Drifting down the Ayung river

Image courtesy : Brian J. McMorrow

What do you do when you have had one of the most serene and scenic experiences of your life but come home without a photo or video to show for it? You must be wondering how is that even possible given that we live in an age we are almost umbilical-ly connected to our phones which comes loaded with not just cameras but photo filters and photo enhancers to capture every passing movement and moment of our lives. To be honest, the first few minutes of the trip passed in nothing but irritation at the fact that I'm having this great experience and yet am unable to record it for posterity. It took me a few minutes to realise that half of my life was passed blissfully without having taken every wayward flower and road. And yet those memories have not tarnished much thanks to my faithful dairy. And so I settled down to enjoying the moment and commit all the lovely details to memory for another day and another page ( or post as might be the case here ).

Jackets on, game on! :P

We set out in the morning with idea that we'll be rafting down Telega Waja in Bali which is 3-4 grade of rafting rapids classes of white water river.  But to our dismay we found that it was least 2-3 hours away from our hotel without including possible traffic and we already had plans for later. So we decided to head towards the Ayung river which was just half an hour or so from our hotel. In the resulting rescheduling and corresponding confusion, we lost a hour or more. But finally we found ourselves near the inflatable boats in life jackets along with a Japanese family complete with grandparents and a pair of 6 year old sisters in matching pink frilly swim suits. I guess that should have warned me about the excitement levels to be expected from this "rafting" expedition. But I was too excited to really connect the dots at that moment.

Trekked through some really pretty
paddy fields to reach the river

I think it was only when we had to settle ourselves into our respective rafts I wondered how the kids and the grandparents would be able to manage while hoping they would not be in our raft. But then again they blithely trekked the 3 odd kilometers down the rather steep and slippery hill side to where the rafts were ( to my jealousy.. I wondered if I would be able to do the same at 60! ). Each boat gets one experienced handler who told us the basic commands as to when to paddle and when to hold on etc. We also deposited our cameras and phones into his water proof bag with the promise that he'll give it back when we stop for taking pictures. Seemed reasonable enough.

And we were off. There was a couple of jumps at the beginning, just enough to get your adrenaline started in anticipation. But the jumps were the exception rather than the norm and quite misleading about how the rest of the trip is to go. I guess maybe, sometimes, it's the unpredictable and unexpected part of an experience which can make it so memorable. Of course initially, like I already mentioned, I was fretting over all the things I felt were going wrong - the lack of exciting jumps, the lack of camera to capture, the lack of.. I don't know, something more than what I paid for.

I'm not sure when the realization hit me, that I'm missing out. But I think it might have something to do with the moment I looked up. The river is at the bottom of a gorge walled in thick with trees that's at least 30 meters high, reminiscent of amazonian rivers you read about in books. So you look up and see a narrow strip of the blue blue sky with tall green banks. Like you are floating away in a river of sky. Once you slow yourself to the pace of the river it's so blissful that you almost wonder why you wanted to jump around rapids. Almost.

You look up and if the rest of the group is quiet, it's just you floating away to a time far away, to a place long ago. Maybe you are Huckleberry Finn drifting down the Mississippi. Or maybe you are Holly crossing the moon river. Or maybe you are nothing more than the graceful slow swoop of the leaf tumbling down from high. You can get lost within yourself in so many ways.

Image courtesy : sierrastevensmcgeever

And then you hear a sharp command from your handler to paddle this way or that and you come back to earth. There you sit back to observe the immediate and to your surprise it's equally delightful. At unexpected turns, you see rock faces with intricate carved reliefs in the typical Balinese style showing scenes from the Mahabharata, half green and half gray showing the play of the water line. There dint seem to be a rhyme or reason as to when these carvings appear. You pass by large rocks which look a perfect canvas yet they remain as boulders and then under some leafy foliage, half hidden under water you'll see fantastical beasts cavorting with the great heroes.We asked our guide to stop for the pictures but he insisted the water is too deep ( which can't be true as there were people stopping and taking pics ) or that the stop is coming right ahead where we can take pics.

While your sense of time slows down ( you feel like you are suspended in forever), your senses sharpen. There is an intense beauty to every detail. Maybe because after a long time you are paying your full attention without multitasking. And oh so many details. Ropy vines, some rough and bark like and some satin smooth. Some straight and long and some, looping over to build bridges over the rivers. Ferns which fan over a meter wide. The way noon sun scatters white over the tallest tree tops and grades to a deep green by the water. The unexpectedly iridescent flash of color which resolves itself into a purple dragonfly.

Image courtesy : lookinforjonny.com

And the impromptu waterfalls made of the water drained from the paddy fields hidden from sight. And no kingfisher has looked so blue; or so large. We were waiting at a bend for the other group to catch up and we see this brilliantly blue kingfisher perched right above us. Unfortunately our cries of excitement annoyed the bird who was looking out for his next meal and decided to go to a less noisier part of the river. Again my fingers were itching for the camera as you never know when again you'll find yourself at a hand's length from a creature as colorful as this! Some habits die hard.

Things were not always quiet and serene. One, there were the other rafting boats from other operators. And then there was the other boat with the rest of the Jap family. I don't know who started it, but every time the other boat came within splashing distance, someone would try to drench the others which would soon have everyone splashing and squealing when the cold water runs down your back. And it was not restricted to just the other boat. Any mischievous minded rafter, whether he (or she ) knew us or not, would start the splashing when least expected. And then there was our own impish guide. Occasionally when all of us are day dreaming away, he would turn the boat to purposefully knock it against a rock knocking people off their seats. Which means that one minute I'm contemplating the silhouette of the leaves against the oh-so-blue sky and next minute I'm seeing my feet silhouetted against the same blue sky.

We did stop half way though our trip but it was merely a tiny patch of sand with a makeshift shop for soft drinks and coconut water and no where as scenic as the rest of the places where we had asked him to stop. It was clear that the guides from different operators have marked out different parts of the river for the stops and the more expensive ones got to pick first. Oh well.

Looks so exciting, right? ;)

After the stop is when we start to see signs of civilization, mainly isolated and expensive resorts and restaurants which over look the river. Thankfully all very tastefully done and so doesn't really disrupt the natural beauty of the place. Instinctively we realise that the trip is almost at the end, especially when our guide tells us to be ready for the photo. Photo?? Huh? Right before the end, there is a jump which is shallow enough to be safe but with enough foam and froth to make it look exciting. There you'll find the photographer strategically positioned to take a picture of the group as they pass by. Obviously at the sight of the camera the whole group galvanized into ready smiles, victory signs and raised paddles looking fully like intrepid conquers of the wild river (LOL! Amazing how much a camera can change people's reactions! )

Soon after we are hauled off the boat and we trek back up the hill, already reality crowding in with the hot sun and sweaty weather leaving nothing but memories of the surreal ride down the Ayung river.

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If you liked this, may be you'll also enjoy some of my other travel writings, like this and this!

Take care,
Phil (and his muse!)

Blog fright!

Oh wait.. too late!

I have blog fright. It's not a blogger's block. Quite the opposite of it. There are words running amok, sentences screaming bloody murder for being cooped up inside, virtually under house arrest in my head. And yet, I'm scared to let them out on to the clean white slate of the compose sheet. Why? About the same reason most people are more scared of public speaking than death: the irrational and completely unproportional fear of potential self humiliation and embarrassment. Well, least that's the reason for stage fright. Blog fright also stems from an irrational and completely unproportional but slightly different fear. While I'm pretty certain that I'm not the only one afflicted I don't know if it's as common as stage fright. Either ways this post is both to get over it as well know for sure that I might not be the only dysfunctional blogger( in this particular aspect.. Of course I'm not the only one) in cyberspace.

Yep, looks like a blog I know

Keeping a blog, it's a bit like keeping a gold fish for a pet- relatively low maintenance but you still need to feed it regularly and occasionally it's also healthy to change the water. Most blog die because people don't have enough time/creativity to dedicate to keeping one alive. Or least that's what's tooted around and the statistic does hold true for a good number of deaths. But I don't buy that can be the only reason. Some deaths can be blamed on blog fright as well- the fear of being known.

It's ironic that the very reason you started the blog might be the end of it. True, there are some private blogs whose notes and thoughts accessible to none but the creator. It might be possible you created it for convenience's sake compared to lugging around a diary and a pen. And yes to a million other reasons why you din't create one in the secret hope of anyone who's ever penned anything- that posterity might prove you right if not now and you are/were brilliant. That the world will shuffle through your mundane dreams and hopes and hit pay dirts of wisdom. Well, it worked out rather well for Anne Frank so why not for you, right?  

Whether you admit it or not, you write for the sole reason to give and communicate some permanence to your thoughts. The need to imprint ourselves on others,something more than our share of genes, is hardwired into us. Else, whisper it to the wind. Why else do you stain the pristine white with scratches of black (ink)?! But the permanence has meaning only if they are alive and for words to live they need to be read and shared. 

Though in all fairness, whatever secret megalomania we may harbour deep within ourselves, in reality we bloggers are humbled the moment we start because we realise when we finally write it down it is quite mundane and are quite overwhelmingly grateful when someone likes a post. 

Anyways, where were we? Oh yeah, the need for some permanence though writing. So we write to reach out and pass on bit of ourselves. And a couple of people ( mostly friends and family) read it, comment on it... some even like what you wrote. We get our kick and feel quite validated. It's all hunky dory so far. Then all of a sudden some of us get blog fright. Let me see if I can break it down to what it is.

Those dark stains we leave of ourselves.

The problem starts when we want to write something more personal and intimate. Not because the content or what we want to say is something controversial or anything, It's just something we have never told anyone because we thought it was too trivial or too random and occasionally more happy/dark/philosophical than some people expect out of you.  We hold back because suddenly we are wondering what will all those people think. Actually, no. It's not that we are bothered by what people will think as much as what people will know. Not because people will misunderstand, but precisely because it'll help people understand. 

Most people are scared of being misunderstood but this special breed of sane looking people are even more terrified of being understood. It usually afflicts those of us who are more closed in the real world but tends to be more forthcoming while writing. This usually happens because when we are communicating to the clean white sheet,  we have the perfectly non-committal and perfectly non-judgmental ear to our wisdom/follies. Wish people, even the ones who love and cherish us, could be so non-judgmental.

I know.. So emo kid! :-P

Keeping aside my wish for an unblemished humanity, the unflinching honesty with which we write doesn't always make for happy writing and sometimes, for an unhappy reading. What do you do in these situations? This is usually the start for blog fright. The more practical lot will choose to edit it and draw up the post with the acceptable lines of ourselves and spend the rest of the time rationalizing the lack of honesty as perhaps poetic license(?). The more unreasonable lot will be torn between facing the consequences of honesty ( and the corresponding acceptance or un-acceptance) and letting the post dwell in that dusty place called 'Drafts' rather than be faced with the terrifying possibility of being understood. 

I guess the main fear of being understood is perhaps we fear being predictable. If all our motivations are understood then what mystery will be left? Or maybe because we are not sure where the line is between the mundane and the monstrous. And finding out where we lie, on which side of the line, is something we really don't want to know because both are equally chilling. What ever your subconscious reason is, once these thoughts creep in, it seems almost impossible to click that 'Publish' button. That's when you realise you have fully manifested a case of 'Blog fright'! And there seems no cure in sight either.

SIGH!
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'After Earth' quote.

I wrote this sometime in the space between last year when I was in the middle of  blog fright. Like most  irrational fears it can be vanquished if faced, or well, as in this case written about. I wish I had written it to completion because looking back, it all seems so funny! And hopefully it helps some other frightened blogger to realise that s/he is not alone! And hopefully this is the last time I get a bout of the fright!

Take care,
Phil and his muse! :)

Book review: The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

I found my way to the book thief purely by chance. Well if I'm being perfectly honest it's actually due to a faulty memory. I was browsing for some light reading preferably something on the lines of fantasy. I did my share of Terry Pratchett and Gaiman and was looking for a change of flavor. Racking my brain for a name I have not yet tried, the book thief fell out. Its only after I started did I realise that I was looking for 'The thief lord'. 

And its a mistake I'm rather grateful for. Had I actually remembered the Funke series correctly who knows how long it would have taken me to find my way to the book thief.

And being completely unprepared, the book managed to take away even more of my breathe than if I chose it knowingly. On so many levels. Just thinking back on the book makes my heart ache again. And after I finished the book I could not bring my self to believe this is a work of fiction. Though set in the dreary and grey background of the 2nd world war, the characters shine through with the kind of light that is reminiscent of Anne Frank; imperfect yet captivating to say the least.

Because there are so many aspects to explore the book from, I don't know where to start. To start with, the book felt intensely personal. Maybe because it mixed children and books and quiet rebels, my favorite kind of mix in a novel ( of course it comes as no surprise that my favorite book should be 'To kill the mockingbird', with roughly the same mix). But honestly, it transcended for me the space of a book telling an extraordinary tale and rather felt more like I was reading like a lost diary of mine, of life I had perhaps lost. That is not to imply that I write half as wonderfully as Mr. Zusak but that I could identify with the emotions like it was my own. This even when you know the narrator is Death himself. 

For such a morbid sounding narrator the book is full of color and light. How easily we paint death with shades of black. Maybe because the finality of death seems so harsh and unyielding to us, the living. Like a rock. So we imagine Death to have the same unyielding, hard character. But this book reminds us how we can be so wrong. That death can be tender, comforting and beautiful. And that Death can be understanding. I love the way Zusak gently guides us to different perspectives which breaks away from the hard and unconscious  prejudices we have formed. 

Its one of the hardest things to write from a child's point of view because they can be such contractions. At once unconditional and unforgiving in love. And for all their innocence and nativity they can be intuitive in a way no adult can be. They are fierce in their wants and yet pliable their demands. And we always tend to believe children to be so easily swayed by adult idiosyncrasies, that they grow up pumped up with ideas of their environs, like rudderless boats in a swift stream, helpless about the direction of their lives. Markus Zusak politely and firmly points us our follies by creating characters which sparkle with all that is human like Liesel and Rudy in an atmosphere which was tense with inexplicable hate, a demonstration of considerable skill since he also keeps them true with the kind of pettiness and pride only children can have. 

And the magic of a book. Of it's ability to warp or transform if you only let it. Of all the aspects of the story that is told, it's that unabashed and wild love of books which spoke to me. Every time Liesel stole a book from the mayor's wife, taking one at a time, I was, weirdly enough, proud of her. 

I was lucky enough to have been born into a household with loads of books and of love of reading. If I have to choose to reduce myself to one word, the word I would pick would be 'reader'. And maybe this is why I feel like this could have been a lost life of mine. Like Liesel, with life and odds disproportionately in favor of not reading anything leave alone anything worthwhile, I might have still found a way to books simply because it's encoded in my DNA. Or so I like to believe. Who is say who and how I would have turned out to be without books in my life. 

Every time I speak of Liesel I realise I end up talking more of myself than of her. But that is how the experience of reading her was. Usually when writing a review I try to separate the emotional experience of reading the book and try being more objective( I don't believe anyone can truly divorce the two). But this time I don't want to because it is a rare and wonderful experience to be immersed so completely within the character and the story. I don't even want to try to dilute it by looking at it rationally least I lose the feeling. 

And I'm also well aware that this feeling might be skewing this review by speaking only of Liesel and having thus far made no mention of Hans and Rosa Hubermann and of Max.

 As much as I love Liesel, she's not by far the favorite character in the book. The whole book lights up because of all the delicately etched characters. When we realise how stubborn the gentle Hans is (FYI, he's my favorite, the unsung hero ) and how soft the iron fisted Rosa is. And I can't start on Rudy without tearing up. Hell, Death himself gets all cut up about this specimen of boyhood so you can hardly blame me.

If you ask me, this whole book is a testimony to humanity. Both the best and worst of it. The dark history is the large background against which Zusak's people shine. That within grime and grit, it is still possible to love and find beauty. So do yourself a favor and pick up the book. You won't regret it! :)

Some shoes pinch too much to even try!

I came across a very interesting story the other day, one where the editor of Grantland apologises for running this. So I read the article in order to have a context for the apology. After I finished the article (and before I finished the apology) I must confess I was rather clueless about why an apology was issued. It seemed to me a rather interesting article uncovering the hoax and the personality behind the particular golfing equipment. True, I did think it was a wee bit tasteless of them for sharing that Essay had died but that’s about all that really stood out to me. It did not seem like a journalist hounding her to death. Nor does it come across as sensational-isation of the issue. In fact I thought it was almost sympathetic towards the woman who had built the hoax.

Then I read the apology. And as it laid out plainly the mistakes which the magazine (and I) had made, I must say I was racked with guilt. I had always seen myself as someone was more than just sympathetic to the LGBT cause. That I was someone who was sensitive to the discrimination. I thought I could imagine what it is like to a part of the repressed minority, extrapolating what I know as being part of the repressed majority (a.k.a women). Extrapolating the fear and loneliness that seem to be part of even the most extroverted gay person I know. Yet the fact remains that I was instead part of the unknowingly callous when it came to Essay. It was not that I was ignorant which surprised me. It was the sheer scale of it. 

And it’s not just me. I’m sure more than half of the readers who see themselves as liberal minded would have missed the implications. The people at Grantland certainly did. And I could understand why they did. The revelation of her transgender nature was not as much an emotional one, as much as another fact disproved. It would have not mattered to them had they discovered that Essay was a gay man or whether she was in fact Chinese. Because in logical brains, these are merely facts to store about a person, along with hair and height, not an emotional discovery. Which unfortunately is not the case. 

And how did I miss that? Given I know how zealously my few gay friends guard their secret and how carefully they decide with whom they will share it. The months of torturous preparation they do in order to withstand the possible rejection when they finally share. And how equally careful I am with their secret. Though I might not always agree with them on whom it should be kept the secret, I respect that the decision is theirs and theirs alone to make, who they want to share that with.

And the evidence of her reluctance to share was there all over the article. Yet it escaped me. Though a fraud she might have been, she was after all a human. And this basic respect of her privacy should have been respected.

That’s when you see the problem with ‘Live and let live’ policy. Because it breeds a certain type of insensitivity when you take for granted that everyone feels the way you do regarding the matter; a certain type of false security that everyone will react the way you do to the same; and the most dangerous of all, a peculiar strain of ignorance which is all the more difficult to detect because it breeds under the guise of liberal-ness. 

The solution? The one I have could possibly be about as effective as the cures for common cold but I willingly admit it. The lesson for me, as a reader, from all of this was this: While you may empathise, don’t assume you know what it is like to be in those shoes. I’ll be hard pressed to remember this time and time again. But that’s about all I can do to correct my insensitivity towards Essay. 

RIP Dr.V!

Another year already?!

I cant believe the last time I wrote here was almost a year ago. Not because I dint have ideas or thing to write about. Technology, for better or worse, gave me more mediums to express. Shorter, easier mediums. And I took the bait. But I did miss the deep retrospection that comes with writing a longer piece. Writing for me was always about unlocking doors within myself. Even if I'm talking about toilets, it made me delve a little more in a moment I had dismissed in the bustle of life to glean another insight. No, this post is not on the insights I glean on the toilet (though trust me, they are quite interesting too!).

This is on the incredible journey that has been 2013. And my hopes for 2014.

Mumbai and it's hidden corners:
 http://bit.ly/1a0nMlG

2013.. what a bag of the 'good, bad and ugly'. A year of living in a new city. One that makes me squeal in delight just when I'm fed up with it's cramped spaces and crowded places and ready to go back home. A year of missing friends and family and realising how genuinely blessed I had been all this while to have such mad yet beautiful people in my life. A year of adding more people to the family and it's been all the more merrier coz of it.

A year of working in an office.. something I had been dreading.. and enjoying it like crazy. Crazy, talented people who makes coming to office easier and fun are not always a given and I've been incredibly lucky.

And a fantabulous wedding. After all the crazy things that was stressing everyone out (we still have not concluded the blue vs red argument :-P ), I did not expect to enjoy it so much. It was not without it's controversies I guess.. just the way I like it ;) All in all, I'm happy to spout the cliche and mean it - It was the happiest day of my life!
And a South Africa trip which has set the bar so high I'm afraid to go on another trip for the fear of being disappointed. People and places so beautiful that it truly pales everything you have seen in magazines and other photo-shopped articles.

The street play team!

And there were smaller moments which brought in a sense of pride and the realisation that an act no matter how small if bright is enough to light up some purpose into your life. That way I'm thankful to Alex for taking the initiative, and to Akanksha for letting us be a part of Come Alive 2013. It was a 15 min impromptu street play with strangers yet it remains as one of the highlights of the year for me. Something I have to keep reminding myself, " An act no matter how small..."

Thankfully, my personal life has been mostly good and wee bit of the bad (Mostly self made drama, but hey, a girl's gotta have a little drama!). But it has been a truly ugly year to be an Indian. People and events which have shaken up the very psyche of the nation. And I like to think (or rather hope) a twinge of our conscience as well. I'm just really scared that with the new year we'll forget everything 2013 was and repeat ourselves. Honestly, I don't want any more candle lit marches. The year past is worth examining for the fact that things went so grotesquely wrong and we should all look into ourselves for setting it right. It's not easy. Nothing worth having ever is.

And though it pained me and I wanted to write, I never did. Because I thought, "It'll be yet another blog, read and forgotten". It all seemed so purposeless, harnessing all that anger and helplessness on to paper. Then I read this quote by Anne Lamott and it made sense.

Image courtesy: Artemis Wilde Illustration

It truly did. I dont have to change the world; I can just help in the tiniest way possible to feel not alone. It gave me a reason to get back to the blank page, to dirty the pristine white with the black ink of my thoughts. Anyways, why am I tell you this? Well, that's just my way of warning you that you could be subjected to a lot more of this blog business this year from my side.

Anyways,I don't believe in new year resolutions. But there seems to be a lot of positive energy around in the world right now (all that hope still bright I guess) and seems like a good idea to harness that. So here's wishing all of you a passionate and meaningful year ahead. Here's to new experiences, good bad and ugly, and growing from them! And making a change, no matter how small and seemingly invisible. Cheers all!

Love,

Me and my muse!