Honolulu

I spent five weeks on the Hawaiian island of Oahu. The first week was spent travelling around the island, checking out the North Shore, Windward Coast, and Pearl Harbour.
For the next four weeks I stayed in a rented condo in Waikiki, and made lithographic prints at the Honolulu Printmakers printshop.


The condo I lived in is the plain white one on the left. The one up front, with the wicked cantilever, was my daily eye-candy on my bike ride to the printshop. I had hoped to see some great mid-late century concrete buildings like this one in Honolulu, and was not disappointed. I was disappointed, however, in the lack of all things pertaining to Jack Lord: 20 ft long black Ford coupes, long sleeve Aloha shirts, "Book'em Dano" t-shirts. Seriously, he is all but forgotten, ditto for Magnum, only the TV show Lost matters now.


Looking out my condo window over the canal and golf course. I was near the Diamond Head end of Waikiki.


I met Gary on the way home from the printshop one day. He asked if I was the guy photographing his car the other day. I confessed. The next time I came by, he was there again, applying bondo to the body of his Camaro. He offered me a Bud, then I took this picture of him giving the Bud salute.


The Academy of Fine Arts building, home to the Honolulu Printmakers printshop, a gallery space and a ceramics workshop.
Below, the litho room, where I spent most of my time. The stone sitting on the press has my "AfterLife" image on it.

Kyoto

Kyoto: temples galore and geishas. Before visiting Japan, this was the city I was most interested in seeing. It turned out to be my least favourite place in Japan, but was still pretty great.


I left my little yellow journal in the back pocket of the seat in front of me on the Hiroshima-Osaka train. By the time I realised this, I was sitting down and drinking a coffee near the Kyoto train station. I went to the Lost and Found there, and they called the Osaka station. As you can see, someone turned it in, and they had it at the Lost and Found in Osaka. Japan is amazing that way. I actually do believe that passengers back here in Canada would be good enough to turn such a notebook to a Via Train employee, but i also believe they would just toss it in the trash, rather than have to fill out a form and file it.

Hiroshima

The Atomic Dome, Hiroshima, April 21, 2008.

I took the ferry and train to Hiroshima and checked in at the Business Ryokan Sansui, where the whiteboard sign greeting me read: Burke Taters. In Hiroshima I visited the Peace Memorial and Museum, all set in a lush green, tree-filled park. All this, right at the spot that was devastated by the A-bomb in 1945, just below the huge fireball that lit up the sky and burned everything for miles in an instant. On a beautiful sunny day, in such a civilised country, this is all difficult to imagine. But, the museum does a good job to tell the story of the day that made this city famous.


For my second day in Hiroshima, I had a choice: 1) visiting the floating temples at nearby Miyajima*, or 2) tour the Mazda Museum and factory. As you can see from this photo, I went for the Zen experience, and kept the appointment for the zoom-zoom tour I had made when I arrived at the train station's tourist office the day before, when I arrived.
The car pictured above is a 1967 Mazda Cosmo, the world's first production rotary engine sports car, and a blatant rip-off of the Alfa Romeo Spyder.


This 1969 Mazda Luce, was designed by Giorgetto Giugiaro of Italy.


A mini-El Camino built by Mazda, for mini people.

After the tour of the museum, we were allowed into the factory to observe the assembly line. Watching the factory men at work was truly Zen, as I know it. One is easily lead to contemplate the existence of man, and the intricate relationships of everything in this universe. To see just a slice of the incredibly intricate infrastructure and labour that goes into assembling a car is mind-blowing. Everything is designed to flow, so that the production line never stops. And, to think that as complex as everything in the factory is, it is nothing compared to the earth's living systems.
I watched as one guy worked in tandem with a robot to install pre-assembled dashboard units. He was moving non-stop, quite quickly, too. The tour guide told me the workers get a 15 minute break in the morning, and one in the afternoon, and a 45 minute lunch break. Not too far off Lang's vision in Metropolis, I thought. Around the corner, however, there was a woman working on another part of the assembly line. She didn't appear to be busy at all, and in fact stood around while waiting for the next car to arrive so she could install the rocker panels covers. I asked the guide about this disparity and was told that woman don't do the difficult jobs. It certainly looked that way.
I really do think that watching the factory assembly line at work was one of the more incredible experiences of my year abroad. Here are some of the contributing factors: 1) cameras were not allowed in the factory, so the experience was of the moment, and not filtered through a screen of viewfinder, 2) the repetition and movement was strangely organic, like watching worker ants, because it was a multiple vehicle assembly line, 3) there were only 3 of us on the tour, so quite often I was standing alone, leaning over the catwalk railing looking down to the factory assembly line, the worker's unaware of my existence - again, like watching marching ants, and 4) It was mesmerizing, like watching the water fall over the edge of Niagara Falls.



Form and function merge pleasantly on this bench for the elderly and infirm on the local train in Hiroshima.


The morning tram in Hiroshima.

* as for floating temples, I can wait until I get back to Toronto and bike down to admire Eb Zeidler's Ontario Place. Way cooler.

Mystery Artist on TV in Japan

The following is based on notes I wrote on my WikiTravel print outs for Naoshima, and some from my little yellow notebook.

Sunday April 20, 2008.
Looking for a place to eat on a Sunday night. Everything was closed, and I am the only guest in my lock-less guest house. I felt like I was the only foreigner on this dark seemingly deserted island. The gent at the ferry terminal was kind enough to sell me some snacks, even though it was not his job and he was already into overtime: nuts and dried fried noodles. Then, I went by a vending machine, got some chips and figured this and a couple of beers from the vending machine at the guest house would be dinner. Then, just past Seven Beach (my guesthouse, that is not actually on a beach, FYI), I discovered a small cook-food-over-an-open-flame-yourself place that appeared to be open.
When I went in, the proprietor asked if I was staying at the (Seven) Beach house. Feeling more than ever like the only foreigner on the island, I said yes, and she told me I could pay her for my 2nd night there. As it happened, she was the mother of the woman who ran my guesthouse, in which I was the only guest that night. I suppose, had I not found this place, she would have come to the guesthouse later and asked for my payment.
I asked her if I could get some food, because everything else was closed. She agreed, at first somewhat reluctantly, but soon came around, and after my meal gave me free beer…and the mini KIRIN beer glass I said I liked so much and wished to purchase.
She said I looked like a movie star. I told her I wasn’t, and that I make and teach art. With only her limited understanding of English, she was able to communicate to me that making art is a lot of work for very little money.

After getting back to the completely empty Seven Beach House I turned on the TV and started writing a bit. On the TV was a show about a Japanese artist. I couldn’t understand a word of it, but the images alone allowed me to construct my own story. I was able to decide who was the curator, who was the museum director and who the mentoring senior artist was. I really liked the platform she used to float over her art as she painted.

(I wonder if I will ever discover the artist's name? I like her work a lot. It inspires me.)

Naoshima

Yuji and Maasa on the beaches below Benesse House, Naoshima.
April 19, 2008.

Naoshima was a great surprise to me. I had never heard of the place until I read about it in the back of the Wallpaper* Tokyo guide book, in a section called Escapes. These handy little guides are actually pretty cool, even if the hotels they list are way out of my price range. So, I feel that I must thanks the editors, because Naoshima was completely amazing!

Naoshima is an island located in the Seto Inland Sea of Japan. It is reknowned for its collection of contemporary art galleries and exhibits. Naoshima is best known for the Benesse House complex. There has been extensive domestic attention to the recently (2006) completed radical Chichu Art Museum. -Wiki


Benesse House, a contemporary art museum and hotel designed by Tadao Ando.






Benesse House dining room: where you get to eat if you are a guest there. You also get exclusive transportation around the island's various art sites in the Benesse shuttle bus. If you stay at the Benesse House, you also get to wander around the museum closes; long after plebs like me have gone off to their 3500 Yen ($35) a night guest house.


The Chichu Art Museum cafe, 4/20/2008


Every single detail has been attended to at the ChiChu, right down to the problem of how to carry your drink and quiche to the outside terrace, without resorting to the all too common prison-style two-handed tray maneuver? Put the drink in a basket, with the quiche over top.


Posting a photograph of one of James Turrell's ephemeral artworks seems almost blasphemous. But here is one form inside the ChiChu, anyway; not to give you the feeling of the piece, but to remind you that there are 4 of his works on permanent display on this wee island that you need to go and see.


ChiChu was also designed by Tadao Ando. The entire museum is set into the ground, so as to not disturb the natural lines of the mountainous island.






In addition to the two fanatastic museums by Ando, there are six Art House Projects, all within renovated traditional houses on this small island.


A detail of the charred wood finish used on one of the Art Houses.


The idea of Naoshima is brilliant: create a series of sublime art experiences on a beautiful island in the inland sea. The idea of wrapping a waffle around a chocolate topped ice cream bar, so that it doesn't drip, seems equally inspired.


If I hadn't been locked in the train and forced to miss my stop, then have to double back, and thus miss the ferry, I would not have met Yuki and Maasa. We had a great time touring all the sites of the island together.


We even had fun with Godzilla in a traditional Japanese bar, just around the corner from our guest house.



This is the ferry terminal on Naoshima. If you ever find yourself in Tokyo, and are a lover of contemporary art and architecture, then you must go to Naoshima. It is just difficult enough to get to to keep away the tour bus crowd, but easy enough for the devoted to make the pilgrimage without getting lost. Here is how I got there: Bullet train from Tokyo to Okayama (4 hours), Okayama-Chayamachi-Uno (40 minutes), Uno ferry to Naoshima (20 minutes).

Tokyo

The notes for this posting were transcribed (mostly) from notes I made in the back of my Lonely Planet Tokyo Encounter guide book. I recommend this small city guide and map combo, if you are Tokyo-bound with not much of a clue, as I was.



Sunday April 13.
Harujuku reminds me of Queen West and Kensington Market. Lots of skulls, American vintage-sque tees; plus Vivienne Westwood punk, and other UK gear. The girl dressed as a killer doctor in a blood-stained labcoat wearing a pirate's eye-patch seemed uniquely Tokyo youth, circa 2008.
Later, watched I Manchester United beat Arsenal at a pub in Ukebukuro.


In Japan, my Honda Ruckus scooter is sold as a Zoomer. This Tokyo hipster-child has stripped his down a bit further by removing the fenders.


Tuesday April 15.
Ueno Park. Met Jiro, his girlfriend Naomi, friends Assami, Kai and Yoko. All college students studying photography and shooting with old Nikon SLRs. Had cook it yourself dinner together in Ueno. Okonomiyaki is the name of this type of restaurant where you make Japanese 'pancakes', mostly cabbage-based with egg and shrimp.




Wednesday April 16.
-met Keith, went to lovely private Japanese garden, saw a crane eat its catch, then moved onto a gallery building where the first gallery had some nice paintings and beer garden table rubbings. From there to Ginza where I saw the new Nissan GTR and bought a Magnum photographer t-shirt at UNIQLO. Then Keith went home, and I went to Muji for dinner, underwear and tea! Later at home I watched Lost in Translation again. This time, with the Tokyo bits being less exotic, I found the two characters flawed to an even greater degree. She is a spoilt, lost soul and he is a philandering has-been who is selling-out instead of doing a play (his words). But his advice to her is good...keep writing.

Thursday April 17.
Planned, then went and booked all my train tickets for my Japan Rail trip. Tokyo-Naoshima-Hiroshima-Kyoto-Tokyo. Then went to Roppongi Hills Mori Museum to see BMW Art Car Show (weak show, I liked Stella's 3.0 CSL best) Then I met up with Keith again, saw the group show he was in. It was really great...work by stylists, photographers and make-up artists. All very well made, excellent craft and attention to detail - professional, as it were. From there we went to see Lee Friedlander's exhibit at the Rat Hole Gallery where I bought the Lee Friedlander book they published, and a copy of Anders Petersen's book Cafe Lehmitz, which is the source of the image on Tom Wait's Raindogs. From there to an excellent dinner in a place that was a kind of Japanese-beer-hall-tapas-bar-a-rant


Friday April 18

Copied from the back of a guide to Ueno Imperial Park:

I got really excited, like ahhh! Open mouth excited when I glimpsed at all the big sculpture in the Met Museum - the Japanese League of Sculptors.
Then I went and saw the finely made Japanese crafts – masks, ceramics and lacquerware.
Now, I am sitting having a $5 cup of coffee in the National Museum of Western Art (their logo NMWA, all joined in one zig-zag line). I've come to see the Venus exhibition (1400 yen). I am yawning, so I need this coffee...it is a dreary, rainy, yawny kind of day. Okay for a museum...if you have coffee.
Had great sushi for lunch after a late departure, approx. 2-3 pm, from the hotel where I spent the first part of the day booking my hotels for Naoshima, Hiroshima and Kyoto. All booked, including trains, yay!


My Bollywood-stickered Canon and my CBC tee. I truly missed my CBC Radio weekends during this year spent away from home. I am excited to hear the new show Under the Covers by Danny Michel; one of my favourite musical artists, who, without CBC Radio in my life, I might not have discovered. Which would be a shame, because my life wouldn't be nearly as rich.

Hong Kong

I loved Hong Kong. This shot is looking down Hollywood Road on the way to the fabulous store G.O.D. (Goods of Desire). I found it to be a great walking city.




The oppression of high fashion and the tyranny of choice* associated with retail in the west is ever present in Hong Kong.




Having come from socialist West Bengal in Calcutta, where fly-overs (raised highways) obscure the beautiful facade of their national museum, it was interesting to see this moment where the right of way was given to a tree. This in Hong Kong, one of the world's most free market economies in its day.


Signs of the former British rule are felt in a general, somewhat intangible way; and sometimes posted more directly.

* I credit this phrase to Samuel, MBA

Thailand

Bangkok, Chiang Mai and Kyoto. Three places I visited where the first thing I photographed was a car. True story. Oh, and they all have a lot of temples, too. This sweet little Triumph was in Bangkok, near San's apartment, where I was staying in style. If my room at the Hotel Neelam in Calcutta could be described the kind of place where Hezbollah might "interview" hostages, my room at San's in Bangkok was more like the place the where UN diplomats might sleep while doing nothing useful to help solve the world's problems.






These are images from Wat Pho in Bangkok. The quiet bliss one might experience whilst watching this restoration artist paint is how I felt about Bangkok in general. It was so clean and quiet compared to Calcutta. The new skytrain and malls you can see from the raised platforms were all so shiny and new. The streets were full of new german cars, everything seemed to work and the air felt fresh. Of course, this is all relative, I realise. But still, I was very impressed by this metropolis, despite the lack of constant horn honking and general chaos to which I had become accustomed.


Within the city of Bangkok is a little piece of paradise known as the Jim Thompson House. I loved it there, and wanted to move in for a while. Don't pass it by if you find yourself in Bangkok.


After Bangkok, I flew up to Chiang Mai to see my old friend and former classmate and collegue Suzanne. She and hubby and child live outside the city in the surrounding mountains on the beautiful campus of an International School. The temple in this picture is from within the old city of Chiang Mai, which is surrounded by a moat. There are heaps of temples in Chiang Mai. My tour of Europe back in the early nineties was nick named the ABC tour (Another Beautiful Church). Yatta-Yatta is what I will call my Thailand tour (Yet Another Temple To Adore, Yet Another Temple To Adore).


These lanterns are being lit and sent into the sky to land who knows where. Maybe the gods where, since they are often sent up in their honour. We saw this happening after the dinner and show at Khum Khantoke, which bills itself as "The Ultimate Mega Center of Lanna Arts and Culture" (I am always amused when I see Arts separated from Culture).

I stayed both at Suzanne and Peter's up in the mountains, and also within the city walls at CM Blue House. It was only $10 a night and included newness, cleanliness, towels, toilet paper and hot water, none of which I received in Calcutta for $8 a night.
The owners of CM Blue House also own the Rama bar around the corner. One libation I quite enjoyed in Thailand was the premixed scotch and soda by Johnny Walker, who battles it out with Buddha for total omnipresence in the Kingdom. These chilled wonders were much enjoyed when I was in my recovery mode. You see, I so enjoyed the peace and tranquility of Chiang Mai, that I decided I would stay an extra week or so and take a yoga course. You know, start bending and stretching my 10lb lighter post-India body. As it happened however, my body was thrown across the pavement at about 60 k. On the way down the hill from S and P's the rear wheel of the borrowed 125 Honda Wave I was riding hit a small bit of tree debris that had fallen in the recent rain. I was leaning a bit into the approaching corner and bridge and quickly went down with the bike. Because I was in 35 degree Thailand, I was in shorts and t-shirt, so it was my skin that did the tango with pavement. With my cellphone cracked, but still working, I called Suzanne and asked her to come get me. Then I looked down at my scooter seat and saw big drops of blood, and then re-examined my new skin art. Hmmm...nothing seems to be "dripping blood", so where is it coming from? I wondered in my state of shock. My face? I vainly thought for a moment. I soon realise the blood must be related to the flapping bit of skin hanging from my chin. Apparently I broke the fall using my chin as well as my wrists, elbows, left shoulder, right leg and upper pelvic bone. That was at about 10 am. By 12 pm I was stitched up and in a kind of euphoria because I knew it could have been much worse and that I came out on the winning side of my tango with death.
I was healed enough by the time I got to Hawaii to enter the ocean without screaming. I have a wee scar under my chin and some discoloured skin. I'd say I was really lucky, but that would be a lie. Really lucky would be not falling at all, falling and living is just lucky.
The stats: 1 surgeon, two assistants, lots of iodine and bandages, 16 stitches (8 inside, 8 outside), one cycle of antibiotics and a week of pain killers (not including the Johnny Walkers). Total bill in dollars: 136. Yep, that's all, in a super clean, friendly and efficient hospital (it's no wonder why so many westerners are going to Thailand to get plastic surgery). And, when I went back a week later, the removal of the stitches was free.

Calcutta: chai, coffee, and the ghats

This is the last of the Calcutta posts. I couldn't complete my brief picture of Calcutta without mentioning the chai wallahs (tea men) who are found all over India. This guy here, had a spot on the sidewalk near the Seagull gallery where Dave's show was hanging. The sidewalks in Calcutta are usually for selling and sleeping, which is why there are so many people walking on the streets. That, and because there are just a whole lot of people there. The art adorning this tea stall is quite typical: calendars with Hindi gods/goddesses, and a photo of the deceased father of the current proprietor. The small tea cup he is pouring into is made of fired clay. It is used once and thrown on the ground, with the other garbage. FYI, a cup of chai like this costs between 2.5 and 4 rupees. ($1 = 40 rupees)


Doodh-man. Dude-man. Milkman. Milk is a very important ingredient in Indian tea (chai). The are many doodhs like this riding throughout the streets of Calcutta. Not all of them have such stylin' mudflaps.






Not even in competition with tea, coffee can be found at some places in Calcutta, but almost never in a street stall. The most beautiful and famous place for a cup of (pretty terrible) coffee is The Coffee House, a co-op that was the meeting place of many of the more famous Bengali intellectuals, like Tagore, whose picture hangs on the wall.


Looking down for the Coffee House stairwell. You can see our bikes parked beside the motorbikes.


I rode by this stretch of Bentick Street almost everyday. The green mosque is in the background. It is about half way between Hotel Neelam and Mr. Ghosh's shop. One day, I was on foot here on the way to the art store to buy all of the large french paper I could find in the city (10 sheets). It was then I realised how visible a minority I was in parts of Calcutta, because people I had never met were all asking me "where is your bicycle" or just smiling and saying "bicycle" while miming the holding of the handlebars.




Sundays usually ended with us down at the ghats near the flower market. It was here that I saw one of my favourite Indians: a content little boy with little scissors cutting up little discarded pieces of coloured foam. He was all we should ever want to be.

Retour de Flamme

Calcutta is full of suprises. I would never have imagined that I'd ever be sitting in the grounds of an Anglican church in India watching a frenchman play piano accompaniment to lost film, which had been found and restored films.


It was magical. Among the many great shorts, I saw the world's first animated film, a Buster Keaton picture, and this hand coloured picture filmed in Gwalior in 1908! For more info on Retour de Flamme click here.
Serge Bromberg is the driving force behind Lobster films, a company that finds and restores these "lost" films. He was the presenter and piano player, and a great ambassador for the preservation of the world's films.
Speaking of lost images, the images here and in the last posting were lost for a bit. The memory card from my Canon became corrupted during a download attempt (thank you very much, Evil Microsoft) and I couldn't get to the files. But, using my Apple Powerbook and a photo recovery program called Klix, I was able to recover them.

Calcutta Sundays

Sundays in Calcutta were usually spent riding our bikes and exploring different neighbourhoods. After a ride northbound beside the Hoogly (Ganges), we cut back into the city streets and came across this bus. Watching the painter create the numbers was amazing. His hand was fast, accurate and fluid.




After painting "lovley" on the crossbar of Dave's black bike, which he bought in Dehli from Mr. Lovely 3 years ago, he painted "Best Qwalitey" on the rear fender. Painting "best quality" on an Indian bicycle is a bit like painting "we mean no harm" on the side of a B-52 bomber.


Where whitey goes, a crowd will grow.



This horse sculpture has a bamboo armature inside it and is made from mud from the Hoogly River. It will be painted, then brought to the river and thrown in as an offering for the gods during a pooja. The armatures will eventually be fished out and the whole process will be repeated.


"A patina is the surface that bridges the gap between art and nature" -Dave Trattles, on the phone to me in Calcutta while he was cycling to Chennai with Jada and John.


A saree hanging out to dry in north Calcutta.






I think one reason India is so great looking, and therefore an excellent place for taking pictures, is because the people there are a rather inquisitive lot. This means they do things like stand in doorways looking out - framing themselves for the camera lens. They also congregate in groups around all kinds of activities, providing an audience for the mundane, turning a flat tire into a spectacle.

Bodhgaya

The last stop on my railway crossing of northern India was Bodhgaya, the place where Buddha attained Enlightenment under the bodhi tree. For Buddhists, Bodh Gaya is the most important of the main four pilgrimage sites related to the life of Gautama Buddha.


According to Buddhist traditions, circa 500 BC Prince Gautama Siddhartha, wandering as a monk, reached the sylvan banks of Falgu River, near the city of Gaya. There he sat in meditation under a bodhi tree (Ficus religiosa). After three days and three nights of meditation, Siddharta attained enlightenment and insight, and the answers that he had sought.


Diary excerpt from February 6, 2008.
I just had lunch at the OM Cafe here in Bodhgaya. This place also has clothes for sale (and other wooly things and purses and beady things). The whole place looks and feels like the (hippie) places on Bloor Street in the Annex that sell the same stuff. The sameness is startling. There were places like this in Kingston and Buffalo too.
Everyone here is drinking tea, except for a table of monks (in maroon robes with shaved heads). They are all drinking Coca-Cola from the bottle with straws.




Not far from the filth here, I went to the Japanese Temple and joined their daily 5 pm meditation. Compared to the rest of India I had seen, just being in such a clean space took me half way to nirvana. After only 1/2 an hour of meditation, I had attained enlightenment; proven by the fact my right leg had completely fallen asleep, thus signifying a separation of the mind and body.

The Taj and Varanasi

On Monday February 4th, 2008, I took the 6:10 am Jaipur Gwailor express train to Agra Fort (10:52 scheduled arrival, actual 12pm) so that I could visit the famous Taj Mahal.


My Taj verdict: weak to okay. Certainly from the back, the site is very nice: wide bend in the river, green forest area on the other side. But, the scale of the structure was not is impressive (as it seems in photos), the marble pieces not so well chosen, and the reflecting pools lacked sparkle. It's a check mark on the preverbial to-do list. But, I would say that the real reward of a visit here is found through observation of the Indian families in their finest dress posing in front of their national shrine. It is known for being a symbol of Love, and because so many people come here with Love on their mind, the place does have a special feeling.
This might help to put its size in perspective: it is about 186 ft tall, St. Peter's Basilica is 452 ft., and Chartres Cathedral is over 350 ft. high. In layman (prole) terms: if they build a Taj in Las Vegas, it would be the only copy there that is bigger than the original. Yes, I know, it is really hard to believe there isn't a Vegas Taj already (with Russell Peters performing nightly).
The bottom line: The Taj Mahal attracts from 2 to 4 million visitors annually, with more than 200,000 from overseas. Entry Fee for Foreign Nationals : 750 Rs., Entry Fee For Indian Tourists : 20 Rs. I did the math: each year this place takes in 150 million rupees from foreigners, and 80 million rupees from Indians.


Milling about the site are many photographers there to capture the moment for you (on film, no less and get you the prints in less than an hour). This was the only time in India hawkers avoided me (and the other camera ladened foreigners), and focussed on the natives. This isn't completely true, because there are plenty of men wandering about the site about who try and become your personal "guide", which includes showing you where to stand to take pictures so that your own picture will look just like the one you've seen a hundred times before.


"Look, I am holding the dome up with my fingers!"
(It may be silly, but least my hair isn't orange)


Here are some notes I made while on site (notes in brackets added today for this blog):
I am sitting outside the south portal of the monument. I was not prepared for the smell of stinky feet that IS the interior and also the exterior area of the interior entrance! Unreal. My advice: rub (Vick's) vapour rub under your nose before going inside the Taj! My photo was just taken by an Indian couple (they actually asked this time). Title: "Whitey at the Taj". Must get out of the sun and away from wafting dirty feet smell. Unreal!


A couple of cows at the edge of the Ganges River in Varanasi

If you thought my words on the Taj were harsh, then you may not want to know what I think about Varanasi, or as my friend David Packer so cleverly calls it: Very Nasty.
This is one of the holiest cities for the Hindi. And, because of this, I am not going to say much. (perhaps at a later date on harshmagazine.com)




On my way to Agra Fort train station my bicycle rickshaw was caught up in traffic due to this wedding procession. The lights are powered by a small diesel engine that moves along with the procession.




Because I had given myself ample time to get to the station, I was able to sit back and enjoy the passing festivites. Varanasi is a city of weddings, prayers and cremations; and in the week I spent there one day, I had seen them all.

Jaipur, Rajasthan

After visiting the desert, I decided I would make my way back to Calcutta by train: Jaislamer-Jaipur-Agra-Varanasi-Bodhgaya-Calcutta. I arrived in Jaipur from Jaisalmer at five in the morning, had a nap, and then hired a car and driver for the day to take me to Abanheri, about 95 km from Jaipur, so that I could see the stepwell there. The first stop was a long one, at the train station to get my tickets booked for my chosen route. As a travel incentive for foreigners, at Indian Railway stations we get to use the same ticket window as seniors and freedom fighters. This is meant to be the faster line. However, on this day It took quite a while for my tickets to be processed, because the ticket agent made a mistake and had to re-issue all of the tickets. This delay caused one of the old men waiting in line to get cross with me. This certainly was not the kind of behaviour Ben Kingsley had lead me to expect.


The scenery out the car window alternated between lush green fields and fields of dirt.










Rajasthan is a bit like the Carrara of India; in that it is home to many stone carvers, who can be seen throughout the city of Jaipur and in the surrounding towns.


The next day, back in Jaipur, I visited the City Palace, home to these huge silver vessels.





One of the rooms inside the City Palace that is open to the public.




Looking out from the Palace of the Winds in Jaipur. The small openings were designed so that the women of the palace could look out but not be seen.

Jaisalmer

I decided to travel to the desert in Rajasthan with Adam, who wanted to go there and photograph the stars. So off we went: by plane from Calcutta to Jaipur, then by overnight train to Jaisalmer.


Adam trying to get some zzz's in the morning after a very cold overnight train ride through the desert from Jaipur. He has a copy of V.S. Naipaul's An Area of Darkness on his lap. Dave gave us each a copy and we were both reading it on this trip. I highly recommend it if you are at all interested in India.
We hadn't anticipated the degree of cold air, or the fact that in sleeper class you have to bring your own blankets. So, basically, I spent the coldest night of my life in India. At least I didn't get frostbitten, like I did in Kenya years ago. I can't wait to be back in Canada where these things don't happen to me.


Kudos to Adam for finding this guest house with a view. It is called the Fifu Guest House, and was nice, new-ish and clean, with hot showers to boot. What luxury!


I liked Jaisalmer because it was a living fort city, even if the holy cow does seem to have the run of the place.


San getting a yard of sweet milk inside the fort city of Jaisalmer. We met San who was visiting from Bangkok, and Mark from Australia, on the train from Jaipur. We all decided to stay at Fifu, and I went on a desert safari with San and Mark.


Looking out across the desert in western India, about an hour from Jaisalmer


Mark and San on their camels


The first time I tried to upload this picture my web browser started going all wonky like its wires were crossed. Perhaps it's because there are so many things that seem wrong in this photograph: I am wearing a hoody with a sports team's colours, I am wearing a wool scarf in the desert, and yes, I do, in fact, have a mustache. I left the 'stache in India.

Calcutta Vintage Car Rally

When it comes to machines, I believe in the afterlife. Specifically, I believe in the resurrection of old cars, trucks and motorbikes that have had life breathed back into them by their loving owner's passion and hard work. And, when these re-born vehicles and their owners congregate, I go to worship; even if it means getting out of bed at 7 am on a Sunday morning. January 20, 2007 A.D. was one such morning, and found me headed towards The Statesman newspaper's annual vintage car rally in Calcutta. Below, fellow worshippers bow their heads in honour of vintage motorbikes.




This was a true rally, which meant in order to participate you had to run your vehicle through the full driving course that meandered through Calcutta's many diverse neighbourhoods. I think it was a combination of whiteness and precociousness that landed me a seat in this 60's Dodge convertible, which just happened to be the closest thing to a muscle car in the whole rally. The car belonged to Mr. Mukerjee, who was driving his 1927 Austin Seven with his wife, while his driver drove the Dodge. The navigator had a computer in his lap and had figured out what our speed should be for each section of the course. With such advanced technology, how could we not win?


Being a Sunday, the roads were relatively quiet.


Mr. Singh is a high priest in the Art of Resurrection. This old Ariel was nothing but a pile of rust before he got to it. The various handlebar levers were all made by hand, cast in bronze, machined, polished, then chrome-plated. Prohibitively expensive at home, but possible in Calcutta.


A flat tire was the first thing standing between our car and Victory. Notice the group of people that instantly surrounded us in this residential neighbourhood. In Calcutta, it seemed that there were always at least 50 people just standing around, ready to give their attention to anything that might pop up.


The second thing to thwart our inevitable victory and champagne celebrations, was the lifting of the car with the jack positioned under the leaf springs (which meant the wheel couldn't drop down low enough to change the tire). I tried explaining this to the driver-cum-mechanic, but no one was listening to me. The same whiteness that opened the door for a ride in the backseat, now rendered me invisible. What could paleface possibly know about fixing a tyre? White people only know how to give orders. And, hey, given the history of India, that is a fair enough judgement. However, in this case it wasn't good judgement, because so far the locals had managed to pry and pull the flat tire out of the wheel well, and now couldn't get the spare on.


After all kinds of bad advice from everyone standing around, except me; they finally listened to this white boy (who happens to own a 60's American muscle car!) and put a second jack in the correct position. By the time this happened, all hopes of a victory lap had vanished. Instead, the crowd of onlookers watched as the spare tyre was bolted on, then hoisted me on their shoulders and sang a touching rendition of Jerusalem that would have made the Choir Master at Westminister Abbey proud. Of course, this was not the case. In fact, I was never even thanked, and sensed that they were annoyed that paleface was right.




As expected, the vintage vehicles were almost all from England, like these three lovely BSAs.


Hand-painted marquees are one of the benefits of not being able to find the original decals.


Sayan, a college student from Dehli snapped this picture of me about a month before we actually met through Sidhartha, who was also part of the college's camera club. As a paleface in India, it is not uncommon to have your picture taken by strangers, usually on a cellphone.

Calcutta

I originally posted this picture without any description, but have since been asked to say what it is. Perhaps some of you may have thought these men piloted my plane to Calcutta. In fact, they are members of a mahboob band, dressed and waiting in front of a closed shop, a quite typical scene on M. Ghandi Road on a Sunday in Calcutta.

Finally, India! The main reason why I decided to buy a Round-the-World ticket. Originally I was going to spend the whole year in Italy, but was convinced by my friend David Trattles to go to India. Once India became part of the equation, it made sense to either travel around the whole globe, or to all the places that began with the letter "I", which didn't seem as appealing. I was tremendously fortunate to have Dave and his friend Jada in residence in Calcutta when I arrived. They booked my room at the Neelam Hotel for me and picked me up at the airport. I'll never forget that nighttime drive from the airport to the city centre. The noise and air pollution was like nothing I'd ever seen or heard before, or since. The taxi headlights lit up a dark fog of diesel exhaust and the horn honking was literally non-stop. And even though it was after 8 pm, there were cars and people and rickshaws as far as the eye could see.


After my arrival and check-in (all my life's information filled out in triplicate), I was immediately thrown into the madness of the streets of Calcutta. I rode one of Dave's bikes for the first few days until I bought my own from Mr. Ghosh. It was quite a rush trying to navigate the streets of Calcutta and not lose Dave, who has cycled and photographed in over 60 countries.


This is Mr. Ghosh standing in front of his shop. His father, also called Mr. Ghosh is sitting inside the shop.


As a pale face, there are always eyes on you in India, even when you think you are safely hidden behind a taxi cab.


Dave Trattles is seen here beside his photograph "Mr. India" from his exhibition The Boxing Ladies.


The exhibition documented the lives of muslim women boxers in Calcutta. The three girls pictured here with their mother were featured on the poster for the exhibition. One of my many great days in Calcutta was spent with Dave and Jada putting up posters with this family in their neighbourhood.


Dave twirling a couple of the kids who live on the street out front of the gym where the boxers train alongside vintage Arnold Schwarznegger posters. The girl standing behind is the same girl in the Mr. India picture above.




The owner and artist of Jayshree printers in Calcutta, where Dave had the posters for his exhibition printed. They are holding a poster emblazoned with the image of Goddess Kali, the goddess of Calcutta. When Dave, Jada and John got on their bicycles and headed down to Chennai, I stayed in Calcutta and made my Contempt poster here.


Be Cheerful Always To Get Handsome Most
Dave's friend Adam arrived from Toronto and is seen here midway through a head massage (a Calcutta welcoming ritual for all of Dave's friends). Adam and I went to Jailsalmer together via plane and freezing cold night train.


This is my indian bicycle: an Atlas Goldstar. It cost about 60 dollars and weighed about 60 pounds. Here, in week 2 of ownership, you can see the chain guard has already come loose and I have tied it to the frame with twine. The seat has also begun to tilt back. Soon, the seat would get a few welds to stop the tilting, until finally the post bent and snapped off. In my two months of riding I went through three seats and had the chain break three times.