India seems like a long time ago. In fact, it was. We left there just after my 34th birthday on 5th July after six weeks in the country. A lot has happened since then; we came home and spent my grandmother's last weeks with her, and flew back out to finish our trip. A lot of feelings and thoughts have been washing through me over that time, and I've felt quite insular in many ways. I've certainly not felt like writing up the travels. But now I want to rejoin the world.
India is a hundred countries. Trying to reduce it to something manageable in a blog post seems faintly ridiculous. But to me, our time there seemed to split quite evenly into two halves. The second half of our time there, in the cool heights of Kashmir, Ladakh and McLeod Ganj ('Little Tibet') felt a world away from the sweltering lowlands of Delhi, Agra and Varanasi.
Varanasi: Heat
The bus journey from Agra to Varanasi is seventeen hours in what they call an 'ordinary bus'. But there's nothing ordinary about this filthy deathtrap. People in the bus station tell us: 'this bus isn't for tourists', but of course we think: 'we can handle it'. And we do, for the first few hours. Before we get uncomfortable sitting in the clothes that have gotten so sweaty because of the close-to-fifty-degree heat. Before the bus gets rammed and someone's ass is in my ear and people are fistfighting over seats. Before we're black with the sooty residue that covers everything. Before we stop for a break in the middle of the night and eat pastries for dinner in a ditch with a pig for company. Before we then (perhaps not surprisingly) start to feel ill.
Eventually we arrive in Varanasi sometime before eight in the morning, to be met by the heat. By nine we've still not found where we're staying, and the heat is unbearable; we are being cooked alive. We eventually rock up and check in, and then spend three or four days straying no further from our bathroom than we absolutely have to. But in Varanasi, the electricity is intermittent, so when the air-con goes off (as it does once for almost the whole day), we're twisting in our sweat again. When we're not too ill or hot to do anything, exploring Varanasi is an experience never to be forgotten. The alleyways that pass for streets twist and wind; you come across cows blocking the way, families bathing half in the street, beggars, stalls... life is lived on the streets here.
And in and on the river. The Ganges is supremely holy to Hindus, and they bathe in it, drink it, wash with it, and are interred in it, either their whole body or their ashes after being cremated on its banks. It's filthy with sewage, never mind what gets in it from all these uses, but those who live here grow up drinking it. And celebrating life along its banks -- dancing, praying, relaxing. Life is lived fairly much in the open here, and everything is close. It's a visceral place. In many ways I wish we'd visited India when it was less hot, but I guess that perhaps Varanasi is most itself when it's sweltering, and when everything is mixed up in sweat and heat haze and mist, almost like life, concentrated and focused so sharply that it's uncomfortable, but at the same time, utterly compelling.
Delhi: Hassle
That heat exhausation come on the back of a weariness of being, and being seen to be, a tourist. A tourist stepping off the plane in Delhi is new meat. I've soon lost count of how many times we're told that the place we're looking for has burned down, or is closed for some made-up religious holiday, or somesuch, and very helpfully advised of an 'alternative' which is 'better' and 'cheaper' (and pays commission to our helpful friend). A four hundred metre walk along the main strip in touristville in Delhi is impossible without being hassled, often quite aggressively, to buy at least eight package tours, twelve taxi rides and an assortment of ticketing, eating, drinking and other such 'opportunities'. On our first day, a taxi ride to a bookshop to get a guidebook turns into a tour of tourist agencies trying to sell us tours, or at a pinch some tatty old guidebooks. 'Delhi doesn't change much in thirteen years', we're told, after pointing out the publication date of one. He might actually have half a point, but we're not buying.
This happens in Agra and Varanasi too, but Delhi seems worst. You can't ask directions without a hand being held out for money, and you can't get around a quarter of an attraction without somebody hard-selling their services as a guide. I know that some of these people are extremely needy, and that in comparison to them I am rich. So as well as feeling hassled I end up feeling guilty for becoming so annoyed by it. After awhile your skin hardens and you begin to ignore people rather than get drawn into conversations which are always, always a prelude to being taken for a ride. But this is a shame as it makes you draw back and makes it hard to embrace what you've come out here to find. It certainly feels a light year away from the open arms of Iran.
Maybe it's our legacy, so maybe we deserve it, but there are also people here hauling themselves up by their bootstraps without ripping people off; it's a shame the trap of fleecing tourists is so tempting that so many others fall into it. Again, the discomfort and hassle rubs shoulders with wonder, and Delhi as a melting pot, as a crazy, fast-paced life-happening-all-around you experience is not one I'd take back for all the hawkers in India. But, given our limited time in India, although we find ourselves being drawn back again and again by Delhi's gravity and transport-hub status, we never stay long; there are places where it is much easier to enjoy India.
Agra: Majesty
After seeing huge Persian blue-tiled mosques in Iran, the red sandstone monoliths which are the forts and mosques left by Akbar the Great in India are a fantastic counterpoint. The city of Fatehpur Sikri is supremely evocative; a massive labyrinth of temples, towers, halls and follies, exquisitely well-preserved. You can imagine Akbar's court marching and fanning and debating and dancing; it seems like only the trees have grown and changed since. Agra Fort, like the Red Fort in Delhi, also stands almost perfectly preserved and evokes a pit of dread t the idea of ever assailing such places.
And then, having heard all the hype, we are up at 4:30 in the morning to beat the crowds in to see the Taj. We pay about five times as much as we've paid for any single visit on our travels. It's worth all of it. There's something about such a huge, beautiful building being built as a mausoleum for one person, that just blows your mind. It's a haunting white reflection of the red architecture of the forts, and I can't do anything except stand and soak it in. It feels supremely peaceful, in the early morning light, sitting at its base, the white towers looming straight up, and the huge dome capping the intricate lattice work of the building. 'Building' actually seems like the wrong word: it seems more like a monument from another world, almost as alien as the black tablet in 2001. We are hours in the immaculate gardens, just spending time in the company of this beautiful mountain of wrought marble. I walk out feeling very much at peace.
The majesty of India is apparent in so many more places than just Agra and the Mughal architecture, though. there is something majestic in the open-air funeral pyres along the banks of the Ganges -- the sheer scale and industry of the operation inspires. Even India's trains and stations, while maybe slightly grubby, are soaring in scale, elements of the landscape, not to be trifled with. The scale of travle around India itself is tremendous. Our seventeen hour bus journey is not even our longest, and we have several train journeys in double figures of hours. And, presiding over it all, the start of the biggest mountains in the world. After the heat and the closeness of the plains, we leave for Kashmir, and thence to Ladakh in the heart of the Indian Himalaya.
Photos of Delhi, Agra & Varanasi
Friday, 3 December 2010
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
The Long Watch
So, before I went away I got a piece accepted by The Legendary. It's a piece I really like, loosely inspired by an attempt to make sense of 'All Along the Watchtower', last Xmas, on Show Me Your Lits.
The Long Watch
The Long Watch
Saturday, 30 October 2010
Roots
In the film Inception, dreams are manipulated so that Cillian Murphy's character sleeps and dreams, during which dream he sleeps, and dreams, during which dream he sleeps, and dreams, so that ultimately he is in a dream within a dream within a dream. It gets pretty confusing for the viewer, let alone poor Cillian.
I've been feeling something similar this year; my 'normal life' went to sleep when we gave up the flat and work, and travelling through Turkey, Iran, India was like a dream. But then we were called back to spend my grandmother's last weeks with her. Although we were going home, it wasn't to the same flat or to any work, or recognisable routine, and for obvious reasons it was strange and unreal; like whilst travelling we'd slipped into a further sleep and another, more nightmarish dream.
Once she'd died, there was the period of going through her belongings and saying goodbye, then a strange period of living back in London waiting to recommence travelling. Each of these felt like a new dream within the one before, or maybe a series of random unconnected dreams such as when you're wavering between sleep and waking.
But each level has to be woken up from, and when everything was sorted with Helen's house, and when we flew back out here, it was like waking a little more, moving a little further back towards reality. Except it's not as it was before. there have been some beautiful moments on this second leg of the trip, in Australia and Thailand (which I will write about, and post photos), but it doesn't seem as happy-go-lucky now, both because of what's happened and because it feels finite now, bounded, moving towards a rapidly approaching end point.
And when we do wake up for real, back in England, it won't be quite the same; we'll need to find a new flat, a new job in B's case and reconnect with work in mine. And of course, Helen won't be there, and neither will the closest thing there's been in my life to a family home since I was around twenty years old.
Rootless, is how it feels. I have my family, and I feel blessed for how much closer I've found myself to them recently -- the time we got to spend together was the silver lining to the time spent in England this summer, and though we're less by one, I feel we're stronger than ever.
But I need some roots of my own, and I guess that travelling has given me the time and perspective to see the importance of that. I have an amazing wife, a successful business, some wonderful friends, and, I'm told, a talent; one which I have some fragile hopes for. Now's the time for me to start making something solid, something with roots, of all that.
For awhile now an idea has been rattling around in my head, along these lines: when people -- like me -- who like to keep as many doors as possible open, hold back too much from ever choosing one door to step through, time closes some -- eventually all -- doors for you.
I think I've believed that intellectually for awhile, but maybe now I'm starting to feel it. I want to make my choices; I want to step through the doors I choose with my eyes open, and I want to make such strong roots of what lies on the other side that thoughts of those unchosen doors flutter away like each Autumn's leaves.
I've been feeling something similar this year; my 'normal life' went to sleep when we gave up the flat and work, and travelling through Turkey, Iran, India was like a dream. But then we were called back to spend my grandmother's last weeks with her. Although we were going home, it wasn't to the same flat or to any work, or recognisable routine, and for obvious reasons it was strange and unreal; like whilst travelling we'd slipped into a further sleep and another, more nightmarish dream.
Once she'd died, there was the period of going through her belongings and saying goodbye, then a strange period of living back in London waiting to recommence travelling. Each of these felt like a new dream within the one before, or maybe a series of random unconnected dreams such as when you're wavering between sleep and waking.
But each level has to be woken up from, and when everything was sorted with Helen's house, and when we flew back out here, it was like waking a little more, moving a little further back towards reality. Except it's not as it was before. there have been some beautiful moments on this second leg of the trip, in Australia and Thailand (which I will write about, and post photos), but it doesn't seem as happy-go-lucky now, both because of what's happened and because it feels finite now, bounded, moving towards a rapidly approaching end point.
And when we do wake up for real, back in England, it won't be quite the same; we'll need to find a new flat, a new job in B's case and reconnect with work in mine. And of course, Helen won't be there, and neither will the closest thing there's been in my life to a family home since I was around twenty years old.
Rootless, is how it feels. I have my family, and I feel blessed for how much closer I've found myself to them recently -- the time we got to spend together was the silver lining to the time spent in England this summer, and though we're less by one, I feel we're stronger than ever.
But I need some roots of my own, and I guess that travelling has given me the time and perspective to see the importance of that. I have an amazing wife, a successful business, some wonderful friends, and, I'm told, a talent; one which I have some fragile hopes for. Now's the time for me to start making something solid, something with roots, of all that.
For awhile now an idea has been rattling around in my head, along these lines: when people -- like me -- who like to keep as many doors as possible open, hold back too much from ever choosing one door to step through, time closes some -- eventually all -- doors for you.
I think I've believed that intellectually for awhile, but maybe now I'm starting to feel it. I want to make my choices; I want to step through the doors I choose with my eyes open, and I want to make such strong roots of what lies on the other side that thoughts of those unchosen doors flutter away like each Autumn's leaves.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
An Amazing Woman
My grandmother died on Monday morning. I sat with her for the last few hours, and she eventually just seemed to let go. She died holding my hand and that of my brother, listening to us talk to her. She was ready, I think. She'd seen the people she wanted to see, and she'd had as much discomfort as she could deal with.
I have to think of something to say at the wake on Saturday. There are so many things to say about her. She was somebody really special; she had so much love and patience and hope. She always thought the best of people, and she had a hard time seeing that the degree of goodness and selflessness she exhibited every day was extraordinary. But it was. As I said in a previous post, if everybody was just a little bit more like her, the world would be a much happier place.
I feel sad, and numb, and, in a way, happy for her, that she didn't have to put up with too much pain for too long at the end. I know it meant a lot to her to have the people she loved around her these last few weeks, and I also take some comfort in the fact that she saw me get married and my brother become a father. The most recent memories she'll have of her family are of a time where, as a whole, we've been happier than in a long long time, and that's something.
She gave me so much: a good example to follow, a place to live when I needed it, a home full of happy memories, an ear and a kind word whenever I saw her... she made--makes--me want to be a better person. I'm glad I was able to repay some of her kindness by making her happy and proud of her grandson.
Goodbye, Helen. You'll be sorely missed.
I have to think of something to say at the wake on Saturday. There are so many things to say about her. She was somebody really special; she had so much love and patience and hope. She always thought the best of people, and she had a hard time seeing that the degree of goodness and selflessness she exhibited every day was extraordinary. But it was. As I said in a previous post, if everybody was just a little bit more like her, the world would be a much happier place.
I feel sad, and numb, and, in a way, happy for her, that she didn't have to put up with too much pain for too long at the end. I know it meant a lot to her to have the people she loved around her these last few weeks, and I also take some comfort in the fact that she saw me get married and my brother become a father. The most recent memories she'll have of her family are of a time where, as a whole, we've been happier than in a long long time, and that's something.
She gave me so much: a good example to follow, a place to live when I needed it, a home full of happy memories, an ear and a kind word whenever I saw her... she made--makes--me want to be a better person. I'm glad I was able to repay some of her kindness by making her happy and proud of her grandson.
Goodbye, Helen. You'll be sorely missed.
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
Homecoming
I was looking forward to coming home to my Grandmother's house. I've lived here before. With the family home long gone and every Christmas I can remember spent here, this place feels more like home than anywhere else, and living with Helen again was lined up as a nice way to come back to the country. I was going to cook for her and look after her, play games of scrabble, watch her favourite programmes with her.
And now I'm back here, rudely early, feeding her yoghurts and fluids, emptying her commode, watching her begin to fade away. The six hour kink on my body clock and lack of sleep is making this seem more like a bad dream than it otherwise might, but I'm not sure it needs any help.
You have all the time in the world. You have plans that don't need scheduling in; you can do them in the Autumn, or at Xmas, or next year, or whenever the fancy takes you. And then everything shrinks down to one room and maybe two months if you're lucky, and a reduced capacity to do anything, and suddenly all these places you were going to swim to recede as you fight just to tread water. Fight to keep a smile because how the hell are you going to persuade her not to be depressed if you are yourself?
I keep thinking, if they hadn't got the initial diagnosis wrong, I could have spent some real time here with her in her full pomp, before she started to get ill, before she slept so much and started to get so confused. And of course there are all those thoughts about times I could have been here and wasn't over the last few years, but there would be some of those, whatever.
There's nothing for it but the stiff upper lip. Make her comfortable. Make her smile. Try and enjoy the time there is as much as possible. There's nothing else to be done. I know this, but it doesn't make it much easier.
I feel selfish thinking about how I'm feeling... how she's feeling is surely the issue. But I feel adrift. I have no work, and now the travels are on hiatus. I'm back here trying to connect with her and finding it hard, and finding that my Brother and Dad have most of the actual care covered. And I feel robbed. There was so much time, so many things to look forward to with her. Me living here again for a few months was going to mean a lot to her.
It means a lot to her, though, having me, and Dad and my Brother and Sister, back here now. So we do and be what we can, I guess.
I can't think of a way to end this, or anything else to say.
And now I'm back here, rudely early, feeding her yoghurts and fluids, emptying her commode, watching her begin to fade away. The six hour kink on my body clock and lack of sleep is making this seem more like a bad dream than it otherwise might, but I'm not sure it needs any help.
You have all the time in the world. You have plans that don't need scheduling in; you can do them in the Autumn, or at Xmas, or next year, or whenever the fancy takes you. And then everything shrinks down to one room and maybe two months if you're lucky, and a reduced capacity to do anything, and suddenly all these places you were going to swim to recede as you fight just to tread water. Fight to keep a smile because how the hell are you going to persuade her not to be depressed if you are yourself?
I keep thinking, if they hadn't got the initial diagnosis wrong, I could have spent some real time here with her in her full pomp, before she started to get ill, before she slept so much and started to get so confused. And of course there are all those thoughts about times I could have been here and wasn't over the last few years, but there would be some of those, whatever.
There's nothing for it but the stiff upper lip. Make her comfortable. Make her smile. Try and enjoy the time there is as much as possible. There's nothing else to be done. I know this, but it doesn't make it much easier.
I feel selfish thinking about how I'm feeling... how she's feeling is surely the issue. But I feel adrift. I have no work, and now the travels are on hiatus. I'm back here trying to connect with her and finding it hard, and finding that my Brother and Dad have most of the actual care covered. And I feel robbed. There was so much time, so many things to look forward to with her. Me living here again for a few months was going to mean a lot to her.
It means a lot to her, though, having me, and Dad and my Brother and Sister, back here now. So we do and be what we can, I guess.
I can't think of a way to end this, or anything else to say.
Wednesday, 2 June 2010
Five Things You Notice About Iran
1: The Friendliness
From before we got into the country, on a train surrounded by Iranians returning home from Turkey, through every city and every bus since we've been here, the thing that shines through about Iranians is how much they like to welcome people to their country. They take their hospitality very seriously; we've been invited to stay with or eat with or have tea with more people than I can remember. We took three different people or families up on their offers to have dinner and stay with them, and we were really pleased that we did. They came up with delicious veggie pie and were incredibly gracious and thoughtful hosts, and we had some really interesting conversations about politics, life in England and in Iran, life in general, religion, food, football...
Then there's the random experiences: being dragged into a school to be a living show-and-tell; being guided around a stepped hillside villages by a group of schoolgirls with no English, fiercely protective of 'their tourists' when some guides tried to 'poach' us, being asked every philosophical question short of the meaning of life over tea whilst looking out over Imam Square, singing a duet of Bryan Adams' 'Everything I Do...' from a balconey with a guy we met five minutes earlier, incredibly civilised conversations in immaculate gardens surrounding a poet's imposing tomb, translating magazine articles for an elderly gentleman scholar of English to his eternal gratitude
2: The Roads
I've not driven in this country (thank God!), but I've been driven by taxi drivers and some of our hosts, and it's worrying like watching someone next to you play Gran Turismo, but with the knowledge that there will be no 'Start New Game' option. Especially as you often have no seatbelt, and the car you're in is often seemingly held together with duck tape. Lanes? Braking distance? Right of way? These are alien concepts; drivers weave their way at high speed from left to right , the seeming golden rule to never slow down unless they absolutely have to. I thought Indian roads were crazy. The only thing scarier than the first time you are driven in Iran is the first time you have to cross a road in Iran. You first of all stand there for ten minutes waiting for a gap, before you realise that the only way across is to do what the locals are doing and just step out. Amazingly, the car that was flying at full speed towards the space you just stepped into (usually) slows down, and you can cross that lane, with only about five more to go...
3: The Art and the Architecture
These two blend into one, as the venerable mosques and palaces are themselves works of art. The Imam Mosque in Esfahan, for example, redefines awesome, and is the most impressive building I've seen bar perhaps only the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. Giant archways vault above you at each side of the massive main courtyard, and behind each is a beautiful dome, seemingly floating above the huge spaces they cover. Actually, they're held in place by simple yet amazing feats of mathematics and engineering (look up 'squinch' if you're interested), which were pioneered in Persia. And every surface is covered in the most exquisite blue tilework. Everywhere from mosques to palaces to pavements, beauty is played out in geometry, intersecting lines and flowing script. What is often dismissed in the West as the best that a culture barred from iconography could manage is, when I look at it, a careful mirror of nature; engaging, thought provoking, and awe-inspiring.
4: The Food
Meat Meat Meat. Nine out of ten dishes on menus are kebabs, and most of the others are chicken or fish. Trying to get across the concept of vegetarian here is almost like someone coming to the UK and saying 'I don't breathe oxygen'. In most places the responses follow a certain pattern: a) laughter; b) disbelief -- they couldn't have possibly understood right; c) 'So, chicken, then? Or fish? Or how about this dish -- it only has small pieces of meat in it...'; then usually one of three final responses: d) head shaking -- we can't help you; e) a quite random selection of vegetables piled together, or f) a meat dish is brought anyway.
Some places, actually, are Ok, but they often take some questing to find. When we have found local vegetarian dishes, they've been gorgeous; lovely mixes of aubergine, spices, spinach, beans and other stuff. And in people's homes, they've put together some fantastic stuff. But sometimes we've been grateful for the import of pizza, as many as we've ended up having.
5: The Ripples from the Revolution
The complexity of how this country has been affected by what happened in 1979 can't be understated. It's status as an Islamic Republic and effective theocracy (despite a lower tier of 'elected' government) is unique in the world, and you see it everywhere from the obvious chadors, hejabs, manteaus and occasional burkhas to the masses who turn out for the annual day of (energetic) mourning for the death of Fatima, the daughter of Mohammed, who died over a thousand years ago. Most of the people I've spoken to have been fairly quick to express their disagreement with most of what their government does, and the youth are positively chafing at the bit. With an internet filter, music bans, harsh consequences for inappropriate non-marital behaviour, and of course the clothing issue, they idolize the West (unhealthily so) and reject pretty much everything about the regime. Most are Muslim only nominally, due to pressure from authorities or family, and would jump at the chance to be free. Those that can, get to Italy, Canada, or other places to study, and then don't come back. Some older heads say that the Islamic republic also brings benefits, and that the Shah was not all he was cracked up to be, but 70% of the population are under 30, and it feels as if something will have to give.
My understanding of all this is only very basic, from the conversations I've had, so I'm finding it difficult to generalise, but one thing that may illustrate much of the above and how Iran's relationship with the West works for people here is the conversation I've had again and again, which goes something like this: 'What did I think about Iran before I came, and what do I think now? Do I see that the people are not like the government? Do I see that Iranians are not terrorists and not like the news in the West suggests?' There is a deep concern here that an ancient culture is getting sidelined globally, thought of as second class citizens, because of fights that their government picks. At the same time, there is a fierce pride, and a recognition that Iran should be stronger than it is, and that much of the blame for that lies at the feet of the US and UK. The former US Embassy in Tehran is now a museum known as 'The US Den of Espionage'. It's not helpful, but if you look at the history of the place, you'll see the moniker has a ring of truth. It's all complex, which is why I've probably only captured a fraction of it here. But it definitely makes for a fascinating experience of certainly the most different culture and country I've ever visited.
Photos to follow...
From before we got into the country, on a train surrounded by Iranians returning home from Turkey, through every city and every bus since we've been here, the thing that shines through about Iranians is how much they like to welcome people to their country. They take their hospitality very seriously; we've been invited to stay with or eat with or have tea with more people than I can remember. We took three different people or families up on their offers to have dinner and stay with them, and we were really pleased that we did. They came up with delicious veggie pie and were incredibly gracious and thoughtful hosts, and we had some really interesting conversations about politics, life in England and in Iran, life in general, religion, food, football...
Then there's the random experiences: being dragged into a school to be a living show-and-tell; being guided around a stepped hillside villages by a group of schoolgirls with no English, fiercely protective of 'their tourists' when some guides tried to 'poach' us, being asked every philosophical question short of the meaning of life over tea whilst looking out over Imam Square, singing a duet of Bryan Adams' 'Everything I Do...' from a balconey with a guy we met five minutes earlier, incredibly civilised conversations in immaculate gardens surrounding a poet's imposing tomb, translating magazine articles for an elderly gentleman scholar of English to his eternal gratitude
2: The Roads
I've not driven in this country (thank God!), but I've been driven by taxi drivers and some of our hosts, and it's worrying like watching someone next to you play Gran Turismo, but with the knowledge that there will be no 'Start New Game' option. Especially as you often have no seatbelt, and the car you're in is often seemingly held together with duck tape. Lanes? Braking distance? Right of way? These are alien concepts; drivers weave their way at high speed from left to right , the seeming golden rule to never slow down unless they absolutely have to. I thought Indian roads were crazy. The only thing scarier than the first time you are driven in Iran is the first time you have to cross a road in Iran. You first of all stand there for ten minutes waiting for a gap, before you realise that the only way across is to do what the locals are doing and just step out. Amazingly, the car that was flying at full speed towards the space you just stepped into (usually) slows down, and you can cross that lane, with only about five more to go...
3: The Art and the Architecture
These two blend into one, as the venerable mosques and palaces are themselves works of art. The Imam Mosque in Esfahan, for example, redefines awesome, and is the most impressive building I've seen bar perhaps only the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. Giant archways vault above you at each side of the massive main courtyard, and behind each is a beautiful dome, seemingly floating above the huge spaces they cover. Actually, they're held in place by simple yet amazing feats of mathematics and engineering (look up 'squinch' if you're interested), which were pioneered in Persia. And every surface is covered in the most exquisite blue tilework. Everywhere from mosques to palaces to pavements, beauty is played out in geometry, intersecting lines and flowing script. What is often dismissed in the West as the best that a culture barred from iconography could manage is, when I look at it, a careful mirror of nature; engaging, thought provoking, and awe-inspiring.
4: The Food
Meat Meat Meat. Nine out of ten dishes on menus are kebabs, and most of the others are chicken or fish. Trying to get across the concept of vegetarian here is almost like someone coming to the UK and saying 'I don't breathe oxygen'. In most places the responses follow a certain pattern: a) laughter; b) disbelief -- they couldn't have possibly understood right; c) 'So, chicken, then? Or fish? Or how about this dish -- it only has small pieces of meat in it...'; then usually one of three final responses: d) head shaking -- we can't help you; e) a quite random selection of vegetables piled together, or f) a meat dish is brought anyway.
Some places, actually, are Ok, but they often take some questing to find. When we have found local vegetarian dishes, they've been gorgeous; lovely mixes of aubergine, spices, spinach, beans and other stuff. And in people's homes, they've put together some fantastic stuff. But sometimes we've been grateful for the import of pizza, as many as we've ended up having.
5: The Ripples from the Revolution
The complexity of how this country has been affected by what happened in 1979 can't be understated. It's status as an Islamic Republic and effective theocracy (despite a lower tier of 'elected' government) is unique in the world, and you see it everywhere from the obvious chadors, hejabs, manteaus and occasional burkhas to the masses who turn out for the annual day of (energetic) mourning for the death of Fatima, the daughter of Mohammed, who died over a thousand years ago. Most of the people I've spoken to have been fairly quick to express their disagreement with most of what their government does, and the youth are positively chafing at the bit. With an internet filter, music bans, harsh consequences for inappropriate non-marital behaviour, and of course the clothing issue, they idolize the West (unhealthily so) and reject pretty much everything about the regime. Most are Muslim only nominally, due to pressure from authorities or family, and would jump at the chance to be free. Those that can, get to Italy, Canada, or other places to study, and then don't come back. Some older heads say that the Islamic republic also brings benefits, and that the Shah was not all he was cracked up to be, but 70% of the population are under 30, and it feels as if something will have to give.
My understanding of all this is only very basic, from the conversations I've had, so I'm finding it difficult to generalise, but one thing that may illustrate much of the above and how Iran's relationship with the West works for people here is the conversation I've had again and again, which goes something like this: 'What did I think about Iran before I came, and what do I think now? Do I see that the people are not like the government? Do I see that Iranians are not terrorists and not like the news in the West suggests?' There is a deep concern here that an ancient culture is getting sidelined globally, thought of as second class citizens, because of fights that their government picks. At the same time, there is a fierce pride, and a recognition that Iran should be stronger than it is, and that much of the blame for that lies at the feet of the US and UK. The former US Embassy in Tehran is now a museum known as 'The US Den of Espionage'. It's not helpful, but if you look at the history of the place, you'll see the moniker has a ring of truth. It's all complex, which is why I've probably only captured a fraction of it here. But it definitely makes for a fascinating experience of certainly the most different culture and country I've ever visited.
Photos to follow...
Thursday, 13 May 2010
First Report: Turkey
Turkey isn't really that far away from the UK. It's not a seismic shift in culture; I suspect it will be nothing compared to the next stop: Iran. Still, I feel like I've stepped into another world. Maybe it's the otherwordly landscapes we've encountered. Pammukale is a mountainside of shelves of smooth white rock. The sheer amount of pure whıte ın your frame of vıew disorients you; it feels like it should be snow, but the water that runs over it ıs warm, from the hot springs whıch contain the minerals that have created the whiteness. Just as alien are the vistas of Cappadocia, where metres and metres of volcanic ash have eroded to leave 'fairy chimneys' of soft 'tuff', rock which the inhabitants of the region have tunneled into to create their homes, like giant termite mounds.
In more prosaic fashion, it may just be the knowledge that, unlike any other trip I've ever taken, there is the knowledge that the next stop is onwards, as is the one after that and the one after that. 'Home' isn't until October, and maybe that's startıng to sink in. Part of it has to be the cultural differences, the little things, from the weird Turkish keyboard that's driving me crazy right now to the breakfasts of bread, olives, cucumber and tomato; from the language that we're just about getting our tongues around to the endless groups of men drinking tea and playing backgammon. Of course, it's all of these things.
Turkey is such a wonderful place to start our trip, though. There is so much friendliness here. Looking lost the other day in Kayseri resulted in a guy walking us to our bus stop, refusing to allow us to pay for our tickets, and waiting until our bus came so he could make sure we got on it safely. And so much beauty. As well as Pamukkale and Cappadocia, there are the ancient ruins at Hierapolis and Ephesus, which had us wandering round jaws agape. The Fatih mosque here in Kayseri is beautiful - I love the geometric designs and script; mosques to me seem such peaceful, reverent places. The old Roman aqueduct at Selçuk, with storks nesting atop every support and the quiet town nestling below, was beautiful to walk around.
Everyone is happy to talk to us, too. Admittedly, some of them want to sell us carpets, but they're very happy to talk to us about life, politics, being English and being Turkish. We,ve had our difficulties and adventures too - trying to book transport and get food (especıally veggie food) in places where they've no English is always a challenge, and my war aginst mosquitoes from previous trips abroad has resumed. Every time I stand there in my boxer shorts, torch in one hand (so as not to wake Briony with the light), rolled-up newspaper in the other like a harpoon, I understand a little more about Captain Ahab. The maps in our seven-year old Rough Guide are a tad dodgy, too, which has resulted in us wandering merrily with our backpacks into odd parts of town and down train sidings.
The best part of it all, though, is the feeling that this is our honeymoon, and we've earnt it. We,ve worked, and saved, and had donations from all the lovely people who were able to give something as a wedding gift, and it's felt so far away for so long, but now it's here, and we're only two weeks into it, with some of the more intrepid parts still to come. Later today we board the three-day train to Tehran. It seems like a great adventure, and it's only stage two.
Photos:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/brionyandterry/sets/72157624051526070/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/brionyandterry/sets/72157623927152097/
In more prosaic fashion, it may just be the knowledge that, unlike any other trip I've ever taken, there is the knowledge that the next stop is onwards, as is the one after that and the one after that. 'Home' isn't until October, and maybe that's startıng to sink in. Part of it has to be the cultural differences, the little things, from the weird Turkish keyboard that's driving me crazy right now to the breakfasts of bread, olives, cucumber and tomato; from the language that we're just about getting our tongues around to the endless groups of men drinking tea and playing backgammon. Of course, it's all of these things.
Turkey is such a wonderful place to start our trip, though. There is so much friendliness here. Looking lost the other day in Kayseri resulted in a guy walking us to our bus stop, refusing to allow us to pay for our tickets, and waiting until our bus came so he could make sure we got on it safely. And so much beauty. As well as Pamukkale and Cappadocia, there are the ancient ruins at Hierapolis and Ephesus, which had us wandering round jaws agape. The Fatih mosque here in Kayseri is beautiful - I love the geometric designs and script; mosques to me seem such peaceful, reverent places. The old Roman aqueduct at Selçuk, with storks nesting atop every support and the quiet town nestling below, was beautiful to walk around.
Everyone is happy to talk to us, too. Admittedly, some of them want to sell us carpets, but they're very happy to talk to us about life, politics, being English and being Turkish. We,ve had our difficulties and adventures too - trying to book transport and get food (especıally veggie food) in places where they've no English is always a challenge, and my war aginst mosquitoes from previous trips abroad has resumed. Every time I stand there in my boxer shorts, torch in one hand (so as not to wake Briony with the light), rolled-up newspaper in the other like a harpoon, I understand a little more about Captain Ahab. The maps in our seven-year old Rough Guide are a tad dodgy, too, which has resulted in us wandering merrily with our backpacks into odd parts of town and down train sidings.
The best part of it all, though, is the feeling that this is our honeymoon, and we've earnt it. We,ve worked, and saved, and had donations from all the lovely people who were able to give something as a wedding gift, and it's felt so far away for so long, but now it's here, and we're only two weeks into it, with some of the more intrepid parts still to come. Later today we board the three-day train to Tehran. It seems like a great adventure, and it's only stage two.
Photos:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/brionyandterry/sets/72157624051526070/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/brionyandterry/sets/72157623927152097/
Monday, 26 April 2010
Life in Boxes
So, my life is in boxes in storage; I now have access to the thirty-five litres deemed most indispensable, which is going to be my snail-shell on my back from now until October.
We fly on Friday. Izmir is the first stop, and I'm really looking forward to seeing Ephesus and the south-west coastline of Turkey, as well as Cappadocia and the fairy chimneys. A train will take us from there into Iran, where we've hopefully a family or two lined up to stay with; that really sounds like the best way to do it. From thence, India: Delhi, some of the tiger parks, Ladakh in the mountains of the north, and Kerala in the South -- some volunteering in there somewhere, and some meditation retreat type time. Then a bit of travelling through Southeast Asia to Cambodia and Angkor Watt, before making our way across Australia from Perth to Sydney...
Squee! Very excited now.
We fly on Friday. Izmir is the first stop, and I'm really looking forward to seeing Ephesus and the south-west coastline of Turkey, as well as Cappadocia and the fairy chimneys. A train will take us from there into Iran, where we've hopefully a family or two lined up to stay with; that really sounds like the best way to do it. From thence, India: Delhi, some of the tiger parks, Ladakh in the mountains of the north, and Kerala in the South -- some volunteering in there somewhere, and some meditation retreat type time. Then a bit of travelling through Southeast Asia to Cambodia and Angkor Watt, before making our way across Australia from Perth to Sydney...
Squee! Very excited now.
Monday, 5 April 2010
Two more stories...
Two new published stories.
Danse Macabre have published The Face of God:
http://dansemacabre.art.officelive.com/TheFaceOfGod.aspx
The Battered Suitcase have published Abandonment:
http://www.vagabondagepress.com/00301/V2I4SS1.html
Danse Macabre have published The Face of God:
http://dansemacabre.art.officelive.com/TheFaceOfGod.aspx
The Battered Suitcase have published Abandonment:
http://www.vagabondagepress.com/00301/V2I4SS1.html
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Another Place
...is the title of my latest story to be published. It's about Laika, the first dog in space, and was inspired by the video to 'Fragile' by God Is an Astronaut:
The story has been taken up by 'Girls with Insurance', edited by PH Madore.
http://girlswithinsurance.com/index.php/prose/short/123-0110-tp-place
The story has been taken up by 'Girls with Insurance', edited by PH Madore.
http://girlswithinsurance.com/index.php/prose/short/123-0110-tp-place
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Ripples
I'm going to have to start this with a spoiler alert for anyone who's not seen Season Four of Dexter. But this isn't going to be your standard review of a TV show. Granted, Dexter is not exactly Citizen Kane. It's not even The Wire. It's often sort of tongue in cheek even though it deals with some unusual themes; I mean, the hero is a serial killer. And so in some ways you might not expect to get anything but some of the darker side of light entertainment from it.
But I have a soft spot for Dexter. The show and the character. He has this urge to kill. But he's basically a good guy. And he doesn't really know how to fit in with all the 'normal' people, and how to survive. And all he really wants is two mutually exclusive things: a 'normal' life, and to be able to indulge his 'dark passenger'. For four seasons, he more or less muddles through. Because his intentions are good--he only kills killers--and he has a little hero's luck, yeah, lots of bad things happen, but they don't really touch him. And they didn't really touch me.
If you know me well, you'll see maybe a little of why I've always identified with Dexter. I don't kill people, clearly. The dark secrets I do have aren't going to make any front pages. But part of me--my 'dark passenger'--wants to live a life that isn't sustainable, isn't compatible with getting older, with having people you love around you, with making your peace with life. And, up to the last few years, like Dexter, I've managed to muddle through, doing just that without really hurting anyone too much, and so without it really touching me. I always fall in the shit, but it's always the scent of roses in the end.
But at the end of Season Four, Dexter is spinning too many plates. He's relying on too many 'it should be Ok's. And he drops a plate, big time. His preying on killers comes back to bite him when one of his marks murders his wife. You're jaunting along with him for the ride, and the needle screeches across the record, wincingly. And finally, it touches him. And it touched me. It struck a chord with something I've been thinking for a long time, in relation to my life, and the lives of some other people around me who have some of the same tendencies.
It's all caught up in a certain optimism, together with a certain attitude of 'what they don't know can't hurt them', that leads to the idea that you can live falsehoods. You can keep people in the dark about parts of yourself, and live in a way you know they wouldn't be able to swallow, because 'it'll all be Ok in the end'. they won't know about it, because the end will be good enough to justify the means. But there comes a point when the means, I think, become the end. The way you live your life is who you are, not some far-off point you're hoping to get to, some person you'll become when you've got this out of your system.
And the way you live your life creates ripples, ripples you will never be able to control all of. A lot of them will go unnoticed, for a long time, maybe. But getting away with it doesn't mean that, one day, one of those ripples won't become a wave which will rock your boat, with all the people in it that you care about. Dexter's ripples capsized his boat. It was a piece of bad luck that allowed it to happen. It shouldn't have happened. But life is full of those little quirks, and the only way you can be sure to guard against it is to live in a way you can justify not just in the best of all possible outcomes, but in all of them.
But I have a soft spot for Dexter. The show and the character. He has this urge to kill. But he's basically a good guy. And he doesn't really know how to fit in with all the 'normal' people, and how to survive. And all he really wants is two mutually exclusive things: a 'normal' life, and to be able to indulge his 'dark passenger'. For four seasons, he more or less muddles through. Because his intentions are good--he only kills killers--and he has a little hero's luck, yeah, lots of bad things happen, but they don't really touch him. And they didn't really touch me.
If you know me well, you'll see maybe a little of why I've always identified with Dexter. I don't kill people, clearly. The dark secrets I do have aren't going to make any front pages. But part of me--my 'dark passenger'--wants to live a life that isn't sustainable, isn't compatible with getting older, with having people you love around you, with making your peace with life. And, up to the last few years, like Dexter, I've managed to muddle through, doing just that without really hurting anyone too much, and so without it really touching me. I always fall in the shit, but it's always the scent of roses in the end.
But at the end of Season Four, Dexter is spinning too many plates. He's relying on too many 'it should be Ok's. And he drops a plate, big time. His preying on killers comes back to bite him when one of his marks murders his wife. You're jaunting along with him for the ride, and the needle screeches across the record, wincingly. And finally, it touches him. And it touched me. It struck a chord with something I've been thinking for a long time, in relation to my life, and the lives of some other people around me who have some of the same tendencies.
It's all caught up in a certain optimism, together with a certain attitude of 'what they don't know can't hurt them', that leads to the idea that you can live falsehoods. You can keep people in the dark about parts of yourself, and live in a way you know they wouldn't be able to swallow, because 'it'll all be Ok in the end'. they won't know about it, because the end will be good enough to justify the means. But there comes a point when the means, I think, become the end. The way you live your life is who you are, not some far-off point you're hoping to get to, some person you'll become when you've got this out of your system.
And the way you live your life creates ripples, ripples you will never be able to control all of. A lot of them will go unnoticed, for a long time, maybe. But getting away with it doesn't mean that, one day, one of those ripples won't become a wave which will rock your boat, with all the people in it that you care about. Dexter's ripples capsized his boat. It was a piece of bad luck that allowed it to happen. It shouldn't have happened. But life is full of those little quirks, and the only way you can be sure to guard against it is to live in a way you can justify not just in the best of all possible outcomes, but in all of them.
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