THE MOST BEAUTIFUL LAKE IN THE WORLD
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.
“Buen trabajo! (good work)” Emiliano cheered, jubilant. “Buen trabajo!”
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.
Please check out my latest album “Love Me Tinder,” You can get a free preview right here
https://simonthomasmusic.bandcamp.com/releases
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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
Don’t forget to check out my album Love Me Tinder click here for free trial on Bandcamp or else find it on iTunes and all the usual outlets.
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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.
Photo; Aniko Papp
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Photo: Aniko Papp
Q) How do you make a Havana shopkeeper laugh?
A) Ask her if you can buy some eggs.
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.
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Cubana Airline’s 50 kilogram baggage limit seemed a mere curiosity until we reached the check-in counter. More to the point, until we reached within an football field length of it. In contrast to the dawn languor of the rest of Mexico City’s departure lounge, our hall was crammed with mountainous stacks of bags, boxes and parcels, all wrapped mummy-like in layers of plastic film. Oversized flat-screen TV boxes leaned against industrial sized air conditioning units, and truck tyres perched precariously on cocoon shaped packages like eagle nests atop of granite boulders. Doubt gnawed at my stomach like a bag full of rats as we jostled for position, wondering seriously whether any team could possibly process so much cargo before the flight should close.
Thus, it was with more than a little relief that we squeezed into the cramped cloth seats of the Russian built jet bound for Havana. The Cubans, as I later learned, are not a group to exaggerate their approach to health and safety, so I was left mercifully alone to flout the usual ban on mobile devices as we taxied down to the runway and took shuddering to the sky. We were also spared the monotonous routine of seldom-watched emergency landing instructions. Clearly, both staff and passengers knew what happens when a 300 tonne airliner hits the deck, and that it takes more than a plastic mask or whistle to save your butt if that should ever occur.
I have heard of flat bed seating in classier regions of the jet, but still I was surprised when, moments after take off, the guy in front pushed his little button and launched his headrest towards me like a gigantic mouse trap, stopping millimetres above my lap. Likewise, I was taken aback to notice that our friendly check-in clerk was also the one steering the coffee cart when the time came for refreshments. We speculated whether he may well be the pilot too, having popped the jet into automatic while he did his rounds.
Despite the distressing fact that the full plane was obviously loaded with far more than the normal quota of luggage, we hit the Havana tarmac with only a mild thump, a fact which was celebrated with a hearty round of applause from all on board.
The immigration guy seemed more intent on offering a warm welcome than ensuring that his rubber stamp actually left some kind of impression on my passport, and was surprised that I should insist that he replace his ink to ensure no dramas when checking back out of this emerald island. By the time my bag tumbled belatedly onto the choked conveyor, a veritable caravan had amassed before the something to declare channel, some people controlling three trolleys full of goods at a time. We frisked our way to the green gate, eyeing off a gaggle of taxi drivers who were shouting for our attention a stone’s throw away behind the glass sliding doors.
Whoever designed the uniforms for the female customs officials clearly had a flair for Salsa. Although the tight blouse and short, body-hugging skirts were standard, it seemed that the women were allowed their own discretion when it came to shoes and stockings. The guardian of our escape route had chosen stilettos and fishnets for her day at work which must have indicated that she meant business. One look at the felt pen marking scrawled on my luggage tag and she pointed to the end of the caravan, presumably ordering me to line join that red channel queue with a machine gun round of Cuban Espanol. By this time, Aniko had passed through to the other side and stood staring in disbelief as I was ushered back into the sprawling warehouse by two subordinate men.
My first impulse was to use my relatively lithe disposition and tourist status to cut the queue. I figured I could allow them to inspect my bag to ascertain that I was in fact an innocent victim of some x-ray misunderstanding, thereby escaping a fate that would take hours at best to resolve. After all, I only had one suitcase and a guitar – surely they could see I was not part of the smuggler brigade. However, no such opportunity was there to be had. Every entrance to the inspection area was clogged beyond hope, and the processing was taking place at glacial speed. After half an hour trapped behind tonnes of clothing and electronics without seeing a single person make it through to the outside, I embarked on my first attempt to change my plight. The commandant of operations was woman in her forties with formidable boots and a Coco Channel stance to whom I pleaded my case in the best Spanish I could muster. I appealed to her sense of decency given my status as a humble visitor, and the fact that my companion was waiting outside with no clue of what was going on. For all she knew, I was already on my way back to Mexico, and we were by now both tired and dehydrated. I think it would be fair to say that the boss lady did not give a shit about my woes, simply pointing again to the scrawl on my bag and shouting the words “special equipment,” before racing off to attend to other duties.
I searched the room for an alternative escape, advocated my freedom with various other workers, and racked my mind for another way to ease the pain. I noticed that only one of the Cuban importers had made it through the arcane registration system, while the hulking queue had increased depressingly in length. Finally, I spotted a little-used X-ray machine lounging at the back of the hall and resolved to use it to prove my innocence. I found the boss lady again and dogged her with such persistence that she relented and agreed to the test.
The result was damning – one microphone, a suspicious box, and thirty compact discs. How could a bona fide tourist possibly be lugging such unusual gear? I explained as best I could that I am a musician and a song writer. I need the mic to record my ideas as soon as they come up, and the CDs – well they are presents for my friends and hosts. Surely a country which boasts the highest concentration of musicians in the world can’t begrudge that?
Seems that they do.
In any case, I did manage to oil the wheels of bureaucracy, and I before long, I was shown to a cluster of chairs by a desk nearby, staffed by yet another Salsa-attired official. I pushed the protruding corner of my yet undiscovered laptop back into the pocket my guitar case and lay my suitcase on the ground before the desk. My imminent incarceration was interesting enough to attract the attention of several idle officers, so by the time I had begun rummaging through my suitcase to find the offending items, a chorus of exceptionally pretty young immigrasis had arrived to watch the fun. As I crouched by my bag, they perched themselves on chairs surrounding me, such that their stockinged legs were exactly within my line of sight. I felt my cheeks redden as I tried to keep my eyes on the scrambled contents of my hastily packed belongings. Eventually I located enough of the strange gadgets to satisfy her bureaucratic zeal and tried to explain just how innocuous and inexpensive they really were. The situation seemed hopeless until suddenly she realised that being a musician was the key to my problems.
“You sing?” she asked with a faint blink, eyeing off the phallic shaped microphone in my hand.
“Claro que si!” I responded, and we both paused in a moment of pregnant silence.
Cuba I thought. If there has ever been a time to do it then this is it. I heaved a deep breath.
“Besarme,” I crooned to her in the best baritone I could muster, ensuring good contact with her deep brown eyes.
Kiss me.
“Besarme mucho.”
Kiss me a lot.
Five pairs of mascara eyes stared open as the hall echoed with the rabble of post-flight din.
“…..Como se fuera esta noche la ultima ves,” she responded in a voice so sweet that it brought tears to my eyes.
Like tonight may be the very last time.
The watching women broke into peals of girlish mirth, and I knew that my problem had been resolved.
Aniko, beside herself with concern, was bemused to see my smirk as I finally emerged through the entrance to that magical land of Cuba, and we resolved to find something refreshing to drink. How pleased we were to see that the cafeteria fridge was stocked with only two products – cans of beer and bottles of the same. With a toast and a clink, we readied ourselves for exciting times ahead.
Long live Cuba!
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Losar, or new year is celebrated in Eastern Bhutan on the first day of the 12th month of the Tibetan calendar, rather than the first day of the first month like in most other places, for reasons now shrouded in history.
This year, Dzongsar Jamyang Khyenste Rinpoche (absent abbot of the Chokyi Gyatso Institute) recommended that the resident monks invite all who wish to come from the local villages around to enjoy festivities at their hillside monastery overlooking the rustic hamlet of Dewathang. The little community of 140 or so buzzed with excitement as the preparations took place in the days leading up to the event. This included plenty of practice of the popular local sport “khuru” which was to be a major focus of the Losar activities. In this game, massive (usually home-made) darts are lobbed across a distance of some 40 metres at a tiny target nestled inside a wooden frame festooned with luxuriant leaves and multi-coloured ribbons. It is not so easy to even strike this little board from such a distance, let alone score a bull’s eye so each successful throw is celebrated vociferously with a ritual song and dance. Following this, the lucky player is awarded a long wide ribbon to hang around their waist in a colour corresponding to the spot where their dart struck the target. Those whose throws become too wayward, by contrast, are landed with a large phallic object to hang from their belt supposedly to ward off the evil spirits which are obviously inhibiting their success. The monks used a long dangling purple eggplant for such purpose!
A major part of the fun is for people not involved in the game to crowd around the target, gesturing and taunting as the player is taking aim only to scatter like bunnies if the airborne missile soars off in their direction. Mind you, I noticed that men seem far more likely to to engage in this activity – the women preferring to keep a sensible distance away.
When the big day arrived, people began to stream in from miles around, most of them dressed in fine brilliantly coloured hand loom garments as tradition would dictate. The first feast of the day for a visitor like myself was one for the eyes.
Important item number one on the Losar agenda was the blessing of the ladies Khuru teams by the charming and ever humble resident teacher Khenpo Sonam Tashi.
And so the games began!
At midday, the gathered crowd (numbering in the hundreds) were treated to a scrumptious meal, prepared and served by the monks themselves who, contrary to tradition, were the last to eat. The tall stately temple with its intricate gold relief sculptures juxtaposed against the simplicity of smooth sandstone Buddha images was lined with mats and carpets to become an impromptu eating hall.
The afternoon saw endless more rounds of khuru, enough snacks to feed the Bhutanese army as well as generous portions of beer and locally brewed alcohol such as arah, barley beer and a strange lumpy rice wine called, appropriately enough, “chang-kee.”
As the short winter day drew to a close, we were mesmererised by a gorgeous fiery sunset which cast soothing pastel shades on the tall hills around and the vast Indian plains spreading out below.
Finally, a huge bonfire was lit and we were treated to song, dance and even a little rap deep into the night performed by monks, local villagers and even a couple of stray foreigners.
It was a joyous and wonderful occasion, surely a fitting way to welcome in the new year.
TASHI DELEK TO ALL!
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It was a gorgeous bright shining Saturday afternoon post monsoon in the tiny Tibetan refugee settlement of Bir. The nearest mountains were clear as a bell while great boiling clumps of cumulus were piled up on top of one another like cowpats over the summits of the towering ice encrusted peaks in the distance. Despite having spent two months in the region, I had never visited the famous paragliding launch site placed high up on a ridge above the town and a friend of mine, Millie offered to join me on for an excursion. After a ferocious haggle with a local taxi driver, we crammed ourselves into his tiny Indian-built vehicle and were off and away.
We rose switchback after switchback through ancient dank moss covered Himalayan pine forest until finally emerging into the craggy treeless expanse of the alpine zone. Here, the verdant near vertical hillsides slanted high into the azure sky above and were dotted with sheep and goats which sport the most magnificent coats of long flowing silken hair. Best wool in the world some people say.
Billing is a cluster of ramshackle timber frontier style restaurants and chai shops surrounding the jump off zone. The plunge to the landing field below is over 1000 vertical metres and the conditions are so ideal for paragliding that they even hosted a world championships there once. This happened despite all the inconveniences of being situated in a remote forgotten valley right on the edge of the soaring Indian Himal.
As we reached the top of the track and approached the crest of the mountain, a breathtaking panorama befell us. As far as the eye could see stood range after misty range of steep choppy ridges, arching out like shock waves into the Gangetic Plain as if caused by the tsunami of the rising of the mighty massif behind. After satiating ourselves with this magnificent scene, a stiff cool breeze encouraged us to take refuge on the lee side of the land-form, gazing instead at the high snowy mountains to the north with their menacing headpieces of angry grey thunderstorm.
We had only seen one lone paraglider in the air as we made our way up the mountain and assumed that we must have been too late to enjoy the spectacle of watching them take off. However, as we sat there, we noticed a couple of worryingly young Indian men sorting out parachutes that they appeared to be renting out to anyone who was willing to give it a go. People of all different nationalities were now arriving and starting to kit themselves out with the backpacks, straps, buckles and all the other bits and pieces that go along with these simple flying machines. Even to the casual observer, there was clearly a staggering disparity between the competence of the various pilots, just judging by the way they donned their gear. The one who was lined up to be first to take off, which I guess is a bit more risky than following, was a fit rugged looking American. He had an air of confidence about him that spoke of endless amounts of know how and experience. However, he did not take his allocated jump, instead allowing others to take his place, watching what was going on in obvious dismay. Eventually, he began to remove his gear and I overheard him whisper to one of the other adventurers something to the effect that he did not know what to expect here. Risk assessment done, decision – don’t jump.
“Gee!” I muttered to Millie, “that is a bit of a worry if the most competent looking guy on the block doesn’t think it is safe enough to go.”
The next cab off the rank was a muscular, clean cut Indian guy in his mid twenties. Looked like an army type. He stood with the parachute outstretched and attached to his back via a large rucksack, which I guess contained his emergency chute. To the front was a mass of chords and belts of various colours and sizes with numerous different types of buckle all dangling in front of him like the tentacles of a jellyfish. Although he approached the task with a cool head and a clear methodology, he was simply unable to ascertain which sash connected with which, fumbling with a rising level of desperation as his fingers jittered with fear like an alcoholic who is longing for a drink. I found this entire scene somewhat alarming and my eyes darted around for some semblance of sanity. Surely there must be somebody on site who can decide that allowing a person who does not even know how the equipment works jump of the edge of a thousand meter near vertical Himalayan hillside might be just a tad irresponsible. My expectations proved to be ill founded. The youth who was preparing the other parachutes noticed the man’s difficulties and instead of advising him to keep his two feet firmly on the ground, deftly attended to him. In no time at all, he was buckled up, checked for “safety and ready to take off.
I had to admire the soldier’s foolhardy courage as he stood there, back to the abyss, jaw firm with determination to go ahead with the launch even though his eyes and trembling hands betrayed his sheer mortal terror.
“I don’t think I can watch this” my friend exclaimed in an anxious voice. She turned her back to the scene, still peeking over her shoulder at the unfolding drama. “I don’t want to watch somebody die!”
The strings on the chute were stretched out in front of the would-be pilot and had been crossed over once so that the pilot could launch the parachute in front of him and once aloft, he should spin around 180 degrees and be facing in the right direction. The kite itself was being held up by one of the ground staff, trying to catch the brisk breeze which had been building in intensity all the while. Suddenly, a sharp snarl of mountain air caught the colourful fabric, filling it to bursting point and sending it jerking erratically into the air above the pilot.
“Up up up!” shouted the groundsman. The hapless soldier tugged frantically at various straps and ropes as he was being dragged backwards towards the sharp foreboding edge of the cliff. Just as he was about to plunge scrambling into the chasm, a stiff column of air rising vertically up the mountain face from the valley below battered his parachute back into the launch area, towing him aghast towards the jabbering crowd which had gathered on the ridge top to enjoy the show.
“Down down down!” came the cry from the guide. This manoeuvre, he evidently knew how to accomplish and promptly managed to deflate his kite with a swift pull of chord and fell flailing into a tangle on the soft grassy earth. Humiliation jostled for position over fear on his anguished face as he picked himself up and brushed off the mess while the groundsman came over to offer some much needed advice. A clear series of instructions was delivered about how to launch a paraglider and the student took in each piece of information with fervent attention and grim determination.
It was but a few minutes later when he stood back in the launching position by now almost overcome with dread. On the second attempt, the chute launched smoothly and floated over his head towards the precipice. He staggered backwards again, stumbling towards the precipice but this time pulling more confidently with the correct controls and at the last possible moment jumped gamely off the edge, spinning clumsily around into the right position as he soared off into the void.
After only a few seconds, as the steep slope slipped away beneath him, he was gliding many hundreds of meters above the jagged rocky floor of the alpine valley.
“How is he ever going to get down?” implored Millie. A very salient question indeed.
We watched, hearts in our mouths as he gingerly made a ninety degree bend and sailed briskly far far off into round empty belly the great valley below.
Bon voyage!
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