On our last day In Zanzibar, while sipping our first cup of coffee after an early morning beach walk to greet the sunrise, sitting on a deck gently rocked by the lapping of waves beneath it, a spectacular rainbow swathed the sky, plunging into the horizon of the turquoise waters of the Indian Ocean. It was visible only for a brief moment as the rising sun swallowed it swiftly, but it gave much excitement to the moment as our adventure in Africa was coming to an end. A stripe of many colors, how fitting an image to paint the picture of the memories of these last 2 weeks.
I arrived in Nairobi at 8:30 PM of the next day, East Africa being 7 hours ahead of EST, after a journey of 8500 miles and an 18-hour flight from Atlanta via Amsterdam. I barely slept, watched 4 movies en route, and had wine with the 4 meals I consumed on board. Furthermore, the wait for my luggage and visa processing was chaotic and very long. Jomo Kenyatta International Airport was very basic and merely functional, a stark departure from the gleaming and entertaining Schiphol where a layover is welcomed because of the many amusements offered such as the casino, trendy shops loaded with international goods, movable exhibits of the Rijksmuseum, at this time showing art from the Dutch golden age such as Jan Vermeer and his Girl with the Pearl Earrings, massage lounge, internet stations, numerous restaurants, bars and coffee shops, sleek toilets and showers, a lounging area where you can stretch and snooze, banks and currency exchange and ATM’s, and attentive and customer-centered service . I was exhausted as I took a taxi to my hotel. However, less than 5 minutes on the road to the city center, the taxi headlight shone on a magnificent black and white striped horse standing and facing us, a Zebra! It was so unexpected and so amazing that all fatigue left me. I knew then that I was going to have a great time.
Our Kenya and Tanzania experience covered over 2200 km. in 10 days trucking and camping from Nairobi to Dar es Salaam and 4 days in Zanzibar, where we got to stay in hotel rooms in Stone Town and a beach resort in Nungwi. Driving to our destination was long and bumpy and dusty, but we got to experience the immense diversity that East Africa has to offer. Many places in our itinerary were not accessible by air, train or bus. The custom-fitted Mercedes overland truck we used was a veritable hotel on wheels. The space under the seats were built with storage bins where we can unpack our luggage and safely lock them. The back rests were built with shelves which stored groceries and dry foods and condiments. The outside panels of the truck had shelves and storage under it and it also housed the water tank, fuel tank, coal bin and the camp stools and tents. When we open camp the side panels go up and all things are on hand for making dinner. Peter, our camp assistant did most of the cooking and heavy cleaning but we all took turns to help with chores. It was a novelty for me to be camping and I didn’t know what to expect. The first night, after driving down the escarpment of the Rift Valley, we pitched tent on the edge of Lake Naivasha. I layed awake listening to strange sounds and sensing the presence of living things outside my tent. I was told the next morning that hyenas and hippos were in the vicinity. The trip I booked was midway between the really basic camping and the luxury safari. I figured the basic was too rough and the luxury, aside from being very expensive, will not offer the authentic experience of the wilderness. We camped in organized campsites except for 2 nights in the wild, where there were absolutely no amenities that we had to forego showers. In organized campsites there were showers and toilets and electricity, and some have bars. A few have upgrades for basic lodging with en suite bath which I availed myself of whenever offered. Camping got old with me very quickly. One upgrade was in the farm campsite in Kembu which was a charming 1 ½ story cottage with a twin bedroom on the main level and a queen loft with a veranda. I shared this with 2 crazy guys from Vancouver. Our cook didn’t serve brewed coffee which I missed terribly, so it was a treat to have a kitchen where I brewed fresh Kenyan coffee for the 3 of us. In Mikadi, near Dar es Salaam, the upgrade was a palm-thatched beach hut. Here breaking waves lapped at my doorstep, the sea breeze caressed me to sleep and the warm sunrise woke me up in the morning. In Kilimanjaro, the upgrade was a cottage built in colonial times with extensive grounds planted with bougainvillas and hibiscus and where there was a birdman who was nursing an orphaned falcon with raw meat, and a large bar with cushioned couches to lounge in.
Exodus operates from the UK and most of the 15 travelers were from there. Four were from London, 2 couples from Southampton, one from Birmingham, one from Scotland, 4 from Vancouver, and I from the US. Our trip co-leaders were a young Caucasian couple from Zimbabwe and our camp assistant and cook, Peter, is an African from Tanzania. Peter was amazing in the camp kitchen. Without a Cuisinart or an oven he prepared pureed soups, mashed peas and vegetables, and even baked a cake.
At first camp I identified my travel buddies, the Truckin’ Thrashers. They’re a motley group of comedians who needed a female audience so their excesses at scatological and lewd allusions will not descend into the gutter. There was the monologist whose string was played masterfully by the artful picker and aided in harmony by the sidekick. The ensemble was completed by the passionate force of our man from Puglia. We sat around late into the night after everyone had zipped themselves into their sleeping bags cracking up around the campfire or in the bar. We had been scolded about propriety and to mind our manners. I’ve been around enough with guys like these, having been regularly recruited to be the 4th man in a golf foursome, or to fill in at poker or mahjong, or just to be the ear for their stories when the going at parties gets boring. The jokes and the laughs are all about the same things, to conquer sexual anxieties and homophobia and to titillate with erotic fantasies. I smile at them with indulgence even if I’m tempted to wash their mouths with soap, because in their other lives, away from the guy group, they are quite lovable men. I’ll remember them fondly, for they made me feel special on this trip and the pleasure was mine.
Jambo! Karibu! Hello! Welcome! in Swahili. From Nairobi we drove down to the Rift Valley on bumpy pot-holed roads passing the shanty suburbs teeming with activity of the market on Sunday. Kenya looks very poor. I’m reminded of the squatter district in Tondo, with its dirt-floored huts made of corrugated aluminum and salvaged construction materials. Everyone on the street greeted us. Children waved and ran after the truck laughing in merriment. The people are very friendly. However they have also learned from the tourists. In cities and tourist areas they are intrusive and accost you with offerings of service or goods for sale. I got lost in the labyrinthine alleys of Zanzibar and I asked a little girl about 11 or 12 years old for directions and she asked for money first before showing me my way. She pissed me off so I gave her only half of what I intended. On the other hand one of us left a camera in the Land Rover in Ngorongoro, and the African guide returned it safely, but the taxi driver on the way to Dar airport quoted 15000 shillings when I engaged him which I verified clearly, then tried to rip me off by demanding 50000 when I got off. I prevailed.
The Rift Valley grabs you breathless. It was formed 20 million years ago by a violent tear of the Arabian and African tectonic plates and ripped the earth from Syria to Mozambique. In its wake volcanoes and lakes and mountains and vast plains were formed. Serengeti, the endless plains or siringit, as the Masai calls it, is an ocean of undulating golden grass from horizon to horizon and beyond, as big as Belgium, as big as Ohio. Its surface is dotted by kopjes, charcoal gray volcanic rock outcroppings that take on fanciful shapes and precarious positions as they are molded by changing temperatures through the millenniums. The immense landscape of grass is relieved by the graceful spreading crown of acacia trees. It is the season of migration. Around January and February 1.6 million wildebeests, and hundreds of thousands of zebras, gazelles, impalas, topis, waterbucks, hartebeests, buffaloes, warthogs, and giraffes march from Masai Mara in Kenya to Serengeti and Ngorongoro in Tanzania following the rains to graze in the new vegetation and mate and give birth. Later in the year the reverse trip occurs as the rains turn north. It is dazzling to drive amongst these wild animals and see them up close and personal. There are wildebeests everywhere. They are massed in front of you and behind you and against the horizon you can see lines of thousands of them trudging along in a file, following the one in front of them from nose to tail. They didn’t bother us and seemed not to be bothered by us. They gave way for the truck to pass through. We came upon a family of giraffes, lumbering and very tall and very colorful feeding on acacia trees and sucking water from the tall cactus. Click and whirr, the cameras shoot. It is fatal for them to lower their heads so they cannot drink from the ground. We camped in the wild and had an early morning drive before the sun is up to spot the predators as they stalk their prey and make their kill. One has to know the habits of these magnificent animals higher up in the food chain to know where to look for them. We were rewarded with 2 hyenas finishing up after a lion kill of an impala. Meanwhile vultures were silently and patiently hovering by or perching still on treetops, vigilant, ready to swoop as soon as the hyenas had their fill. In a moment we heard shrieks and the rush of wings. About 20 vultures swooped into the abandoned carcass in a feeding frenzy. In the distance the lion that made the kill was walking away in a relaxed stride, looking for a cool spot under an acacia tree to rest and sleep, his hunger satiated for the next 3 days. Our guide spotted for us a solitary leopard up in a tree. Jackals and more lions and hyenas completed our morning. We felt fulfilled seeing a kill here and other evidence of it with abandoned carcasses of downed wildebeests and antelopes, but in the alleys of Zanzibar we were repulsed and turned away from a cat feeding on its kill of an alley rat.
The Rift Valley has many lakes and we visited the fresh water lake Naivasha and had a boat ride to view hippos and a variety of birds. We identified the fish eagle, ibis, kingfisher, various sea gull and pelicans, superb starlings, sparrows, an owl and a flock of the weird huge bird, the maribu stork. We visited Elsamere, on the other side of Lake Naivasha, the former home of Joy Adamson, of “Born Free” fame, now a conservation center, and we had tea on its lawn, where colobus monkeys stand alert to steal our crumpets or playfully grin and make faces at us. In lake Nakuru, a soda lake, we came upon the dazzling sight of thousands of pink flamingos feeding on its shores swathing the edge of the lake with a ribbon of pink. There were mean rhinos in the near distance, and we had to walk behind the cover of the truck to get on shore to get close to the flamingos. We had lunch high on a kopje, and had a sweeping panoramic view of all these grandeur. We didn’t have to spend $400 on a balloon ride over Serengeti to experience this breathtaking vista, as 2 of us did and they missed all the excitement of viewing a lion kill up close. We saw the rock hyrax, a tiny strange rodent-like animal, the nearest relative of the elephant, believe it or not! And elephants, we saw herds of them, feeding on acacia trees and bulldozing the landscape.
We camped for a night on the banks of Lake Victoria, the 2nd largest fresh water lake in the world, next to Lake Superior, its size as big as Ireland, and bordered by 3 countries, Kenya, Tanzania, and Uganda. It’s the source of the headwaters of the Nile. With a glass of wine we pondered the romance of its waters flowing through the legendary river in the land of the pharaohs as we watched its spectacular sunset unfold before us.
We left Serengeti to drive to Ngorongoro, a collapsed crater 16 km wide with steep walls 600 meters high. We camped at the rim of the crater before descending in 5-man land-rovers early the next morning. As we opened camp 3 zebras galloped across our site and hyenas laughed and kept us awake all night. But the night was magnificent with the pitch black sky and brilliant constellations so clear with shooting stars drawing a bright flash across the horizon. I’m reminded of Van Gogh’s swirling starry night. We descended the crater in the early morning mist and caught the sunrise peeking out of the caldera’s rim and illuminating the crater with its lake below in muted surreal light. Ahh, I have no care in the world. I can live like the Masai who are allowed to graze and water their cattle herd in the Ngorongoro reserve. The Masai man leads his cattle from the village to the water every morning, lays in the shade and wait for every animal to finish grazing, then herd them back to the village at night, to repeat the same thing everyday. The women remain in the village and build their mud and dung huts, cook, gather wood and fetch water and tend the children. On second thought, I take back my wish.
Ngorongoro is a natural zoo with about 100,000 animals living permanently there and swelling in numbers during migration, with the arrival of the herbivores, wildebeests, et al. The elephant population is old, all males, as the females stayed up to be with the children, as once down they cannot go up the steep walls of the crater. Similarly there are no giraffes. It is disconcerting to see everyone here, land-rovers in huge numbers darting here and there in stalk of animal specimen, unlike in the Serengeti where it’s so vast you seldom see anyone else with you. There were 3 van-loads of Orientals and I was curious so I inquired and they were Koreans. If a party spotted anything of interest it was relayed to the guides in other vehicles and everyone scrambled to the site. It was gridlock. It spoiled the experience for me, but it illustrates the dilemma for tourism in this country. It is a poor country and needs dollar exchange revenue badly, it has limited habitable land, and population is growing fast, yet they have reserved vast wild parklands for protection, for the rest of the world to experience, for there is no place on earth like this, unchanged from the day of the big bang or from when god created it, depending on your persuasion. It could be the birthplace of humankind, based on finding “Lucy” near here.
We paused at the hippo pool for lunch and were warned to guard our meal from the black Kites, scavenger birds who had learned to steal the lunches of tourists. I barely lowered myself to sit on a driftwood under a tree when a Kite swooped from nowhere and ripped the 2 sandwich bags from my hands nearly amputating my fingers. “Shit, there goes my lunch!” Later on I was still fuming as I told the story, when something dropped at my feet. It was one of the bags, with a piece of bread crust still in it, and the bird was over my head up there in the tree, amused I’m sure at my expense, and then I felt something trickling down my legs. It was the bird’s chalky guano, its excrement! Such nerve, I was really dissed.
It’s a long drive to Kilimanjaro but I was filled with excitement. I recall Hemingway’s “Snows of Kilimanjaro”, the movie with Gregory Peck and Susan Hayward and Ava Gardner, which I saw as an adolescent in the Philippines, and I fell in love with it! I had yearnings then of going to Africa, and to see the world, and there I was, right in its bosom. I had to climb Kili. It is the highest free-standing mountain in the world at 19,335 ft (5895 m), rising from the hot savannah and rolling plains of the Great Rift Valley to its frigid snow-covered peak. One can climb it without mountaineering skills but one has to be fit and can stand sustained running for half an hour, for the altitude can be a killer. I never acclimatized to the low oxygen tension climbing only to 2700 m, up to Mandara base camp, in the Marangu route. It takes 3-4 hours to reach Mandara, and I was huffing and puffing and stopping every 20 steps for the last 30 minutes of reaching the camp, to catch my breath. Pole pole, slowly in Swahili, that’s how you finish. I decided right then and there, never mind my romantic notions of the mountain, that I will not return to climb my dear Kili to its snow-capped peak after all. The descent was a cinch. I was comfortable with my breathing, there was a refreshing drizzle, and I was able to observe and enjoy the semitropical lushness and beauty along the way.
By this time, after 10 days of camping, we were weary and ready to relax on the beach in Zanzibar. The drive was long, through sisal and coffee and tea plantations. We got to view the lush countryside before descending to sea level and confronting the heat and humidity, but a plane trip would have been better as there’s an airport between Kili and Zanzibar.
We reached the port of Dar es Salaam, a busy city teeming with people and honking vehicles. Up until this point we encountered only occasional trucks and buses on the road. There are no private cars on the highway in Africa. The locals walked to their destinations, long walks sometimes on bare feet. From Dar we took a 2-hour ferry ride to cross the channel to Zanzibar. The ferry was packed, there were custom checks and bag inspections, the locals elbow their way through and do not queue, and the population stinks with a peculiar body odor which gave me a headache. We were soaked with sweat as we had to dress covering our knees and arms, in deference to the custom of the majority Muslim population on the coast. We were held in an airless packed compartment, 6 to a row, and the sailing was choppy than usual, we were told, I needed to breathe. I got out of my seat and stood on the deck among the crates and bags and chickens in cages. Sa-id, the ticket conductor invited me to the bow of the ferry where there’s better view and seating, where I could sit on a stair and face the horizon ahead, among the crates, and bags, and chicken in cages. On the way to the bow I had to pass through the galley and got to meet the captain and the officers. Captain Chile,etc. was chatty and we had a long conversation, and that’s when I learned Coretta King had died. That was Thursday, February 2.
There are no more gigolos on the beaches of Zanzibar. That went with the Aga Khan and Rita Hayworth. Zanzibar is imbued with exotic and ignominious history, being a busy and rich trading post in its heyday for cloves and other spices, ivory and slaves, and ruled by sultans and sheiks in their gilded palaces. It is a tropical island with bananas and coconut trees and the red colobus monkey, and white fine sandy beaches. But it is run down and faded like an old dowager who had lost her fortune, and slowly crumbling into ruins. But you can imagine how it can be a jewel if restored and cared for. Stone Town with its narrow alleys and remains of grand houses with intricately carved doors accented by brass finials can be imagined to be once magnificent and shining. But alas many sections are in ruins with the dwelling’s guts exposed and inhabited by alley cats and had become receptacles for the ubiquitous flimsy used plastic bags that are strewn all over the landscape. The oceanside park is inhabited by locals who squat or nap there all day and accost you with touts of tours or goods or taxi for hire. At night it is lovely at a distance with the night fish market and bazaar, but it is intimidating for the tourist to stroll through it. There is a program unveiled for restoration, but the government has no money and has no private benefactors to do the massive work. It is such a pity for it is a world heritage site. However there is a Freddie Mercury restaurant, the local world recording artist celebrity. There are several fine restaurants housed in the few restored grand houses, and the meals are cheap and the South African wines are great, as the beers, Kilimanjaro and Tusker. We tried their Chinese restaurant, and it felt strange not to have pork in the menu. At the next table from us the newly appointed Minister of Agriculture was being honored. There is a nice shopping section but there were no unique blings to buy. Tanzania is not the place to buy Tanzanite jewelry. There are no chic shops. New York and Las Vegas have the best designs in Tanzanite. We spent 2 days in Stone Town and took the spice tour and viewed the slave market and Prison Island, where recalcitrant slaves were held until shipped to the New World.
Then we were off to the beach in Nungwi, north of the island, 1 ½ hours from Stone Town. It takes determination to get there. The road is dusty and bumpy and pot-hole ridden. I’m reminded of the drive from hell when we went to Boracay. You pass through little villages of thatched huts and roadside vegetable stands. In Nungwi Village our accommodations are 3rd rate but adequate. Nearby, a 20 minute walk on the beach away from the Village, there is a new international caliber resort, Gemma del Est, with competitive international 5-star rates, but expensive by local standards. Regardless of where you stay, the beach is the picture of paradise, endless and broad white stretch of fine sand, turquoise waters, gentle breeze, clear sky, coconut trees curtsying to the sand, and quiet coves where no one else is there but you. I spent the day following a snail as it crossed a sand ripple, watched a spindly sea urchin roll on its many spines, studied shallow pools formed by the receding tide, turned over stones to coax colorful fish out in the open, picked shells, stalked sand crabs to its hole, dug for clams, looked for starfish in different colors, picked brilliant broken off corals, read a book, dozed and dreamt.
I arrived at Hartsfield-Jackson in a downpour, and learned that my sister is boycotting her daughter’s wedding, that my son and his girlfriend have broken up, that my Philippine Foundation executive director had resigned, and Coretta King is dead. I am back to my life, but on that last day in Zanzibar the rainbow dipped into the horizon and I think the other end lies in the Amazon.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Ich Liebe Berlin
Hi Y'all,
Hope everyone had a nice Thanksgiving. Got back Sunday without any checked luggage but hand-carrying the flu instead and today is my 2nd day of calling in sick from work and I'm not enjoying it because I'm really feeling miserable, truly being punished for my shenanigans with the State beaurocracy.
Berlin is a city emerging from the rubble of bombings literally, and tryingto come to terms and move on from it's dark and ignominious past. The city has grand boulevards and majestic roundabouts, and a sprawling central park Tiergarten, the hunting grounds of past royalty, that was just lovely last Friday covered with fresh snow, the same weather which dumped tons in the rest of Europe and paralyzed transportation. Doobie and I took the double-decker bus hop on and off city tour while snowing which rendered the city views pristine and fresh, until it got heavy and dark towards the afternoon. I was cozy in my ankle- lenght mink, a wise decision considering I hesitated to lug the bulky garment at first. I bought a wool cloche, hated to pay the Euro price since I know i can get a similar one from Loehmanns at 75% off, but I needed a hat in the snow. I lost it on our first stop, left it on the bus, then Doobie and I got separated and went on our separate ways. I hopped back on the bus at Checkpoint Charlie about 2 hours later and I couldn't believe it! There was my cloche on an empty seat. I felt it was my lucky day. Checkpoint Charlie was the border crossing between East and West Berlin when the Wall stood from August 1961-November 9,1989. Berlin has been divided and reunited many times, parceled out among various nations as war booty and divided into 4 sectors at one point. There are whole neighborhood sections bombed to smithereens during WWII. Therefore you don't see many old buildings in spite of the city being 750 years old. But literally they are reconstructing it as it was and heavy equipment and lorries are everywhere, digging the rubble and building anew. There are sections that are completely modern marked with distinctive architecture designed by important architects from the planet, such as in the Potsdamerplatz, the equivalent of Times Square and in the superlative Friedrichstrasse shopping arcades. The Kurfurstendamm or Ku'damm for short is the longest street in Berlin and is very charming and romantic with double sidewalks lined with cafes and shops and with trees and park seats in the center promenade. Bismarck, who felt culturally inferior (my editorial),designed this after the Champs- Elysees and it captured its splendor. The rebuilt Reichstag, the seat of the Republic and the new observation dome atop it with its intricate mirror panels and rails has circular spiraling ramp where you can stroll and have a panoramic view of the entire city. It is a work of art built by an important London architect. Not far is the historic Brandenburg Tor, where part of the Wall once stood, and south of it is the newly opened Holocaust Memorial designed by American architect Eisenmann. It is a field of 2711 concrete stelae in a grid pattern, with varying heights covering a whole city block with the effect of undulating and seeemingly unstable surface if viewed as a whole composition. Along the shorter pillars of the field it suggested rows of perfectly lined coffins as far as the eye can see. One can walk in between the stelae and can enter the field from any direction and find one's own way among the pillars. Among the tallest ones one can feel an oppressive feeling as if the walls are closing in. Underground is the holocaust museum, a place so gripping it will not fail to break you down in tears. I emerged very angry at Bush's policies,for many of them are reminiscent of Hitler's initial moves that culminated in the atrocious systematic murder of a group of human beings.We stayed at the Westin Grand on Friedrichstrasse, a former palace which is decked to the hilt in Christmas lights and holiday trimmings. It has a central 6-story foyer with a stained glass domed ceiling and a grand staircase where carolers would line up to entertain guests beginning next week. It's a shame we missed this. Berlin is big on the holidays, just like its big on its mascot the Berlin bear, which can be seen in effigy or as looming sculptures in corners and sidewalks all over town. Christmas bazaars and fairs are popping up in every neighborhood and major commercial intersections. We checked out the bazaar set up near our hotel, in the Forum on Unter den Linden, a square flanked with beautiful buildings, among them the Staatsoper and St Hedwig Cathedral. I stopped for a moment at St Hedwig to pay my respects. It is an odd Catholic church set up differently with no central space or knave and the main church space is in the basement level and divided into several chapels.These Christmas bazaars are so nostalgic and festive. They set up wooden booths dressed with holiday lights and glitter. They sell crafts and the usual import doodads from developing countries, and gifts and holiday decorations, and wonderful food concessions with bratwurst stands and cheese and spun sugar candies, fried dough breads,pastries and chocolates to die for, a Thai booth where I had to sample their noodles (good), capuccinos,and hot chocolates and warm spiced wine laced with amaretto (goes down real smooth). The bigger bazaars come with old-fashioned fairs with ferris wheels and carousels and music grinders with hustling monkeys (now robotized). You meet the German populace, and as a group they are a handsome lot, after the Scandinavians. They are rule abiding. They stand at the street corner waiting for the green pedestrian light , they don't cross even if they've been standing for ages and there isn't any car in sight. The rule goes both ways. They don't stop for jaywalking pedestrians, and would run over you if you cross on the red light.The food is robust and sticks to your bones, made the old-fashion way with real butter and fat on the meat. We dined on various restaurants and cafes along the River Spree.Maya took us to her favorite cafe where we had desserts and coffee and played mahjong for one jai-alai, which Dobbs won. Maya requested a mahjong set for my pasalubong, and she wanted to play right away so she can refresh her memory of the game.She plans to introduce the game to her friends. In one cafe they had a ticker tape of the beer prices on view on TV screens so you can check how much your favorite beer is going by the glass. I sampled the traditional holiday menu of goose, venison, and duck, and various sausages,schnitzel,hot potato salad,candied and spiced apple sides,cabbage,and sauerkraut. We only drank beer, sampled lagers,and pilsners, and dark,and wheat beer as much as we can. I gained 3 pounds.The populace is handsome too in the U-bahn. We took 2 trains to get to Maya's flat for coffee and cakes, in the mixed section of the city.Heretofore we haven't met any ethnics or colored, except us. Their ethnics are Turks,and their story as minorities is the same as in America. We met 2 of Maya's roommates, Ian and Karen. Maya's building is a cooperative, and they are in the midst of renovation and painting in their individual unit.The roommates all have interesting resumes. Ian is a set designer and carpenter and built his bed platform himself, which is very funky in black,and his shelves are stacked steel laundry drums, very original and funkier still, and works very well in storing shirts and underwear and socks. Maya's space has tall windows which she draped in sheer gossamer, and she has good light to maintain her tropical indoor plants in good health. She's not living in squalor, mom. We had melt-in-your mouth cakes in different flavors with various berry fillings and chocolate and cream layers from Maya's favorite bakery and coffee in the dining area. Karen spread a blue cloth on the table and arranged votive candles and yellow autumn leaves she picked from the courtyard below in the center. We had lively conversation about the state of the world, why the holocaust happened, the minority issue in Germany, and America, the state of our schools, the unemployment in Germany and the European Union, about the job-nomads (my new favorite term) and entertainment junkies among the X-generation, and time just flew, and I was almost late for La Boheme at 7 PM at the Komische oper. Maya and Doobs have their own schedule to cruise the bars and check the rock and roll bands until 3 AM. I was more miserable with my cough and headache after the opera,I didn't feel like having dinner and I had to beg for aspirin from the concierge. I had potato and sausage soup in the lobby and a wheat beer, then packed , scheduled a wake-up call at 4 AM and went to bed. Our return flight is at 7:10 AM.
Hope everyone had a nice Thanksgiving. Got back Sunday without any checked luggage but hand-carrying the flu instead and today is my 2nd day of calling in sick from work and I'm not enjoying it because I'm really feeling miserable, truly being punished for my shenanigans with the State beaurocracy.
Berlin is a city emerging from the rubble of bombings literally, and tryingto come to terms and move on from it's dark and ignominious past. The city has grand boulevards and majestic roundabouts, and a sprawling central park Tiergarten, the hunting grounds of past royalty, that was just lovely last Friday covered with fresh snow, the same weather which dumped tons in the rest of Europe and paralyzed transportation. Doobie and I took the double-decker bus hop on and off city tour while snowing which rendered the city views pristine and fresh, until it got heavy and dark towards the afternoon. I was cozy in my ankle- lenght mink, a wise decision considering I hesitated to lug the bulky garment at first. I bought a wool cloche, hated to pay the Euro price since I know i can get a similar one from Loehmanns at 75% off, but I needed a hat in the snow. I lost it on our first stop, left it on the bus, then Doobie and I got separated and went on our separate ways. I hopped back on the bus at Checkpoint Charlie about 2 hours later and I couldn't believe it! There was my cloche on an empty seat. I felt it was my lucky day. Checkpoint Charlie was the border crossing between East and West Berlin when the Wall stood from August 1961-November 9,1989. Berlin has been divided and reunited many times, parceled out among various nations as war booty and divided into 4 sectors at one point. There are whole neighborhood sections bombed to smithereens during WWII. Therefore you don't see many old buildings in spite of the city being 750 years old. But literally they are reconstructing it as it was and heavy equipment and lorries are everywhere, digging the rubble and building anew. There are sections that are completely modern marked with distinctive architecture designed by important architects from the planet, such as in the Potsdamerplatz, the equivalent of Times Square and in the superlative Friedrichstrasse shopping arcades. The Kurfurstendamm or Ku'damm for short is the longest street in Berlin and is very charming and romantic with double sidewalks lined with cafes and shops and with trees and park seats in the center promenade. Bismarck, who felt culturally inferior (my editorial),designed this after the Champs- Elysees and it captured its splendor. The rebuilt Reichstag, the seat of the Republic and the new observation dome atop it with its intricate mirror panels and rails has circular spiraling ramp where you can stroll and have a panoramic view of the entire city. It is a work of art built by an important London architect. Not far is the historic Brandenburg Tor, where part of the Wall once stood, and south of it is the newly opened Holocaust Memorial designed by American architect Eisenmann. It is a field of 2711 concrete stelae in a grid pattern, with varying heights covering a whole city block with the effect of undulating and seeemingly unstable surface if viewed as a whole composition. Along the shorter pillars of the field it suggested rows of perfectly lined coffins as far as the eye can see. One can walk in between the stelae and can enter the field from any direction and find one's own way among the pillars. Among the tallest ones one can feel an oppressive feeling as if the walls are closing in. Underground is the holocaust museum, a place so gripping it will not fail to break you down in tears. I emerged very angry at Bush's policies,for many of them are reminiscent of Hitler's initial moves that culminated in the atrocious systematic murder of a group of human beings.We stayed at the Westin Grand on Friedrichstrasse, a former palace which is decked to the hilt in Christmas lights and holiday trimmings. It has a central 6-story foyer with a stained glass domed ceiling and a grand staircase where carolers would line up to entertain guests beginning next week. It's a shame we missed this. Berlin is big on the holidays, just like its big on its mascot the Berlin bear, which can be seen in effigy or as looming sculptures in corners and sidewalks all over town. Christmas bazaars and fairs are popping up in every neighborhood and major commercial intersections. We checked out the bazaar set up near our hotel, in the Forum on Unter den Linden, a square flanked with beautiful buildings, among them the Staatsoper and St Hedwig Cathedral. I stopped for a moment at St Hedwig to pay my respects. It is an odd Catholic church set up differently with no central space or knave and the main church space is in the basement level and divided into several chapels.These Christmas bazaars are so nostalgic and festive. They set up wooden booths dressed with holiday lights and glitter. They sell crafts and the usual import doodads from developing countries, and gifts and holiday decorations, and wonderful food concessions with bratwurst stands and cheese and spun sugar candies, fried dough breads,pastries and chocolates to die for, a Thai booth where I had to sample their noodles (good), capuccinos,and hot chocolates and warm spiced wine laced with amaretto (goes down real smooth). The bigger bazaars come with old-fashioned fairs with ferris wheels and carousels and music grinders with hustling monkeys (now robotized). You meet the German populace, and as a group they are a handsome lot, after the Scandinavians. They are rule abiding. They stand at the street corner waiting for the green pedestrian light , they don't cross even if they've been standing for ages and there isn't any car in sight. The rule goes both ways. They don't stop for jaywalking pedestrians, and would run over you if you cross on the red light.The food is robust and sticks to your bones, made the old-fashion way with real butter and fat on the meat. We dined on various restaurants and cafes along the River Spree.Maya took us to her favorite cafe where we had desserts and coffee and played mahjong for one jai-alai, which Dobbs won. Maya requested a mahjong set for my pasalubong, and she wanted to play right away so she can refresh her memory of the game.She plans to introduce the game to her friends. In one cafe they had a ticker tape of the beer prices on view on TV screens so you can check how much your favorite beer is going by the glass. I sampled the traditional holiday menu of goose, venison, and duck, and various sausages,schnitzel,hot potato salad,candied and spiced apple sides,cabbage,and sauerkraut. We only drank beer, sampled lagers,and pilsners, and dark,and wheat beer as much as we can. I gained 3 pounds.The populace is handsome too in the U-bahn. We took 2 trains to get to Maya's flat for coffee and cakes, in the mixed section of the city.Heretofore we haven't met any ethnics or colored, except us. Their ethnics are Turks,and their story as minorities is the same as in America. We met 2 of Maya's roommates, Ian and Karen. Maya's building is a cooperative, and they are in the midst of renovation and painting in their individual unit.The roommates all have interesting resumes. Ian is a set designer and carpenter and built his bed platform himself, which is very funky in black,and his shelves are stacked steel laundry drums, very original and funkier still, and works very well in storing shirts and underwear and socks. Maya's space has tall windows which she draped in sheer gossamer, and she has good light to maintain her tropical indoor plants in good health. She's not living in squalor, mom. We had melt-in-your mouth cakes in different flavors with various berry fillings and chocolate and cream layers from Maya's favorite bakery and coffee in the dining area. Karen spread a blue cloth on the table and arranged votive candles and yellow autumn leaves she picked from the courtyard below in the center. We had lively conversation about the state of the world, why the holocaust happened, the minority issue in Germany, and America, the state of our schools, the unemployment in Germany and the European Union, about the job-nomads (my new favorite term) and entertainment junkies among the X-generation, and time just flew, and I was almost late for La Boheme at 7 PM at the Komische oper. Maya and Doobs have their own schedule to cruise the bars and check the rock and roll bands until 3 AM. I was more miserable with my cough and headache after the opera,I didn't feel like having dinner and I had to beg for aspirin from the concierge. I had potato and sausage soup in the lobby and a wheat beer, then packed , scheduled a wake-up call at 4 AM and went to bed. Our return flight is at 7:10 AM.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Tassajara
Tassajara
August 2005
It’s been a while since I greeted mornings and I had forgotten how exhilarating it can be. At 5:20 AM the hand bells at Tassajara wake you up, the tinny tinkling sounds meander along the cottages and summon you from sleep. I booked a tatami room, a 10X12 cottage shared with Anicia, furnished sparsely with reed mats and 2 double futon mattresses on the floor covered with plush down comforters. They keep you warm and cozy at night for the temperatures dip to 45 degrees from the 100 plus heat during the day. The room has low shoji screened windows just above your head as you lay low on the floor futons. You can look up and peek through the bamboo grove which is still in darkness and see the glimmer of light in the sky. It is just a hint of light and gradually, like someone is turning the dimmer switch in a room it brightens and muted indirect light fills the surroundings. The sound of wood mallet striking wood plank cracks the stillness, summoning the monks to Zazen at 5:50 AM. Different sounds interrupt your dozing, signaling various activities for the monks, the sound of distant drum-roll followed by slow beats then brass gong sounds and finally the tolling of the giant railroad bell at 6:30 jolts you into awakening and attention. The light has bathed the whole camp and there’s no mistaking, dawn has arrived. Sunrise is not until another hour, when the sharp yellow rays of the sun strike the side of the mountain and erupt with exuberance and spill over into the cottages in a powerful presence that is palpable physically. It is time to rise.
It’s this kind of experience that brings guests to Tassajara year after year. We’ve met guests who had been coming for 23 years, just to spend a week away from it all, no electricity, no cell phones, no TV or radio, no newspapers. To be one with nature giving a hint of what the Zen practice might be all about.
We came to Tassajara for a retreat workshop on The Spirit of Practice= Christian and Zen. It is led by Brother David, a Benedictine monk, and Paul, a Zen Buddhist. I came because I’m a Catholic skeptic looking for ways to recover my faith and Anicia came with me because it sounded like a neat thing to do, and besides it’s close to Carmel Valley where Pebble Beach is and we can take a side trip and play Pebble Beach. Instead we played Pacific Grove Municipal Golf Course, where we walked 18 holes for $20 twilight rate and the course was just as spectacular and special as the $475 plus Pebble Beach Course. The course is laid out in the same strip of God’s land overlooking the Pacific and the rugged rocky shores where seals and shorebirds co-exist with gawking tourists forever shooting them with cameras. The natural dunes and ice plant abundantly covering the fairways and the shifting wind and herds of black tail deer camping out on the greens are more than enough hazards to make your game exciting and frustrating. From the 15th hole of the Pacific Grove Municipal Golf Course, you can see the 18th of the Pebble Beach Course.
The workshop was intense. We start with 30 minutes of sitting in silence at 8 AM. This is a small approximation of Zazen. Paul looks the part of a Buddhist monk. He is ascetic in build, with high cheekbones and hollow cheeks and dark eye sockets framed by clean-shaved skull. He sits on his pretzel twisted legs, right foot over the left thigh and vice versa, spine erect, chin forward, looking ahead in a blank stare, and breathing evenly and silently, immobile, unshifting for the whole 30 minutes. I suppose he is capable of emptying his mind, the object of Zazen. Meanwhile, I’m trying to be very still, but I cant’ help it. My muscles start to quiver after 3 minutes and I’m forced to make an ever slight move to shift my weight. Then I just had 2 cups of coffee on empty stomach at 7:30 and my GI-tract is rattling with borborygmi so loud you can hear it across the room. And I cannot empty my mind. I’m peeking from the sides of my eyes to see what the others are doing. And I’m stealing a look at Paul. And my mind goes to wondering what to do after the session at 1 PM, should I go to the Narrows and read or bathe in the swimming hole? Should I hike the Overlook Trail tomorrow? Today at dawn, hiking the Ridge Trail, the mountain wildflowers were covered in mist, the Mexican heather, and mountain sage smelling so fresh and the Yucca tall and arrogant over the trodden grass. Then I try to be serious and think of serious stuff. I should be more tolerant of all humans, stop hating my Indian colleagues, love my place of work at the state hospital, be nicer to my friends and get along better with everyone, etc. But then, thinking at all is all wrong. I should empty my mind, that’s the way to practicing mindfulness and be one and discover your true nature and self. I should concentrate on breathing and letting all thoughts go and be with the here and now, the present, be open and receptive, be oneself and yet be everyone. I should be that wave individuating and defining myself as I come to shore , but I’m also one with the ocean where as a wave I come from, and I go back and become part of one. Whew! For 5 days we grappled with abstract and deep ideas, trying to reconcile and differentiate the practice of Christianity and Zen. We went to the virgin birth, to the figure of Mary, the trinity, to Jesus, sin and confession, punishment and atonement, heaven and resurrection, charity, grace, prayers, the crucifixion, monastic life, rituals and ceremony. The group was articulate and erudite and illustrated their meaning with quotes from poems and literature , EE Cummings, Yeats, Whitman, among others. They knew history and anthropology, and they knew personal experience. There were 13 women and 1 man, ages ranged from 23 to 89. There were 2 mother –daughter pairs, and one has a son in his 3rd year as a Zen student at Tassajara. Some sessions were very moving, you can’t help spilling your emotions in a group like this, but the leaders are very skilled and that’s reassuring. They were able to maintain boundaries and keep the process oriented to the topic.
After a grueling morning of these sessions, we look forward to lunch at 1 PM, announced by the sonorous tolling of the big old railroad bell. Meals are prepared and served by the Zen students on cloth- covered long tables and cloth napkins which we keep stowed away in our marked napkin rings for reuse in the next meal. The vegetarian meals are delicious and very filling, and the breads are specially famous and at the end of your stay, they bake a bunch of different varieties which you can purchase as a donation to the Zendo. Lunch offers an option of eating in the dining room or self-preparing a boxed meal from a delectable array of spreads, prepared salads, cheeses, vegetarian pates of almonds and sundried tomatoes or pestos, and condiments, in addition to fruits and fresh greens and baked goods. On our way up the mountain, driving from San Jose International Airport, we stopped by for half a case of wine, and this just proved divine to take along with the boxed meal for picnics at the Narrows, the trail along Tassajara Creek where in its nooks and crannies you can find secluded swimming holes and giant flat boulders to spread your beach towel and sun nude and feel a belonging and oneness with nature.
It only took a brief moment of observation at the baths to realize that we can be completely free in this setting. On our first day we arrived at the segregated baths with bathing suits but we promptly ditched them after we surveyed the scene. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I can reclaim my body without self-consciousness, how liberating! Now I understand the freedom and I suspect joy that European women have about their bodies, no matter what shape it’s in. I recall traveling in Sweden and going out on the boat with a friend, and it just enthralled me to see everyone nude unselfconsciously, with all shapes of bodies, fat, thin, pregnant, scarred, smooth, all baring it to feel the sun’s warmth and vitality.
It’s not easy to get to Tassajara. It is in the middle of the Ventana wilderness, a national reserve. It sits on the Santa Lucia Mountain of the Los Padres range. It’s on a fault so hot sulfur steam escapes from the earth’s core and feeds the Tassajara hot springs, which from the late 19th century already catered to the imaginative few who saw its potential as a resort and healing center. When the resort was burned early in the century , it was not rebuilt, but in the 50’s when interest in Buddhism began to pick up in the West, a friend of the late Zen master Shunryu Suzuki suggested that the old resort site would be a perfect place to open a Zen Center. Thus the first training Zen monastery outside of Asia was built. It is only in recent years that guests can stay at the center, and only during the summer season. For the rest of the year the center functions strictly as a monastery. It is a remote place accessible only by a 14-mile steep dirt road which narrows to one lane in many places, and first climbs up to the top of the ridge, then switches in an abrupt hairpin turn and follows the ridge down, then up again, then the final descent of 5 miles is a brake-burning plunge that stirs up a thick smoke of swirling dry earth that settles completely covering your car. You need a 4-wheel drive to negotiate this terrain, but our rental car, a Hyundai Sonata has only the Drive shift, no low gears. I trusted Anicia, who was driving, with my life, and I was in Zazen even before we started our retreat. It normally takes 1 hour and 15 minutes to drive this 14-mile road, but Anicia got us through it in 50 minutes. This is the moment when the Buddha in all of us would say, “ Life and death is the same thing, it is something, and it is nothing.” What? Me worry? NAH!
Click on Brother David from this link, he's really remarkable!
http://www.gratefulness.org/index.htm
And click this link for some pictures, click on next to get to the next image
http://travel2.nytimes.com/slideshow/2003/06/22/travel/20030622tass.slideshow_1.html
August 2005
It’s been a while since I greeted mornings and I had forgotten how exhilarating it can be. At 5:20 AM the hand bells at Tassajara wake you up, the tinny tinkling sounds meander along the cottages and summon you from sleep. I booked a tatami room, a 10X12 cottage shared with Anicia, furnished sparsely with reed mats and 2 double futon mattresses on the floor covered with plush down comforters. They keep you warm and cozy at night for the temperatures dip to 45 degrees from the 100 plus heat during the day. The room has low shoji screened windows just above your head as you lay low on the floor futons. You can look up and peek through the bamboo grove which is still in darkness and see the glimmer of light in the sky. It is just a hint of light and gradually, like someone is turning the dimmer switch in a room it brightens and muted indirect light fills the surroundings. The sound of wood mallet striking wood plank cracks the stillness, summoning the monks to Zazen at 5:50 AM. Different sounds interrupt your dozing, signaling various activities for the monks, the sound of distant drum-roll followed by slow beats then brass gong sounds and finally the tolling of the giant railroad bell at 6:30 jolts you into awakening and attention. The light has bathed the whole camp and there’s no mistaking, dawn has arrived. Sunrise is not until another hour, when the sharp yellow rays of the sun strike the side of the mountain and erupt with exuberance and spill over into the cottages in a powerful presence that is palpable physically. It is time to rise.
It’s this kind of experience that brings guests to Tassajara year after year. We’ve met guests who had been coming for 23 years, just to spend a week away from it all, no electricity, no cell phones, no TV or radio, no newspapers. To be one with nature giving a hint of what the Zen practice might be all about.
We came to Tassajara for a retreat workshop on The Spirit of Practice= Christian and Zen. It is led by Brother David, a Benedictine monk, and Paul, a Zen Buddhist. I came because I’m a Catholic skeptic looking for ways to recover my faith and Anicia came with me because it sounded like a neat thing to do, and besides it’s close to Carmel Valley where Pebble Beach is and we can take a side trip and play Pebble Beach. Instead we played Pacific Grove Municipal Golf Course, where we walked 18 holes for $20 twilight rate and the course was just as spectacular and special as the $475 plus Pebble Beach Course. The course is laid out in the same strip of God’s land overlooking the Pacific and the rugged rocky shores where seals and shorebirds co-exist with gawking tourists forever shooting them with cameras. The natural dunes and ice plant abundantly covering the fairways and the shifting wind and herds of black tail deer camping out on the greens are more than enough hazards to make your game exciting and frustrating. From the 15th hole of the Pacific Grove Municipal Golf Course, you can see the 18th of the Pebble Beach Course.
The workshop was intense. We start with 30 minutes of sitting in silence at 8 AM. This is a small approximation of Zazen. Paul looks the part of a Buddhist monk. He is ascetic in build, with high cheekbones and hollow cheeks and dark eye sockets framed by clean-shaved skull. He sits on his pretzel twisted legs, right foot over the left thigh and vice versa, spine erect, chin forward, looking ahead in a blank stare, and breathing evenly and silently, immobile, unshifting for the whole 30 minutes. I suppose he is capable of emptying his mind, the object of Zazen. Meanwhile, I’m trying to be very still, but I cant’ help it. My muscles start to quiver after 3 minutes and I’m forced to make an ever slight move to shift my weight. Then I just had 2 cups of coffee on empty stomach at 7:30 and my GI-tract is rattling with borborygmi so loud you can hear it across the room. And I cannot empty my mind. I’m peeking from the sides of my eyes to see what the others are doing. And I’m stealing a look at Paul. And my mind goes to wondering what to do after the session at 1 PM, should I go to the Narrows and read or bathe in the swimming hole? Should I hike the Overlook Trail tomorrow? Today at dawn, hiking the Ridge Trail, the mountain wildflowers were covered in mist, the Mexican heather, and mountain sage smelling so fresh and the Yucca tall and arrogant over the trodden grass. Then I try to be serious and think of serious stuff. I should be more tolerant of all humans, stop hating my Indian colleagues, love my place of work at the state hospital, be nicer to my friends and get along better with everyone, etc. But then, thinking at all is all wrong. I should empty my mind, that’s the way to practicing mindfulness and be one and discover your true nature and self. I should concentrate on breathing and letting all thoughts go and be with the here and now, the present, be open and receptive, be oneself and yet be everyone. I should be that wave individuating and defining myself as I come to shore , but I’m also one with the ocean where as a wave I come from, and I go back and become part of one. Whew! For 5 days we grappled with abstract and deep ideas, trying to reconcile and differentiate the practice of Christianity and Zen. We went to the virgin birth, to the figure of Mary, the trinity, to Jesus, sin and confession, punishment and atonement, heaven and resurrection, charity, grace, prayers, the crucifixion, monastic life, rituals and ceremony. The group was articulate and erudite and illustrated their meaning with quotes from poems and literature , EE Cummings, Yeats, Whitman, among others. They knew history and anthropology, and they knew personal experience. There were 13 women and 1 man, ages ranged from 23 to 89. There were 2 mother –daughter pairs, and one has a son in his 3rd year as a Zen student at Tassajara. Some sessions were very moving, you can’t help spilling your emotions in a group like this, but the leaders are very skilled and that’s reassuring. They were able to maintain boundaries and keep the process oriented to the topic.
After a grueling morning of these sessions, we look forward to lunch at 1 PM, announced by the sonorous tolling of the big old railroad bell. Meals are prepared and served by the Zen students on cloth- covered long tables and cloth napkins which we keep stowed away in our marked napkin rings for reuse in the next meal. The vegetarian meals are delicious and very filling, and the breads are specially famous and at the end of your stay, they bake a bunch of different varieties which you can purchase as a donation to the Zendo. Lunch offers an option of eating in the dining room or self-preparing a boxed meal from a delectable array of spreads, prepared salads, cheeses, vegetarian pates of almonds and sundried tomatoes or pestos, and condiments, in addition to fruits and fresh greens and baked goods. On our way up the mountain, driving from San Jose International Airport, we stopped by for half a case of wine, and this just proved divine to take along with the boxed meal for picnics at the Narrows, the trail along Tassajara Creek where in its nooks and crannies you can find secluded swimming holes and giant flat boulders to spread your beach towel and sun nude and feel a belonging and oneness with nature.
It only took a brief moment of observation at the baths to realize that we can be completely free in this setting. On our first day we arrived at the segregated baths with bathing suits but we promptly ditched them after we surveyed the scene. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I can reclaim my body without self-consciousness, how liberating! Now I understand the freedom and I suspect joy that European women have about their bodies, no matter what shape it’s in. I recall traveling in Sweden and going out on the boat with a friend, and it just enthralled me to see everyone nude unselfconsciously, with all shapes of bodies, fat, thin, pregnant, scarred, smooth, all baring it to feel the sun’s warmth and vitality.
It’s not easy to get to Tassajara. It is in the middle of the Ventana wilderness, a national reserve. It sits on the Santa Lucia Mountain of the Los Padres range. It’s on a fault so hot sulfur steam escapes from the earth’s core and feeds the Tassajara hot springs, which from the late 19th century already catered to the imaginative few who saw its potential as a resort and healing center. When the resort was burned early in the century , it was not rebuilt, but in the 50’s when interest in Buddhism began to pick up in the West, a friend of the late Zen master Shunryu Suzuki suggested that the old resort site would be a perfect place to open a Zen Center. Thus the first training Zen monastery outside of Asia was built. It is only in recent years that guests can stay at the center, and only during the summer season. For the rest of the year the center functions strictly as a monastery. It is a remote place accessible only by a 14-mile steep dirt road which narrows to one lane in many places, and first climbs up to the top of the ridge, then switches in an abrupt hairpin turn and follows the ridge down, then up again, then the final descent of 5 miles is a brake-burning plunge that stirs up a thick smoke of swirling dry earth that settles completely covering your car. You need a 4-wheel drive to negotiate this terrain, but our rental car, a Hyundai Sonata has only the Drive shift, no low gears. I trusted Anicia, who was driving, with my life, and I was in Zazen even before we started our retreat. It normally takes 1 hour and 15 minutes to drive this 14-mile road, but Anicia got us through it in 50 minutes. This is the moment when the Buddha in all of us would say, “ Life and death is the same thing, it is something, and it is nothing.” What? Me worry? NAH!
Click on Brother David from this link, he's really remarkable!
http://www.gratefulness.org/index.htm
And click this link for some pictures, click on next to get to the next image
http://travel2.nytimes.com/slideshow/2003/06/22/travel/20030622tass.slideshow_1.html
Friday, May 20, 2005
Star Wars
Star Wars
I caught part of a TV interview with George Lucas, about his trials and tribulations in producing Stars Wars, and about his vision for the movie. There were retro pictures of the early days, when he was young and struggling to be taken seriously in the industry. His personal saga is very impressive, even heroic, and very romantic, in the sense of having a single-minded purpose in pursuing his love and standing up for his beliefs against all odds, and living happily ever after. George had me right then and there, even before saying hello.
I remember the first screening of Star Wars. We were living in Baltimore. We stood in line five blocks long for hours, in Towson, just to get in. Harrison Ford was a nobody but was really cute in the movie. But not cuter that R2 and 3PO, and Yoda. And Darth Vader was unforgettable with James Earl Jones’ voice . Luke was forgettable as played by Mark Hammil (whatever happened to him?) and Princess Leia was only memorable to me because of her hair-do. For Halloween that year every little girl including my Jay-Jay wanted to be costumed as Princess Leia. I had to sew her dress, and I had the devil of a time fashioning those buns behind her ears. Jay-Jay’s hair was so silky, the buns just kept on escaping and unwinding from its hairpin moorings. Now Jay-Jay has a 6-year-old RahRah but I doubt that she’ll want to be Padme this Halloween.
The whole Star Wars phenomenon just blows me away. You’ll be an alien if you didn’t send someone off with the exhortation ; “May the Force be with you”. And did you catch Yoda’s speech reversals? And the money that went with it, blockbuster! I didn’t know until I saw the interview, that it spawned the merchandise tie-in business and that George himself was a techie genius and pushed technical innovations in animation and computer digital imagery. It said that until TheRevenge of the Siths, technology had not come in synch to match George’s vision for the technical wizardry.
Of course I have to go see this. I’m compulsive enough that it would feel incomplete if I didn’t go to this one, after all I went to all the previous installments. And closure is calming. George himself said that he can rest in peace now, he has come around full circle in 3 decades and the story is complete. Just like a life story. I have a sense of what he’s talking about. This past year, I have been through the endings of life stories of dear ones closest to my heart. George was also talking about influences that shaped his story-telling in Star Wars. He read Joseph Campbell. Wow, the man is deep! And of course you can see the classics in the story line, Shakespeare, the myths and fairy tales of the world, the Greek tragedies, the major faiths in the themes of the chosen one and incarnation and the hereafter, the struggle between good and evil, etc. Those are the subliminal themes that appeal universally. There is nothing original in the themes, but the story-telling captivates still.
So I decided to play hooky and catch the matinee at Phipps. I was with hundreds of school kids, wearing flowing capes and storm troopers get-up and Darth Vader masks chomping and crunching loudly at their popcorns. Their chaperones kept on standing up and hushing them. When the theatre went dark, and the opening scene of the galaxy and the crawling opening paragraph came on, there was a hush, and on cue light sabers flashed everywhere and there was applause, then for the rest of the movie, rapt attention and silence, not a popcorn could be heard!
At 2 hours and 20 minutes, it was a tad too long. It sagged towards the middle and I thought I’d snooze at the constant swish and kapow of the galactic battle scenes, it got boring. I thought the scenes were too busy with so many details that it sort of lost definition, one scene blended into the other. Perhaps the newfangled digital technology made it easier to create scenes and characters that it got too many, they became all background. The opening aerial dogfight was sterile. It had too many movements, but no drama and gripping moments where you can feel your heart in your throat and really live with the suspense and get into the scene. It was too video game-like, all maneuverings and no feeling. I wasn’t into the scenes either during the massacre in the Jedi temple and the murder of the younglins. It failed to create emotion, it failed to have impact. I don’t know what’s missing, but there was something missing. Even the genocide scenes just looked like tableaus, a picture that you look at like in an album and you move to the next page. However Hayden Christensen rules. Who is he? I hear he’s Canadian. He makes Darth Vader simpatico, and this movie is really about Darth Vader and in that George I agree did accomplish his goal. Hayden acted his role seriously, and that’s the tone of the whole movie. It was rather grave and heavy and dark, with little relief except a few scenes with R2 and 3PO and Yoda. The villain Palpatine is delicious. And Ewan Mcgregor was not bad, at least he did not play his part so seriously. Natalie Portman looked like a rich Jedi’s wife, she didn’t have much to do in the movie but look pretty and wait. I miss the tongue-in-cheek acting style in the first Star Wars. It lets the audience know that this is a fairy tale and a cartoon and just come and enjoy the movie, whereas Revenge of the Siths is trying to deliver a message and I don’t particularly care for that in my movie. And why was Bush speaking through Palpatine here? “ If you do not agree with us then you are against us, and you must be destroyed!”
Oh well, it was nice to slip from work and while the afternoon away at the movies, then shop Phipps after. I had a great time!
I caught part of a TV interview with George Lucas, about his trials and tribulations in producing Stars Wars, and about his vision for the movie. There were retro pictures of the early days, when he was young and struggling to be taken seriously in the industry. His personal saga is very impressive, even heroic, and very romantic, in the sense of having a single-minded purpose in pursuing his love and standing up for his beliefs against all odds, and living happily ever after. George had me right then and there, even before saying hello.
I remember the first screening of Star Wars. We were living in Baltimore. We stood in line five blocks long for hours, in Towson, just to get in. Harrison Ford was a nobody but was really cute in the movie. But not cuter that R2 and 3PO, and Yoda. And Darth Vader was unforgettable with James Earl Jones’ voice . Luke was forgettable as played by Mark Hammil (whatever happened to him?) and Princess Leia was only memorable to me because of her hair-do. For Halloween that year every little girl including my Jay-Jay wanted to be costumed as Princess Leia. I had to sew her dress, and I had the devil of a time fashioning those buns behind her ears. Jay-Jay’s hair was so silky, the buns just kept on escaping and unwinding from its hairpin moorings. Now Jay-Jay has a 6-year-old RahRah but I doubt that she’ll want to be Padme this Halloween.
The whole Star Wars phenomenon just blows me away. You’ll be an alien if you didn’t send someone off with the exhortation ; “May the Force be with you”. And did you catch Yoda’s speech reversals? And the money that went with it, blockbuster! I didn’t know until I saw the interview, that it spawned the merchandise tie-in business and that George himself was a techie genius and pushed technical innovations in animation and computer digital imagery. It said that until TheRevenge of the Siths, technology had not come in synch to match George’s vision for the technical wizardry.
Of course I have to go see this. I’m compulsive enough that it would feel incomplete if I didn’t go to this one, after all I went to all the previous installments. And closure is calming. George himself said that he can rest in peace now, he has come around full circle in 3 decades and the story is complete. Just like a life story. I have a sense of what he’s talking about. This past year, I have been through the endings of life stories of dear ones closest to my heart. George was also talking about influences that shaped his story-telling in Star Wars. He read Joseph Campbell. Wow, the man is deep! And of course you can see the classics in the story line, Shakespeare, the myths and fairy tales of the world, the Greek tragedies, the major faiths in the themes of the chosen one and incarnation and the hereafter, the struggle between good and evil, etc. Those are the subliminal themes that appeal universally. There is nothing original in the themes, but the story-telling captivates still.
So I decided to play hooky and catch the matinee at Phipps. I was with hundreds of school kids, wearing flowing capes and storm troopers get-up and Darth Vader masks chomping and crunching loudly at their popcorns. Their chaperones kept on standing up and hushing them. When the theatre went dark, and the opening scene of the galaxy and the crawling opening paragraph came on, there was a hush, and on cue light sabers flashed everywhere and there was applause, then for the rest of the movie, rapt attention and silence, not a popcorn could be heard!
At 2 hours and 20 minutes, it was a tad too long. It sagged towards the middle and I thought I’d snooze at the constant swish and kapow of the galactic battle scenes, it got boring. I thought the scenes were too busy with so many details that it sort of lost definition, one scene blended into the other. Perhaps the newfangled digital technology made it easier to create scenes and characters that it got too many, they became all background. The opening aerial dogfight was sterile. It had too many movements, but no drama and gripping moments where you can feel your heart in your throat and really live with the suspense and get into the scene. It was too video game-like, all maneuverings and no feeling. I wasn’t into the scenes either during the massacre in the Jedi temple and the murder of the younglins. It failed to create emotion, it failed to have impact. I don’t know what’s missing, but there was something missing. Even the genocide scenes just looked like tableaus, a picture that you look at like in an album and you move to the next page. However Hayden Christensen rules. Who is he? I hear he’s Canadian. He makes Darth Vader simpatico, and this movie is really about Darth Vader and in that George I agree did accomplish his goal. Hayden acted his role seriously, and that’s the tone of the whole movie. It was rather grave and heavy and dark, with little relief except a few scenes with R2 and 3PO and Yoda. The villain Palpatine is delicious. And Ewan Mcgregor was not bad, at least he did not play his part so seriously. Natalie Portman looked like a rich Jedi’s wife, she didn’t have much to do in the movie but look pretty and wait. I miss the tongue-in-cheek acting style in the first Star Wars. It lets the audience know that this is a fairy tale and a cartoon and just come and enjoy the movie, whereas Revenge of the Siths is trying to deliver a message and I don’t particularly care for that in my movie. And why was Bush speaking through Palpatine here? “ If you do not agree with us then you are against us, and you must be destroyed!”
Oh well, it was nice to slip from work and while the afternoon away at the movies, then shop Phipps after. I had a great time!
Friday, April 08, 2005
Is it Providence?
I was suddenly wide awake before my alarm clock went off this morning and I thought, "Hmm, might be interesting to watch the pope's funeral." So I turned the TV on and I couldn't leave my eyes off it. I was mesmerized and completely swept away. I was crying and was having a lot of feelings and thoughts flying through my mind and I couldn't get myself ready for work. I wanted to stay with the moment and see where it will take me so I called in sick. Besides my eyes were all swollen and I have a headache and feeling lightheaded from all the emotions and the weeping, I was truly feeling sick and miserable but in a contented, serene way, if you know what I mean. I wanted to have somebody with me to share my feelings and my thoughts and that's when living alone feels so lonesome. So writing this blog entry is a way for me to stay connected and to listen to myself and to get a handle on what's happening to me.
It's not extraordinary that I have a reaction to the pope. The whole world is reacting to him as witnessed by this unprecedented outpouring of grief and celebration at his funeral. The glorious ceremony of the requiem high mass in Latin accompanied by gregorian choral music and the rich baritone recitata of the liturgy transfixed me to the joyous memories of high masses attended during celebrations of life in my childhood in the Philippines. I'm not oblivious to the fact that the Vatican is very mindful of the politics of this occasion. Notice the parade of readers from various countries, including that pretty young girl from the Philippines who delivered her message in Tagalog. I'm sure too that President Bush is very much aware of the political points he'll earn by attending the pope's funeral. The media is again in a frenzy in their coverage . They've been blessed by these back to back sensational events, having just left behind the Terry Schiavo case. Nevertheless, one can derive an uplifting experience from it. I think I have. I'm not a practicing catholic, though I was born and baptized one. For me being catholic is not a matter of religious faith but that of culture and tradition. I loved the Latin high mass, sung by the seminary choir with the Handel music reverberating in the buttressed stone walls of Spanish -built cathedrals. I loved the May ritual of bringing flowers to throw at the feet of the Virgin Mary. I loved the dawn "misa de gallo" masses, the 9 days preceding christmas, the midnight christmas eve mass, the feast of the three kings, when as children we hung stockings outside our window for the 3 magis to fill up with candies during the night.I loved Easter, at which time we got new clothes and ate a special brunch after the mass.When Johnny died I found solace in the traditions practiced for the dead, like the novena prayers after burial, which will be done for the pope too. But all these practices is not a matter of religious faith for me. Very early on I found confession to be hypocritical, and I found all these image and statue adoration of saints idolatrous, I guess because I did not have faith. I cannot yield myself in obedience to god's will. I'm of the opinion that shit happens at random. I cannot ask god for help because it's my opinion that it's up to me to solve my problems. I cannot wait to be saved and rise again after death because it's my opinion that when I die, my body rots and is claimed by the earth and returns to its elemental state, and I only live in the memories of those who care about me. So I'm not afraid to die, because I'm not afraid of hell, for there is no such thing. I cannot abide by the way the virgin birth of Jesus is explained, and the cop out of declaring it a mystery, and having believers swallow it line and sinker this way. If they explained it in terms of symbolism and myth I might see the point, but for me it's just soo far out, come on gimme a break! And for them to insist that Jesus really bodily rose from the dead and ascended to heaven, and the Virgin Mary later on, wow! I'm incredulous that learned sages in the church keep on interpreting the bible this way, as if there is really a place like heaven and hell. The clergy encourages that we see these places as depicted in the old masters paintings as real places to go to. That means too that Jesus is Caucasian, never mind that he sprung from the Mediterranean, and most likely might look like an Arab or a Jew. And the religion presumes that sex is the downfall of man and the temptress is a woman. Is that why Jesus is not the product of sexual intercourse and priests are celibates? They can only be holy if not associated with female sexuality. In all the years that I was growing up Catholic in the Philippines, none in the church had ever interpreted the religion to me in a different way. This is how they're teaching the doctrine of faith. If there is a saner interpretation, it is not coming across to the masses, and therefore the church is not doing a good job. But my point of reflection is not the Catholic religion as I watched the pope's funeral but on John Paul II, as a human being. He inspires me. He is a hero. He is pure. He is authentic. He is true. He is courageous, a man of principle, of passion, of generosity and full of love. He is a man of faith and consistent in his actions with that faith, regardless of public opinion or rejection. It seems faith comes out of a mystical experience, and sadly, not everyone is afforded that opporunity or perhaps not open or oblivious to it. The pope's life circumstances gave him the opportunity and he was receptive. Early bereavement with the loss of his mother in childhood, the repressive communist regime in Poland, witnessing suffering up close, facing the possibility of death in his formative years, his religious upbringing and contemplative nature, and his personal talents, all combined to give him this opportunity to experience an exalted state. It is an out-of-body experience that is a total high and utterly life-transforming. It is hypnotic and allows one to be in touch and to be truly focused into one's internal consciousness. Some forms of these experience have been seen in the apoplectic responses of believers in consciousness-raising church revival worship, in the account of born-again christians, of torture victims, of victims of life-endangering illness or events. The experience can be approximated by techniques like meditation or hypnosis, or by the effects of some mind-altering drugs. But John Paul II had more than the experience to account for his heroic stature. He is truly a good man and a very bright and talented man, and he had the creativity and vision, and discipline and faith to transform his mystical experience into an extraordinary life that touched millions across the planet. We are so hungry for heroes in this era of cynicism and opportunism and he is a great one for the ages. I may not adopt his religion but I'd like to walk a little in his shadow, to give some meaning to my life on earth. Let's see if going to a Zen retreat in the Tassajara mountains this summer will be a pathway for me to approximate enlightenment.
It's not extraordinary that I have a reaction to the pope. The whole world is reacting to him as witnessed by this unprecedented outpouring of grief and celebration at his funeral. The glorious ceremony of the requiem high mass in Latin accompanied by gregorian choral music and the rich baritone recitata of the liturgy transfixed me to the joyous memories of high masses attended during celebrations of life in my childhood in the Philippines. I'm not oblivious to the fact that the Vatican is very mindful of the politics of this occasion. Notice the parade of readers from various countries, including that pretty young girl from the Philippines who delivered her message in Tagalog. I'm sure too that President Bush is very much aware of the political points he'll earn by attending the pope's funeral. The media is again in a frenzy in their coverage . They've been blessed by these back to back sensational events, having just left behind the Terry Schiavo case. Nevertheless, one can derive an uplifting experience from it. I think I have. I'm not a practicing catholic, though I was born and baptized one. For me being catholic is not a matter of religious faith but that of culture and tradition. I loved the Latin high mass, sung by the seminary choir with the Handel music reverberating in the buttressed stone walls of Spanish -built cathedrals. I loved the May ritual of bringing flowers to throw at the feet of the Virgin Mary. I loved the dawn "misa de gallo" masses, the 9 days preceding christmas, the midnight christmas eve mass, the feast of the three kings, when as children we hung stockings outside our window for the 3 magis to fill up with candies during the night.I loved Easter, at which time we got new clothes and ate a special brunch after the mass.When Johnny died I found solace in the traditions practiced for the dead, like the novena prayers after burial, which will be done for the pope too. But all these practices is not a matter of religious faith for me. Very early on I found confession to be hypocritical, and I found all these image and statue adoration of saints idolatrous, I guess because I did not have faith. I cannot yield myself in obedience to god's will. I'm of the opinion that shit happens at random. I cannot ask god for help because it's my opinion that it's up to me to solve my problems. I cannot wait to be saved and rise again after death because it's my opinion that when I die, my body rots and is claimed by the earth and returns to its elemental state, and I only live in the memories of those who care about me. So I'm not afraid to die, because I'm not afraid of hell, for there is no such thing. I cannot abide by the way the virgin birth of Jesus is explained, and the cop out of declaring it a mystery, and having believers swallow it line and sinker this way. If they explained it in terms of symbolism and myth I might see the point, but for me it's just soo far out, come on gimme a break! And for them to insist that Jesus really bodily rose from the dead and ascended to heaven, and the Virgin Mary later on, wow! I'm incredulous that learned sages in the church keep on interpreting the bible this way, as if there is really a place like heaven and hell. The clergy encourages that we see these places as depicted in the old masters paintings as real places to go to. That means too that Jesus is Caucasian, never mind that he sprung from the Mediterranean, and most likely might look like an Arab or a Jew. And the religion presumes that sex is the downfall of man and the temptress is a woman. Is that why Jesus is not the product of sexual intercourse and priests are celibates? They can only be holy if not associated with female sexuality. In all the years that I was growing up Catholic in the Philippines, none in the church had ever interpreted the religion to me in a different way. This is how they're teaching the doctrine of faith. If there is a saner interpretation, it is not coming across to the masses, and therefore the church is not doing a good job. But my point of reflection is not the Catholic religion as I watched the pope's funeral but on John Paul II, as a human being. He inspires me. He is a hero. He is pure. He is authentic. He is true. He is courageous, a man of principle, of passion, of generosity and full of love. He is a man of faith and consistent in his actions with that faith, regardless of public opinion or rejection. It seems faith comes out of a mystical experience, and sadly, not everyone is afforded that opporunity or perhaps not open or oblivious to it. The pope's life circumstances gave him the opportunity and he was receptive. Early bereavement with the loss of his mother in childhood, the repressive communist regime in Poland, witnessing suffering up close, facing the possibility of death in his formative years, his religious upbringing and contemplative nature, and his personal talents, all combined to give him this opportunity to experience an exalted state. It is an out-of-body experience that is a total high and utterly life-transforming. It is hypnotic and allows one to be in touch and to be truly focused into one's internal consciousness. Some forms of these experience have been seen in the apoplectic responses of believers in consciousness-raising church revival worship, in the account of born-again christians, of torture victims, of victims of life-endangering illness or events. The experience can be approximated by techniques like meditation or hypnosis, or by the effects of some mind-altering drugs. But John Paul II had more than the experience to account for his heroic stature. He is truly a good man and a very bright and talented man, and he had the creativity and vision, and discipline and faith to transform his mystical experience into an extraordinary life that touched millions across the planet. We are so hungry for heroes in this era of cynicism and opportunism and he is a great one for the ages. I may not adopt his religion but I'd like to walk a little in his shadow, to give some meaning to my life on earth. Let's see if going to a Zen retreat in the Tassajara mountains this summer will be a pathway for me to approximate enlightenment.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
To Die or not to Die
I'm having nightmares about this media frenzy on Shiavo's destiny. I thought I nimbly glided through in making my decision together with my 7 siblings, to disconnect my mother from the respirator which was keeping her alive after a massive brain stem vascular event. She was comatose when I arrived at her bedside at the Mother Seton Hospital in Naga City, Philippines on December 18,2004 . She had a respiratory arrest after her stroke and was on a ventilator to support her breathing. As each one of us, her 8 children began to arrive from various parts of the USA, we are confronted with the question of what to do in the situation. I noticed we made the decision by attributing it as our mother's choice. We eased our discomfort by convincing ourselves that this is what our mother would do herself, that she would never let it be that she'll be maintained alive in a vegetative state. It helped us in our decision that she was unresponsive, that she never emerged from her coma. There were moments when she responsed reflexively with movement when stimulated and that was excruciating to see, because it made me doubt my decision. It made me question whether I'm making the decision for her or for my benefit. I was aware throughout of the time constraints. I have limited leave days from my job and I have sent invitations already to more that 100 people for Johnny's first death anniversary memorial prayer and brunch on January 1. I felt the pressure to return to the States before the date so I can prepare. Even as I contemplated mama dying after the ventilator is disconnected and I began to make funeral arrangements, there was the possibility that she could maintain breathing and live in a coma for an indefinite period of time. She will require complete nursing care and so simultaneously we are making arrangements for 24-hour nursing care and wondering how the 8 of us can supervise her care living in the USA. The last siblings arrived on the 21st but we had to postpone the decision when we were told that one of us had to pull the tube off from mama ourselves. The act of doing it completely destabilized all of us. That was a very horrible thing to face. I was told by a friend that that's not how it's done here in the States. And after Minda volunteered to pull the tube, we had to make decisions on every detail of her dying which we were not prepared for at all by her doctors or anyone else from the hospital. My friend again told me that that's not how it's done here in the States. There is a protocol in place that is activated after the family makes a decision to withdraw life support which eases the burden of the decision for the family. The Sisters of Charity running the Mother Seton Hospital is devoid of mercy. We were barraged with wrenching questions at every turn. It's time for her medications, should they continue giving it? Should they draw blood for monitoring acid-base balance? Should they continue the IV infusion? Should they feed her after the IV bag is empty? It was agonizing. I felt like I was being made to suffer for making the decision. And mama lingered for 30 hours and we watched her with labored breathing and then she just took one more and she was still. That was December 24 at 5 PM. I wasn't there when she took her last breath. I was just arriving at home when the message reached me that mama had died. I rushed back to the hospital and although we've been waiting for death to claim her, when it did, it was like a surprise, it was like I regretted making the decision to hasten it and wanted her alive. Shiavo's case brings all these back to me. It makes me angry that Bush and Congress are meddling with this issue. Nobody has any right to say anything about this unless he/she had been through the same thing.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
alien universe
I've just created a blog for myself. I don't even know how to use the word blog. Should i have said I just created a blog site? Oh well, whatever. Here I am trying a new enterprise, going into a new world completely alien. Let's see what I'll stumble into. Those who know me will knwo exactly why I chose the title, Ship High in Transport, and that's exactly what this blog is all about.
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