Welcome to my new BLOG page

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!

THE GREAT NIGHT OF SHIVA IN KATHMANDU

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!

THE STRANGEST GIG IN CUBA

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.