An Unusual Day

Day 22 - New York Sitting in my favourite coffeeho...

2007-06-17T09:58:00.000-04:00

Day 22 - New York

Sitting in my favourite coffeehouse in New York, we were eating breakfast while reading. The sun wa still low and was pouring in at our seat, enticing us to return outdoors. This being Father's Day, it was fitting to read a piece about Y-chromosomes and paternity in The Atlantic.

Lately, I've been intrigued by the DNA testing services that provide detailed reports of lineage, including whether you were descended from Genghis Khan. Being from Asia and after reading teh statistics estimated 15-30 million men are his descendants, I did some research into which service to explore. The most reliable in Oxford, England was about $325 (this prior to teh pound sterling breaching the $2 mark); but Steve the Atlantic's Steve Olson points out that volunteer DNA testers are being sought by the folks at the Personal Genome Project at Harvard.

Since we are expecting a baby boy in about ten days, I thought it would be timely to know more about our past as our son is (so far/or as far as we know) the only descendant of my paternal grandfather with his Y-chromosome.

By the way, the delicious bagel was from Balthazar and the coffee, deserving of this accolade:

Day 21 - Singapore (in New York) - The brilliant ...

2007-04-21T17:17:00.000-04:00

Day 21 - Singapore (in New York) - The brilliant government of Singapore held a Singapore Day for Singaporeans living abroad. It was held in Central Park and featured some of the best food from the actual hawker stand vendors who were flown in courtesy of Singapore Airlines. The event was brilliant with 26 degree celsius sun, great music, and of course, the awesome food.

Char Kway Teow is the seafood noodle dish shown to the right and
Nasi Lemak, below it, is my father's personal favourite. Nasi Lemak is “Rich Rice” cooked in coconut milk with the classic toppings of deep fried fish, sunny side up eggs, cucumbers, fried crispy anchovies or ikan bilis and a lemony sweet chilli sambal. Fried chicken wings and spicy grilled fish paste or otah is also added.

Can't say enough of how well the government of Singapore has done to make Singaporeans abroad feel connected, via their craving for their unique street food.

Day 20 – Brooklyn. We’re on something of a Brookly...

2007-04-21T17:13:00.000-04:00

Day 20 – Brooklyn. We’re on something of a Brooklyn run right now, having been or planning to go there for five of six weekends. A study in the diversity of what Brooklyn has to offer can perhaps be inferred from our reasons to visit:

A “dinner event” hosted by a bookclub mate of mine that is half cozy restaurant where you know the owner and half dinner party.
A baby boy’s first birthday party in Cobble Hill
An invitation to hang out with friends from Massachusetts who were visiting his parents’ home off Ditmas
A single woman’s big birthday bash replete with Williamsburgites who have turned casual slack hipster into a studied art form
Moving extraneous stuff from our cramped Manhattan closets into its own special space in a storage unit in DUMBO

Day 19 - (dreaming of) Dublin. Prior to our babymo...

2007-04-21T10:33:00.000-04:00

Day 19 - (dreaming of) Dublin. Prior to our babymoon, I spent a critical hour browsing the Web and the Barnes & Noble Union Square buying books. While I expected that I might buy one or maybe two, I surprised even myself by selecting four off the shelves. There was no way I would take them all; I left the thickest hardcover behind and it still remains unopened. On the beach I breezed through the first, A Changed Man by Francine Prose, a well-plotted, witty satire set in New York with a great premise and crisp, intelligent writing. The second, The Summer Guest was a small gem of a book, the type I usually don’t buy. But the author Justin Cronin surprised me with the story’s quiet elegance. But the charmer of the lot was the third book which I just finished, weeks after the trip. An Evening of Long Goodbyes by Paul Murray is set in Dublin circa 1999 amidst the city’s economic transformation. I’ll save the book review editorial for another time and instead focus on the city itself. The last time I visited Dublin was during was around 1997 so it just preceded the emergence of the Celtic Tiger as the darling of the EU. The city was certainly on the upswing as was witnessed by the redevelopment taking place in the wealthier South Dublin and in the central core but it didn’t quite have the earmarks of the makeover that caught the imagination of Murray. So where is it now? By all counts, the property prices have shot up, retail prices are higher than most of the eurozone, and the general standard of living has virtually overnight flipflopped from being a country where emigration has made way for immigration. The famine is over; long live the IDA, tax breaks, Eurobenefits, and offshoring. Come to Ireland, or at least offshore your non-critical business processes. Heck, shift your IT, manufacturing, development to Dublin: you won’t regret it. And the message to the 50%+ of Americans who claim some Irish heritage: if you’re looking for a fresh start in a familiar place, come home.

This is marketing of the highest order. We’re talking Apple levels here. And Ireland has backed it up by following through on the expectations and actually becoming a vibrant city. It’s writing tradition is undisputed and with authors like Paul Murray (born in 1975) emerging, the arts scene should complement nicely the economic miracle making Dublin one of the most desirable places to live.

It’s about time I went back.

Day 18 - Todos Santos, Mexico. This town, whose n...

2007-04-21T10:30:00.000-04:00

Day 18 - Todos Santos, Mexico. This town, whose name you may not know, actually has a place that you have heard of, the pictured hotel, memorialized forever by a song which serves as an anthem for the elusive near-past. Booming with a property craze fuelled by nirvana-seekers, Todos Santos is now clearly on the map and may one day lose the very quality that made this backwater so special, so permeating, a place “you can never leave.” But for the time we were around, it did a decent job of showing its appeal. We sampled the mix of galleries, some of which where atrociously bad, some of which were passable. The food, served in an unpretentious bodega was done with panache even though the place was semi-packed with gringo tourists. The hotel itself was kitsch and capitalistic and managed to still retain its rock star status. Finally, the place slowed down and emptied out after the last day tour bus left and we found ourselves alone or at least just surrounded by the city’s real inhabitants, which was really quite nice. If I really wanted to unwind and buy a villa in the town’s environs, I’m sure we would find it idyllic. Nonetheless, TS has all the charm of going to an Eagles reunion concert: you’ll have a great time but you know that you’re seeing something repackaged, dated, and yet classic.

Day 17 - San Diego. I found a little place that s...

2007-03-01T20:18:00.000-05:00

Day 17 - San Diego. I found a little place that serves fish tacos in town that redefines what you normally think Mexican food should be. Pacific style fish tacos are crispy and tart and have very little spice. They are Baja's great delicacy, transported up North to be enjoyed by Californians of all types. I won't blog about the place because I don't want anyone to visit and to ruin it but the adventure of discovering a place like this is half the fun.

Day 16 - Philadelphia. I was speaking on a panel...

2007-03-01T20:03:00.000-05:00

Day 16 - Philadelphia. I was speaking on a panel, talking about user-generated content at a Wharton Technology Conference. The night before the session, I had a free hour in Philadelphia around dinner time and decided to go to the very spot where I proposed to my wife. The Striped Bass is a posh fish restaurant on 15th and Walnut in the heart of the swankiest part of Center City, not too far from where we lived when she was at Wharton. The big evening four years ago involved an early seating, Opera tickets to Carmen later that night, a vase of orchids, a story, a Chinese character (double happiness), and a ring. It was obviously a magical evening and to reminisce without my wife seemed hollow. But the signature black bass was, as usual, to die for.

Day 15 - Cannes. The fish soup called "bouillabaii...

2007-03-01T19:57:00.000-05:00

Day 15 - Cannes. The fish soup called "bouillabaiise" is one of my favourite foods. The region where it was invented is the Cote d'Azur in the South of France. It has, hands down, the best bouillabaisse on the planet. After having truied pale imitations in places like Minneapolis (at the Sofitel), Singapore, and even my hometown of Montreal, nothing can compare to Gaston et Gastounette, the little Cannes favourite not far from the Palais des Congres. Treated by ex-colleagues, the meal was so satisfying and yet so large that the waiter was aghast that I had made such a small dent in my soup bowl. Quel horreur! He was right; I should have done better; but oh, the silky feeling of that saffron-laced broth as it was savoured by my palate on that first sip will stay with me until the next time I'm in Cannes.

Day 14 - Montreal. The queue seemed to be infinit...

2006-06-19T22:53:00.000-04:00

Day 14 - Montreal. The queue seemed to be infinitely long. Schwartz's deli in Montreal is an institution. It's so well known now that at least half the customers are tourists. It's better than New York pastrami. Smoked meat. The culinary delight of Jewish Montreal? No. The culinary delight of all of Montreal. When you read a guidebook about the city, the one listing labeled "montrealaise" was Schwartz's. The only way to blog smoked meat is to add smells, but I haven't figured out how to do that yet.

Day 13 - Montreal. I sat at the outdoor cafe that ...

2006-06-19T22:34:00.000-04:00

Day 13 - Montreal. I sat at the outdoor cafe that had just opened for the season, this being the 27th of May. The weather was beautiful; crisp and warm, and almost everyone was sporting a teeshirt, an undershirt, or a skimpy top. It felt like Rome; the sunglasses, dark skin, European style, and lightly-accented English. The music was barely audible, people were playing backgammon and cards, the most popular drink was the Cuban mojito, the most popular greeting, "Cherie!"

Only on la Main in Montreal. St. Laurent.

Day 12 - Norway. A Poem. Grey Oh look! An id...

2006-05-31T22:27:00.000-04:00

Day 12 - Norway.

A Poem.

Grey

Oh look!
An idyllic glacial lake
In Norway, amidst ice.
Its grey colour is beautiful
In a million different ways:
The brushed steel of a sportscar,
The cool look of dreamy eyes,
The silvery glint of a coin,
A bit of charcoal spread fine o'er paper.
Lake Ustaoset bends in front of our eyes.

Day 11 - Norway. "There isn't much to see in Myrd...

2006-05-31T21:58:00.000-04:00

Day 11 - Norway. "There isn't much to see in Myrdal. There isn't much to do in Myrdal," a railway official told me. Where is Myrdal? It's at the end of the Flam railway line. It's about 3608 feet above sea level. It's a hamlet of (about) seven houses. It sits on the Bergen-Oslo railway line, one of the most scenic in all of Europe. It's the home of Martin, who runs a pretty little B&B that is just due to open for the short summer season. My friend Daniel and I were changing trains and had some time to explore but were dissuaded from leaving the platform by the railway official. "This," he said pointing to the railway station, "is Myrdal."

How wrong he was. We're glad we stepped across the tracks, down the steps, and onto the footbridge where we met Martin and heard his story. One day, I will come back and visit him and take him up on his suggestion to walk four hours down the hill to the fjords.

Day 10 - China. It's amazing what passes for Chine...

2006-05-08T21:14:00.000-04:00

Day 10 - China. It's amazing what passes for Chinese food outside of China. Undeniably, there are some outstanding culinary accomplishments by chefs in the diaspora; but too often the food is suited to the particular tastes of the host country. Sometimes, the resulting fusion isn't all that bad. In India, the entire country seems to be fascinated by hakka Chinese which emerged from the combination of chili and traditional Chinese recipes. In Southeast Asia, the blend of spices and influences has altered the old world dishes beyond recognition. But on one day not long ago in New York, we were seated at a Chinese restaurant in midtown Midhattan that did injustice to the country at large. The food was both sweet and tasteless. The noodles: slurpy and rubbery. The brown sauce: a combination of salt, soy, vinegar, salt, MSG, and salt. And the vegetables were limp and overcooked, with the texture of a plastic sandal. Without mentioning the name of the establishment, suffice it to say that Ee Ching's rule holds, "Try to avoid a restaurant with a two-word English name where one word is "dragon", "moon", "jade", "China", "panda", or most egregiously, any combination of two thereof. (This is a clue.) Ironically, she translated the Chinese sign next to the English name, "A multitude of lanterns by the night sky," and admitted, "Hmmph. Quite poetic."

Day 9 - China. In the embassy district in Beijing,...

2006-04-21T19:27:00.000-04:00

Day 9 - China. In the embassy district in Beijing, I stopped in for lunch at a restaurant that lacked a certain something that was easy to find in town: people. So empty was it that I had four waiters exclusively at my service and the chef himself came by to practice his English and offer suggestions that would suit my spicier palate. He was from Guangdong which is why the restaurant, even though it was in a posh location on Ritan Lu, was not not faring well. The meal strted with a delightful appetizer and two main courses that played off of each other. One was a green vegetable cai, with a lovely texture and a delicate sauce, the other a hearty but tender spicy beef with an aroma to die for. It was quite overwhelming to experience such a warm-weather delight on a -8 degree Celsius day. I had a miserable camera phone otherwise a pic of the feast would be included but I'll let your sensory imagination run wild. The meal was that good.

Day 8 - China. As President Hu is in the news toda...

2006-04-20T21:39:00.000-04:00

Day 8 - China. As President Hu is in the news today, I thought I'd write a story of one of my last visits to Beijing. No, this does not relate to the Falung Gong, but to the rather pleasant practice of foot massage enjoyed by all walks of life at the end of a long day in the capital. For less than 100 RMB, a weary customer will walk out after ninety minutes of refloxology feeling refreshed and invigorated. In my case, I had the double benefit of a skillful masseuse who also knew enough English to help me practice my Chinese. She laughed and giggled to her friends as I used my broken Chinese to answer her probing questions. With little embarassment, and an unhealthy dose of orgeuil, I beamed with delight every time I was able to carry on a conversation entirely in Chinese for more than two exchanges. My colleagues grew tired of my ya ya papaya behaviour and eventually suggested that the second-half of our massage be conducted in blissful silence.

Day 7 - Laos. Luang Prabang is the most charming c...

2006-04-11T20:46:00.000-04:00

Day 7 - Laos. Luang Prabang is the most charming city I've ever visited in Asia. There are a multitude of reasons why but somewhere on that list are its spring rolls. They're made of rice paper and they're deep fried and they usually have chicken and some fiery combination of chilies and vegetables and if you eat them while they're hot (but not scalding), you might be tempted to say that they're the best fried food you've ever tasted. Move over Belgian fries. Here's a recipe that's missing the final frying step.

Day 6 - India. Someone suggested that I slant the ...

2006-03-12T19:21:00.000-05:00

Day 6 - India. Someone suggested that I slant the blog towards current affairs. This past week, India and the US signed a nuclear treaty that didn't seem to please anyone. While this may be a sign of a good compromise, I will leave the geopolitical arguments to other blogs. The prospect of Pakistan and India, two sabre-rattling nuclear powers, scares many. But this story (in three parts) questions just how different the two nations are.

Crossing the Pakistan-India Border

On one Sunday afternoon at the Lahore airport, we queued up for our PIA flight to Delhi. There were thirty-seven of us, none of whom had fully gotten over our nine day tromp around the sights of Pakistan. While the Fort and the Friday prayers in Lahore were of universal appeal to our extremely diverse multinational group, the greater attraction was to the sprawling port city of Karachi with its black sand beaches, camel rides, bazaars, barbeques, gymkhanas, and carpet shops. Every one of us, from the Mexican financier to the English accountant seemed eager to bring home a Bukhara rug. We “got to know someone”, which in Pakistan, is arguably as simple as it is in Turkey. Led to third floor anterooms and cellars across town, we all got our deal. Rather than wrap them up and ship them home, we were convinced by one of our Indian friends to buy some extra luggage and bring the rugs along for the remainder of our three-week trip.

So here we all were in a very long queue at the Pakistan International Airlines counter on our way to Delhi. I was one of the furthest back in the line when a whisper swept down saying the flight was overbooked. We were alarmed but not easily fooled; it was just the kind of riposte that the jokesters in my click would pull. About fifteen minutes later, after not moving in queue at all, I went to investigate. Indeed, there was a problem, I was told. Because we hadn’t reconfirmed our tickets at the appropriate time, our reservations were cancelled. Cancelled! All 37 of them! Since the flight was full, it would take negotiations to get them to open up spaces. In the end, only four of us were permitted to get onboard. Thirty-three were left aghast. The message fell upon our ears like a rock on our toes. Next flight? Tuesday, but it’s full. Rather than get unruly, the crowd became despondent. Some, delighted with Pakistan, secretly wanted to stay. Others were worried that our tight schedule would be disrupted forcing us to omit the Taj or some other expected wonder.

“Any other ideas?” someone asked.

“It’s a forty-five minute drive to the Indian border.”

Quickly, Ammar, one of our group leaders, a Pakistani, made a decision. The three Indian nationals would take the flight along with the one African American as they were deemed to be the most problematic in an overland border crossing. Meanwhile, the rest of us were to shift our luggage to the curb from where transport would be arranged.

It seemed like a good plan.

It was 3:30 in the afternoon and a dusty, swirling wind circled the airport while we waited for Ammar to secure our coach. Just then, a convoy of four pickup trucks pulled up, coughing their exhaust into our face. The women moved away, shielding their eyes with kerchiefs.

“Ammar, where are the buses?” I asked.

“We’re taking these.”

Diplomatically, I coaxed the women to get into the flatbed area of the pickups and to sit knee-to-knee on the wooden planks. Since we had tons of luggage, one of the trucks was dedicated, leaving thirty-two of us to pile into three pickups. The palpable look of uneasiness and dread on people’s faces was irresistible so my friend Danielle shot a couple of unwanted photos. All aboard, we set off on the road. The first fifteen minutes getting out of Lahore’s overpopulated city streets were harrowing; but didn’t compare to the racecar driving on the open road, which passes for a highway here in Punjab. While the scenery was breathtaking, we saw none of it and braced ourselves during the ride, which approximated a black diamond mogul run on a ski slope. The carpet truck sped far ahead, not encumbered by precautions for the safety of its cargo. At some point, one of the trucks ran a red light and crashed into a crossing Datsun. Ammar was on board and immediately jumped off to confront the screaming driver and his brother. Ammar raised his voice and spoke in expletive-peppered Urdu to the brothers, apologizing. In the interest of expediency, Ammar dropped $140 into the hands of the brothers and sped off. We were again on our way until about five minutes later we heard frenetic honking behind us. We looked back, easy to do since we were basically hanging over the bumper, and saw the beige Datsun truck approaching ominously.

Concerned, we stopped again. The brothers said something excitedly in Urdu and slapped $70 back in Ammar’s hand. Apparently it was half-price on accidents on the Punjab highway that day.

(Part 2 to follow on Day 7)

Day 5 - Nepal. In the course of travelling, we are...

2006-03-12T19:02:00.000-05:00

Day 5 - Nepal. In the course of travelling, we are sometimes told stories which are too delectable to not pass on to others. "It didn't actually happen to me but, nonetheless, it's a good story." Occasionally, the stories are just too good - and you are left to wonder if there is just a smidgen of invention in them. Or if there's any truth at all. One such traveller's story was particularly enigmatic; it's about an eighteen year-old in Kathmandu.

Nepal: A Playboy

Waiting for my friend to emerge from the Kathmandu Guest House, I studied the map to trace our path to the gold face of Swayambunath. I could see it from the rooftop through the hazy sun at dawn and today we had a goal to climb it. Along the way, we met a young man with Bollywood hair and a clean, crisp shirt. His name was Kiran and he was offering to show us the way. He had a slightly disgruntled or bored tone to his pitch which we had heard all before. But suddenly, one of our responses shook the magic out of him. “You’re going to Bhutan?! I’m from Bhutan!” Yes, indeed, we were only in Nepal a short time and the flight to Bhutan beckoned. Kiran insisted that he show us the way, regaling us along the way with animated descriptions of our eventual destination. I am living here to make money, was his explanation for being in Kat. It sounded logical.

When we arrived at the Monkey Temple, we were politely told that it is not a reverential way to refer to this great landmark. Sure, the place was filled with 1-metre high playful monkeys but the seeing eye facing out in every direction was a symbol of enlightenment to all Buddhists in the Valley. We walked up the 365 steps to the temple; along the way, we learnt about Kampala, Buddha, Guru Rimpoche, and a variety of other trivia on its history. We also learned about Kiran: he’s eighteen, has a girlfriend, is a great admirer of the king, an ecologist, a fluent English-speaker and he had a Ten Year Plan. For his life. I thought you weren’t supposed to have goals in Buddhist culture. I’m from the less popular side of Bhutan, the South. We’re Hindu. Which obviously didn’t discount him from being an authoritative and excellent scholar of Swayambunath.

On the way down, he shared some tea with us in the makeshift camp of some of the guides.

And by the time we had reached the bottom, we had an invitation to visit his home.

Within a few minutes, we were strolling down a city street which was different than what we had seen in Kathmandu so far. It had a lived-in feel to it, without any sense of commercialism other than a cornershop. We entered a dank stairwell and rose to the second floor hovel which was Kiran’s room. Despite the patchy cement and lack of electricity and plumbing, we could tell that he felt comfortable there and it was now very much a home. Things were strewn about and books were piled high; it was as messy as your typical bachelor pad.

Except Kiran wasn’t a bachelor.

I have a little secret, he confided in us. A story ensued. Only after a few months in Nepal, he became popular with the ladies, one in particular. They had become close. When her father found out just how familiar they were, he confronted Kiran with the village behind him. Save her honour. And so he was wed to this other eighteen year-old who shyly peeked in after a half-an-hour, on her way to do the laundry.

The story did not end there. He had a brother, a close brother whom he hadn’t seen in a year. He wanted to pass him a note and he knew that we were going to Thimphu, Bhutan’s capital “city”. Could you please deliver my message? A request like this, a family news bulletin, was our charge. We held it in high esteem, like a quest. But, he said, please don’t tell him about my wife. My mother would kill me.

Parting with multiple handshakes and a memorable photo of the three of us, we were off with his note.

In Thimphu, we searched for the sweet shop just off the town’s only traffic light. The problem was there were no more traffic lights but we inferred that the major intersection deserving of one was probably where it used to be. A couple of double takes later and we found the sweet shop. A gruff Bhutanese man of about twenty didn’t want anything to do with us. His companion, another boy of about 18, upon hearing Kiran’s name introduced himself as his cousin. We passed the note to this relative who looked at it rather uninterested. I glanced down at Kiran’s writing and noticed that it was laden with errors belying Kiran’s actual educational level. The cousin looked at the note again and somewhat coldly thanked us for delivering it. We wanted to stay and discuss, having heard so much about the dear family from Kiran but the cousin was remiss to talk. We walked out somewhat baffled and disappointed.

Later, I made a guess at what had happened. The cold response to the warm note was due to the fact that the cousin couldn’t read.

Day 4 – the Himalaya A practical question for tod...

2006-03-03T09:56:00.000-05:00

Day 4 – the Himalaya

A practical question for today. Often, people ask me, knowing that I have traveled a bit through the subcontinent, “Where should I go on my first trip to India?”

This is such a complex question that I usually stare back as though I didn’t hear them, lost in the analysis of an almost impossible question. I weigh the feelings and emotions I felt in different milieus and finally make eye contact and open my mouth with a gasp, an unintelligible breath of air that says nothing.

So before I try and tackle the bigger question, let’s look at a slightly easier question that I have found myself posing to myself. If I were to go to the Himalaya now, (or for the first time for that matter), where would I go?

The first place on most people’s lips is Nepal. Reflexively, it’s what we think about when we think Everest and the Himalaya in general. It is a country that is subsumed by the Himalaya. It has its share of wackiness and travellers' myths and is a must-see on many an Asian backpacker’s short list. But is it the best choice, right now? The Ananpurna circuit may be too crowded. The reality of Everest is that it’s become more of an accomplishment than the majestic mountain it really is. Plus, the antics of the Nepalese royal family raise an eyebrow or two about safety, volatility, strife, let alone infrastructure, extreme poverty, and disrepair. I’d love to go to Nepal. Love to. But it would be under specific circumstances in a quiet valley with a real local flavour and host.

Mount Everest's signature plume of snow as captured by photographer Jodi Cobb

The number two answer on Family Feud might be Tibet. Oh, Tibet! The Tibet of Richard Gere and the Dalai Lama. But wait, the Dalai Lama lives in Himachal Pradesh, India. And Richard Gere is more often spotted in Bhutan. And Tibet is occupied and Chinese. It isn’t the same place it used to be and yet it is the same place it has always been. To see Tibet is to see it come back alive, a rebirth one day as its native cultural emblems return and flourish is the Tibet I’d like to see. A Potala filled with hope and optimism is worth chanting for.

My pet favourite country is Bhutan, a destination I’ve spoken of in an earlier post and at more cocktail parties than I’d like to mention. “It’s my favourite trip ever!” But indeed, it is more like Tibet than Tibet, undiluted, pure, essential and instructive. It’s everything a Himalayan kingdom should be and it deserves the cliché Shangri-La more than anywhere else. But it isn’t the top choice for so many because it is hard to get in (US$230 a night) and hard to navigate. Plus, the sequoia Himalaya are right at its border and only a handful of 8000m peaks are within its borders. It is an unbelievable find but I’d rather it stay lost.

The inevitable answer for me and for most others is India. Whether it be Kulu-Manali with its kitsch hippie vibe, the exiled splendour of Himachal Pradesh whose various Rimpoche and gurus who still live on its hillsides, Ladakh, the windswept province on the Tibetan plateau, or the marvelous Sikkim with its tea and unique culture and neither-here-nor-there mishmash. (Honourable mention to Kashmir, if they sort themselves out on both sides of the border.) So why India? India is affordable and India is India. It’s got much, much more to offer than its shapely mountains. So where will you see me next? You may find Ee-Ching and me on the streets of Gangtok.

Day 3 - Bhutan Only when you put yourself somewh...

2006-03-02T14:50:00.000-05:00

Day 3 - Bhutan

Only when you put yourself somewhere where the clutter falls away, does possession become irrelevant.

It took a trip to Bhutan for me to get there. Where?

Bhutan Is

another excerpt from
Losing Oneself in Remote Asia

So close to heaven, between the earth and the sky, Bhutan is a Himalayan country of one million people seen as the only remaining pure Buddhist monarchy. Reigned by a youthful and progressive King who espouses environment and education as the two tenets of his tenure, the country straddles its traditional roots and its hopeful future. Bhutan is about the size of Switzerland but its mountains are higher, its valleys more beautiful, its ecosystem more pristine. The world's largest unscaled mountain is in Bhutan. Jomolhari, sits sacredly amidst the greatest snowcaps of the region as one of the most beautiful and revered. The great Bengal tiger graces its southern jungles. The blue poppy colours its alpine landscapes. The great snow leopard hunts its snow-covered slopes. The elusive yeti stalks its terrain. The great secret of the natural beauty of Bhutan is that it is almost totally untouched. But how much longer can it remain this way with Internet cafes popping up around Thimphu? In a small shop in a tiny town, I stepped in for a warming cup of coffee and turned to see a row of six monks in their bright orange robes looking up towards me. Rather than being fascinated with the sight of a North Face-clad Westerner, I realized their eyes were fixed on the television beside me, enthralled were they by the lamenting Macy Gray video playing on MTV Asia. The people are gracious Asian hosts and since visitors are so infrequent (6000 per year), they are treated like guests, greeted with warm welcomes, mirth, and pleasant curiosity. Influenced by neighbours India and Tibet, the cultural balance of Bhutan's individual identity is as precarious as its environment. While some label it as a Shangri-La, or a living Buddhist Himalayan national park, it is simply Bhutan, an idyllic place where life can be enjoyed surrounded by earthly beauty.

Think. What can one learn from its people and their philosophy? Their laid-back approach to life is disarming. Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see the shadows. They live for the moment, in the here and now. They have no goals to become slave to. Even enlightenment, nirvana, is a Path. It is so much greater than anything you can buy, see, touch, read, own, rent, love, or dream. Finding one's true path while striking a balance. Thinking about my life, I am brought back to what I left behind. San Francisco. The company. The leather chair. The rollerblades. The tangerine couch. The things. Do I need them? Do I want them anymore? Does my new sense of losing myself in everything I do give new or no meaning to these old wants? Perhaps my old life has no purpose if not to find real moments like those in Bhutan. It's like a muscle, traveling. Without the fresh perspective of a new place, a new voice, the imagination atrophies, one's sense for life crumples.

When I left Bhutan, I wanted to put it all in my pocket and save it for later. The wondrous smiles seen at the festival. The schoolgirls in their keras walking through green terraced fields. The chulpa (obelisk) sitting quietly on the hill. The intricate detail of the woodwork of the Dzong (fortress). The empty tsechu (festival) courtyard transformed back to its patient state like the grounds at Wimbledon, waiting for next year. The old man with his walking stick and a bushel-full of kindling, peering at me through my window. The streams gurgling, fresh from their slumber atop Himalayan snowpeaks. A picture of the King listening to a small boy. A yak careening through thick brush. A mask of a manifestation of Guru Rimpoche. A thongrel (60-foot silk tapestry) being hoisted by eight ropes and forty-two monks, at three a.m. A river snaking through a majestic valley. A collection of shoes and sandals outside a temple. An auto repair shop just outside town. A three-day hike to a remote monastery at 13,000 feet. A clandestine disco called Club 2000 teeming with young Bhutanese, hopping to Hindi dance music. A view of Everest from the plane.

Fifteen days in Bhutan won't bring you to nirvana, but maybe they'll put you on the right path.

Day 2 - Northern India We've all got stories abou...

2006-03-01T12:22:00.000-05:00

Day 2 - Northern India

We've all got stories about travelling on planes. Here's one which has been told about travelling in India.

And here's a glimpse of Jaipur:

Tomorrow, we'll head North to Bhutan.

Day 1 - Cambodia Often, people are seeking to lea...

2006-02-28T22:30:00.000-05:00

Day 1 - Cambodia

Often, people are seeking to learn more about places that they have never been. It’s not just enough to present them with a description or a how-to guide. Sometimes the best way to learn about a place, to spark the imagination, is to read travel narrative. It is to this end that this travel blog has been reborn. The need for stories, some fact, some part-invention, is what we’re trying to satisfy.

The concept is simple.

Let’s write about an unusual day that someone, somewhere, lived.

This inaugural piece is an interesting tale about Cambodia.

Losing Oneself in Remote Asia on sale now at Amazon!

an excerpt...

Geometry of Angkor

Deep in the jungle not too far from Siem Reap, I sit. Bakong, Cambodia. This is a serene place. What used to be the Angkor king’s capital in the seventh century is now just a relic, a pyramid of symmetrical stonework, a representation of Mount Meru. The field over which I look is not as divine. Under the bright sun nothing can hide from sight and in the shadows, I see impermanence for the sun will find those spots too. It is very quiet. I can hear the words of visitors past.

“I feel like an explorer.”

“I feel like a discoverer.”

“I feel like a video game character.”

Personally, I feel like a voyeur; spotting butterflies bobbing with their Brownian motion, listening to un-Gregorian chants, feeling the spirit of all this serenity. I will steal some right now.

Not far from the temple is a small wooden platform just hidden from my view. I walk through tall grass past a three-legged dog into a pasture. A small girl walks up to me. She is the only person there, no indication of a parent or a guardian; just her dog. Her smile is beguiling, toothless, and carefree. She’s about to say something but nothing comes out. She points to my hand and I extend it for her to touch. Gently, she takes a blade of straw and folds it into a loop and slips it onto my pinky. The ring is a bit tight. I admire it for a few seconds and when I look up, the girl is far away. I think she is trying to speak but utters no sounds and instead waves goodbye.

The dog is like an omen in the video game so I follow him, jumping onto and over rocks that were placed there a thousand years ago.

The wooden platform comes into view slowly. Cross-legged on top are about sixteen boys repeating the same things over and over again. This is the chanting I must have been hearing. The clothes they wear are saffron, but not all of them are dressed alike. Let there be no doubt; this is a monastery. The instructor, I can’t see. The dog stops and watches too. On goes the chanting. I don’t speak any Khmer. Nothing they say pierces my brain and I’m left guessing as to which subject is being taught.

On the ceiling is a baritone ceiling fan whirring in an elliptical orbit. Behind the hut is a cauldron being heated over a stove. There’s a stout man crouching over it, stirring sporadically. Off-white is the colour of the mixture, off-white is the colour of his singlet; off-white is the colour of the whites of his eyes.

Standing still in the tall grass, I feel like I’m on the Serengeti, watching. Shadows pass. The lesson goes on. The fan whirs.

Near the other side of Mount Meru, I wander. A boy, almost a man, in saffron robes is on an intercept course. Subtly, I smile. I move closer to the stone fence and stop once I reach a patch of shade. He walks to within walking distance and simply says, “Hello.”

“Hello,” I respond.

“How are you?” the young monk asks.

“I am well.”

“Are you here to see Bakong?” he continues.

I respond, “Yes. Yes, I am.” Am I?

There’s a silence. The orange silk is draped carelessly over his bare chest. There’s no hair on his head and his eyebrows are indeed shaved.

“It’s a very serene place. I like it,” I offer.

“Yes.”

“Are you studying here?” I ask.

“This is my school,” he points.

I look over. “Over there?”

He nods.

I brush my hand through my hair and think about the monk’s life.

“How many boys study here?” I ask.

He is flustered.

I make some guesses. “Ten? Twenty? Thirty?”

Only then does he pipe in, “Thirty.”

I don’t know if he said it just because it’s the last number I uttered. “Hmmm,” I say.

Silence.

“Are you a teacher?” he asks.

“No. No, I’m not.”

“What do you do?”

“I,” I think what to say, “I work with computers.” Playing charades, I act out my hands on a keyboard until I realize how preposterous it is. Or not. He’s probably been to an Internet café.

“Oh,” he says.

I continue with my questioning because he doesn’t seem to mind. “Have you ever left Cambodia?” He says nothing. “Ever been to Thailand?”

“No Thailand. Just Cambodia,” he says in that lilting way that emphasizes syllables differently than I would have imagined.

“Maybe one day,” I say. “What do you want to do when you get older?” He shrugs. “Do you…” I don’t finish my question.

He looks at the hut. At the ceiling fan. “A teacher.”

I smile. “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” he says without hesitation.

I look at him again to see if that’s what I would have guessed. Suppose so. “Your English is very good,” I say, a little too surprised.

“No. It isn’t,” he says bashfully.

“Keep working on it. Keep studying,” I say. “It is very good.”

I’m embarrassing him. Some time passes. I find out his name. Sasket. He asks me about English words. He wants to know what the word is for his clothing.

“Robe,” I say. He looks confused and when he repeats it, I know he hasn’t understood.

He sticks out his hand and says, “Please write.”

I spell out R-O-B-E in pen on his palm. He repeats it. “Robe.” He’s genuinely grateful to me for having taught him something. It looks like a weird tattoo.

More comfortable silence.

“Are you traveling alone?” he asks.

“No. Well now I am but I have two friends meeting me later.”

“Here?”

“Not here,” I say.

“So you came all by yourself?” he confirms.

“Yes,” I say.

“What country?” he asks.

“I came from Singapore. But I’m Canadian.”

“Canada. Big country,” he recites as though he’s been taught. “Two languages. English and French.”

“Yes.”

“Your two friends. They are women?” he queries.

“My two friends?”

He nods inquisitively, almost slyly.

“No,” I throw out. He’s disappointed and says something incomprehensible.

So much for the vow of celibacy.

Sasket is playing truant to take me to Angkor Wat. After talking and walking in Bakong, his generous spirit irrepressible, I accept his offer to see the big monument with him. We start to walk in the searing heat until I manage to persuade him to stop for a cold drink, which he is very reluctant to accept, and a moto ride, which he is thrilled to partake in.

Many rice fields later, we get to the more touristed area of Angkor, bypassing the required entrance pass checkpoint because either we’re indistinguishable from other Cambodians riding three to a 110cc moto, or out of respect for the robe.

So here I am, at Angkor Wat. After hearing tales about it and longing to go for ages, I am finally here. Stepping my first step onto the long pathway towards the central complex, I am blessed with a vision. I can see fractals, infinite in their minutiae but gloriously simple. I see the spirals flowing, twirling between the tops of the Wat’s towers. The black and white colours turn and turn, deconstruct and melt into one, spinning, spinning in control but exhibiting entropy perfectly, etching themselves permanently into history.

In my corporeal self again, I feel awake, my legs feel spritely, taking me closer. I am drawn to the spires. Sasket walks by my side, quietly, also in awe which only adds to the effect. The long walk up the serpentine, through the first gates, along the central path, elevates my anticipation notch by notch until I can feel my legs literally running. The stream of people leaving only firms my resolve to see Angkor Wat on my terms. The light is fading quickly, a potentially stormy evening is lurking, basking Angkor Wat’s dramatic West face in a somber glow. A dark smile.

It is into this smile that I step. The smell of rot comes and goes as I climb up into the playful courtyards. I ponder. Taking a seat on an unusual ledge, I peer over at Sasket who is in meditation. Is he purifying his thoughts? The light changes. The sky is clearing. Angkor takes over. It tells so many stories and has a seemingly infinite amount of detail in its work but it isn’t busy or gaudy. Made from the same stone throughout, it has a uniform shade and tone which doesn’t take anything away from the artistry. Perhaps the Khmer knew that it is a canvas unto itself, lit by the sun to achieve a different kind of photonic splendour.

Nuns and monks are omnipresent; photographers and admirers, pilgrims of all sorts have explored every nook, every cranny. The reflective pools out front are idyllic, with just the right number of palms in the foreground.

Sasket quietly tells me of its mysteries. It must be a tomb because it has the weight of mortality. It must be a temple because it tries so hard to impress its divinities.

Angkor Wat has entranceways. It has halls. It has levels representing Hell, Earth, and Heaven. It is symmetrical yet whimsical. It is serene and sinister. It is lavish and austere. But to appreciate it, one must take it as a whole and swallow the conundrums.

Every once in a while, something or someone would happen. It brought it all to life. As majestic and historical as Angkor Wat is, it is also very much alive. People visit it everyday. Faces in awe. Children at play. Guards proud. Faithful at pray.

I see a round-faced security guard looking out towards the jungle. She is no more than three metres away from me. Behind her, the ancient brown stone and lush green jungle could not make a more perfect backdrop for the evenness of her features, the drab grey of her uniform, the bright red Khmer lettering on her armband. When she catches me staring at her, she looks embarrassed. A sweet smile emanates. I keep looking at her as she walks past, to my left, sighing audibly.

Later, I see Sasket on a stone balcony. I could swear that he’s posing. He knows all the right angles. He knows the telling perspectives. He has an intimate understanding of lighting that only a few trained photographers have mastered. He has wrapped his robes tight around his lean body to amplify his insignificance. He has bought the brightest saffron silk possible for his robe. There was no doubt in my mind, he was a poser: posing for the camera, posing for the tourists, maybe even posing for the security guard. Photogenic to the extreme, he is part of the fabric of the place and he knows it.

I see his conflict in his brow. His need to be a man. The temptation. Taught every day to cherish all things, to dispel ego, to turn affectionate love to wishing love. He has moved so much further along the path to enlightenment than most. And yet, I see it in his brow. The desirous temptation. And here he is in deep meditation, trying to liberate himself from samsara.

Clouds come back. Then dissipate. The sky is transformed. Where before there was a steely grey, there is now a blend of subdued colours, a pink, a patch of red, bluish greys, and a speck of baby blue.

How many places on this Earth have such elusive and stunning beauty? Everywhere there is power that minimizes my presence and reduces me to a minor but extremely appreciative spectator. Whether it be a sinewy spire or a Khmer smile, the indelible mark it leaves on you is constant, eternal, unending like a fractal.

Sasket and I munch on a baguette he has smuggled in. We tear pieces off with our teeth and chew loudly, sitting like garudas on top of one of the pyramids. Once in a while, we see a pretty girl below and nudge each other.

Walking down, I contemplate. When we talk of relics of world significance that are a thousand years old, it is easy to recite platitudes about their importance, their architectural significance, and their enduring mysteries. Instead, I think about this place where thousands of playful apsaras, hundreds of serenely smiling faces, and seas of serpents coexist, mingling with my sensibilities, further enhancing my sense of displacement, erasing my preconceptions about beauty and evil, rearranging my perspective on art and power forever.

“How do I submit to the selflessness of beauty every day?” I ask this of myself. I ask this of Sasket. His unassuming glow is his response, not his answer, for he has none.