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KID’S CAMP
“Can we go camping, Granddad?” implored my impish grandsons upon my return from yet another trip. Two sets of luminescent eyes beamed at me like lapis lazuli. At five, Jasper could not remember last time he slept out in the bush. Nor could he recall much of his own garrulous past behaviour, the memory of which puts me on red alert whenever we are near water together. Liam, his athletic eight year old brother, knew exactly why we should sleep in a tent. “We really, really want to do it,” he cooed, “because we have to make a fire, and that means we can toast marshmallows.
SO, IT’S NOT ABOUT THE TENT….
“Marshmallows, really? They’re just sugar and colour, you know.” (As if they care!)
“Yeah,” Jasper interrupted, bouncing on my knee in feverish anticipation. “We woast them on a stick and fwow them in our mouth.” He cast me a look of such debilitating cuteness that my heart was rendered into a gooey mess, and the camping trip became a fait accomplis.
TOO LONG SINCE I CAMPED
With a smattering of gear, a borrowed car, and food enough to nourish an army, we made off for the shady shores of Station Creek, a remote coastal camping ground in a national park 500km north of Sydney.
You have to hand it to the winters in this part of the world. Sure the nights were nippy, but the blue sky days brought warmth, colour and vitality to the estuarine wilderness. Even I could wade across the river without complaint, and the boys splashed around like whales until the afternoon chill struck them with the shivers.
WHAT COULD GO WRONG?
Just below the campground, a sturdy timber wharf juts out into a pristine lagoon, ideal for watching the ceaseless action of nature in motion. At the ebb of tide, a murky tannin-soaked river pours forth from the spooky tea-tree swamp upstream, flanked by wide, ripple sculptured sandbanks. This habitat, which the boys refer to as The Island, provides a homeland to armies of soldier crabs, as well as myriad other creatures who feast on their crunchy bodies.
The jetty is provided with a railing, presumably designed to prevent small children from plummeting off the edge, and into the oyster-infested waters below. The top rail was built disconcertingly wide, tempting the adventurous child to try and balance, while the middle beam was both high enough for a boy to slip underneath, and low enough to act as a rung for climbing to the top. Within moments of our arrival, I caught Jasper teetering on the handrail, just like the time he played Superman off the back veranda, earning himself six weeks in traction.
THE EBB AND THE FLOW
As the high tide surged through a maze of filtering dunes, the waterhole filled with water as clear as an Alpine stream, revealing a secret aquatic world, abundant with myriad life.
TOADY THE TOADFISH
“This one is poisonous,” I announced, pointing to a tiny toadfish which pulled the bread off a fisherman’s hook every time he tried to target a school of bream. Although he is so fond of noxious creatures that he was once ejected from day-care for sucking a cane toad, Jasper took an instant dislike to the fish.
“Don’t let Toady eat it!” he screamed, swiping at the fishing rod, seeking to deny his nemesis a free meal. With his balance askew, he slipped between the rails and tumbled flailing into the drink, fully rugged up in his winter woollies. He clambered out, howling like a demon.
“What is it Jasper? Where are you hurt?” Jasper rarely cries from pain.
He drew me in with his gaze, a deeply forlorn look on his transparent face. “I was naughty and I’m going to lose my marshmallows,” he moaned.
It all started way back in 2003. I was living the self-sufficient dream at Vajradhara Gonpa in the jungle-clad hills of sub-tropical Australia when my Bhutanese meditation teacher, Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpoche, accepted a dinner invitation. At some point, he nipped out to use our home-built composting toilet, and I guess he was impressed – so impressed that 11 years later, when I asked if he needed help with any volunteer jobs, he recalled the occasion.
“I have a monastery in Eastern Bhutan,” he told me. “We have enough toilets for the monks, but when we hold a big ceremony, there are so many visitors who make a terrible mess with their business. Can you build an ecologically sustainable toilet as an example to the villagers?”
Holy crap
“Ah, I’m better with solar than with faeces….”
“Electricity is not important,” he assured me. “Not while South Asia is drowning in its own shit.”
“So…..how many people are we talking about?” I hesitate to ask.
“We don’t know – about 5000….maybe ten.” Oh dear, that is a lot of pooh.
Although this sounded like a shitty task, the Himalayan kingdom of Bhutan is a wonderful place, which usually costs USD250 per day just to visit, so I agreed to give it a try. I mean – how hard could it be?
Famous last words
Chokyi Gyatso Institute, Dewathang
In April 2014 I made my first visit to the charming Chokyi Gyatso Institute in Bhutan’s remote far-east. I found a picturesque monastery which clings to the side of a precipitous ridge high above the hamlet of Dewathang. With every inch of usable land already occupied with buildings, I was offered an impossibly steep site 100 metres down a treacherous track from the lowest building in the complex. The monk in charge of construction assured me that with retaining walls and a decent staircase, they could create a workable site. I reluctantly agreed, then tasked him with site preparation.
What could possibly go wrong?
I returned in January 2015 to discover that the monks had engaged some local stone masons to build their own wayward idea of composting chambers, despite having not even seen my plans. They had also poured a slab on top, and were about to set to work on the building above. An engineer quickly determined that compost toilet mark 1 would collapse under its own weight in no time, so I ordered its demolition and engaged a building contractor.
Compost toilet mark 1
If at first you don’t succeed….
Three months is a very short time in Bhutan, but we managed to get a fair portion of the building completed before my visa expired, so I left the crew there to finish off the job. Meanwhile, I had time to write this little ditty about my time there.
Dewathang Ditty (The Rice Song) by Simon Thomas
Disaster strikes
Dewathang is one of the wettest towns on earth with an annual rainfall is 5.5 metres. The great flood of July 2015 was quite an event, and the resulting landslide ran straight through the nearly completed toilet block mark 2, destroying it beyond repair.
Toilet mark 2 kaputCompost toilet mark 3
Turd time lucky
On my next visit, I was pleasantly surprised to be offered another site, closer to the temple and somewhat more stable than the first. Due to the complications of getting anything done in this far away outpost, my visa again expired shortly after construction began. The plan was that I should return before the first usage of the facility to prepare the compost chambers with organic material, and check that the work had been properly completed. I was shocked some time later to be informed that the toilets had been opened up for use, and that they were getting rather smelly. No wonder! Without the correct preparation, they were crapping into an empty concrete room.
handing over the keysYoung monk loads mulch in the chambers
The final preparation
So it was that in December 2017, I headed back to Dewathang to sort out the mess. After a month of repairing faults and problems, almost 4 years since the original idea was flown, I handed over the keys to what probably qualifies as the most expensive toilet in Bhutan!
These monks are stars!
As part of the Lhomon Education initiative, I was invited to conduct a song writing workshop with the young monks at the institute. Check out this great song which they wrote and performed themselves to celebrate the theme of healthy living. Please share!
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One of my favourite activities in my youth was to explore the frigid depths of the shadowy canyons which wind their way through the faults in Blue Mountains sandstone. We would abseil in through waterfalls in the headwaters, then clamber, swim, and rock-hop our way through the serpentine ravines until they poured their pristine waters into the greater river valleys. Their undulating, mossy walls, sculpted by millennia of eroding streams, formed an island-like seclusion for unique forms of life which inhabited that amazing world below the surface.
THE WORLD’S OLDEST CITY
Perhaps it is for this reason that I felt so at home on my recent month-long sojourn in the Indian city of Varanasi. No other city in the world can boast such sustained human habitation and the place feels like an eco-system all of its own. The cliffs which form the canyons of Varanasi are not the naturally occurring type, like those of my youth. They are formed by the crooked walls of ancient buildings which line the shores of the sacred Ganges River. These buildings are many storeys high, and are built ever closer together as you approach the river’s steep banks. The labyrinth of interconnecting access lanes forms a spider-web of alleyways, some of which are so narrow that the buildings above rub their slouching shoulders, closing out the sun.
NO VEHICLES
Too narrow for a car, or even a rickshaw, these cobblestone passageways burst with life. The main thoroughfares are lined with small businesses; chai wallahs, clothing outlets, laundry service and other skilled trades. Most of the shops have been in the hands of the same family for many generations. The streets are always awash with pedestrians as well as pesky motorcyclists with their deafening horns.
IT’S A MENAGERIE
Not only people, animals too roam the maze of alleyways which form the vascular system of India’s most holy city. An impressive herd of holy cows roams free in the streets and riverbank, scrounging for scraps and cardboard. Dogs, both wild and domestic, are everywhere, intimidating at night. Large troops of macaque monkeys patrol the rooftops, and often drop down into the streetscape to cause mischief. Goats, cats and legions of rodents add to the list. With that much wildlife, you can imagine that there is plenty of manure.
EASY TO GET LOST
Luckily, I had my Redback boots on when the guesthouse owner rescued me from the main road on the evening of my arrival. It took ten minutes of trooping through the maze of passageways, with him lugging my suitcase over the filthy cobblestones, to reach his hotel. The house itself was built by his great, great, great grandfather, and the family have welcomed guests ever since. I climbed flight after flight of worn out concrete steps to reach my little rooftop abode, with a beautiful view across the holy river. I had no idea where I was, or how to get back to the road. Just like being in the wilderness.
THE BEST PLACE TO DIE
To be cremated on a wood fire on the banks of the Ganges in Varanasi is the most auspicious way for any Hindu to be turned to dust. The closer you get the burning ghats, the more firewood you see stacked up. Every available nook and cranny is filled with huge chunks of tree. The burning ghats themselves are piled high with fuel, as are numerous barges which are tied to the nearby shore. Somehow, the sheer quantity of fuel needed to burn that many bodies haunted me more than seeing the cremations themselves.
Two years have passed since I first set foot on the wondrous shores of Lake Atitlàn, high in the mist-draped mountains of Guatemala. Surrounded by a retinue of seven volcanoes, the lake’s turquoise waters plunge hundreds of metres into a caldera which was blasted by an explosion so devastating that the resulting ashes can be detected from Florida to Ecuador. The naturalist Alexander von Humbolt declared it the most beautiful lake in the world.
Nestled on a remote shore is the village of San Marcos, which is as unique in Guatemalan culture as Nimbin is to us in Australia, or Woodstock in the USA. This tiny settlement became famous through its association with the Shamanistic classic; Secrets of the Talking Jaguar, and each year, its population of Kachquikel speaking Mayans swells with an influx of spiritual seekers from around the world. Yoga, Tai Chi, massage, natural therapies and a host of other New Age and traditionally inspired disciplines are on offer in this colourful, cosmopolitan enclave.
I secured myself a room in a dilapidated mansion on the shores of the lake, which boasted cinematic views, and was guarded by a knight in rusting armour. One beautiful afternoon, I left my writing veranda to stroll over to the neighbouring intentional community, only to stumble upon one of the weirdest scenes I have ever encountered. The terraced, lakeside lawns were, as usual, populated with a joyful ensemble of a young, colourfully dressed crew; the types that one might expect to encounter at a Rainbow Gathering or folk festival. Afternoon sun cast triangular, purple shadows across the calm waters, and Mt Fuego puffed dense clouds of ash from its torrid crater.
THE STRANGEST GATHERING
In the centre of the gathering stood a gaunt Mexican shaman (Emiliano), staring with harrowing intensity into the eyes of a chubby, bearded Canadian dressed in an Indian dhoti, who called himself Shiva. When certain that an understanding had passed between them, Emiliano produced a glass pipe from his embroidered vest, which he offered Shiva, heating it from below with a lighter as Shiva drew in an enormous breath. The Canadian swayed on his feet a moment before Emiliano snatched the pipe back and caught his unconscious body, laying him out on the ground. He took a long drag on the pipe himself, then produced a rustic rattle, which he played while crouching over his subject, singing in some unintelligible language. I was gobsmacked as the Canadian began writhing on the ground like a worm, moaning as though passing into another realm. The Shaman showed no sign of concern, completely engrossed in the process of guiding his charge through whatever bizarre journey was taking place – singing, rattling and offering water. Next stage for Shiva was to scuttle about on his hands and knees screaming, “I am so afraid, I am so afraid,” before finally collapsing in a heaving, tear-stained heap. The spectacle lasted a little more than ten minutes, and before long, Shiva began emerging from the trance. Several of the onlookers drifted towards him, offering him hugs, murmuring congratulatory support. Astoundingly, he seemed delighted with the experience, clearly amnesic of his terrifying display.
WHAT THE HELL?
Lana, my beautiful jazz singing flatmate, took me by the arm as I stood, bamboozled. “It’s the toad medicine Buffo,” she explained, “5 MeO DMT – six times more powerful than ayahuasca.” She rested her fingertips on my cheeks, imploring me to gaze into the wells of her clear, brown eyes. “They call it the god particle,” she declared. “You have to give it a try.”
“But it’s insane,” I stammered. “I thought he was well….gone.”
“Just trust the spirit guides,” she assured me. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for DMT.”
Soon, the next candidate was ready for his shamanistic adventure, a French yogi and self-appointed spiritual head of the community. After taking his dose, he fell dramatically backwards, hands draped across his chest like an Egyptian mummy, appearing for all the world to have passed well and truly to the other side. Again, Emiliano partook of the medicine himself, then carried on with his job, completely unflustered by the apparent death. My mind was abuzz. It’s fascinating but is it really worth the risk?
Lana introduced me to Marco, the apprentice shaman, informing him of my wish to take the initiation, although I had expressed no such desire! Barely 20 years old, Marco had a remarkable presence; loving, gentle, and completely open. “Listen,” I implored, “I’m a father and granddad. I can’t afford to get messed up here.”
“No problemas,” he assured me. “We will look after you. Buffo is the queen of medicines.” He enveloped me in a deep, life-assuring hug. “Everything will be okay, amigo.”
Lana was the next to suck on the glass pipe, and she manifested completely differently to the men. She crawled around on her hands and knees, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, clearly in the throes of intense bliss. Like the others, she could not remember her journey, but emerged in a state of extreme elation.
BUT SHOULD I TAKE THE RISK???
I decided I just had to take the plunge. Marco limbered me up, while Swetlana, a gorgeous Russian Qi Gong teacher had her turn. The moment the medicine met with Swetlana’s mind, I felt the blast of her ecstasy permeate my being, lifting me up sky high as well. Her eyes rolled back, and her mouth spread into an enormous smile as Emiliano laid her gently onto the soft grass. I felt as though she had unlocked the gate to this strange world that I had decided to enter, and looked to Marco for confirmation. “Yes, that’s it!” He confirmed. “That’s it.”
My heart was pounding by the time I stood in the centre of the group, staring into Emiliano’s wild eyes. He led me in Spanish through a breathing exercise, emptying my lungs then filling them to capacity. He turned to fill the pipe with the mystical substance, while I prayed to my guru. I pushed every last breath from my chest as he pressed the cold glass against my lips, then sucked hard, watching the orange glow flare like a lava-filled crater. My lungs filled with a smooth, sweet tasting smoke. “More, more!” He urged me. “You are a warrior!” Next thing I knew, the entire universe had been transformed. Nothing could describe the intensity of that sheer, formless experience, somewhere between life and death. Devoid of reference to body or personality, my being was filled with unfathomable vitality. There was strange light, disembodied entities, and perhaps some connection with Emiliano’s songs, but time had no relevance at all. When my awareness gradually seeped back into my kneeling body, I was whooping and throwing my arms in the air in attributable joy.
Several friends encircled me, taking me lovingly in their arms and wiping swathes of sweat from my forehead. I leaned back on somebody’s lap as the purple rays of a setting sun formed a silver lining on the mushroom cloud which hung above the peak of Mt Fuego. A gentle breeze streaming off the surface of the lake soothed me as I lay in euphoria, a state which lingered to some extent for weeks to come.
I never asked about what my body was doing for the time that I was gone, and certainly don’t want to know!
NB All the names have been changed to protect identities.
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What is it about Kathmandu? I think to myself at times, especially if I am struggling along a footpath which looks more like an obstacle course than a sidewalk. The roads are a dusty shemozzle, getting even simple tasks done can be frustratingly time-consuming, and the sky is often thick with choking brown smog.
Ah, but there is something about this mystical kingdom which even the worst afflictions of modern society fail to overwhelm.
Picture the highest, most hazardous mountain chain in the world, which cuts the Indian sub-continent off from China. Imagine then, a green valley which rolls gradually from the highest passes down to the planes of the sacred Ganges; one of the safest routes between the world’s two most populated countries. It’s high enough to avoid the crippling heat of the Indian summer, but low enough to avoid the winter frost. With such geography, Kathmandu has been a centre for trade, culture, and religion since time immemorial.
The city boasts thousands of temples, palaces, and holy sites which were built when the human psyche was very different to today, when people had no doubt that magic lurks around every corner. Those links to the past have been nurtured with offerings of flowers, food or incense in an unbroken lineage stretching back over millennia. It feels as though these beautiful places have been charged with a tangible spiritual presence, which evokes a sense of the supernatural. Some of them are tiny; a nook in the wall with a relief carving, or rock statue twisted into the serpentine roots of a banyan tree. Others take the form of multi-storey pagodas, intricately carved by people who lived 20 generations ago.
Where I stay, my local spiritual powerhouse is the Great Stupa of Boudhanath. This earthly representation of the Buddha’s enlightened mind has a base the size of two football fields, an enormous whitewashed dome, and a gilded, square-based tower which rises 100 feet into the sky. The iconic eyes of Buddha, which hold their transcendental gaze in each of the four directions, have become a symbol for Nepal itself.
Encircling the structure is a wide flagstone pedestrian zone, contained by a ring of temples, shops and restaurants. Each morning and evening, Buddhists both local and from around the world, stream down to The Stupa to perform the devotional act of khora (walking around a holy site.)
I love to join the throng of practitioners, circling in laps, with their rosary in hand, humming Sanskrit mantras. The air is thick with the scent of burned offerings, and devotional music spilling from the doors of the temples and shops adds to the overwhelming sense of tranquillity. Street vendors hawk all kinds of wares, from wheatgrass juice to feed for a huge flock of wild pigeons.
When I join that river of pilgrims milling around the monument, it feels like I am entering a special mind-stream as well. As though spun by the whirlpool of the stupa’s vortex, the ring of worshipers moves together in one great stream. Some walk fast, rolling the mantras off their tongues at breakneck speed, while others progress by prostrating their bodies on the ground all the way around, but somehow everybody weaves around one another harmoniously. There are young people chatting together while taking selfies, and elderly Tibetan women in gaily coloured tunics with long, black plaits and faces lined with a spider’s web of wrinkles.
With the daily ritual done, we sit around soaking up the atmosphere with a cup of chai or coffee. Maybe I do know what it is about Kathmandu; it’s just purely magical.
Kathmandu Durbar Square
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Hi to all my readers from Bodhgaya in India, where I have been privileged to sit under the Bodhi Tree these past couple of weeks with Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpoche and a few thousand others. There were two ceremonies taking place, firstly a traditional Tibetan prayer gathering for world peace known as the Monlam, and also a newly devised event called the Siddhartha Festival. This second event featured a Buddhist practice performed in the style of Hindu chanting, with Indian instruments, singing and even some real live offering goddesses!
I would like to let you all know that I have migrated my blog onto my music website so that I have everything in one place. I have plenty of new stories to upload, so make sure you keep in touch. I love to get your comments and feedback, so make sure you let me know what you think!
Maha Shivaratri, the great night of Shiva, is a luminous date in the annual round of Nepali festivities. I wanted to experience this event at the Pushapatinath temple complex here in Kathmandu because it is one of the most powerful Shiva places on earth. Some local friends offered to show me around, so we met at the gates of Boudhanath Stupa an hour after dark.
“It’s nearby,” Sangpo told me. “We can walk.” Then like typical Nepalis, they charged off through a tangle of alleyways with me struggling along in their wake, utterly befuddled as to which way was home.
Shiva, the Hindu deity, has forever been associated with reaching meditational perfection through use of marijuana. In honour of this, Shivaratri is the one day of the year when it is legal to use all types of cannabis products in Nepal. My friends and I partook liberally of that freedom as we traipsed the derelict remains of Kathmandu’s road system.
After crossing a steel pedestrian bridge, we came to the ornate entrance to the temple precinct. The doors were bolted shut, and it was guarded by a posse of AK47 toting officers. “Pushapatinath is closed,” they told us in no uncertain terms. We returned to the bustling street outside to consider the situation. My mates consulted a nearby souvenir hawker who pointed out a goat track leading over the spur which forms a natural wall around the precinct; the not so secret portal. Columns of people were still pouring in, so we joined the human wave and clambered up the dusty track. As I peered over the top of the ridge, the entire temple complex came into view on the flats of the Bagamati River. A densely packed assortment of pagoda-style rooftops were lit up amidst a cloud of smoke rising from countless campfires. The smell of burning wood mixed with incense and spices drifted through the air. The steep, wide footpath leading down to the river was absolutely choked with visitors, 800 000 according to official estimates. I felt as though I bumped into every single one of them as I scampered along to keep up with my friends, who darted like bats through the clogged footways.
Since at least the year 400BC, Shiva worshiping sadhu babas and sadhvi (Hindu holy men and women) have made pilgrimage to this very place to celebrate Shivaratri. The babas live as itinerant ascetics on the fringe of society. In Hindu culture it is considered auspicious to enter the so-called fourth life after having family and a working life. These people give up most or all of their worldly possessions and live from whatever charity comes their way. This frees them to spend all their energy on meditation and, in some cases, smoking an awful lot of weed. Every flat space around the temple grounds was occupied by groups of sadhus clustered around smoky campfires.
“Shiv Shambo!” shouted a group of three babas who had placed themselves strategically near the footpath. They seemed friendly so my mates went over to talk. We had run out of joints and they were hoping to persuade the sadhus to share some of their holy smoko. I figured that a big, tall westerner might have to pay a premium price so I lurked in the shadows. The babas are not really supposed to sell pot, but thousands of Kathmadu locals had flocked there that night in order to smoke hash with them, and receive holy teachings. I assumed there must be some kind of ritual to receive it but I had no idea how that worked. My mates were with the sadhus for a few minutes then returned with a smudge of red paint on their foreheads. “Look,” said Sangpo, displaying a couple of joints packed into tailor-made cigarettes. “We offered 150 rupees (US$1.50) and they gave us two joints.”
We decided to smoke the spliffs on the spot to ascertain whether they were any good or not. By this time I was pretty baked and was not at all confident that I would find my way home alone.
“That baba’s got some interesting photos, you should have a look,” Tashi told me, pointing to the group they had visited. All three of the holy men were well into their sixties with grey beards, dressed in simple orange robes. They sat, straight backed, in full lotus position, their long dreadlocks tied into a bundle on their heads with a scarf, like a turban. The guy with the photo album was keen to attract my attention. He thrust a scrapbook-sized plastic folder in my hands which contained a dilapidated set of photos showing yogis in various poses. Most had their foreheads painted with broad stripes, and some carried a trident staff. However, the pictures looked staged, somehow conservative, and it is the more radical element within the sadhu culture that I find most interesting. For example, last time I visited Pushapatinath almost 30 years ago, I met a group of babas who practice lingum yoga. This entailed, among other feats, lifting heavy weights tied to the penis with a cloth. The impression left by witnessing these yogis standing stark naked on one leg with their other foot behind their head, and 20 kilograms of rock suspended from their elongated phallus, is something that the interceding decades have done little to erase. Another group I met were so dedicated to remembering their own impermanence that they forfeit the opportunity to wear clothing and instead smear their naked bodies with ashes from funeral pyres. No sign of such people in the photo album though, and I handed it back a little disappointed. The owner of the album hit me up immediately for a donation, so I gave him 100 rupees (US$1). Before I could leave, the second baba grabbed my shirt with one hand, reaching out with the other to plant a thumb full of red powder on my forehead. He mumbled a couple of prayers then opened his hand for my contribution. I handed out another 100 before being asked by the third one for some money as well. All I had left was a ten rupee note, with which didn’t really cut it for him and I wandered back over to my friends.
“Did you get a joint, what did they give you?” Asked Sangpo
“Ah no, I just got a blessing and a look at the photos.”
“Did you ask for prasad?”
“What’s Prasad?”
“This is how it works,” Sangpo explained. “They give you the blessing and ask for dana or generosity. You offer the money then ask for prasad, or holy gift. Otherwise you don’t get it.” Now he tells me! Babas-1, Simon-0.
Deep within the temple grounds, we encountered a concrete retaining wall formed into steps so precipitous that each level was the height of my thighs. It was like a very steep ziggurat and offered a commanding view of the area. With our heads spinning from all that hash, we scaled the wall and perched ourselves up above the fray. Below, was a dried up ritual bathing pond filled with people, and beyond that, the inner sanctum; the main temple which has been continually revered as a place of Shiva for at least 2,500 years. Devotional music from rival sects, amplified by overblown sound systems, echoed between the tall stone buildings, and the sound of more than half a million stoners enjoying the night together filled the air with a muffled din.
At the far end of the temple grounds, we sat down around the fire with another group of orange-clad sadhus. We offered out dana and were given in return the classic baba ceremony; communal smoking of the chillum. In a coconut shell bowl, one of the men prepared a mixture of tobacco and soft, aromatic hash. “This charras,” he assured us, strong Indian lilt to his voice, “will show you the true face of God.” He gently massaged the sticky black resin into the tobacco then packed the mixture into the conical stone pipe known as a chillum. He then placed a small cloth over the mouthpiece of the chillum and wedged it between the curled up pointer and middle finger of his right hand. His left hand he cupped over the right to form an airproof box with a hole formed by thumb and forefinger on which to draw. He held the chillum aloft to the heavens and chanted “Boom Shanker!” Before bringing it back down to his lips. I held a flaming match to the top of the pipe while he filled his lungs with a humongous haul of smoke. He held his breath and passed the burning chillum across to me, his eyes burning like hot coals, smoke escaping in wisps from his mouth. I mimicked his actions, and received a call of “Shiv Shambo!” from the other babas when I managed to draw and hold a huge lung-full of smoke. I’m not sure if it was the true face of God that I saw, but that baba with his blazing eyes and smoke drifting around his beard sure was an interesting interpretation of it.
When all members of our party had partaken in the ceremony, we drifted into a tide of humanity, and were spilled onto the refuse-strewn banks of the sacred Bagamati River. Sadly, this waterway is a testament to the abject failure of Kathmandu’s sanitation system. Once fabled for its transparent beauty, it is now a foul stream of black sludge oozing between blankets of plastic waste. On the opposite bank, three funeral pyres blazed at the height of their intensity, the human remains crackling and burning in the inferno. Tashi told me of the funerals he had attended, and how the family members are expected to tear the corpse open during the blaze to ensure that the organs are properly burned. After that, he explained, the ashes will be thrown into the holy river, ensuring a better rebirth.
There was something that struck me on the surreal journey back through that fairyland of dainty structures. It was just how much respect the local people show to these misfit sadhus who devote their lives to spiritual pursuit….and the smoking of the sacred herb. In Australia, people who live rough on the outskirts of society, taking charity, and using drugs all day are feared and marginalised. Here in Nepal, citizens from all walks of life came to Pushapatinath to gain some wisdom from the babas, and even share their lifestyle for a night!
We entered a cavernous black space, bang on time but hours too early. Bashes and clangs darted around the hall like bats as the crew cleared away the gear from the just finished previous act. Mountains of audio and lighting gear cluttered the enormous stage, dance floor crowded with tables, no room to salsa. Were we really still in Cuba? “Just for looking,” shouted the doorman. “Come back in an hour,” (or two he could have added.) We began to question whether Casa de la Musica was really going to be worth five times the cost of a normal gig.
I held vigil outside the ladies room as Aniko took the opportunity – you never know when will be the next chance in this country. A couple of stragglers from the previous show caught my attention. A woman, barely out of her teens, and tarted up the the max even by Cuban standards was all over some older guy like a rash. I did a double take as she reached up to whisper in his ear while demonstratively rubbing his cock through his jeans. She performed a little pole dance on his leg then trounced suddenly away, stilettos clapping like castanets against the black concrete floor. Half way to the same toilet where Aniko had disappeared, she turned to her bemused suitor and shouted “200……Cu!” She then disappeared into the loo. Ouch, I thought. Eight months wages for the average guy. I guess he must have had some other sort of income because after gazing into space for a minute or two, he made a beeline for the same place. With protection of Aniko in mind, I headed that way myself, only to see him backing shame-faced away with Aniko emerging, shaking her finger at him as she went.
We escaped to a bar next door and proceeded to demolish a hip flask of rum, reminiscing about the previous month of countless fantastic live shows. Firstly, there were the restaurants with their bands of five or six artists crammed into a corner, playing their hearts out hoping for tips or perhaps to sell a CD. Then there were the bars, maybe with sound and light, maybe not – sometimes a stage, but always great music. Many towns have a Casa de la Trova, or house of ballads, custom built for the performance of traditional music. Trinidad, which ceased almost all architectural development in 1860 has one of its picturesque squares entirely taken over by Casa de la Salsa. This place an absolute treat to visit at sunset with a mojito and partner to dance. One remarkable thing was the consistently impressive standard of musicianship right across the country. From footpath bands to national popular music stars, the players are highly skilled and well rehearsed in often very complicated arrangements.
One of my favourite venues was Casa de la Trova in Baracoa, about as far away from Havana as you can get and still be on the island. A rustic hall, just off the main square with a bar a up one end, and a stage at the other, it hosted live shows at 7 and 10pm every night. A couple of rows of benches lined the side walls, leaving the rest of the chamber open for those who wish to dance. Cubans just love music and boy do they they love to salsa! They seem to enjoy dance as an expression of who they are rather than a mere show of skills. The MC of this particular joint was a rugged, ebullient little guy who forgave us the cover charge on all subsequent visits after he enjoyed our own rather modest dancing the first time we came by. Between songs, he would run through the nationalities of the various guests, never forgetting to give a Skippy impression each time he mentioned Australia. Seems as though Aussies are few and far between in those parts. Like most places, they claimed to serve the “best Mojitos in Cuba.” The room was well enough designed for the bands to play acoustic, and by midnight, not only the hall was bouncing, but the entire cobbled street outside right up to the square was packed with visitors and locals alike. The crowd would be chatting, dancing, drinking and smoking those fat cigars, the balmy evening and inky sky provided a perfect backdrop. So too did the local church which was so old that they still held a wooden cross planted on the beach by Christopher Columbus.
At 11pm, we stumbled back through the grand portico of the palatial Casa de la Musica, and were treated to an hour of Cuban MTV via giant, malfunctioning screen. We were just about to split when a surprisingly good display of modern dance appeared live on stage, followed finally by the headline act. I never did catch their name. Most Cuban bands have at least three rhythm players, bass, trumpet and several singers. This band also included electric guitar, keyboard, trombone and a couple of back up vocalists as well. Unfortunately, although the there was more production gear than you can poke a stick at, the mix was atrocious causing the songs to echo through the chamber like a railway tunnel. Despite the fact that the band consisted of hot musicians, it was impossible to make head or tail of the sound. The most entertaining part of the show was one of the lead singers who made it his quest to gyrate his hips in the most amusing possible manner, like a hula girl without the hoops. Elvis Presley eat your heart out! Perhaps the small time gigs really are the best.
Of course no evening out in Cuba is complete without a ride home in a septuagenarian American roadster, and we revelled in the comfort of a Buick which resembled a lounge suite surrounded by rust.
We arrived in charming, vivacious, Santiago de Chile by Viazul, the bus company set up by Fidel Castro a decade or so back to cater for the spoiled taste of the foreign tourist. While dilapidated neglect may elicit a certain charm in relation to Cuba’s fleet of 50s yank tanks, the same approach is pretty infuriating when it comes to enduring endless journeys on roads that resemble a nuclear test site, especially while paying bus fares that equate to a fortnight of Cuban wages. The trip begins with an anxious choice between ensuring that your luggage actually gets loaded underneath, and boarding as early as possible to have first chance at the Russian roulette game of finding a functioning seat. Even when you get a working model yourself, there is the risk that when the guy in front sits down, his chair will flop precipitously towards you until his head is closer to your crotch than any man has gone before. The climate control swings erratically between two settings; monsoonal Borneo jungle, and Arctic tundra. Viazul veterans can be seen boarding with blankets, scarves, gloves, a woolly hat and swimsuit. A bag to pee in is also recommended, given the state of the on-board toilets, which are usually locked anyway.
The drivers are a swarthy breed, built much like a bus themselves, who have concocted their own form of communication. As if Cuban Spanish were not already tricky enough for the hapless foreigner to understand, bus driver creole is delivered in a tone that sounds at once like shouting, vomiting and belching, while attempting to emphasise their Bay of Pigs superiority by competing for Jack Kennedy’s world record for words spoken in a minute. Even the simplest question is countered with a long, cryptic outburst, and I am yet to meet a non-Cuban passenger who has understood a single syllable uttered by these men.
The five hour journey stretched to seven and a half, so it was with some relief that the Bacardi rum museum sign came into focus, although we had no intention of visiting. It was late by the time we ventured out to find a meal, being warned by our home-stay host that we may want to consider returning before midnight, an unusual suggestion in a country where the best venues do not even open until 10. She looked around to ensure nobody was listening, even though we were standing in her own lounge room, and explained the next day would be the first anniversary of the death of El Comondante and perhaps everything would be closed – certainly nothing that resembled having a good time would be tolerated. Especially drinking of alcohol.
Photo Aniko Papp
The next day dawned with no apparent concession to the anniversary, and we set out to explore Cuba’s second largest city. One blessing of the 5 decade economic blockade has been protection from the architectural vandalism which wracked the Western world through the 60s and 70s, so most of their glorious Colonial and art-deco buildings survived the 20th century intact, if a little run down in some cases. Even the monstrous Soviet-style housing blocks were fortunately consigned to the outskirts of the towns.
Santiago exudes charm and liveability, with a tranquil pedestrian mall stretching over a kilometre from Plaza de Marti at the top of town all the way down to the docks inside the extensive harbour. Bars, restaurants, craft markets, and stately hotels line this attractive strip, which teams with the diverse kaleidoscope of Cuban life. There simply is no typical Cuban. The rich history of immigration, including its place as a slave trading centre has ensured that every size, shape, and colour of human is encountered, and from what I can tell there seems to be little discrimination based on looks. There is also a wild flamboyance of attire, and it never ceases to amaze me how the citizens of a country where wages are as low as $25 per month can dress with such flare. Where else do the schoolboys wear mustard yellow trousers and girls pleated miniskirts? It suspect that when they get to school, the head mistress gets out a tape measure to ensure that their skirts are cut far enough above the knee.
We ambled aimlessly down the mall, fell victim to the churos stall, and wound up at a harbour-side park which sported an enormous sculpture spelling out the name Cuba. At a nearby dock, I noticed a curious craft being boarded by dozens of local people, clearly headed for a relaxing day out. The ferry was flat on the bottom like a gigantic beer can raft, with a second storey constructed of little more than scaffolding, and a water-pipe frame above which had corrugated iron strapped onto it with fencing wire. Although imaginary news reports of mass drownings in the bay of Santiago immediately flashed to mind, the merry atmosphere aboard was somehow alluring. When some guy with a yellow T shirt suggested we join the trip, informing us that all it only costs a dollar and is leaving in five minutes, we jumped across the old tyre separating boat and jetty moments before it cast off with no idea where we were headed.
Mr Yellow T-shirt (MYT) became our impromptu guide, pointing out landmarks such as the cement factory and vast 17th century Moro fort perched high on a headland, built to guard against pirates. Ironically, it took so long to build that by the time it was finished, so were the days of the buccaneers. We also learned that our destination was a tiny island called Cayo Granma, and that there would be no ferry back to Santiago for another four hours. We sure hoped it would be an interesting place.
Photo Aniko Papp
Even more than the rest of Cuba, Cayo Granma seems to be in living in an idyllic time warp. Gaily painted cottages adorn the sparkling waterfront, tanned string beans of children frolic on tiny rowing boats, and everybody seems engaged in the pursuit of the fruits of the sea. I am not talking trawlers and long line fishing boats here. Every craft was powered by muscle and there was no net bigger than what can be thrown by one man.
We joined the happy stream of locals on a footpath which rings the cayo, a journey which takes no more than half an hour. As we were about to inspect a restaurant, MYT informed us that we would find a far superior establishment a little further on. We went with his advice, even as we correctly suspected that it was owned by his brother.
Restaurant Marisco has as appealing an outlook as anyone could hope for, with a generous vista across the aquamarine bay to the steamy jungle-clad ranges beyond. We were shown a menu priced in the tourist currency (CUC), although we were damn sure that the rest of the merry-makers who enjoyed the same fare were paying in Nationales, costing a fraction of what we were up for. In any case, the beer was icy cold, view stupendous, and it seemed that if you are ever going to get fresh seafood this would be the place. In fact, I would never normally eat any kind of meat including fish but as one heads further away from Havana, vegetarianism becomes increasingly more problematic, and there is only a certain amount of pizza and spaghetti that one can handle. I ordered a fish, Aniko a lobster, and we settled into the routine malaise of having no clue what is going on. As long as the drinks kept coming, and we made it back to the ferry terminal before 5, all would be good with the world. MYT was by now employed as a waiter, and filled us in on the history of the island. This was the very place that Fidel Castro, with his rag-tag team of revolutionaries landed after a fabled and nearly fatal voyage from Florida in a clapped-out ferry called Granma. Hence the name of the island. It seemed as though we had made a very appropriate unplanned journey on the first anniversary of El Commondante’s demise. And how good was it that the no alcohol rule was so flagrantly flouted!
Half an hour had elapsed before a man, so scoured by the sun that his skin resembled an elephant’s arse, turned up in his row-boat with a bundle of still flapping, plate-sized pink fish hanging from a rope. The restauranteur met him on the relic that served as a jetty, relieved him of his load, and hurried back to the kitchen. The meal, when it finally arrived, was so superb that we quibbled only mildly when presented with an eye-watering bill – having been charged individually for all the condiments that are usually included in the price of a meal. And all the beer of course.
An agreeable stumble around the rest of the island brought us back to the main wharf with plenty of time to spare. Although I have not fished for years, given that I can’t bring myself to kill the poor little buggers, I still find it immensely relaxing to watch other guys sit dreamily gazing at azure water hoping that some creature of the deep might happen upon their bait. So, when a septuagenarian with a hip flask of rum, and teeth that protruded piranha-like from his mouth plonked himself on the bench rather too close beside me, I was not at all interested in his wide-eyed gaze. My attitude softened though when he congratulated Aniko for scolding a local litter bug, and the two of us got talking. My Spanish is only passable at the best of times, and I find a Cuban of his age immensely difficult to understand. However, it felt like experiencing a piece of history to talk with a man who, having spent his entire life on the island, could distinctly remember the day that the Granma landed. Mind you, from what he told me, it seems like shipwrecked is probably a more apt description. He must have thought that foreigners have pretty weird facial expressions, as gaping and tongue-licking at the corner of my mouth fought for supremacy, while I strained to decipher the garbled mess that he made of such a beautiful language. This man’s love for the revolution knew no bounds, and before long, he revealed that his own father had been murdered by the previous administration. Actually, it sounded as though Batista had personally pulled the trigger, though that seems unlikely so far away from Havana.
Having established that he had several grandchildren, we gifted Alberto a small cling-on koala key ring for them to play with. It was immediately obvious that the kids would not have a snowflake’s chance in hell of getting hold of the toy, so delighted was he to have received it. I had to show him several times how to operate the cuddly arms by squeezing the shoulders, and once he had mastered that skill, he beamed like moonshine, his enormous pearly teeth glinting in the afternoon sun. After twice arresting us from boarding a ferry bound for some other place, he joined us for the trip back to Santiago, babbling about the history of the environs. Far from commemorating Castro’s death by way of abstinence, the great man’s memory was constantly toasted, and between us we got through a good portion of the rum.
I explained to Alberto how commercial fishing has devastated the seafood stocks in my own country, to which he showed, in a very animated way, how the “foreigners” (ie people from Santiago) were doing exactly the same thing around his own island. I looked out to see a postcard perfect scene of twenty or so inflated tractor tyres floating in the harbour, each with an occupant angling with hand lines. The sky was lit crimson, gold, and vermilion as the sun disappeared behind the purple range in which Fidel had hidden in the years between his disastrous landing on Cayo Granma and his victorious tour to Havana following the fall of the Batista regime.
We were keen to shout our new friend a bite to eat, but were fresh out of tourist dough after our brush with MYT and his family, so explained we would need to find a pizza joint which charges in the stupendously more affordable Nationales. Alberto seemed to have his heart set on a place, and we followed him up the mall hoping like hell that our communication was clear and we would not have to wash the dishes or some other unpleasant task to compensate for our dinner. He brought us to a flash, air conditioned restaurant with starched white table cloths and wine glasses with cloth napkins placed decoratively within. While I went straight for the menu to check affordability, old Alberto was given the dressing-down of his life by a waitress who looked like a champion wrestler or Russian airline stewardess for carrying a bottle of plonk. We secreted the remnants of his rum in our bag and were allowed to sit down. Alberto proved true to his word as the prices were eminently affordable, but as usual in these places, we were subjected to another strange twist. At every other table in the joint, local people had been served with jugs of icy tap water, not a beer, wine or even juice in sight. However, as weak-bellied tourists, nobody including the staff thought this was a good option for us. We were sure not game to ask for anything stronger than lemonade after the rum incident, but even a bottle of mineral water required us to give money up front to a waiter, who sneaked out to a nearby shop to buy our drinks. We really could not fathom whether we were experiencing some kind of religious fundamentalism or whether there really was one establishment in town pursuing the alcohol free rule. We learned next day that it was the latter, and that their own bar was closed, hence the need to buy drinks outside.
After gorging ourselves on pizzas and paying the bill, which amounted to $2 for three people including tips, we parted company with our dear friend. We watched as he roamed off into an alley that has barely changed since his own birth, squeezing the shoulders of his toy koala in absolute delight.
I love to cook, and while renting a Havana apartment – complete with ceramic tiled kitchen and a fridge to match the ’55 Chevies cruising the streets, self-catering seemed to make perfect sense. I should have had a clue from the beginning really. It was the first night, relaxing with a Mexican Cointreau on the roof of the century-old abode, when I asked my host Rafael where to buy some basic needs: “Vegetables, four blocks that way, milk two streets down. Butter over near the square and bread you can find at the little bakeries not so far down the road,” he explained. I didn’t ask about eggs. He added that I would need Nationales currency for the vegies and the bread but Cuban Convertibles for the dairy products.
We found the vegetable shop first. A fading quote from El Che had been painted on the wall some time in the long forgotten past; We don’t kill men for their faults, we look after them even with their faults. This was comforting given the legs and ribs of some recently deceased animal which hung along the eaves to attract the crowds and flies. The selection of greens was sparse indeed and we soon realised that the menu would be determined by the shopping, not the other way around. Still, a dogged determination saw us embark on our first tour of Old Havana – mission: to buy a bag of rice. Helpful locals sent us in various directions (obviously, where can I buy a bag of rice? is not a stupid question in Havana,) and indeed certain tiendas were discovered, each providing a perplexingly narrow range of goods. Finally we struck gold! A shop which offered rice, noodles and gigantic tins of mushrooms on one counter (with its own till of course,) cigarettes and sweets on another, and joy of joys – cheese and butter on the third.
photo: Aniko Papp
The Cuban people that you meet on the street are some of the friendliest and most helpful folk one could encounter anywhere in the world. It is not unusual for somebody to jump on the bus with you and chaperone you to wherever you are planning to go with no expectation of return. Those who work in the shops however, are another breed entirely. Who knows? Maybe they have bought into the socialist ideal that selling is inherently a bad thing and the less commerce they can make, the better their karma will be. I took on the queue for the dry goods while Aniko waited around at the dairy counter for the surly attendant to finally take notice of her. Several pieces of white and yellow cheese – cut, wrapped and priced, awaited our purchase. The butter, however was in a massive block and was impossible to buy. I guess the person who cuts and weighs had already gone home and so we went without. Aniko did return next day as instructed, but that is another story entirely.
While searching for a Salsa venue one Saturday afternoon in Verado, we found a shop stacked floor to ceiling with crates of eggs, it was ridiculously exciting. Do you think that we could purchase some? With two local currencies, US dollars, Euros and even a few Aussie and Canadian, they just were not available to buy. Six eggs per month on your ration card if you are local and that is as far as it goes.
photo: Aniko Papp
With its world renowned health system, I figured Cuba would be a cinch when it came to getting hold of medicines. No big deal, some sleeping tablets and eye drops were all we needed. The rickshaw driver scratched his head when we asked for a pharmacy but did deliver us to something of the kind. Unfortunately, this splendid, palatial building – replete with stained glass domes and hundreds of ancient ceramic jars was more of a museum than a functioning shop. They did have a few boxes of Asprin on offer and a frugal cache of herbal tea bags, but meaningful drugs were not to be found. This time however, the golden hearts of the Cubans overcame our woes. On one of her wild goose chases, Aniko wound up being sent upstairs by the glasses seller to a woman who had both Asprin and Ibuprofin. When she explained that she had trouble sleeping, the shopkeeper took pity and gave her a foil of tablets from her personal stash. Likewise, when I asked the guy who sells nothing but internet cards (don’t get me started on the internet) about a chemist, he diagnosed my conjunctivitis and produced a bottle of antibiotic from behind his booth. Neither of them would accept payment for their kindness.
Just for the record, rum beer and cigars are in plentiful supply and you can eat a meal in a local restaurant for less than a buck. Eventually, somebody gave us two eggs.
“Can we go camping, Granddad?” implored my impish grandsons upon my return from yet another trip. Two sets of luminescent eyes beamed at me like lapis lazuli. At five, Jasper could not remember last time he slept out in the bush. Nor could he recall much of his own garrulous past behaviour, the memory of which puts me on red alert whenever we are near water together. Liam, his athletic eight year old brother, knew exactly why we should sleep in a tent. “We really, really want to do it,” he cooed, “because we have to make a fire, and that means we can toast marshmallows.
TOADY THE TOADFISH
