Friday, September 12, 2008
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Bangkok Bizarre
bi·zarre : –markedly unusual in appearance, style, or general character and often involving incongruous or unexpected elements; outrageously or whimsically strange; odd: bizarre clothing; bizarre behavior.
Monday, September 08, 2008
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Friday, September 05, 2008
'Soaking' in Islamabad
Soaking: the act of absorbing, imbibing and taking it all in. Slang = Chillin'
I am currently ‘soaking’ in Islamabad after arriving here last night. After the chaos, bedlam and tumult of Peshawar it is a relief finally to be somewhere with a semblance of orderliness. The streets here are huge freeways lined with trees and flowers and relatively civilised driving (thanks to the tough traffic police who keep an eye out on maniac drivers). It didn't start too well though: as I alighted from my bus from the 'Pir Whadi bus terminal', I was immediatey accosted by a vulture like taxi driver. Red eyed, and a bit wan and rough looking. The fare to my hotel seemed reasonable so I got into his decrepit beaten up taxi. His constant questioning (when all I wanted to do was switch off) was taxing my patience: Where are you from? Where are you staying? How much do you earn? Are you married? 'Do you have an English girlfriend?' and more worryingly 'why don't you let me take you to a nice hotel I know?' - as if! At one point we went down a narrow alley and I grabbed hold of my bag, ready to jump out, lest he attempt to rob me - but it was Ok. He was only doing a short cut and me being a tad paranoid. My nerves we're a little frayed though from my time in Peshawar and my stomach a little worst for wear.
I checked into one of the nicer hotels (Wi-Fi in my bedroom anyone?!) and went out for a meal in the evening to one of the more salubrious shopping areas called ‘Jinnah Super-Market’ - thronged with Levi’s, Hush Puppy boots outlets, Apple Computer stores, an array of designer shops and some extremely plush looking restaurants. I had a hard time choosing where to eat and finally settled for a pretentious eatery called ‘The American Steak House’. But first I had to get by airport-style ‘security’ – the armed guard outside performed a quick mandatory frisk with a metal detector before I was led in. It took me a while to adjust to the lighting or lack thereof. It seems that the more expensive the restaurant the darker the ambience. This place was pretty dark. I seated myself at a comfortable corner table where I could see outside onto the large lighted square below – where men and their wives and children were beginning to congregate to break their Ramzan fast. There was a Pakora sellers stall below doing a brisk trade and queues of people outside the fresh juice outlet. Well I say queues but people in Pakistan don't actualy 'queue' as such. They just barge in and the worst thing is they don't even realise it! It's fucking annoying and it always drives me nuts. But I try and suppress my wrath by convincing myself that the act of queing is unnatural to the human species. So in Pakistan they're just acting au natural. Does it work? Does it make me feel better? No!
Anyway, the restaurant itself was nicely decorated with a huge dollop of class. The chairs were comfortable. The tables brown teak. The napkins we’re crimson velvety and soft and you weren’t sure whether they were for decorative purposes or for wiping your mouth with! I ordered a T-Bone Steak with Pepper Jus with all the trappings washed down with a strawberry smoothie. The staff were attentive. Sometimes too attentive. It wasn’t busy so they had the unnerving habit of hanging around your table fidgeting. But it was ok. There was a large plasma television on the far wall showing a cricket match or something and the music was uber-americano. They asked me whether I was fasting to which I replied ‘yes’ (liar liar bum on fire) – this confirmed, to them atleast, that I was a Muslim which they weren’t sure of initially from my enigmatic and cool accent – and after that they seemed to relax a little. I was one of them! For breaking the fast they provided a complimentary platter that included the usual dates, fruit and some fried savourites. I took a little nibble at these but only a nibble lest I ruin my appetite.
In between waiting for my food I read: The Last Mughal by Darymple or sometimes just looked out through the window at the chorus of people below eating in the square in groups. And the food? Well it was ok. A bit pricey considering what I got (Rs 1,200 when you can get a better meal somewhere less pretentious for Rs 120), but as always it’s really about the atmosphere in these sorts of places, and the feeling of being somewhere comfortable and reassuringly Western!
The shopping area itself was busy in the evening with the upper crust elite of Pakistan strolling through the arcades and squares. It being Ramadhan and too hot during the day, people tend to come out mainly in the evenings and the shops cater by being open till way past midnight. I felt more at home here. The people seemed better educated. The women were decked in dupatta-less outfits, the latest western trends, and were walking around comfortably and confidently in female only troupes. One of the major problems for women in Pakistan, being a male dominated society, is the constant ogling that goes on by men of less ‘sophisticated ilk’ (pardon my haughtiness!). I was wondering why the men here we’re better behaved here, when lo and behold, I spotted a policeman whacking a group of men with a stick for misbehaving. Apparently the shopping area has its own ‘chowkedars’ or ‘crowd controllers’, huge lumbering mustachioed Pathans who keep a constant visual for undesirables lurking in the cracks and being a general nuisance. I found this ironic. The majority of Pakistani's belong to, what I lovingly call, 'The Mob'. These are the boorish, mannerless, crass, un-cultivated, philistines you see everywhere. However, there 'masters'; the bourgeois, educated, elite classes who shop in malls in the evenings, have nothing but contempt for them! The very people whose support they need. I think the middle-class in Pakistan lives in constant fear of being usurped by the tsunami of the barbarian mob.
I did a little shopping too by the way. Popped into a Levi’s store and purchased a t-shirt costing the equivalent of a weeks stay in Northern Pakistan! I also paid a visit to ‘The Saeed Book Bank’ – the largest bookshop in the whole of Pakistan. What a delight it was to stroll through the endless aisles perusing what they stocked and what they didn’t. They had all the English classics and naturally quite a substantial collection on the Indian Subcontinent. They even had a few titles by that staunch atheist Richard Dawkins – but I didn’t see a copy of the God Delusions…Perhaps they we’re out of stock?! They had a large collection of Lonely Planet guides, so seeing my opportunity, I purchased one for Thailand and Laos and a book by Hanif Kureishi. I’ve just realised that I’m going to have to carry these with me everywhere I go. So I’m not sure whether that was smart thinking! Oh well.
See you in Thailand. Inshallah.
I am currently ‘soaking’ in Islamabad after arriving here last night. After the chaos, bedlam and tumult of Peshawar it is a relief finally to be somewhere with a semblance of orderliness. The streets here are huge freeways lined with trees and flowers and relatively civilised driving (thanks to the tough traffic police who keep an eye out on maniac drivers). It didn't start too well though: as I alighted from my bus from the 'Pir Whadi bus terminal', I was immediatey accosted by a vulture like taxi driver. Red eyed, and a bit wan and rough looking. The fare to my hotel seemed reasonable so I got into his decrepit beaten up taxi. His constant questioning (when all I wanted to do was switch off) was taxing my patience: Where are you from? Where are you staying? How much do you earn? Are you married? 'Do you have an English girlfriend?' and more worryingly 'why don't you let me take you to a nice hotel I know?' - as if! At one point we went down a narrow alley and I grabbed hold of my bag, ready to jump out, lest he attempt to rob me - but it was Ok. He was only doing a short cut and me being a tad paranoid. My nerves we're a little frayed though from my time in Peshawar and my stomach a little worst for wear.
I checked into one of the nicer hotels (Wi-Fi in my bedroom anyone?!) and went out for a meal in the evening to one of the more salubrious shopping areas called ‘Jinnah Super-Market’ - thronged with Levi’s, Hush Puppy boots outlets, Apple Computer stores, an array of designer shops and some extremely plush looking restaurants. I had a hard time choosing where to eat and finally settled for a pretentious eatery called ‘The American Steak House’. But first I had to get by airport-style ‘security’ – the armed guard outside performed a quick mandatory frisk with a metal detector before I was led in. It took me a while to adjust to the lighting or lack thereof. It seems that the more expensive the restaurant the darker the ambience. This place was pretty dark. I seated myself at a comfortable corner table where I could see outside onto the large lighted square below – where men and their wives and children were beginning to congregate to break their Ramzan fast. There was a Pakora sellers stall below doing a brisk trade and queues of people outside the fresh juice outlet. Well I say queues but people in Pakistan don't actualy 'queue' as such. They just barge in and the worst thing is they don't even realise it! It's fucking annoying and it always drives me nuts. But I try and suppress my wrath by convincing myself that the act of queing is unnatural to the human species. So in Pakistan they're just acting au natural. Does it work? Does it make me feel better? No!
Anyway, the restaurant itself was nicely decorated with a huge dollop of class. The chairs were comfortable. The tables brown teak. The napkins we’re crimson velvety and soft and you weren’t sure whether they were for decorative purposes or for wiping your mouth with! I ordered a T-Bone Steak with Pepper Jus with all the trappings washed down with a strawberry smoothie. The staff were attentive. Sometimes too attentive. It wasn’t busy so they had the unnerving habit of hanging around your table fidgeting. But it was ok. There was a large plasma television on the far wall showing a cricket match or something and the music was uber-americano. They asked me whether I was fasting to which I replied ‘yes’ (liar liar bum on fire) – this confirmed, to them atleast, that I was a Muslim which they weren’t sure of initially from my enigmatic and cool accent – and after that they seemed to relax a little. I was one of them! For breaking the fast they provided a complimentary platter that included the usual dates, fruit and some fried savourites. I took a little nibble at these but only a nibble lest I ruin my appetite.
In between waiting for my food I read: The Last Mughal by Darymple or sometimes just looked out through the window at the chorus of people below eating in the square in groups. And the food? Well it was ok. A bit pricey considering what I got (Rs 1,200 when you can get a better meal somewhere less pretentious for Rs 120), but as always it’s really about the atmosphere in these sorts of places, and the feeling of being somewhere comfortable and reassuringly Western!
The shopping area itself was busy in the evening with the upper crust elite of Pakistan strolling through the arcades and squares. It being Ramadhan and too hot during the day, people tend to come out mainly in the evenings and the shops cater by being open till way past midnight. I felt more at home here. The people seemed better educated. The women were decked in dupatta-less outfits, the latest western trends, and were walking around comfortably and confidently in female only troupes. One of the major problems for women in Pakistan, being a male dominated society, is the constant ogling that goes on by men of less ‘sophisticated ilk’ (pardon my haughtiness!). I was wondering why the men here we’re better behaved here, when lo and behold, I spotted a policeman whacking a group of men with a stick for misbehaving. Apparently the shopping area has its own ‘chowkedars’ or ‘crowd controllers’, huge lumbering mustachioed Pathans who keep a constant visual for undesirables lurking in the cracks and being a general nuisance. I found this ironic. The majority of Pakistani's belong to, what I lovingly call, 'The Mob'. These are the boorish, mannerless, crass, un-cultivated, philistines you see everywhere. However, there 'masters'; the bourgeois, educated, elite classes who shop in malls in the evenings, have nothing but contempt for them! The very people whose support they need. I think the middle-class in Pakistan lives in constant fear of being usurped by the tsunami of the barbarian mob.
I did a little shopping too by the way. Popped into a Levi’s store and purchased a t-shirt costing the equivalent of a weeks stay in Northern Pakistan! I also paid a visit to ‘The Saeed Book Bank’ – the largest bookshop in the whole of Pakistan. What a delight it was to stroll through the endless aisles perusing what they stocked and what they didn’t. They had all the English classics and naturally quite a substantial collection on the Indian Subcontinent. They even had a few titles by that staunch atheist Richard Dawkins – but I didn’t see a copy of the God Delusions…Perhaps they we’re out of stock?! They had a large collection of Lonely Planet guides, so seeing my opportunity, I purchased one for Thailand and Laos and a book by Hanif Kureishi. I’ve just realised that I’m going to have to carry these with me everywhere I go. So I’m not sure whether that was smart thinking! Oh well.
See you in Thailand. Inshallah.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Current coordinates: Peshawar & the Smugglers Bazaar (North West Frontier Province)
Peshawar has a tendency to conjure up images of lawlessness, guns, intrigue, treachery and romance. It is the ultimate in archetypal frontier towns and lies at the foot of the Khyber Pass, near the border with Afghanistan. It's been in the news recently as it is the battleground between the Pakistani Taliban and the Government; who have always traditionally held a tenuous grip on the fiercly independent Pasthtun population. Peshawar is all about atmosphere. It literally wallows in it. The old city a warren of bazaars - if you walk down these endless mazes you will be led into a Dickensian painting: bearded merchants bargaining hard and stroking their fabulous beards, tea-boys to-ing and fro-ing between the morass, in the evenings kebab fumes belching from street braziers, a gaggle of beggars, lepers, stray pariah dogs knibbling on garbage heaps, filthy boggy-smelling open sewers, butcher stalls decorated with fly-blown carcasses (haggled over by greedy old men with piercing eyes) and it is all men. Not a women in sight. If any women dare brave it; she will instantly be stripped and oogled by the stares. This is what all cities used to be like in the past. This is what the past used to smell like. This is the true face and stink of humanity: not the anaesthesised antiseptic cities of the modern West. If you stray off the bazaar you stumble into comely courtyards, twinkling gardens, shady boulevards and muddy dwellings: washing on lines, pots and pans being dried in the blistering sun and children playing.
On the fringes of Peshawar lies the 'Smugglers Bazaar' - a mighty thorn in the Pakistani economy. It is littered with goods imported through Pakistan for Afghanistan and then smuggled back into Pakistan to avoid paying excise duty. Everything is available here from the latest electronics to tampons. Foreigners are banned from entering the far end of the bazaar (though I managed to get through!) where guns and drugs are sold openly. This is where things get dark. Opiates and Cannabis are freely available - bags of the stuff literally hang from the shop fronts and behind these in the shadows, squalid addicts, misty eyed and beady-nosed, openly smoke the opiate. The vendors are smiling: opiate prices have increased due to lower production in Afghanistan this year and the prices of AK47's have gone through the roof with the recent tribal insurgency in Pakistan. Are they smiling or are they 'high' on their own produce? I can't tell anymore. Pakistan is a mass of contradictions. A bona fide enigma. Will try and sort this jumble of inexplicability out once I leave. Tourism or voyeurisn (call it what you will) doesn't come much darker then this.
Friday I'm off to Islamabad to catch a flight out of here. Next stop Thailand and the seedy night-life of Bangkok - perfect buzzing territory for The Fly. BeLIEve.
'caprice is a travellers best friend'
Love...you shine like a burning star
falling from sky
Tonight
Remember: Every artist is a cannibal
Every poet is a thief
All kill their inspiration
And sing about their grief
BeLIEve.
On the fringes of Peshawar lies the 'Smugglers Bazaar' - a mighty thorn in the Pakistani economy. It is littered with goods imported through Pakistan for Afghanistan and then smuggled back into Pakistan to avoid paying excise duty. Everything is available here from the latest electronics to tampons. Foreigners are banned from entering the far end of the bazaar (though I managed to get through!) where guns and drugs are sold openly. This is where things get dark. Opiates and Cannabis are freely available - bags of the stuff literally hang from the shop fronts and behind these in the shadows, squalid addicts, misty eyed and beady-nosed, openly smoke the opiate. The vendors are smiling: opiate prices have increased due to lower production in Afghanistan this year and the prices of AK47's have gone through the roof with the recent tribal insurgency in Pakistan. Are they smiling or are they 'high' on their own produce? I can't tell anymore. Pakistan is a mass of contradictions. A bona fide enigma. Will try and sort this jumble of inexplicability out once I leave. Tourism or voyeurisn (call it what you will) doesn't come much darker then this.
Friday I'm off to Islamabad to catch a flight out of here. Next stop Thailand and the seedy night-life of Bangkok - perfect buzzing territory for The Fly. BeLIEve.
'caprice is a travellers best friend'
Love...you shine like a burning star
falling from sky
Tonight
Remember: Every artist is a cannibal
Every poet is a thief
All kill their inspiration
And sing about their grief
BeLIEve.
Monday, September 01, 2008
The Adventures of Super-Fly 3D Sonic (an alter-ego)
Re-entry
The space craft slammed through the atmosphere with as much grace as a fat man diving into a swimming pool: a mighty heave-o, a huge splash, plop! and then utter silence. There was no tedious mucking about with atmospherics, angles of entry, rudder control or even contacting flight-control. The radio telescope at Joddrel Bank that was engaged in the SETI programme (search for extra-terrestrial inteligence) was asleep - which was kinda surprising because this was exactly the sort of momentous world changing event it had been looking out for for the last 50 years. The radars at the American Institute for National Airspace Security didn't even blink - which is kinda strange because this was precisely the sort of event they had been set up for. The Institute of Chartered Accountants in England & Wales, were too busy conducting statutory audits and charging excessive fees - which is exactly the sort of thing you would expect them to do. So apart from the Institute of Chartered Accountants, everybody else was not doing their job properly.
The space craft was about 50 feet in length and resembled, to an earth person anyway, a huge hair dryer. It is a well know fact that aerodynamics is a nonce concept in Space - for there being no 'air' in Space for aerodynamics to take a firm foothold. The practical upshot of this being that space craft can take on whatever physical form they like, with only the imagination as limiter. This however does not explain, nor does it justify, why the owner of this particular craft would want it to take the form of a hair dryer. Hair dryers are cool. I mean, I'm all up for hair dryers. I think they're great devices and very useful, but as inspiration for spaceship design? Most space craft are sleek shiny pointy things. They don't actually need to be sleek shiny pointy things, but it is a well known fact that chicks really dig guys in sleek shiny pointy things. So you have a clear evolutionary pressure selecting for this just like the Peacocks plumage for example. The Peacock doesn't actually need an extravagant plumage, but Peacock chicks really dig male Peacocks with huge plumage's, so ergo...
It is clear that the guy in the flying 'hair-dryer' either has grossly undeveloped aesthetic sensibilities or doesn't care what chicks think - which is quite admirable if you ask me. Chicks, (is it alright if I call them chicks?), well chicks hate guys that don't play by the rules; whether deliberately or not. They find them irritating, pompous, arrogant, thorny, annoying, and totally and utterly irresistible. This is the story of one of those guys. Probably the most successful ever at the art of annoying chicks. But not an 'Earth' guy, oh no. Earth guys are too pliant, lovey-dovey, and spineless with sugar-treacle smiles when it comes to chicks. Not this guy though. This is someone who has never before set foot on the Earth - until now. Someone from the constellation of Ursa Minor - 50 million light years away. A guy who works for that fantastic publication 'The Lonely Galaxy' - the ultimate guide for itinerant professional slackers. This is the story of 'Super-Fly 3D Sonic'; who is currently at this moment grappling with his life (like one grapples with a slippery bar of soap) by fighting with the flight controls of his lumbering space craft, to stop it from falling from the sky tonight and crash landing somewhere in the southern deserts of Pakistan...
Love...it shines like a
Burning star
Falling from the sky
Tonight
The space craft slammed through the atmosphere with as much grace as a fat man diving into a swimming pool: a mighty heave-o, a huge splash, plop! and then utter silence. There was no tedious mucking about with atmospherics, angles of entry, rudder control or even contacting flight-control. The radio telescope at Joddrel Bank that was engaged in the SETI programme (search for extra-terrestrial inteligence) was asleep - which was kinda surprising because this was exactly the sort of momentous world changing event it had been looking out for for the last 50 years. The radars at the American Institute for National Airspace Security didn't even blink - which is kinda strange because this was precisely the sort of event they had been set up for. The Institute of Chartered Accountants in England & Wales, were too busy conducting statutory audits and charging excessive fees - which is exactly the sort of thing you would expect them to do. So apart from the Institute of Chartered Accountants, everybody else was not doing their job properly.
The space craft was about 50 feet in length and resembled, to an earth person anyway, a huge hair dryer. It is a well know fact that aerodynamics is a nonce concept in Space - for there being no 'air' in Space for aerodynamics to take a firm foothold. The practical upshot of this being that space craft can take on whatever physical form they like, with only the imagination as limiter. This however does not explain, nor does it justify, why the owner of this particular craft would want it to take the form of a hair dryer. Hair dryers are cool. I mean, I'm all up for hair dryers. I think they're great devices and very useful, but as inspiration for spaceship design? Most space craft are sleek shiny pointy things. They don't actually need to be sleek shiny pointy things, but it is a well known fact that chicks really dig guys in sleek shiny pointy things. So you have a clear evolutionary pressure selecting for this just like the Peacocks plumage for example. The Peacock doesn't actually need an extravagant plumage, but Peacock chicks really dig male Peacocks with huge plumage's, so ergo...
It is clear that the guy in the flying 'hair-dryer' either has grossly undeveloped aesthetic sensibilities or doesn't care what chicks think - which is quite admirable if you ask me. Chicks, (is it alright if I call them chicks?), well chicks hate guys that don't play by the rules; whether deliberately or not. They find them irritating, pompous, arrogant, thorny, annoying, and totally and utterly irresistible. This is the story of one of those guys. Probably the most successful ever at the art of annoying chicks. But not an 'Earth' guy, oh no. Earth guys are too pliant, lovey-dovey, and spineless with sugar-treacle smiles when it comes to chicks. Not this guy though. This is someone who has never before set foot on the Earth - until now. Someone from the constellation of Ursa Minor - 50 million light years away. A guy who works for that fantastic publication 'The Lonely Galaxy' - the ultimate guide for itinerant professional slackers. This is the story of 'Super-Fly 3D Sonic'; who is currently at this moment grappling with his life (like one grapples with a slippery bar of soap) by fighting with the flight controls of his lumbering space craft, to stop it from falling from the sky tonight and crash landing somewhere in the southern deserts of Pakistan...
Love...it shines like a
Burning star
Falling from the sky
Tonight
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