Chillies

Being born in a Keralan family one grows up with spicy food. But spicy for us was not chillies. It was dishes incorporating various spices and herbs.

My first serious chilli eating experience came many years ago in Nepal when I had a chilli and cheese vegetable dish. In Bhutan it was a chilli cheese Momo, even spicier. In Shanghai it was a Halal bread 40 cm in diameter, assorted minced veg and red and green chillies that brought tears of appreciation. In Vietnam Korean friends introduced me to ‘Killer Kimchi’ but the Kimchi in Seoul left me a little bland.

It is difficult for me to enjoy a meal, not even a sandwich without chillies.

Ultimate joy chilli chocolates.

Chocoline make a wide variety of chocolates including a Chilli Chocolate.

Ice cream, yes I eat that too with chilli. Thai pineapple chilli sauce generously oozed on ice creams – Vanilla, Durian, and Chocolate goes down extremely well.

Home made chilli paste generously spread on slices of French baguette with a big chunk of aged cheddar wickedly delicious.

Leela’s Chilli Paste

A large bowl of chillies. I use chabai burong (bird chilli) or chilli padi known as nuclear devils for extra strength. Wear rubber gloves. Remove stems and cut chillies into half inch pieces, keep away from face, as this operation is pretty pungent and will give you an uncomfortable burning glow to your cheeks. Remove seeds that fall out. Put the cut chilli in blender, with a half inch chunk of ginger, a pinch of salt, a couple teaspoons of sugar and juice of a couple of small limes and blend to a paste. When opening stand clear of blender, don’t breathe for a bit.

Store paste in glass jar in the fridge.

From a Chilli Coctivor.

Mid Autumn Festival

Harvest Moon
Harvest moon, Autumn Moon is celebrated in many cultures. Crops are gathered, Gods are thanked and offerings made for more good harvests.

Chinese people celebrate Mid Autumn Festival on the 15th day of the eight month of the Lunar Calendar.

Paper Lantern

It is written that in the Sung Dynasty (A.D. 960-1280) a rebellion against an occupying government was carried by ‘Texting’ i.e. sending hidden messages in cakes. Baked into each cake sent to families was a plan of attack on that full moon night. The attack successful, the government overthrown, hence the celebration. The day continues to be celebrated centuries later – no attacks but moon-cakes, and family feasts, lanterns and moon-viewing.

After dinner it is customary for families to go out with children to gather at parks, on beaches, on hill tops and mountains closer to the moon to see it rise, and to gaze. Children carry paper/bamboo lanterns lit up by candles but due to fire hazards, especially with young children, and the huge task of cleaning up wax from public places.

Lanterns for Sale

Hong Kong has gone over to plastic lanterns with battery operated lights.

Pretty Girl

Mr. Cat

Noodle Stall

Rickshaw Man

Mei Mei

If she gazes at the full moon she’ll see a rabbit.

Traditional Moon Cake

Tradition Moon Cake stamped with special characters and filled with lotus paste and round whole egg yolks, one or two symbolizing the moon are now giving way to moon cakes in various shapes and different fillings – mung beans, chocolate truffle, nuts and come with flavours coffee, coconut and even chilli.

Moon Cake Stall

Non-traditional moon cakes and lanterns of plastic, battery, bulbs has taken the romance out of the festival but it is still a magical time, a time when a natural phenomena takes place, the day after mid-autumn the days begin to get cooler. Temperatures begin to fall and summer officially departs.

Kerala 2

Part 2 of 2

Travelling with Aunty

The next day we go for gold. The hotel concierge tells us where to shop, the best places for gold. A couple of men escort us, unsolicited, take us to a jewellery shop not far. It is as large as a warehouse. We walk up to the impressive frontage, grab the brass elephant-head handle and tug at the glass door. It’s locked. The tall Sikh guard looks down on us indifferently. Our escorts scatter. We wait. Handsome mustachioed young men stare at us from within. No one makes a move. Eventually a lazy buzzer goes off and the door opens.

We sail in. We get ‘vip’ treatment. Several men jump to attention and pull out stools for us. A scruffy chai-boy appears carrying a wire cage with tall glasses of hot milky tea. Having slopped two glasses of tea on the polished counter he stands close to me, inches away, hands behind his back, breathing sweaty steam on to my cheek. My nostrils flare taking in his alien scent. My peripheral vision registers him staring unblinking at my profile and feel my right ear scorch with hot breath.

AG makes herself comfortable. She asks if she could have a diet coke. The men look lost. ‘My figure, you know,’ she says. They don’t know, they look doubtful. Then she gets her little note book out and asks to borrow a pen. One of the young men whips out his pen. It does not work. He’s hurt by his unfulfilled chivalry. He examines the pen for too long, confusion and anger evident. Another man offers her one, a Parker Pen. AG takes it, admires and says, ‘Eh, not bad.’ She asks intelligent questions, makes copious notes about fluctuating world gold prices, international markets, methods of weighing gold, and jewellery trends. She studies diamond cuts carefully with an eye-glass and notes countries they come from and is surprised by the news of a thriving Indian diamond industry. I enjoy this secession too.

AG examines the workmanship of the gold bangles, and finger, ear, nose and toe rings with the eye glass. She moves on to examine a large variety of gold chains that hang in glass wall-cabinets in the interior. A vast cavern manned by more men, handsome, mustachioed, old spiced and roving eyed.

I wait by the counter, by now tired and bored. I stand for a while, I shift from foot to foot like a tired flamingo. Having left greasy smudges on the counter tops I study my reflection, angles and poses, in the many mirrored walls. Then I retire to the threadbare, maroon, velveteen sofa at one end of the cavern. Several pairs of eyes are on me. Today I am wearing a short dress, I tug at my skirt, pull it over my knees. It falls four inches short of gold-shop modesty.

AG comes back from her inspection tour. She rummages in her bag and returns the Parker Pen. We leave the shop having purchased an incredibly cheap pair of inferior ruby ear-rings.

The next day we buy genuine second cut Hindi movie videos and original Malayalam movies though we both know no Hindi, and understand only a smattering of Malayalam. We purchase CDs of Ravi Shankar and ethnic drum music. We buy many recycled paper-back Indian novels and out-of-print books.

I remind AG of our mission. It’s close to the end of our week here. We need to go to Travancore to look for our grand-parents’ home. We need to trudge through vast expanses of muddy paddy fields and coconut plantations and locate that practically unknown postal address – Mathavan Charveel Veedu, our ancestral home.

AG says, ‘Plenty of time.’

The day before the end of our trip AG decides that she has had enough of Kerala. She says after all she is only 27, we are young, there’s plenty of time. We will come back. We still have temples to visit.

Homeward trip is a disaster, wrong choice of airline. The plane arrives half full from Mumbai. I am claustrophobic and overcome by the odour, a cocktail of chemical air freshener, spicy Indian airline food, stale floral hair oil and urine.

We are overrun by three to four year-old-shrieking thugs from only-child families. One thug reigns supreme, hits me on the head from behind my seat with an airline vomit bag of his toys, miniature metal cars. Mother and father look on indulgent. Another monster slams port-hole shades up and down. He catches his fingers and howls his head off. I am kind, I refrain from saying ‘good show!’

Things look up for AG. She is sitting next to a proverbial tall, dark, handsome man in a smart suit. A man about 20, either leaving his family for the first time or suffering from a bad cold. He sniffles. AG takes pity on him and hands him tissue after tissue paper insisting he blow his nose. He squirms with embarrassment. He dabs his eyes and nose and does not know what to do with his wads of soggy integrating tissue. He stuffs them in his trouser pocket. She gives him more tissues. She whispers to me above the drone of the plane, ‘The poor baby. Must be upset at having to leave his parents.’

Meals and another big sleep and we are over Hong Kong. Bumpy landing. A few mumble prayers. An elderly couple furiously thumb through prayer beads. Cabin pressure drops quickly, the children scream with earache. We’ve arrived. Parents scramble about calling after their little ones tear stained and trying to get out before them. Some men and women tug at briefcases in overhead lockers with one hand and dial calls on their mobile phones with the other. The passengers pull and push, carrying children and tons of hand luggage, and try to get through smiles and choruses of airplane attendants:

‘Thank you for flying with us, have a pleasant stay in Hong Kong.’

Outside an electric storm rages. I am happy to be back.

End

Kerala 1

Travelling with Aunty Geeta

Village children call her Aunty Geeta, we call her AG. Aunty Geeta is five years older than me, and not my aunty.

We are friends. Our parents, hers and mine, are from Kerala, a place known as ‘God’s Own Country’. Our grand parents had shared the same village. AG wants to visit the ancestral home, our ‘Motherland’. She feels she must go now while still young, a robust, healthy 27 year old.

We make the pilgrimage together.

Normally I travel light but knowing AG’s penchant for shopping I take an extra large suitcase, almost empty.

We are to meet at the departure lounge. AG is late as usual. She sweeps in, full apology, breathless and flustered followed by a group of friends, carrying various pieces of her luggage. They’ve come to see her off on this one-week trip to motherland. After long drawn-out hugging and kissing and goodbyes the friends leave. We gather our stuff and check in. We have back-packs as carry on luggage. We request special diet, she fish, and I vegetarian.

Security clearance becomes difficult. AG’s many jangling bangles and hair pins set off alarms. She has to remove and put them in a plastic tray. She obeys reluctantly, angry with the metal detectors. She mouths obscenities at the staff, whispers: the ‘s.o.b.s’ can’t tell the difference between a genuine traveller and a terrorist. All done, lips pursed, looks searing, she marches past the security team and electronic machine-operators.

Formalities cleared, we trawl the airport mall. The designer boutiques beckon us screaming out ‘Duty Free’. The first thing AG spots and must have is a designer back-pack. She’s generous and insists on getting one for me too. We now have four back-packs between us. We move on. We buy perfume and eye-shadow and ‘ageless’ creams. Then we get nuts and chocolates to snack on, and magazines to read on our flight. We board the plane on time, happy and purchase laden.

Our six hour flight is peaceful reading time for me. AG needs to chat. With her earphones plugged into the in-flight movie she does not realize she is shouting. When lunch comes she forgets her fish diet and insists on chicken. After lunch we relax, and AG takes stock of fellow travellers. She needs to connect. Finding we are surrounded by passengers asleep or watching movies, she sits back, sighs and soon falls asleep quietly snoring.

When we land in Cochin, Kerala, she is in a huge hurry to get out. She has had enough of plane and passengers. Anyway we want to be first in the queue she says. We rush out pushing aside those trying to get their luggage from the overhead compartments. In trying to keep up with her I trip over children. In the arrival hall we are the last in a long queue of about a hundred passengers who’d alighted before us from other planes.

To allay her cultural shock AG immediately starts questioning a Keralan in the queue about shopping malls. She gets all the gen from the woman. Behind me a fat, oily man keeps ‘accidentally’ bumping into me while talking to his rangy, red eyed companion. The latter has me in his radar too. I move away a little, I get more sweaty body contact. I turn round and hiss, “If you touch me one more time…’ rest of my threat goes unuttered. AG, embarrassed by my outburst, puts her finger to her lips. ‘Shoo’ she utters in a loud theatrical whisper. Lewd there-you-go gleam light up the men’s faces.

All goes well after this, except at the immigration counter the man wants to know what kind of Indian I am not having born or lived in India. He smiles through my explanation and lets me through. We have to hurry. In our hotel we have a quick wash, leave our luggage unpacked and head out to the shops. As we reach the foyer of the hotel the bellman suggests he gets a taxi for us. AG tells him to ‘p… off’. ‘These thieving lot are always ready to make a quick buck’, she says.

We step off the kerb into the klaxon of two interstate truckers. We pull back having come within seconds of meeting our ‘Hindu Maker in Motherland’. Crossing the street becomes a 20 minute ordeal. Belching black fumes of weaving motorbikes, horn-blowing cars consume us. Bicyclists, ringing their bells, pass us grinning red teethed. We, sweating, decide to shop on our side of the street. There are throngs of people everywhere. It is nearly Deepavali, the Festival of Lights. Families are stocking up on clothes, presents and food. We are consumed by a shopping carnival.

AG is in seam-splitting jeans that hug the lower half of her rotund figure. Perhaps a little unsuitable in conservative motherland I think, but it’s her tee shirt that gets all the attention. Emblazoned across her ample chest ‘Don’t sweat the petty things. Pet the sweaty things’. The meaning of this wise saying obviously eludes her but not all who look at her chest. Some stare, others look and take a second look. A young man of a group passing points us out to his friends. They turn back, serious. They read AG’s message; raucous and lewd laughter follows.

I am wearing a long dress and a sun hat and look every inch a tourist. I want to kill the next man who asks me where I am from. I do not get the chance since AG is proud to help the curious young men, relates to them her and my family history. Her friendliness has groups of louts trailing us. They’re all coin collectors and want foreign coins, especially US coins. For a small fee they want to show us the best bargain shops. AG is delighted. She says she has never met such kind people.

Over the next few days we shop. We load up with eye catching sequined sarees, Punjabi suits one-size-fits all, trailing Kashmiri shawls, frilly long synthetic house-dresses, fray edged table mats, gilt effigies of made in China Indian gods, fake sandal wood carvings, and portent perfumes from mogul days.

End part 1 of 2

Pakistan Floods August 2010

One Smiling Face

It is being named as the worst floods in living memory of Pakistan. There is desperate need for rescue, shelter, clean water and food. Aid is rushing in from all over world with relief to help victims of this flood disaster.

It is now the 2nd week into the disaster and Pakistan is still only in the middle of the monsoon season. The floods have spread to Pakistani Punjab, a vast grain growing region, and to Sind and part of Indian Ladak. To date 1,600 lives have been lost, and those are only that could be accounted for. More than 12 million people are displaced. 80% of the country’s food stock has been washed away, water logged or contaminated. Access to most places gone with roads and bridges washed away. Villages totally submerged. The people are now exposed to waterborne diseases.

Pictures of families wading with children and possessions on their heads, shoulder deep in water fill TV screens as the rest of world watches in horror.

But amidst all this there is joy: A smiling face we see. The face of the country’s leader in London, President Asif Ali Zardari smiling for the cameras .

One Pakistani
Not present
Not crying for his people
Not experiencing the suffering
Not counting the dead
Of his Pakistan.

Hiroshima 65th Anniversary

Hiroshima Remembered
Today let there be this request:
Please bequeath the universe to our children intact, in peace, and in love.
Our moment has come to disarm nuclear weapons.

Black Storm

Black Storm

Butterflies never came today. Birds, plumage ruffled fly to nests urgent, swift, quiet. Small creatures scuttle and hide. Caterpillars cling to stems ceaseless munching. Thick dark sky descends. No scud of clouds. They, long gone, turned day to night moonless. Wind chimes swing hysterical. Un-staunched, gale blows churning steadfast bushes, tossing blossoms. A window tears loose, storm brings out in. Frangipani towering staggers slightly, firmly rooted, bark armoured, it looks about concerned. Splinters of lightning streak between its branched foliage fiercely parted. Rain descends in sheets. Frogs blink wet their rain choruses drowned. The day thwarted waits, perhaps to return.

Hong Kong – Beijing by Train T97/T98

There and back

Large curtained picture window, upholstered armchair and table covered in white lacy cloth. Blue and white potted philodendron (money plant ) alive on the table, blue and white carpet underfoot. Clean, white linen, soft pillows and quilt on bed. En-suite toilet, shower facilities, toiletries and long mirror on door. Air-conditioning, T.V. and Public Address system with separate controls. Luxury hotel suite? No, Deluxe Soft Sleeper on the Hong Kong/Beijing Train.

Jingjiu Railway compartments come in Soft Sleeper (two berth) which I had all to myself on return trip, Hard Sleeper (four berth), six berth room. Prices go from about US$180 to under US$100.

The T97 Hong Kong Beijing train leaves from Hung Hom Station (Hong Kong) at 15.15 and reaches Beijing West Railway station about 24 hours later. The trip back T98, leaves from the same station Beijingxi, (Beijing West, not Beijing Station) about 12:00 and arrives in Hung Hom mid-day, the next day. The ticket if purchased in Beijing will be issued for Jiulong (Kowloon). Trains depart on alternate days from both ends.
At least an hour allowance should be made for security check, health check and immigration.

On approaching the Hong Kong China border at Lowu passengers surrender their passports to train staff. These are returned when almost in Beijing.

Along the route the express train picks up no passengers except at Lowu. At limited stops at stations in Changsha, Wuhan and Zhengzhou passengers travelling from Guangzhou are allowed to get off and at these stations laundry and rubbish are unloaded and things needed on the train picked up. When stopping at stations train staff request passengers draw the curtains on windows, for privacy perhaps.

It is a ‘no smoking’ train but happy addicts light up in the passages between coaches and vicarious smokers can often enjoy tobacco smoke coming in through the vents near the doors. The non-smoking rule does not apply to the male train-staff and chefs and others in uniform light up even in the buffet carriage every spare moment they get.

Staff speak Mandarin and some Cantonese, no staff speak English. Only Yuan, no foreign money, is accepted in the buffet coach. Buffet coach is open only at meal times. The one page laminated Chinese menu consists of limited selection.

It is easy to navigate but pictures of dishes look similar except for a fish shaped dish and a yellow one (ham and eggs). No vegetarian dishes, time to fast, detoxify. No requests for noodles in hot water will be accepted.

Hot and cold water are available at the end of carriages.

Extra toilets between carriages are both pedestal and squat. Spotlessly clean and smelling strongly of disinfectant as the train leaves Hong Kong but as the hours pass get progressively smelly and are quite evil by the time you reach your destination.

When the buffet carriage is closed train staff carry big baskets of China version of fake lacquer ‘Bento Boxes’ of rice dishes and other interesting food for sale, and they walk through the corridor at times calling out their wares. This lovely sing-song calling-out has a quaint ring to it, reminiscent of calls in other languages in other trains elsewhere.

Reading 'End to Sufferng' by Pankaj Mishra

The day-long meditative trip from Hong Kong, almost yogic in quality, does not quite prepare passengers when spewed out at the Beijing West Station. Immediately after security check and immigration you are on your own. The vast station of seething mass of humanity shouting, walking, running, pushing; or squatting relaxed and smoking or stretched out asleep with luggage for pillows. It is pretty confusing and difficult to contend with if you are not a Beijinger. When trying to seek out transport it is not wise not to try out your English, go for Mandarin, or have the address of your hotel written down in Chinese. All taxis run on meters, but might be useful to remind the driver to have it running.

Curiosity on their part at seeing a dark-skinned person and a good dose of nodding, grinning, and ‘xie xie’ on my part worked for me.

I would do this trip again and this time would be armed with champagne and carrot sticks for breakfast and packets of crisps, packet noodles, and green tea for the rest of the meals.

more at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beijing-Kowloon_Through_Train

Patriotism

Yukio Mishima: Patriotism

From a British book stall at Expo 70 in Osaka, Japan, I picked up a stack of books by Japanese authors, some written in English and some translated. Since then I have become totally fascinated by Japanese culture, stories and writers.

‘Yukoku’ – Patriotism is a rare short story, beautifully translated by Geoffrey W. Sargent.

This haunting tale of a young married couple dizzyingly in love portrays tradition and culture that value love, honour, duty. To these three qualities is added death. It is the character of the young wife that struck me most. Reiko’s loyalty, love for her husband and bravery grips the readers, keeps them focused in this extraordinary tale of a culture too difficult and complex to understand by anyone steeped in modern or western standards.

The couple is acutely aware of each other. Reiko of her husband’s manliness and strength and love for her. He is the sun around which her world revolves. Lieutenant Shinji Takeyama deeply and passionately loves his beautiful, chaste and devoted wife to whose warmth he returns each night from training as a soldier.

Right from the beginning the story is overwhelming.

Only a few months into their marriage the lieutenant learns of the failed coup in which some of his close friends are involved. It would require him to carry out the assassination of his comrades and he himself would carry the dishonour of being branded as member of the mutiny team. Reiko learns the news on the radio and waiting alone at home knows finality has come. Her noble husband will perform ritual seppuku. From their first day together she knows as soldier’s wife she must be prepared for death of her husband at any time. She calmly readies herself, gets things in order. She will accompany him in death. With quiet deliberation she packs her best kimonos, labels them for her friends, packs up the few trinkets she owns, addresses them and sets them aside, and waits for her husband to return.

When he eventually arrives home he tells her what has happened and what he must do. He will commit seppuku that night. She asks permission to follow him. They prepare themselves. They share ‘sake’ and experience one last passionate, seductive, and sensual love making, they find their awareness of each other is even more acute.

Trusting her implicitly he asks her to witness, and to help and hasten his death. This she does. She sits watching her husband’s pain of dying, and when his sword slashing his stomach does not kill him he, accompanied by feverish death throes, tries to cut his throat. She helps him loosen his collar. After her husband is dead she calmly sets about preparing her own demise.

What follows is a most touching scene of human bravery and dedication. She leaves her husband’s body and descends sensuously to the ground floor in ‘her socks slippery with blood’, her white kimono now boldly patterned by blood, her husband’s blood. She switches off the gas, pours water on the brazier of half-burnt coals, and unbolts the door leaving it slightly ajar. She applies make up and goes to sit beside her husband with the dagger her mother had given her at marriage. She kills herself.

A breathtakingly beautiful read.

The author, Yukio Mishima committed seppuku on November 25, 1970 at the age of 45.

Friends Meet Again

Travelling friends meet
Air sparking energy
Love and laughter
We talk of
Writing and friendship
Families and good times

An amazingly beautiful eve
Sky dramatic
Grey clouds chasing black
Lightning streak electric
Thunder resound thunder

at Zefferini’s

31 floors above

Our star Marjorie left Hong Kong for China, leaving China for Canada, another farewell

Becky off to celebrate her birthday, a production in great style, in her hometown in a Southern State, USA

Ellen planning a big summer trip, a safari maybe, and Lavinia off to meet Denzel, as in Washington, but in New York

And here are We

to see another Marjorie farewell: http://www.leela.net/blog/?p=30

A NEW KIND OF PIRACY

Attack on Aid Providers

The recent attack on a flotilla of aid ships in international waters shocked the world. Israel knew the ships had set off in spite of their warning. Those volunteering ships, aid, crew and passengers on the flotilla also knew Israel objected but nobody expected the Israeli Government would act so high handed in trying to abort the charitable mission .

It was too cowardly an act and too foolish and dangerous of the Israel soldiers to descend on to the ship of civilians before dawn, in the dark, frightening them into defensive action. Imagine a ship full of men, woman and children who see naval boats speed towards them and helicopters arrive overhead from which commandos in battle uniform rappel with machine guns and land in their midst. Did not the soldiers expect any reaction? With this act they managed to kill and wound, and confiscate not only the ship but also personal property. What a disaster!

Politicians, statesmen and stateswomen around the world were outraged but like a lot of mealy mouthed puppets what most seem to do is talk, words and more words: ‘this is deeply regrettable, a tragic loss of life, this is ridiculous, intolerable, unacceptable’ and they keep spewing a whole lot of pathetic words. We need action. Will punishment be meted out for the atrocities?

If the Israelis fear weapons being hidden with the aid material brought in an international body could be set up to inspect the goods coming in.

Recently British and Australian passports were forged in Israel and Israeli assassins killed Hamas commander Mahmoud al Mabhouh.

When US Vice President Joe Biden was in Israel to talk of curbing further build up of Israeli homes in occupied land the Israeli government snubbed the US and the whole world by announcing new plans for expansion of more than 1,600 homes.

These two incidents alone show how little respect Israel has for rest of the world.

In December 2008 with the aim of halting rockets from Gaza Israel launched a three week war with the Palestinians who had no planes, no bombs, no tanks, no modern artillery. 1,400 Palestinians were killed and 13 Israeli attackers died. A year on they have reported no success story, and in spite of Israel’s claim of allowing aid they see fit, 1.5 million Palestinians, cramped into a narrow strip of land, still lack food, clean water, medical facilities, schools and housing. If the Israeli government was as compassionate as it tries to tell the world it should by now have built up the infrastructure it destroyed.

I hope this last atrocious Israeli attack will result in serious action being taken against this unholy government. Let there be accountability in action, not just in talk.

It is now time to ask – Where Israel’s borders are?

Flying Business Class

He called me ‘Sir’

It is not often I fly business class these days.

When I ran my antique business it was a viable proposition, besides the fact I had more luggage allowance I could also freight suitcases unaccompanied.

Some progress has been made over the years with regards to single women travelling. It is good to see that women business class passengers, especially me, a 5th. class citizen, do not get the ‘you-have-no-business-in-this-class’ look, or a quick once over, to see, which man was foolish enough to have picked me up. Here I must explain how I’m 5th class – priority-wise there is white man, coloured man, white woman, other, and then me, the dark one. But these days I get the same lovely charming smile and welcome as the other species, and good service.

Of all the trips I have made over the years the recent one stands out as quite unique. In a two seat arrangement I settle in comfortably next to a Chinese gentleman with the aura of an iceberg and the look of an active volcano. A beautiful young stewardess comes over and kneels by me, looks lovingly at Mr. IcebergVolcano and me as if we are a honeymoon couple and says ‘Welcome aboard Mr. and Mrs. Panikar’. Noticing my look of surprise that both my deceased parents are travelling unknown to me, and the scowl from the male passenger next to me, she quickly glances down her clipboard. She says, ‘Oh, Ms. Panikar, what would you like to have to drink.’ I order my standard champagne. Note no shock registered, no hidden smirk. She stands up with much grace and walks away, not bothering with my fellow passenger. The stewardess on the other isle would serve him.

When it is time for lunch, we have starters served individually with the flourish of a Michelin standard restaurant. Main course. A tall, handsome steward, collapses down to my sitting height with a tray for my selection, ‘Your Food Sir’ he says. I look at tray offered, three dishes: Chicken and rice, Seafood and pasta, Beef and noodles. And I say ‘Vegetarian’. And he says ‘Yes, Sir,’ and walks away not saluting. Everyone is extremely courteous and the staff rustle up a vegetarian meal. Quite inedible, but that’s not the point.

After lunch I settle down to reading my Kindle, there’s a bit of a turbulence and an airhostess rushes up to me and tells me I am not allowed to use my computer (Kindle not connected and lighter than a paperback).

Plane landed, trip over, we file out. One hostess hangs on to the dividing curtain with one hand preventing economy passengers charging out. She clutches her mobile phone with the other and is furiously chatting while the passengers squeeze past her.

In my many years of air-travel I was of the opinion in-flight magazines are complimentary. I could be wrong about this. From time to time I have taken my copy home. This time as I exit the plane the other stewardess at the gate thanks me for flying with them and then snatches the magazine off my hand. I am stunned, stop short in my tracks, smile and ask, ‘May have it’. She is sweet, smiling too. She gives it to me, ‘Sure’.

Wonder what creative changes I can expect on my next trip.
Guess flying could be boring without these incidents, my mini adventures.

Ash Fallout and Red Shirt Fallout

Sunset over S. China Sea

Ash Fallout and Red Shirt Fallout

I had spent more than three fabulous but very hot weeks in Penang when Don joined me on a surprise holiday for nine days more.

Penang to Hong Kong is a mere four and a half hour flight. Having changed my return-flight I was on standby on Saturday 17th April, 2010.

We left our hotel at five am for the airport. The dark drive in thunder and lightning and pouring rain took twenty five minutes. At the airport we found within an hour or so all flights fully booked and we were told there were no seats available on flights the next few days, we could try and get on one perhaps on Thursday 22nd April, five days away and only maybe. With much help from the Penang airport staff we managed to buy another set of tickets for another airline to take us to Kuala Lumpur and then late evening to Hong Kong.

It had never occurred to us we would be thwarted by two fallouts – Eyjafjallajoekull Volcano in Iceland and the Red Shirts Bangkok. Several flights to Bangkok were cancelled but nothing on the scale of those going to Europe. Though not close to the hub of any of the disaster-affected areas we found ourselves locked in with a few groups, of the millions stranded globally in airports. But both Penang Airport and Kuala Lumpur International Airport were reasonably quiet, not crowded out by stranded passengers.

Relaxed and waiting

If one chooses to be stranded let it be KLIA, spacious with a feel of calm and green view all around, and internal clump of tropical trees and a waterfall.

Bamboo Grove in Airport

Waterfall in Airport

From Beijing across east and west no flights; and air passengers – tourists to professionals and business men and women camped about with limited access to food and water and comforts of a home. With disastrous effect air-freight trade has come crashing – no fresh fish, fresh vegetables and fruit, fresh flowers and other perishables. Farms and farm animals and productions and services abandoned and workers sent home even in countries not directly affected by the volcanic ash. The economic effect globally unimaginable.

A Dunkirk-style evacuation is being mounted by Britain and some planes have resumed flight to the echoes of a new spew of ash – a mixture of glass, sand and rock particles – from the Volcano.

Having experienced the 2004 Tsunami in Khao Lac, Phuket we knew a little of what it was like to be stranded for a day, a night and morning in swimsuits with no food and water, no bed and overflowing toilets. But five days at an airport with no proper toilet and shower facilities, no change of clothing, not much food and drink, and many sick running out of medication was difficult to imagine.

With much sympathy for the few pockets of airport refugees we met at the KLIA we arrived home at midnight, weary and grateful. We will never fully comprehend or feel the enormity of this disaster that now has a global domino effect.

Banquet Starfish

Banquet

In a slow five-point cartwheel, through the heat-haze, it came as I lay on the wood-floored portico of the Thai Approbation Office. Soft suction pads settled on me. A cool blanket. I smiled. Its stomach crawled out, scored my flesh, siphoned my juices, sucked my bones, digested my body, leaving only my head behind. Dripping blood? No. Sweat. I had dozed off. I awoke to heckling that drowned the sound of salty sea waves. Icy juice vendors and paper boys hawked nearby. Ropes of silent ants had crawled into my basket of deep-fried starfish. A customer, thrusting money, demanded two.

Three words had to be incorporated in this 100 word flash fiction. Starfish was fine but other two weird: “approbation and portico”.

Morning Raga

Morning Raga

Tree branches shower blossoms
Petals beneath my feet.
Morning scents green, cool
Mist from valley below invades
Curtains of grey blur sun splinters.

Before day comes air is brisk.
Silent.

Silent?

Listen.
A lone bird sings clear,
Breeze whispers a gentle breath on cheek.

Listen again.

Trembling leaves glisten wet
Cobwebs dangle dew drops
Imperceptible they dance.

Down the path winding into pool of grey
I embrace the floating silence that comes.

No questions, no answers.

Leaving behind me the passing season
I pocket the morning
Walk on.

***
Selected: 1 of 24
Poetry Anthology Turner Maxwell

Dreams from my Father

Dreams from my Father by Barack Obama

Great men become greater.

Dreams From My Father is an autobiography written with a beauty of language that could easily be mistaken for fiction of a literary stature. Throughout the three sections — his origins in Hawaii, his life in Chicago and his visit to Kenya — Barack Obama’s reflections shape the book with much intelligence. Dreams from his father… not quite his own dreams and not his father’s dreams either.

It is a book about divisions and parts and exposures to cultures: Hawaiian, American (black and white), African and Asian. And being closely knit with each. It is an understandable whole, a rich personal history.

Barack Obama is born to a white American mother from Kansas and a black Kenyan father. His parents part company soon after the birth of the child. His father returns to Kenya and Barack hardly has him in his life after that. He is brought up by his mother and grandparents in Hawaii. When his mother remarries, mother and son go to live in Indonesia where he is brought up by his Indonesian stepfather. Living and attending school in Indonesia exposes him to a totally different culture and experiences. His mother sends him to America to complete high school.

Soon after, he travels to Kenya, where he gets to know his father and meets his ‘brothers and sisters’ and a horde of aunties and uncles and other relatives. On his return to America, he continues his studies and, after graduating, he goes to Chicago to work in underprivileged black communities before deciding to go to law school at Harvard.

Hawaii, Indonesia, America, and Kenya give texture to his life. His exploration of his identity and understanding, his taste of a varied life of weaknesses and strengths, is written with honesty, sensitivity and openness.

Barack Obama is a great writer and it is not surprising that his oratory reflects a man of conviction, and a man who is comfortable with himself.

We are indeed fortunate to have such a man live amongst us and for us to be in an era where we get to read him, see him, hear him, and experience the changes he hopes to bring about.

Tiger Year Dragon Dance

Tiger Year Dragon Dance

Northern cold, eleven degrees. Sky overcast. Tiger, element metal, waited his turn, began today in heavy drizzle. Sent dragon passionate in red and spring spirit in green. Hastening growth, breathing clouds of shifting fog. Tall boys carry bamboo poles, flags of colours strong. Procession drenched, wet hair, soggy shoes. Tiger-sent-Dragon dances up slope, stops at gate. Vibrant passion, valiantly leaps, gyrates to voice of gongs. Cymbals drown birds sounds in sullen branches. Dragon, eyes rolling, collects fortune packet. Fire crackers burst, cordite, evil spirits cast off. Lettuce strewn for new start he backs away wishing us Gong Xi Fa Cai.

President Barack Obama

Dear President BARACK OBAMA

Congratulations on your successful first year.

Against all odds

In his inauguration speech President Obama informed America and the world: ‘Challenges are real. They are serious and many. And they will not be easily solved in a very short time.’

But he has accomplished much of what he set out to do and in a short time. St. Petersburg Times, the Pulitzer Prize-winning , fact-checking service reports in detail: http://www.politifact.com/

When he came to office he inherited a horrendous legacy of a country in crisis, and the collapse of world economy, and hate and anger at home and abroad.

In the one short year he has the financial institutes working, created transparency, travelled widely not only attending meeting after meeting at home and abroad, but has met world leaders in their own countries or at the White House to redeem the love and respect America had lost in the past few years. His representatives have gone abroad to renew good will and trade connections.

But the one year certainly seems a desperately long time to the opponents of President Obama.

The cry goes out: close Guantanamo but don’t bring the men we capture, our prisoners to our shores; get rid of Al Qaeda but don’t spend our money and don’t send out our soldiers; we want healthcare but don’t tax us; create jobs, but don’t anger countries from whom we buy what we can produce locally. One after another mealy mouthed screams continue.

Since the election it would seem the Republicans are keen to divide the country, it’s us and him. Smear campaigners work overtime, digging deeper and deeper. Hyper-hysterical media feed the public with out-of-context irrelevant and false information. What weird democracy is this!

Perhaps it would be easier for the Republicans and the Tea-baggers and the Christian Fundamentalists if President Obama did not have a exotic name, and if he’d been born in the boondocks in USA somewhere. And perhaps it would even be a little tolerable if he’d was a slave son. Adversaries and armed rebellions and assassination plots would be fewer.

Not a coalition for the betterment of the people but an ignorant, ‘demented, vindictive’ opposition to democracy is what I see.

Kindle

Kindle

A quantum leap in reading.

In December 2009, on a no-special-gift-giving day, Don presented me with Kindle 2.

Imagine a hard cover 1cm thin and weighing 289 grams (10.2 oz) and readably squeezed into it 1,500 books. That’s my Kindle, a mean machine and thing of beauty. Slim, sturdy, comfortable and delicious to handle.

Within 45 seconds I purchased my first eBook, right on the device, wireless and no computer connection. Kindle works on the phone principle – 3G. I have another 349,000 titles to choose from.

Rotation of 15cm (diagonal) screen gives landscape or portrait viewing. Six different font sizes make for effortless reading. And the 16 level grey scale and 600×800 pixel resolution in the electronics paper is glare proof and easy on the eye.

Page turns back and forth, previous page or next page on the press of a button, and Kindle remembers and bookmarks the last page read. When it is reopened next it brings up the location. Built-in dictionary and access to Wikipedia allows looking up words on the reading page. Like pencilling in, highlights, notes and comments are made on the page. Books purchased and all notations are backed up by Amazon. Speech function will read book aloud and turn pages. Don’t expect a passionate, emotional human voice, just a friendly robot.

I am a great fan of Audio Books and Kindle downloads these too.

Recharging is fast and Kindle remains charged for about four days of avid reading, with wireless turned on, or two weeks turned off.

Besides books Kindle also gives access to daily newspapers, magazine subscriptions and blogs and has a built-in PDF reader. Browse the internet, send emails, do word processing on the machine and acts as a MP3 player. Kindle apps are free for iPhone and iPod.

A huge bonus for us writers – Kindle e-books CANNOT be passed on or re-sold after they are read. There is still hope I can move out of sleeping beneath the underpass.

Will I still buy physical paper books. Yes. My reading, like the octopus, has many tentacles and will grab on to every kind of reading material available. Nothing really replaces anything. ‘Everything just splinters.’

More at: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0015T963C

Christmas Masquerade

Once I was small, Christmas trees were tall. Now I am tall (well almost) Christmas trees are tinsel, made in China. Elegantly they sit on window sills, fairy lights flicker fade. Christmas is blurred, fluidly changed. A God’s birthday counted down and god managers preach intolerance, separation. Weak hymns in churches half filled and midnight mass at ten pm. Carols sung in languages foreign. Drunk, feasting. Gifts purchased, wrapped, waiting. Santa on the horizon. Who draws his sleigh – camels, buffaloes, kangaroos? Solar panels, no sooty chimneys. Here comes Santa, oops he … She. Small. Points digital camera at me.

December in H.K.

December pleasant enough. White orchids still bloom. Red rose hidden in green foliage. Happy bamboo sways bulbuls tweeting love. Excited sparrow tribes hop about, magpies quarrel. All search worms slumbering hidden in twigs. Three sandpipers in from the beach not far. Doves strut about. Concrete homes trap winter. Indoor chill registers 8c. No central heating or other. Cheerful, summer windows built for breeze allow gales seek shelter. Pullover, jacket, socks doubled, feet on antique Tibetan rug. Hands in cut-off gloves, fingers numb with cold tap on keys. Ideas flow leisurely, phrases, sentences, paragraphs. Short stories blossom like the winter garden.

Chocolate

Chocolate. Like leela to chocolate brown. Chocolate. Don’t say, don’t listen. Smell, taste, feel. Let the tongue roll. Possessive, breathless, alive with secret excite, invisible coating. Choc as in full, keep it rolling. Don’t lose it down in deep throat. L as in luscious in the klut. Cloak it in klut. Suggestive. Rounded. Klut, firm and final. Don’t let it FLUTTERBY, Shanta’s butterfly word when three. FRANGIPANI, Don’s word. Perfume, white petals float down, green foliage lush, like chocolate. Bark brown like chocolate. Like chocolate Ngau Tau Kok, a Cantonese bull rolling in the hills cleaning his horns. Pleasure. GNAUTAUKOK.

Slumdog Millionaire

Film: Slumdog Millionaire

Director: Danny Boyle
Co-director (India): Loveleen Tandan
Screenplay: Simon Beaufoy
Novel: Vikas Swarup
Music: A. R. Rahaman
Child actors: vivacious and natural and endearing

A tragi-comedy of three orphaned children, Salim, (Madhur Mittal), Jamal, (Dev Patel) and Latika (Freida Pinto), growing up in the slums of Mumbai. A tale of human capacity to seek every measure of survival through hardship and endurance. The older brother Salim, driven by desire for power and money, chooses the wrong path. Jamal seeks love, his destiny, his Latika and it is love that endures.

The film begins with a teenage Jamal, a tea-boy – a chai-walla, from the slums, answering questions on a TV programme: Indian version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire. He is on a winning streak. Is he a Cheat, is he Lucky, is he a Genius or is it Destiny. Jamal thinks it’s destiny but the host assumes Jamal is a cheat, and before the end of the game the man gets police to kidnap him. He is taken into custody and questioned. When Jamal has no satisfactory answer for the authorities he is tortured. Finally the officer sits him down and questions him again.

Jamal relates how he came about the answers to questions in the quiz. It unfolds the answer to each question came from his life experience and the story is told in flashes of question in the studio and flash-back of his life in the slums.

The street-smart innocence of the children is touching and vibrant. It is an incredibly inspiring tale of survival, children coping and dealing with unscrupulous adults many of whom were slum children themselves.

Scenes of torture and beatings, of violence, of setting the Muslim quarter on fire, of blinding a child are not graphic but drawn with subtlety and quite clearly portray the cruelty and evil of human beings.

The film is very funny and vivacious in spite of misery and filth. It is also awash with energy, colour and fast paced music.

In one scene the two teenage brothers are on a high floor of an unfinished building and Salim points out to his brother where their shantytown home once was, and now in its place is a complex of multi-storey high-rise towers.

The film is also a small and touching glimpse of a large and complicated real India treated with sensibility. A glimpse of an incredible Mumbai, an Indian city of today.

Before the start of the Oscars Dev Patel, the teenage Jamal, said to an interviewer: “It is a small film with a big heart.” But it has evolved into a big film with a big heart.

P.S.
Kowloon Walled City

The start of the film panning through the slums and shots of milling humans toiling reminded me of Kowloon Walled City of Hong Kong before it was torn down in 1993. My scary trip into this vast tangle of energy where very human was engaged in doing something to earn a living, and miles of snarled electric cables and dark dank lanes, and narrow alley sewers and large rats was not only eye-opening but left me quite enlightened and breathless.

Dodo San

Nestled in a columbarium, plumage strewn, avian virus, contagious. I thought feathered friends bird brained, chickened out when I saw a yellow canary in a cage walk a man by. They thought me extinct and now think me a magic magpie. A peacock strutted head high. A gullible jay glanced my way, friendly. No, surely not a dodo, thought he. Maybe a crestfallen cock, a sitting duck. Pigeons came to roost in my cote, and bulbuls in love. I rousted, they scattered. A sparrow, a blackbird, and a crow, eyed each other and on the ground the half-eaten chicken wing.

Valentine

Wo ai ni is what you hear in China. Mahal kita, say the smiling, cheerful people of the Philippines. The multi-national Malaysians wish you, Pada chinta mu. Cultures of Asia and the rest of the world have universally accepted February 14th as Lovers’ Day, and say I love yous in all their many languages.

The celebration of Valentine’s Day goes back to Rome when in 260 A.D. Claudius — known as “Claudius the Cruel” — found it difficult to recruit soldiers for his army. The men of Rome preferred staying home with their wives and children rather than embarking on the emperor’s expeditions, lasting years, to conquer new lands for him, and perhaps never return. Failing to come up with a good recruitment campaign, Claudius decided to forbid all marriages and engagements. If men couldn’t marry, he reasoned, they wouldn’t have families they’d want to stay with.

His citizens, however, were in no mood to obey this new law, and especially the Christians who were more reluctant than the rest to join the army. They preferred to follow their own trades and to stay home. They ignored his edict and carried on getting engaged and getting married. Most flagrant among them was a priest named Valentine who flouted the new law and continued to perform marriages.

When Claudius learned that Valentine was disobeying his edict, he was furious. He threw the priest in prison to await his punishment — death by clubbing, before being beheaded.

While Valentine awaited execution, a blind girl, the daughter of one of the prison guards, visited him frequently, bringing him gifts and keeping him company. It is said his love for her was so powerful that it restored her sight. His last note to the girl was signed, “From your Valentine.”

The death of Valentine fell on the eve of Lupercalia, a Roman festival honouring Juno, the goddess of women and marriage. It was also the start of spring and one of the customs was to put names of marriageable girls into urns for boys to draw from. Each boy would draw a name and wear it on his sleeve before pairing off with the girl — hence, our expression to wear your heart on your sleeve.

It wasn’t until 496 A.D. that Pope Gelasius fixed February 14th as the date to honour the priest, and it officially became known as St. Valentine’s Day.

In the early 14th century, to avoid association with the pagan customs and rites of early Rome, people in England celebrated February 14th as the official day of spring; the day when plants started to sprout and birds began to mate and “love was in the air.”

Geoffrey Chaucer (1300) says in his Parliament of Fowls:
“For this was on St. Valentine’s Day
When every fowl cometh there to choose his mate.”

In the 16th century, men in Wales carved wooden spoons with hearts or locks and keys on the handles. The message was, “You have the ability to unlock my heart.” When a Welshman came to woo his lady, he presented her with the love-spoon he had carved for her — and courting soon became known as spooning.

In 1603, Shakespeare recorded the significance of the start of Spring as the 14th day of February when a character in A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream discovers two lovers in the woods and says:

“St. Valentine is past
Begin these wood-birds but to couple now?”

As it was with the beginning of Valentine prison seems to be a place of inspiration for lovers. In 1415, Charles, Duke of Orleans, defeated in the Battle of Agincourt by the English, was imprisoned at the Tower of London. This well-known poet turned to love, writing romantic verses for his wife and he sent her a Valentine card.

The earliest Valentine cards were handcrafted — painted and decorated with colourful beads, feathers, and ribbons; trimmed with lace and gold and silver filigree. Cards portrayed hearts and angelic Cupid, son of Venus, the goddess of love, with his quiver full of love-tipped arrows for the ladies. These cards portraying sentiments of affection and deep love were delivered personally.

The introduction of the penny-post (the postal service in 1680) besides having introduced the sending of cards by post also started a card culture, featuring most famously the “Penny Dreadfuls” and “Vinegar Valentines.” These funny Valentine cards carried naughty or insulting messages and could be sent anonymously, teasing lovers or keeping them guessing.

Valentine’s Day is now celebrated with great enthusiasm the world over. Only Christmas cards surpass Valentine cards in number, and commercialism is as rampant as love on this special day, with romantic dinners and gifts of diamonds, flowers, chocolates and perfume.

Love still reigns supreme. Citizens of countries transcend cultures and religions to send out greetings in many languages.

Ultimately, it is the universal language of love that binds the human race as well as the hearts of people. Every year there is hope that this will be the Valentine’s Day that brings the force of love to our universe — not just for a day but for always.

Hamas Israel – the balance

I appreciate the heartfelt defense and the passionate plea of Amikam Levy, consul general of Israel (2 January, Israel has a right to protect its own citizens). It is horrific that an endless number of mortar shells and rockets are launched into Israel where the citizens live in terror and uncertainty. But I find the letter intended to enlighten Hong Kong people seriously flawed, unbalanced and simplistic.

Over years Israel has split and driven Palestinian families out of their homes and farms. Numbers killed, maimed, and men and women and boys imprisoned is huge in comparison to those killed or harmed by the Palestinian movements or Hamas. Israel and countries flaunting democracy refuse to recognize Hamas, a legally elected body. Severe sanctions have been placed on the people. A different result to the elections could have taken place had not the Israeli government curtailed the election process by closing checkpoints. The Palestinians are only allowed access and exit though Israel controlled check-points at which Palestinians spend hours queuing up with passes. The Palestinians have become a society dependent on aid and outside help which in turn is dependent on Israel’s whims to close borders and checkpoints whenever it suspects smuggling of weapons could be taking place under the ever watchful detection of control masters. Access to power, fuel, food, water and medicine and even education are in the hands of the Israelis. Is it any wonder illegal tunnels have cropped up connecting Gaza to the Egyptian border? Endless numbers of embargos have deprived the people of all basic needs and have left them without self-reliance and dignity.

United Nations General Assembly on November 29, 1947, divided the region into two states, one Arab and one Jewish, a national home for the Jewish people created. Jerusalem was to be designated an international city. On May 14, 1948 the state of Israel declared independence and this was followed by a war with the surrounding Arab states, which refused to accept the plan foisted on them. Since then the region has seen nothing but this dance of war in which Israel was able to continuously expand Jewish borders beyond those in the UN Partition Plan. These wars have resulted in decades of severe poverty and unemployment and violence for the Palestinian people.

It was very kind of Israel to return Gaza to its people after 40 years of occupation in which time they did little to improve the lives of the people. The Gazans have been prisoners in their own land with Israel controlling all exit and entrance points: sea, land and air. For the last two years Palestinians in the Gaza Strip have endured daily crises over shortages of everything especially when food when aid is held up and not allowed in.

In November 2008 Ismail Haniyah said that Hamas was willing to accept a Israel long-term hudna, or truce requesting Israel recognize the Palestinians’ national rights, recognize the 1949 armistice lines and withdraw itself from all Palestinian territories including the West Bank and East Jerusalem. Israel illegally occupied and has settled the West Bank and Gaza Strip (Palestinian territories) for years driving away families and destroying their livelihood. This long-term displeasure of Palestinians about their land donated by outside forces so the Israel can be born is not going to be wiped out with weapons.

Might of military power is on the side of Israel. Israel has the third or forth most powerful army in the world. Israel has Satellite control and GSP systems to check on movements of all Palestinians helping it pinpoint its targets. Israel is a nuclear power but refuses to sign the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty or allow inspection of its nuclear facilities. U.S. is its largest aid provider and also gives billions of dollars worth of military aid. It receives help from the US in the way military technology know how. Air fire power of F-16 fighter jets, Apache helicopter gunships, Arrow missile tanks and other weaponry are supplied and subsidized by the U.S., funded by US taxpayers who unknowingly help an illegal occupation, expansion of settlement projects, and gross human rights violations against the Palestinian civilian population. Financial aid from U.S. Foreign Assistance Act specifies that all receivers must account on how the money is spent but the only country that does not do so is Israel. U.S. closes a blind eye and funds this brutal repression and colonization to maintain its imperialism in the region.

Against the military might and precision targeted attacks of the Israelis the Palestinians throw stones against tanks and launch primitive and short-range rockets from back yards. If this is not so tragic it could be hilarious.

Israelis seeks peace, no peace can come about if Israel refuses to sit down with Hamas leaders to discuss it. It is true Hamas refused to recognize Israel as a sovereign nation at one time. Not surprising knowing what has gone on. Hamas and the rest of the Palestinians know that their land was negotiated away by outsiders and handed over to Israelis to make a homeland for the Jews who instead of showing a little gratitude have become aggressive oppressors.

Poverty fear and hatred is rife in the hearts of the Palestinians many of whom have known no lives except as refugees. The young see no future; they do not even have a present. What kind peace does arrogant Israel backed by America and its allies expect after what we have seen in this ‘let’s-wipe-them-out” war. The Gazans have had their life sucked out. The horror of current war will have an immense impact on the psychology of Gazan families.

If Israel can stop the Hamas rockets after this current slaughter of the Palestinian people I hope Israel has the decency to rebuild the country and give them back their lives and their freedom and their dignity.

To the new President

SCMP winning essay:

To the new President

How the US can improve its standing in the international community.

The US has the biggest influence in the world. It leads in many fields: invention, science, education, music, films, and others. Much of the world desires to ape the American life style.

By electing a black president, a man not from an elite dynasty family, the US has already improved its standing in the international community. US has made a big leap towards coming down from its pedestal to equate to the majority of not only the Americans but the rest of the world.

Much of the angst created abroad in the past years has to be erased. A new respect needs be created. In healing itself the US will begin to help the world to look up to it as the big brother.

A financial crisis is now staring the world in the face. Recession can be shortened if America gets back on track and comes up with solutions to reduce its ten trillion debt. It needs to save some of the large industries from going under and check the money guzzling stock market and property market and look for ways to reform. It has to create jobs that will in turn increase spending to benefit world trade. Until America’s problems are sorted out the poorer countries will find it very difficult to get bank loans. From America came the global financial crisis and it has to solve its own problems before the rest of the world to start to move to put their banks and business and property in order.

The world needs to reverse the effects of climate change. It hardly needs reminding how the last US government had scoffed at the idea the planet is dangerously heating up. Melting icecaps increase flooding and lead to loss of low-lying regions and islands around the world, reduce the world’s greenery and endanger animals in the wild and cause migration of people and animals from deserts formed by dried up lakes and rivers. America’s refusal to join the rest of the world to help reduce greenhouse gas emissions and its refusal to sign agreements, and walking away from debates on climate change has set a bad example to China and India and other countries and has put the world in jeopardy. But it’s hugely encouraging too, that the biggest defender of climate change has come from the US. Al Gore has given concrete proof that the world is in dire straits. It hardly bears repeating now, with how much urgency, the US has to become the leader in helping to arrest, reduce, and maybe even reverse the disasters created by climate change.

Being the largest consumer of world’s resources the US has to lead in change, not continue as a throwaway society pandering to waste, but change its ways and set an example. The world has to see that this developed country uses less — uses less fuel, wastes less energy, consume less food, packages less and enjoys fewer must haves.

US has been the leader in science, research, invention, space exploration and health studies. Many projects for betterment of life and health were either held up or stopped by the former government. It is time to change, to continue the advancement. US government needs to be firm about showing the world it is secular and remove religion from interfering with science as in the case of the origin of species. Groups at home and abroad that provide advice on abortion should lift bans on family planning. Aid and help should not come with conditions like insistence on celibacy before marriage. If the ban on abortion is lifted in the US many other countries will follow suit enabling a healthy legal alternative. The number of single mothers out-weigh single fathers, and whether they are divorced or never married majority of them live in great poverty or are unable to care for their children.

US is a generous country when it comes to aid to the world. But aid should not come with unreasonable or unworkable pre conditions, with strings attached. Often aid is tied up with having to give the largest contracts to US companies. This practice of giving on the one hand and taking away on the other, siphoning back much from the country’s wealth to which aid is given does not help country’s poor from whom land is often taken. Placing American contractors and businesses in lucrative positions in these countries should be changed to training people to run their own businesses. The US should also look into the companies that are on the continent of Africa, companies, that are involved in the extraction of oil, diamond and copper, that give little care for the people of the land and companies that use the land carelessly. These companies, having offered bribes to local heads of states, fleece the locals of their natural resources, pollute and poison their land and give very little in return to the poor.

Though the US touts free trade it does not in realty practice it. Trade is much tilted in America’s favour. The world now hopes and expects US as a more balanced trading partner. It has to ease some of the trade restrictions imposed on the so called third world countries, especially when it comes cultural imports of movies, dance, and music.

Terror is foremost in the American psyche since the attacks of 9/11. This has given the US government an excuse to attack sovereign nations. It should not take upon itself to interfere in other governments whether they are perceived to be lame or otherwise. Terror of the unknown has reduced America to place its justice system on suspicion, to imprison foreign nationals as terrorists without trial. It has shamelessly allowed helpless prisoners to be tortured and treated inhumanely. Terrorism has increased in the last seven years and the Afghanistan Pakistan border has become a hot bed of terrorist training. This can only be reduced if the US seriously considers increasing the standard of living of the people in this region. In most cases acts of terrorism is carried out in foreign countries where there is a big American military presence. Now the US is seen as an unjust and cruel government, an aggressor equal to the terrorist. The new government has much to accomplish to get back the world’s respect. Direct dialogue and diplomacy and tact is needed and the US must prepare to listen to advisers and co-operate to reduce imperious confrontation, sit down with no preconditions and talk to Iran and other so called enemies or axis of evil.

A change is needed in the foreign policy of the US. It must recognise democracies though they may not be solely in American style of democracy as in case of Hamas. It has to give less support to and be firmer with Israel to reduce the humanitarian catastrophe affecting the Palestinians. It needs to be more diplomatic with Russia and work closely with the South American countries and reduce its bullying tactics. It blatantly flaunts its relationship with China and yet punishes Cuba. It needs to show some fairness and accept Cuba as a communist country and lift sanctions. Promises made to North Korea need be carried out promptly. In the Iraq and Afghanistan the US needs to work harder to train the locals and withdraw its military presence. Military might, the greed to have a military foot in every country, creates military competition around the world. There has to be an arms reduction. The divide and rule policy in the name of defence has everyone on the edge of uncertainty. This policy has to go.

It is indeed a tall order for the US to improve its standing in the international community but the world looks forward to the new government with a wave of optimism and trust.

Let the healing begin and as Mr. Gordon Brown said let the US be “guided by truth.”

Sir Jeffrey Archer

A magical event at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club with Lord Jeffrey Archer – a story teller, a politician, an orator and a phoenix that keeps resurrecting. I first met Mr. Jeffrey Archer at a book-signing event, next to the Prince of Wales Pub, at Sung Hung Kai Centre, Hong Kong in September 1994; and he has hardly changed physically since then. He is just as sprightly and open and vocal.

This time he’d arrived at end of March in Hong Kong soon after his exhaustive travelling, book signing and talks in Canada and the United States.

The latest of his 14 books, A Prisoner of Birth, another prison caper, rose to No.1 and became a bester-seller in 3 days, became also No. 1 in SCMP. The inspiration for his title and the book is based on the convicts he met in prison. A Prisoner of Birth is a story about a man who is wrongly accused for the murder of his best friend and is sent to a high-security prison-Belmarsh in south-east London, the same prison where Lord Archer convicted of perjury in 2001 spent the first three weeks of his two years behind bars.

He guessed many of us assembled there were writers and as such were possibly interested in how and when he writes. When writing he goes to his holiday home in Spain (and this is only for millionaire writers amongst us). The place affords him quiet space for writing, his needs are well met, and not having to cook and clean and look after children affords him the peace he seeks. He wakes at five am, and starts writing at five thirty. He uses a felt tipped pen and writes in batches of two hours with two hour breaks in between. It is not unusual for writer to go through his draft 17 to 20 or more times, he said. He always believed he could not write without absolute silence and mostly manages 100,000 words a year.

But while in prison he wrote a million words. He was constantly bombarded with ear-splitting noise from both sides of his prison room, loud reggae music from boom boxes; and endless swearing. He came up with three volumes named after Dante’s Divine Comedy, Belmarsh: Hell, Wayland: Purgatory, and North Sea Camp: Heaven. All three published to critical acclaim. He said he never swore in prison, and within three months, 95% of the prisoners, maybe more, never swore when they were with him.

He spoke fluidly. Q&A mainly focused on politics of Britain and USA. He answered questions candidly with a huge sense of humour. Questions were good too; nobody made long speeches before asking convoluted questions.

Lord Archer is a great admirer of Blair and Obama. Blair, he said, was one of Britain’s great prime ministers with flair and charisma. He referred to Obama’s speech on race relations and compared it with Lincoln’s on slavery and Kennedy’s on segregation.

One questioner wanted to know if Britain had forgotten Hong Kong. He said Britain had not. Britain was not interfering but giving Hong Kong plenty of leeway and watching it very carefully. He also said he was surprised by the amount of love and respect Hong Kong had for Britain, and especially for our last governor, Chris Patten.

He ended his talk by saying there are many very good writers but for every thousand good writers there is only one story teller. With this he asked to be excused to read a piece of writing. No, he did not read from his book but read an anonymous piece. First author, I have known, who read but not from his book! No self promotion here, none needed.

A Somerset Maugham’s retelling of an old story, anonymous, which appeared as an epigraph to John O’Hara’s book…

Appointment in Samarra

A merchant in Baghdad sends his servant to the marketplace for provisions. Shortly, the servant comes home white and trembling and tells him that in the marketplace he was jostled by a woman, whom he recognized as Death, and she made a threatening gesture. Borrowing the merchant’s horse, he flees at top speed to Samarra, a distance of about 75 miles (125 km), where he believes Death will not find him. The merchant then goes to the marketplace and finds Death, and asks why she made the threatening gesture. She replies, “That was not a threatening gesture, it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.”

A Lamma Book Signing

Sunday. Ferry arrives and a mass of people emerges, fans out from Yung Shue Wan pier. Human tentacles spread, move into main street, slide up side streets and paths and into hives of homes, exploring. The more vigorous, armed with sticks and water bottles and hatted, veer off. They strip outer layers of clothing, too hot for December sun on their backs. They hike across the island, over the hump and head to Sok Kwu Wan, focused on seafood lunch. Fish, prawns, crabs, lobsters and sea creatures frantically wait, swimming in no-escape aquariums.

Overnighters study holiday chalet window vacancy notices.

City people seeking crucial country experience photograph dogs with their mobile phones. Many stop to admire and pat them. Free and business-like dusty dogs are everywhere: in the streets, in the alleys, in the restaurants, running back and forth quenching their thirst from plastic bowls set out by dog-loving shop owners. Other dogs, lap dogs, sophisticated and on expensive leashes, heads held high, lead owners through the crowd. The dogs, those island dogs, they have seen it all before.

Bicyclists, Lamma belongers, impatiently ringing bells, pedal past, avoid hitting the throng. Narrow trucks, on roads narrow, carry stone cement and steel rods to pile more homes upon homes. Mini-ambulances and mini-fire trucks pass by, keep watch. Policemen on bicycles greet Kailash Vernon, Gung the Zine, and Nick the Bookman, long beard lifted by breeze.

Trendy artists, photographers, writers and Da-da duos frequent bars, restaurants, craft shops and pavement cafes. Spicy Island, Deli Lamma, Island Bar, Banyan Bay, Bookworm and Just Green.

Shopkeepers wait, try on ideas, catch browsers with attitude, talk them into buying nothing needed – clothes on racks, casual and neglected chic, organic foods, potpourri, handicraft, candles and oils essential.

Town dwellers seek an alternate style, connect to their soul.

End of day. Visitors, having found themselves, leave. They thread their tired way like a sad song towards the pier and home. The last ferry moves away, diminished enthusiasm.

Lammaites, islanders who stayed solid, pulsing, dreading, waiting, through the day, now affectionately settle back, their lives returned.

Sun sets.

High tide rhythmic, no stars, was there a moon?

Old friendships renewed, new island friends made, Floating Petals signed.

Thank you, Sharon and Dan.

Soul Spirit Gone North

Shangri-la suite 1911. I meet Marjorie. High tea at Horizon, reserved for exclusive clientele. Large goblets of Red Cabernet sipped. Harbour channel busy with water traffic. A pleasantly peopled walk along Hong Kong Avenue of Stars, honoured handprints. We dine at Don Juan along the waterfront. Filipino waitress courteous, recommends exotic ‘Mojito’, drink of rum, lime, mint. Handsome Argentinean chef, ‘Are you ladies all right?’ Recommends spinach burritos, vegetarian, beef stock hidden in rice. We delay our good-bye. Chat of this and that, of immigrant horrors, Chicago slaughter houses. A red sailing junk floats by. Marjie soon leaves for Quanzhou.