condominiums, where else could I hope to
get such a military style salute?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“The most difficult things can get here is when a visitor
comes in or when a contractor comes in with their van and we have to check
whether they should be let in. In all my five years as a guard here, I have
never seen any theft or anything more violent. Of course, if something bad
happens, then it will be a problem.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Lalim shows me the visitor’s register, “This is my list of
Facebook friends,” they both laugh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I ask them if they have picked much local language. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Just a few words only. We barely know much English. Once I
wished a man ‘Selamat Mati’ instead of ‘Selamat Pagi.’ That’s Happy Death
instead of Good Morning. Imagine the man’s reaction.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I tell them that I had been to Kathmandu and I was not
allowed inside the Pashupatinath temple because my wife is Chinese.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“That’s horrible. Just not right for the Nepalese to behave
like that,” both of them repeat this. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Did you go to Kashi Vishwanath temple in Varanasi in your
India?” asks Lalim.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Yes, and there they let us in.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Terrible. That’s how Nepal is you see,” both apologized on
behalf of the whole of Nepal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I defend Nepal saying the people we met were rather
friendly, even when denying us the permission to go in to the temple.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Maybe, because you are a foreigner,” says Khagendra.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
In my subsequent trips, I meet them on and off. Typically
cheerful, they sometimes do let out their frustration. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Boring, boring, life
here is so boring.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Some of these contractors are so rude. When we ask which
flat they need to go to and if they have a written permit; they speak in bad
language. Just because we are foreigners.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“We heard that the government will change law and send us
back. What have we done wrong?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Once I ask them about the political situation back home.
Lalim, the most confident of all the Nepalese men I had met, sighs, “What can I
tell you. So much has happened. So many big words. So many promises. So many
died. And in the end it’s still the same. The rich are getting richer. The same
politicians are getting even richer. Maoists, Nepalese Congress, there is no
difference.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
That sounded a lot like Thailand. The only difference was
that in Nepal, the king had to go. But the upper caste old elite managed to hold
on. The same old faces, the same old habits, just that the royal palace has
become a museum. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
As for Khagendra and Lalim; back in Nepal, they had been
entrusted with protecting this old elite from the peasant and low-caste Maoist
militia. And now in Kuala Lumpur, their job was to protect the new elite; the
rising middle class, the expatriates, their condominiums and their cars. Here,
the nature of the enemy has changed; a faceless, generalized possibility. Here,
they were no longer called agents of the class enemy; rather being marketed as
‘known for their loyalty, honesty, and courage’; a necessity to manage the
‘high attrition rates’ characteristic of the industry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Khagendra sums it up, “In my army days, I wondered if I will
see my wife and daughter again. Out here, I haven’t anyway been with my wife
and daughter for three years. I feel like I have come so far away from them and
I am scared they feel the same way.”</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-41467629451961046462014-07-22T14:45:00.000+05:302014-07-22T14:45:00.544+05:30The highs and lows of Banjarmasin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">Perhaps Banjarmasin is an
amphibian. On land, I found this South Kalimantan town like any other
Indonesian town, with streaming motorcycles, markets overflowing with stuffed
toys, and thousands of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aneka Gorengan</i>
(Deep fried snacks) carts continuing their millennial race. But once I ventured
into one of the town’s hundreds of canals, Banjarmasin revealed its true
character. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">When the engines of my small boat
began humming, it was like Basho’s ‘frog jumping into an ancient pond’ moment.
“Foreigner, foreigner,” a child screamed at the top of her voice. And this
message got relayed from one house’s backyard to the next like wildfire. What I
had planned to be a one hour for fifty-thousand rupiah contract with my boatman
turned into the greatest egotistical trip of my life. For never had I imagined
I had such great capacity to bring happiness to others. The residents of the
canal-side houses came out in hordes; bare-naked children, bent-backed
grannies, cool-vibe oozing soccer teens, toned young males made of copper and
beaming pregnant mothers. At my very sight, the children became ecstatic. The
boys jumped from their backyards creating waves that folded the otherwise
perfect reflection of the houses on the canals. Kids dropped all around me, splashing
water that drenched me wet. They swam as fast as they could to my boat, hoping
to touch me just once or even better, give a high-five. The stronger boys
managed to climb on to my boat and not knowing what to do afterwards, just gave
me a smile and fell back into the water. The younger ones screamed out, shaking
their head, closing their eyes in utter delight. The girls and the older people
folded hands and greeted me with big smiles. There was no doubt! What a
wonderful person I am! I didn’t know how to react. It was a sudden attack of
innocence on my senses. I wanted to join in the ecstasy, somersault and dive in
the murky water, and then scream around with the jovial children. But I had a
one hour fifty thousand rupiah contract. So I just waved and waved. “He waved
at me, he waved at me!” the neighbourhood was in raptures. I almost felt like I
could make the world a better place. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">Once things calmed down, I could
finally marvel at the endless stream of houses sitting at the banks canals,
leisurely hanging their scrawny wooden legs in the water. Houses, mosques,
madrasas, grocery shops, furniture stalls, all built with patches of wood, the
same colour as the canals, nailed to each other. Some of the houses had lost
their footing and were slowly merging with the canals, looking like old men
slowly crouching for a hot spring bath. Colourful coffins waited patiently in
the coffin workshops along the canal. Canals, canals, more canals; some wide as
a soccer field pretending to be a river, some narrow as a log of wood; they
connected here and there creating a maze, going about quietly with the business
of moving all the muddy water from the washing of the Meratus Mountains;
closely watched over by roaming patrols of hyacinths and water lilies.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">Here, mornings began with the
boatmen and boatwomen waking up the owners of the gasoline stalls by the
canals; first by calling their name, then clapping, and then a friendly shove
with the oars. Soon, Gauguin’s women came out from the backyards of each house
and lather their whole bodies and mouths sitting on the small jetties built
from their house, for the women of Banjarmasin love to shower and brush their
teeth at the same time. The elderly man came out too, and hundreds of eager
fish would splash out begging them for food in the fisheries built on the
canals, because it was breakfast time in Banjarmasin. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">As the day progressed, the canals
became the highways moving people in all direction, tiny heads in white hijab
going to school, ducking every time their boat passes under a bridge. An
endless flow of motorcycles with their helmets keep running on these bridges;
from the boats below, they look like chess pawns on roller blades. The canal
fairies of Banjarmasin, the colourful old women selling bananas, guavas, rice
and other supplies on canoes, rowed from door to door looking for custom.
Throughout the day, elderly women sat facing the canoe holding a fishing rod.
And also throughout the day, a thousand and one buckets tied with long strings,
built to fetch water from the canals, swung from each backyard like a pendulum,
keeping time in the canals of Banjarmasin. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">During noon, Banjarmasin is an
oppressive piece of earth as the sun turns into a baker. I rushed indoors,
inside my small room in the Sariah-compliant hotel, sitting, dozing, moist from
the sweat, my arms feeling like enormous concrete blocks. Hour after hour of
doing nothing, not a single movement in the dark windowless room, trying to
think but soon losing every chain of thought. I was turning into a statue with
a drooping head. I was decomposing in Banjarmasin. I was scared. I needed to
make a move before the flies moved in from under the doorsil. But I was in a
state of trance. My elephant limbs refused to budge. I recalled the high-fives.
The children must be waiting for me in the canals, their heads bobbing in and
out of the murky water. I had to go. I had to stay alive. I concentrated. My
head rose up slowly. The fingers moved. In one huge effort, I left my damp
grave and soon I was on a boat in the canals of Banjarmasin.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">After another evening of boosting
my ego I rushed back to my hotel to retire early for next day, I had an
appointment to keep with my boatman at five in the morning. On my way, I
realized that Banjarmasin had changed its streets. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jamu, jamu, jamu</i>; traditional male-power drinks; had lined up
neatly along an endless chain of small tables that had sprung up from nowhere.
Where had all the shops that I had seen during the day eloped? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jamu, jamu, jamu</i>; this was serious
business and vendors were indeed looking dead serious. They set up small stools
in front of their table-stalls because at nights, Banjarmasin becomes an
enormous winding serpent of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jamu</i> bars
where patrons swarm in looking grim, focused, not exchanging a single word with
anyone around, ordering a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jamu</i> drink
with a gesture, then quietly finishing it in small sips, looking down all the
time, their mojo building up inside, and then, with burning eyes, hitting the
streets of Banjarmasin. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">And then I realized, in this
archetype conservative town, some windows and doors were lighting up and
calling out to these <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jamu</i> filled men;
one of such love hotels right in front of my Sariah hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That night, I dreamt that I was frolicking
about among thousands of half-opened durians, all a bright orange that I had
only seen in Banjarmasin. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">5 AM, and it was very dark, but the
motorcycles were still keeping the streets awake in Banjarmasin. I walked along
the banks of one the canals to meet my boatman. There were a few people
slumbering about; dark silhouettes, a woman in sleepwear, certainly insane,
holding up one arm to heaven; a man walking in helical steps, a stick in his
hand; another man wearing a hat, peeing in bits here and there, marking
territory. I tried to disappear into the night as well as I could, moving like
only a black cat could. And then I came across a young woman who was perhaps
wearing a tight jacket and jeans. She had obviously been standing for long as
she kept shifting weight from one leg to another. She whistled at me and said,
“Come on, young man, let’s play.” I hurried my pace and my heart caught up. What
harm could she do to me? But I was petrified. She didn’t walk after me but kept
talking, “Come on, darling.” The mosques across the canal began speaking out
too and their synchronized muezzin calls were drowning out her voice. I had
almost escaped her, when she called out, “It’s cheap!” The muezzin calls
wouldn’t stop. “Help me, I am hungry,” she screamed. That moment my hurt sunk
and I wept along the canals of Banjarmasin. </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-79421685409124750352014-05-29T08:16:00.002+05:302014-05-29T08:16:45.005+05:30Please support our crowdfunding campaign for photo exhibition on Morocco<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-13297251669424493072014-05-14T18:42:00.001+05:302014-05-14T18:42:53.087+05:30Fishing the Bowels of the Earth – Artisanal Diamond Mining in South Kalimantan, Indonesia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">As my motorcycle
entered the diamond mines at Pumpung, a village near Cempaka in South
Kalimantan, I was greeted by the buzz of several throbbing hurts, makeshift
water pumps scattered around a vast green flatland interspersed with tiny brown
hillocks. Each hillock had a bamboo stairway to heaven placed in front of them.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The trail to these was flooded, and I
walked like a drunkard along the edges, trying to keep my feet dry and clean.
Soon I spotted the first pit, where the earth had hidden its treasures but
failed to keep the secret.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">Four men stood along
the slopes of the pit, digging for fortune. The earth, a swampland, constantly oozed
water into these pits to annoy these men, like a child not wanting to share her
toys. The pumps worked for the men to suck out this water while the sun worked
for the earth to scorch the men. Again and again, the men would slip and slide
down the mud. But they climbed back, fully layered in mud, almost
unrecognizable from the pit, and then again gave the pit a few blows with their
shovel before sliding down. I imagined the fancy jewellery stores with perfect
air-conditioning in Singapore and Jakarta, with sharp-suited sales girls
guiding our vision with warm spotlights on dark velvet. This world couldn’t
have been further from that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">As soon as the miners
saw me, they found an excuse to take a break from this contest and struggled up
the pit to give me high-fives. Then immediately, they apologized realizing that
their hands were full of mud. “Look what we found today!” Anang, a man in his
thirties with a chiselled face and weather-beaten skin, showed me two rocks
with black innards, “It’s not that most precious stone, but these will get us
ten thousand rupiah.” That’s a little less than a dollar. Mostafa, a miner in
his early twenties with baby cheeks, was the most excited, “Come take my
picture with these rocks!” he poses, “Hey, you!” He shouts to the two men
working the pump, “Pose for him.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">Anang and Mostafa showed
me around, “We dig out the mud and then mix it with more water and then put it
in these machines,” The machines, which I had taken to be the stairway to
heaven, were for sluicing. “Then the mineral bearing rocks separate out from
the mud after which we have to inspect these rocks manually.” Three old men
were shovelling up the mud to the mouth of the sluicing machines. They were
panting in the heat, resting after every four or five attempts. “We take turns
to do this,” said Anang, “All of us are from the same village. I have been
doing this for twelve years. My father has been at it for thirty years.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">Many such mines are scattered
around south Kalimantan. The miners exhaust one pit and then move further to
dig a new one. Diamond mining here is over a hundred and fifty years old
practice though some date this to over four hundred years. Apart from Diamond,
the pits give out other minerals such as topaz, emerald, amethyst and gold. In
1965, a 166.85 carat diamond named <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trisakti</i>
was found in Pumpung. And in 2008, a 200 carat diamond named <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Puteri Malu</i> was found nearby. However,
it is unusual to find anything over 5 carats from these mines. Anang says,
“It’s not just the size. Most of the diamonds have defects and sell for much
less. But we just need one big one,” he makes a round hole with his fingers,
“Just once, this big!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">Anywhere in the world,
artisanal mining is as much about hard work as it is about superstitions. At Pumpung,
one shouldn't ever say the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">intan</i>
(diamond) in the vicinity of the pits; else he will not hit diamond for years;
just like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Garimpos</i> in Mato Grasso in
Brazil believe that one is doomed if one finds gold instead of diamonds.
Mostafa whispers as he giggles, “That man with the hat working at the machine;
he doesn’t talk to anyone. He keeps saying some prayers all the time when at
work. But he hasn’t got any big diamond yet.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">The Pumpung miners and
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Garimpos</i> also deploy similar
business models. The proceeds from the sale is divided between the miners, the
owners of the machines and the owner of the land. “Whatever we get, our leader
goes and sells at Martapura. We keep fifty percent which we share equally among
ourselves, the owner of the machine gets fifteen, and the landowner gets the
rest. Some miners don’t use machines and just sort with pans.” Conditioned by
my grab-it-all urban conditioning, I have the obvious question; what if you
don’t tell the others. “Oh no, that is not possible,” says Anang, “Everyone
knows everyone here. You cheat once and you will be outcast for life.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recall stories of cheating <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Garimpos</i> desperately begging anyone to
buy all their diamonds in return for a single bowl of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Feijoada </i>(bean stew) because not a single buyer would buy from
them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">The diamonds and other
gems collected from Pumpung are processed in small workshops in the
neighbouring town of Martapura. At Martapura, there are many small stores
selling the jewels. Visitors come from all over Indonesia to these jewellery
stores in Martapura. Again these are not fancy stores; just countless beads
hanging from walls and dooframes and the more precious jewels housed inside
glasstop wooden cupboards. Some individual sellers just walk around from one prospect
to another, taking out his handkerchief to show his collection of gems. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">It is time for lunch
and the miners gather at a makeshift <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">warung</i>
which has been set up by one of the villagers near the pit. “Each pit has its
own warung, if she sees us walk over to the next warung, she will scream louder
than these pumps” the man who says prayers takes a break to crack this joke at
the warung’s owner and the entire group breaks into laughter. Mostafa says,
“Yes, that’s another rule for the miners. Even though our house is just a
five-minute walk, we have to have lunch at our respective warungs.” Lunch is
instant noodles with a glass of tea and afterwards, as the miners relax over a
smoke, I head on to the neighbouring pits. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">Again, the young men
digging the sides are overjoyed and pose for me, asking for photographs, some
raising Ronnie James Dio’s famous sign of the horns. The youngest of the lot
slides in the walls of the pit and lands on the water below. He then goes completely
under the muddy water. His elder brother, Ahmed, walks up to talk to me, “My
brother is a water buffalo. He can’t take the heat for long and goes in the
water every now and then.” Ahmed is twenty five and has been working at the
mine for five years, “I have two daughters already. Both go to school. We get
married by the time we are twenty.” Ahmed says that working in the mines is
safe but it is tough initially, “When I started here, I used to get fever every
few days. The sun was unbearable. But you get used to it.” The miners work from
sunrise to sunset and take a day off on Friday. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">Diamond mining in South
Kalimantan has been through ups and downs; a contest between greater
mechanization and the consequent depletion followed by even greater
mechanization. And despite so much depending on the hope of that one big find,
the miners remain equanimous about their lives. They are driven by natural
human spirits; to take risks but also to share risks. They are curious to know
about the outside world and relish interacting with outsiders. Pumpung, the
home they have built for themselves, is a charming idyll of colourful clothes
on washing lines with only the occasional scampering chickens disturbing the
peace. And on Fridays, they don their best clothes to go to Martapura to pray
at its Grand Mosque and shop and eat with their family at the market. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-SG;">As I rode back, the
women and children shouted goodbyes and I was left with a warm feeling. My
hands, muddy from the high-fives, had dried-up. And I had this sudden whim to
never wash my hands again.</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-586265302182553502014-04-22T19:39:00.000+05:302014-04-23T18:54:28.897+05:30Alun-alun, the happy heart of Malang, Indonesia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxB3tcOK6iP-2KKzBDkVg21ADRnubzAzg2lp_cWAfxqH5rBiAgN1bGAD4xCXuEHtAy6SdfpaLu7kdQly0kyqzlLxZvzZAsYGscOlmcw7BDwdpN8hrXVhYB2_78RNUUhQ_QtZ9Ww/s1600/collage-2014-04-22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxB3tcOK6iP-2KKzBDkVg21ADRnubzAzg2lp_cWAfxqH5rBiAgN1bGAD4xCXuEHtAy6SdfpaLu7kdQly0kyqzlLxZvzZAsYGscOlmcw7BDwdpN8hrXVhYB2_78RNUUhQ_QtZ9Ww/s1600/collage-2014-04-22.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">The Alun-alun, or town square, is the heart
of Malang, a heaving, beating heart. People come in to this heart in thousands
and leave it, all pumped up. As they come and enjoy this wonderful public
space, they shed all the labels attached to human beings – rich, poor, Muslim,
Christian, local, outsider. They come and they smile for they realize that none
of them has yet lost their ability to enjoy small things – three quail eggs
with chili sauce, a padded heart key chain, and some time spent watching a
pigeon-box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">Built in 1882, the Alun-alun of Malang,
like all town squares in Java, served as a space for activities related to
religion and public administration in its early years. During the peak of Dutch
rule, the action shifted to a different Alun-alun, round instead of square, at
the Tugu area surrounding which the buildings of the colonial administration
were erected. Post-independence, the original Alun-alun became a space for
small-time hawkers. Today, it is a public space, a place for tid-bits, shopping
for stuffed toys and some free entertainment. It is the Indonesian version of
the famed Jemaa el-Fnaa of Marrakech, without the hustlers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">Built in accordance with traditional
Javanese architectural principles, the square has banyan trees for shade at
each corner. It faces the Grand Mosque (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Masjid
Agung</i>), and is surrounded by shopping malls and departmental stores. Even
before you enter Alun-alun, the outer edges of the surrounding road, which
almost looks like a moat around the square, are lined up with pushcarts selling
all the popular Indonesian snacks and drinks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">As you enter the outer fringes of
Alun-alun, this battery of pushcarts continues. But now you realize that there
are thousands of people in this square. You had come here earlier in the
morning. Back then it was a completely different atmosphere and the square was
filled with uniformed cleaners and unformed school children following
instructions of their respective Physical Education teachers. But now, it’s a
Sunday evening, the most popular time to come to the square. You pause for a
moment to soak in the atmosphere. Children are running all around you. Old
couples and young lovers are crammed on the benches under the banyan shade.
Those without lovers are moving around leisurely in groups, showing off their
cool, and checking what the square has to offer today. It is noisy, but it is a
happy noise, a noise blended in with lots of laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">You start moving towards the centre; the
next layer that greets you consists of vendors of stuffed toys who have placed
on the floor an extensive collection of smiling Yogi Bears, Spongebob
Squarepants, and Angry Birds. In between this layer, you spot a few odd women
out; a lady who has come in with a family of inflated penguins, and another
lady who is offering a game of putting rings on coke bottles, 10,000 rupiah for
ten attempts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">You move on and climb up a few steps on to
an elevated platform at the centre of the square. The layer that you see now is
made of plastic ponds where children sitting on small stools are fishing with
hooks for rubber balls. You are thrilled watching this; the tension in the air
is palpable. A baby boy almost manages to pull out a ball only to drop it at
the last moment. His parents gasp! Another baby girl starts wailing, she hasn’t
had any luck while the kid sitting next to her have been pulling one after
another effortlessly. Her parents sigh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">Since the pushcarts can’t move up to this
place, the food vendors are selling whatever they could bring on their backs.
You start with the fried tahu and eat it with the raw chilies. Ibu Ria, the old
lady selling the tahu, tells you, “I have been coming here for forty years. I
used to have a drinks stall there. Now my son manages that.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now the chili starts to bite you and you
grab a sweet steamed pancake from the guy squatting next. His hands are working
gracefully with the pancakes with long metal sticks, almost like a praying
mantis. The sugary delight helps you recover and you now go for the boiled
sausages and quail eggs and have it with chili paste. Now you need to recover
again, so why not go for a healthy option, fruit salad? Oh, but as soon as you
finish the fruits, you notice a beautiful bar with inverted glasses decorating
its arches. So you should now have some ice-cream with fruits and condensed
milk too. You have spent less than two dollars and you have already filled
yourself twice over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">You walk back towards the centre; the
fountain in the middle has started spouting. You hear some soft drumming. What
is it? Oh, a masked monkey (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">topeng monyet</i>)
show is on. The monkey is dressed like an action hero, in denim trousers and
jacket, riding a toy motorcycle, looking for an adventure. His master is aware
of the recent banning of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">topeng monyets</i>
in Jakarta and while singing his toothless hypnotic melody, keeps an eye on the
audience if someone is taking photographs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">You keep walking along the podium and you
hear children’s screams coming now and then from one corner. What’s happening?
The children are squatting around a man who is selling live hermit crabs on
whose shells a range of human expressions, from shock to dumb delight, have
been painted. The children are picking up the hermit crabs with their tiny
hands, and when they notice the crab’s legs scampering in the air, they scream
and drop the crabs back into the tray. John, the young seller, smiles, “My
crabs are used to it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">You hear more intense drumming. A young man
has just arrived. He has made an entire drum kit out of plastic buckets,
stacking them up to create a range of sounds. He is trying all sorts of tricks
with his drum-sticks. He throws them in the air but fails to catch them. But
the audience, mostly mothers with their boys, don’t seem to mind. It’s free
entertainment after all. One mother sends her boy to get the sticks back to
your passionate drummer every time he drops them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">Suddenly, it begins to rain. There is a
scramble. The man with the hermit crabs runs, covering his tray full of crabs
like a baby. The man who sold you the ice-cream comes running to you with his
trolley, “Go inside one of the shopping malls. Pretend to buy something and
then come back after the rain stops. That’s what those shops are for,” he
giggles. You join the crowd. Everyone is now pretending to buy something in the
mall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-fareast-language: JA;">The rain stops soon. Everyone comes back to the
square. The old couples have somehow beaten the young lovers for the benches.
The monkey sits back on his motorcycle. The sun is setting. The muezzin is
calling. The lovers are blending in with the shadows. A disabled child can’t
wait to get down from her father’s lap and start fishing for plastic balls. She
is the happiest person on earth at this moment. And you decide you will come
back again the next day. Such is the charm of Alun-alun.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-10477470411494065292014-04-21T19:21:00.002+05:302014-04-21T19:21:29.013+05:30Sunday night live: Ram fighting (Adu Domba) in West Java, Indonesia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvVAAdQk599218hkmHsPfff5s51uWK2clHzjtSQBZqOu0ClTl4_xH_yNP216LLQ7FyNzURliKXrVBzLK6_wPNlH98QB2QjVtEO5oLp4kGa_7IFIIW_gyVENHh2RkDu73iBUHApA/s1600/Super+Big+Bang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvVAAdQk599218hkmHsPfff5s51uWK2clHzjtSQBZqOu0ClTl4_xH_yNP216LLQ7FyNzURliKXrVBzLK6_wPNlH98QB2QjVtEO5oLp4kGa_7IFIIW_gyVENHh2RkDu73iBUHApA/s1600/Super+Big+Bang.jpg" height="313" width="640" /></a></div>
<em></em><br />
<em>Adu domba</em> (ram fighting) is common in West Java, especially around Garut and Bandung. Villagers spend leisurely Sunday mornings watching these bouts.<br />
<br />
For a tourist, finding the place hosting an adu domba is just as much a part of the adventure.<br />
Relying on my sources, I head to Ciwaruga hamlet near Bandung, but the villagers there, excited to see a foreigner, tell me that their village hosted the event the week before and will host it again the week after.<br />
<br />
One of the villagers makes a phone call: “My friend is not sure, but you can try your luck at Siliwangi.”<br />
<br />
I race to Siliwangi, but it is the same story. However, this time a person who is called on the phone is absolutely certain that the bouts are taking place at Cilimus hamlet.<br />
<br />
As soon as I turn away from the concrete expanse of Bandung to the narrow lane of Jl. Cimilus, I can hear the music -- a tell-tale sign that an <em>adu domba</em> is happening.<br />
Soon I can figure out the arena, lined with people watching the contests. Just before this human wall, about 100 rams wait patiently. They have all come dressed up for this occasion, wearing elaborate necklaces. Some have their team names written on the necklaces.<br />
<br />
They treat me with utter indifference as I walk past them toward the arena.<br />
Two rams have just been brought in, evenly matched by weight, as is the rule for <em>adu domba</em>.<br />
As soon as they see their opponent, they can’t control themselves. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.jakpost.travel/news/witnessing-west-javas-adu-domba-o86d3DIZY4nCcz9s.html" target="_blank">Rest of the post at The Jakarta Post</a></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-65674191349255300822014-04-05T07:58:00.002+05:302014-04-05T07:58:27.663+05:30A visit to Batak's medicine woman: My article in Jakarta Post<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXqUlEWD26BXJ9bo1FdnIBsOQrU8DHojW4wUqmKfcyuq4UTn7H6Kx87RPYzI52XDD4Q_xRMXk1vtRq0tHfgpQCrSuf6-q7Ic5oJAx-ae2eYzcreFm3tDhqQuu2c4fUhVmZN3zEcQ/s1600/Batak+mannequin+at+Tomok+market.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXqUlEWD26BXJ9bo1FdnIBsOQrU8DHojW4wUqmKfcyuq4UTn7H6Kx87RPYzI52XDD4Q_xRMXk1vtRq0tHfgpQCrSuf6-q7Ic5oJAx-ae2eYzcreFm3tDhqQuu2c4fUhVmZN3zEcQ/s1600/Batak+mannequin+at+Tomok+market.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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My wife and I are on the island of Samosir in Lake Toba in North Sumatra and, after three days of cycling around the island, taking the occasional dip in the lake’s waters surrounded by bubblegum-like pink snail eggs and chasing white cranes from the backs of water buffalos, we decide to visit a medicine man.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
After all, we needed to recover from the exposure to endless love ballads that the local Batak men are so fond of singing at night in the company of other men.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Our search isn’t easy because we have to be specific.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Medicine men or women among the Bataks, known as datuks (always male) and gurus, come with three distinct specializations: healing, black magic and communicating with the divine.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The healing ones deal with ailments; the ones for black magic turn to rituals to inflict harm on someone or to win someone’s love, and the ones communicating with the divine deal with interpreting the wishes of gods and ancestors, and also deal in astrology for recommending auspicious dates.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So, whenever we asked for a guru, snap came back the question: “Which one do you want?”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
We decided that we would rather deal with the healing specialist.......</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://www.jakpost.travel/news/a-visit-to-bataks-medicine-woman-69dlBELqs50xCrne.html">Read more at Jakarta Post</a> </div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-8238866543299192812014-04-01T19:57:00.000+05:302014-04-01T20:11:56.589+05:30A tale of two cities: Ansan and Itaewon – migrant towns in Seoul, Korea<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">One is known as the ‘Western Town’; the
other is being branded as the ‘Multicultural City’, as is typical of Korea, a
country a little short of tourist attractions. One is the favourite residential
area for the expats, the high-flying foreigners, and young Korean couples
looking for a quick western fix. The other is not anyone’s favourite, but the
residential area for a big number of migrant labourers who work at the several
factories located in the area. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
____________________________________________________________________________</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXMfOMuUbeVQdRxTAhhuU2jdTMfGSqVB1Ax2cesFsTGcIdmaE39lZJnyln8m29dwBD0RYdmdkHCHRQ23VTPBzxt2D3GDdGrOcecMa712lUkY64z_QDsbzvUD5ELS8Ikl_YGJAR9g/s1600/P2200052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXMfOMuUbeVQdRxTAhhuU2jdTMfGSqVB1Ax2cesFsTGcIdmaE39lZJnyln8m29dwBD0RYdmdkHCHRQ23VTPBzxt2D3GDdGrOcecMa712lUkY64z_QDsbzvUD5ELS8Ikl_YGJAR9g/s1600/P2200052.jpg" height="200" width="176" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approaching Ansan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-US">I take the 1 hour long subway from
Seoul Station to Ansan, the ‘Multicultural City’. As soon as I get out of the
subway station, I see three Pakistani men posing at various spots and taking
pictures of one another. Some Christian groups have set up small booths where
they are blaring pitches in Korean to attract converts. I go through the
underground passage where vegetable sellers have spread out their uprooted
gardens. Three Indian families are shopping together; “Do you have any onion?”
they ask the Korean ladies who understands them.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVR5s1W7Z9kJpg0ZM6MMy99P046ZaleMYA5tI_eCQUBprJDHgIj_87C2rRzHmG0XBAEmGK3jzC0V06Hz4hjW9lxp4TeiMc3lEu3s4obEXLhbXfy6P_bsv0HdqUAJXhyphenhyphen1P1RlZNpw/s1600/P2200051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVR5s1W7Z9kJpg0ZM6MMy99P046ZaleMYA5tI_eCQUBprJDHgIj_87C2rRzHmG0XBAEmGK3jzC0V06Hz4hjW9lxp4TeiMc3lEu3s4obEXLhbXfy6P_bsv0HdqUAJXhyphenhyphen1P1RlZNpw/s1600/P2200051.jpg" height="109" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ansna- playing Jianzi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip5BW2gfSLOoEoh1Hm8X7toOEzBe_KYLubVE6Rjf_T1YLjVQ20MfIr_ANDMeiABuBsg6R_5NrdnHceD7keiJ1V3EsHU9tYykbl_Fpb9sz7fGZ9jACNepAALqtgtXHZFD2_uhRk9w/s1600/P2200048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip5BW2gfSLOoEoh1Hm8X7toOEzBe_KYLubVE6Rjf_T1YLjVQ20MfIr_ANDMeiABuBsg6R_5NrdnHceD7keiJ1V3EsHU9tYykbl_Fpb9sz7fGZ9jACNepAALqtgtXHZFD2_uhRk9w/s1600/P2200048.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ansan Streets</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdBygVaU_bnbcnOqFRFmhkwNKCQS8EsYmrEBKGrqDSAVAVNyqQfM6eLpU436NjDmhtL_UahuC8HU-OFgvsvIvVGNg7vCuPdZxuW5mGBZdY-eyf14Z08jc01Ubj3-HIzgQ9Dmk4g/s1600/P2200046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdBygVaU_bnbcnOqFRFmhkwNKCQS8EsYmrEBKGrqDSAVAVNyqQfM6eLpU436NjDmhtL_UahuC8HU-OFgvsvIvVGNg7vCuPdZxuW5mGBZdY-eyf14Z08jc01Ubj3-HIzgQ9Dmk4g/s1600/P2200046.jpg" height="167" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ansan streets</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkcno92_PvxPBmko97v1R6SAAhVXxrT7yB_RoU5wzl2JQWnL0t1Dc9Lwi14uIBhej7R6S4oihHxUnwW2CltxIiGQCFNn_PXJ0sQX_QWmvEri4rbmHt5OMWycxEpryx8DI8nY56ug/s1600/P2200037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkcno92_PvxPBmko97v1R6SAAhVXxrT7yB_RoU5wzl2JQWnL0t1Dc9Lwi14uIBhej7R6S4oihHxUnwW2CltxIiGQCFNn_PXJ0sQX_QWmvEri4rbmHt5OMWycxEpryx8DI8nY56ug/s1600/P2200037.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ansan streets</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-US">The heat of the action is at Wongok-Dong,
nicknamed ‘the borderless village’, where most of the migrants gather. Along a
narrow lane running parallel to Bubu-ro street, all the shops are catering to
them. Shop-front windows are filled with stickers in English, Vietnamese,
Chinese, Russian, Thai, and Bengali. They are selling packets of Sichuan chili,
curry powder, sambal paste, and phone cards, lots of phone cards, best rates,
cheapest rates, maximum talk time. I see Money Transfer, lots of Money
Transfer. Sound boxes outside try to talk to me in Mandarin. On the pavement,
some of the wares have spilled over - plastic piggy-banks, oversized jackets,
cheap shoes, and a solitary dog placed on an Aluminum tray on a bench, neatly
skinned and cut, its head still intact. Nearby, live Asian Carp and catfish are
being sold in foam baskets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj83NXXeigEhodzqAQaHmAHLVUlwAj8vslxPqB4YA_keh7tgLU2LxsGQh0wuh0fL5Vw2wrTkhQAlvEN7oOyn5TBUUF83YFDcmrRH6jHjv7TSpqLVoWi6n38UGlSBf_e1w96OYNfTQ/s1600/P2200050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj83NXXeigEhodzqAQaHmAHLVUlwAj8vslxPqB4YA_keh7tgLU2LxsGQh0wuh0fL5Vw2wrTkhQAlvEN7oOyn5TBUUF83YFDcmrRH6jHjv7TSpqLVoWi6n38UGlSBf_e1w96OYNfTQ/s1600/P2200050.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ansan Shopfronts</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
People in big numbers are slowly moving
along this lane, being branded by the city government as ‘Multicultural food
street’. Everyone is speaking in Mandarin. After all, rather than being a
global village, Wongok-Dong in Ansan is more of a Chinese village. The
highlights here are the two big <em>Jiaozi</em> or dumpling stalls whose softly
aromatic vapours have set the mood. I approach one to ask for six dumplings and
she handles me the whole steaming tray to take inside and find my own way to chopsticks,
soya sauce and a plate.<o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgul7Oa_0ZOxAVNIecMEhJh50NJTuC9PZw5TKmdgXt7Erpnr-ZpHVj4rH6hqz3T7Y1tpvXAxrpSRS-Xn92jF1Yq_fLOWYzkF-HQPM3MD10mWlAmXK6xx9xyywR3JpHccY2wFY5M1Q/s1600/P2200034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgul7Oa_0ZOxAVNIecMEhJh50NJTuC9PZw5TKmdgXt7Erpnr-ZpHVj4rH6hqz3T7Y1tpvXAxrpSRS-Xn92jF1Yq_fLOWYzkF-HQPM3MD10mWlAmXK6xx9xyywR3JpHccY2wFY5M1Q/s1600/P2200034.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Migrant Comm. Svc. Centre</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-US">I meet Ms Jungan Park from the Migrant
Community Service Centre, a unique attempt by the Ansan government to
assimilate foreign migrants. She provides me with all the statistics. In this
town of over 761,000 residents, around 58,100 are foreigners constituting 7.6%
of the population as opposed to the national average of 2.2%. People from 78
countries are present in Ansan but more than 70% of the migrants are Chinese of
Korean descent. The other big groups are Uzbeks, Vietnamese, Indonesians,
Russians, Filipinos, Nepali, Thai and Sri Lankans. Ms Park explains, “Korea has
long being a homogenous society. So the activities of our centre are needed to
make them accept foreigners whom we need for the 3D jobs – Dirty, Dangerous and
Demeaning. We organize sports and cultural events for the migrants which the
Koreans are also encouraged to join. Among many other things, we also provide
counselling services in multiple languages, organize language classes, and run
a shelter for migrant women who have run away from abusive husbands.”</span><br />
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijuFADF4SU3IaljhBvZFMAggCRczosSI-Sl_97PV4VaSAeG0LFSgisRSpjanWxIDYSOWpqMYKc6t8zucAWuXPuuDiBBihr0BsefGLw6gUXDObqC-ibBPcLCBAysK16B0aFphnsLw/s1600/P2200035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijuFADF4SU3IaljhBvZFMAggCRczosSI-Sl_97PV4VaSAeG0LFSgisRSpjanWxIDYSOWpqMYKc6t8zucAWuXPuuDiBBihr0BsefGLw6gUXDObqC-ibBPcLCBAysK16B0aFphnsLw/s1600/P2200035.jpg" height="93" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chinese men playing chess</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA6lk9OIYq26Wv9hGZFneZSW4Y5lYq6y2dk4HyTMY2ZjHnLhS53mZC3asa_FOP7H7b9dEaDUQF7DWQB6QbxBC3ieEOzehT7Mz6pmJttMwnssEV-K7A7pX30_nYXLi3og6Df92qhw/s1600/P2200039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA6lk9OIYq26Wv9hGZFneZSW4Y5lYq6y2dk4HyTMY2ZjHnLhS53mZC3asa_FOP7H7b9dEaDUQF7DWQB6QbxBC3ieEOzehT7Mz6pmJttMwnssEV-K7A7pX30_nYXLi3og6Df92qhw/s1600/P2200039.jpg" height="130" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dumpling Stall (Chinese)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-US">I walk around the small town. A group of
young Christians are making last minute preparations for today’s campaign. They
are all wearing orange t-shirts. Soon, they branch out handing out pamphlets to
anyone looking like a foreigner. Elderly Chinese men have formed groups of four
and are playing chess or cards. Many elderlies have gathered at the small
town-square. A town official is making a speech. Some programs to celebrate
multiculturalism will follow soon as costumed performers wait beside the
podium. I come across two Nepali men listening attentively to the
official. “Do you understand Korean?” I ask. “No, we don’t,” they smile, “We
are just killing time. There is nothing better to do around here.” Nearby, a
bunch of four middle-aged Chinese men and women are playing a game of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jianzi</i> that was competing with the
official event for crowds. A fat man was approaching everyone passing by
to pitch a packet of ginseng.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBsrLrjz6wL96KDp4H4NJ5UpCy8Bl5tmRV2WJnLlcSJ87uHWlC6Sa9mO-UoHRQDy-RtVzWF6MPN2ugltrF7pU0otolSFOfaxtPxif2ccE_jw44aWm1unkxMUWy5nX8dL2E1-zmPg/s1600/P2200041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBsrLrjz6wL96KDp4H4NJ5UpCy8Bl5tmRV2WJnLlcSJ87uHWlC6Sa9mO-UoHRQDy-RtVzWF6MPN2ugltrF7pU0otolSFOfaxtPxif2ccE_jw44aWm1unkxMUWy5nX8dL2E1-zmPg/s1600/P2200041.jpg" height="125" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ansan streets</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-US">I meet a group of ten Bangladeshis on their
way to the Seoul Mosque. They are in good spirits and are facing the usual
challenge of travelling in a group, getting the entire flock to think alike at
the same time. I catch Habibur, who had been positioned on standby till they
could sort out matters. After the typical questions about where I am from and
where in Bangladesh my parents came from, he asks me the usual questions
all migrant workers ask, “Are you looking for a job here? I could get you in touch
with someone.” After I explain that I am not, he switches track, “How easy is
it to get in to Singapore? I have been here for eight years. They won’t let me
stay here anymore after this term ends. Can you get me a job in your company?” <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfjii8MNu6Jhqj9FjEdGDSB6ytlnfp7mbQ6VDtl8R2TYC_Q_we0JvAqTMUeIU7qLqrqJXgrwrGaQQ5HB_y6llBch8cQp_2qd6fq5pQgMQuWZqWxqP9TbEm6Ltlw_mSqbERq3wA0w/s1600/P2200045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfjii8MNu6Jhqj9FjEdGDSB6ytlnfp7mbQ6VDtl8R2TYC_Q_we0JvAqTMUeIU7qLqrqJXgrwrGaQQ5HB_y6llBch8cQp_2qd6fq5pQgMQuWZqWxqP9TbEm6Ltlw_mSqbERq3wA0w/s1600/P2200045.jpg" height="140" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ansan Streets</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span><span lang="EN-US"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">Arif, who had been left behind a bit,
catches up with me. “Brother, are you a Muslim?” he asks, “Not a problem. We
are all brothers sharing the same language,” his voice turns extremely civil.
“Life is not too bad here for us. But sometimes, the managers and other Korean
workers shout at us. I think they say bad things. But today is a holiday and we
are going to the Seoul Mosque for the first time.” Other men from the group
gather around me and we again share details about our origins. “Stay well,
brother,” they bid me farewell. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
___________________________________________________________________________</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSaJ01gLoNCm6oApr3SLK2jC4YgZ9ipvCSh1MzWCJlXvuuUWM9VtJK-D9cmP_01KOt1dVZ0OXVzCBeh-0Q-zVZqdzMuzg4eKkGpwIWKhyMab2UyrqP5GYAkTL8W75OPlU-RKTFw/s1600/P2200057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeSaJ01gLoNCm6oApr3SLK2jC4YgZ9ipvCSh1MzWCJlXvuuUWM9VtJK-D9cmP_01KOt1dVZ0OXVzCBeh-0Q-zVZqdzMuzg4eKkGpwIWKhyMab2UyrqP5GYAkTL8W75OPlU-RKTFw/s1600/P2200057.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Itaewon Cool</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-US">My next stop is Itaewon, the ‘Western
City’. Big solid blocks of high-end restaurants greet me with tables covered in long white
sheets. Shop names are all in English and of course there are the familiar
McDonalds, KFC, Burger King, etc. Some shop-fronts imitate Victorian or Art
Deco facades. Young Korean couples are walking the cobbled roads, posing every
minute for selfies, making the world stop or walk around them. In the cold, a
young Korean man wearing just a t-shirt, an elaborate hairdo and a smoke, is
moving around from one door to another without purpose. Outside a convenience
store, four British residents have set up two tables to eat their warmed up
noodles and are talking loudly, “It’s f**ing expensive here,” says one. “Yeah,
especially for housing,” says another. “Yeah, that’s a f**ing problem, you
can’t save f**ing anything here.” Their complaints fade as I come down this
cobbled street into the main lane of the Itaewon market, a favorite tourist
haunt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcLkv5EYVWHZHAuhKcaP2472MnTOG-n_iQQzpiU5rhU5CCAuwyqbKGznPN4oXofHzUXc9JROdCiOKiZjmcth_Lr-2lMnhGh4Vhu61vdqWIag608wLN-Gxxub6bA3BsCAOSiMVa6g/s1600/P2200054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcLkv5EYVWHZHAuhKcaP2472MnTOG-n_iQQzpiU5rhU5CCAuwyqbKGznPN4oXofHzUXc9JROdCiOKiZjmcth_Lr-2lMnhGh4Vhu61vdqWIag608wLN-Gxxub6bA3BsCAOSiMVa6g/s1600/P2200054.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Itaewon chic</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-US">Men wearing American army uniforms are
looking for a bargain. English teachers, an abundant species in Korea, are
walking in both directions. Korean men from the tailor shops which form the
backdrop of these streets are asking me again and again, “Do you want a shirt
made for you? A pant may be?” They lose memory like goldfish and the same
people ask me the same questions again when I take the walk back. A group of
Chinese tourists guided by a yellow flag have just risen from earth, from the
subway station. This is their hopping stop and they dutifully go through each
of the small cubicle shops placed along the pavement, Korean wallpaper
paintings on their walls, all selling the same items: socks, caps, souvenirs,
and the same witty t-shirts that you get anywhere in the world. Whistle, the
flag stops and turns around, the Chinese tourists go back to the underground world
in unison. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjozQTidkkRFFOC5fzic-JdvHzmLc245NROzKj3LNZgx1kpP5Xi0FUG-HeziObS3bHcu1QFvhqLAwe76YY-88xFbgKxYxYn2oSFi5Oiq7EcFHU7H_1RO3f6_otiaO-r2DArbcbw/s1600/P2200056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjozQTidkkRFFOC5fzic-JdvHzmLc245NROzKj3LNZgx1kpP5Xi0FUG-HeziObS3bHcu1QFvhqLAwe76YY-88xFbgKxYxYn2oSFi5Oiq7EcFHU7H_1RO3f6_otiaO-r2DArbcbw/s1600/P2200056.jpg" height="172" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Itaewon style</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-US">I catch up with Roy (name changed), an
English teacher from Sacramento who has been in Korea for over ten years. “I
didn’t plan to stay so long. But back home, you can’t make a living teaching
English after you have paid the hundred taxes. And in California, they keep
trying to bring in laws to turn teachers into paupers.” He comes to Itaewon
every weekend, “You should come here as a single. There are such great clubs in
this area and Korean people are very friendly if you know what I mean.” No
problem of assimilation here then. “Not at all,” he laughs, “During the day on
weekends, you can join the aunties for treks and during the night their daughters can join you
for a bumpy ride.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US">But this glitzy world changes suddenly
changes as one walks up the hill from Itaewon. There are more Indian
restaurants, but they have lost the fortress like appearance of the ones in
Itaewon. Back comes the oversized jackets inside and outside the shops. People
with distinctly Arab, South Asian and Malay faces are just idling against shop
walls. Hijabs on mannequins, Pakistani travel agency, Turkish Kebab dig, Malay
restaurant, I can see the minaret of Seoul Mosque already. I meet again the
group of Bangladeshis from Ansan. They have taken the pamphlets about Islam
from the mosque and distributing it to any occasional Korean who drops by to </span><span lang="EN-US">take some photographs. Outside, an elderly Korean lady is visiting every shop
and asking the shop owner in English, “Where are you from?” The shop owner
inevitably hesitates and answers, “Korean.” “Don’t say that, you understand!
Say what you are, a Pakistani,” enraged, she walks away to the next store. I
run for cover.</span><span lang="EN-US"> </span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja9LAJpdXKHJzRo4Xw5-uIEqz95IlqObPPTg4BOTUSQk2pVdNm8TlZebUEJBzbd94b4jd4BFR2n8y4m_uZdmdtT-VibWIWFbGyvDBoxBOcGd3_SLNdC1H37ZE-IN2if8CkwWXRfA/s1600/P2140029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja9LAJpdXKHJzRo4Xw5-uIEqz95IlqObPPTg4BOTUSQk2pVdNm8TlZebUEJBzbd94b4jd4BFR2n8y4m_uZdmdtT-VibWIWFbGyvDBoxBOcGd3_SLNdC1H37ZE-IN2if8CkwWXRfA/s1600/P2140029.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seoul mosque - Itaewon </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_jE9r2hsdo_iXiK-HmQxqPqPwPN5CAQHu8Vgc1QW8yj6ugwxstPy0cEHXJhDYeavZQ_SPNjGTEWeyEmncL8Kn__jI6znCx-ywAQHVRNfztUoqbewi0Sx19d61OL-IARwFO35U9A/s1600/CAM00728.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_jE9r2hsdo_iXiK-HmQxqPqPwPN5CAQHu8Vgc1QW8yj6ugwxstPy0cEHXJhDYeavZQ_SPNjGTEWeyEmncL8Kn__jI6znCx-ywAQHVRNfztUoqbewi0Sx19d61OL-IARwFO35U9A/s1600/CAM00728.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hijabs outside Seoul Mosque</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-US"></span> </div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-69266924235951975642014-03-29T14:22:00.002+05:302014-03-29T14:23:42.544+05:30Interview with Mr Udaya Rai, Head of Migrant Trade Union (MTU), South Korea<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Interview with Mr Udaya Rai, Head of Migrant Trade Union
(MTU), South Korea<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">This interview was conducted on
February 2014. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;">MTU, established in 2005, is a unique labour union
catering to migrant workers. It is affiliated to the Korean Confederation of
Trade Unions. MTU provides counselling to migrant workers facing workplace issues,
conducts educational programs on Labour Laws, Korean Language, etc., and
campaigns to stop deportation of undocumented workers and for rights of migrant
workers. The current chairman of MTU, Mr Udaya Rai, is from Nepal and has been
living in Korea for over 8 years. He speaks fluent Korean.</span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">SD:How
many migrant workers are there in Korea?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><strong>Mr. Rai:</strong></span> As far as I know, there are well over one
million immigrants in Korea of whom 700,000 are migrant workers. There are various
systems of visa for migrant workers, one of which is the Employment Permit System
for 15 Asian countries under which around 250,000 workers are present in Korea.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">SD: Where
do the migrant workers work in Korea?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><strong>Mr. Rai:</strong></span>Migrant workers are almost always employed by
Small and Medium Enterprises (SMEs). They are employed largely in the agriculture/
fisheries, manufacturing, waste management, construction, and marine
industries. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<span lang="EN-US"></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">SD: </span></i><em>What
is the process for a migrant worker to enter Korea?<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><strong>Mr. Rai:</strong></span>Under the EPS system, all prospect workers
have to enter through government channels. Tests are held in home countries to
select eligible applicants and they need to undergo some training, particularly
language training, before entering Korea. Here, workers don’t need to pay
agents in their home country like they do to get a job into Singapore or other
countries. Once inside Korea, in case they want to get a new job, they can pay local
employment agencies here to search a job for them. At one go, a worker can stay
for 3 years in Korea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<span lang="EN-US"></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">SD: </span></i><em>How
is the compensation system for migrant workers in Korea?<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><strong>Mr. Rai:</strong></span>In Korea, migrant workers are covered under
the minimum wage scheme which mandates 5,210 Korean Won/ hour. But in the
agricultural and fisheries sector, this is problematic because people work dawn
to dusk and are still paid only on an eight hour basis. In other sectors, also
migrant workers are not properly compensated for overtime work. My estimate is
that only 10% of migrant workers get proper pay slips. Some employers provide
dormitory accommodation for migrant workers; in other cases, the workers have
to arrange for it themselves. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In case of
injury, the workers are usually covered under insurance but many times, their
SME employers send them to small clinics instead of a proper hospital and don’t
claim insurance out of fear of increase in premium the next time they apply for
coverage. In these cases, the workers end up getting inadequate treatment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<span lang="EN-US"></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">SD: </span></i><em>What
is the state of the migrant workers in Korea?<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><strong>Mr. Rai:</strong></span>It’s all good when things are going fine.
The thing is that it’s the employer who has all the power. Migrant workers
cannot change jobs without the consent of their present employer. In such a
case, the only option is to wait till the contract ends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also in South Korea, migrant workers are not
allowed to unionize, strike, or bring in families. Korea has long been a
homogenous society and I am not sure if they view migrant workers favorably yet.
Migrant workers suffer frequent verbal and occasional physical abuse from their
employers and fellow Korean workers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<span lang="EN-US"></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">SD: </span></i><em>Is
there any support system for migrant workers?<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><strong>Mr. Rai:</strong></span>Migrant Trade Union always voices their
concerns and fights for their rights. We are mainly fighting for three basic
labour rights for migrant workers – Right to unionize, Right to bargain and
Right to strike. Other than us, many lawyers and lawyer groups offer help to
migrant workers. There are also counsellors and religious groups. Many city
administrations have set up Migrant Services Centres to help migrant workers in
various ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">SD: Any
final comments?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US"><strong>Mr. Rai:</strong> Korea has been saying that its EPS system
is the best system in the world. But in practice, it’s not working and is heavily in favor
of the employer. We need to change the Employment Permit system to a Work
Permit System which will allow workers to bring in family members, change jobs,
and longer residency.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-81005458761595408942014-03-24T14:53:00.001+05:302014-03-24T14:53:11.909+05:30My Interview - Around the World Travel TV<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/jgG11U1hQhk" width="480"></iframe><br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-76020770748654946212014-02-27T19:39:00.000+05:302014-02-27T19:39:06.235+05:30Interview with Michelle Granas; Author of "Zaremba, or Love and the Rule of Law"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cvEAM5nk_c9Pi8yntjMpRf2QUWZfN7iNgkvBjsSf_8XwfoVQWZkeRVHXyW3EUSlo1Q5SXjWBW3lIKtZEXus-nXQL-eiBZoa1f0dYta1En3Gd-E-c-WGapC0vFUXdnIy_diGDuA/s1600/Zaremba_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cvEAM5nk_c9Pi8yntjMpRf2QUWZfN7iNgkvBjsSf_8XwfoVQWZkeRVHXyW3EUSlo1Q5SXjWBW3lIKtZEXus-nXQL-eiBZoa1f0dYta1En3Gd-E-c-WGapC0vFUXdnIy_diGDuA/s1600/Zaremba_cover.jpg" height="320" width="207" /></a></div>
<span id="freeText88838799046586446"><strong>Book description: </strong><em>In Warsaw, a shy and high-minded polio victim lives a life of seclusion caring for her odd family until a chance encounter plunges her into the intrigues of dirty politics. Zaremba, a wealthy businessman, is about to be arrested on trumped-up charges and only she can save him. Swept along by events, Cordelia finds her feelings increasingly involved with a stranger for whom she is both rescuer and victim. When Zaremba is implicated in terrorist activities and disappears, Cordelia is painfully uncertain if she has been abandoned and must overcome surveillance, corruption, the media, and mounting humiliations and difficulties to learn the truth.<br /><br />This is a story about love between a man and woman, but also love of family, country, and justice. Although set in Poland, where the CIA had a black site, it is a story that could happen anywhere, in a world where young democracies struggle against the temptations of covert operations and older democracies sometimes lead them astray.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Shivaji: Tell us something about your background and
what inspired you to write this novel<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Michelle:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In
addition to being a writer, I am also a translator and often work on texts
about international law, foreign policy, or sociology. I am American, but have
been living with my family in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Poland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
for many years. Some time ago, when Lech Kaczynski was president and his twin
brother was prime minister, the government appeared to be extending its power
in improper ways. These occurrences joined a worrying trend by America - and
the international community - increasingly to ignore international laws and
human rights that had previously seemed unassailable (outwardly, at least). It
seemed clear to me that smaller countries might follow the lead of more
powerful ones, and that given the tentacles of US agencies, 'security'
activities could form an excuse to get rid of inconvenient persons or to settle
scores. (And the CIA did have black sites in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Poland</st1:place></st1:country-region> and elsewhere and engaged in
kidnapping in European countries). In 2007, events had become worrisome enough
that my husband - who loves <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Poland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
- had begun to wonder whether we might have to leave the country. The idea for
the novel came to me in the autumn of 2007 and I wrote most of the first part
without knowing how the elections in that year would play out. (The Kaczynskis'
party lost.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Shivaji: Your book in essence is a cautionary tale
about government overreach. In the last few years, we have been hearing more
and more such stories: NSA snooping for instance. Should we really be
concerned? After all, the message out there is that all this is being done for
our own good.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Michelle:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Well,
I think of my book primarily as a love story between two rather unusual
characters. But it is also about government abuse of power. The point is that
when power is unchecked, it will inevitably extend into the lives of innocent
people. We know this from history and human psychology. Every totalitarian or
authoritarian regime claims to be acting for the good of the people, and for
their security from outside threats. These are claims that should instantly
ring alarm bells. American and <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">UK</st1:place></st1:country-region>
governments continually trumpet the dangers of terrorism within their
countries, but when the claim is investigated the threat disappears. Consider
for instance, the number of Americans killed by terrorists last year: far fewer
than were killed by policemen, fewer than were killed by falling furniture,
miniscule numbers in comparison with random gun deaths, traffic accidents, or
influenza, anyway. The American government knows this, so why is it putting in
place enormous mechanisms of control and secrecy to deal with a comparative
non-issue? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Yes,
we should be very worried by the activities of security agencies, including the
NSA. Investigations (by the Senate Intelligence Committee, for instance) have
shown that their spying has not contributed to preventing any terrorist acts.
However, the possibilities for using private information about citizens to
control a population should be obvious and very frightening. How can journalists
write their stories, lawyers communicate with their clients, or ordinary people
speak to their acquaintances without fear that their words might someday be
used against them -- because of their politics, or their preferences, or for no
reason at all -- in devastatingly harmful ways? We already know what can happen
to journalists who object to American policies. Unless we all speak out and
make our objections to surveillance clear, the bar of allowable speech will
eventually lower until we are all silenced. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Shivaji: As your novel also shows, getting a
hyper-sensitive media to react in one's favour has become very important to win
the battle. And the hyper-sensitive media has an addiction for stunts. Is it
the only way left to fight for justice?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Michelle:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">No.
I think one of the very encouraging trends of recent years is the degree to
which ordinary citizens have been able to come together to produce change or
stop an injustice simply by adding their name to a petition, sending emails, or
standing in a square. The internet has made it possible for many more people to
become aware of what's happening in the world and to participate in shaping
events. But we all have to make our voices heard - if only by making that click
of the mouse - for justice, and peace, and a better world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Shivaji: In many authoritarian countries, we are also
seeing how governments act in response to majority opinion. Whether
in <st1:country-region w:st="on">China</st1:country-region>, Central Asia, or <st1:place w:st="on">South East Asia</st1:place>, the government scrupulously tracks the
flow of public opinion and reacts accordingly. Whether it is anti-gay
legislations in Nigeria, or Sharia law for non-Muslims in Aceh province of
Indonesia; what chance do minority rights or individual rights have in
such a context? <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Michelle:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
only chance that individual rights have is if all of us who are aware of their
importance work to spread this idea to others: If anyone's rights can be
violated, it means that yours can be too; the rights that protect one person
protect everyone. In short, the security of the majority lies in the security
of the minority. The alternative is a society where no one is free and
dissenters are severely repressed (as once in Eastern European communist
countries) or situations of civil strife and violence (as we are seeing in many
parts of the world today).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Shivaji:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The recent events in Ukraine have shifted fault lines.
In a way, the context of your novel was also an outcome of a similar shifting
of fault lines when <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Poland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
was trying to extract itself from the Russian sphere. Poland turned vindictive;
digging out deep corners of it's past to vilify individuals. Will Ukraine or
other East European countries tread the same path or was it a uniquely Polish
inevitability?<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Michelle:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I
don't think anything is inevitable. Authoritarian practices or regimes can be
brought down by non-violent action, and democracies won't stay democracies
unless their citizens are vigilant.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Poland</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> teetered for a while toward authoritarian practices,
but then righted itself, and is today a healthy democracy, I would say. <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Hungary</st1:place></st1:country-region>
embarked on a similar course toward improper state control and is having more
trouble. <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Russia</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
after the downfall of communism, never attained real democracy. I do not know
what will happen in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ukraine</st1:country-region>;
one sympathizes very strongly with the Ukrainians' desire for change, and hopes
that in the process the rights and wishes of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ukraine</st1:place></st1:country-region>'s minorities are not
disregarded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</span> </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-91586916941014056702014-02-25T14:01:00.001+05:302014-02-25T14:01:15.956+05:30My Interview with Travel Radio Australia (With Ren Zwiers)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/PpMi-uQxZgM" width="480"></iframe><br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-38979208171503699932014-02-23T10:33:00.003+05:302014-02-23T10:33:45.722+05:30Tretes, Indonesia: The setting for an epic contest between fighting cocks and Karaoke stars<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifeg0UY-v3R56RBy1UX81wkQGzfnj2B_a3yTQMXEnvmSKVHNzWxNbPA67neUqyb4hjXevdWbTe7CynWqq55jnacWhBKF3SwwRmZdw3zFNyXgZZ2Pdxa8N6Eyp44Zs5If2k-_SRyg/s1600/P1310027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifeg0UY-v3R56RBy1UX81wkQGzfnj2B_a3yTQMXEnvmSKVHNzWxNbPA67neUqyb4hjXevdWbTe7CynWqq55jnacWhBKF3SwwRmZdw3zFNyXgZZ2Pdxa8N6Eyp44Zs5If2k-_SRyg/s1600/P1310027.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Two weeks back, I reached the hill town called Tretes,
halfway between Malang and Surabaya in East Java. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I headed towards Malang from Surabaya, I
noticed Mt Welirang, an active volcano. The mountain looks beautiful as you
approach it, a perfect cone like Fuji with its skirt spread very wide. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tretes lies in the middle of this skirt.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I noticed something unusual about Tretes. The town is the
world Karaoke capital. Every house has been converted into a Karaoke stop.
Young men and women from all over East Java come here, book a room in a
homestay, turn on the Karaoke systems and dance all night. Some bring in their
own disco lights. When I went out, I could hear 50 songs blending in the night,
each with its own drowsy emotion. The muezzin has also given up on Tretes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Tretes is also the breeding capital for fighting cocks.
Every house breeds cocks for fighting. Every house has a cock fighting gym. And
even though they are used later for gambling which is illegal in Indonesia,
breeding these cocks are not. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At my
homestay, the family has seven male cocks and one female. Haryanto tells me, “A
champion can be sold for 100,000 rupiah.” That's ten dollars and rather
humiliating for a champion. Haryanto goes on, “His babies could sell for
25,000. See that cock. We have given him a wife. We are trying for their
babies.” The cock had an irritated and arrogant look. The wife look silly, as
if trying too hard to show that she is worth something too. Economic balance of
power affects gender relations in chickens too.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv1zkMeGwWJxmUCYG0ABqb5YkkbZ6ZfFnNfWvGk_HqjQDbkRGPu6IO00K0Dc_maxjsZQdn3lIUH4-4cbXeiAmgGiwr-luKSQ791K2k9rl6j3YysZ50Km3pk8_98JkZidkMI6nJ6Q/s1600/P1310035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv1zkMeGwWJxmUCYG0ABqb5YkkbZ6ZfFnNfWvGk_HqjQDbkRGPu6IO00K0Dc_maxjsZQdn3lIUH4-4cbXeiAmgGiwr-luKSQ791K2k9rl6j3YysZ50Km3pk8_98JkZidkMI6nJ6Q/s1600/P1310035.jpg" height="151" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So in this unique town which serves as capital for both
Karaoke and cock breeding, the two protagonists can never make peace with each
other. As night falls, and the music systems turn on one by one, the cocks fall
silent. Quietly, they wait for their revenge. The singing and dancing goes on
well into the wee hours. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only around
four in the morning, the songs begin to fall asleep one by one. But just when
the young revellers are about to go to sleep too, the cocks wake up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each takes turn to let out a horrendous call,
then again, and then again. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The karaoke people wake up and since they can’t sleep
anymore in this noise, they start their karaoke systems again. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided I couldn't stay in that town anymore
because it's just not possible to sleep in that town. The cocks and karaoke
people will never be able to reconcile. I pack my bags hastily and leave.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXmXF0qgO3OFZKk_NH2CdgT3OstWEiZzmLunrZusRYAV_Xk-3Cpn6wkKfzRWoGnQOElyIpPc25O8N4wgdharX3A3VY0of3643vW24uIS3VK_ijEhhA9Kgvy6PHBo8XQytNIAPRAA/s1600/P1310039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXmXF0qgO3OFZKk_NH2CdgT3OstWEiZzmLunrZusRYAV_Xk-3Cpn6wkKfzRWoGnQOElyIpPc25O8N4wgdharX3A3VY0of3643vW24uIS3VK_ijEhhA9Kgvy6PHBo8XQytNIAPRAA/s1600/P1310039.jpg" height="266" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-78510590006697980702014-02-15T17:15:00.001+05:302014-02-15T17:15:15.078+05:30My Singapore Fairy Tale: The songs of the candy floss baby <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Esplanade
dome cracked open; it had hatched. Out came a giant baby pigeon. It was past
midnight and no one saw it come out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pink
and white, glowing in the moonlight, she was made of candy floss. She had big
eyes and small feet, and a wide orange beak. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">How did the
Esplanade dome become an egg? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was
when a very lazy pigeon, our baby pigeon’s mother, kept sitting on one of the
two domes all day. As it became an egg, the dome sucked in candy floss from all
the vendors in Esplanade to make the baby. The mother flew away immediately
because she didn’t know how to take care of such a big baby. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.suntecsingapore.com/wp-content/uploads/Merlion-Statue-in-Singapore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.suntecsingapore.com/wp-content/uploads/Merlion-Statue-in-Singapore.jpg" height="253" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Merlion, Behind-The Esplanade <br />
(Img Source: Suntec Singapore)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our baby
called for her mother and took clumsy steps, but she was nowhere to be found. The
heavy baby was very hungry. No one was around. She only found the Merlion
bending over to drink water from the bay. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Mr.
Merlion, Have you seen my mommy?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Merlion
spoke in between his drinking, “I don’t know…(gulp) Don’t disturb me… (gulp) I
need to drink.. (gulp) as much as I can all night….(gulp) Tomorrow..(gulp) I
will have to keep… (gulp) throwing water from my…(gulp) mouth all day..(gulp,
gulp, gulp).”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sorry, Mr.
Merlion. Can you just tell me where I can get some food? I have not eaten
anything since I was born.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You are…(gulp)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>such a nuisance…(gulp) People here go to…(gulp)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>food court to…(gulp) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>eat…(gulp) Now, go away. …(gulp) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I really need to drink. ..(gulp, gulp, gulp).”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/04/a2/bd/f2/maxwell-food-court.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/04/a2/bd/f2/maxwell-food-court.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maxwell Road Food Centre (Img Src: Tripadvisor)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The cuddly baby
wobbled as she walked. She was feeling very tired. With great effort she
managed to reach the Maxwell Road Food Centre. Maxwell Road Food Centre was
standing up on two legs and stretching. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Head
to toe, he was entirely made of food stalls. As he stretched, his whole body
gave out the sound of banging utensils.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Mr.
Maxwell Road Food Centre. Can you give me some food please?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh poor baby, I am closed for business now. I need to walk
around. The whole day, I just keep sitting. Wait, there may be something in my
fridges,” he shook his left arm full of eatery stalls, and out came hundreds of
steamed buns. Then he shook his right arm, also full of eatery stalls, and out
came all kinds of fruit juices.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The baby pigeon ate and drank heartily. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Thank you so much, Mr. Maxwell Road Food
Centre. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you tell me how I can find
my mommy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, poor baby, I don’t know much about Singapore,“ he
touched both his feet with his hands to stretch, “I never walk too far from
here. But I have heard that people go to the library to look for information.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The big baby thanked him and kissed him and walked to the
Central Library. This was such a big city; so many roads, so many apartments,
so many choices for pigeons to stay. Was there any hope for our baby? She found
Ms. Central Library lying down, fanning herself; her thirty-six eyes
half-asleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Dear Ms. Central Library, can you please help me find my mommy?”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Shh… don’t make noise. My books are all reading each other.
They can’t read anything during the day. This is their only time. Anyway, I
don’t think they would know about your mother. They could tell you the
physiology of pigeons or some pigeon recipe.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Please help me Ms. Central Library. You know everything.
Everyone comes to you for knowledge. Please think of a solution.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Shh… don’t make noise. Yes, you are right. I am very
knowledgeable indeed. But even the police don’t record the whereabouts of
pigeons. Perhaps you could ask the blind singer at Simei Station. He knows a
lot of pigeons. But yes, I know everything. See, I told you exactly what to do.
Indeed, I know everything…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The baby pigeon threw her a thank you and left
hurriedly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At Simei Station, she waited
patiently where the blind singer sat every day. The next day, she pretended to
be a statue so that people don’t get alarmed by her size. Many took her picture
on their phones. Young kids rolled in to her candyfloss body. She kept still; a
statue. The blind singer came only in the evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The statuesque baby told him her story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Your mother hasn’t come here,” said the blind singer, “Perhaps;
you could sing a song for her. It has to be a very special song; such a song
that once she listens to it, she can’t resist coming to you. Singing and
listening, that’s all I do. But no-one bothers to listen nowadays. People just
see me and throw a coin. When will they tip me for my music and not for my blindness?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“But I don’t know how to sing. Can you please teach me,
Sir?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I know only four songs; ‘Lady in Red’, ‘Sleeping Child’,
‘Please forgive me’, and ‘Everything I do’. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think these songs will serve your
purpose. Your song has to be very special. It has to come from inside you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Alright, I will make the words. But please give me the notes,”
said the pink-white baby. The blind singer agreed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our podgy baby put down the words on pieces of paper and spread
them out on the pavement. They said, ‘Mother, come back please, I want good
food and cheese.’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The blind singer threw
out some musical notes from his packets. The notes became strings and flew
around for a while and then just fell on the pavement. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This is not the right song,” said the blind singer, “Try
harder. And, don’t mention the cheese.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
big eyed baby thought for five days and five nights. Again, she laid out the
words on the pavement. Again, the blind man threw the notes from his pockets.
This time, the strings fell on the words, one string for each word and quickly
wrapped itself around them. Then they began to fly like kites, notes and words.
“This is the right song,” said the blind man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sweet voiced baby began while the blind singer played
the guitar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The star of
my life has gone away<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My heart full of sorrow and dismay<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Will my mommy be never by my side again?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Who will comfort me when there’s heavy rain?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mommy was lost a few days ago,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With whom will I pay tic-tac-toe?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Till now I am trying to find my mother,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Will some kind heart please find and tell her?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mommy, I will be a very good baby<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Together we will sing and dance, well maybe.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Please come back to me else I will cry,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cry all the time till my eyes run dry.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am searching for mommy night and day,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While all other children are happy and gay<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Even though my efforts are going in vain,<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But, if I don't, I’ll be full of pain<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The big-eyed baby cried as she sang. The blind singer cried as he
played the guitar. Passers-by cried, as they listened to their song. More and
more people came to listen. The Karung Guni men replaced their horns with the
baby’s song. Ice cream cart uncles and aunties played it non-stop from their
masts. Lion Dance Troupes ran rounds of the city with the song. Getai singers
learned it by heart and sang it on all occasions. Someone uploaded the song
onto Youtube and got a hundred billion views and forty hundred billion tear
drops in one single day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All the pigeons of the city, except for our baby’s mother, gathered in Simei
to comfort the baby. Pigeons from Indonesia and Malaysia came to Simei to comfort
the baby. Ostriches swam all the way from Africa to Simei to feed the baby and
the blind singer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the baby kept
singing and crying. The whole world came to Simei. They came, they listened,
and wept. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Toto winners came together to announce a prize of a hundred billion
dollars for anyone who could find podgy baby’s mommy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The trains announced at each station, “Please
mind the platform gap and please find the baby pigeon’s mommy.” The Singapore
flyer rode all around the town to look for the mother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And where was the mother pigeon? She had been hiding, flying from one
place to another, as far as she could from the baby. But whenever she heard her
baby’s song, she cried. She hid behind windows to watch Youtube videos of her
baby and cried. She cried all day and kept flying further away, so that she
won’t get caught. She knew that everyone loved her baby and took good care of
her. But if she came back to her, they would all go away. How could she then
take care of the enormous baby all by herself? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The mother pigeon had not had anything to eat for days. She had lost all
her feathers and had become very thin. She couldn’t go on for any longer. She
nearly collapsed and fell. And then she saw a cat because only the cats had not
gone to Simei. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This is my end. I will be eaten up by this cat,” the mother pigeon
gasped for breath. But the cat didn’t bother to move. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He just said, “You must be the noisy baby’s mother. All other pigeons
have long gone to Simei.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes,” said the mother, “Why aren’t you eating me?” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“How can I eat you? Didn’t I hear your baby’s songs? We cats also
cried. We just didn’t go to see her because the dogs reached there before us.
And you know how smelly dogs can be. Why are you so heartless? Go back to your
daughter.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“If only you knew how I want to. She is such an adorable baby; such a
loving baby. But how can I take care of such a big baby?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“That’s not a problem. While everyone was crying, we cats did all the
scientific research to find the solution, only out of curiosity. Your baby’s
body has a lot of candy floss. All she needs to do is to share it with other
children. Then she will become a normal baby.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hearing this, the mother pigeon was overjoyed and asked the cat to take
her to Simei. The cat said that he was busy but called for a taxi for her.
After giving instructions to the driver, the cat called another taxi and headed
for the association of Toto winners to claim his prize money. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Both the mother and our baby pigeon were ecstatic with joy when they
met each other. With some difficulty, the big baby and the mother managed to
embrace. They cried their heart out for one final time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The crowd surrounding the pair went ecstatic too.
Every mother hugged their children tighter and wept for joy. Neighbours
embraced each other and wept. Employees of one auditing firm spotted out
employees of competing auditing firms and wept. German Shepherds embraced
Chihuahuas and wept. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then the mother pigeon asked all the children to line up; for this
was the time to celebrate with candy floss. The baby pigeon joyously gave out
big dollops of candy floss to every child. The whole city was eating candy
floss and revelling. The baby started shrinking and soon became a delicate
small baby pigeon, just how all baby pigeons should be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Since then, the baby pigeon and her mother sit on the blind singer’s
shoulders and sing with him. They only sing four songs, ‘Lady in Red’,
‘Sleeping Child’, ‘Please forgive me’, and ‘Everything I do’. As for the cat,
he used his award money to build the largest candy floss factory in the world in
Tuas. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-28594679083162652062014-02-13T12:20:00.000+05:302014-02-13T16:16:57.673+05:30Homeless in Seoul<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjucPAqGxKPvmDERPmgb0X5AWkQEcGJ_pxz6a373TBGjsF5m7sYbyucb6EBQG7DLlIHAH6ze0KO31PfSIwGVS6Lf_c3gUUjpgE2vfCVMYXWcmkpxal23Uq2y-2fosLYL0ZrM2vBpA/s1600/P2280404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjucPAqGxKPvmDERPmgb0X5AWkQEcGJ_pxz6a373TBGjsF5m7sYbyucb6EBQG7DLlIHAH6ze0KO31PfSIwGVS6Lf_c3gUUjpgE2vfCVMYXWcmkpxal23Uq2y-2fosLYL0ZrM2vBpA/s320/P2280404.jpg" height="237" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It was
ten at night. Outside, the temperature had just dipped below zero. And inside,
in Seoul station, it was time for action. Some of the homeless had already set up
their beds, sheets of newspapers for some, flattened vegetable cartons for the
more enterprising ones. A long enough vegetable carton box, still in shape, was as good as things could get over here. But for most, they were still waiting at their temporary resting places, waiting for
the crowds to go back to their homes. The giant station with its maze of
corridors could all be theirs then. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">They were
staying close to one another yet maintaining distance. Each one seemed to be on
their own, yet part of a gang. They were all wearing many layers, all that they
have assembled over their life time, looking thick, rounded and hooded, in
sharp contrast to the sharp flawless winter suits of the extremely fashionable Korea
that walked past them. These high-heeled people with homes were crisscrossing
the station in the all too familiar frenzied style of Seoul, watching their
path from the camera eye of their glitzy phones. The homeless and the ones with
homes seemed in different worlds, unaware of each other’s existence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The first
man we encountered was in a state of stupor. He was perhaps in his fifties. He
was badly drunk and could barely talk. He wore an Eskimo jacket and his numb
lips struggled to contain the warm soya milk that we had given him. “I won’t be….
able to sleep tonight….. It is too cold here…..I will… just keep drooping all
night. Later… I will move to the warmer section…. Still it’s so cold.” This has
been the coldest winter in Korea for a decade and the number of homeless had
taken a jump at the same time. There are supposed to be over 3000 homeless in
Seoul, a growth of nearly 20% over last two years. Of these, over a thousand
are estimated to be living in the streets instead of the shelters run by
governments, churches and NGOs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Another
homeless man approached us. He scolded the other man, “Don’t drink so
much! It will kill you one day. Stop behaving like a fool. Are you listening? I
tell you every day. Stop all this drinking.” He looked at us, “That’s why they don’t
like to stay in the shelter, they can’t drink there.” This man was in fine
form, looking at the prime of his health, “I am out for a stroll now, will be
back when this place is more beautiful,” said he as he walked away. Our hapless
drunken man just kept nodding and thanking us and the other man for his advice.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Another
person approached us to take a soya milk bottle. Word spread fast among the
homeless. It was hard to say what gender he was. He had smooth bright skin and
a few strands of long hair. Tiny earrings twinkled around his or her face.
“It’s fun here. Everything is great.” He or she seemed to be in the best of
spirits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Around a
corner, an old woman with bright eyes shone at us. She was wearing a hat and a
military jacket on top of a purple jacket which sat on top of a blue jacket.
“They wanted to take me to the hospital. So I ran away. I don’t want to go to
the hospital. I have no disease. I will get sick if I go there. And all those
friends and neighbors would come to visit me. They would fall sick as well if
they went to the hospital.” She couldn’t stop talking. It was as if she had
discovered speech after a long time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“It’s
much nicer here. I own this entire Seoul station. There is no privacy at the
shelters.” A small plastic bag was all her possession. When we asked her if she
had blankets, she said, “I have things in this bag. Yesterday, a lady gave me
new socks and tonight I feel very dry and cozy.” She showed us her socks. But
her hands were shivering. They were bare. “Once these people go, I will move to
that section. It is much warmer there. I just moved to this place today. I used
to stay in another station before this. Now I own the entire station.” The
entire point of their lives seemed to be to find a warmer place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Her hands
were shivering from the cold. “It’s getting better. It was so cold a few nights
back.” We asked her how she had ended up there, “Some people stole my money.
They said they would pay back but they never did.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">On the
other side of the platform, along the rails that separated those who already
had a train ticket from those who didn’t, about seven homeless had gathered.
One man just lay on the floor without even a newspaper bed. He kept moving his
arm every now and then. Next to him, there was a man in his sixties with one
blind eye, “One day a stranger who was just passing by poked my eye with a
broken bottle. I don’t know why he did that. But at least I can see with the
other eye. Sometimes, things are violent here. Small fights. My money was once stolen.” He looked cheerful, “Come, let me show you the picture of my daughter,”
he took out his phone. “Oh no, the battery is dead,”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t help feeling sad for the man
fiddling through his phone, going on pressing the buttons in vain. “I can only
charge it tomorrow after lunch,” he looked at us with an apologetic face, “I
have been here for seven years; a man borrowed money from me and never given
back. I didn’t lose money from gambling and then run away from the family like
many of the men here.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We asked him
how he sustained himself, “I go to the soup kitchen for every meal. I will
charge my phone there tomorrow.” We moved on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">On the
other side of the pillar against which the blind man was sitting, a woman sat
next to two drunken men, all in their middle ages. One had a beard and his eyes
were big, visibly drunk. The man at the centre asked for two soya milk bottles and
began talking, “Tell me, is India rich or Korea? Does India have better roads?
Then why are you giving this to me? Tell me, whose economy is stronger?” He
went on harping on this topic. The woman didn’t seem to bother. The bearded man
just kept nodding at us in acknowledgement. “Oh by the way, is it supposed to
be one bottle for everyone? Then I asked for two, was I wrong? I am sorry.
Thank you very much anyway.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Further
away from this group, another elderly woman was walking back and forth. She had
a world of things with her, all covered with a blanket. She was only four feet
something and was wearing three oversized jackets, two scarfs, and big workman’s
boots. She was always smiling, or perhaps shivering. We had to repeat whatever
we said to her a few times so she could understand. “I am the leader of these
homeless people”, she said, "Actually, I live in New York, in Manhattan. But
every year, I come here to be with my friends. I work in a store during the
day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This year I will not be able to go
back to New York because these friends won’t let me go.” She didn’t seem to
know a word of English. “I have pain in my legs. But I don’t want to go to the
government run place. There is no freedom there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A young
man, perhaps in his early twenties approached us. “Will you also give me a milk
bottle, please?” His lips were thick and frothing. He was very thin, wearing an
oversized jacket and a cap. He went away and came back after a while with a
short middle aged man who walked with a bent back and had pointy ears. His
senses seemed numb as well as he struggled to stand steady. “Give him one too, please
. We don’t sleep here but just keep moving from one place to other all night.
Thank you very much.” the young man said. It struck us that none of the
homeless we met had lost their politeness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The rest
of the world was queuing up. The last train of the day had departed. There was
a squeeze at the escalator. The bright
lights of Seoul were dimming one by one to save energy. The homeless were being
left alone in their kingdom. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh2R0Pt0L9LD8qJvzihLrxk0vvKc7j2OyRelVGIPjvb51-YvyrJO5XwTSTyJsTzV5BvmHHBcF50hGDvDCRuzRX2SaxGRbd3-ia_qfPKBnl67DpPozNuV3pcYHPYk8554RFfYYBbw/s1600/Seoul%2520Night%2520new.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh2R0Pt0L9LD8qJvzihLrxk0vvKc7j2OyRelVGIPjvb51-YvyrJO5XwTSTyJsTzV5BvmHHBcF50hGDvDCRuzRX2SaxGRbd3-ia_qfPKBnl67DpPozNuV3pcYHPYk8554RFfYYBbw/s320/Seoul%2520Night%2520new.jpg" height="233" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span> </div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-7694953115861810892014-02-08T12:19:00.003+05:302014-02-08T12:19:44.764+05:30World without cigarettes: Male bonding while travelling<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">In our present obsession with health, one of the
great sources for male bonding is being slowly lost. Even a few years ago,
travellers had obtained visit permits and all kinds of favours from stern
officials and other strangers through the simple charm of a smoke. What does a
nicotine-phobic traveller do to navigate his way around foreign hurdles? How
does he make friends with other strangers in the most time-efficient manner?
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Signs are disturbing as what is increasingly being used as a symbol for male
brotherhood in the face of declining smoking habits is to show pornographic
pictures and videos on mobile phones. From god-fearing Iran to remote provinces
of east Java, I have felt the uneasiness of strangers trying to become friends
with me over a clip of Jenna Jameson. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Extract from <span id="btAsinTitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/kindle-store/dp/B00BVV744M" target="_blank">Journeys with the caterpillar: Travelling through the islands of Flores and Sumba, Indonesia</a> <span style="font-size: 16px; text-transform: capitalize;"></span></span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-1890320884615486202014-02-04T17:25:00.001+05:302014-02-04T17:25:09.094+05:30Why the book is called Journeys with the caterpillar?<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/LsXE3JdIcQc" width="480"></iframe><br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-50342608059431902122014-01-19T18:31:00.001+05:302014-01-19T18:31:34.238+05:30Taking Public Transport in Indonesia<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Uc8mJXI5kVw" width="480"></iframe><br />
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-68430909760647142162014-01-10T19:38:00.000+05:302014-01-10T19:38:14.792+05:30Funerals and Tombs in Sumba, Indonesia <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<iframe width="640" height="360" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/64kWtwjOexk?list=UUQXYIcBk4ZU9oY77H0HYUrg" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12304712.post-87190184734757356992014-01-06T16:13:00.003+05:302014-01-06T16:13:56.758+05:30Hilarious English speaking Indonesians<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<iframe width="640" height="360" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/H2LN4VMys70?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/LsfQ</div>Shivajihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13432687157084742767noreply@blogger.com0