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Kasauli retreat

On: 2016-11-06

A man cutting & bundling hay in sheaves
Kasauli is a village at the top of a highly populated valley off of the road between Chandigarh and Simla. It's full of vacation homes and hotels of every kind and class. My initial impression was that the road was very narrow and highly trafficked. At the top of the hill in the village was a very European looking stone church. Apparently Kasauli was a popular retreat for the British in colonial times. There are scattered stone buildings and an exclusive club.

My room at La Pinekonez

We were refused entrance to the Hanuman temple area because it is a restricted military zone and my visa prohibits my entry. It seemed like it would have been well worth the effort of the short hike but several armed men behind stone bunkers and perched on tanks wouldn't let me in. So it goes.

La Pinekonez Veranda
We hiked out to the sunset point instead and it offered us a beautiful, if rather smoke hazed sunset. At this point it was getting dark and the others wanted to get back to Chandigarh. My plan was to stay somewhere in Kasauli in a south facing room where I could watch the sunrise and write the last third of a first draft of a short story I'm working on.


Day dawning over Kasauli

After passing on a few overpriced hotels we drove by a small home stay perched on the mountainside whose sign read "for nature lovers". Aman and I had agreed he would probably get the better deal so he ran inside to take a look. He returned minutes later saying I should take it. We all went in to view the room and it was just what I was looking for. A nice, comfortable room with southeast facing room looking down over the valley. The door opened onto a veranda with chairs and a table so you could eat inside or out, depending on your preference and the weather.

Village Temple Tickethatti near Kasauli

Pathway below La Pinekonez












La Pinekonez was more or less the perfect place for my purposes. The food was excellent, simple vegetarian fare. The owner Arvind Attri was friendly, helpful and chatty, someone who obviously got into the hospitality business because of his love of people. He was previously a professor at an art college in the area and it seems he still has a great many other occupations besides running his homestay. The maid who brought my food was friendly and curious and spoke to me in Hindi despite me understanding one word in fifty. I am ashamed not to have learned any Hindi yet...

Pawan Kumar and Family Tickethatti
The next four days I wrote in the mornings, went for walks in the afternoon and then wrote again in the evenings. The day began with a lovely sunrise and the day was punctuated by breakfast, lunch and dinner. At the end of the walk the sun was usually gone and I was able to write a bit before dinner.



Sunrise from my balcony
One evening the other room on my floor was booked by a trio of road trippers from Pune. They came equipped with a guitar and a relaxed state of mind which I found entirely copacetic.

I am not sure when I'll be in Kasauli next but when I am I'll definitely return to Arvind's homestay. 

Diwali 2016, Ambala, Haryana, India

 Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights, is celebrated with candles, light strings, lanterns, sweets and a whole lot of firecrackers. The last aspect is a relatively new one and a somewhat controversial one as it produces noise pollution, smoke and garbage. I've never liked firecrackers. Now I'm not going to lie - I like loud explosions - I just feel more satisfaction when there is a direction and an obvious result. I find roller derby, demolition derby, target shooting and watching fireworks all very satisfying. A loud bang I can't place is just disconcerting. Kind of like the big muffled whump that went off to the rear left of the 737 I was recently flying from Delhi to Pune in. Nothing happened except a girl who beside me who pulled her hoodie down over her head and kneaded her fists in her eyes and minutes later the seat belt sign was extinguished. Nonetheless I was on edge for the rest of the flight. Anyway, I digress.

This is how I dress in India...
Diwali was lovely, sugar sweet and there were some entertaining buzzers and fireworks to enjoy between the juvenile ordnance display that made my ears ring. I was the lucky guest of the Bhanot family who live in Ambala, just south of Chandigarh. They invited me into their beautiful home designed by Aman's older sister and fed me great vegetarian food and generally treated me like a king.

The following day I went for a run around the neighborhood and then we took a van up to Kasauli, a little place in the hills (Indians refer to it as a hill station) on the way to Simla. It's in the state of Himachel Pradesh. I love that name.



Chandigarh capitol of Punjab and Haryana

Highway Hanuman
Thursday October 27th. I stayed up having drinks and conversation with friends from work. Finally we watched the first episode of The Get Down. I couldn't rip myself away. It was engaging drama. Not everything about it was excellent but it pulled you in and it didn't let up. Afterwards I wandered downstairs, a little tipsy and packed. I always pack in my head before I actually pack and usually I locate the items or put them in a spot that will guarantee their inclusion by association. Sometimes I pre-pack a little as in the case of my camera or toiletry bag.

Troop of stone monkeys...

My alarm went off at 3am about 2 hours after I'd laid down. I called the taxi driver to confirm and after minor delays we took off for the airport. The flight left punctually at 5:30, rumbling down the undulating military strip of Pune international airport. Two hours feels interminably long on an airplane. Something about it is even worse than 10. Every moment I feel like we should finally be landing and after having that feeling about 17 thousand times we did actually circle in and touch down at Delhi airport.

He was trying to tell me something...

I had the worst possible coffee and a molten brick of a danish at Cafe Costa while trying to figure out where I needed to go to catch the bus to Chandigarh. Burnt tongue and exhaustion were offset by it being the first day of my holiday and traveling light. The shuttle took me out to a big, mostly empty lot with a station that had a single stand selling food and beverages. I had a hot toasted paneer sandwich and kept myself awake by talking to a street dog.

Get down at the Rock Garden

Once the bus came there was some confusion over whether or not I would be able to get on. I wanted to keep my bag, which was carry-on size, with me but the conductor wouldn't have it. I was nervous about it being under the bus as it contained my laptop but I figured it would be kept in a compartment only for passengers disembarking at Chandigarh, and so it was. Finally I was given a VIP seat right in the front. I didn't really want that one but it's hard to deny privilege when it's thrust upon you. I didn't want to seem ungrateful and somewhere there is the nagging
question whether it really is better somehow.

Disturbing bovine forms
The ride to Chandigarh was uneventful but I was glad that I had the chance to cover the ground from Delhi, giving me a feel for the terrain, distance and glimpses of the people and their lives. At the bus station a driver came up to me and I indicated a somewhat non-committal assent. He said the charge would be 80 rupees. We were then mobbed by about six other drivers and one of them said my original driver was a pedal rickshaw, not a motor rickshaw. The first driver said he would take me for 30 rupees.

I asked how far it was to the hotel Diamond Plaza, which I'd booked in advance and they said 3km. I was worried that the distance was too far for the rickshaw driver to pedal. 'Maybe it's too far for you?' I suggested. He looked downcast and the other drivers started loudly competing for my attention. He looked so disheartened that I decided I just couldn't take away his business so I said 'Let's go.' Usually I don't use pedal rickshaws as it seems like such grueling labor and it's extremely badly paid. At any rate, I perched up on the slanted seat behind the driver and he wheeled us onto the road and off we went.

Portable street food setup - tasty result!
It really wasn't that far off and it was more or less flat. I'd been told that Chandigarh was the only city in India designed and laid out on a grid. The city was originally planned by Swiss-French architect Le Corbusier. There are a lot of green spaces in the city. The meridians are landscaped and it's quite orderly.

We soon came to the hotel Diamond Plaza, a cheap affair among a row of narrow storefront on a strip. I asked the driver to wait while I checked that my reservation was good and the hotel looked in order. It was and it did so I came back out and gave the driver 100 rupees. He was pretty happy to get that amount and I was happy I'd given him my custom.

Bright boats in Chandigarh
The next day was Saturday and after my morning run I went out to see some sights. First stop was the rock garden. The rock garden in Chandigarh is one of those park-like constructions somewhere between kitsch and art, ugliness and beauty, awkward and elegant. Basically an artist made or had made, a bunch of cement figures covered in a mosaic of porcelain from plates, electrical outlets and other materials. He created a series of imaginative spaces and filled them up with these figures, some of which are unique and some of which are repeated versions which are more or less similar. The cumulative effect is impressive and some of the spaces are inspired. A lot of it is kind of a cobbled together child-like dream of forts with bridges for trolls and waterfalls. Couples evade a young security guard who carries a stick and tries to catch them in the act of getting too close for propriety. He seems to take his work rather seriously but the couples seem to enjoy the game.

A weird amphitheater
I was probably there for two hours. The next stop was the lake, which was about a 15 minute walk. I eschewed a rickshaw to stretch my legs. Along the way I came across a man selling hot food from a setup which was entirely transported on bicycle. Two containers for the main ingredients, buns and a chickpea paste, plus various spices, onions, hot peppers and lime and a tiny gas burner to heat it all up with. The burner was contained by a little copper shell with a grate inside. It was an altogether compact and portable kitchen.

The resulting veg burger was very tasty. I unfortunately didn't take a photo of it as I was busy stilling my appetite but it was a rather impressive result for such a tiny setup.

The lake was obviously important to the city social life, with a small amusement park with rides for the kids, a restaurant and a cafe where you could order beer. The lake itself seemed to be artificial and the water was quite low. The main attraction at the water was a huge collection of plastic paddle boats in a variety of forms and colours.

 Next to my hotel was a shop specializing in custom wedding attire. I was in there for a formal event so I had a kurta with me but one of the buttons made of a small wooden bead wrapped in cloth had come apart. I asked if they could repair it. The proprietor of Ellcanes Fashion, Simran invited me to relax in her office while a tailor repaired the button.

 She told me she had just opened the shop and is preparing to open a shop in Vancouver in February. Vancouverites, look for her shop for a mix of the modern and traditional in Indian formal fashion. She offered me some Diwali cashews and didn't charge me for the repairs. All in all a very nice exchange. She also sells high quality textiles from northern India. Beautiful

Suspended between poles - legato

On: 2016-08-09

I slept poorly on the evening before my journey from Vancouver to Mumbai.


We took off at 9pm, the alchemy of the golden hour gilding our tilting wings before we tracked into the North American night. At 5:30 am we bounced onto the Newark tarmac where I had a sixteen hour layover.

When I arrived at US immigration around 6am I found it confusing and disorganized. The assistants were gruff, demanding and clueless, barking orders that contradicted the signs passengers had read prior to standing in line. Arrows and instructions pointed in opposing directions and the security personnel seemed harried and inexperienced.

For a country that apparently places such a high priority on security I got the impression that the people on the ground lacked training and information.

I collected my luggage, which I wasn't allowed to check through to Mumbai due to the length of my layover, and following the example of some other passengers, I curled up for a nap on a platform next to a column in the baggage claim area with my feet propped up on my suitcases.

After 3 hours of fitful sleep I felt nearly functional and decided to use the remaining time to make my first visit to New York City. I wanted to avoid horrendous roaming charges so I decided to save money with a data SIM card from a vending machine. It swallowed $20 but no SIM card was forthcoming.

I left my luggage in the hands of the attendant. I was a little uneasy when she said she couldn't give me a receipt but she had a trustworthy demeanor and a crisp uniform. I eschewed the pesky taxi drivers in favor of public transport.

The Air Train is a clunky, teetering monorail which transports passengers to the mainline rail station, where you can catch the fast, clean Amtrak trains directly to Pennsylvania Station in Manhattan. They have a definitively stainless steel '1980's look to them but seem built to last.

On the way from Newark the tracks pass through a marshy area. High-tension cables dip from tower to tower across the gloomy post-industrial landscape, while a line of sagging wooden poles at their feet were in the process of decaying slowly into the grass-rimmed pools of the marsh. Some half-submerged creosote-coated poles clung tenaciously with glass-insulator fingers to a brigade of increasingly more erect poles.

Landscapes of industrial decay awaken a sense of mysterious excitement in me - the rot of civilizations monuments is a triumph of inexorable nature - still it was troubling to think of the world's only superpower not deeming it necessary to clean up such obvious signs of dilapidation. For many people entering the US for the first time the statue of liberty wouldn't be the first sight they saw, rather the New Jersey marsh with its old line of rotting telephone poles.

It's not the un-sanitized decay that worries me but the discrepancy between it and the bombastic patriotism American media bombards the rest of the world with. It's like the big brawny, clear eyed dependability of the bus driver was suddenly cast into doubt by his lopsided grin and the suspicion you'd caught alcohol on his breath.

My quick impression of NYC continued to be a study in contrasts. The grimy subway stations tunnel beneath massive old brownstone buildings were punctuated by the sails of steel and glass of the gargantuan clipper ship that is the Manhattan skyline.

The One World Trade Center towers above them all. The illusion of elegant curves where the straight lines of the Twin Towers once stood seems to illustrate a change in attitude, a break from the past, obviously from an aesthetic of 1970's architecture, but even more than that, a single tower where two had stood, the vertical lines appear convex, distorted by the view from the ground, swelling out even as the tower narrows from the base to peak. The tower is impressive but somehow very conventional. In my mind its sheer size is what remains.

I decided to pay the $38 entrance fee to see NY from the observation
deck. What a disappointment! At every turn there was someone trying to sell you something else. It was a wearying sales pitch with that enthusiasm only Americans can muster. It was a sorry cliché of shopping-mall-style opportunism and bloated, self-congratulatory nationalist pomp. They took an amazing view and turned it into a grating ordeal.

I found it disgusting but had only myself to blame; the entrance presentation along with the price announced its intentions loud and clear. Saturated with cynical loathing I decided to take a quick stroll through the Ground Zero Memorial and head back to the airport in time to run another security gauntlet.

On seeing one of the memorial pools my anger evaporated. In a way that defies description of its form and dimensions, similarly to the holocaust memorial in Berlin, the Ground Zero Memorial creates a stillness, a quiet, expanding space within the indifferent context of the city center. The square excavation seemed at once too small to have once been the footprint of one of the twin towers yet cavernous in its breadth. The pool below flows perpetually from all sides into the void of the square, inner well. There was the effect of the water in glassy, solid form, sloughing in on itself, carrying the ashes and the sorrow over the edges out of sight, out of reach.

I turned and went on in somber contemplation.

I took the subway north to Penn Station and as I made my way up into the main hall I was again transfixed: a big man with a backing synth was playing blues licks on a Gibson, accompanying himself on "Ain't No Sunshine". His booming baritone broke, keening into the chorus and the delicate vines of guitar notes curled up, beneath, in-between and took the melody on a little foray into the complexities of jazz before settling back down into the well-oiled riff and depositing me back into the hubbub of the station feeling cleansed.

The singer chuckled. The man beside me took a long pull on the bottle he clutched in its brown paper bag. I smiled, threw some green dollar bills into the hat and walked away from New York City.



Waves Goodbye...

On: 2016-07-30


It's been almost a year since I've posted. I'm writing from Tsawwassen BC. I'm thinking about aging and a book I'm reading, The Faraway Nearby by Rebecca Solnit. I'm thinking about communication as a science, an act, an event and as art. I'm dreaming and running. I'm aching and yearning.

My visit home is almost over. Tomorrow I will board a plane which will bank into a broad curve out over the Straight of Georgia, 180° and head east towards my destination in India. Of course the prevailing winds may be from the East, in which case the airplane will take off inland toward the Frasier valley and the coast mountains.

I was recently asked why I would want to leave such a beautiful place. I firmly countered that there were many beautiful places on the Earth and I wanted to experience as many as possible. I felt it was a convincing argument at that moment, but now I wonder why anyone would ever want to board an airplane, to go rushing through the air in an aluminum tube from airport to airport, when they could be walking in the cool depths of the coast mountain forest, feet solidly planted on earth, moss or rock, or in a kayak on the water between the islands, scouting for orca, under their own power.

Then I think of lives of "quiet desperation" measured out in the zoo-space of grey cubicle walls, songs sunken to timid murmurs and freedom reduced to a consumer's choices, halved, halved and halved. People choose their own limitations regardless of context. Fear of freedom is paralysis in sunlight, the agoraphobia of starving mice in a field of wheat, skewered between desire and the deep blue sea.

So I command myself to use authoritarian control in the governing of my tentativeness, lest my hungry apathy sense a chink in my armor. The recipient of touch is sensitive like a dog sensing fear, discerning easily between hesitation and delicacy. So with the emotional tell, the slightest lag and the advantage is lost, dominance disintegrates, dissolves into itself like waves on a sandy shore, which are ever-redefining the area of contact. Their resonance lures me beyond the danger zone, where my confidence interacts with my fear, back out into the water to the open swell.


Now, however, I'm balancing on tippy-toe, flirting with buoyancy.

To Vote or Not to Vote

On: 2015-09-21

In the absence of a good argument not to vote, you should do so. Claiming that voting doesn’t change anything fails as an argument because even if it changes nothing voting still wouldn’t be detrimental, while the counter-claim that the political system creates and upholds law and allows citizens to participate in their own government, as it is supposed to, is just as valid.

In other words, worst case scenario, you vote, no harm done, best case scenario you’re a mighty hero of the political process!

The thought has often occurred to me that democracy might mostly be a futile exercise, meant merely to placate citizens by giving them a false sense of their own self determination and influence. Yet, even then, participating in the political process could give you a better idea of how it functions in the event you want to criticize it more effectively.

So get your ass out and vote! Vote as your conscience dictates, vote strategically, vote maliciously, vote ironically, vote with a deep sense of melancholy ambivalence tinged with a ray of hope (as I do), just vote!

I argue with my Venezuelan friend and colleague Edward, about politics, left and right, socialist, democratic, fascist, current, historical. We agree, we disagree and we agree to disagree, tossing the conversational ball back and forth with quite a lot of conviction and force. Today, when I opened the envelope which was couriered to me in India by Elections Canada, containing my voting kit with a special ballot for citizens abroad, I had to think of Edward, that perhaps he would be envious of my privilege.

Thus, while I cast my vote for many reasons, one of them is that because I have some hope for good in Canada’s political system, despite my skepticism, if that good exists, then I wouldn’t want to scoff at privilege others value so very highly.

I usually don’t like the idea of the selfie, but in this case I thought I’d like to show myself with my election kit here in India to encourage people to think about the political process, the act and meaning of participation and finally to use the opportunity to put the effort of voting into perspective.

Elections Canada couriered my voting kit to me via the courier TNT, carbon footprint be damned, and I’ll probably have to pay about $50CAD to be certain it gets back by October 19th. Proving my citizenship and voter registration was easy to do through the Elections Canada website.

For me it will be relatively expensive to vote, however, a lot of people in the world risk their livelihood and lives to participate in the political process. Thus seen, my political act is rather minor.

Please don’t misunderstand; I’m not a cheerleader for forced democratization and I’m not claiming any legitimacy for a government or system just because they choose to fly democracy’s banner. I would just like to get you to think critically about politics and challenge you to question political apathy, especially your own.

Below I’ve written a few words about the theme of a short film that I made, Unopposed. I made it partly to fight my own growing apathy toward politics and partly to satisfy my own curiosity about the electoral process, which initially seemed so simple but upon closer inspection appeared opaque and then illogical.

The Canadian electoral system suffers from the inherent unfairness of many parliamentary democratic electoral systems. Canada, like many Commonwealth nations, uses the English Westminster system as it’s model, a type also known as ‘first past the post’, which can and does create situations where a political party wins a majority of seats despite receiving less than the majority of the vote.

I’m skeptical when proponents of democracy ascribe to it an inherent good. I’m more comfortable with the appeal that it’s the best system we’ve come up with so far. One thing I am convinced of, however, is that democracies would benefit from a system that ensured more fairness. Such electoral systems are designed so that parties receive roughly the same proportion of seats as their share of the votes – referred to as proportional representation.

Some countries, like New Zealand and Germany, have proportional representation. There is a movement in Canada to implement it but there is strong resistance, especially from those who benefit from the system as it is.

I think it’s safe to claim that proportional representation would not solve all of Canada’s problems, however, minority parties could receive more seats, allowing them a more powerful voice on issues less important to mainstream parties. That is my central argument for proportional representation.

As an example, if the Green Party received seats in proportion to their share of the 2011 election, 3.9%, they would have received approximately 12 out of 308 seats. Having 12 Members of Parliament fighting to make environmental concerns a central part of public debate could make it more difficult for a majority government, the opposition or coalition partners to sweep those concerns away in the name of job protection at the behest of industry.

Who knows? This might even be good for industry. It certainly doesn’t seem to be detrimental to Germany or New Zealand’s economies.



Pune to Alibaug and back

On: 2015-09-17

Lately it has been raining a lot.

There are four films in development at our school, four stories to fashion, to forge, to strengthen, to test. I’ve been working intensively with the student groups and visiting faculty to help develop compelling stories.

On a Saturday I went to Alibaug, the closest coastal area to Pune. I drove down with a colleague and his wife. He drives as if he is in a constant hurry or just has no concern for his body’s mortality – I can’t decide which. We took a road which at times is like a lumpy autobahn – straight and wide but not quite ironed smooth and flat.

The beach is not Goa’s crystalline blue. The water is shallow far out into the ocean, the coastline straight. Visitors from Mumbai and Pune park their cars in the lot and stroll along the sand and converge on the many horse drawn carts and the inflatable tubes or mattresses drawn behind a jet ski in the mild surf.

We didn’t linger long at the sea side but it was a great break from Pune’s dusty plateau.

Cool water Berlin

I arrived in Berlin and my Indian friend takes me to a lake, Schlachtensee, to skinny dip and smoke while the sun sinks on a warm summer day that apparently followed many such days. People stroll slowly along the wooded dirt path around the lake. The aroma of barbeques wafts in on the breeze. Enstspannung pur! (We all have google translation at our fingertips… maybe this will become the new “Zeitgeist”, wer weiss?)

Swimming through the cool water tendrils of lake weeds undulate up from the dark muddy bottom and around my legs. Distant conversations echo softly over the gently rippling glassy surface. I float on my back. I left this city to go work in Pune, India ten months ago and it feels great to be here, yet I am full of uncertainty as to what it means to me. I’ll soon be traveling back to India to start preparing for the new semester.

minor tectonic shifts

On: 2015-07-15

I’m leaving Canada again; leaving family, leaving friends. When I come here to visit from living abroad I often find myself inserting myself into the lives of others. Yes, I take their time and energy and interrupt their schedules with the demands of my less ordered lifestyle – which I must emphasize is really mostly so because I’m on holiday while everyone else is working. However I am the one who is actually more flexible and it’s not for altruistic reasons. In fact it’s like trying on clothing you wouldn’t usually wear or borrowing someone else’s facial expression to see how it works on your own face. There is a voyeuristic appeal in savouring the aroma of the different stews they all are busy cooking while my pot is simmering away elsewhere. Or so it feels when I arrive, disoriented and reaching for ingredients that aren’t readily available here. Later there is a bittersweet melancholy in anticipating everyone sitting down for a communal meal I will not be able to share from half a world away.
The west coast of Canada is a truly beautiful place; lush, moist and fecund. The fog rolling over the ocean, into the ancient green forest, curling around me fills me with a sense of mystery and peace. The vast beach near Tofino stretches laterally out to the horizon. The surfers, the families, the couples, the stoners, the loners, the barking dogs chasing laconic seagulls are isolated vignettes on an out of scale landscape that could at any moment tilt and slide us all into the pacific.

The world is full of places as beautiful, as mysterious as this and I am going back out to discover some more of them, like a child who ignores the dinner bell. Pavlov be damned. It's a wonderful life.

I'm looking forward to seeing my family and my friends, old and new all over the world, discovering and understanding, if only just a little. Thank you for a lovely visit.
Peace.