tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74600582024-03-07T12:56:27.946+07:00At the Back of the Green Gibbon!Tales from Asia and beyond...Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-17033773121128062432010-04-26T03:51:00.002+07:002010-04-26T03:56:52.010+07:00The end for now...I'm archiving this blog as of January 2010, and starting another:<br /><a href="http://mrfelix-2.blogspot.com/">Cycling in the footsteps of Jesus to India!</a><br /><br />Thanks to all of you who read this, and especially those that made comments.<br />I do intend to answer the comments on the new blog, rather than be spotty, as I was on this blog.<br />On we ride....<br />cheers,<br />Felix in Amman, Jordan, on my way to India.Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-81937609113678380202008-02-15T17:38:00.007+07:002008-02-16T13:47:27.978+07:00In the Hall of the Mountain King, Pt.6: Barney the Bear<span style="font-weight: bold;">Central Kalimantan, Indonesia</span><br /><br />Ami steps up to the large wooden door and knocks, while Rob and I stand one step behind and below, mute.<br /><br />What can you say?<br /><br />It’s like lining up for a caning at school, back in the days when they cured naughty boys like Rob and myself of over-indulgence with a swift whack on the behind.<br /><br />It’s odd, though, how naughty boys seem to be the ones that end up in places like Kalimantan either saving humanity or living a life of a dissolution, or both.<br /><br />It’s just a question of what you find to believe in, but then as any good naughty boy will tell you, nobody can actually hand you belief, you’ve got to find it for yourself.<br /><br />So you’ve just got to go on being naughty until you find something real enough, true enough, and God help us all, <span style="font-style: italic;">beautiful</span> enough, that will bring you in from the cold, of its own accord.<br /><br />(That is, if you keep honour with yourself, and don't succumb to the yapping of Poodles along the way, which is easier said than done. There are a lot of Poodles, and their logic is so <span style="font-style: italic;">poodle tight...</span>)<br /><br />As Jesus said to Thomas, in the Gospel of Thomas: <span style="font-style: italic;">I shall give you what no eye has seen and what no ear has heard and what no hand has touched and what has never occurred to the human mind.</span><br /><br />... which does, if you think about it, put it beyond the reach of a lot of the known world.<br /><br />("How freakin' far have I got to reach, Lord?" asked Thomas.)<br /><br />Ami’s wearing her inscrutable ‘one size fits all’ Asian Happy Face, a great skill, and something that is impossible for Westerners to effect, no matter the effort.<br /><br />Her face, even before the door opens, is radiating complete non-threatening, compliant <span style="font-style: italic;">tidak papa</span>, ‘tidak papa’ being <span style="font-style: italic;">bahasa Indonesia</span> for ‘no worries’, and ‘she’ll be right, mate’, as we say in Australia, and ‘it’s cool’, as they say in America (there being no equivalent in German.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7nU10XXvsNNVleOBvLGCCNO8eh8_ucRnNSus4MNtsyCcBsmwS15hKd0AIQ1MVb2E2tPL4mDp4h_MgSFffpz1QpyzOHshFizwGQZv6KcDK4bQRacVQgWOlWRCccsY9rup-1h6v/s1600-h/Evel&Pumpy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7nU10XXvsNNVleOBvLGCCNO8eh8_ucRnNSus4MNtsyCcBsmwS15hKd0AIQ1MVb2E2tPL4mDp4h_MgSFffpz1QpyzOHshFizwGQZv6KcDK4bQRacVQgWOlWRCccsY9rup-1h6v/s400/Evel&Pumpy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167155386587616434" border="0" /></a><br />The Happy Face is not genetic, but simply a social skill that requires years of training, but you have to start early, like Tiger Woods or maybe Evel Knievel.<br /><br />In fact, Ami’s in such top form for the big occasion that she looks like she’s stuck one of those small, round Happy Cushions on top of her shoulders, and it’s impressive. (You can buy them at the market in Palangkaraya for a dollar. They come in red, pink, blue and yellow.)<br /><br />Yeah, the Happy Face...<br /><br />The big white Mickey Mouse eyes and the ludicrous Gavin Jenkins’ smile* say ‘I want to play’ and ‘I have a very small brain’, which could be rather boring, except that in Ami’s case, being female, there’s an unmistakable subtext of <span style="font-style: italic;">lay down your sword Achilles, rest your troubled head on my welcoming breast and I will transport you...</span><br /><br />*Gavin Jenkins was a fellow pupil in primary school, and he was perhaps the dumbest human being I have ever met in my sorry life. When in trouble, he smiled like a Happy Cushion, believing that this most guileless of facial gestures would win him through even the most critical of situations, ones that Jesus Himself would have had trouble with. The day Gavin took my beloved marbles, and I confronted him about it, was the last time he ever smiled like that in my presence, at least until they replaced his front tooth, at great expense and flowing of blood. As you can imagine, I got an awful caning for that little episode, from the very formidable Sister Marguerite, our school principal, viz;<br />“Felix,” said Sr. Marguerite, looming over my tender 10 year old self with the cane, “that was not a very Christian act!”<br />“Yes, Sister,” I replied, “but Gavin took my marbles and wouldn’t give them back! And then he smiled at me!”<br />"He smiled at you?"<br />"Ah, yes..." I said.<br />“Oh, for the love of God! What are we ever going to do with you?" she said. "Now, bend over!" which I did, knowing the game was lost.<br />“This is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt you,” she added, flexing the cane.<br />“Then don’t do it, Sister!” I replied quickly, and quite reasonably I thought, but which, I can tell you, was not the right response.<br /><br />Yes, the Happy Face, what a formidable weapon it is.<br /><br />Of course it's fine if it’s working for you, on your team, so to speak, attending your every need, molding itself effortlessly like Plasticine around every jagged edge you call an issue, massaging every Engram out of your colon with strong, soothing hands, sending you blissfully unawares into the Land of Forgetfulness.<br /><br />But of course, everything in this dualistic universe in which we reside has a dark side, skills just being skills, massages just being massages, so it all depends on who is driving, and what they want.<br /><br />And everybody, except Lord Buddha (Peace be upon Him) wants something…<br /><br />We reach into the dark, past the phantoms and the feints, searching for a handhold, a foothold, a corner of earth, and further, down through the fissure in the rock, deep into the cave where the Genie lies, and then, and only then, can we see what animates the heart of that which we face.<br /><br />At that point, we’re either home, or at war, and it doesn’t really matter which. The main point being that we know where we stand, and can act.<br /><br />But as Ringo (Peace be upon him) tells us, <span style="font-style: italic;">it don’t come easy…</span><br /><br />Rob’s gone ‘Turtle’, which may be the Western equivalent to the Happy Face Defence Strategy, but that is, I will admit, a little like comparing a World War II German Tiger Tank to a Stealth Bomber, or perhaps Celtic Bonfires to NORAD.<br /><br />‘Turtle’, with its distinctive raising of the shoulders, withdrawal of the head and a field of vision narrowed to the circumference of a Vegemite jar, radiates more of a ‘I don’t want to play’ and ‘fuck you’, with a strong subtext of 'I can’t handle this.'<br /><br />In a word, it radiates ‘fear’, which is definitely not the same thing as the tantalising promise of balmy evenings spent imbibing gamelan music while your small brained but highly pliable seven veiled companion attends to your every fantasy.<br /><br />I know which one I prefer, but it’s a dangerous game.<br /><br />In fact, Rob looks for all the world like he’s expecting the thudding of trolls and the resounding rumble of a <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Fee Fye Oleh Oleh! I smell the blood of a Rich Bul-e!</span> and you’d have to mad to offer up your body to that, so hence the Turtle Pose, I guess.<br /><br />(<span style="font-style: italic;">Oleh oleh</span>: presents, souvenirs. <span style="font-style: italic;">Bule</span>: albino, whiteman)<br /><br />My own fear is sudden and outrageous possession by Barney the Angry Bear (in an Enclosed Environment.)<br /><br />Yes, Barney, I know him well…<br /><br />Still, let’s face it, it’s not my money, and even if it was it’s only 500 dollars and at the end of the day it might sting but it’s not going to bring the house down.<br /><br />Not so Barney, though; he can bring the house down right on top of me.<br /><br />But then again, when it’s all said and done, who gives a shit about the <span style="font-style: italic;">mewang</span> and the <span style="font-style: italic;">polisi</span> and all the bullshit rules from Lilliput?<br /><br />But then the Lilliputians do seem to have us well tied up, and as much as I attempt, through objective logic, to deny the existence of all the little strings that bind, I have to admit that this whole thing has gotten to me, and I’m feeling <span style="font-style: italic;">emotive</span>.<br /><br />Barney may be, as we speak, prowling the plastic bag strewn streets of Lilliput in search those that heap injustice upon me, his beloved master.<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />Barny loves me, this I know,</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br />‘Cos more than once I’ve let him go.</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br />I’ve watched him rend, I’ve watched him tear</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br />the head off a Care Bear.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">An abridged scientific note on Mechanisms of Emotion from the Kiev World Book Multimedia Encyclopaedia (which comes free with your Mac):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Someone who encounters a bear in the woods would probably interpret the event as dangerous. This sense of danger would cause the individual to feel fear. Thus, a person who met a bear would probably run away, which would increase his chances of survival.</span><br /><br />Which is fine, but what about if the freakin’ bear is inside of you, Mr Kiev?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You didn’t think about that, did you?</span><br /><br />Now moving on, while Mr Dunderhead Kiev has a bit of a think, let’s take our Scientific Bear Story as a kick off and look at the situation from the bear’s point of view:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Barney the Happy Bear goes to the Zoo!</span><br /><br />There was once a naughty, happy bear named Barney, who frolicked the day away in the cool, wide and salmon-rich spaces of unfettered Tundra Land.<br /><br />One day he went to sleep, and woke up inside a cage in, in a zoo, in Lilliput. (It happens.)<br /><br />Inside the cage was another former Tundra bear, Bobby, who was at that very moment having his peanut butter sandwiches confiscated by the zoo-keeper as punishment for rutting on Ami, a local she-bear (also in the cage), in full view of the zoo-going public, which, it seems, is against the rules.<br /><br />(Notwithstanding the fact that the zoo-going public can often be seen at the zoo rutting on each other, this being Lilliput, and it’s hard to find a place to do your rutting in private.)<br /><br />Now, the zoo-keeper, just to be safe 'cos you never know with Tundra bears, had brought along an armed security guard.<br /><br />So here’s the set up: Two tundra bears and one local bear in a cage, one zoo-keeper reaching in to take the peanut butter sandwiches, and outside the cage, a security guard with a gun.<br /><br />Keeping in mind that the zoo keeper and the security guard, not having ever watched Animal Planet, do not realise that bears have feelings too (and I’ll bet you three bowls of rice to a peanut they've never seen <span style="font-style: italic;">Free Willie I</span>, or <span style="font-style: italic;">II</span>.)<br /><br />Barney does, indeed, have a decision to make, and he worries me more than the <span style="font-style: italic;">mewang</span>, more than the <span style="font-style: italic;">polisi</span> man and even more than standing in Starbucks with my fly undone.<br /><br />Keep in mind, also, that although I’m Barney’s master, I may not have complete control over his actions.<br /><br />I wish I did, but I'm beginning to wonder whether I have <span style="font-style: italic;">any</span> control over Barney.<br /><br />Yes, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">control</span>, what an interesting thing it is; how we slave for it, work for it, hold on to it as though our lives depended on it.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Sit down Barney while I dope you up and stuff you in a cage.</span><br /><br />Yes, you can bring Barney in, beaten and bruised, cowered and clipped, but as any good naughty boy on a bike will tell you, he either comes in of his own accord, in full splendor, or forget it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Yes, Barney loves me, this I know,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">'Cos more than once I've let him go...</span>Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-15092029435137380432008-01-31T20:52:00.001+07:002008-02-10T22:42:18.719+07:00Into the Zero Zone!<span style="font-weight: bold;">Central Kalimantan, Indonesia</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdb-6XBicTuxkmDyqbkOQyhwbHW2Wlf46LuSr0IUXW1F5mwMoru79p8oOrmnQVcRycj7dGoCFQqS2U5hzdOdqClfekPTN_5isO_LeJsO40jFr-L79IjYneznnEY3KV8VTXxUX/s1600-h/aaZeroZone.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdb-6XBicTuxkmDyqbkOQyhwbHW2Wlf46LuSr0IUXW1F5mwMoru79p8oOrmnQVcRycj7dGoCFQqS2U5hzdOdqClfekPTN_5isO_LeJsO40jFr-L79IjYneznnEY3KV8VTXxUX/s400/aaZeroZone.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161639788115124834" border="0" /></a>Late last year I made a short documentary for a local Dutch NGO about the Kalimantan MegaRice Project (aka Peat* Lands Restoration Project) here in Central Kalimantan. The film was part of a presentation at the Bali Climate Change Conference.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">*Peat</span>, a highly organic material found in marshy or damp regions, composed of partially decayed vegetable matter. It's one of those extremely delicate eco-systems, like wetlands, that is critical in the balance of all things nature. </span><br /><br />The original 1996 MegaRice Project (sometimes called the Peat Lands Development Project), a Suharto government initiative, aimed at turning the very extensive peat lands of south Central Kalimantan into the Rice Bowl of Indonesia.<br /><br />Unfortunately, the project was a grotesque failure on such a gargantuan scale that it beggars the mind; these words and pictures of mine fall miserably short of conveying the human and environmental misery.<br /><br />Which did present a problem in the making of the film, I must say.<br /><br />However, thankfully, the human heart is beautifully articulate organ both in joy and sorrow, and that is, of course, where you aim the camera, for better or worser. (It helps if you keep the lens clean.)<br /><br />Briefly, re the very failed MegaRice Project (so as not to bore you with facts), after stripping the peat lands to the southeast of Palangkaraya - an area of land bigger than the Netherlands - of primary forest, constructing a network of canals, draining the peat swamps and shipping in some 15,000 immigrant families from all over Indonesia, the Suharto government finally had to acknowledge that peat lands don't make good paddy fields, but by then, of course, anything worth taking had been <span style="font-style: italic;">took</span>, and <span style="font-style: italic;">who's gonna complain?</span><br /><br />Greed and avarice blind us all, as any good Buddhist will tell you.<br /><br />What we are left with today in south Central Kalimantan is fire, flood, drought, polluted waterways, bad soil, dead fish, dead animals, a disaffected local Dayak population forced to scratch a living from a once prosperous area, <span style="font-style: italic;">sama</span> the transmigrant families who have managed to hang on (50% of the original transmigrant families returned home) and a flat expanse of arid land stretching the filmmaker's mind from horizon to horizon, whether he liked it or not.<br /><br />The current Indonesian government is taking tentative steps to rectify the situation, but of course, what took a couple of years to de-construct will take a generation or three to put back together, if at all.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1e2vXGjeID0JxIHHFKoUOVfv81KR6Bl4swFhw36UAbMLhCE2-_gNapoYy06wl5QeWIlENveZ9_pPH1B_PYn4d8KxO-I0rtRB-pU-iEu3zqEHCjZWoZQ2OHRX1KNxJndND76yB/s1600-h/aaField.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1e2vXGjeID0JxIHHFKoUOVfv81KR6Bl4swFhw36UAbMLhCE2-_gNapoYy06wl5QeWIlENveZ9_pPH1B_PYn4d8KxO-I0rtRB-pU-iEu3zqEHCjZWoZQ2OHRX1KNxJndND76yB/s400/aaField.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162010164619895810" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaQcxoYRoHGuXrUdBBvSf6Ap1TcMniNEpiFIX_X-UkoBKTLkXdo-shprpZ_5nBGVbUS3qxjaHTCBaNIoBgiEyc2Ee_amzZU6S6b3g1UJHu6IWSRJyO09WFs6PmkR59YEaLw1qM/s1600-h/Map-Indo-rice.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaQcxoYRoHGuXrUdBBvSf6Ap1TcMniNEpiFIX_X-UkoBKTLkXdo-shprpZ_5nBGVbUS3qxjaHTCBaNIoBgiEyc2Ee_amzZU6S6b3g1UJHu6IWSRJyO09WFs6PmkR59YEaLw1qM/s400/Map-Indo-rice.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162015378710193186" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZLHj-JdaCDGnbUoFjsmHZTIm6b_SivgWL1XRzRz6N0j89kBJrjAi6rUVuVIlTf6Mo-HGDwr5NoLDptq_lBBbcIRNrDxqE1OsgYj1Ph2As6V3aP1vIOa4YiZ_DOD7Gt8IDy3Gj/s1600-h/Map-MegaRice-4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZLHj-JdaCDGnbUoFjsmHZTIm6b_SivgWL1XRzRz6N0j89kBJrjAi6rUVuVIlTf6Mo-HGDwr5NoLDptq_lBBbcIRNrDxqE1OsgYj1Ph2As6V3aP1vIOa4YiZ_DOD7Gt8IDy3Gj/s400/Map-MegaRice-4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161659360281092802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Dream: 1996<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBdt9nJ22MAvHcjkOfBlDfc69E-brBjgE3Na27mbepq5Imuu48ZrtkBMDf5tZYGwsXQ3VyQCsIDwN-c749w9mYrNF6uNwgYHhR2UDjhHkk26Bgv6PILt0k9zWxcSmyrzbfifK/s1600-h/aaSuharto.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBdt9nJ22MAvHcjkOfBlDfc69E-brBjgE3Na27mbepq5Imuu48ZrtkBMDf5tZYGwsXQ3VyQCsIDwN-c749w9mYrNF6uNwgYHhR2UDjhHkk26Bgv6PILt0k9zWxcSmyrzbfifK/s400/aaSuharto.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161650452518920818" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0T8nCk9WF88o9fdgIZFYIzzxnqQQ_iA402hrohaK08x-RX6aijf7eqJ4ereUTjXT6CsnQiUwfAaw2tafWzaBdK_Out_TxATeF-c3waya9cnyiGpyMy885bnTsr5ONESQ7raK/s1600-h/aaRiceField.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0T8nCk9WF88o9fdgIZFYIzzxnqQQ_iA402hrohaK08x-RX6aijf7eqJ4ereUTjXT6CsnQiUwfAaw2tafWzaBdK_Out_TxATeF-c3waya9cnyiGpyMy885bnTsr5ONESQ7raK/s400/aaRiceField.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162010697195840530" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Above: </span>The (very recently) late President Suharto in jolly harvesting mood, and happy peasants all in a row - way to go! Pics from the original 1996 Indonesian government promotional film.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><br /><object height="350" width="425"> <param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/A_lcrdMifqc"> <embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/A_lcrdMifqc" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" height="350" width="425"></embed> </object><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Above: Peat Land Development in Kalimantan, 1996.<br />The Mega Rice Project: The official Indonesian Government film.</span><br />Edited to 6 mins from the original 15 mins.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Notes:</span><br />1. This is NOT my film, this is NOT my film, this is NOT my film.<br />2. Have a close listen to the Environmental Poodle Speak. It is truly a seamless work of art.<br />3. The voice-over guy is one Mr Paul W. Blair, obviously from North America, and nobody on planet earth pronounces <span style="font-style: italic;">KAR-LEE-MARN-TARN </span>quite the way he does. <span style="font-style: italic;">I'm with you, Pak!</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Below: 2008, </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">the God-awful reality...</span><br />A<span style="font-style: italic;">in't nothin' much growin' out there, Pak!<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2dMRiBpevQk8zqK95id2ogSkuVtMcDTubZE5SYoyRlpxUZGvlQqRcEg0RLeDhu34lCE5XulOZcVaUgBOAgK2Fy8fu2dXWGjsozkp77fRW0PL3NPKMH4b0g7UDZJtxZb9n-AuG/s1600-h/aaCanal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2dMRiBpevQk8zqK95id2ogSkuVtMcDTubZE5SYoyRlpxUZGvlQqRcEg0RLeDhu34lCE5XulOZcVaUgBOAgK2Fy8fu2dXWGjsozkp77fRW0PL3NPKMH4b0g7UDZJtxZb9n-AuG/s400/aaCanal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161653377391649426" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-LWBxRUOodYpegwwHcbd3vr82jomOY4pl0bsDw2Nqso6m0oG3hFx6Onupj2OlXcAT7MC_w5PCU2l5MfAdXtJuf8yAVup3ux5wuWguDkGZ47RcQT52VZcLygU4SIcs_lThfCT8/s1600-h/AaFarmer-2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; 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display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLIlhiBW7hYi1PPbVEHODtfB3k880TDPriCWnn24Hxy8M8QPRcdffRWFQlCKImufQPUpP7tHi_sb0ag_GkIgRnUqTrsIGXmie_N7LTRixH3WF6K6WitNMzkyl2wp6Bu20nUAM/s400/aaBoy-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161999663424857010" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlIB6NE6E_ZwQWtw5WPsQaI3zDniFlzwjuuXtApp8Dkh0NzB4gRLAeV5aIMXs4R3ldmKxk4lAhGyc0zRVPkv4hoOPGUpV4-_FWQN_HKwtBbH1C0lS1ROcmxLRVdHc_9n0KHWg/s1600-h/aaFire-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlIB6NE6E_ZwQWtw5WPsQaI3zDniFlzwjuuXtApp8Dkh0NzB4gRLAeV5aIMXs4R3ldmKxk4lAhGyc0zRVPkv4hoOPGUpV4-_FWQN_HKwtBbH1C0lS1ROcmxLRVdHc_9n0KHWg/s400/aaFire-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162006127350637522" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDLPYmQtXiCTR4j9THtKRzDqH2fmMyPXJpr6HrHIrg2W6IsDOLlsUR4O-gwGWq9P7cuXOoKgKdfR4DS2RhxOTrrFZOEHA1-GCcorbtVqVBLkMEiznXJYz9jzNX0Fk-9KwjlA6A/s1600-h/aaFire-2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDLPYmQtXiCTR4j9THtKRzDqH2fmMyPXJpr6HrHIrg2W6IsDOLlsUR4O-gwGWq9P7cuXOoKgKdfR4DS2RhxOTrrFZOEHA1-GCcorbtVqVBLkMEiznXJYz9jzNX0Fk-9KwjlA6A/s400/aaFire-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162006354983904226" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcta7rmRnS46gsE6IPdt0WdTVpf-pg-rgB3oBirpPPm9HpZuzYyO64RUmRhDXePitESu2VGJt3BPgpU3iXx2YJ6QwiaXmcLU-2X33HlgP-bYhzGRgfKhU1dHZKNn3wvnAKXBqN/s1600-h/aaFelix.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcta7rmRnS46gsE6IPdt0WdTVpf-pg-rgB3oBirpPPm9HpZuzYyO64RUmRhDXePitESu2VGJt3BPgpU3iXx2YJ6QwiaXmcLU-2X33HlgP-bYhzGRgfKhU1dHZKNn3wvnAKXBqN/s400/aaFelix.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162016143214371890" border="0" /></a>Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-19613587476998654532008-01-28T20:45:00.000+07:002008-01-28T21:02:23.851+07:00Whatever happened to Kip?<span style="font-weight: bold;">Bangkok, Thailand</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDxMATJzSnh-N1y0k82m6POlSs82p-potImOuqa7IKWzp6MoDmhM6M22s9-fT1G1Rj8AGPRVi8d7oBMNximh5-RsxAuibapjC0FzqwwfapV5jW6HuWvE6Bjw06B64UZPam4ex1/s1600-h/kip.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDxMATJzSnh-N1y0k82m6POlSs82p-potImOuqa7IKWzp6MoDmhM6M22s9-fT1G1Rj8AGPRVi8d7oBMNximh5-RsxAuibapjC0FzqwwfapV5jW6HuWvE6Bjw06B64UZPam4ex1/s400/kip.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160524312093909586" border="0" /></a>Above, my friend Kip, who saw Mr Pumpy and myself off on our first ride into deepest, darkest Cambodia way back in 1999.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mrpumpy.net/rides/8-cambodia/cambodia-photos/001-Cambodia-hualampong.html">My friend Kip!</a><br /><br />Kip lives in Bangkok, is in her last year of school and aims to go to university to study physics. She likes music, computers, singing and Mr Pumpy, and tolerates me. Suan, who also saw us off (see photos) but refused to have her photo taken last week when I was down visiting the family, is now married with two kids, lives near Chumpon in southern Thailand and runs a hardware shop.Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-11134154946592735082008-01-26T21:42:00.000+07:002008-01-28T22:11:07.608+07:00The Hall of the Mountain King, Pt.5: Terry, the Inquisitive<span style="font-weight: bold;">Central Kalimanatan, Indonesia</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBLOKQNccRQKhOIgj_2DoX_B9eSo3xTFBoMJxV1UPsAXKqdWZQcY5z0Eh30sYX1R8CLJq36gJoACgu2TqWlW76iSjLqdWGwTELBFS-TD7OS7ApWrhxvHx9hFg-_xThx587nwpL/s1600-h/Belief-2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBLOKQNccRQKhOIgj_2DoX_B9eSo3xTFBoMJxV1UPsAXKqdWZQcY5z0Eh30sYX1R8CLJq36gJoACgu2TqWlW76iSjLqdWGwTELBFS-TD7OS7ApWrhxvHx9hFg-_xThx587nwpL/s400/Belief-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159806215036854818" border="0" /></a>The <span style="font-style: italic;">mewang</span>’s (district Dayak chief) house is the usual rambling Dayak affair - on stilts, made of ironwood and big enough for 3 or 4 nuclear family units, except that it’s surprisingly, alarmingly, neat and clean.<br /><br />It's almost twee.<br /><br />Where are the dogs?<br /><br />Where’s the scungy student share-house style couch on the veranda with the depressed cushions, rogue springs and this being Kalimantan, unthinkably creepy things living inside, perhaps even a snake?<br /><br />Where’s the plastic bags flapping about in the front yard and the nest of virulent black ants that attack you the second your foot comes off the pedal of the motorbike (or bicycle) and touches ground?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidEYkVvwRm_4DcCFwu2WqJyCIyq_zEYUQpXXUJd8q4KeCQEY5e8s3j9MUMvaWbBRT6LqoALY8gqOgsUuTjWtn8Ww8cekj9rRl4fdjmKugr2xwEEj5BWMKuoYrCMegkdUGObfOT/s1600-h/Belief-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidEYkVvwRm_4DcCFwu2WqJyCIyq_zEYUQpXXUJd8q4KeCQEY5e8s3j9MUMvaWbBRT6LqoALY8gqOgsUuTjWtn8Ww8cekj9rRl4fdjmKugr2xwEEj5BWMKuoYrCMegkdUGObfOT/s400/Belief-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159805411877970450" border="0" /></a>No, Robert, Ami and I are experiencing, from the looks of it, a scrupulously cared-for house fronted by a meticulously well kept white-pebble yard which itself is sporting little islands of well snipped greenery, ringed, no less, by lines of potted plants with… <span style="font-style: italic;">what are those flowers?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Silver bells, cockleshells, and pretty maids all in a row?</span><br /><br />It certainly looks like it, but how would I know?<br /><br />My bloom knowledge terminated abruptly in early childhood with <span style="font-style: italic;">contrary Mary.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Mary, Mary, quite contrary,</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />How does your garden grow?</span><br /><br />I didn’t want to know.<br /><br />Who or what, exactly, was a <span style="font-style: italic;">contrary Mary</span>? Whatever/whoever she was, she was not, in my mind, the kind of lady, young or old, that little boys should go near, ever.<br /><br />She smelt of death, or worse, dying.<br /><br />Specifically, it was her fingers that scared me, viz.;<br /><br />I am standing on Mary's front step. She is standing behind me, arms around my chest. There is no escape. I am <span style="font-style: italic;">trapped</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">abandoned</span>, and together, they are two of the scariest words in the English language, no question.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Her contrary hands have slipped under my shirt and her contrary fingers are running all of over my tender, young body, feeling it, caressing it... she's mumbling something... I can't make out the words, but they can't be good.</span><br /><br />I've always felt a slight unease in overly tended gardens, as you can imagine.<br /><br />The mind is a strange thing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidaE3k8vrYh7ABNDP7CGmpgiTqNdNxDXfWL253i86mvKNFO7iYk-3tJoOAEbrH55uSRpEXYvk4EO9ugCUyS17yacQ1h-wLWhzDLY0Qvu05pGuINSERnooaTnfNDfLjTQfjwDYI/s1600-h/Belief-4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidaE3k8vrYh7ABNDP7CGmpgiTqNdNxDXfWL253i86mvKNFO7iYk-3tJoOAEbrH55uSRpEXYvk4EO9ugCUyS17yacQ1h-wLWhzDLY0Qvu05pGuINSERnooaTnfNDfLjTQfjwDYI/s400/Belief-4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159809109844812354" border="0" /></a>Some weeks before I came up to Robert’s place and got bogged down in the Sex Behind Closed Doors Saga, my friend Kevin, a Kiwi expat, took a visiting friend, Terry, into the jungle.<br /><br />Terry was on four weeks vacation from Auckland, and wanted to see <span style="font-style: italic;">the real Borneo</span> before he returned to the grind, so Kevin, having some spare time himself, took Terry deep inside the belly of the beast, as far north as they could get without falling off the map.<br /><br />“We were pretty deep in, deepest I’ve ever been,” said Kevin, chuckling. “Just south of the Malay border.”<br /><br />They ended up staying in a Dayak longhouse for a week, there not being many guest houses up beyond where the roads stop.<br /><br />At night they would sit on the veranda talking and drinking with the chief, amongst others, with Terry, the Inquisitive, working hard to get a grip on this strange and exotic new world he'd found himself in.<br /><br />(Ah, the Western mind! It's so... <span style="font-style: italic;">exact</span>.)<br /><br />Kevin acted as translator.<br /><br />“Your friend Teree asks many questions,” said the chief, to Kevin.<br />“Yes, he’s been to university, Pak!” replied Kevin. “He’s a computer genius!” (<span style="font-style: italic;">Pak</span> is the common polite form of address to a male, equivalent to Sir, or Mr.)<br />“Oh!” said the chief, much impressed, turning to look at Terry.<br /><br />Not many forest dwelling Dayak’s get the chance to go to university and become computer geniuses, so this was a moment to be acknowledged – a man of high learning in their midst.<br /><br />(Terry, if truth be told, is apparently just a run of the mill programmer, but for all the coding going on in the jungles of Kalimantan, he could present himself as Steven Hawking and nobody would know the difference, sans wheelchair, even.)<br /><br />“What’s he saying?” asked Terry, wondering why the chief was suddenly beaming at him.<br />“The chief likes you,” said Kevin.<br />“Oh,” said Terry, smiling back.<br />“Have another drink, Teree!” said the chief.<br /><br />The chief, happy to share some local colour with the wise man from the Land Beyond Where the Kangaroos Dwell, proceeded to tell his visitors about the giant water-dwelling black snake that lives in the river north of the longhouse, and that if they went up there they must take a guide and be <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> careful.<br /><br />“It will swallow you!” said the chief, matter-of-factly and knocking back another rice wine.<br />“How big’s this thing?” asked Terry, impressed, having seen <span style="font-style: italic;">Anaconda</span> five times, apparently.<br />“About half the length of the longhouse,” answered the chief, gesturing along the veranda.<br /><br />That would have made it about 25 metres long, Kevin told me, as long as a cricket pitch, and then some.<br /><br />“Have you actually seen this thing?” Terry asked the chief, somewhat incredulous.<br />“Yes, I have,” answered the chief, lowering his voice and nodding soberly. “On a few occasions.” This was obviously not a subject to be played with.<br />“Yes, but is it <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span>?” insisted Terry.<br />“Well, of course it’s <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span>!” answered the chief, momentarily puzzled; for a wise man this <span style="font-style: italic;">bule</span> (white man) was certainly asking some odd questions.<br /><br />“Yes,” Terry went on, leaning forward and making an up and down movement with his right hand, “but is it <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> like you can lay it on the ground and chop it up?”<br /><br />The chief looked at Terry in total disbelief. “Well, of course it’s not! What are you, an idiot?” and stood up and walked off.<br /><br />Kevin told me that later on he asked the chief to forgive Terry because he was new to Kalimantan and in the Land Beyond Where the Kangaroos Dwell, they didn't know about such things. Terry might be stupid, Kevin told the chief, but he was sincere.<br /><br />“The chief shook his head, said OK, but was pretty firm about ‘no more questions’!” laughed Kevin.<br /><br />“Of course,” he went on, “you can imagine when next the chief’s favourite nephew asks permission to leave the jungle and go down to the big smoke in Palangkaraya to attend university.”<br /><br />“I want to learn the ways of the <span style="font-style: italic;">bules</span>, uncle, and come back and help our people,” says the hopeful young man.<br />“Over my dead body!” says the chief.<br /><br />Belief is an interesting thing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYhyzdFxdbQDKP3_15OQUQ3yNiEj-AjVt2ltYz5A2DGmrO6WxtvBydaYKeDops3MyAWatzzHcNMqxhVxfgwnT5X5G8FCN5TuscYTJxAp32kUk924GYMWl64ufwZawL9bf65cA6/s1600-h/Belief-3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYhyzdFxdbQDKP3_15OQUQ3yNiEj-AjVt2ltYz5A2DGmrO6WxtvBydaYKeDops3MyAWatzzHcNMqxhVxfgwnT5X5G8FCN5TuscYTJxAp32kUk924GYMWl64ufwZawL9bf65cA6/s400/Belief-3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159808547204096562" border="0" /></a>“You know,” said Kevin, after he’d finished the story, “living with these people long enough, you actually start to believe again, but in exactly what it’s hard to say.<br /><br />“It’s like you take a breath of air and then all the colours come back into your life, and you feel like you’re inside a painting and kind of part of it... not outside looking in, judging it. You know what I mean?”<br />“Yeah, Kev, I've got some idea,” I said.<br />“The cynicism back home is just so much smoke pouring out of the machine, and it blankets everything, like <span style="font-style: italic;">kabut asap</span>,” he mused. “Maybe it’s the by-product of burning off the bullshit?”<br /><br />(<span style="font-style: italic;">Kaput asap</span> - the ‘smoke fog’ that comes from the yearly burn-off in Kalimantan)<br /><br />“Could be, Kev,” I said.<br /><br />“It’s going to be hard going back,” he said, wistfully.<br /><br />“Ain’t that the truth,” I said.<br /><br />We sat on his veranda that evening and talked into the night, until the silences that sweep up out of the forest like waves finally drowned all our words, and there was nothing more to say.<br /><br />To be continued...<br />(PS. Any ideas, Jeremy?)Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-36449268844757274782008-01-24T21:12:00.001+07:002008-01-24T23:11:02.545+07:00The Hall of the Mountain King, Pt.4: Crispy Bacon!<span style="font-weight: bold;">Central Kalimantan, Indonesia</span><br /><br />Hate is an interesting thing - it drives us as much as love, although in this beige world of ours it’s more Poodle to talk about <span style="font-style: italic;">aversion</span>, viz.;<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Person 1: </span><span style="font-style: italic;">I say, chap, I’m feeling a strong aversion to having my personal boundaries penetrated forcibly by your good self!</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Person 2: </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Thanks for sharing.</span><br /><br />The word <span style="font-style: italic;">aversion</span> (<span style="font-style: italic;">Dosa</span> in Pali, the language of the great Lord Buddha) has slipped into common Western usage, to the best of my knowledge, from the Buddhist end of town, come barreling straight down the Politically Correct Expressway and entrenched itself on the large white divans of the educated and knowledgeable, like a fluffy dog.<br /><br />Not that the Dalai Lama’s necessarily to blame (although I'm beginning to have doubts...); <span style="font-style: italic;">Dosa</span> is more accurately translated as <span style="font-style: italic;">hatred</span>.<br /><br />Al least that's what they told me when I was living the life of a monk; not that they needed to tell me; any word short of <span style="font-style: italic;">hate</span> to describe what I was feeling deep in the secret chambers of my heart was not going to float.<br /><br />Not that, either, the Dalai Lama is in any way the Pope of the Buddhist world, but it's not surprising that things get lost in translation, even whole religious systems, and you don't even need to exit your own cultural base for that.<br /><br />I’m only surprised that, as far as the West is concerned, the DL hasn't just closed the whole thing down and opened up a fish and chip franchise – it’d be a lot less trouble, viz.;<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Our fish are fried deeply in loving-kindness… it’s the metta that makes the difference!<br /><br />(Metta</span><span> is Pali for </span><span style="font-style: italic;">loving-kindness, </span><span>but then l</span><span style="font-style: italic;">oving-kindness</span><span> is Poodle Speak for </span><span style="font-style: italic;">caritas, love of fellow man, </span><span>from the Latin, which is perfectly fine in the first place, I would think, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">canis in praesepi</span> [dog in the manger] that I appear to be becoming...)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjola_xaUyqrshhSRsKa8UM17yQg548sBfXYZqrBMl9ccSWgeFndDhdjQoVbMjuNcvalojAdOhrzDN3FETNZgnpGDa2d-9KYaTZhMxvRVWZ4dfAXRldn0wMspdmWQDWKGbCz_1T/s1600-h/Dalai-Remove.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjola_xaUyqrshhSRsKa8UM17yQg548sBfXYZqrBMl9ccSWgeFndDhdjQoVbMjuNcvalojAdOhrzDN3FETNZgnpGDa2d-9KYaTZhMxvRVWZ4dfAXRldn0wMspdmWQDWKGbCz_1T/s400/Dalai-Remove.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159050176238707186" border="0" /></a><br />I did an interesting exercise with my students in 2006.<br /><br />I was meant to be teaching English (and Film) at the local secondary international school, but I do figure that if I’m getting bored with the set curriculum, the students are too, the teacher-student bond being a strong, coiling rope of sensitive two-way impulse filaments, as real as your hat.<br /><br />The film classes were fine - who doesn't want to be in the movies? - but the English smacked of good old, well intentioned, easy to defend, order, no doubt written by the kind of teacher I would have loathed as a student, and the teacher-student bond being what it is, the feeling would have been well and truly reciprocated.<br /><br />Four weeks into the year I threw away the book, took the students into the auditorium and blindfolded them.<br /><br />("Are you going to shoot us now, Pak Felix?" asked Robby. I love young people!)<br /><br />After a few warm up exercises, I got them to sit on the floor and instructed them to conjure up in their minds a picture of someone they love, deeply. That done, I asked them to think of someone they dislike, a lot.<br /><br />(I didn’t use the word <span style="font-style: italic;">hate</span>, not at first, anyway. They were, after all, sensitive teenagers, open flowers awaiting my strong but gently guiding hand and deep worldly insight, and you do need to know how much the Tonka Truck can carry before the wheels fall off.)<br /><br />Specifically, I asked them to search into their bodies and to watch, very specifically, how it reacted to the thought-images.<br /><br />Fortunately, or unfortunately, Karim, the principal, just happened to be walking by at the time. (Which is something you need to know about school principals - they have a sixth sense when it comes to potentially odd behaviour within the school precincts.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlMgaFrHb9YEn-tjpaSLwUs7TLJWKLbGnHghoVXrESNEgWtrlnOrcnzDGU-TttfdBn4XlgH0ZuUoREyfKyJyRyIrLCexlvt-JF90WV326QVvn5LSg-nLIrpGD73ZTatu7x7N2E/s1600-h/studentsB3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlMgaFrHb9YEn-tjpaSLwUs7TLJWKLbGnHghoVXrESNEgWtrlnOrcnzDGU-TttfdBn4XlgH0ZuUoREyfKyJyRyIrLCexlvt-JF90WV326QVvn5LSg-nLIrpGD73ZTatu7x7N2E/s400/studentsB3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159072694752240130" border="0" /></a><br />Hearing a small female voice on the other side of the auditorium door saying, ‘I can feel my chest contracting, Pak Felix! It feels weird…!’ I guess Karim began wondering what was going on, as principals are wont to do.<br />“Good, that’s excellent, Noor,” I replied, solicitously, “can you go deeper into that for me? Be more specific...”<br />Poking his head around the door Karim asked, "What are you doing, Felix?" in that measured tone that principals have which conveys both <span style="font-style: italic;">caritas</span> and iron will, at the same time.<br />“Ah, English, we’re doing English, Karim," I replied, off guard. “We’re exploring adjectives… I think."<br /><br />“Ah, can I see you in my office after classes?” he said.<br />“Yeah, no sweat,” I said, cheerily, the way you do when the customs officers at Melbourne airport ask if they can look into your bag, and even though you may look like you’re carrying drugs, or perhaps pornography, you’re not, but it doesn’t stop the fear rising.<br /><br />You have to give Karim his due; firstly, for employing me, and secondly, listening patiently while I sat in his office three hours later taking it upon myself to shred the English curriculum (hoping to hell Karim hadn't been then one to write it in the first place) and finishing off with ‘…it’s just crap, the kids are learning nothing! Whadyawant, parrots or free thinking young adults!’ as I waved my hands in the air.<br /><br />I love that silent moment when you’ve either just talked yourself out of a job, or the world is about to turn around and meet you, on your terms; it’s so pointy.<br /><br />But it can go either way, and I’ve had both in my time.<br /><br />Karim shook his head and chuckled, told me to do what I thought was best and said he’d ‘check back in a month’, God bless him.<br /><br />(Partly, it must be said, that it’s hard to get any Westerners to actually live in Central Kalimantan – think Cambodia without the recent wholesale development, Thailand, Laos and Vietnam just across the way and no parties – that bosses are somewhat compelled to cut their employees a sizeable amount of slack, which, it also must be said, is one the reasons I live in Kalimantan.)<br /><br />It may not sound like much, but to the semi-naked minds of a bunch of 12 to 16 year olds, half of them Indonesian, the idea that the content of thoughts can have such a marked affect on the physical body was a revelation of sizeable proportion.<br /><br />Over the weeks that followed we developed that train of action, in many and multifarious ways, all the while articulating our experiences in the beautiful tongue, all the while returning to base; love, via hate (we eventually embraced the word <span style="font-style: italic;">hate</span>, in context and meaning, as we did many other non-Poodle words, phrases and concepts - I'm not big on Poodle Speak in my classes, as you can imagine), light and dark, thunder, lightening and the clear light of the God given sun rising above the melting mist of another beautiful Kalimantan morning, which makes all laugh, dance and sing, together.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Ah, yes, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">all hail the day!</span><br /><br />Karim was happy, the students were happy, I was happy, so it worked out pretty well in the end.<br /><br />I love success…<br /><br />Still, success, failure, whatever, it all stuffs our face us into the heart of the matter (although you could say <span style="font-style: italic;">reveals our very own heart to us…</span>), and a year later, Rob, Ami and myself are standing on the top step of the <span style="font-style: italic;">mewang</span>’s house in Kerengpangi, tapping lightly on the door and sweating abundantly under the Indonesian smiles we are busily uploading for the occasion.<br /><br />“Who’s there?” asks a surprisingly melodious female voice from behind the door (in Indonesian, of course.)<br />“It is us, three rabbits come to visit!” we reply. “Two white, one brown.”<br />“Oh, that’s nice,” says the voice, “we eat rabbits around here,” and the door opens…Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-63251187486523408552008-01-22T20:04:00.000+07:002008-01-23T05:54:48.649+07:00The Hall of the Mountain King, Pt.3: The bleak Plane of No-Speak<span style="font-weight: bold;">Central Kalimantan, Indonesia</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC-FFfqfkv8idJYm3PjESuAniJIbi0L-D8b1MmWBZv-0AzCr9SnCl0qCyjyV9xXgvD9f08SDM4qGIgdPhHmSrOhLONyUOVNqnSTY-rRDpWw1DsiotcZw8ANQutysZ_2fP-qX7Z/s1600-h/1SMOKE2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC-FFfqfkv8idJYm3PjESuAniJIbi0L-D8b1MmWBZv-0AzCr9SnCl0qCyjyV9xXgvD9f08SDM4qGIgdPhHmSrOhLONyUOVNqnSTY-rRDpWw1DsiotcZw8ANQutysZ_2fP-qX7Z/s400/1SMOKE2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5158292009595323938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Above: Kabut asap</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> (smoke fog) over Indonesia and beyond...</span><br /><br />Early in the evening Robert suggests I borrow his motorbike rather than arrive at the <span style="font-style: italic;">mewang</span>’s (district Dayak chief) house on a bicycle.<br /><br />“It’s all about how things look, Felix,” he says, “so me and Ami will take her’s and you can follow on mine.”<br />“Good thinking, Rob,” I say.<br /><br />Robert is stating the obvious, but well and good. Only the poor and the powerless arrive on bicycles, so let’s not exacerbate an already pathetic situation.<br /><br />“Maybe you could tie your hair back, Felix?” he asks, demonstrating.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Shall I wear a suit, Rob?</span><br /><br />Rob’s understandably nervous and trying to get everything <span style="font-style: italic;">shippy shape</span> before we sail into enemy port and hand over the booty, and it is all about how things look, profoundly so.<br /><br />So profound, in fact, is this surface culture, that for a Westerner, it’s easy to completely miss <span style="font-style: italic;">the brain behind the eyes that see you</span>; and I must say, that brain worries me at times.<br /><br />Not that it's all bad either, it's just another brain,. but like all brains, it depends on what's driving it.<br /><br />In Indonesia long hair marks you out, at best, as a non-conformist, which is not a good thing in a society striving for containment.<br /><br />At worst, you’re a ne’r-do-well drug taking rock ‘n’ roll fool, which is not something many <span style="font-style: italic;">mewang</span>’s aspire to, nor for that matter, many minders, which is effectively my role in this depressing operation.<br /><br />However, when it’s all said and done, I’m not sure it’s even worth worrying about how our motley little group appears to the enemy, motorbikes or not. We’re just a couple of clodding <span style="font-style: italic;">bule</span> fools with their home-grown, pretty (and possible 5th columnist) <span style="font-style: italic;">kampung</span> companion.<br /><br />(<span style="font-style: italic;">Bule</span> – Pron. boo-lay, lit. albino, slang for white man. <span style="font-style: italic;">Kampung</span> – small country village.)<br /><br />Signals get sent, signals get received, we search out the weak points, sort out the power balance, and if we can’t agree, we either to go to war, or somebody pays, or bends.<br /><br />Of course, we’re doing the bending; their game, their rules, their turf and they hold all the red cards. It’s been agreed that Rob will get shafted in the locker room, and I’m just here to make sure he only takes the agreed upon strokes.<br /><br />Not that I have any real power at all, other than the ability to count the thrusts and listen to the groans, and I’m not looking forward to it. Robert’s groans are my groans and I can hear them already.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Need a tissue, Rob?</span><br /><br />In my favour, though, I do belong to Subud, a quasi-mystical spiritual sect that has it’s roots in Indonesia, and which is, by the way, the connection that brought me down to Kalimantan in the first place, some two years ago.<br /><br />(Subud is an acronym of Susila Budhi Dharma. It's an international spiritual organisation that originated in Java in the 1920s. The Subud practice aims to train the <span style="font-style: italic;">feeling</span> within the movement of the spirit.)<br /><br />Considering the fact that there are no secrets in Indonesia, and Robert felt it prudent to let the local police know that I would be accompanying him to see the <span style="font-style: italic;">mewang</span> (more bending), it’s reasonable to assume that the police have milked the local grapevine as to my identity and social position.<br /><br />Not that there’s much to it, really, but belonging to Subud does give me some punch.<br /><br />There’s a small but strong contingent of Subud members involved in various business and education ventures throughout the province, and we’re (<span style="font-style: italic;">we, us, my people!</span>) well connected, notwithstanding the fact that some of the thinking on the ground is that we go in for <span style="font-style: italic;">black magic</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">free sex</span>.<br /><br />Some months back I was sitting in a local <span style="font-style: italic;">warung</span> (food and drink stall) one hot afternoon, drinking coffee, listening to a couple locals talk about me, safe in the assumption I spoke little or no Indonesian.<br /><br />Knowing I was with Subud (there’s no secrets), the squat, knowledgeable chap with the frilly moustache, was happily telling his mate that Subud is, in fact, all about that; black magic (black magic is big in Kalimantan) and the proverbial free sex (free sex is not big, but widely discussed and it is widely assumed, even by the educated, that all Westerners go in for it) and on it went.<br /><br />I sat and listened, and what can you say?<br /><br />It’s <span>the brain</span> that worries me…<br /><br />Specifically, it’s that brain with power, position and weight of numbers.<br /><br />How do you deal with an orang-utan when it pisses on you (very accurately, I might add) from the top most branch of a Jackfruit tree? How do you deal with a pack of dogs?<br /><br />The gun is a very tempting object.<br /><br />I finished my coffee, said nothing and left, disheartened.<br /><br />Indonesia periodically brings you to that bleak <span style="font-style: italic;">Plane of No-Speak</span>.<br /><br />However, that being said, this phenomenon is also one of the main reasons I stay, viz.; where else on planet earth can you find a relatively safe environment that will <span style="font-style: italic;">shut down your cognitive processes and render you clueless on such a dependably daily basis?<br /><br /></span>You travel into the Void, you come back clueless; you travel into the Cloud of Unknowing, you come back clueless; you travel into the Bird's Nest at the Base of your Heart, you come back clueless... <span style="font-style: italic;">sama</span> Indonesia!<br /><br />This place is a jem!<br /><br />Of course, the question remains, as far as bleak planes go: <span style="font-style: italic;">How do you work your way out of it? </span><span><br /><br />Of course, also, this is where the real work lies, and you hear the tearing cry in your heart, or you've missed the boat, basically. And that boat is so easy to miss...<br /><br />Yep, <span style="font-style: italic;">clueless</span> is a much maligned and much misunderstood thing in this world of ours, and it does take courage to embrace it, but there, for my money, lies the real heart of our intelligence as human beings.<br /><br />Love and hate, thunder and lightening and the clear light of day, it's all there.<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinnk-Zm22P2hlHL4wGCltSnnoOWrjrEL8chzHtglZL-c1B2sMWi9t9s1couLIoL06PchLpYBe3KrJw3kRtf55pbq3keAMXZO7ImYZaJMea4dA-EGfD4fihAu7UO4t6uau34htX/s1600-h/1asap-92.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinnk-Zm22P2hlHL4wGCltSnnoOWrjrEL8chzHtglZL-c1B2sMWi9t9s1couLIoL06PchLpYBe3KrJw3kRtf55pbq3keAMXZO7ImYZaJMea4dA-EGfD4fihAu7UO4t6uau34htX/s400/1asap-92.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5158297721901827698" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqQQeMiXPCYT4H7GzjGmqIUQdzP3ZUxH5uADeS5L8X2dfRiErDw90VIrdeJ5B4JcGJz7wCjA9IVlTsmJg46cGg08DeykbwtKeYr-PfCxSX2TXUCIYyR3py-v961PM_iTERk7cF/s1600-h/1asap-5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqQQeMiXPCYT4H7GzjGmqIUQdzP3ZUxH5uADeS5L8X2dfRiErDw90VIrdeJ5B4JcGJz7wCjA9IVlTsmJg46cGg08DeykbwtKeYr-PfCxSX2TXUCIYyR3py-v961PM_iTERk7cF/s400/1asap-5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5158294603755570754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Above: Palangkaraya, the Bundaran Besar (the Big Roundabout) and the Kahayan River, burn season 2006.</span><br /><br />During the burn-off season of August/September/October 2006 it seemed the whole island was on fire and belching smoke.<br /><br />It was a bad year, as if the dreaded nuclear winter had finally arrived.<br /><br />Most afternoons visibility was reduced to a paltry 50 metres, 10 metres on a bad day, the sun literally disappeared for a few weeks and soot and smoke permeated every cubic square centimetre of your life.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihU9tzPtLT_LvHL2F-_52YxtI0GcyXWl209PfrMEwPBiptKYoUBmXwWBANCApuolctn8fY1bM-LIXGmNR2y3KxRdkBxdydIH5TGAN1a4rtmuJFUaRU3mGGnGnWnCKln9YnmOtV/s1600-h/1asap-6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihU9tzPtLT_LvHL2F-_52YxtI0GcyXWl209PfrMEwPBiptKYoUBmXwWBANCApuolctn8fY1bM-LIXGmNR2y3KxRdkBxdydIH5TGAN1a4rtmuJFUaRU3mGGnGnWnCKln9YnmOtV/s400/1asap-6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5158300831458150050" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQ2cr604_U2xs7NSqsyGvZaP4Bg_6llgtGTnyvjAbWL-g9Y4WI0TyC0TWgJiK0VWjAHdq6XUKW1OCzFCIBmeMjWiavfcHr3x0Fpxdbuimm_KYfj0014ckj9gafQ6nzr1pyYSm/s1600-h/1asap-7.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQ2cr604_U2xs7NSqsyGvZaP4Bg_6llgtGTnyvjAbWL-g9Y4WI0TyC0TWgJiK0VWjAHdq6XUKW1OCzFCIBmeMjWiavfcHr3x0Fpxdbuimm_KYfj0014ckj9gafQ6nzr1pyYSm/s400/1asap-7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5158300071248938642" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCYgpJw4-gdHT6UDmpIfrMk016cOBz7FkfDUzQ6I-FoFG7AB_IYtSGloKPI9aHWIgMfd7AFefCtP6i3F0lECUiUj7UWm7deXGfWw9oaIhWt41BJ3mCSpb16jFlUUL8spzkvu2H/s1600-h/1asap-8.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCYgpJw4-gdHT6UDmpIfrMk016cOBz7FkfDUzQ6I-FoFG7AB_IYtSGloKPI9aHWIgMfd7AFefCtP6i3F0lECUiUj7UWm7deXGfWw9oaIhWt41BJ3mCSpb16jFlUUL8spzkvu2H/s400/1asap-8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5158299083406460546" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz4qSccsSAUu1k32mSYPNCzKZF0BoQpLpdnFPb4c6olic7a6eZdyHc8PFOcGlWLEOM2S6d7QXnDtgvkJY88lgwtXbvUzO237o4k17zvZKvHZkfgyDFke8ULhTfc6FaskEWXOGT/s1600-h/1asap-2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz4qSccsSAUu1k32mSYPNCzKZF0BoQpLpdnFPb4c6olic7a6eZdyHc8PFOcGlWLEOM2S6d7QXnDtgvkJY88lgwtXbvUzO237o4k17zvZKvHZkfgyDFke8ULhTfc6FaskEWXOGT/s400/1asap-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5158296098404189778" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0PX-gdu_MLByH4I6zlmrBE1kSNnWWvZo8IUC_FYoMVIZOvHAr5spkr-lzn-6qKHJD52OvB8x3MY8eCWfCEe_hzNWK-WxYhqSGAmRki9Z05fj4hPWoSvRbyBr0vDI8aBCFCBG/s1600-h/1asap-91.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0PX-gdu_MLByH4I6zlmrBE1kSNnWWvZo8IUC_FYoMVIZOvHAr5spkr-lzn-6qKHJD52OvB8x3MY8eCWfCEe_hzNWK-WxYhqSGAmRki9Z05fj4hPWoSvRbyBr0vDI8aBCFCBG/s400/1asap-91.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5158296463476409954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Above: Living in the smoke, 2006, the non-hermetically sealed experience. Mid-afternoon, turn on the lights.</span><br /><br />Some of my more enterprising <span style="font-style: italic;">bule</span> friends attempted to set up an hermetically sealed smoke free environment.<br /><br />Going to visit was like docking with the International Space Station. After knocking and politely requesting permission to enter, you passed into a little room where you closed the outside door after yourself, and then, and only then, you opened the door into the main living area, which was cut-off from the outside world, save for the air-conditioning and water conduits, as best could be achieved.<br /><br />Ah, the pleasure of the smoke free environment!<br /><br />Fires in the fields, fires in the backyards, fires along the roads. Farmers lighting fires, young boys lighting fires, old ladies lighting fires – it was madness.<br /><br />Everyday the smoke rose leisurely up into the sky and headed west, conjoined by stratospheric winds, where it eventually blanketed Singapore, Malaysia and neighbouring Thailand in air-born muck. Crops wilted, tourists departed, babies and old people developed breathing disorders, and neighbouring governments became understandably upset.<br /><br />2006 was a doozy of a year, indeed.<br /><br />However, our neighbours, to a country, did seem to possess an odd sense of reality: ‘Can’t Indonesia get it together and stop this madness?’ they chimed.<br /><br />Well, no, <span style="font-style: italic;">itulah Indonesia!</span> It’s Indonesia, can’t you people understand that?<br /><br />Some weeks into the holocaust, in response to a strongly worded formal complaint from Singapore on behalf of ASEAN, the Indonesian federal environmental minister rejoined that he thought it was perhaps rather bad form for Singapore to be complaining at this juncture considering the fact that ‘we send you clean air for 9 months of the year and you never take the time to thank us for that.’<br /><br />It’s the brain that worries me…<br /><br />Mind you, we had to chuckle at the Singaporeans for complaining that their air pollution index was something like 10 times above the WHO recommended safety level; in Kalimantan itself we were 3,000 times (yes, you read correctly) above cut-off. We could only dream of 10.<br /><br />I would think a well-connected, sect-belonging, long-haired, black magic, libertine guy sitting in your corner does command a certain respect, and I do thrive on respect.<br /><br />Mind you, this being Indonesia, the local police may neither know nor care a whit about me.<br /><br />You never know.Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-84323122667635598542008-01-15T18:10:00.001+07:002008-01-16T15:58:53.189+07:00Email account update JanuaryI may well finish the Hall of the Mountain King story soon....<br />currently I'm in Bangkok renewing my Indonesia visa.<br /><br />In the meantime, below is a <span style="font-weight: bold;">short video</span> (see below) which is really intended to direct folks to my current email accounts.<br /><br />Viz.; <span style="font-weight: bold;">Felix's email accounts:</span><br />Primary: remove_<span style="font-weight: bold;">pakpeelips@gmail</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">.com</span>_remove &<br />Secondary: remove_<span style="font-weight: bold;">felix@mrpumpy.net</span>_remove<br />(Remove the '_REMOVE_')<br /><br />Note 1: If you are using the mrfelix@netspace account, please delete it. From Feb 12 it will be closed.<br />Note 2: I am using a severe SPAM BLOCKER on the felix@mrpumpy account, so to be sure to get through, assuming you have something important to communicate, use both, above.<br /><br />So to the video. I was doing radio for a while there in Kali....<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi7HCykXNJOmUgzyQK8fNWzidE1WOOtTf8ptCbh8868jpsJ4e3Upb9k1WmKa1OJZJMjIKBF53VsoBW2ky_SeAcdXi38l2sy0ShKpPG228PGkfWtpVj0cw36dgpqfpqaBPkkPZF/s1600-h/Najila-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi7HCykXNJOmUgzyQK8fNWzidE1WOOtTf8ptCbh8868jpsJ4e3Upb9k1WmKa1OJZJMjIKBF53VsoBW2ky_SeAcdXi38l2sy0ShKpPG228PGkfWtpVj0cw36dgpqfpqaBPkkPZF/s400/Najila-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155995765460059634" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GwtZVtFmIe8">The Mr Felix Radio Show!</a><br />1 minute QT video on YOUTUBE<br />Click on link, above, or go here:<br />http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GwtZVtFmIe8<br /><br />Theoretically, the video will be embedded here:<br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GwtZVtFmIe8&rel=1"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/GwtZVtFmIe8&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />Q: What does the web have in common with Indonesia?<br />A: It frustrates the hell out of me, but I keep going back to it.<br /><br />Aduh!Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-5120557288555058692007-10-15T22:33:00.000+07:002007-10-20T02:08:39.467+07:00The Hall of the Mountain King, Pt.2: For whom the bell tolls.<strong>Central Kalimantan, Indonesia</strong><br /><br /><strong>The story so far: See, The Hall of the Mountain King Pt.1: Robert</strong><br />My friend Robert who teaches English to workers at the Kerengangi goldfields, got arrested by the police for ‘staying at his girlfriend’s house after 9 PM with the door closed.’ “Have seks!” said the arresting officer. “Not married!” Apparently this breaks the Dayak civil code. The person who made the complaint was the kepala desa, the local Dayak village head, who will now, along with the mawang, the district Dayak chief and the police, get a share of the fine, a rather exorbitant 4.5 million rupees, or about USD 500.<br /><br /><strong>The Hall of the Mountain King, Part 2: For whom the bell tolls.</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGbTfs6s-6XYT1U_gdq1Y4iL6u-FdErlG8-U-691VjEYy0NbruZVaz2Aw68w3aeqMO49rVyWAUryGkoGtoOMyEdajZGmuNzMPHiubo8holSEvlxWqDXPg2pqrnhvVrqsasguSU/s1600-h/aaF-13.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123085372359987986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGbTfs6s-6XYT1U_gdq1Y4iL6u-FdErlG8-U-691VjEYy0NbruZVaz2Aw68w3aeqMO49rVyWAUryGkoGtoOMyEdajZGmuNzMPHiubo8holSEvlxWqDXPg2pqrnhvVrqsasguSU/s320/aaF-13.jpg" border="0" /></a> A few days after he was arrested, Robert called me up and asked me to go with him to the mewang’s house to pay the fine and sign the papers.<br /><br />“What are the papers about?” I asked, on the phone.<br />“Well, that’s just it,” he said. “It’s all in bahasa so I could be signing away the house for all I know, but basically it’s to record the money transfer and all parties agree to agree on future rules, at least that’s what they tell me. This whole thing’s a charade of the first order.”<br />“Yeah, tell me,” I said. “I can probably read some of it, though, and ask some questions if you like.”<br />“It’d just be good to have someone in my corner, Felix, moral support and all that,” he explained. “I’m a sitting duck out here.”<br />“Yeah, no worries, mate,” I said.<br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicrJQRzYGBB5FM5Sx0u3USz3W0MD1Mfy518UUYuiB7FlNF5Xo7pxVr__Ylfr8LS6DaiumgVRjM5XN2L9cVqyYRU7ltBUdCsRD3SZSCuOIZVGXSyhOsQgIuu2texP16CrrDRvsZ/s1600-h/aaF-112.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123098995996251026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicrJQRzYGBB5FM5Sx0u3USz3W0MD1Mfy518UUYuiB7FlNF5Xo7pxVr__Ylfr8LS6DaiumgVRjM5XN2L9cVqyYRU7ltBUdCsRD3SZSCuOIZVGXSyhOsQgIuu2texP16CrrDRvsZ/s320/aaF-112.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj18ZblvLuGbLdbP24d0n38YNsc-S44Tj1namPkiYORbz13ijPKsSIC7406IEa724hgPnikM-JZd3i1CRw4gseY0_l077aA5Oq1mNbgZwFQaJNfPwv2ExWahiB3kNtXTEVZ93Mx/s1600-h/aaF-004.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123104880101446594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj18ZblvLuGbLdbP24d0n38YNsc-S44Tj1namPkiYORbz13ijPKsSIC7406IEa724hgPnikM-JZd3i1CRw4gseY0_l077aA5Oq1mNbgZwFQaJNfPwv2ExWahiB3kNtXTEVZ93Mx/s320/aaF-004.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh520C-L7NKQ6zLqQRkagAGK_N41VPtflFsxuoPrIRCag27y0_Yw2Z4qbn1zK5b1Zm-3Wb6O1yl1t-oSz1C2LJxsAssntYPvCWffdVyuujnrBNJwmHmMMBKXjrBlsKjpi7QmGA/s1600-h/aaF-12.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123108247355806706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh520C-L7NKQ6zLqQRkagAGK_N41VPtflFsxuoPrIRCag27y0_Yw2Z4qbn1zK5b1Zm-3Wb6O1yl1t-oSz1C2LJxsAssntYPvCWffdVyuujnrBNJwmHmMMBKXjrBlsKjpi7QmGA/s320/aaF-12.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Poor Rob: too visible, too alone and in the end, too much of a temptation. Once The Dog That Never Sleeps gets a whiff, it’s just a matter of time before has a go.<br /><br />Our job now was to get in, deliver the money and get out before the evil brown fucker realised it didn’t have enough money to cover the cakes for Idyl Fitri, or the Christmas presents, for that matter, and took another leg.<br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_3-rizLl08aLoM4mV8gjNzGREjdW6yRS27iNo5wTORk0Obic8jArpGF5NXF1SVfgSXtn2eFF-wHQpt_-sMnX4uflzB87lEKKZ7l6_hI-UhtumIVE_3Y76M39IQFx6kX8UGWd/s1600-h/aFF-016.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123103883669033906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_3-rizLl08aLoM4mV8gjNzGREjdW6yRS27iNo5wTORk0Obic8jArpGF5NXF1SVfgSXtn2eFF-wHQpt_-sMnX4uflzB87lEKKZ7l6_hI-UhtumIVE_3Y76M39IQFx6kX8UGWd/s320/aFF-016.jpg" border="0" /></a> It’s a brisk 75 kilometres from my place to Robert’s, straight up Tjilik Riwut Highway from Tangkiling to the Kerengapangi goldfields.<br /><br />Most of the way the road cuts through forest regrowth, so there’s not a lot to see from a tourist point of view.<br /><br />There’s a few scratchy villages, the odd roadside warung, some road works that never finish, but, as always in Kali, despite the lack of identifiable attractions, you get a strong sense of the physical, and occasionally something happens.<br /><br />A large monitor lizard, like the Komodo Dragons in Lombok, only not quite as big, will run across the road, head up, legs pumping and tail wiggling. It stops, freezes, sniffs, ready for another lightening dart, and which way is this thing going to go? There’s no telling.<br /><br />Snakes, big black brutes, two metres long, straddle the road like speed bumps, or polisi tidur, sleeping policeman, as they’re called here. They move like kings, sliding slowly through the hollow black on the inside of the world, and why bother even looking at the cyclist who’s standing a wary twenty metres back.<br /><br />Reptiles can spook you, but then there’s always the sky for refuge, the Great Blue Dome. You can follow her all the way the horizon, just to get a look-see at what’s over the edge, at which point she’ll ask you to jump, which can be a surprise if you weren’t expecting it. When your feet leave the ground, if they do, you’re in her arms or you’re a dead man. Like the Wichita Lineman, at that point, you’ll need her more than want her, and it’s not a bad place to be.<br /><br />It’s a scary world out there, but it sure is fuckin’ beautiful. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj82o9pKotGXx27WammikM2eCoSWdsafhiQ1Bxff5afBWN9jxkvOZbhtCbGtOHlBifl_fQFzZ29-_-aB-P_W4UGAA_tBttRiIUQV12L2mJP0TEWFc-bayRrm7oG7WEC3cwwJtq9/s1600-h/aaF-014.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123086343022596898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj82o9pKotGXx27WammikM2eCoSWdsafhiQ1Bxff5afBWN9jxkvOZbhtCbGtOHlBifl_fQFzZ29-_-aB-P_W4UGAA_tBttRiIUQV12L2mJP0TEWFc-bayRrm7oG7WEC3cwwJtq9/s320/aaF-014.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipZLj6u9XC9Kg_Wv_3FwBodTewOg1RXt3wYaPUaHmsK69hy4S4UxRhB_LWpQzmse4F5DckboFibRTQDe4gAEybFasDVCTNjKWUCXiIGgppb7C9YmHVEX8FPUG2DOFca45WJsjS/s1600-h/aaF-016.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123087034512331570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipZLj6u9XC9Kg_Wv_3FwBodTewOg1RXt3wYaPUaHmsK69hy4S4UxRhB_LWpQzmse4F5DckboFibRTQDe4gAEybFasDVCTNjKWUCXiIGgppb7C9YmHVEX8FPUG2DOFca45WJsjS/s320/aaF-016.jpg" border="0" /></a> I’m over the Katingan River, through Kasongan, and dodging potholes on the last 25 kilometre leg into Kerengpangi.<br /><br />A storm is on the way, which is common in the afternoon at this time of the year, and the wind whips down off the trees in sharp slaps that push the bike sideways, making your heart race and reminding you not to get ahead of yourself.<br /><br />I cycle on…<br /><br />There’s a low rumble of thunder running along the horizon up ahead and it’s as wide as a tsunami and as long as a Beatle song, although it sounds more like Tibetan throat singing than A Day in the Life. The earth trembles, the frame of the bike vibrates and if love can fall out of the bottom of your feet, then it’s happening.<br /><br />I'm cycling into the Great Crunch and at some point I’m going to arrive, and it’s all going to end, which is almost inconceivable; in fact, it is. You can’t think about nothing, just like you can’t think about God, but that’s the mind for you.<br /><br />I feel like a child.<br /><br />8 kilometres to go and lightening detonates just above my head. An astonishing jigsaw of five white arcs hang in sky, one on top of the other, strung from one massive cloud mountain to the other, and I didn’t know they came in ‘fives’, Lord.<br /><br />Bullets of rain explode on the hot tar all around me just as I roll it into Kerengapangi. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCXy-Mj3CkF_YTgMnmroAt7wCI36T2IsB_bpOBsRQMTf_7Pbg9r4qGWkfcYykUbwx4gTnWDD-A0jOqRTV-DXBSoMdcoz0PrI6iFxCip8HMpjvDVtXAK7UvvY58y8e91BMo5IXT/s1600-h/aaF-008.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123107371182478306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCXy-Mj3CkF_YTgMnmroAt7wCI36T2IsB_bpOBsRQMTf_7Pbg9r4qGWkfcYykUbwx4gTnWDD-A0jOqRTV-DXBSoMdcoz0PrI6iFxCip8HMpjvDVtXAK7UvvY58y8e91BMo5IXT/s400/aaF-008.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-YiuvzaC6FdpDMTAeDLtKgl9jyQzLhouzhu3VKta6oPPGGejVaGUA_xPxq-Fmx5fOWBKsf7weZHzZlTicGXcRQIGgy1Y7rcx3i5chtghlVFzM539ij2v63BxI8RlPW57XuXAC/s1600-h/aaF-005.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123087846261150530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-YiuvzaC6FdpDMTAeDLtKgl9jyQzLhouzhu3VKta6oPPGGejVaGUA_xPxq-Fmx5fOWBKsf7weZHzZlTicGXcRQIGgy1Y7rcx3i5chtghlVFzM539ij2v63BxI8RlPW57XuXAC/s320/aaF-005.jpg" border="0" /></a> “Good to see you, mate, thanks for coming,” says Robert, standing at the door of his house in regulation white t-shirt and chequered sarong, just as the storm pours forth its flood. We scuttle inside and the rain on the tin roof is so loud we have to yell.<br /><br />“Man, don’t you just love a storm!” Robert shouts across the room, and I agree, although I’m happy to have gotten in before I got completely soaked.<br /><br />Robert’s house is a small four-roomed weatherboard box, painted a dainty blue and white, the Ken Done pallet not an uncommon choice in Kali, with a large front balcony and shaded on three sides by tall, leafy Acacia trees. It’s compact, airy and clean, and serves as a good little Whitey Oasis in a jungle of the Weird and Unplumbed.<br /><br />I drop my panniers in the guest room, grab a coffee and go through the regulation ritual of stringing my hammock up on the veranda.<br /><br />Robert’s primary object d’art is a half-size wooden statue of a traditional Dayak warrior, named Tjilik, after Pak Tjilik Riwut, the great, local Dayak hero, who also lent his name to the road I’ve just travelled up.<br /><br />Bare-chested and strong, Tjilik, sports a short, wrap-around sarong and is holding the regulation spear and shield. He’s reminiscent of the once regulation plaster Aboriginal statues we used to put in our gardens in suburban Australia when I was a boy.<br /><br />My family’s aboriginal stood proudly on one leg under the Oleander bush (a common spot), regulation spear and boomerang in hand, eyes fixed steadfastly on the Gilmore house across the street, and their mongrel dog, which thankfully lived in the backyard behind the carport fence.<br /><br />In those days, unlike now, the only worry with this type of cultural object d’art was when you were playing footy out in the street, as you did most afternoons after school, and you stupidly kicked a grubber off the side of your boot which bounced all the way into the Gilmore house at kneecap level and knocked the head off of their aboriginal, or maybe the spear.<br /><br />Up and down the street there was a strange decapitation process going on, and the nursery shops that sold these things must have been doing a brisk trade, viz.; ‘Free footy with every Aboriginal sold!’<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaSKYdGNhzZhgOBNj-15UawP6Cuy97zzOHJdwnSlQcaL4Ofrq2McK7pI1cMNdQF7zA7yIHPi_ZpWzsomWgwY18uRnobFiROGH1LBLcVL-TPYUMgxl1rFhmGpMB2S7EVejjU-fO/s1600-h/aaF-009.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123110244515599378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaSKYdGNhzZhgOBNj-15UawP6Cuy97zzOHJdwnSlQcaL4Ofrq2McK7pI1cMNdQF7zA7yIHPi_ZpWzsomWgwY18uRnobFiROGH1LBLcVL-TPYUMgxl1rFhmGpMB2S7EVejjU-fO/s320/aaF-009.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTClF2DDSXUm5AwyGNN-P4dqj8wIaULsPhAcv5twhgRVQUwAjE-uR6hSu-8B88i1PTVwvhwOkLH0tsdEn6yeZjKkZHwb3OohYj2anWzwJkHvy2LwokXHL9L0WSa9msQqvoxOAu/s1600-h/aaF002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123109604565472258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTClF2DDSXUm5AwyGNN-P4dqj8wIaULsPhAcv5twhgRVQUwAjE-uR6hSu-8B88i1PTVwvhwOkLH0tsdEn6yeZjKkZHwb3OohYj2anWzwJkHvy2LwokXHL9L0WSa9msQqvoxOAu/s320/aaF002.jpg" border="0" /></a> “You paid 300 dollars for this? You’re fuckin’ kidding me!” I said to Robert some six months back, after he’d had told me the price. Considering it was my first visit to his house, it was perhaps a little insensitive, but still, a rip-off is a rip-off, and it’s hard not to take it personally.<br /><br />“Jesus, man!” I went on, full of righteous indignation. “You could have got it for fifty, even then…”<br />“What price art, Felix?” replied Robert, taken aback at my outburst and wary. We’d only met the week before and for all he knew he may have let a psychopath into the house. You never know with expats.<br /><br />He’d bought the statue down in Dayak Street, the one small touristy knick-knack lane in Palangkaraya, and they’d obviously picked up on the political correctness, and let the dog out.<br /><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ_yzXnuDa4y5dX74_48aBFl6IAxLjCbN1_ZAg0iP-jfa0x4oysoRLl19D4hGWY3QooPDOI2yuD4pEXQH7WJUioG0JLL83rTazGVN0_dSZMU_GdU-ipBXrOx18Xr1e2iWUKNgK/s1600-h/Foo-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123089315139965778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ_yzXnuDa4y5dX74_48aBFl6IAxLjCbN1_ZAg0iP-jfa0x4oysoRLl19D4hGWY3QooPDOI2yuD4pEXQH7WJUioG0JLL83rTazGVN0_dSZMU_GdU-ipBXrOx18Xr1e2iWUKNgK/s320/Foo-1.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em><strong>Above:</strong> The evil Dr. Foo, the inventor of Political Correctness holed up in his secret Mind Lab, somewhere off the coast of Macau. </em><em>“Hee, hee!” he laughs. “Onry wite peeper stoopid enuf for for dis! Hee, hee, hee!”</em><br /><br />“They kicked off at 600 and I beat ‘em down to three,” he said, defensively. “That’s kinda standard.”<br /><br />“Yeah, but that 50 percent rule-of-thumb crap is a myth started by Lonely Planet. I blame Tony Wheeler, Peace be upon Him,” I countered, not to be put down. “You could have at least got them to throw in a couple of naked dancers!”<br /><br />Still, despite the outrage, I could see I was walking on sensitive ground; nobody likes to appear foolish, and public floggings aren’t that popular anymore.<br /><br />“Actually, Rob, I lied,” I said. “Dayak dancers aren’t naked, they’re just topless, but still extremely attractive.”<br />“Felix,” he countered, “unlike you, I don’t need topless statues, and I’m quite happy with Tjilik, 300 bucks or not.”<br />“Well, have it your own way, man,” I said, throwing my arms in the air in mock disgust, “but I wouldn’t mind a few standing around the bed. It can get mighty-bloody lonely out here, let me tell you. Just think, you can tell them your secrets and they won’t gossip.”<br />“Gossip? Who cares about gossip?” said Robert, pouring himself another beer, a reasonable man once again in control of his world. “We’re foreigners, they’re going to talk about us.”<br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ZyW_0BYwMakO2ngj54rJSIjGrnrf-9Nrwe_Uurg9Go6ym7xp_xGgkp1rbnqx9RyzFFBrWw2m7C5P_YDJWCwBR0X7oVbTP6_IVfKDZTC0okJUS5kFL_y6ALtCIKWebqOEa5nE/s1600-h/Foo-2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123092325912040290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ZyW_0BYwMakO2ngj54rJSIjGrnrf-9Nrwe_Uurg9Go6ym7xp_xGgkp1rbnqx9RyzFFBrWw2m7C5P_YDJWCwBR0X7oVbTP6_IVfKDZTC0okJUS5kFL_y6ALtCIKWebqOEa5nE/s320/Foo-2.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em><strong>Above:</strong> “But Doctor Foo, these are my people!” pleads his assistant, Rhiannon, the former Miss Tasmania, 1964.<br />“Hee! Hee!” laughs Dr. Foo. “Wot yoo not see, Weearno, ee dat it dare riberawarism, lite dare democlasee, dat mek dem stoopid! Hee! Hee!”<br />“Please, Doctor! Liberalism and democracy are what our civilisation's all about!"<br />“Yoo stoopid, too. Now klo door, hav seks! Eye gi yoo big boner, Weearnoo! Hee! Hee! Hee!”<br /></em><br />“Well, that’s easy to say, Rob,” I went on, “as long as you’re not standing in harm’s way. I tell you, it’s a freakin’ disease around here, a destructive force of nature, and it will fuck you if show a bare leg!”<br /><br />I suspect Robert thought he was talking to somebody who’d spent just a little too long a time in-country, and he eyed me carefully. “No, Rob,” I said, by way of addendum, “stick to the statues, mate, they’re easier to control.”<br /><br />He shook his head and laughed, “I’ll keep it in mind!” and took another sip of his beer.<br /><br />Unfortunately, the only thing Robert kept in mind is that ‘it can get mighty-bloody lonely’, so over the next few months he fixed that problem, only to run into the rest.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9rGEVKxG1IAP737gtqeDhsjiseXDgAgLO5vJGBU3Kksu2GnKwi_sJ-bh9Spk21Tgk9Embc60GnH7PrxJmpOVcfSp1AcA10Yd3sBFvrUHZIxz7bVaa_OZ4zc8DtSwthDl_3QQY/s1600-h/aFF-017.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123082640760787682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9rGEVKxG1IAP737gtqeDhsjiseXDgAgLO5vJGBU3Kksu2GnKwi_sJ-bh9Spk21Tgk9Embc60GnH7PrxJmpOVcfSp1AcA10Yd3sBFvrUHZIxz7bVaa_OZ4zc8DtSwthDl_3QQY/s320/aFF-017.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj2CT_rAz3pGfc0gEZrsV2e4JdNDXhikg_5_NtPSfif0mUmxZZ4XQlWu2ybTw3h-zMWQndDNB_wIYpvqpCgJ2Nt6rekPJLTz4OMcdEB0jw4P-JFblOt7DsAwOx4X1cA2P_yC_R/s1600-h/aaF-11.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123097514232533890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj2CT_rAz3pGfc0gEZrsV2e4JdNDXhikg_5_NtPSfif0mUmxZZ4XQlWu2ybTw3h-zMWQndDNB_wIYpvqpCgJ2Nt6rekPJLTz4OMcdEB0jw4P-JFblOt7DsAwOx4X1cA2P_yC_R/s400/aaF-11.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><em>What drums say, Phantom?</em><br /><br /><em>There’s a white man living with a local girl, he’s rich, she’s got a new hand-phone, free use of a motorbike, lots of clothes, additions to the new house,</em> and in the close network of family, dependents and the bulging people layers of social favour and debt, everybody now wants their rightful due.<br /><br />Everyday Robert is confronted with somebody putting his or her hand out. He gets it in the field, in restaurants and at home by the front door. “Fuck, it’s annoying!” said Robert, one day a few weeks back as we sat drinking coffee in the local warung. “I say to them, ‘What do you think I am, an ATM?’ but it makes no difference.”<br /><br />He’s also noticing that people aren’t quite as happy in his company as they used to be, and he’s just not sure who his friends are anymore. </p><p>Robert’s world is going awry.<br /><br />Ami’s co-workers complain to the boss at the gold shop that she’s a lazy, boastful and telling tales and she loses her job; at least that’s the reason given. “What I also find weird is that people actually seem to believe this crap, and yet they know it’s gossip,” he adds.<br /><br /><em>Robert’s got another wife in Thailand, and a wife back home in Oz. He’s going to buy Ami a 4 wheel drive kijang, and when her new house is finished they’re going to set up a supermarket in the main street of town. Rob’s also in the process of converting to Islam, so he can marry Ami, who’s Muslim, and there’s word he wants another wife to make up the allotted four</em>.<br /><br />Mixed religion marriages are outlawed in Indonesia, the irony in this case being that Ami herself converted from Christianity in order to marry her current (and missing) husband, who was a Muslim.<br /><br />After all of that, <em>they’ll soon be moving to Australia, and Ami’s pregnant.<br /></em><br />“All news to me, but I get it everyday,” said Rob, sadly. “And whoever’s talking to me is always my best friend and it’s somebody else that’s stirring the pot. If I get upset and confront anybody it just makes it worse. Fuck, man, I’m just trying to help these people and survive, and I’m dealing with a pack of dogs!”<br /><br />It was like watching somebody having his skin slowly torn off, and with it went the fleshy underside of well meaning good intentions. It did make you wonder when Rob’s own hairy dog was going to arise, and that certainly would be fun to watch, but at the moment Rob was managing to keep order.<br /><br />The Dayak power structure works on a simple village set-up. The <em>kepala desa</em> is the local chief, charged with keeping order in the kampung. Next up is the <em>mewang</em>, the district chief who’s in charge of the local village cluster, and overarching all of the village clusters are the <em>polisi</em>, the arm of the provincial government.<br /><br />And so the axe fell.<br /><br />The <em>kepala desa</em> obviously figured enough was enough, and the next thing you know Robert’s in the station <em>polisi </em>talking about <em>seks</em> behind closed doors.<br /><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1930wE-Eetv2REdl1B_G9lKKgCfMHAJ6cLTyv6CaxueuK1HLSx-c1Bb3ZsJn4e7UQPstR0IDUZc2Lam-Z2j8IMoMELtW-b9vg4amWEWvQNQ8EO-wHIxa4WajNyd3vH2j4Sx8f/s1600-h/aaF-007.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123113667604534306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1930wE-Eetv2REdl1B_G9lKKgCfMHAJ6cLTyv6CaxueuK1HLSx-c1Bb3ZsJn4e7UQPstR0IDUZc2Lam-Z2j8IMoMELtW-b9vg4amWEWvQNQ8EO-wHIxa4WajNyd3vH2j4Sx8f/s320/aaF-007.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBXJi0VWzKeyHdV9whhC-sp4Jr6YvYpPX6rtwsWt32v2kqwFsq_5xQkH_RIjACDptcsnTshOs17BZLuxLS88kY2BtgbCRz8B5Wf0iz9iTvV_RcuwP5g5Ee5F4ywYBociFsodRw/s1600-h/aaF-010.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123114329029497906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBXJi0VWzKeyHdV9whhC-sp4Jr6YvYpPX6rtwsWt32v2kqwFsq_5xQkH_RIjACDptcsnTshOs17BZLuxLS88kY2BtgbCRz8B5Wf0iz9iTvV_RcuwP5g5Ee5F4ywYBociFsodRw/s320/aaF-010.jpg" border="0" /></a> The rain falls and the night hugs us close.<br /><br />“It’s been a long six months, Rob,” I said, rocking gently in the hammock, the cool breeze a welcome gift at the end of another long, hot day.<br />“Tell me!” he replied, still agitated, still chewing it through. “But you know the worst of it? I can’t quite shake the feeling that Ami knew about the police raid before hand and I tell ya, it’s an evil thought to be carrying around.”<br />“Yeah, I can imagine,” I said.<br />“The evening it happened I got a text message from an Indonesian friend, who lives just down the road, telling me to ‘leave house now’, but you know the communication system here. He’d sent it at 8 o’clock, but it didn’t arrive in my phone until the police had already arrived. I mean, you’d think he would have come up and told me about it face to face, but no, just a cryptic text that arrives too late anyway. But people obviously knew about it.”<br />“Well, Rob,” I said, treading as warily as I could, “I hate to say it, mate, but it’s a fair bet she did. You know what it’s like, everybody’s got their hand in somebody else’s pocket, and they’re all tugging, playing at the balances. And no one’s going to stick their head out to save you, mate, not even Ami. There all too shit scared of the dog.”<br />“You know, it’s amazing how shitty it can all turn,” he said, staring out into the night, as if he hadn’t heard me. “I know if I asked her she’d deny it, so there’s really no way of ever getting at the truth of it. Anyway, truth, what’s truth around here?”<br /><br />Well, no man can sleep with a snake in the bed, and you didn’t have to be Ernest Hemingway to hear the bell tolling.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXWYnOUatXwrGt0-fRpz0Jr8pbRLlSzxaTIc2py-CI_qJlmZQk9sA17i0ClqFFuCGOH3QKUuozvUafy-vGAJVnr18_omk90kTDxamDWfGAUl1wk660kSN-ILt-MU_EtERw0bsK/s1600-h/aaF001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123117421405951058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXWYnOUatXwrGt0-fRpz0Jr8pbRLlSzxaTIc2py-CI_qJlmZQk9sA17i0ClqFFuCGOH3QKUuozvUafy-vGAJVnr18_omk90kTDxamDWfGAUl1wk660kSN-ILt-MU_EtERw0bsK/s320/aaF001.jpg" border="0" /></a> We slip into brooding silence, and watch the cicaks, the local geckos, eat mosquitoes and bite each other’s tales off. It’s a nightly ritual of cute fauna, unsuspecting prey and the bloodthirsty slaughter of limited resources.<br /><br />“I’m living in a different world!” Robert exclaimed suddenly and began peering around into the formless night as if he’d never seen it before. He’d obviously been plummeting silently down the well and had hit the water, with a splash.<br /><br />You’ve got to be careful what you say to the newly baptised, so I excused myself and went inside to get some top ups, and left him to it. When I came back a few minutes later he was sitting brightly up in his hammock, and I handed him his beer. </p><p>“Can you imagine what <em>we</em> must look like to <em>them</em>?” he said, and his voice had the ring of a six-year old, and I had to chuckle.<br />“What’s so funny?” he asked, smiling.<br />“Ah, nothing,” I said. “I just like it here.”<br /><br />Tomorrow two white ducks, brothers in arms, are gonna go waddling into the Hall of the Mountain King a.k.a. the house of the <em>mewang</em>, and lay the Happy Meal at the feet of the king himself.<br /><br />You just hope the dog’s tied up. </p>Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-55674120310987435652007-10-08T21:53:00.000+07:002007-10-15T22:23:20.542+07:00The Hall of the Mountain King Pt.1: Robert<div><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Central Kalimantan, Indonesia<br /><br /></span>My friend Robert got arrested the other night for staying at his girlfriend’s house after 9 PM with the door closed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGghjw4F1Ruzl8h7IZfHlubrWq7eZo-Nvn-NYwDIaLBXscneT6thLQ5m_DHyX7-bMWDPrsg0DQgLzRXoN3QxNJIaY_8QsstD8cjtIb84CJOlkWlcVmyzyAFb7q2mlXuvrI4c7v/s1600-h/_Emas14.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118985018622103826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGghjw4F1Ruzl8h7IZfHlubrWq7eZo-Nvn-NYwDIaLBXscneT6thLQ5m_DHyX7-bMWDPrsg0DQgLzRXoN3QxNJIaY_8QsstD8cjtIb84CJOlkWlcVmyzyAFb7q2mlXuvrI4c7v/s320/_Emas14.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI2SvAdoOVn0u160peQqR_qNHY9KUWEuzxYQSGyGPinWYHuEY5NNkItGhyphenhyphenBEuqdWRcP_xPZ8TV85h_3y8632ePvL642MGomoAjxg4XywRFoMeaVB0ugg5_hoCytuWX0gYpMQ_O/s1600-h/aIpi003b.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121581558280770082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI2SvAdoOVn0u160peQqR_qNHY9KUWEuzxYQSGyGPinWYHuEY5NNkItGhyphenhyphenBEuqdWRcP_xPZ8TV85h_3y8632ePvL642MGomoAjxg4XywRFoMeaVB0ugg5_hoCytuWX0gYpMQ_O/s320/aIpi003b.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“Staying at my girlfriend’s house?” asked Robert, not quite believing his ears, when the policeman came to arrest him. “With the door closed?”<br />“Yes, door close, have <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">seks</span>, not marry!” said the policeman, sitting grandly on the couch in the living room where he’d parked himself, unasked.<br /><br />“Door close, have <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">seks</span>, not marry?” repeated Robert.<br />“Yes! Door close, have <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">seks</span>!” said the policeman, leaning back and looking easily around the room, safe in the impregnability of <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">polisi</span> logic.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigh0ceW3lJXwMyS4rj1Se9RZx5TzmNoNFDsBmUr1HTtZfA41oMSvta1WEy4kOXgwR4PqScUb1LT3CURtwZq77yA3RqDXaZM6anAgmoA7xlaMatoVS5Ld0HhikIYAvBHHS26FaZ/s1600-h/_Emas02.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118987226235294002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigh0ceW3lJXwMyS4rj1Se9RZx5TzmNoNFDsBmUr1HTtZfA41oMSvta1WEy4kOXgwR4PqScUb1LT3CURtwZq77yA3RqDXaZM6anAgmoA7xlaMatoVS5Ld0HhikIYAvBHHS26FaZ/s320/_Emas02.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpjIM1XQnC1sznjkK53E987BuNQFf8alFilZJZfudP0dM9LAV7YTfQiThXuRqnysYNq0ilQXnZeHTvymD029RK3AdXhW9RfTAU1I2QtH-UoDM7XfV5MvyMMSnZYPGlcM9gcs3/s1600-h/_Emas03.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118990112453316946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpjIM1XQnC1sznjkK53E987BuNQFf8alFilZJZfudP0dM9LAV7YTfQiThXuRqnysYNq0ilQXnZeHTvymD029RK3AdXhW9RfTAU1I2QtH-UoDM7XfV5MvyMMSnZYPGlcM9gcs3/s320/_Emas03.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Robert’s in his mid-forties, tall and fair, from Australia and teaches English to the field workers at the Kerengpangi goldfields, a 200 square kilometre area of human and environmental desolation about 100 km north of Palangkaraya, the capital of Central Kalimantan.<br /><br />Robert’s job is part of a broader multi-national aid scheme aimed at improving the lot of the local mining community.<br /><br />“It’s pretty low pay,” says Robert, “but I like the work.” In the early evenings, before he heads down the dusty, pitted road to his girlfriend’s place, he often takes extra classes for the miner’s children, and whoever else is keen, at no charge. “These kids have got nothin’,” he says.<br /><br />His girlfriend, Ami, is Dayak, in her mid-twenties, a single mother and deserted wife, not an uncommon plight in Kalimantan. She lives in a three-roomed wooden house amidst a loose collection of buildings that constitute the village, although the original township has been stretched and pulled almost out of recognition by the demands of the goldfields.<br /><br />It’s one of a few villages that dot the area.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBpQx7a2nj7WIa91pLNemPOjOiVjpIyiHvGB5lDpPe7bWrJpMDiLb7V_t_XYHFN64h8wFPQLksKy33xPFjmUnGKYRgAusXyxERnX1ipPxhoCMgV4Botu279kK6Th1zvcHXkGAb/s1600-h/_Emas06.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118990662209130850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBpQx7a2nj7WIa91pLNemPOjOiVjpIyiHvGB5lDpPe7bWrJpMDiLb7V_t_XYHFN64h8wFPQLksKy33xPFjmUnGKYRgAusXyxERnX1ipPxhoCMgV4Botu279kK6Th1zvcHXkGAb/s320/_Emas06.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVmr3pOUJXW_EjKPFK5bjAw0jqbnZY3G8RHOivNinF_WsJ0p0Ssif943SV5C1w9JxynRFsqHAoUhZ6ekXTbM_4YzZwrB-hwOBKZuug32T2eEj4a6r4phKzYVQiijxEQgeKkGdv/s1600-h/_Emas08.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118990962856841586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVmr3pOUJXW_EjKPFK5bjAw0jqbnZY3G8RHOivNinF_WsJ0p0Ssif943SV5C1w9JxynRFsqHAoUhZ6ekXTbM_4YzZwrB-hwOBKZuug32T2eEj4a6r4phKzYVQiijxEQgeKkGdv/s320/_Emas08.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“But Ami’s son is here,” said Robert, arguing with the policeman, “surely you don’t think we’d be having <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">seks</span> in front of the boy?”<br />“Door close, have <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">seks</span>!” repeated the policeman. “You go truck, go polis station, stay night!”<br />“Stay the night?” repeated Robert, hackles rising.<br />“Yes, for safety! Many people angry!” said the policeman. “Attack you!”<br />“Attack me?” repeated Robert.<br /><br />A few minutes earlier Robert, Ami and the boy had been snuggled up on the couch watching Aishya, a popular Indonesian soapy about a poor-little-asthmatic-rich girl who cries a lot, and just as the clock struck 10 PM, there was a loud banging at the door.<br /><br />Robert got up and answered it, somewhat alarmed. “Yes, can I help you?” he asked, startled, as the fat senior policeman pushed past and walked into the room.<br /><br />“Outside,” he told me later, “there was a police truck, a half-dozen cops in SWAT gear running all over the front yard and I could hear another two or three banging around in the dark out the back. I thought it was a terrorist raid!”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ4USn0d2U-zFIIRzbSaO0fdtDrv3to7Xj_eHhPLl3hyU49yGF14yPbIXh1x8yIIZZmoJkrGaHbN9NJsZrGFTTBAIs_QTgEqI4dlEXNatqmNGj4rdyBSgqcR0949dS783lT3bG/s1600-h/_emas303.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118986036529352994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ4USn0d2U-zFIIRzbSaO0fdtDrv3to7Xj_eHhPLl3hyU49yGF14yPbIXh1x8yIIZZmoJkrGaHbN9NJsZrGFTTBAIs_QTgEqI4dlEXNatqmNGj4rdyBSgqcR0949dS783lT3bG/s320/_emas303.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrcz_cKh0WVCcBv-uZStohCjcfGR9v7lbZ9SAXvIMtxRgCo4YzeTiZbi2gnWz2fw0V2KLgRX7DFp-RtZ_FA0arOE_E8TtDNP4H8Etkg1EdX8WWI7vT_3kxVjKuXRXcSlgToOYc/s1600-h/_aEmas13.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118992929951863218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrcz_cKh0WVCcBv-uZStohCjcfGR9v7lbZ9SAXvIMtxRgCo4YzeTiZbi2gnWz2fw0V2KLgRX7DFp-RtZ_FA0arOE_E8TtDNP4H8Etkg1EdX8WWI7vT_3kxVjKuXRXcSlgToOYc/s320/_aEmas13.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCFJOtt8rO1QnqVDUpGOvvvKo9sGzSpxvndsjgiHmU-DKroMLGxvzJ300uHZVLBCkO13el1RSH9qD1br8XFPhViRgt8mJRXlUuL7GY11viSxtNMI9k6agNQNb2WH2X6RMIkzft/s1600-h/_emas403.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118994136837673426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCFJOtt8rO1QnqVDUpGOvvvKo9sGzSpxvndsjgiHmU-DKroMLGxvzJ300uHZVLBCkO13el1RSH9qD1br8XFPhViRgt8mJRXlUuL7GY11viSxtNMI9k6agNQNb2WH2X6RMIkzft/s320/_emas403.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />“OK! Now we go! For safety! Many people angry!” said the policeman, motioning outside with his chin.<br />“People angry? For safety?” replied Robert again. “What are you talking about? I’ve got lots of friends here and nobody’s angry and I feel perfectly safe!”<br />“No make trouble, Robert!” cautioned Ami.<br />“No make trouble?” repeated Robert, turning to look at her. She was standing beside him, in fear and close to tears.<br />“Go, go in truck!” she urged.<br />“Go in the truck?”<br />“Yes, go!” she said, pushing him towards the door.<br />“Well, that’s easy for you to say, Ami!” he said, but offering only token resistance. When it's raining frogs, it's hard to know where to begin hitting back.<br /><br />Five minutes later Robert is sitting upright in the back of the open truck, surrounded by policeman, waving goodbye to Ami and her young son, also in tears and clinging to his mother.<br /><br />“I wondered whether I’d ever see them again!” he told me later.<br /><br />“We bounce out of the kampung,” he went on, “then take off at break-neck speed down the highway, it’s pitch black and all along I’m just waiting for us to slow down at some point and take a left hand turn down some dirt track into the forest!”<br /><br />“Yeah, fuck…” I said, at a loss for meaningful words, looking around the room, as you do when you suddenly see it expanding in size due to the fact that you’re shrinking.<br /><br />“But it’s OK, I demanded a TV and got it!” he said and smiled. “Opra’s just the ticket when you’re in jail.”<br />“What?”<br />“At the police station. After all the paperwork, they got me into the cell at about 2 AM, and I realised I couldn’t sleep, so I asked for a TV. Opra comes on early in the morning and as luck would have it she was interviewing Jon bon Jovi.”<br />“Oh.”<br />“Yeah, so they got that, and then I asked for some food, so they had to go out and get snacks, and then I got them to get me a fan and supply me with a broom; the floor was a bit grubby.”<br /><br />I sat in silence, waiting for him to go on.<br /><br />“Yeah, I mean,” he continued, “you know you’re going down, and it’s just a matter of how much it’s gonna cost you, and for all they know the big dumb bule is gonna flip out if he doesn’t get Opra on the late night teev, so you might as well play it. ”<br />“Right…” I said.<br />“And they like it when you smile!” he said, grinning.<br />“Yeah, I bet they do,” I said.<br /><br />“In the confusion they’d left the cell door unlocked,” he continued, “so in the morning when I woke up I wandered out, saw some guy sitting at the front desk with his finger up his nose, so I thought, ‘What the hell! If I hang around and wait for the release papers it’ll take hours.’ so I just walked out. He didn’t even see me.<br /><br />As luck would have it, just as I got to the front gate one of my students was going past on a motorbike, so I flagged him down, and he took me all the way home.”<br /><br />“Excellent, Rob,” I said.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV7HDIg0BMrR1twpZSQSHq7nnEDOgcgvaNS-1UpuB-md5z2CKggKXcCoh7l9hIcwUdcmvyJJocsEkMzxTFwfm3w1F8p65QIa6vfoYqFvE2EGQV_sRyadCaZdMT1FheIs2s-Wqt/s1600-h/aIpi008b.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121579445156860418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV7HDIg0BMrR1twpZSQSHq7nnEDOgcgvaNS-1UpuB-md5z2CKggKXcCoh7l9hIcwUdcmvyJJocsEkMzxTFwfm3w1F8p65QIa6vfoYqFvE2EGQV_sRyadCaZdMT1FheIs2s-Wqt/s320/aIpi008b.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhr4OUbkKjNCQhbFCREc65bKFay6s5-sVKb81ZbmuKc-KDmvTTpBrk24XdibrRPnLXgiM9kg55vY2_BMOhgQcroln9_FUx8Su_7xYEOUvNcymiNKPEFnbWxH93CsBAuJw29L34/s1600-h/_Emas05a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118993737405714882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhr4OUbkKjNCQhbFCREc65bKFay6s5-sVKb81ZbmuKc-KDmvTTpBrk24XdibrRPnLXgiM9kg55vY2_BMOhgQcroln9_FUx8Su_7xYEOUvNcymiNKPEFnbWxH93CsBAuJw29L34/s320/_Emas05a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Robert was charged with ‘offending the moral order’ and ordered to pay 4.5 million rupees, about USD 500 – 2 weeks wages for him, or almost 3 months wages for a local, quite a sizeable sum.<br />“I did suggest they fine Ami’s husband instead,” he said. “After all, he was the bugger who ran off and left her with the kid and absolutely no support. She hasn’t heard from him since the day he left.”<br /><br />The fine was divided up amongst the morally offended parties in order of umbrage. The police, being the most offended, took the bulk and what was left was given to the <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">mewang</span>, the local Dayak district chief, ostensibly for distribution amongst the community. What was left of that was given to the <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">kepala desa</span>, the local village chief, the last in the chain and the person who made the original complaint.<br /><br />The <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">kepala desa</span> later complained to the police that after going to all the trouble of making the complaint and getting the ball rolling he ended up with only 200,000 rupees, about 25 dollars, but was told to go away.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaWnC_gX1uqH9heIlBi2rK4I3qCEynjM2of4Yt7XFWcXde3dlL1f7GicYxdXaNY3t1kqrJDYx5y4OXbZ-dH0LQc5lnC2xuEZVco7sHTAo5Dbe2XzJHrj1QZ_AV1bb1GLr-TFZ4/s1600-h/_emas301.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118995515522175474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaWnC_gX1uqH9heIlBi2rK4I3qCEynjM2of4Yt7XFWcXde3dlL1f7GicYxdXaNY3t1kqrJDYx5y4OXbZ-dH0LQc5lnC2xuEZVco7sHTAo5Dbe2XzJHrj1QZ_AV1bb1GLr-TFZ4/s320/_emas301.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Having spent the night in jail and paid his fine, Robert can now legally visit his girlfriend up until 9 PM each night, but must keep the front door open at all times.<br />“I guess the knock-shop two doors down and the half-dozen karaoke bars up the road have got to keep their doors open, too,” he said, laughing.<br />“One would imagine,” I agreed.<br />“Make sure you keep yours open, Felix!” he said, patting me on the back as I was climbing on my bicycle to leave.<br />“I certainly will, mate,” I said, and I do. </div>Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-85277257718789855402007-09-23T19:36:00.000+07:002007-09-23T20:15:22.785+07:00The Dayaks of Central Kalimantan #1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZvSrPSqkiI8UmXfzJ2HJTmTdzYRqJdQMsURTuAR4w9CgwNs_VEY2qzqcDPB6W8Bgg3dUckmwNDdY2pjxaXkRCb0HQYXijMSjnP1QrMqGSWUVwI-FTgezPERm-K2mACLNWvvpg/s1600-h/aDK-009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; 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display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkf4W2DG37xK_YKiZCA7wW6qnORVHqKLGgVwIwhKkv3kj27mt1EjG7PT3RRSDqo1QCwQPrvza2qQrHF8khsoisYmvMd8p7XRhyphenhyphenMvsVYVm7x5eWxLou35KE5oBjy5mWGIT4QLXn/s320/aDK-024.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113381426330620066" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaoEFdMQ8L3bp0RYPlC-dwUpiFegrSBRIS9P0di4sNDjQObGKSAfJY9QWKQu267pcxacWtF8Q9uZQ9mhTlRStxkHgZy03munlrB5Xd4hcJ6AG4sTwdIWhZBEKQS6mx4y1A1v94/s1600-h/aDK-52.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaoEFdMQ8L3bp0RYPlC-dwUpiFegrSBRIS9P0di4sNDjQObGKSAfJY9QWKQu267pcxacWtF8Q9uZQ9mhTlRStxkHgZy03munlrB5Xd4hcJ6AG4sTwdIWhZBEKQS6mx4y1A1v94/s320/aDK-52.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113386442852421890" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflSi9T_Vu7fFP1vZ42ceoB5-NImkFDiUojxmaXfy9bhE3l65aJeQYN19PAev5t1g5dPoLsOL-67YQVB4gehTqIWpyva_BUGrO1lvLRcO1S5EnsAF81Zr3ZYDAJMT5K5HA37UE/s1600-h/aDK-038.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflSi9T_Vu7fFP1vZ42ceoB5-NImkFDiUojxmaXfy9bhE3l65aJeQYN19PAev5t1g5dPoLsOL-67YQVB4gehTqIWpyva_BUGrO1lvLRcO1S5EnsAF81Zr3ZYDAJMT5K5HA37UE/s320/aDK-038.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113379824307818626" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiER92z8BBuzg-efMH7yFNkMmLtu0O35cHZM4gfhowv7C-BRdM-m-wLRkcjaQkpjFLrGcoUek9CXi-K0ijMhSmK3yEDTpgN9Lw0srLFoHKUGWrPj9jyvMZ2SA-OmTuILn3AhbzP/s1600-h/aDK-041.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiER92z8BBuzg-efMH7yFNkMmLtu0O35cHZM4gfhowv7C-BRdM-m-wLRkcjaQkpjFLrGcoUek9CXi-K0ijMhSmK3yEDTpgN9Lw0srLFoHKUGWrPj9jyvMZ2SA-OmTuILn3AhbzP/s320/aDK-041.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113378926659653730" border="0" /></a>Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-17829052798049062962007-09-20T21:55:00.001+07:002007-09-23T19:34:45.161+07:00Ramadan, camels and wells...<span style="font-weight: bold;">Central Kalimantan, Indonesia</span><br /><br />I live in Indonesia where, despite the news, it’s all rather safe and sound - chaotic, yes, but still safe and sound.<br /><br />And now Ramadan is here.<br /><br />Within Islam, despite the news, Ramadan is actually all rather safe and sound too. It’s a joyous and laid back time filled with prayer and good eating that my Muslim friends, both local and Western alike, look forward to with relish.<br /><br />My friend Kevin, a Kiwi, a Muslim and the principal of the local international school, tells me it’s his favourite time of the year.<br /><br />“It’s like Christmas and Easter rolled into one, Felix,” he says. “You should try it.”<br />“I don’t know, man,” I say, “I’m Catholic.”<br />“You don’t have to be Muslim to fast. Besides, you go places, you’d like it. Just climb on your camel and let it go…”<br /><br />Kevin, of course, is being rather poetic, but I get the idea.<br /><br />The inescapable urge to move towards the great void of God where nothing is hidden and all control is lost. You plunge into the blackness, fall into the well, surrender to what is, and if you’re lucky, find your star.<br /><br />"The camel travels the desert at night, a star she blindly follows…," says Kevin.<br />“Is that in the Koran?” I ask.<br />"No, I just made it up."<br />"Oh!"<br /><br />Kevin’s youngest daughter’s pet dog, Moonbeam, fell into the well at the back of his house late last year. The well is not quite bottomless, but it’s pretty damn deep, and we got one of the local Dayaks to climb down and pull her out.<br /><br />Dayaks are very agile, as you can imagine – they climb trees, mess about in boats, ford rivers and beat off marauding orangutans when necessary, so getting one to climb down your well for a few bucks and rescue your dog is no problem at all. They move better than Madonna.<br /><br />As it turns out, Moonbeam disappeared a month later anyway, and was never seen again, not by us anyway.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxKVV70oKLErHZQqyrjiDSSo_745cXlCfWFhzzV_9NXUMhxFkteaREg1_IHKRLT_3ylAzn-9b8XVy0Z4uUgRelQA1-7ZhyphenhyphenKXrQrBHAR8yY0iOfn6ioN93BiP2G726ssHd7UgH/s1600-h/Dayak2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxKVV70oKLErHZQqyrjiDSSo_745cXlCfWFhzzV_9NXUMhxFkteaREg1_IHKRLT_3ylAzn-9b8XVy0Z4uUgRelQA1-7ZhyphenhyphenKXrQrBHAR8yY0iOfn6ioN93BiP2G726ssHd7UgH/s320/Dayak2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113376753406201906" border="0" /></a><br />Some people say she’s living with the Dayaks in nearby Sei Gohong village, some say she got eaten by the Dayaks in nearby Sei Gohong village, but nobody knows for sure. My personal theory is that she heard the cry of the Great Grey Wolf whilst swimming around at the bottom of the well, realised she was actually alive and so took off at the first available opportunity.<br /><br />Of course, being a dog, it may have been a whiff of the Great Golden Bone she got, but it lies at the foot of the Great Grey Wolf anyway, so it’s much of a muchness.<br /><br />Yeah, Moon dog, Moonbeam… she didn’t have many brains, which may account for falling in the well, and wandering off down to Sei Gohong around New Year, but you never know.<br /><br />It's not brains that count.<br /><br />I’d love to be able to tell you that on moonlit nights people see her striding atop nearby Bukit Tangkiling (Tangkiling Mountain), her aching howl ripping the glory out of the day. Children hide under beds, carried swiftly and without effort back to their very own first lost cry in the dark. Older, wiser men feel the cold teeth of death nipping at their heels, mount their camels and get a wriggle on. But no, I’d be lying, besides getting carried away.<br /><br />Moonbeam just disappeared. <span style="font-style: italic;">Itulah Indonesia!</span> It’s Indonesia, and you learn to live with unknowns.Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-85774088275417967752007-09-16T22:36:00.000+07:002007-09-17T19:50:14.990+07:00Cycling Ramadan!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbxufOQHliSbzK70wi1n60UDICzom2ClbHrOSktOo2xIxwCQFNO1uKCSEugW8qWfg9t1x4O7VgiFK9ZdaoWtuQvK2Fq-7jXM3YYRNeKNDY0Rz029Yilg6FD5_OXXzu3eRmOiU/s1600-h/aRam.JPEG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbxufOQHliSbzK70wi1n60UDICzom2ClbHrOSktOo2xIxwCQFNO1uKCSEugW8qWfg9t1x4O7VgiFK9ZdaoWtuQvK2Fq-7jXM3YYRNeKNDY0Rz029Yilg6FD5_OXXzu3eRmOiU/s320/aRam.JPEG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110832520693485826" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS1a8ZKawzSuqJe5xImbRHgZoSmxJFrOaIAOd1o2SUKKVW2arEe_5XdIb33_zqP9W8tunuxT6xIGmGhWRWe3L8t5fWL5Tzx2xAf-Bm7QizQE0NmPYr0EyYnyIqlecmxDXloPGE/s1600-h/aRam-G.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS1a8ZKawzSuqJe5xImbRHgZoSmxJFrOaIAOd1o2SUKKVW2arEe_5XdIb33_zqP9W8tunuxT6xIGmGhWRWe3L8t5fWL5Tzx2xAf-Bm7QizQE0NmPYr0EyYnyIqlecmxDXloPGE/s320/aRam-G.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110830506353823970" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Ram-a-dan is here is again,<br />the skies above are clear again,<br />let us sing a song of cheer again,<br />Ram-a-dan is here again!</span><br />To the tune of ‘Happy days are here again!’<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Kalimantan, Indonesia.</span><br />Contrary to popular wisdom, cycling during Ramadan is a good gig. In fact, believe it or not, it’s ‘tailor fit’ for cycling and has become my favourite time to hit the road at the Muslim end of the Southeast Asia.<br /><br />I can’t speak for the rest of the Great Islamic Geographic Arc. Iran, they tell me is good. Iraq and Afghanistan might be dicey - I don’t fancy chugging down Highway 1, whistling and ending up on Fox News. Jordan, Syria… who knows?<br /><br />But back to Indonesia….<br /><br />A student of mine in Banjarmasin, the capital of South Kalimantan, recently asked me why the international media gives Indonesia such a ‘bad face’. It was a good question.<br /><br />Moving along…<br /><br />Despite the earthquakes, volcanoes, tsunamis, floods, mud-flows that swallow whole villages, sinking ferry boats, falling airplanes, raging seasonal smoke-clouds that envelope the whole region, ongoing separatist uprisings, Avian Flu outbreaks, occasional Christian-Muslim bloodshed, and, it has to be said, the odd bomb, Indonesia, the world’s most populous Muslim nation, knows how to throw a good ‘cyclist friendly’ Ramadan. It is also, as I said to my student, a rookie media mogul’s wet dream.<br />“Get into media!” I said.<br />“Thank you, Pak Felix, for your sagely advice!” he replied.<br />“No sweat…” I said.<br /><br />‘To ride Ramadan, or not ride Ramadan?’, is the real question, though.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Option #1: Not the Ramadan Ride!</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Place:</span> Some totally God forsaken, ramshackle town in Kalimantan, Indonesia.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Season:</span> Not Ramadan.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Time:</span> Evening.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Action:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigXUei2Sr254OE82-pAo5qU4jN92SA7FkZ_yaYqLVRPq0ZfQIAc-GYMPNMmiW-e_EuwefiN1E7-GICdaTmNkRKUCrDvKXq4uJQxQYMaPlnsCbK4EqQ99EH9KRNW9U1ehtgwfR_/s1600-h/aRam2.JPEG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigXUei2Sr254OE82-pAo5qU4jN92SA7FkZ_yaYqLVRPq0ZfQIAc-GYMPNMmiW-e_EuwefiN1E7-GICdaTmNkRKUCrDvKXq4uJQxQYMaPlnsCbK4EqQ99EH9KRNW9U1ehtgwfR_/s320/aRam2.JPEG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110828444769521842" border="0" /></a>After a hard day cranking kilometres, I wander around alone looking for some ‘action’. I find it in Warung Mustafa.<br />Night descends, inky black, and the highway never sleeps. Trucks rumble by, dust clouds kick high in the air. I sit on a wooden bench sipping hot sweet tea. I say a few words to Mustafa, the proprietor. Conversation dies. A dog wanders in. Against my better judgement, I pat it, but that’s boredom for you, and the inescapable longing for contact.<br />I start to itch. Fleas! “This freakin’ dog’s got fleas, Pak!” I say. Mustafa nods sagely. I go back to my room, lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Option #2: The Ramadan Ride!</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Place:</span> Same totally God forsaken, ramshackle town in Kalimantan, Indonesia.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Season:</span> Ramadan.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Time:</span> Evening.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Action: </span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKBMedN-FZyoQKVQHv6MRMP7ZKl3HrnS-z33qMSCPArnGetA-6XothygUax4BOMp-JvtpiEJ69ORt1XsftLbosBlTS_A1pEXcDVxaZe-1b9xgtu_6n-op4gjan-s8iIgy9443q/s1600-h/aRam-P.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKBMedN-FZyoQKVQHv6MRMP7ZKl3HrnS-z33qMSCPArnGetA-6XothygUax4BOMp-JvtpiEJ69ORt1XsftLbosBlTS_A1pEXcDVxaZe-1b9xgtu_6n-op4gjan-s8iIgy9443q/s320/aRam-P.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110829097604550850" border="0" /></a>During Ramadan, on the road, you can eat and drink during the day, as per normal, but at night, the world explodes - OK, a bad choice of word, considering the context, but let me go on… Mums, dads and kids, dressed in their colourful Ramadan best, venture out in the cool evening air to take in cakes and sweets, juices and teas, each other and as luck would have it, one lone Cyclist from another Planet.<br />“You want another cake, Pak Cyclist from another Planet?” asks Ibu.<br />“Thanks, ‘bu, don’t mind if I do!” I reply.<br /><br />It’s a lot of fun.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8CGuuqYs8rZmhqs5cXW0gxpB4zOCF4PGhicX4O9i7_p-u2lG4NJ0FwU_c-c3M_9WtbFG0JVakzu26UKoZi-xtlg46J3hXA-G-tXe_CflGrG5REQSWIDdg2o9MS9h3rWDEkEqD/s1600-h/aRam-B.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8CGuuqYs8rZmhqs5cXW0gxpB4zOCF4PGhicX4O9i7_p-u2lG4NJ0FwU_c-c3M_9WtbFG0JVakzu26UKoZi-xtlg46J3hXA-G-tXe_CflGrG5REQSWIDdg2o9MS9h3rWDEkEqD/s320/aRam-B.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110836983164506418" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7mUPsIGDYgAT0-gXUrbDF9up0TvyQcj70llrAOUcekTz5yUgmBlDOpVNAlLYbQRf6P_g4FW_ilHa8tN44NaQdArF7085b-atYXK45w6tyBe73aCgCofHiLwkwgQ80fN49hVU8/s1600-h/bananas.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7mUPsIGDYgAT0-gXUrbDF9up0TvyQcj70llrAOUcekTz5yUgmBlDOpVNAlLYbQRf6P_g4FW_ilHa8tN44NaQdArF7085b-atYXK45w6tyBe73aCgCofHiLwkwgQ80fN49hVU8/s320/bananas.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110831983822573810" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Some philosophical comments:</span><br /><br />Option #1, above, does have a certain stark beauty to it. Not to everyone’s taste, but to the (usually male) cyclist living in the West who feels that his Inner Being is slowly turning into Bananas in Pajamas, Option #1 can be the go.<br /><br />Option #2, on the other hand, speaks for itself.Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-74713258523737790162007-08-19T14:25:00.000+07:002007-08-19T15:38:35.815+07:00Radio South Kalimantan!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-pLaWyNQUiBQOhFK6KkSyjKU27Ic2QcSc-pPxKEixM-Wtu4rz8UWDlDKHTEYNpeDKaGsoLhGjiPcKy0xymKgeMRguwo_pYjsOAYWspDJC523WwlrfgGokx93f7dvDY6xwKhmb/s1600-h/M-01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-pLaWyNQUiBQOhFK6KkSyjKU27Ic2QcSc-pPxKEixM-Wtu4rz8UWDlDKHTEYNpeDKaGsoLhGjiPcKy0xymKgeMRguwo_pYjsOAYWspDJC523WwlrfgGokx93f7dvDY6xwKhmb/s400/M-01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5100310081371481426" border="0" /></a>The Pak Felix English Talk and Music Show on Radio Tuntung Pandang FM 102.3 out of Pelaihari, South Kalimantan was a good bet while it lasted, I must say.<br /><br />I love radio. I love rabbiting on with complete control....<br /><br />I spent 2 months in South Kalimantan setting up the radio show, training local teachers in a broad programme of 'live interactive' English language techniques (Forget the freaking English lab, folks, use what you got - your brains, your hearts, your wills!), visiting schools, looking at under-utilised multimedia labs and doing various training gigs with the local high school students, viz.: The State Debating and Storytelling Contests (Give me brave, kids, not smart! And besides, think of your oponents as monkeys...!)<br /><br />Hell, I even had breakfast with the local Regent:<br /><br />The Regent: We need this broad, region-wide English program to go ahead, Felix. I want everyone in the province speaking English! I'm behind you all the way!<br />Pak Felix: Groovy...!<br />The Regent: Here, try another sweatmeat.<br />Pak Felix: Cool...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8g60_97hkINGYZHzNUfppHWAZGgPzHqe7Tk-tPwqbI8snt7Ox1Z6bZEs7jgGs9TjaYT_BOCVT7bB99rRq84uGqlOu42ftFj9TdYZGA6pGeM-UfKyPGD328U0jjlCaF6uzBTw1/s1600-h/Radio-2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8g60_97hkINGYZHzNUfppHWAZGgPzHqe7Tk-tPwqbI8snt7Ox1Z6bZEs7jgGs9TjaYT_BOCVT7bB99rRq84uGqlOu42ftFj9TdYZGA6pGeM-UfKyPGD328U0jjlCaF6uzBTw1/s400/Radio-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5100324392202511714" border="0" /></a><br />Job start date: 1 August, in place.<br />Job cancellation date: 31 July.<br />Reason: Education department will not release funds. Discussion will continue in October at next departmental meeting. Money scheduled for release May 'o8. Will you be available then, Pak Felix?<br />Pak Felix: I'll probably be dead from lack of food by then, but you can always try.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Itulah Indonesia! </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Aduh! </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>That's Indonesia for you! Shit...<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Kemana dari disini, Pak Peelips?<br />Where to from here, Pak Felix?<br />Tak tahu! </span><span>Fuck knows...</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><span>Well, a great truth in life is to take things all the way, even into the face of certain defeat, and then the only step left is into <span style="font-style: italic;">nothing</span>, which is freedom. </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-49727351995348006362007-04-23T14:38:00.000+07:002007-04-23T15:41:03.818+07:00Mr Felix April 07 Update - Laos<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGUCb-HtzsdC5Uz5kpT3rWK4qJu1PKw1Hfj_7YK3LseTA8f-aTjt_4HverYeUquJYulJkpAOyklX1I5ykHeX8-QimJFOwKvikS1y_-BEmfIOZ7wXPmVeMOlwESkUw_Xt7ATB9J/s1600-h/Felix-Indocar3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGUCb-HtzsdC5Uz5kpT3rWK4qJu1PKw1Hfj_7YK3LseTA8f-aTjt_4HverYeUquJYulJkpAOyklX1I5ykHeX8-QimJFOwKvikS1y_-BEmfIOZ7wXPmVeMOlwESkUw_Xt7ATB9J/s320/Felix-Indocar3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5056540198401098146" /></a><br />Luang Prabang, Northern Laos.<br /><br />Last week I ran into Brad from Melbourne, my home town. He was sitting alone with his bike at a table on a street cafe 100 km south of Luang Prabang, and had that cyclist's 'raw prawn' look - flushed red skin, shoulders hunched, head bowed (as though the floor, or maybe your shoes, are of pounding importance, even more than the sweet Lao girl in a yellow and blue sarong who is serving you your second coffee, which is something.)<br /><br />Brad had just cycled up from Laung Prabang town, mainly uphill, and I'd just come up by bus from Vientiane, so of course, after introductions, he asked, "What's it like from here, Felix?" He was heading to Vang Vieng, some 200 or so km south.<br /><br />"More pain and suffering, I'm afraid, Brad!" I said. "There's a hill some 50 klicks away that's a beast, an unrelenting beast.... maybe 50 km up, up, and then more up. It looks like a real bitch."<br /><br />"Thanks, mate," he said. (We're both Aussies.)<br /><br />Brad emailed me the other day from Melbourne, and pointed me to the Lonely Planet Thorntree site, where it seems someone was asking after me, wondering where I was, having made no posts, nor Mr Pumpy updates for 2 years etc.<br /><br />So this prompted me to write.<br /><br />I'm in Luang Prabang, sans bike, but will head back to Kalimantan, Indonesia, soon, to pick it up - and then onto the next big thing, riding from Alexandria to Kashmir. There's reasons for doing this particular trip, and the end-goal is to write a book.<br /><br />I've been living and working in Central Kalimantan, near Palangkaraya. I taught English and Film at an English medium school through 06, and managed a few rides.<br /><br />As you can imagine, making films with a bunch of 12, 13 and 14 year olds was a lot of fun, and inbetween the heat, rain, power cuts, scorpions and fire-breathing centipedes, we managed to get quite a few made. End of year school night was a riot indeed - "Hey, look mum, I'm up on the big screen!" Mum was duely impressed.<br /><br />Strange place Kalimantan; the end of the earth, the centre of the earth. I love it, and it reminds of Cambodia in many ways; an 'out-of-the-way' feel and a dodgey social infrastructure in which nothing is ever quite going to work, no matter what you do. There are times, standing by the road, a line of ramshackle wooden huts and restaurants to your right, a flat expanse of dry, stringy Eucalyptus trees to your left, heat pounding onto your head, that you'd swear you were in Cambo.<br /><br />But it's the people, as always, that make it. It's basic, and we have nothing much else but each other, which is fine by me. The human scale is a good one - the flicker in the eye that says 'I see you', like starlight across the fathomless black void that separates us all, on a bike or off.<br /><br />Well, maybe I'll start posting again, I don't know... I'll need to think about it. It's been an interesting last 3 years.<br /><br />Best wishes from Lao.<br />Mr FelixFelix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-1146787362123023622006-05-05T07:00:00.000+07:002006-05-05T11:38:28.536+07:00Mr Felix update....<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4549/460/1600/Back-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4549/460/400/Back-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />To blog or not to blog?<br />See the comments section in The Green Gibbon, below, for a brief update.Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-1140360758208903002006-02-19T21:41:00.000+07:002006-05-05T11:33:14.603+07:00The Green Gibbon!<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4549/460/1600/APE%21-5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4549/460/400/APE%21-5.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-1134803362928701942005-12-17T14:02:00.000+07:002006-02-12T18:28:03.486+07:00In Kalimantan - blog assault cometh!<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4549/460/1600/rumah1.0.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4549/460/400/rumah1.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I am now living in Central Kalimantan, Indonesia, near Tangkiling village, 36 km north of the capital, Palangkaraya.<br /><br />I've been settling into my house, writing everyday, doing a little teaching (film/animation)at a secondary school here, riding the 'transmigrasi roads' and canoeing the surrounding jungled rivers and waterlands.<br /><br />I am preparing for another 'BLOG assault' by Feb. 20, 06.<br /><br />--------------------<br /><strong>The Comments Section:</strong><br /><br />A couple of people have emailed me a little confused about the comments section. <strong>So to be clear:</strong> No, that is not me posting within the comments section as 'Colonel Pumpy'. It is, I do agree, a little tiresome, and it may be time for this chap to get his own blog up and running under an original name and even more desirable, an original subject.<br />-------------------<br /><br />Cheers,and thanks for the comments - appreciated.<br />Mr Felix in KalimantanFelix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-1132227544064618272005-11-17T18:24:00.002+07:002005-11-17T18:49:58.793+07:00Kathmandu to Gonda Pt.14 - Back on the road!<strong>A ride through the Nepali Terrai into India:</strong><br />KTM to Nepalgung (Indian border) – 508 km<br />KTM to Gonda (India) – 636 km<br /><br /><strong>The ride:<br /></strong>Kathmandu to Mugling Bazaar – 110 km<br />Mugling Bazaar to Narayanghat – 34 km<br />Narayanghat to Dumkibas – 63 km<br /><br /><strong>The story so far:<br /></strong>On his search, Mr Felix has ridden through Hell, died in the bathroom, been visited by the Ghosts of Lovers Past, fallen down a mineshaft and found the Green Gibbon. After five days of rock and roll in Narayanghat, he resumes his journey west.<br /><br /><strong>Part 14: Back on the road!</strong><br /><br />I roll out of Narayanghat at 10 am and Raja stands on the steps of the hotel waving me off. After almost five long days, the certified nut case in room 104 is finally leaving.<br /><br />I ride past the bus depot and head down beside the market and can’t stop chuckling. Asia! If I was Raja, I’d be throwing rocks at Mr Felix as he pedalled off down the road to the next hotel and lucky houseboy, but no, he’s been attentive all morning and seems genuinely sorry to see me go.<br /><br />I’d put my arm around him before I climbed on the bike and said, “I’ll never forget you, Raja!” and meant it.<br /><br />I turn on to the highway into the morning traffic and weave through a long line of squeaking rickshaws carrying bundles of schoolgirls in crisp white shirts and blue skirts, and stand on the pedals and accelerate past gangs of wide-eyed schoolboys on bikes.<br /><br />“Hello mister!” they chime, and I ring my bell, put on a burst of manly speed and feel the wind clipping at my cheeks.<br /><br />I’m back on the road.<br /><br />The highway out of Narayanghat is paved and wide and heads southwest for 60 kilometres, running just to the north of the Royal Chitwan National Park, before it crosses the Binai Khola (Binai River) and heads due west to Butwal, today’s probable destination, a further 60 kilometres on.<br /><br />It’s a mainly flat run but I’m leaving today’s schedule wide open. If I flag or the weather turns bad, I’ll pull in and spend the night at one of the small guesthouses dotted along the road.<br /><br />After the fun and games of the last few days, and especially last night, I know better than to be headstrong and antagonise the gods.<br /><br />I stop for a late breakfast a few kilometres out of the city at a roadhouse of sorts, and when leaving almost skittle a lone brown duck that’s taking it’s usual, I guess, leisurely morning constitutional between the petrol pumps. “Sqwak!” goes the duck, highly indignant, flapping its wings, and it pays to concentrate.<br /><br />I look over my shoulder to see if the owner isn’t standing on the driveway shaking his fist, also highly indignant, but no, it’s Asia, and they don’t do that sort of thing, so on I ride.<br /><br />Twenty kilometres down the road the traffic drops off to a trickle. There’s dense forest on both sides of the highway and I sit high in the seat, coasting down the centre of a green tunnel while my front tyre goes ‘rrrrrrrr!’<br /><br />I ride through a small village where young children call to their mothers from darkened doorways and arrest time in a squeal and a jig, and old men sit immobile under shady verandas and give me a quick salute, reminding me of my destination.<br /><br />I cycle past a herd of cows and pretty girls in wrap around skirts turn their bright, hopeful faces in surprise, splashing light all over the road, and what is this landscape I move through?<br /><br />There’s rain clouds up ahead – big, floating, white and grey hulks, expanding and billowing slowly upwards into a rich, blue sky, silent and as yet, benign.<br /><br />On I ride.<br /><br />Off to my right the thin blue line of the Himalayas comes and goes through the trees and every few kilometres I roll down sharp curves through crisp air into verdant, shaded river valleys, across sparkling streams or the odd wide brown river, and work my way over the bridge and up the other side, pushing on the pedals, leaning over the handlebars until the road levels out again, and I puff and sweat and settle back into rhythm.<br /><br />Just after one o’clock I cross the Binai Kola and roll into Dumkibas. It’s a small, forgettable village with a few brick houses on each side of the road and a couple of earthen floor chai-shops.<br /><br />Coming over the small crest down into the town I could see a steep, deep green ridgeline of mountains cutting straight across the road up ahead, and unless we’re taking a rather long detour, it looks like I’ve got some climbing in front of me.<br /><br />It might be time to take on refreshments.<br /><br />The chai-shop has the usual rice, dahl and chapatis laid out in pots and metal plates over the woodstove and after this morning’s brisk ride it smells like real food. Thank the sweet Lord for an appetite and a body.<br /><br />While I’m sipping on a chai and waiting for the daal-baht to arrive, a small, thin man with wide, staring, fragile eyes wanders into the shop. He’s dressed in rags, says nothing and acknowledges nobody, and pads silently through to the back and takes a seat by the wall.<br /><br />He looks about fifty or so and is possibly Nepali, but judging by his face, build and polite body language I’d swear he was Japanese, or had been at some point before he got deeply lost in Asia.<br />Nobody in the shop pays him the slightest attention, so I guess he’s a regular, and he sits, staring into the shadows, as weightless as a ghost.<br /><br />After a few minutes, curious, I reach over and offer him a cigarette, but he looks blankly at the pack and turns away.<br /><br />The daal-baht arrives and I spoon it into my mouth but in the face of such pointed human loss it’s hard to eat with any gusto. Still, I brought it on myself, so no use complaining, and thank God for Asia. If this was the West, we'd have cured the poor guy by now.<br /><br />“Come now, Fujisan, you can’t go wandering all over the place like a madman!” says the nice man.<br />“No, please, leave me alone!” pleads Fujisan, as they drag him out of Starbucks.<br />“No, you’re lost and we’re just taking you…”<br />“But I like being lost!” he shouts in defiance, and so proves his madness.<br /><br />According to the chai-shop owner, who speaks a little English, there’s a fruit shop over the road, a guesthouse just up the road, and right up the road there’s a steep climb through the mountains for either 7 kilometres, or 14, and I can’t decipher which.<br /><br />“You mean seven up and seven down,” I ask, “or fourteen up and fourteen down?”<br /><br />“Yes, fourteen!” he says. “Take three hours on bicycle!” he adds helpfully, which confuses me even more.<br /><br />“Very steep?” I ask, and plane my flat palm at a ridiculous angle to the table and he says, “Yes!” whatever that means.<br /><br />I can’t wait for iBlab, the portable digital voice translator to be released on to the market, but until then international cycling will remain an inexact sport, it seems.<br /><br />By the time I get back out to my bike the clouds are hanging low in the sky and hugely pregnant, and if the ride up the mountain turns out to be the full 14 kilometres it’s going to take me over an hour, and from the looks of it I’m going to get dumped on real bad.<br /><br />“Ah, no,” I decide. It’s a bit early to pull in, but so be it.<br /><br />I cycle off up the road and turn right into the guesthouse, which is no more than a raw brick box with a few windows and a sign, but the owner is helpful and his wife flaps gently around making me comfortable, and this looks like home for tonight.<br /><br />I take a quick, cold shower and by the time I emerge refreshed in my clean sarong the owner has kindly placed a comfortable wicker chair on the rough concrete platform at the back of the guesthouse under the first-floor overhang, and his wife is smiling shyly and holding a tray of hot black tea and a couple of biscuits.<br /><br />It’s the Ritz, and I’m a fortunate man indeed.Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-1131454966286828752005-11-08T19:40:00.001+07:002005-11-11T15:27:06.380+07:00Kathmandu to Gonda Pt.13 - Kathmandu Day 2!<span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">A ride through the Nepali Terrai into India:</span><br />KTM to Nepalgung (Indian border) – 508 km<br />KTM to Gonda (India) – 636 km<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">The ride:</span><br />Kathmandu to Mugling Bazaar – 110 km<br />Mugling Bazaar to Narayanghat – 34 km<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">The story so far:</span><br />On his search, Mr Felix has ridden through Hell, died in the bathroom, been visited by the Ghosts of Lovers Past, fallen down a mineshaft and found the Green Gibbon. He’s now on the roof of his hotel in Narayanghat, taking a 5 am tea break and thinking about how all of this began. It’s November 1974…<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Part 13: Kathmandu – Day 2!</span><br /><br />I wake up at 7 am ablaze. It’s my first morning in Kathmandu.<br /><br />I was up in the middle of the night with the runs, stumbling around looking for the light switch to the toilet and finally giving up and squatting over the hole in the pitch black, which can sure bring you back to yourself, in a number of ways.<br /><br />But why worry? I’m in Kathmandu on my way overland to London, with Abdul’s blessing.<br /><br />The ticket I’d flown in on was a rock bottom, no frills, no-refund affair and I’d gotten it from Turkic Star Travel, deep in the ethnic enclave of Melbourne, on the recommendation of a friend.<br /><br />“Go and see Abdul at Turkic Star, Feely,” said my friend Peter. “He’ll set you up and he’s a real character!”<br /><br />“You’ll like him!” he added breezily, and the last person Peter had said that about was a friend of his girlfriend’s and I’d loathed her on sight - we’d loathed each other on sight. It was hit and miss with Pete.<br /><br />Nevertheless, eager to save a few bucks, early one Saturday morning I boarded the tram to grubby inner-city Brunswick, home of Turks, Italians, Greeks, Lebanese, lost dogs and anything non-Anglo that walked the Great Southern Land.<br /><br />“Feelexmyfrend, Calcutta ees dirty, steenking hole! Why you go dere?” said Abdul, about a minute after I’d taken a seat in his dingy little office and enquired about flights to India.<br /><br />“Ah, well, Mister Abdul.. <em>Abdul</em>,” I said. “I wanna go overland to London, and I, ah, thought Calcutta might be a good place to start.”<br /><br />The truth was I hadn’t done much up-to-date research and Calcutta was simply the former home of the East India Company, the current home of Mother Teresa and where the Black Hole had been. Throw in a few teeming millions and bingo, let’s start there.<br /><br />Coming from the ‘positive thinking’ end of town - read: nobody had a clue, my flimsy plan had to date received all round airborne praise and nothing more negative than a blank stare and a ‘you gotta be kiddin!’<br /><br />Certainly no one had challenged it with any authority, and here I was not a few minutes inside Turkic Star Travel and Abdul was already out with the club.<br /><br />It was daunting, but everything about Abdul was daunting - his coarse three-day growth, rumpled suit and meaty hands, it all screamed, “I’m a Turk!” in a bulky, hairy foreign accent, but not bulky like Hulk Hogan, nor hairy like Skippy.<br /><br />Even his bonhomie was bulky and hairy and he kept prefacing everything with ‘Feelexmyfrend!’ and what did ‘myfrend’ mean in Turkish?<br /><br />On the back wall of his office just above his head loomed a large poster of a comely Turkish girl in a field of yellow flowers under the imaginative slogan: ‘Come to Turkey!’ and dotted around the room were peeling pictures of the Istanbul skyline, Roman ruins and Turkish mosques.<br /><br />I felt like I was in deepest, darkest Asia already, with a bear.<br /><br />“No!” said Abdul, opening his palms wide and grinning expansively. “Feelexmyfrend, I am telling you, you travel over by thee land to London, better you start Kathmandu! Calcutta steenking hole, Kathmandu many heepees! Yoolike!”<br /><br />He arched his eyebrows, lent back in his chair and said, “Wot you tink?” lifting his chin in a short, sharp motion and it was clearly my turn to speak.<br /><br />Abdul was obviously a man of wide experience and knew a lot about ‘heepees’ and, I guessed, a few other things, and it was plain to both of us I knew nothing, so what was I to say?<br /><br />‘Wot you tink?’ was a challenge as much as a question on tourist destinations, and as I sat back and looked, despite the fact that everything in my brain was saying ‘leave now’, I felt myself warming to him.<br /><br />I felt that if I stood up and threw a punch he’d take it, swing with it and laughingly throw it back. There was no need to fear him the way I feared a lot of other men.<br /><br />Abdul was a good bet.<br /><br />After a little while I said, “Sounds like good advice, Abdul!” as evenly as I could.<br /><br />He smiled and relaxed. Despite the rather large Anglo handicap I labored under, I’d plainly made the wise choice.<br /><br />He deftly unfolded a map of Asia and lent forward across the desk, motioning me excitedly towards him like we were about to go over the jolly plans for a bank robbery.<br /><br />I leant in close.<br /><br />“So!” he said, wriggling excitedly in his chair, “You fly Bangkok!” and stubbed a stocky middle finger directly on Bangkok. “And then you fly Kathmandu!” and stubbed again, and I looked at the map and thought, “All right! That’s where Kathmandu is!” but said nothing.<br /><br />“Then you go Lon-don by thee land and we fly you back Mel-born,” he said. “Seemple!”<br /><br />Abdul’s use of the word ‘we’ suffused me with a warm and unexpected glow, and I said, “Hmm, sounds like a pretty good plan, Abdul!” as evenly as I could.<br /><br />I took out my passport and filled in a few forms, while Abdul busied himself with airline timetables and made a phone call, and just like that I was ‘in’ - and whatever ‘in’ was it felt a damn sight better than enrolling in ‘Advanced Reinforced Concrete Slab Theory’ at the university.<br /><br />Roll on Kathmandu, roll on ‘heepees’ and bye-bye <em>reo</em>.<br /><br />As I was getting up to leave, Abdul motioned me forward again and said, “Feelexmyfrend, I give you two piece advice!” and paused. Ah, the strange voice from a strange land speaks again. I lent in close.<br /><br />“One!” he said, and abruptly lifted a thumb in the air. “Whatever you do, do not go to thee Greez! They are very bad peeple!”<br /><br />I knew that Greeks and Turks hated each other with pathological venom, and I figured it was best to stay out of this one, so I nodded soberly and kept silent. (When you’re a piece of white tissue paper flapping in the breeze, go with the flow.)<br /><br />“Two!” he said, and held up the other thumb so it now looked like he was giving me the ‘two thumbs up’. “Forget Ee-ran, forget Syr-eea, forget thee Lebanon!” which was somewhat mystifying as I would have to go through at least one of these countries to get to Turkey (and I couldn’t miss that) and on to Europe.<br /><br />“T-u-r-k-e-y!” he said, slowly rolling the ‘r’ with great relish while his eyes glowed big and black. What the hell was he on about? I stared back.<br /><br />He flicked his eyeballs up at the comely girl in the poster above his head and gradually his lips opened into a wide, lascivious smile, and as much as I fought the dawning, rising consciousness, I was moved.<br /><br />Into my mind rushed an image I had seen a few months previous of a curvaceous, naked, Oriental woman with eight breasts.<br /><br />I’d stumbled across the picture in a book on ‘medieval European myths of the mysterious East’, and one rainy afternoon had sat in the university library devouring the text and the engraved image of the mythical Oriental woman had made a big impression.<br /><br />Naturally I didn’t tell anybody about it and had simply stuck it in my bag of secret desires along with the rest of the unacceptable, but here it was rising unbidden on Abdul’s desk. Who would have guessed?<br /><br />Abdul followed me out on to the footpath when I was leaving, arching his shoulders and scratching himself through his crumpled suit, a man in control of his world.<br /><br />“Well maybe, Feelexmyfrend,” he said, patting me on the shoulder, “Do not forget thee Lebanon.”<br />“But Abdul,” I replied, in a voice an octave higher than I would have liked, “Isn’t there a war going on there, and hijackings and killings…?”<br />“Pta!” he said and flicked his head back and waved his right hand dismissively.<br /><br />I thanked him profusely, shook his hand and climbed on the tram and breathed out for the first time in forty minutes.<br /><br />An hour later I was rattling through the suburbs of Melbourne, that endless run of neat plots and shining California bungalows, easy and familiar, clutching my air ticket, a long list of visa requirements and Abdul’s business card.<br /><br />Despite the excitement of the moment, I still labored under the kitchen table idea that this impending trip was a boomerang; I’d go sailing out, whiz around a bit and then return to my point of origin, refreshed but unchanged, and then get on with building large, glorious, multileveled concrete carparks.<br /><br />And what a fucking depressing thought it was, and why was I so angry?<br /><br />I sat on the steps of my guesthouse in Kathmandu and wrapped my fingers around a glass of hot, milky chai.<br /><br />It was still early in the morning and chilly, and in front of me, in a dusty, stone courtyard enclosed on three sides by tall, mud-brick buildings with their distinctive Newari style latticed bay-windows, Kathmandu was coming alive.<br /><br />Little girls in pigtails played hopscotch under an arch and over by the wall of a small temple, noisy boys in ragged tee-shirts played marbles.<br /><br />Old women were walking purposefully back and forth across the courtyard carrying bundles of sticks wrapped in cloth and a man emerged from a doorway, yawning and scratching his naked belly.<br /><br />I was so absorbed in this people play unfolding around me that bubbling up came the words, “I love this…” but just before I mouthed them, cutting straight across from the right, I heard my father’s voice, loud and commanding, as if someone had turned on a loud speaker.<br /><br />“Don’t love these people!” said the disembodied voice and I started in surprise. What, Napoleon was now telling me who to love and who not to?<br /><br />And I’m hearing voices?<br /><br />Maybe it was just my imagination but it sure sounded real. I looked up and before me, in the air, hung two moving pictures, side by side.<br /><br />To the left was a young boy of about 8 peering intently at me, and troubled - it was me as a boy.<br /><br />I shifted my gaze across to the right and saw a picture of myself as I was now, at 21, standing sideways and looking down with an expression of what? Aloofness?<br /><br />Whatever it was there was something wrong with the eyes, and as I puzzled on this, a deep voice I didn’t know started suddenly from the inside my head and said, “If you take the left path you will find your vitality, and if you take the right path you will suffocate! Choose!”<br /><br />I looked back and forth between the two images a couple of times and knew instantly, quicker than I could mouth the words, just what the choice was: Did I want to live a life, or live a successful death?<br /><br />Just as my engineering training was kicking in and I was about to say, “Well, let’s look at the options…” the voice in my head said with great force, and a hint of urgency, “Choose now!” and I said, rather meekly, “The left one!”<br /><br />And then everything went back to normal.<br /><br />The girls played hopscotch, the boys played marbles and the old women came and went, and I sat on the stone steps cradling my chai and knew there was no way back.Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-1129908523161582582005-10-21T22:13:00.000+07:002005-10-21T22:28:43.210+07:00Kathmandu to Gonda Pt.12 - Kathmandu Day 1!<strong>A ride through the Nepali Terrai into India:</strong><br />KTM to Nepalgung (Indian border) – 508 km<br />KTM to Gonda (India) – 636 km<br /><br /><strong>The ride:</strong><br />Kathmandu to Mugling Bazaar – 110 km<br />Mugling Bazaar to Narayanghat – 34 km<br /><br /><strong>The story so far:<br /></strong>On his search, Mr Felix has ridden through Hell, died in the bathroom, been visited by the Ghosts of Lovers Past, fallen down a mineshaft and most surprising of all, found the Green Gibbon. It’s now 5 in the morning, and he’s on the roof of his hotel in Narayanghat, taking a tea break and thinking about how all of this started.<br /><br /><strong>Part 12: Kathmandu – Day 1!</strong><br /><br />I arrive at Bangkok International in November 1974 jumping out of my skin. I’m 21, green as all get out and as hungry as hell.<br /><br />Asia – let’s eat!<br /><br />The first thing I noticed when I got through customs and entered the main concourse was a man in uniform holding a machine gun who sidled up to bot a cigarette off me.<br /><br />I guess he could see the large, brightly lit neon sign above my head flashing: ‘Newbie!-blink Newbie!-blink’, not that you’d have had to be clairvoyant to pick it up.<br /><br />Well, you never argue with a man holding a gun and that’s one rule in Asia I’ve never wavered from.<br /><br />I gave him a fag and he declined a light and wandered off without a word. No problem! Happy to help the Thai military any day, sir.<br /><br />I climbed on a local bus and we took off down the highway like a bat out of hell, which was just fabulous.<br /><br />The road from the airport in those days was a potholed wriggling mess, and the bus sped and wove and lurched, and motor bikes screamed by and wove and lurched, and the Thais standing in the aisle of the bus fell back and forth and I sat wedged into the rear seat with a couple of other backpackers and looked around and recognised a state of mind I’d almost forgotten about - unbridled joy.<br /><br />Ah, Bangkok, what an entrée.<br /><br />A few days later I’m walking down Freak Street in Kathmandu. It’s alive with hippies and a score of Magic Buses are lined up on New Road offering trips to Goa, Sri Lanka, Kashmir and all the way back to Europe. It couldn’t get more exotic.<br /><br />One hundred bucks will get you to London, even.<br /><br />Not bad, but I’ve got four months and I’m going to bus it, train it and hitch if I have to down through India, up through the Khyber Pass and into Afghanistan and Iran, and then one way or another make it into Trafalgar Square under my own steam.<br /><br />That was the plan, and as I walked through the Durbar Square chatting to bearded Frenchmen in beads and kaftans, and longhaired Norwegian girls in beads and kaftans, it looked like a shining plan indeed.<br /><br />I was so engrossed in this magical landscape of strange colour and form that I walked all the way back to my guesthouse past the Chi & Pie in Maru Hiti, a distance of half a kilometre, completely absorbed in smell.<br /><br />When I got the door and woke up, I had no recollection of the short journey other than the pungent and mysterious aroma of Nepal.<br /><br />I was in another world, close to heaven, intoxicated, and I wanted to be here, and what a difference that was to the forced march I was undertaking at home under Emperor Napoleon.<br /><br />Of course it was all a dream, but I didn’t know it then, but dad, a.k.a. Napoleon, did, as I was soon to find out - <em>but what would he know?</em><br /><br />Dream-shmeam, it smelled like <em>freedom</em> to me and like your big Hollywood break, I knew it would only walk in the door once.<br /><br />That evening I sat on the roof of the guesthouse and watched the sun go down over the Bagmati River and felt a great sadness welling up in me. Reality, that great leaden weight that refused to float away, was pulling me down again, and along with it my big Hollywood break (all 12 hours of it!).<br /><br />I was in a very deep hole indeed, I realised, and shining plan or no shining plan, at the end of it all I was due back in the engineering department with the rest of the inmates come March 23rd, and the thought horrified me.<br /><br />What to do?<br /><br />Walk out on four years of toil and sweat at the university with only a year to go? My dad would never forgive me. Living with Emperor Napoleon you learned to withstand a lot, but <em>cowardice</em>? Gee, they shoot you for that.<br /><br />I might as well tell dad that I wanted to be a poet as tell him that I wanted to leave the university and trip the light fantastic in Nepal.<br /><br />No, I needed a genuine reason to leave, and one I could stand by, and I didn’t have one, dream or no dream.<br /><br />Deep inside, when I tracked it along the echoing corridors of my mind, I knew this whole intoxicating world <em>was</em> a dream. The way it stood it may have been escape, but it wasn't freedom.<br /><br />It didn’t have substance, and Napoleon wouldn’t be Napoleon if he couldn’t smell a ruse when it was served up at the dinner table. And that’s one thing about living with the likes of Mr Bonaparte - you may hate his guts, but he keeps you honest.<br /><br />Yeah, I was in a bind, but I had four months to work it out, so I wandered off and got myself a large plate of daal-baht and spent the next two hours on the loo, and loving every minute of it, as <em>fools</em> do.Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-1129736478778481142005-10-19T22:31:00.000+07:002005-10-19T22:42:54.533+07:00Kathmandu to Gonda Pt.11: Under the Milky Way!<strong>A ride through the Nepali Terrai into India:</strong><br />KTM to Nepalgung (Indian border) – 508 km<br />KTM to Gonda (India) – 636 km<br /><br /><strong>The ride:</strong><br />Kathmandu to Mugling Bazaar – 110 km<br />Mugling Bazaar to Narayanghat – 34 km<br /><br /><strong>The story so far:</strong><br />On his search, Mr Felix has ridden through Hell, died in the bathroom, been visited by the Ghosts of Lovers Past, fallen down a mineshaft and most surprising of all, found The Green Gibbon. It’s been an exciting trip.<br /><br /><strong>Part 11: Under the Milky Way!</strong><br /><br />I open one eye and look at the clock. It’s 10 past 4 and wouldn’t you know - why do these things always happen around 4 am?<br /><br />My bed is soaked. The sheet I’m wrapped in is sopping wet, and as I roll on my back the dampness in the mattress hits me like a wet towel. Yeech!<br /><br />Raja, the houseboy, is going to be mightily impressed with this. “Mr Feeliks, pleeese!” he’ll say. “When you are taking a shower, please do it in the bathroom like the other guests!”<br /><br />Ten minutes later I’m down in the kitchen making myself a cup of tea.<br /><br />I’d sprung out of bed and into the shower like a man possessed. I don’t think I’ve ever risen so quickly in all my life. Besides the discomfort of sodden sheets, I had an overwhelming urge to get outside into the night sky and fresh air.<br /><br />I needed space, but first a cup of tea.<br /><br />In the shower I’d looked at myself. I’d sweated so much during the night I was white and wrinkly and I must have lost ten pounds. I was positively skinny.<br /><br />My flu was gone and I felt clear and taught, and what? Capable! I was going to live! But as I looked at my body I realised I needed muscle tone and red blood cells and I made a note a note to eat plenty of red meat. “Goat should do it!” I figured.<br /><br />While I was making the tea downstairs in the kitchen I looked across at Raja and the other houseboy. They were dead asleep on the charpoys in the corner, and even though I was making the odd clatter and the gas burner was going ‘whoosh!’ they weren’t moving.<br /><br />And what was I doing in here anyway? I don’t normally walk into hotel kitchens and help myself to tea. But I was dehydrated from the night’s activities and falling down mineshafts isn’t an easy business, no matter what anybody says.<br /><br />And what the hey! If Raja woke up I’d give him a big smile and ask him if he wanted a tea. “One sugar or two, Raja?” (Being Nepali he’d probably take four.) But no, he was off somewhere dancing with Krishna and the gopis, and good luck to him.<br /><br />I sat on the roof of the hotel and sipped my tea and looked out into the night sky. It was clear and vast and ablaze with stars. There was a half moon pocking it’s head over the mountains to the east and the Milky Way was vaulting upwards from one horizon to the next, a great heavenly arch of diamonds and pearls, keeping it all up, holding the roof in place.<br /><br />Yeah, God knew what he was doing when He built that one, but it’s amazing he got it through the bureaucracy.<br /><br />“Hey, guys, I’ve got this great idea!” He says. “I’m gonna build a Great Circular Arch in the sky made of stars and galaxies and it’s gonna shimmer and shine and underneath it the earth is gonna move so it looks like the Great Arch is moving…”<br />“It’ll never work!” say the doubters.<br /><br />I guess it helps being the boss.<br /><br />The Green Gibbon. The bright Green Gibbon! What the hell had I just run into?<br /><br />When I was at university many years ago I’d taken a trip to Kathmandu. I’d been at the books for four long mind-numbing years and I needed a break.<br /><br />I had one year to go to finish this engineering degree I was chipping away at (like a man with a chisel on a concrete block) and I was 21, miserable and didn’t have a clue.<br /><br />Well, maybe half of one.<br /><br />Christ! All my life I’d wanted to be an ‘artist’, and here I was studying freaking engineering, and I hated it.<br /><br />I’d wanted to be an artist ever since I was 8 years old, and although I admit there was a certain romantic element in the idea, it was what I loved, and as far as I was concerned, that was it.<br /><br />Roll on Rembrandt! Roll on Andy Warhol! Roll on Mr Felix!<br /><br />But dad was having none of that.<br /><br />When you’re born into the aftermath of the Great Depression, watched a world war rip the planet apart in your formative years, and just when you thought things were on the upswing, along come the Beatles singing ‘All you need is Love!’ and to top it all off, there’s a bunch of pansies dressed in flowers tripping the light fantastic and telling everybody to head to California where everything’s free and we’re all going to Heaven and bypassing Hell.<br /><br />And they’re taking over the world!<br /><br />Well, Charlie Manson woke us up out of that dream, but I couldn’t see it. But dad woke me up.<br /><br />“The word is ‘no’, Felix!” he said, when I laid my carefully sculptured plans of a shining and brilliant art career before him on the kitchen table.<br /><br />“But, dad!” I wanted to say, “This is how I’m gonna climb up on that big White Horse I saw in my dream. It’s the only way I think I can make it!”<br /><br />But dad didn’t put much stock in dreams; not the kind you have in the middle of the night, anyway, and certainly not the kind that lead grown men to dance around in bear suits and burn down the learned institutions that had taken Western civilisation thousands of years to put together.<br /><br />I’d never told him about the Great White Horse dream, and when my father said ‘no’, the word was ‘no’.<br /><br />In my cosmos at the time, dad and God were interchangeable personages, and God's Will be done on earth, as it is heaven, or you’d get hit with a lightening bolt.<br /><br />I took it real bad.<br /><br />‘Sullen’ is a state of mind that many teenagers experience, but I do feel I moved this long and august tradition forward a quantum leap.<br /><br />What Rembrandt did for portraiture and Andy Warhol did for Brillo Boxes, I did for ‘sullen’. It became my new art form.<br /><br />And so, as these things go, some years later I ended up at university, studying engineering and failure was not an option. General Irwin Rommel, I have read, was a great motivator, as is fear.<br /><br />Hell, you can even learn to smile, almost, if you work at it, even though you don’t want to, as you can learn to half believe what you’re doing is the right thing, even though you know it isn’t, if you’re confused enough, if you can follow that.<br /><br />But underneath it all, under a sea of alcohol and a neatly crafted devil-may-care attitude, I was miserable, and the only thing more alarming than my misery was the fact that nobody seemed to notice.<br /><br />Not my friends, not my girlfriends, not even my mum. I used to wonder whether they were all blind, but I hid it too well, and learned not to talk.<br /><br />“Yeah, that Felix, he’s kicking goals! That boy’s a winner!” The world loves a winner all right.<br /><br />I’d go to parties and in the middle of the testosterone and estrogen fuelled late teenager and early twenty-something frenzy, I’d simply not be there. It was weird.<br /><br />The music would be thumping, the boys would be knocking back beer and weed and the girls would be shaking it out for the quick and the lucky, and the floor would drop away on me. I’d suddenly be stone cold sober and standing in a room full of grotesque phantoms.<br /><br />In the middle of the night I’d lie on my bed and think about this strange phenomenon, and always, always, up would come the memory of the Great White Horse and the mineshaft.<br /><br />It was scary.<br /><br />Looking back now, it was amazing I held it together, but underneath it all I knew something, instinctively. My dad was the most merciless, hard-headed bastard on the planet, but I knew he loved me and I knew he would never intentionally damage me, and it made all the difference.<br /><br />There had to be a way out of this mess. I needed an exit strategy and one that would hopefully not bring the Wrath of Khan down on my head.<br /><br />Damage or no damage, dad could be formidable when he wasn’t happy about something, and we were talking big biccies here – my future, and his investment in it.<br /><br />But which door? What door? Was there a door?<br /><br />These things I pondered, along with how many pairs of socks to take as I packed my rucksack and prepared for my first big OS trip.<br /><br />A few days after they let us out of the university, I was on the aeroplane bound for mysterious, exotic Kathmandu.Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-1129320028858517942005-10-15T02:45:00.000+07:002005-10-19T22:50:27.596+07:00Kathmandu to Gonda! Pt.10 - The Cave!<strong>A ride through the Nepali Terrai into India:</strong><br />KTM to Nepalgung (Indian border) – 508 km<br />KTM to Gonda (India) – 636 km<br /><br /><strong>The ride:<br /></strong>Kathmandu to Mugling Bazaar – 110 km<br />Mugling Bazaar to Narayanghat – 34 km<br /><br /><strong>The story so far:<br /></strong>On his search, Mr Felix has recently ridden through Hell, died (momentarily) in the bathroom, been brought back to life by the <em>Ghosts of Lovers Past</em> and has just fallen down a mineshaft. It’s been a busy couple of days.<br /><br /><strong>Part 10: The Cave!<br /></strong><br />I am in a boat, on a pond, in a cave at the centre of the earth. I have just fallen down a mineshaft, and have arrived at the bottom.<br /><br />I am calm, the pond is calm, and the little wooden boat is drifting over the black water through the silence towards an opening in the cave wall up ahead.<br /><br />The boat slides through the opening into a bigger cave and a bigger pond, and drifts further out towards the centre.<br /><br />I am sitting on the wooden cross-seat of the boat, towards the back, looking around at my new surroundings – there is a strange half-light in the cave, coming from where I don’t know, but everything is crisp and clear, and I’m content.<br /><br />Just then I hear a splash and suddenly I feel something grab my right ankle. I look down and there’s a long arm extending out of the water and into the boat and a large hand has forcefully clasped on to my leg.<br /><br />I just have time to realise that it’s a hairy arm, before there’s an even bigger splash and up out of the water rises a… well, what is it? It takes a moment for me to realise it’s a large hairy gibbon, the size of a man, and most startling of all, it’s bright green!<br /><br />It all happens so quickly I don’t have time to be afraid, and then the gibbon, who’s standing waste deep in the water beside the boat and staring intently at me, announces in a deep voice: “You’re mine!”<br /><br />For some strange reason this strong male voice, these words and the sure grip of the hand on my ankle calms me, and I relax back onto the cross-seat of the boat and take a look.<br /><br />“Well, my, my, my!” I say to myself. “A bright green gibbon!”<br /><br />I love gibbons. They are, without a doubt, my favourite animals on this good earth, and they’re the only animals I actually <em>pine for. </em><br /><br />I also love dogs, but who doesn’t? I enjoy romping with them, miss them when they’re not around and having a dog as a friend is something very special indeed.<br /><br />But dogs are easy to love, and by saying that I take nothing away from them.<br /><br />Kids and dogs, way to go, and dogs fit in. They are social, understand hierarchies (read: They know who’s boss!) and their capacity for forgiveness is almost christlike.<br /><br />They’re a gift, and thank God for hairy, happy gifts that go ‘bow-wow-wow!’<br /><br />But there are other animals in the pack that take a little more work to embrace, especially considering our penchant for torturing them.<br /><br />I once saw a large, male, black panther in the Colombo Zoo and sat and watched it for an hour.<br /><br />It was heart breaking to see this magnificent beast, with paws the size of rocks and leg muscles forged at the Krupp factory, locked into a small cage.<br /><br />It paced relentlessly, hopelessly, back and forth without break, and without surrender. That thing was going to walk and walk, until it’s pilot-light simply extinguished, and then it was going to drop dead, and there was nothing I could do.<br /><br />It felt bad (that’s an understatement!), I felt bad, so the only thing I could think of was to just sit there, beside the cage (safely on the outside, of course) and acknowledge the damn thing, as was.<br /><br />And you know, interesting things happen when thoughts slow down.<br /><br />I sat there for the first thirty minutes brushing away kids with ice-creams who came too close and stood on my feet and ignoring young men, with laughing girls on their arms, who threw peanuts into the cage.<br /><br />The clock ticked on, and then, for a moment, when there was nobody else around, the great beast stopped its relentless pacing and looked at me.<br /><br />I guess it was thinking no more than ‘who’s this turkey and if I could get out of this cage I’d rip his bloody head off’, but it was enough. I’d been noticed and for a second we looked each other in the eye.<br /><br />Perhaps it’s just my mind in low gear, or maybe I’ve watched too much David Attenborough, but on some visceral level I felt something dark and immensely strong suddenly and unexpectedly punch into me, and it knocked the wind out of my chest.<br /><br />I felt a short, sharp pang of intense fear - I was a mouse, frozen like sorbet. But I'm more than a mouse, I’m also a man with a heart and I said, unbidden (albeit in a small voice): “It’s ok to eat me!”<br /><br />It was the least I could do.<br /><br />And the great beast just turned away, without a flicker, and went on pacing. And what else would you expect from a king under the circumstances? Nothing! He’s a king.<br /><br />But it changed me.<br /><br />I felt a flood of grief go out of me like a wave. Whatever had been locked up, whatever guilt and shame I’d felt over what we’d done to this peerless brute force of nature, just left me.<br /><br />Where it went, I have no idea, but I imagined it sliding outwards in all directions, entering forests and mountain retreats all over Asia where great beasts live, breathe and die.<br /><br />I then got up and left.<br /><br />An hour later I opened the door to my guesthouse room and it was like walking into a cave, and I looked around, puzzled, trying to work out what had changed.<br /><br />Eventually I stood in front of the mirror and looked at my face, and I simply couldn't place it - it wasn't the same old gung-ho face I'd left with this morning.<br /><br />It was pale and grave, and there was a clear, dark light in the eyes I'd never seen before, and it was coming from where? I kept getting the words in my head: "This light is coming from beyond the grave!" and it made no sense. What the hell does that mean? Where's 'from beyond the grave'?<br /><br />And I remembered the black panther, and I thought: "What's a panther?" It was scary.<br /><br />But I knew this: whatever the hell this dark light was and wherever it came from, it was the most majestic, albeit frightening, thing I'd ever seen in my whole life and it spelled <em>freedom.</em><br /><em></em><br />And it was shaking my foundations.Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-1129041671852479272005-10-11T21:31:00.000+07:002005-10-13T22:29:55.446+07:00Kathmandu to Gonda! Pt.9 - The Tomb!<strong>A ride through the Nepali Terrai into India:<br /></strong>KTM to Nepalgung (Indian border) – 508 km<br />KTM to Gonda (India) – 636 km<br /><br /><strong>The ride:</strong><br />Kathmandu to Mugling Bazaar – 110 km<br />Mugling Bazaar to Narayanghat – 34 km<br /><br /><strong>The story so far:</strong><br />Mr Felix has just fallen down a mineshaft, but we wind the clock back a few hours for a bathroom interlude.<br /><br /><strong>Part 9: The Tomb!</strong><br /><br />Just before I fell down the mineshaft, I went to the bathroom.<br /><br />I was physically drained from the morning’s outing, and reading Dante’s Inferno had somewhat miraculously, and unexpectedly, collected all of the waring parts of myself into a coherent whole, and the coherent whole, I’d discovered, was empty.<br /><br />I was <em>The Hollow Man</em>, alas.<br /><br />“How ironic!” I thought to myself. Throughout my adult life, rightly or wrongly, deluded or on-the-ball, I'd relentlessly pushed for content over form. <em>I worshipped the flame</em>, and now the gas supply had been cut-off.<br /><br />Maybe I'd forgotten to pay the bill?<br /><br />A year and a half ago I’d walked out on a secure job at a university in Melbourne. I taught in the Creative and Digital Media Department, and what had begun as an exciting and stimulating job had, to my mind, degenerated under new management into a farcical parade owned by the forces of globilisation and ruled by political correctness.<br /><br />It was the <em>Emperor’s New Clothes,</em> and we were living it.<br /><br />The new order seemed to be: if it looked good and attracted paying customers, it was ‘in’, if it created waves and scared people off, it was ‘out’.<br /><br />“But good art naturally scares people!” I said to the director, somewhat naively one day at the end of a rather heated discussion on ‘where we are heading’.<br /><br />“Yes, we understand that, Felix,” replied the director evenly, "but we've got to keep the doors open and it's a new world blah blah blah blah..." He leaned back easily into his chair, a man in total control, and filled up the room with fine words.<br /><br />Above his head hung his latest artistic gift to humanity, a glossy oil painting of the Space Shuttle <em>Challenger</em> just before it blew up.<br /><br />"What's with the new painting, boss?" I'd asked him the week before. (He winced everytime I called him 'boss', so naturally I kept doing it.)<br />"Well, it's the Space Shuttle <em>Challenger,</em> just like it says on the label!" he said, slightly puzzled, as though overnight I'd turned into a moron, as well as being a pain.<br />"Yeah, but what's with the numbers?" I asked. Over the image of the Shuttle he'd painted strings of bright green numbers running horizontally across the picture.<br />"Why!" he said, obviously happy that someone in the department, other than the flunkies and boot-lickers, had finally taken an interest in his beloved art career. "That's the computer code that the Shuttle was spitting out just before the O-rings failed..."<br />"And the major malfunction happened!" I interupted brightly.<br />"Exactly!" he beamed.<br /><br />I tell you, it's great to be on the same wavelength as the boss, especially one as well thought out as mine was.<br /><br />And everything he said was all very reasonable of course, but you know it's a sham.<br /><br />It's a bull without balls, a lion without teeth, a woman without a heart - and what's the point? How can you give yourself to something you no longer respect?<br /><br />It stank and in the end I walked, and now, unfortunately, I was in the same boat as the people I so passionately despised; different path maybe, but same end-point.<br /><br />I lay back on the bed and contemplated some well worn cliches: <em>there are many paths to hell-on-earth, pride cometh before a fall</em> and <em>how wrong you can be.</em><br /><br />But at least I knew I was in Hell and that was something, and the pilot-light on my once beloved (to my mind) roaring flame seemed to be still sputtering with some life - not enough to light a cigarette maybe, but still.<br /><br />What was it that I’d betrayed so badly? What was it I wasn’t getting?<br /><br />I lay on the bed without moving for over an hour. Whatever was at issue here, I realised, wasn't going to get solved by my on-board computer. I needed perspective. I needed a gun.<br /><br /><em>Time slows down. I am alone in a barren room, under a white sheet - a grey carcass of dried bones. Silence descends like a fog, filling every crack and corner of the room. I am suffocating under a sinking weight....</em><br /><br /><em>... and I need a pee, badly.<br /></em><br />I then realised why God had built the ‘eat, drink and waste product’ mechanism into living organisms. Without it our pilot-lights would simply go out and we would sink inexorably into despair.<br /><br />“Clever!” I thought. “Who would have guessed!”<br /><br />Inside the bathroom I lent against the wall to steady myself and after I’d finished at the toilet, I went to the basin to wash my face and hands, and looked in the mirror, and what a sight I was.<br /><br />It was a face I hardly knew – drawn, pale and without life. “Jeezus!” I said, “I’m dying on the inside!” and a knot formed in my belly and the fear of death rose up like a white sheet and I fainted.<br /><br />I don’t know how long I was out, maybe a minute or two, but it’s hard to tell when time has stopped.<br /><br />Slowly I became conscious of lying on the cold floor, and the right side of my head ached where it must have hit the tiles, but apart from that there seemed to be no damage.<br /><br />I opened my eyes, groggy, and standing together before me in holographic splendour where the only two women in my life I have really loved.<br /><br />I closed my eyes and shook my head, just to check I wasn’t hallucinating, and when I opened my eyes again, struggling to come awake, they were still there.<br /><br />And they were radiant. They were the most radiant creatures I’d ever seen in my life, and they were looking down at me and smiling, and the kindness in their eyes just broke me.<br /><br />And I started to weep great sobs (and I could feel my sinuses clearing up!) and I said, out of nowhere: “I’m sorry I lost you! I’m sorry I didn’t hold on! I just didn’t know how to reach far enough!”<br /><br />And both of them broke into broad grins, and then they left, so I hoisted myself up off the floor, took a cold shower, went back into the bedroom, lay back down on the bed and fell down a hole.Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7460058.post-1128803252555809902005-10-09T02:57:00.000+07:002005-10-12T23:13:59.780+07:00Kathmandu to Gonda! Pt.8 - The Mineshaft!<strong>A ride through the Nepali Terrai into India:</strong><br />KTM to Nepalgung (Indian border) – 508 km<br />KTM to Gonda (India) – 636 km<br /><br /><strong>The ride:</strong><br />Kathmandu to Mugling Bazaar – 110 km<br />Mugling Bazaar to Narayanghat – 34 km<br /><br /><strong>The story so far:</strong><br />Mr Felix continues his search for the <em>lost divine spark</em>. After a ride down through the mountains out of Kathmandu, he’s stuck in Narayanghat with a bad flu and a state of mind that’s approaching terror. He’s been down to the internet café to read about Dante’s Inferno and has chucked away his dope. Night is closing in, he is laying on his bed and things are rapidly coming to a head.<br /><br /><strong>Part 8: The Mineshaft!<br /></strong><br />I am falling, falling down a mineshaft. I look back up towards the light and see the world of the familiar slipping away.<br /><br />Below me I can see nothing. I am alone, hurtling downwards inside black fear.<br /><br />“You’ve done it now, boy!” I say to myself, and I know with a cold certainty that whatever is at the bottom of this shaft is what I’ve been chasing for decades.<br /><br />There’s a hard nut forming in the centre of my chest and it’s pushing its way outwards through my sternum. I wince with the pain and crouch forward as I fall.<br /><br />I talk to myself: “There will be no way back. How bad do you want this? What the hell's at the bottom of this shaft that attracts you so?”<br /><br /><em>When I was at high school, many years ago, getting all set for a life of successful boredom, I had a dream about a Great White Horse.<br /><br />In the dream I was a young boy, cradled lovingly in my father’s arms. We were in a green field and my father was standing, with me in his arms, by the entrance to a deep mineshaft, looking across to a big white draft horse that stood across the way.<br /><br />“See that horse over there, Felix?” he said. “Your job is to climb on to it and try and get to the top!”<br /><br />I looked across at the Great White Horse (for that seemed to be its name) and saw that it was surrounded by men, some of who I knew, and all of who were trying franticly to climb onto the horse and get to the top.<br /><br />There were men hanging on to its sides, men hanging on to its tail and some were even clamping themselves upside down to its belly.<br /><br />All the while the great beast stood stock still, turning its head every now and then, flapping its ears and flicking its tail, but ignoring the men. It was as happy and content as a Hollywood movie star on opening night.<br /><br />The most successful men were sitting in a tight line on the great horse’s back, but they were also franticly pushing and shoving at each other and standing on the faces and heads of the men further down, who they attacked without pity.<br /><br />The whole scene was one of chaos and desperation, and some men, the losers, the weak ones, were standing around disconsolately on the ground, waiting for an opening, or simply having given up.<br /><br />But the most alarming thing of all was the man sitting on the Great White Horse’s head. He was obviously ‘the king’ because he wore a crown, which was made of tissue paper and coloured red, similar to what children wear at birthday parties.<br /><br />He was small, wiry and nervous, lashing out repeatedly at those behind and below him, and he smelled of something rancid, something bitter. If he was a king, he was sitting on an uncomfortable thrown indeed, and he reminded me of a monkey.<br /><br />I see a lot of monkeys in Asia, and I'm extremely wary of them. They can be vicious, unpredictable and opportunistic. They hunt in packs, attack without warning and act without reason; none that I can make head or tail of anyway. I avoid them, always.<br /><br />“Climb up on that thing?” I thought to myself doubtfully, and with growing alarm.<br /><br />I studied the horse for a few minutes looking for a path through the men, and I figured I could make it about half way up the beast’s side if I worked hard, and then, I guess, I’d have to hang on to its mighty flank for the rest of my life and hope nobody further up stood on my face.<br /><br />But there was something even more disturbing. I felt sorry for the lot of them, even the vicious ones at the top, even the mad king. It was a half-life, a half-truth they were living, and it had driven them all half-crazy.<br /><br />“Surely there’s more to life than this?” I thought. “Surely there’s a bigger truth to be lived?”<br /><br />Just then my father interrupted my silent reverie and said, soberly: “But whatever you do, Felix, win, lose or draw, don’t go near that hole!” and he pointed to the entrance of the mineshaft at our side.<br /><br />I looked down at this black hole in this bright green field of men’s labour, and back at the horse, and back at the hole, and felt myself slipping out of dad's warm arms.<br /></em><br />I am hurtling downwards into the black.<br /><br />The pain in my chest is persistent, relentless, and fear is turning cold. An icy hollowness is clawing at me, struggling upwards from my feet, snapping at my belly.<br /><br />What’s at the bottom of this shaft? Death? Or worse... madness? A monster? A life of hopelessness?<br /><br />Just then I know I can pull out. I can stop this freefall with a simple act of Will. I have a moment of doubt, and this is the slipperiest fear of all - the yawning fear of failing myself.<br /><br />I struggle to get a grasp. I’ve come too far to turn back now and it’s cost too much. Home does not exist. I am alone.<br /><br />Quietly, slowly I come back to myself. “Fuck it!” I whisper. “Let’s do it and be damned.”<br /><br />There’s a sudden, sharp stab of pain in my chest, and I clench my jaw and curl into a ball. I can’t take any more, and I'm about to break.<br /><br />I groan, and hear the nut in my chest crack open and it feels like a bone breaking, and out slides a small piece of white tissue paper, and I watch it float quickly away.<br /><br />And out of nowhere, because it's the last breath I've got, I say the words: “Oh, Jesus, help me!”<br /><br />Immediately, I feel a breath from behind and I hear the words, right in the centre of my head, clear and strong: “The Truth is in Surrender!” and without thought I arch my head back, open my arms and give in to my Fate.Felix and Mr Pumpyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06570657416039091909noreply@blogger.com1