KLassy Eating

It's day's end in Kuala Lumpur. The sun has nearly completed its celestial diminuendo, basking the city in an eerie orange afterglow. The Petronas Towers, a pair of monster twin skyscrapers that stand guard over the downtown like indomitable sentinels, become iridescent in the final moments of their solar bath. From afar, they appear to be rockets, poised to launch on a mission to a faraway galaxy.

As you sit in your hostel garden, feeling the heat dissipate with the oncoming nightfall, your stomach rumbles. It's been a long, stifling day, so hot and so humid that your appetite was suppressed to a mere afterthought, which has left you without any energy at all. But it's cool now. The temperature has dropped, and your lungs open to full bore, sucking in the fresh evening air and bringing you instantly to life. You peer at your belly. You need food. You need it now.

But where? KL is a massive metropolis, stuffed to the gills with restaurants, and searching through the travel guidebook for a place to eat leaves your head doing revolutions. How does one find the right spot amongst so many? Is there a diamond in the rough that really defines Malaysian cuisine, yet doesn't put a dent in your bank account the size of a large coconut? There's no possible way you can try every place out in the limited time you have, so it's imperative that you make the right choice immediately. How to decide?

Fortunately, I can make it easy for you. For I, The Thirsty Traveler Who Is Also Sometimes Hungry, have taken it upon myself to solve the KL culinary conundrum, and after countless laksas, myriad stir frys and several midnight trips to the toilet, all is well. The secret is no longer a secret. The reports are no longer classified. The cat is out of the bag.

Want to stuff your face? Then Jalan Alor Road the place.

THE APPETIZER: Food on the Jalan Alor is pricey by Malaysian standards, so it's best not to dive in with a completely empty gas tank. I suggest a warm-up: a plate of mixed vegetables with rice to cleanse the palette and ease your stomach into the game, much like an athlete stretching his legs before taking on any serious training. For this I propose you try a walk-up eatery with a buffet such as Restoran Cheow Kee, where the friendly owners will be happy to fill a plate for you from the two dozen fresh, piping hot offerings behind the counter. Thai-style red curry bean curd, fast-fried baby bok choy with garlic and steamed oyster mushrooms with hoisin sauce are all worth a nibble, as are the Portuguese veggie stew and the agadashi tofu. But be careful – don't eat too much, or you'll be out of commission long before the real eating begins.

THE MAIN COURSE: With the ocean just a few miles away, fish is the magic word on Jalan Alor Road. Every restaurant serves it, but selecting the right fish at the right restaurant can be a headache, inasmuch as touts stand out in front of each eatery, waving their menus and beckoning you inside. It's hit and miss, so allow me to point you in the right direction. If it's Thai-style you're looking for, then the Ah Noi Thai Food Restoran is the superlative destination. The woks are glowing hot, and blue swimmer crab, scallops on the half-shell and jumbo prawns all glisten in the ice trays near the seating area. Choose a selection of seafood, then sit back over a Tiger beer while the portly chef cooks everything up in a veritable conflagration in the kitchen. The oysters come lightly steamed with ginger and coriander, and the seabass is deep-fried to perfection and drizzled with a spicy melange of hot chili paste, garlic and lemongrass. If you like the spice then you'll be pleased; this stuff leaves you gasping for breath.
Looking to enjoy the local flavours without charring the insides of your mouth? Then go Malaysian style. At the Kedan Makanan Sedap Charn Kee Tasty Corner and its sister restaurant, the Restoran Meng Kee Grill Fish (I'm not making these up), the fish is barbequed and served plain, bringing the true essence of the sea to your tastebuds without rendering your tongue in need of a graft. Malaysia has hundreds of indigenous fish species, but to eat like the locals do you'll have to order a chickenfish. Fat, snow-white and nearly boneless, the chickenfish is the most popular item of the lot, even if the name is suspect. I refuse to believe it is called that, but the Malaysians insist and I won't argue. I guess it does settle the old 'chicken or fish' debate on airplanes. And as a side note, the Monty Python guys would like to remind you that ravenfish, partridgefish and peregrinfalconfish are also excellent choices. But if you're like me, then as accompaniment to your chickenfish you should ask for grilled sting ray and salt-and-pepper calamari instead.

THE DESSERT: By now you'll be ready to explode, so sit back, take a walk, do whatever you need to do to recover quickly, because dessert is still to come. Proceed directly to the ABC Special Restoran, and order up a couple of bowls of langan ice. This little symphony of tastes is comprised of a mountain of crushed ice covered in a fruity syrup that comes in flavours like blueberry, strawberry, kiwi and sea coconut. As a garnish, the whole shebang is sprinkled with fresh lychees, home-made gelatin, and little jellies that explode in your mouth like pop-rocks. At about $1.50 per bowl, it's not to be missed.
Though there is one thing that is definitely to be missed, and that's the Berkamulang. I'm not sure who decided to combine coconut, sweetcorn, jelly and beans in a dessert, but the end result is worse than some of the monstrosities being concocted in first year Potions class at Hogwarts. Stay away!

Satisfied now? Good. Then my job is done. I recommend you head back home and allow your body to begin the digestion process, because tomorrow is a new day. With the onset of another dawn, more delicacies will flood in from the local markets, and tomorrow will be a brand new opportunity to tickle your soul with Malaysian culinary delights. And if you do end up finding out the real name for chickenfish, I'd surely like to know.

Many thanks go out to Andrea and Erica, my Italian amicos who braved the wild and wacky world on Jalan Alor Road for six consecutive nights with me, making my time in Kuala Lumpur an absolute pleasure. Salut to you guys!

Anyway, that's a wrap on Southeast Asia. It's been grand. But now, it's once again come time to take to the road, to leave what's done behind, to move on to other things.

Flight EY011, now leaving Kuala Lumpur to...

...doesn't matter. As long as she's there to pick me up.



"I pack my case
I check my face
I look a little bit older
I look a little bit colder." -The Killers

"Every monkey want to be
In my place instead of me
'Cause I'm the King of Bongo, baby
I'm the King of Bongo Bong." -Manu Chao

Scenes From a Rickshaw

A rickshaw ride is a looking glass into India. Sitting in the back seat while the driver navigates the streets at Mach 0.8, the entire country seems to pass you by in an instant. Please enjoy these photographs taken exclusively from the passenger carriage of rickshaws in both Ahmedabad and Junagadh. If it's blurry, it's because we were moving. The first is a self-portrait, and I'm particularly proud of the shot of the guy relieving himself.

Mama don't take my kodachrome
Mama don't take my kodachrome
Mama don't take my kodachrome away!
-Paul Simon

Isis: Estou sentindo a falta de voce.

Photo Amazingness Vol. III

Please sink your bi-cuspids into the following delicious visual images of India. Captions are listed at the top. Also stay tuned, because I will soon be presenting a string of photographs that I have collectively titled 'Scenes From a Rickshaw'. Bon appetit.

1. Dominic and I unwinding after a hard day of camel riding, Thar Desert.
2. Myself and my two Canadian snow bunnies Sara and Julia, posing in our ridiculous ski outfits. Manali, Himachal Pradesh.
3. The India-Pakistan border after closure, Attari, Punjab.
4. Colourful saris on sale at this stall in Pushkar, Rajasthan.
5. Morning scene from the Ganges River, Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh.
6. A Sikh couple in quiet reflection at the Golden Temple, Amritsar, Punjab.
7. A kite-collecting tree, Ahmedabad, Gujarat.
8. Prayag Ghat at dawn, where people come to wash. Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh.
9. An aerial view of Jodhpur, India's 'blue city'. Rajasthan.
10. Yaks on display - 100 rupees a ride. Manali, Himachal Pradesh.
11. The Taj Mahal, looking iridescent in the late-day gloom. Agra, Uttar Pradesh.
12. A camel-wallah tends to Charlie, my faithful steed. Jaisalmer, Rajasthan.
13. The Lake Palace, complete with silly hippie. Udaipur, Rajasthan.

My Fellow Traveler

Now I'm not the type of person who likes to be judgme... nope, sorry, I can't even say it with a straight face. Perhaps a different approach.

(Ahem) Now I don't think that judging people before we get to know them is the right thing to do, but sometimes we cannot help ourselves. We all have a tendency to formulate opinions about each other right off the bat, even though we're acutely aware that the relevance of such opinions is likely to lessen with the passage of time. Remember the guy you met at the bar who seemed like a nice person, but then gave you VD? Or that short, scrawny kid with the stutter who you thought was a total wuss, but then ended up dropping you with a roundhouse kick to the head when you tried to steal his milk money?

In a perfect world, first impressions would be ignored, and everyone would exercise patience when it came to drawing conclusions about new acquaintances. We'd all allow ample time when forging relationships, and no one would be castigated or celebrated without merit.

But the fact of the matter is that we rarely have enough time to understand someone before we are forced to make a decision about them. And this is especially true in the backpacking world. Take a hostel for example. Hostels are an arena for fast-forward friendships, where people from different backgrounds hang out with each other for one or two nights only before going their separate ways. In order to maximize enjoyment, each traveler must identify which other residents will be the most congenial with his or her personality, and mingle amongst them accordingly before the hourglass runs out. This is no easy task.

Fortunately, I have a system. I put people into categories. Each category is reasonably ambiguous, such that nationality, gender, level of education, travel experience and age are not factors in the equation. Basically, to fall into a particular category, you must only answer this one simple question: Why are you here?

Once I've put you in the category, I've determined whether or not I'll invest any time trying to be your buddy. In a category I like? Then let's be friends! In one I don't? I'll steer clear.

Here are a few categories of traveler that I tend to avoid:

THE SPICE GIRL
This little tart is easy to identify because her backpack contains at least eight pairs of shoes, six of which are high-heeled. Makeup is also an essential travel item, and chances are she'll have a selection of products to rival the Lancome counter at Macy's. The Spice Girl's travel itinerary is a predictable one: she only visits foreign countries that have beaches and dance clubs, because hers is a vapid existence where appearances are the most important consideration, and there's no better place to flaunt your stuff than on an island full of drunken revelers. She prides herself on how beautiful she is, and makes a point of strutting around the hostel in the shortest skirt possible, such that all the resident men can ogle her cute little toosh while she fusses with her eyelash curler. At the end of her trip (read: when all Daddy's money has been spent), she goes home and tells her parents about how amazing the temples in Thailand were, even though she never actually set foot in one.

THE CARD-CARRYING HIPPIE
Inasmuch as these annoying individuals wouldn't know a real job if it smacked them across the face, they have no money and are therefore only likely to be spotted in cheap countries such as India and Peru. Looking like a hippie is a simple procedure; simply steal a few dust rags from your mother's linen closet and sew them together to make a shirt, then select a pair of pants big enough to provide shelter for a family of fifteen. But to be a hippie is more – it's about the attitude, man. It's about being different, and, like, unique. Yep, thousands of you walking around with the same obnoxious hairstyle (and for the girls, that means on their legs), all of you different and unique. Gimme a break.

THE WALKING PETRI DISH
For this Man's Man, travel isn't about what countries you've visited, but what countries you've managed to get laid in. That's why he likes to travel to places where the local girls don't really care what you look like, providing that you're white and you have money. The Petri Dish is not a solo animal, but prefers to hunt in packs with friends from his male gymnastics team at home. That way, if he has difficulty finding a girl to contaminate with his body fluids on his own accord, he can leech one off his slightly better looking cohort. As a rule, he must give detailed accounts of all his sexual endeavours to anyone willing to listen, and any successful rounds of making rumpty have to be followed up with lots of high-fiving.

THE WHINY BOOKWORM
This guy or girl is a good-natured creature and the ideal hostel roommate. They are neat, quiet, unassuming, always sweet and never a nuisance. That is, until you make a noise after 10PM. Then it's “How dare you turn the light on in the middle of the night! Have you no respect for anyone else in this room? Just because you're staying up all night doesn't mean everyone else is!” Now I'm not saying that I tolerate disco dance parties in a hostel room at 5AM either, but the expectations of the Bookworm types are extreme. Apparently, they've not come to the hostel to socialize but instead to spend an evening reading Virginia Woolf novels and going to bed early, and they feel that everyone else should do the same. It's a hostel. It's noisy. Deal with it or go sleep in the library.

THE SOLDIER OF VIRTUE
This rather pious specimen has touched down in the country for one reason only: to save it. Starving people! Inadequate hygienic standards! Shortages of water and medicine! Won't somebody think of the children? How could the rest of you jerks come here and not care about this? Don't you want to make a difference? All I have to say to these people is 'shut it'. Yes, what you are doing here is probably worthy of a pat on the back. It's not every day that people from the first world care enough to fly across the planet to some backwater nation and dedicate themselves to improving the lives of the unfortunate souls who weren't lucky enough to be born in Canada or Norway. But that doesn't mean that they should feel obliged to come down on the rest of us with vicious attacks of righteousness. Just because I didn't come to Africa to poison people with Jesus talk and build a water pump doesn't mean I don't give a hoot about the Africans' plight.

THE ARROGANT GUY WHO JUDGES EVERYONE
There's nothing I hate more than the dude who thinks he knows a thing or two about the world, that's he's better than everyone else because of all his travel experience, and even has the nerve to write a blog expose slandering everyone else who isn't exactly like him and... uh, wait. Maybe I'd better move on to the types of travelers I do like.

THE NICE AMERICAN
God Bless America? Oh, I think He's got better things to do than that. Time and time again, Americans have tried to show us that a government administration headed by simians is a perfectly acceptable arrangement, and that a mandate for taking over the world in the name of democracy is in the best interest of everyone. Maybe that's why most of us like to paint Americans black. Fortunately, there are diamonds in the rough: intelligent, well-traveled, peace-loving Americans who seem to have figured out what a 'passport' is, and that with it you can go see the world for what it is: not America. So many times in my travels, I've met wonderful people from south of the 49th, and it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy knowing that there are actually individuals living in that country who don't have their heads completely jammed up their [edited for content]. God Bless YOU, friendly Americans! YOU represent hope for the whole world.

THE NUCLEAR FAMILY
I'm not talking about leptons and bosons here. I'm talking about parents who decide to take their children on vacations to countries that don't have Disneyworlds, Holiday Inns or Club Med. By allowing your child to witness one of the many diverse cultures that exist outside of their normal surroundings, you will instill in them a sense of adventure that will last a lifetime. Kids soak experiences up osmotically, sometimes subconsciously, so that even though they can't really appreciate everything about a foreign country at such a tender age, they'll still gain an appreciation for travel and, especially, tolerance. I have to hand it to parents who have the courage to take their brood of youngsters to places like Ecuador and Botswana, where all the usual sources of kiddy entertainment like Six Flags and the ball room at McDonalds are not available. It must be tough, but ultimately the children will be much richer for the experience – even if it takes years for them to realize it.

THE HOT SWEDISH CHICK
Well, duh.

THE SOLO FEMALE
Granted there are plenty of girls in this world who could kick my butt six ways from Sunday. However, in general, statistically, according to the numbers, however you want to put it, girls are put through the ringer far more than their male equivalents when traveling solo, being that they are regarded as easier targets for abuse. I've had my fair share of scary situations on the road, ones where I've been unsure of my personal safety, so I can only imagine that it would have been worse had I been a porcelain-skinned blond girl with pretty eyes. To be a girl and travel on your own in places like Africa, India and South America is commendable, and any girl brave enough to do it should be immensely proud of herself. I'm trying not to sound sexist – I obviously don't think that girls aren't able to do anything guys can – but at least, when I travel, I don't have to contend with thousands of slimy men who would stop at nothing to grab my rear.

Well, that's about it. Been fun writing this one. Now feel free to make comments saying that I'm a complete and utter meany. But don't forget: I'm just telling it as I see it. You want something less edgy? Go read Virginia Woolf.

Impossible Dreams of Uluwatu

As part of my retirement plan, I've been doing very little in the way of moving around. I'm a bit ashamed to admit this, but since arriving in Bali over three weeks ago I've not ventured farther than the local grocery store, which is no more than 2km from the front steps of my hotel room. Call me lazy if you must.
Not all has been lost, however, because I've made up for my lack of locomotion by spending an ample amount of time in the water. I can't say for certain, but I'd hazard it's even possible that I've swum a greater distance than I've walked, which is truly uncharacteristic of my explorative nature.

So finally, after 20+ days of roosting in the rather diminutive ecosystem I've carved out consisting of my room, the beach and a handful of nearby restaurants, I decided to take a road trip. Jackson, Sarah and I hired a cab for the day, strapped our surfboards to the roof and headed out, Southeast along the coast towards Bali's most famous and formidable ocean break: Uluwatu.
Once we were underway I immediately felt the thrill of doing something new and exciting. I felt as a dog must when he gets a rare car ride, and I had to fight a strong desire to stick my head out the window and let my tongue flap around in the slipstream. Bali is beautiful, so green that it must look like a giant teardrop-shaped emerald from above. It's a short hop skip and a jump from Kuta to Uluwatu but the roads are narrow and curvy and go through a smattering of tiny villages, where life is traditional and no one is trying to woo you with their enormous selection of fake-ass Billabong t-shirts.

A five minute descent down some steps takes you from the parking lot at Uluwatu to the cliffs overlooking the breaks below. We left our surfboards in the care of our cab driver, a precaution that would ensure we'd live to see another day. The reason for this is that ULUWATU IS INSANE. And to surf there, you'd have to be, too. The waves start at around 10ft high but can often surge to more than 20. The currents are violent and actually getting to the break requires a 20 minute paddle against the flow. And of course let's not forget the sea floor: it's shallow and littered with jagged rocks that wait with a geological patience to turn your spine into an accordion should you crash.
It should be apparent then that our decision to stay dry was a no-brainer. But I wasn't disappointed. For hours we sat in the relative safety of a viewing area, watching the prostars do their thing. It's quite a sensation to see someone paddle into a 13ft wave, catch it on the vertical (which on waves of that magnitude means a momentary freefall), turn on a dime, disappear behind a barrel and reappear 100m further on, then exit the wavecrest with a 360 degree spin courtesy of the air you get from a perfectly-timed dismount. It's beautiful. It got all emotional.

After an hour or so of this, we began to get antsy. We needed to catch a few of our own waves - ones that wouldn't leave us in the infirmary - so we hopped back in the cab and headed to another hotspot called Dreamland. Our timing wasn't good, though. In surfing you're always at the mercy of the tides, and there was no action whatsoever when we arrived. No apparent bother, because we saw a few heads in the water at another spot a mile down the beach, and paddled over to take a look.
Immediately I knew I was over my head. Literally, because the first thing I did was get introduced to the art of underwater gymnastics by a 9-footer that broke before I was able to dive under it. Then I spent the next hour falling off my board in what had become my most fruitless attempt at surfing since the first day I got on a board. Jackson fared better - he caught a couple of nice ones and rode them all the way to shore, though in one instance his board pearled (that's when the nose goes under the surface as you attempt to stand up, meaning you're toast) and he was deposited ass-first onto the rocks. Don't worry girls, he's still bootylicious. Either way, we were a tad out of our league in this spot - and it's hardly a surprise considering the name of the break: Impossibles.
One last try. We headed back to Dreamland, which by this point had picked up, and spent our last remaining microjoules of energy trying to catch just about anything. Not to be outdone by Jackson's respectable crash, I decided that my right arm had too much skin on it and took several layers of it off using the rocky sea floor as an abrasive. All this at 30km/hr. Exhausted, beat down, sunburned and choking on sea water, we emerged from the ocean, took a good deep breath, and agreed that it had been an excellent surf day. One for the history books. Satisfied, we headed back to Kuta, already looking forward to surfing on its gentle sandbars the following day.

That's all, but before I go, I'd like to make the following service announcement. Ladies! Listen up.

Now I know that many of you have expressed your extreme heartfelt disappointment that you've been unable to get any love from THIS GUY, but please, please do not despair, for though I may be a one-woman man I still can't help but want each and every one of you to be happy. And so in accordance with that, I recommend that you turn your lovely eyes to my cousin. Ladies, let me introduce you to Matt Hudson.
He's not tall, he certainly isn't dark, but (inasmuch as he's a dead ringer for me) he's devilishly handsome, not to mention chalk full of Winnipeggy goodness! Now I ain't sayin you a golddigger, but this boy is soon to be minted, courtesy of his fledgling career with top accounting firm Ernst & Young. He's calm, cool and collected, always respected, uninfected, fully inspected, fuel-injected and never, ever rejected! So don't be a skeptic. Give him a call, and all your dreams will come true. The number is 1-204-555-HUNK. He's a Hudson, ladies, so ye shall not regret it. (Must have full set of teeth to apply).

Thank you and
"Goodnight, sweet ladies
Ladies, goodnight.
It's time to say bye-bye. Bye-bye!" -Lou Reed

A Date with Mr. Lama

It's not so often you get to be right up close with one of the most famous people in the world.

My 'List of Famous People I've Interacted With So Far' is good supporting evidence of this fact:

1. Wayne Gretzky (at golf course in Edmonton)
2. Nelly Furtado (at Los Angeles International Airport)
3. Queen Elizabeth (at Glasgow Cathedral)

Pretty crappy list, eh? Well, the good news is that I recently was able to add another name to the illustrious roster. But before we talk about that, let's open our history books to the year 1959.

Tibet.
A landlocked country of dusty deserts and misty mountains where 633,000 people reside, nearly all of them Buddhist. For Tibetans, life is simple, bucolic, family-oriented and centered around a deeply ingrained collective sense of spirituality. Their leader, both politically and religiously, is a man chosen not by democracy but by prophecy, a man who is said to be the reflection of the Buddha himself in human form - a man we all know as the Dalai Lama.

At any given time, there is only one Dalai Lama, but the interesting fact is that according to Tibetans, he is the 'same guy' over and over. Each time one Dalai Lama passes on, Tibetan political leaders and their oracles undertake a massive nationwide search in order to find the child who has been chosen as his replacement - by reincarnation. The child must prove his worth by undergoing a series of tests, one of which is to correctly identify sacred objects owned by previous Dalai Lamas. Once the child is found, he is immediately spirited to Lhasa and trained to be the leader of Tibet. A man known as the Regent fills in the gap until the child is ready. It doesn't take long - by age 12, he's pretty much running the country.

The current Dalai Lama (born Tenzin Gyatso) is the 14th in his line. The chain remained unbroken so long as Tibet was a peaceful country, which it has been in accordance with Buddhist philosophy for quite some time. Unfortunately, in 1959, things changed.

Enter Mao Tse Tung. Mao was a bit of a prick, and felt that since Tibetans were a bunch of reactionary farmers, he had a right to move in and industrialize them. The Tibetans, unsurprisingly, weren't too keen on having their religion abolished and their lives managed by people in Peking, and so they staged massive protests. Mao played ball for a little while and attempted to make the Tibetans' transition into China a peaceful one, but soon he got fed up with the level of dissent in the ranks of his new subjects, and decided to release the hounds. Troops and tanks entered Tibet and began to lay waste to sacred monasteries, murder monks and jail anyone thought to oppose the new regime. The Dalai Lama, who was only fifteen at the time but had already ruled Tibet for several years, was powerless to do anything. Tibet had no army and no way to fight back. And so, at the bequest of his political advisers, the Dalai Lama eventually fled his palace in Lhasa under cover of night, and marched himself into exile in neighbouring India.

Enough of the past. I sometimes wonder if you guys don't get annoyed with my frequent historical annotations. The point is that it's now 49 years later, and the Dalai Lama is still in India, living in the remote Himalayan outpost of McLeod Ganj. China has changed hands a few times, but the Dalai Lama has never returned to his beloved Tibet, which is now an occupied territory. Fortunately, the man has never abated in his quest to raise awareness worldwide for the atrocities committed by the Chinese, nor has he ever doubted the fact that someday he would return to his palace in Lhasa and be with his people.

For now, he lives in a temple, perched on the side of a slope in the snowy mountains, where he runs his operation remotely. McLeod Ganj has become a strange place in his presence, one half filled with monks and the other half with curious tourists. It's a bit of a singular experience to walk around a town and have monks everywhere you look, be it sitting next to you in an internet cafe, shouting into a cell phone on the streets, or getting their heads shaved in a barber shop. One monk came by our hotel every night, lit a fire in the courtyard, and proceeded to dry his white underwear over the flames. There are even quite a few Caucasian monks.

Seeing the Dalai Lama is usually a tall order. He is an extremely busy man and travels widely, so to just show up in McLeod Ganj and have him there is a low-probability occurrence. Much lower when you show up just in time to hear him talk at the palace, which he does 9 days out of each year. During this time, people come from all over the world to hear the man read from his texts, so that the palace is full to the gills with both monks and tourists alike.

To get in, Dominic and I staked out the temple for a few days, until one morning we finally were granted an audience. We sat down on a cold, hard concrete floor, and along with hundreds of other pilgrims (and a lot of dredlocked poseurs who think sitting cross-legged, saying OM and not showering is cool), we waited. Soon, people began to stir, and sure enough the gates opened a moment later and in he strolled.

He was not what I expected. I'd imagined a stoic, serious man, seeing as he's supposed to be the Buddha and all, but in fact he was quite jovial. He wore traditional orange robes, big round glasses and had an enormous grin on his face. Everyone bowed in reverence, and through his compassionate smile I could see that he didn't really think all the pretense was necessary... it was as if he was saying "Ok, let's dispense with the formalities. I am just a man."

The teaching lasted three hours. It was done in Tibetan, but foreigners could listen to the English interpretation in real-time on an FM radio. I zoned out for most of the duration, inasmuch as my ass was asleep and I had no idea what he was talking about. There was a lot of mention of an elephant and some trees and babbling brooks and snowy peaks and monkeys and quiet pontification, but it was all too complicated. Who cares. I quickly dispensed with the earpiece and just watched the man as he sat on his throne, calmly turning the pages of his giant book, and preaching to people about how they can attain inner harmony.

I'm not a spiritual person by any means. You all already know that. Still, this is a man who has gone through a half-century long personal struggle, a man whom the whole world should be rallying behind, and I felt honoured to be in his presence.

Mao Tse Tung was an anus.

Borderline Lunacy

India and Pakistan.

Nuclear neighbours? Yes.
Cricketing collosi? Uh huh.
God-fearing governments? Pretty much.
Political powerhouses? You betcha.

Friends?
Not on your life.

They may be adjacent nations who share a great deal in common, but one thing that India and Pakistan certainly do not share is a mutual love and respect for one another. Nor has it ever been that way; right back to the summer of 1947, when the two English protectorates gained their independence - Pakistan first, then India 24 hours later - tensions have been running a little high.

Not that England helped get things off to a good start. The wizened bureaucrats back in London tried their damnedest to draw the new frontier between the two countries in such a way that all the Muslims would end up on the West side (Pakistan) and all the Hindus and Sikhs on the East (India), but this wasn't quite as easy as anticipated. Many people suddenly found themselves on the wrong side of the border the day the flags of independence were raised. Living in hostile territory, surrounded by enemies and unprotected by a new government that didn't care about them, they were forced to flee across the newly-drawn lines.
And so began a massive exodus in both directions. Muslims left their villages in the Indian Punjab and boarded trains leading West towards Lahore. Non-Muslims in Pakistan, meanwhile, jumped on truck convoys going in the opposite direction. It all started off peacefully, and cooler heads should have prevailed, but things soon took a nasty turn. Consumed with spiritual fire and riding on the crest of a wave of newfound power, the Indian Sikhs began stopping the Westbound trains and murdering any Muslims aboard. Muslims, who've never met a jihad they didn't like, retaliated with equal fervour, slaughtering any infidels they caught on the Pakistani side. It was an extremely bloody conflict that caused much of the resentment that continues to be harboured today, and has since precipitated other battles in the interim.
The situation has eased in the little in the last few years, but pride runs deep and the two countries do little more than tolerate each other now. Disputes over Kashmir boil over once in a while, diplomatic relations are shaky at best, and the border - which stretches over 1000km - can only be breached at one place: Attari, on the main road linking Lahore and the Indian city of Amritsar.

Now one could imagine that given the animosity the Indians and Pakistanis share for one another, the border at Attari would be a scary place. Guard towers full of Kalashnikov-toting sentries. Tanks patrolling each side of the fence like junkyard dogs. Signs posted everywhere, warning of landmines and exploded ordinance.
Ironically, it's not like that at all. In fact, what you'll see there isn't forbidding in the least. There's a double-doored gate, one door bearing the logo of the crescent moon and the other a silk wheel. There's a taxi rank on either side, where taxi-wallahs wait in the shade of trees to offer transport to new arrivals. And finally, there's a massive grandstand. Not a cricketing one, mind you, but one that gets stuffed by Indians, Pakistanis and foreigners alike, who congregate every day at 5pm to watch one of the most civilized - and loony tunes - border closing ceremonies on Earth.

This is one of those spectacles that must be seen to be truly appreciated. It's also a testament to the good nature of people, and how a sense of humour can easily bridge the gap created by a 60-year-old political rift. 'Fans' start arriving at 4pm and begin to fill the grandstand. No one is permitted to cross the border, and so each grandstand is filled only with its own respective nationals. The exception is the Indian side, which gets the added luxury of foreign tourists. Vacationing in Pakistan is a dicey prospect at present, and so the scales get tipped in favour of India when it comes to fan base. Hopefully, when Pakistan ends its own internal struggles and begins issuing tourist visas again, you'll be able to find white faces in the sea of brown, bearded ones that currently occupy all the seats on the West side of the border.

For the first hour, the gates remain open (though heavily guarded) and a massive party ensues on either side. Music blares, people chant patriotic slogans and everyone runs amok. The Indian side becomes a dance party, whereby big, burly Sikhs in turbans and their sari-clad wives throw their hands up in the air, and wave them like they just don't care. No one dances on the Pakistani side, though the crowd gets riled up in their seats by a throng of flag-waving mascots in green capes that are adorned with the crescent moon insignia.
Around 5, everyone takes to their seats and the actual ceremony starts. A sextet of soldiers appears on either side. These guys are the elite - the pride of both armies, selected for their height, their fitness, their dashing good looks and their high-quality mustaches. They are cheered like rock stars.
The soldiers form a line 50m on either side of the gate, and take turns strutting towards the border - legs kicking higher than their heads a la John Cleese - in the face of a soldier mimicking the same movement on the other side. When each pair reaches the gate, they stop dead and give each other the steeliest glare imaginable (and if you've ever had an Indian or Pakistani stare at you, you know how well they do that). Once all the soldiers are stationed at the border, a group-staring session ensues and the crowds go wild.
Next, the flags of the two nations are lowered in unison. This is where I really started to laugh. Each flag bearer attempts to lower his flag slower than the other guy, so that for a just a moment his flag is higher. The Indian crowd jeered in protest evertime the Pakistani flag appeared to be a shred of a millimeter higher. The process took a good 10 minutes.
Finally, the gates are closed and the ceremony ends. The stands clear out, everybody goes home and the border remains shut until 8am the following day, at which point cars and commercial traffic will once again be allowed through.

Seeing this ceremony was a true highlight. The dancing, cheering and ridiculous marches of the soldiers were side-splittingly funny. It's a good thing - laughter - to have on the frontier between two nations that haven't shared a good joke for a really, really long time.