Season's Greetings

Gogi

Guys at the Boxzentrum are intriguing. They all come from walks of life I have not even been in vicinity of, so far removed from my reality. They're tough street kids, many are from Serbia, Bosnia, or Albania and their life stories sound like jaw-dropping fairy tales to my pampered, spoiled, over-educated self.

Goran is one of the advanced boxers. When we, beginners, jump back and forth like a sack of potatoes spilt on a staircase, throwing imaginary punches in every which direction but straight, he's up in the ring, sparing with another meister, both glistening with sweat, barking out jugular groans. Or he's punching the daylights out of a heavy bag for what seems like hours. His is the first life story that I want to jot down.

Goran is always serious. Workout is his mass, he trains religiously twice a day except for Sunday. He's always either in the ring or around the bags, that's why I haven't really registered him before today. After the workout today he was hanging at the bar and got me and Magda a drink. Everybody calls him Gogi.

Gogi comes from Serbia. I don't know whether he was there during the war or not, I need to ask him that. His father was a boxer, a European pro champion, as was his grandfather. Gogi has pictures of himself being three years old, punching mittens his dad held up for him. He trained until he was ten. But he was no good for boxing. He was a crybaby, breaking into tears for every hurtful punch or when success was not anywhere in sight. He stopped after that, getting himself into the troubled waters of teenage life. Gogi was on the streets, doing what the tough street kids do on the streets (don't ask me, I wouldn't know). He became a bouncer at a night club, and got mixed into a fight. He knocked a guy out. He knocked him out cold. Gogi got half a year of jail time for that.

Prison was a turnaround point for Gogi. He thought a lot about his father, and about God, with both of whom he parted years ago. He spent hours shadowboxing to keep his body and mind in tune. Shortly before he was released, he made a promise to God. If he can become good in boxing, if he can become the European Champion in professional boxing like his father one day, he will in devote all the rest of his life to helping kids like himself. He will coach young boxers and reach out to street kids and do anything in his power to help out. Gogi has not steered away from this path once.

Goran came back to boxing in 2000. He threw all his time, will, and heart into the sport. His dream is getting more and more palpable, it's looming right above him, just one or two reaches and he's there. Gogi made it through the amateur matches and became the amateur welterweight European Champion in 2004. He started hi pro boxing career this year. He's made it victoriously through six matches already. He has to win the next four as well, otherwise he won't get ranked for the European pro championship. That is not in the plan. There's no alternative scenario, musn't think about that. Next match is in two weeks, another one in January. I sure hope I can report that he won.

Gogi will box for another six years. Not more. He showed me his hands, scarred all over. He cannot straighten his fingers anymore, tendons in his fingers shrunk. There is a barrier up to which you can push yourself. Once you cross it, you'll become a useless wreck. He'll be thirty two in six years. By then he hopes to be rich and get behind the scenes of boxing. If you use your brain, boxing can be a profitable business. But he also wants to be a role model, work with troubled kids.

Gogi sure keeps an eye out for the newcomers at the club. There were two rowdy boys that joined some time ago. Both were orphaned, wreaking havoc on the streets. Johann had to eventually kick them out, as things kept being broken or disappearing. Gogi's mouth-guard went missing once. Sure enough it was found in one of the orphans' pocket. Kid wanted to hang onto something that belonged to Gogi, the champion. Gogi is the God to these two. They come to every single match, no matter how far it is even though they're not training in the club anymore. They do whatever Gogi tells them to do. He will surely be able to do a whole lotta good with his charisma and following. But until then, keep your fingers crossed on November 26. Gogi needs to win. He needs to keep saving himself. The two kids need him to win. They need it to start saving themselves. I'm not religious, but if some of you go to church, can you please tell the Man upstairs next time you're in to keep an eye out for this one? It is really important. Thanks.

Sweat covered walls

It isn't easy to take pictures in the Boxzentrum. Air is moist with sweat (and, like I said, also with testosterone). Camera lens fogs up quickly. Magda and I contribute our part. Johann ruins our bodies and minds in training. I guess he confuses us on purpose. It's a sign of progress. All those technical steps we learned seem useless when he throws new combinations at us and makes us shadow box and spar. He puts us through the usual sets of torture - running in place and punching air as fast as possible - minute on, few seconds break, another minute. Rope jumping, launches, I don't even wince anymore. Except that my legs feel as if they were broken after the training, and even walking is an excruciating pain.
Kostas once explained to me that such pain (and the cramps can last for days) is a good thing. It's a sign of growing muscles. Oxygen doesn't get in as much as it did before the muscles swell and so it hurts. That's also progress.





















After the torture that we pay for, we work out on the machines and stretch. The boyz in the club are now accepting us. Except for My Boyfriend, who still attempts to flirt shamelessly and desperately with Magda, they treat us on par. We sit behind the bar and chat. Some of the older guys - Number 18, God, and few others, are not here today. But Master and Donnie Darko are. It's nice to see them tending to the younger boys, teaching them how to work the heavy bag and coaching them on the machines. The Good Boy, who cannot be more than 12 or 13, got a new earring in his left ear. He gets teased mercilessly for it. I showed him how to doublejump rope the other day - swinging the rope twice in the air during one jump. We're now buddies. He's very eager and will surely become a killer one day. Master sits with us at the bar, where Klaudia puts stickers on some energy drink that comes in unlabeled cans. Suspicious looking, but they probably make a buck or two on the side this way, selling the drinks at the club and at boxing matches. We talk to Klaudia about her career.

Klaudia met Johann sometime in 1980s, it must have been. She was a girl in her twenties and she was in love with a boxer. She came to the training with him once. She came again, and after a few times she thought :"Why do I just sit here, let me give this thing a try. I'm no wuss." And she did. Johann trained her, she was the only woman training in Vienna at the time. She became good fast, training every day, aiming for the world of matches. But, as things happen, she got pregnant, and that was it for awhile. Working full time, rasing a kid, and running a boxing club, she had little time to train herself. When their son started school and she had a bit more time, she came back to the ring. By the time she was good enough to compete again, she was over 35 and thus out of amateur competitions which have an age cap. She could only do the professional matches. "Are you kidding? Those monsters would kill me instantly!" she opines. So that's it for Klaudia. She trains and runs the club, tends to her kids and works full time. Watches the boys rise to fame and takes her pride in that. She looks so girly and timid. The quiet water that washes away the banks. Don't mess with Klaudia or she will mess you up in a jiffy. She's still got it in her.

Dušičky or All Saints Day

All Saints Day is among the most important events of the year. It's a day when you are supposed to show off in front of your neighbors how you uphold traditions and how you stick together as a family. You have to bring the most flowers and candles to the graves of your deceased relatives, after you have spent hours scrubbing the graves clean the previous weekend. Fun times. I have both sets of grandparents burried by now, thus two cemeteries to visit and tend to this time of the year. On Saturday we go to Krnča, my maternal grandparents' village. Aunt Marta, mother's sister still lives there. Uncle Palo does too, but we don't talk to him. I don't quite remember why, but that's how things are. Uncle Palo, like most men in the village, is a raging alcoholic, which is perhaps among the reasons why we don't visit his family. Marta's husband is another one, he has been restricted to the basement part of the house, and he doesn't eat at home anymore either. Marta cannot stand him. You don't divorce in the village, but you can sort of separate, within the same household. Aunt Jara comes with my cousin Eva. Eva is a more-or-less cured alcoholic (damn, I better watch my own drinking!) and anorectic, her brother is socially challenged - sleeps during the day, watches TV throughout the nights, does not do much more than that. Both aunts are cool though. We have Marta's famous schnitzels (which she soaks first in milk for hours and then breads them twice. Deep fried in lard. You haven't lived if you haven't had Marta's schnitzels) and even more famous pickles, and head out to the cemetery. We have 7 or 8 stops. We have to place flowers at Marta's first child's grave (died when he was just a few months old), at grandmother's sister's grave, great-grandfather's grave, neighbor's mother's grave, mother's neighbor's grave, and god knows who else. Since absolutely everyone in the village is either Varga or Remeň or Kačina with but a few first names variations (Ján or Pavol for males, Katarína or Anna for females), it is awfully hard to keep track of who is who. We stand around my grandparents grave (Katarína and Pavol Varga, of course), being checked out by the village folk. We are evaluated for our dress code, for flowers and wreaths that we brought, how we aged or gained weight since the last time we were visiting. That sort of a thing that a city dweller has to count on upon visiting the ancestral village. My mom was born here, but me and my dad, who also happens to be a publicly known figure, draw attention. We're outsiders. Looking for a quick way out. Mom has to stop every five meters and chat with distant cousins, classmates, friends she forgot but has to pretend to remember. Me and dad scuttle away to a distant part of the cemetary where the oldest graves are. We are considered weird - nobody goes to that part. Those grave stones are all crooked and folding in, what do we want there?
Funny thing, this village cemetary obsession. People can not afford a car or a house, but they will spend hundreds of thousand of crowns on the graves, which has to be made of polished marble with gold lettering. The more kitch you can squeeze into one grave, the more esteemed you are. Aunt Marta has already spent hours scrubbing the grave away, so luckily we're at least spared of that. Grandma was doing that before her. Yes, grandma. She and granddad bought their grave years before they died. She personally lamented since she was forty that she has one foot in the grave and was getting ready to die any minute. She died when she was in her eighties. They used to bring flowers to their own grave. Funny in a sick way, but that's how things are in the village. No dispute.
Anyhow, after we are liberated, we drive home to Bratislava. There we have to tend to the faternal grandparents' grave (say hello to Grandma and Grandpa Kusy on the picture below). Aunt Daška, father's sister, has already been there - cleaned around, put flowers and lit candles. She's always first, it's a sick little competition we have going on each year. Well, less work for us. We add flowers and candles, readying the place for Tuesday, All Saints Day.

Coming to the cemetary on Tuesday is a major social event. One has to don the best clothing and funky hats and gloves if one has some, and walk through the neighborhood to the cemetery. Some people drive these days, but it's a tradition to walk, bringing more wreaths and flowers. Only lights at the cemetary is coming from candles. This year's fashion is however unfortunate. Instead of a bunch of candles and tea lights, people buy these red and yellow lanterns (and one has to have them to show that we can afford them and that we care that much about our deceased). They emanate much less light then plain candles, which used to line the cemetery paths in the previous years. We follow our usual path. First we stop by the grandparent's grave. Uncle Palo ( a different one, Daška's husband) is also buried there - kinda stuck on to the side of the grave. He, too was an alcoholic, as was grandpa. Oh boy. It is so common in Slovakia that I haven't even realized half of my family were alcoholics until I put it in writing.
Next we move on to Danuška's grave (left). Danuška was a 17 year old student shot dead by the Soviet soldiers during the Warsaw Invasion of 1968. During communism we were the only people visiting her grave, as it could have been (and was) seen as a protest and provocation. It was among the things held against my father when he was in detention, awaiting trial in 1989. He got Revolution and breakdown of the regime instead. Her grave was rediscovered after 1989, just as the church and other things were. Suddenly the land was filled with conscientious Christians. Who knows where were they during communism. Ah well.

Next stop is usually Dominik Tatarka's grave. But we have to pass the Slovak Nazi State's President's grave. Jozef Tiso was a catholic priest who is celebrated as the first president of independent Slovakia (independent my ass, it was a puppet state). He is still revered by many - mostly seniors and skinheads, but also Catholics and others, who might have a more complicated love and hate (at the same time) relationship with him. My father cannot come too near, nationalists would recognize him, but I sneak in to take a photo, a bit nervous whether the 'babky demokratky' (grandma democrats, term used for nationalist old country women following the populist politicians to mass meetings) that gathered around won't get upset and violent. They are armed with walking sticks and they don't hesitate to use them against the evil czechoslovakists, or Hungarians or other devils.





Dominik is among the best writers that Slovakia ever produced. He was a dissident, one of the three that signed the Charter '77 document, along with my dad. Third was a historian Jan Mlynarik, also dead by now. He has a beautiful simple grave with an obelisk that his children brought from High Tatras, mountains that he loved. Simple mount of dirt with ivy, grass, and wild flowers growing around.





Among the nicest All Saints Day traditions is putting candles under the cross in the middle of the cemetary. You light one for each of the close people in your life that have died but whose graves you cannot visit. By the end of the night the sea of candles is almost endless, from one end of the horizon to the other. It's among the few genuine moments of togetherness that this day brings. When I see kids gazing at the candle sea I remember the feeling of amazement and some sort of connectedness with universe and All Things Big and Important that it used to bring.
Despite the petty small town fogyism and hypocrisy that this day is surrounded with, I sure hope it doesn't die out in favor of Halloween that is gaining some ground in Eastern Europe in the past few years. It's nice, even if it has to be forced upon family members each year, to get together and remember those who are in the better place. I sure hope though that those red lanterns will have the shortest life span ever. Liberation to the candles from the wicked stained glass! Damn the silly graveyard fashion.

28th October

Even thought the first Czechoslovak Republic was established by the ‘rotten bourgeois capitalists’, the date of its foundation, 28^th October was a national holiday that was duly celebrated during communism. After all, bourgeois or not, it was a liberation from Hungarians for the Slovaks, and from the Germans for brothers Czechs. Although the latter were grumbled about for their ‘Pragocentrism’ (directing all things from Prague despite the federation we had on paper) in the pubs, they were not grumbled about officially. That is not done in a socialist federative republic. After the fall of communism, the 28^th October was a day of battling out the nationalist sentiments. We, the so-called ‘Czechoslovakists’ (and believe me, that ain’t a compliment in Slovakia) would gather in front of the Slovak national museum under the statue of a double-tailed lion, symbol of Czechoslovak Federation, today of the Czech Republic. The ‘Hey-Slovaks’ (Slovak nationalists who got their name from a song made popular during the national revival movement that goes “Hey, Slovaks, our Slovak language is still alive, alive is the Slovak nation, it will live forever…etc.”) would gather nearby and yell and sing louder, if not outright throw rocks.

Anyhow, fast forward fifteen or so years, Czechoslovakia split, Slovak nationalists and populists got what they wanted, an independent state. One would think it would be easier to claim that important part of the historical heritage that Czechoslovakia was; rampant nationalism snoring away after a hefty meal of secession. I’d have thought so, too. But two days ago, on the Day of the Republic, other than a one or two minute long shot in the TV there was nada. No mention in any main newspaper, not a word. Who cares that Czechoslovakia was the only democratic state in Central Europe at the time. Who cares that it dragged Slovakia out of poverty and backwardness and pulled it up among the most developed countries of the period between the two world wars. Czechs do have the 28^th as their national holiday. Heck, it was their republic, we mutter. We don’t recognize it. But 1^st September, when the Slovak Parliament passed the Constitution that broke Czechoslovakia apart, that we’ll celebrate. 6^th of January, the day when the three Kings arrived to give Jesus their presents (and Epiphany or whatnot), yes that’s national holiday. Easter, Christmas, and 15 September – Virgin Mary Day, all national holidays. Funniest is the Cyril and Metodius day – Byzantine emissaries who apparently brought Christianity to these lands (little did they know…). Oh forget the Scottish and Irish missionaries that were here long before and after them, forget the fact their impact was at best limited at the time, that they were kicked out because the ruler Svatopluk chose Rome over Constantinople… They are the founders of the first Slovak statehood somehow, although the Great Moravian Empire was not really Slovak and not really a statehood either. And had little to do with the two of them.

Neither the Catholics’ nor the national myth-makers’ holidays would upset me, if only 28^th October remained among the national holidays after the split in 1993. It sure as hell is my own national holiday. I don’t like to be deprived of it by an ignorant government, nor by ignorance of my fellow citizens. I was born in Czechoslovakia and Masaryk was my first President, too. There. Whew, I feel much better already.

Girl Power

People can get used to anything. Even to a noose around their neck, as we clever Slovaks say. The boys at the the boxing club now mostly leave me be as I'm becoming a regular. We're certainly expanding women ranks at the club. There's five of us now. Me, my colleague and convert, whom I talked into joining, Magda from Poland, then a chubby young girl who hangs out mostly at the bar in the club, and two new additions: a fierce blonde roller-blader with a half shaved head with some funky patterns colored on it, and a fragile older woman in a soft grey sweatsuit that looks like she lost her way to the yoga studio.
Magda came with me three times. Boys are happy. Magda is a young pretty firecracker, she chatters with the boys and boys like to be chattered with. I kept to myself before, did my stuff and left, now I hang at the club more. It's better for the boys' workout too. When one or more of us watch, they go all out at the heavy bags or in the ring, until the trainer rips them apart. We came up with code names for the boxers, since we don't know their real ones. "My boyfriend" (Bosniak that wanted to "party with me") now flirts shamelessly with Magda, sends her air kisses and all. "Elephant boy" (fat kid who claims to be 14) picks on us constantly. Quite annoying little brat, if you ask me. "You are the most funny," he tells me amidst the huffing and puffing, when we try out combinations en masse. That throws me off balance somewhat, but I'm learning to phase him out. "Hop like a bunny," he tells Magda when she asks what the trainer said to do. Neither of us understands German well (me not at all, to be honest), so we keep getting lost in instructions. Magda shoots him a glare that could kill, but hop like a bunny we do. #18 (one of the older boxers who trains in the ring and wears a sweatshirt with #18 on it) and Mr. Serious watch us mess up all the steps and sweat our butts off at rope jumping from the side. One has to get used to the side audience. Frau Klaudia is a tough trainer - no breaks between rope jumping, we go 15 minutes straight. Same at the end of the workout, except every time she whistles, we have to do push ups, ab crunches, jumps or somethin along the line until she whistles again. Then we jump more. Then we sprint-jump. She's a sadist.
I'm still in the giddy stage. I get excited when I get a combination right, practicing my three and four-combinations and getting up to speed in my office, in the kitchen, in my head. I got my new gloves last week. Tried them on in the office. Naturally, the assistant from the Institute walked in to borrow a chair at that precise moment. Didn't even have time to pull them off. Ever tried to hide boxing gloves on your hands under your desk while maintaining a polite conversation? That ain't easy. Then the history researcher walked in on me air-punching in the little kitchenette while I was waiting for the water to boil. Hard to explain to someone you barely know... But that's part of the business. Tomorrow we have the main trainer, Johann, again, coming back with our star, our stallion, our trophy-winner Marcos, who is just 15, but wins all the championships in this part of the world. I hope all the wimmins come again, so that I can do my thigh crunches on the machines relatively unnoticed. The thigh cruncher faces the bar. It's somewhat disturbing to open and close one's legs while three guys watch, cigarettes hanging out of their mouths.

Widespread lunatic

I hate visors. They look silly and they serve no reasonable purpose. They don't even cover the top of your head and sunglasses are always cooler and less cumbersome to shade your eyes from sun than visors. In fact, I wore a visor one and only time in my life.
I had a new visor and I had to wear it. Got it from Dave, the base guitarist of the Widespread Panic. My friend Kris, she's tight with a bunch of great bands from Atlanta. Years of bartendering down there and dating some of them gets you on the inside. So when the Panic comes, we get invitation backstage. WP played in the Orpheum, we got to hang on the side of the stage. After the show we ran with the band through the belly of the building into an unmarked white van. Another van with the band logo and all went the opposite direction to confuse the crowds of stoned fans. Coolness squared. We drank with Dave in their hotel bar until wee hours of the morning. For free. Some of the fans found us and kept buying the band drinks all night. Including me and Kris. Famous for a night. So, still being somewhat high from the concert, I adorned my head with a visor that Dave gave me once. I thought I'd wear it more often, after all, I thought that it will be good for biking. And I planned to do a whole lot of biking, for I had a month off, going back home to Slovakia.
Getting back home, I open the paper, wondering where I should venture this Sunday. There's a big article about old mills on a branch of Danube. Should be a picturesque ride through the fields, some dirt roads, nice. Granted I have to cross half of the town and some villages, but it will be worth it. It's a scorching hot day, I set out in tank top and bike shorts, crowned with my new Panic visor. It won't protect top of my head and I know it's silly of me, but I'm stubborn. Visor's new, it has to come with. I set out, steppin on the pedals light and fast. Gorgeous day. I whizz by a group of men. One whistles, another yells something after me. They laugh. Assholes. That's Eastern Europe for you. On the way through Podunajské Biskupice I pass a beer garden. That's where guys go to "church" on Sundays. Another group of men in their overalls. "Take me, take me!" one hollers. "Hey, baby, I'd show you a thing or two..." yells another. Damn, I didn't know Slovakia was this backward, I think, rolling my eyes. Finally I turn left and hit the small country road. Just a few villages and I'm near the floodplain forests. On the weekends people work on their houses. Neighbors and family get together and work on a construction or repairs or something. I pass a few groups hard at work on my way. All heads turn, hollering continues. "I'm innocent as a spring flower!" exclaims a young worker leaning on a shovel next to a cement mixer. Now that's beginning to be really weird. Either I look extra hot today, which is highly unlikely, or I'm paranoid and I imagine everybody is watching me and talking at me, or something's up and I wasn't informed. Luckily I reach the forests and wind my way through the paths and herds of mosquitos. I am quite glad to reach the water mill, my brain is half cooked by now. There's a wooden shack with a snack bar. I'm delighted to find out they have Kofola on tap. Kofola is a Slovak version of Coca-cola, except less sweet, more lemony, and fresh from the draught. Naturally superior to Coca-cola, as it's been around when I was growing up, and Coca-cola was not. Hefty woman behind the bar eyes me up and down and barely speaks to me. She is not trying to hide her dislike of me one bit. I don't care, everybody's bloody strange today, I refuse to take notice.
I walk my bike to the river, sit down in the shade, stretch on the grass. Ahhhh, it's beautiful here. My eyes rest on tops of the trees, fluffy clouds scattered on a turquouise sky, on boats tied to the bank, on my visor. 'Panic', it says. I'm about to continue the visual tour of the surroundings, when about ten thousand bells and alarms and lights go off inside my head. I read it again. "Panic". This time I read it in Slovak - and I'm truly 'panic'-stricken. [Pun-eetz], as one would pronouce it, means 'virgin' in my beautiful mother tongue. More than that, it describes a male virgin ('panna' being the female form). Damn! I am a walking personal advertisement, looking for an untouched male at that! "Take me," and "I'm innocent as a spring flower" suddenly make a lot more sense. As do grins and whistling and the old woman's disdain for me. I hide the damn visor in my shirt pocket. I shall never be seen with it in this part of the world again!
I drag myself home, the ride is endless. It must be well over 35 °C and the sun is baking right on my uncovered head. I run out of water third way into the ride. When I reach home, visor flies into a closet, as soon as I'm done downing gallons of water. I have a massive headache from a sunstroke. Serves me right, being so giddy about a stupid visor, just because a base player from a famous band gave it to me... Lesson in humility. Thou shalt not feel superior because of a damn visor!

ethno jazz

Mihaly Dresch quartet

I forgot how I love concerts. I avoid going, because there are people there (shocking, truly shocking), it's loud and energy draining, one has to get there, which requires dressing up and makeup.... I also forgot how I love saxophone. I even wanted to play sax when I was fifteen, until I found out how much they cost...
Well, last night I remembered both. Mihaly Dresch, the Hungarian John Coltrane, played up a storm at Porgy & Bess, a jazz club in Vienna. It was truly a complete sensual and emotional experience.
His saxophone had a beatiful velvety, sometimes almost hoarse 'shellack' to its sound. The deepest tones make your feet melt and become one with the earth underneath. The low tones resonate in your underbelly and spread warmth throughout. The alt wraps around your heart and the high pitched notes run through your hair like lover's fingers. Truly amazing.
The Dresch quartet mixes traditional Hungarian tunes - nostalgic ballads that Hungarian officers used to shoot themselves to in the pubs when a woman left them (they are known for this, it's part of the culture. Szomoru Vasarnap, or Sad Sunday is among such ballads), through the pesky csardas that makes you want to jump out of your seat and twirl around with the nearest Hungarian - with jazz. The fusion is effortless. Dresch picked up a solid hand carved Transylvanian flute with a husky, abrasive sound to it. You could almost hear the shepherds calling across the valleys hundreds of centuries ago. In half a second he picked up the melody with his sax, bringing you right home, with that lingering memory still on your tongue - reminding you who you are, where you come from and where is your place in this world.
Now I'm not a jazz connoisseur, so naturally I focus on other things. Dresch is, for example, a perfect Robert de Niro look-alike. The drummer looks like that Irish American actor, whathisname, Patrick MacSomething, and the cimbalist like that British actor that played in a movie about slave trade in Britain. Basist is a true copy of Kickycan, a member from an online forum I frequent. Now, we all know what faces drummers make. This one did not put the other drummers to shame. He flapped his jaw in the wind, stuck his tongue out, fiercely closed eyes. But do you know what faces a cimbalist makes? He hits the cimbalom strings with malettes as if his child's life depended on it, contorting his face not unlike a heavy weight weight lifter, other times looking surprised as a ten year old boy who just spilt a gallon of milk. On mother's brand new laptop. Unfortunately that's the extent of expertise I can offer, but if you have a chance, buy their latest CD, or even better, go see them. It's worth it. Here's a teaser, hope the link works:
http://video.tvnet.hu:8080/ramgen/c2/bmc/bmccd093/track03.rm

Dasha in Boxerland and Tough Body Mass

You have to accept a thing or two when you are a female and you decide, for whatever strange reasons, to start boxing. I got used to all the winks and smacking sounds as I pass through the gym real quick. After all, I'm trapped in a room where testosterone is oozing out of the walls, and that in Central Europe, where menfolk has not quite yet been subjected to the PC drill. Today I had an interesting exchange with a Bosniak - that's not a pastry (actually it is that, too, but this particular one was not. It was a young Bosnian, aka a Bosniak. Or he, rather.). About my students' age - must have been 18, 19, who knows. He was on a stationary bike in front of me, until I punched the display out of my bike. I really don't know how. He picked it off the floor and helped me punch it back in (it is a boxing gym, you know. We punch everything.) He was very chatty, this one was. First there was some Bosnian-Slovak-English small-talk about who's from where, yada yada yada, what am i doing in Vienna, blablabla, do I like boxing, yakedy yak. Then with his broken English he asks: "are you here alone?" I, confused (I'm a polite girl and I believe in the best in people) say:"Well, yes, but I have family and friends in Bratislava.: Bosniak won't have it. No time wasting: "No boyfriend?" I don't even know the bloody kid's name, and he may well be half my age, but hey. I'm a well-brought up and dainty lady. "Yes, I have one in Boston." Too much English for him, "No?" he asks. "Yes!" says I. "Boston." "No boyfriend Vienna" says he. Well, no, eeerrrrh, no I guess, he's not in Vienna. That seemed to have jumpstarted some thought process in him as he proceeded to ask in now perfect English: "Will you party with me?" Now this is a moment that we all know so well. The moment in a story that's frozen and that one keeps coming back to, mulling over millions of smart and funny things one could have said, in an ideal world. Instead I looked around, my brain drew a blank and I said :"Cough, ehm, ummmm, we'll see." He asked immediately and confidently when shall we see, the smegging little bugger. I caught myself a little and asked him just what did he mean precisely by 'will you party with me", although I did have a pretty good idea. He smirked the slimiest smirk the Universe ever witnessed and said in a deep voice (and coming from a teenager to me, an old hag, that seemed funny): "Weeeeell, what do YOU mean by partying?..." Eerrrrr, blank, blank, scratch my head, shuffle my feet, ummmm. I did manage to cough up something to the effect that I don't think so, and thank him for his kind help. But I can safely say I failed the test of assertiveness and coolness 100%.
Boxing trainers are also a funny bunch. Johann sent me from machine to machine, told me what to do for how long. Every now and then he'd come to me and poke at my quads or my biceps. He'd return and make strange grimaces at me, as if to encourage me to push harder. They were interesting in a rather odd way, not very motivating, however. He is still trying to talk me into training for the ring. Eh, might as well, if he will devise a mechanism how to get me from work to the gym on days like today, when my office is cozy and warm and lit, and the outside world is gray, drizzly, nasty, brutish, solitary, and short, like human life. He also wants me to spar with his wife, the beastly Frau Klaudia! He is out of his mind. I remember when my ex-trainer Kostas put me against his wife Alicia (whatsit with trainers making me spar against their wives?). She punched the lights out of me and gave me a nice juicy nose bleed. But that's the darned nose ring that I have. Must suffer for fashion. Well, Frau Klaudia is also into biking. So I concede to a bike race to begin with. Perhaps 50 kilometers. That sounds a little better. If I win, I get free boxing gloves, hooray. Frau Klaudia may be a mean boxer, but she ain't, NOBODY is, beating ME on a bicycle. Hell no. That means I have to get up earlier and pack in a ride before work every day now. As if I had any time left to pack new things in. But girl's gotta have priorities. No to Frau Klaudia. Dissertation can wait.

Fredi's Feuerhalle

I met up with Toci who happened to come into town for a conference from Bratislava and decided to go for a dinner and drinks. So we hit the Centimeter 5. - apparently there is a bunch of them. The great thing about it is that they calculate the price of sandwhiches according to their length. In centimeters of course. You can eat one meter spaghetti and a two meter sausage, which we of course had to go for. They close at midnight, so we were strolling towards our respective abodes, when we happened upon Fredi's. What caught my eye was a wobbly leopard skin clad woman with a glass of rosé in her hand and a chatty waitress. A young guy plopped over the bar, sort of half asleep, half bored witless. We decide to come in for a 'Kapurkova' - one last drink. An old Czech tradition. Or a lie posing as a tradition to provide an excuse for more drinking. We come in to see a typical Central European seedy bar environment: dim lighting, fake marble tables, plastic flowers here and there. One particularly nice addition was a tall table to stand around - as if it was taken from a bad train station food joint from times long gone and forgotten. Other decoration was also memorable - porn posters on the left (some hardcore, not much left to imagination really), right wall dedicated to soccer clubs posters and trophies. For an unexplicable reason also a poster of young George W. smoking a joint in between all of that. Neither I nor Toci speak any German, but the leopard woman was obviously relating story about a friend or family member: lots of wild gesticulation and grimaces suggesting no approval of absentee's behavior. They were in no hurry to close. After the half asleep youngster who turned out to be a Slovak Hungarian (Slovak citizen of Hungarian ethnic origin) crawled away, it was just as and the leopard with the waitress. Leopard didn't pay. I wonder how they survive. Might stop by there tonight as well. It's the best bar ever.

boxing

We are having a Wiener Schnitzel for lunch at the Institute today. I bloody deserve it. I can barely move, my lower back, shoulders, and quads are shattered. They were wrung out dry. I decided to pick up where I left off at Kostas's Garage of Pain in Jamaica Plains, where I was introduced to the world of boxing briefly. It took me awhile to find a boxing club in Vienna that wouldn't sound too intimidating and hardcore. Finally I settled on Schwarzweiss Wien Boxing Club. After all, their website says 'boxing for fitness' among other things, and there is a female boxer, with a straight, unshattered, nose depicted on the front page. I biked over yesterday, had my workout clothes with me 'just in case'. I should only watch the first time anyway. I bike through 9th, 1st, 5th and 6th bezirkt (district or whatnot) and find a rather large building. It takes about just as long as it used to from Somerville to JP. Ah, wish there was a Kostas in Vienna, with a little garage turned into a boxing studio, with picnics after training, guitar and good friends. No such thing. When I enter, I am soon seized by the trainer. He says we start in five minutes and to go change fast. Gulp. Me, too? Yes. I look around. The dark hall is dominated by a real boxing ring, with two guys going at it ferrociously. Groans, moans, and yelps dominate the silence. There are about twenty other men scattered about, some eyeing me, I suppose, amusedly. No other woman anywhere. Shit, shit, shit! What did I get myself into! Well, I ain't backing out now. Nobody can say I didn't give it my best at least. I change quick and come back with all my supplies - wraps, mouth guard, jumping rope. Trainer is pleased. He disperses us through the hall and starts barking numerous instructions. In German. Bloody hell. At the end he turns to me and says: "Jump". Ok. Jumping rope. Five rounds, three minutes each, with a minute of break inbetween. Why did I not also bring water 'just in case'? I will surely die today. I am thinking of Kostas'es garage. I could just run upstairs to get water in his kitchen, pet Mina the white cat and chat to his wife about the Sweetheart -their bed and breakfast in Western Mass. which they are trying to resurrect and start up. Whistle. Now we have to do footwork. We didn't really do that with Kostas. Damn. Long directions in German follow. I am told: "forward!". OK, forward I go. And then backward and to the side. Then the same with punches. Muscles starting to get tired. I realize I have no idea how long the training will be. Hour? Two hours? Oh great. Now we're running sideways in a circle. When the sadist whistles, we have to jump forward, punch, and run immediately in the opposite direction. Good god. Now the other arm. Then both arms. It's taking at least half an hour and all of my energy. When I think I am about to plop on the ground unconscious, it's over. Since I didn't bring any water I drag myself into the showers and find a hose there. Pretty nasty, but do I care? If I could survive tap water in Morocco, Turkey, and India, not to mention gypsy settlements in Eastern Slovakia, I can drink from a mildewy hose in Vienna. I go back to ask about next trainings, cost, and such. Turns out there's a bonus session for those who want - 10 stations where one lifts weights, wriggles with medicine ball, or jumps about for thirty seconds. Then on to the next station. Can I decline and say "no, that would certainly be the death of me"? No, I cannot. So I play along. Station 3 is pushups on a medicine ball. I cannot do pushups! Turns out that I can, when the brutish trainer Schwarz hovers right over me. By station 5 I feel positively light-headed and by station 8 I can see stars in front of my eyes. After that I give up. I would really faint. Or throw up. That would not be a good start.
Trainer praises me for 'being strong as a horse' (just what every girl dreams to hear) and tells me we need to work on the technique if I want to go into the ring - as in, compete in real boxing matches. Wot? Me? I look doubtful but he hardly notices me. Come three times a week for a beginning, then we'll up it to every day... Harrumph. Hopefully I will earn a ton of money in boxing matches and be able to pay someone to finish the darned dissertation that I came to write in Vienna. Now if you excuse me I gotta go lie down. Cannot sit straight. Or type.

Indian Diary...cont'd

Tuesday 16th August, 2005
In the morning we head for Kohima bright and early. I say goodbye to my little new antennaed friend, whom I’m happy to see in the bathroom still – that means he’s not in my suitcase. Into jeeps we are stuffed and off we go through winding beaten roads into the hills. Indian Government puts up amusing signs alongside the road: “If married, divorce speed”, “Go slow, somebody’s waiting for you at home”, “where drink competes with drive, you lose”, “don’t gossip, let him drive” – and other such jewels. We stop by at a hospice ran a peace-making group started by women who are trying to reconcile various factions within Nagaland. Once they went up on a three day long hike into the mountains in Burma to find one opposition leader who's hiding up there. Talked to him about this, that, or the other, and hiked down for another three days. Women. What more can I say… Nobody else ever made it up there.
Hospice has only 16 people and some staff. Patients are mostly HIV positive, former addicts, a few little kids with AIDS. They don’t distinguish between staff and patients, all work together, according to their abilities, in the little garden that they have. They also run a paper mill, the only one that makes recycled paper in Nagaland. We buy a few cards, a folder, trinkets, kids sing a few songs, we bid good-bye. We can see Kohima from here. City built on stilts - building upon building propped up every which way on the sides of the steep hills. Most sport corrugated tin roofs and formica or wooden walls. We check into our hotel, accompanied by our friends. We are taken to a traditional village near Kohima, to see what life is really like in Nagaland. Houses are again patched up from wood, metal sheets, mud and bricks, but the village is very practical. It shows that hardworking people that are able to sustain themselves live here. Every village has two round platforms made out of rocks, where the village elders meet every evening to talk or just sit around and gaze over the vast valley. Hills around are breathtaking. I take pictures like a Japanese tourist, wreaking quite a havoc among the teenage girls in the village, who scream, giggle, and run away each time I point the camera towards them.

On the way from the village we stop for a picnic at a Naga open-air museum. It's a made up village where each tribe has a model traditional house. We sit at the Angami house, feasting on food that Neichu's aunt prepared. It's out-of-this-world good. Unfortunately David is still getting used to India, has upset stomach, and glances suspicious looks at the food. We eat with hands. David sticks to white rice mostly. Our apetite is boosted by water buffalo and human skulls (replicas of the latter) hung from the ceiling. The open air village is under a hill adorned with a sign much like Hollywood, except it says 'Naga Heritage Village' or rather, '.A.A ERIT..E .I....E'. Rest has fallen off.
David and Hillel are off to meet someone, me and Jasmine are taken out shopping. I complete the collection of gifts that I already got – a Naga shawl and a vest – with more ethnic gear. If I am to bustle about the world as a silly white girl in tribal wear, let’s take it all the way. I get a necklace and a thingamajig for my hair, a bag, some placemats for mom… At least I’ll be set for the next few Halloweens. We stop for a coffee at the Dream Café, nice new little place started by Neichu’s friends. You can see the whole city from up there. Dominated, naturally, by the Police Headquarters, an impressive white palace, which probably cost more to build than the rest of the city altogether.

Our friends give me a bag of pan – a vile concoction of things wrapped in some sort of a leaf. You have to chew it and spit out saliva every now and then. That’s the cause of many Nagas and Indians’ stained teeth. It’s also said to be addictive. I can’t imagine how, as it tastes horrid and renders you speechless (having a bursting-full mouth of the grool) for a long while. Truly a nuisance, if you ask me. They are naturally making fun of me as I roll my eyes around, trying to save my bare life. We find an Indian-Chinese restaurant in our hotel. That’s cuisine that is not found anywhere else. Indian-Chinese has actually absolutely nothing to do with China, it’s just one of Indian peculiarities. Jasmine meets a special new friend there. This time it’s not a giant bug, but a human, albeit a weird one. Our waiter is extremely talkative and revolves around her like a satellite. He comes later into our room under various pretenses, asks for her address, sits down and talks and talks and talks. When we get rid of him gently, David comes and we all watch Forrest Gump that just happens to be on TV. Unfortunately we see our dear waiter again. He brings tea and 5:45am. That’s right. 5:45am. What the is he thinking?! We get rid of him a little less gently and resume sleep until 7:30. We were supposed to be woken up by the same ours truly at 7am, but no. That he forgot. Bringing tea at an ungodly hour has probably exhausted him too much. We scramble around, throwing things into suitcases and break our legs running downstairs where everybody’s waiting. We’re on our way to a friend's home for breakfast.
It’s a house where three generations of strong women grew up. All her male predecessors were killed in the Indo-Naga war. Her grandmother worked on the family rice paddies and raised kids alone. Her mother, losing her husband, too, started a woman's groups and is a pioneer in the field of reconciliation. A force to be reckoned with. Our friend herself is a dynamo. A true firecracker. She’s involved in HIV/AIDS social work, and a godzillion of human rights and charity projects. And is sharp and funny, always on point. We have the best pineapple in the world, as well as mangoes and other such wonders, straight off the trees. Before we leave, I ask for the restroom, and am shown to it. Great, it’s one of those holes in the ground… That’s fine, I’m the worldly and street-smart traveler, I’ve seen many of these before. Just how do I….good lord the floor is slippery…and oh, I guess one needs to practice aiming from early childhood… now, it’s all good, just…how the hell do I flush? Aaaargh, not knowing what else to do, I grasp a hose that is lying around and hose down the whole bathroom. Just in case. Thank god we’re leaving!
We clamber on back into the jeeps, and endure another two hours on the winding broken roads down back to Dimapur and off to the airport. Temperature rises with every meter as we descend down from the hills. Dimapur is hot as hell. Tfooey. I will miss Neichu, Naro, Bambi, and Akum though. Must come back soon. I’ll just have to find three more people in order to get the RAP (restricted area permit). Any takers? They don’t head hunt any more, I swear!

The tiny shaky airplane jolts us to dreaded Calcutta. I had a rough introduction to India in Calcutta the last time I was here. Cab drivers are insane, everyone is in your face, everything is dusty and weird! I am thus extra suspicious and eye everything with disdain. The four of us jam ourselves into one of them death vehicles and take our chances in the rush hour afternoon traffic. We get to hotel Lytton in one piece miraculously. One of the bell boys is grinning from ear to ear: “Do you remember me, ma’am? I brought you a plug converter last time!” Dayum! I must be memorable. He chatters for awhile, offering to bring the blue from the sky, if I want. No time for blue from the sky though. We are meeting with our main ally-and-enemy in one, good ole’ lisping Umpakaf (Omprakash, really). Before then, however, we want to make it to the famous Calcutta market. This time we’re equipped with Jasmine, who is Punjabi by birth, speaks Hindi and haggles like a pro. Calcutta market is a huge maze of corridor upon corridor, story upon story, of vendors with jewelry, bags, clothing… I can’t imagine how anyone can profit there. Immediately you are seized by someone who drags you through the belly of the building to his stand. Without him, you’ll never be able to find your way back out. Thus we have to do some business if we want to get out alive. In an unbelievably short time we bu y close to half a kilo of earrings, rings, bracelets, shawls… all under twenty dollars.
Omprakash is on his best behavior tonight. No lewd remarks, he even brings a gift for me and Jasmine from his wife. He actually mentions his wife! The gift is a sari. Very nice, but what on Earth will I do with a sari? I guess I can hang it on my wall. Oh no, and where will I put it now? I wanted to buy a bag, but they only had small ones. I give up. I will have to ask Hillel to carry some of my stuff in his suitcase… Next time, I will pack into a small suitcase AND leave some space in there for things I will acquire during the trip. It must be doable somehow.

August 18th, 2005. Kerala!

I can’t wait, I can’t wait! Tonight we’ll be back at the loveliest school on Earth, up on a tea plantation in Pullikanam! We fly through Bombay early in the morning, where we wait forever for a connecting flight to Cochin. There we are picked up by another jeep and off we go on the already well known route up to the mountains. Hillel sleeps most of the way in the jeep. That amazes us – the road is enough of a challenge to even sit still, not to mention sleep. David and Jasmine recollect some funny movie – Weekend with Bernie, or at Bernie’s, and cannot stop laughing the whole way. Hillel being Bernie – his head bobbing on the front seat, propped up by the seat belt. David also recalls Hillel’s latest butcherings of Indian names. That’s a special skill of Hillel’s. Nobody else I know is quite that bad with names. Indian negotiator for Nagaland Padmanabia is the most favorite target as of late. Hillel calls him ‘Padmanabooba’, ‘Padmandu’, ‘Padminabee’ and all sorts of other things except for his rightful name. I’ve never seen David laughing so hard and so long, tears running down his face as soon as “Padman…” is mentioned. Funny stuff.
We arrive! Our insect and lizard-ridden, yet the coziest and cleanest guesthouse welcomes us as if we never left. Down I run to see all the guys. Beautiful Nidhin is smiling from a long distance. And there’s Anitha and Asha. We meet with the faculty, talk about the training and about our programs in India. We’re exhausted and starving. Hillel mentions ‘Padmonoonon’. David loses it. We all chuckle helplessly. Finally dinner comes, we attack it with our hands and feet. I, the worldly and street-smart traveler, know by now how to eat with my hands, not that I’m proud about it or anything. Well, at least I pretend I know how. I choose not to see all the drippings on the floor, myself, and the unfortunate few around me. After dinner we make battle plans for trainings that start tomorrow. We have too many students. Instead of one three day long training we resolve to do two two day trainings instead. Ooof. At least I’ll get more practice teaching mediation this way.

August 19th, 2005
So the training marathon starts. One good thing is that I cannot get distracted with internet up here. It’s too hot and muggy during the day for the connection to get established, it only runs between midnight and 6 or 7 in the morning. I am able to connect but once in the entire time we are there, and that only for long enough to send out the silly G8 summit article I finally finished. It must be fate. Training starts smoothly. We get a group of 30 students – 15 older ones that we already know from February, and 15 new ones. The kids are extremely sharp. It makes me want to cry when I think of my students back in the States and compare the level of information intake, enthusiasm, and maturity. Although the Indian students seem more naïve at the first sight. We actually had a long and interesting discussion about that. David, who specializes in asking direct questions about the most sensitive issues, asks Nidhin and Arun point blanc how will they cope in the business world where everybody backstabs everybody else with such naïveté. Nidhin explains that if he gets to the top by honest means, there’s no reason to change that once at the top. If cheated and backstabbed, well, maybe he’ll lose money or will be taken for a fool, but he will keep his moral integrity, and that’s more important in the long run then anything. Naïve? Maybe. But hell, I absolutely love it!
We go until almost 8pm, breaking only for lunch and tea. There are two long role plays that afternoon, one really gets them fired up. It’s about the mosque in Ayodhya that was destroyed by a Hindu mob in 1992, because it was presumably built by the moghuls on the site of a former temple to the Hindu god Ram sometime in 1500s. There are a few heated exchanges as we get into the crux of our training – historic memory and mediation of identity conflicts. We have dinner with the faculty. We talk at length about their conflict resolution student group Shanti and Hillel pushes and pushes until they don’t promise to make the work at Shanti a part of school’s curriculum. That way students will have time to actually do something and not just talk about it in their spare time. After the endless meeting we collapse into beds, we watch a bit of Before Sunset with Jasmine, merrily snoring away within five minutes.

August 20th, 2005
In the morning we proceed to the computer lab for another perfectly futile exercise of seeking internet connection. We miss breakfast because of that. Training goes smoothly, we get better every day. Students tell us how they admire our teamwork. Go team! Another two role plays, and a role reversal exercise – that makes our work a lot easier. And more interesting for the kids. Nidhin takes care of all of our needs, always checks in if everything is OK. He has these piercing eyes that make one blabber complete nonsense when looked at, which he does often. I’m sure it happens to everyone. It’s a good thing I’m taken, much older, and extremely rational. Damn these Indians, why do they make them so gorgeous?
Anyhow, we dine with the students. David quizzes them about romantic relationships on campus: do couples get together? Do boys ever climb into girls’ dormitory? I always hold my breath and my eyes are about to jump out of my head when David asks something. But there’s something about David. No matter what he asks, it comes across as a genuine interest in the people, cordial and open. So no, there are no romantic relationships on campus, it’s forbidden. They are ‘like brothers and sisters’ there. They were entrusted by their parents as adults and they take that responsibility seriously, they say. They would never break the trust of their parents and teachers, that’s just how things are in Kerala. Nidhin carries my bag back to the guesthouse, and dedicates the flashlight to the road in right under my feet. I feel like a silly over-aged princess. We watch another five minutes of Before Sunset, sleep through the rest.

Sunday August 21st, 2005
Rising bright and early – Nidhin comes to wake us up at 6:30 (do they ever sleep over here?). Me, Jasmine, and David decided to go to the church today with the students. It sounds like a joke: A heathen, a Sikh, and a Jew head out to church… But it isn’t. They all go to church here together – Christians, Muslims, Hindus… It’s the same God anyway, they say. We get into a little bus that huffs and puffs up the rocky dirt road. The church is stunning. Small simple white church in the valley of tea plantations, palm trees, and flowers of all colors and shapes, under a turquoise sky and a kind warm sun. People here are farmers. They’re much darker than people in the North. Jesus, however, is whitest of whites, with pale blue eyes in every single painting. Funny, if you ask me. The sermon is in Malayalam. They sing a lot, which is great. We sit on the floor, sometimes kneel, sometimes stand up. Sometimes try to stand up, wriggling about awkwardly. Decent workout anyway. First twenty minutes is fun. Then it gets a bit old. Half an hour in, I start scrutinizing every single painting on the walls. And on the ceiling. And the floor. From paintings I move on to garments. Thank god for the saris – they are so colorful with many patterns. How long is this sermon anyway? One hour in, I start counting sheep for fun. Why did I want to come to church, anyone remembers? After forever the priest starts handing out the little wafers, whatever they are called in Catholic. Jasmine and I run for the door. We walk around the church, meet the priest himself. Back on the bus Nidhin gets teased by all the boys, who all giggle and cast quick glances towards me. Eeenteresting. It’s a good thing I don’t understand.
We start teaching the second batch today. These kids are even quicker and sharper, and we are getting to be even more stellar as trainers. It rules to have a good program lined up and then see it happen as it should and better. I am developing quite a fan club here. Girls Aswati and Ansa bring Anoop who apparently likes me very much, but is too shy to tell me. “Ma’am, he won’t stop talking about you.” Anoop is purple. Oh well, that’s what blondedness and blue-eyededness gets you in India. Wherever I move, swarms of them move with me. I highly recommend this to anyone whose self esteem is suffering a little. Tonight we join the entire Shanti crowd for dinner. They want to meet with us, even though they have a tough exam tomorrow. We bring in the faculty and mediate and agreement between students and faculty about the future of the Shanti program. Faculty promises to devote one month of internships to non-governmental work, and even count working for Shanti as a non-credit course. They will get training certificates and the school will send out a special letter of recommendation to all the job placements for students working with Shanti. Kids are overjoyed. Nidhin gets us real plates and sits next to me. More pushing and shoving as they make fun of him.
Jasmine and Hillel are packing up, they are leaving early in the morning. Hillel to New Delhi where we’ll join him a day later, Jasmine is going home, for she’s leaving to go to a Sikh camp in British Columbia, of all places. We have another five minutes of Before Sunset in bed. I’m thinking I’ll never finish this movie in my life.
Suddenly we hear a yell: “Jaasmiiiine! Daaaaashaaaaaaa!” That would be David, returning into his room. We sprint over there. “There’s this white thing over there. Look! I saw it crawling on the window, then it jumped on Hillel’s suitcase and there it’s sitting right there, on his shirt!” We look, quite skeptically at first. What the hell is that? It’s white, it looks almost as a jelly-fish, but how the hell would it get into the midst of a rain forest. It doesn’t move, probably startled by the light. Being extremely brave, I come closer. I see six or eight legs – it is a giant spider, size of a tarantula! But white. It’s an albino tarantula! We shriek and run out of the room. What do we do? Do we dare to capture it? David doesn’t, I’m more than hesitant. But then if we don’t, what will it do? It can kill us all overnight. We look around. There is an empty wastebasket that might do the trick, provided that the albino tarantula doesn’t move. We make a battle plan. It involves the wastebasket and Jasmine. She’s Indian by birth, and least frightened. We all approach the tarantula cautiously. It’s still there, pretending to be dead or something. Jasmine hurls the wastebasket over the monster. It’s trapped! We’re alive! We win! Now we have to get it away from Hillel’s shirt somehow. My turn. Wearily I move the basket, dreading the moment when the mini Odula starts scuttling about. It doesn’t. I notice it leaves small white traces as I move it with the basket. Am I injuring the thing? The traces look very much like…pieces of….napkin or something… I have a flashback to this morning. Three women came this morning to our guesthouse to clean. They were washing windows, among other things. With white paper towels that, when damp, can look a lot like albino tarantulas. Especially if you happen to be a hysterical Westerner. I take the basket off and grab the thing with my hand. David shrieks. I explain what just happened. “There can be a spider inside!” he maintains. Well, I can’t argue with that, but none emerged even after a close scrutiny. Not among the bravest moments in my life, but certainly among the funniest. Funny how the mind works. It’s white, it’s scary, it must be an albino tarantula, but of course. What could possibly be more logical?

Monday August 22nd, 2005
The next day Jasmine and Hillel leave early. We teach the other batch alone, just me and David. I am exhausted and feeling a sore throat coming. Yet it’s going well, although in the afternoon I have to delve into resources of energy that I didn’t know I had and I make no sense even to myself. It’s still going great, that’s how terrific our program is. In the session on perceptions, David and I act out the tarantula episode from last night. Kids are rolling in laughter, getting a huge kick out of it. We do a great job acting it out, too. Must be the endorphins flooding into the system as the program comes to a close. When we’re done, we are surrounded by our entourages. Girls talk to David about further training or somesuch, I start making photo CDs for the boyz. I am running out of juice on my computer- have to go get the cord in the room. Being the street-smart worldly traveler that I am, I decide to go alone up the hill to the guesthouse. I’ll be right back, I say. It’s pitch dark. At first it’s OK, as there is some leftover light from a lamp in the campus, then it turns completely black. Ever tried to climb a hill at night? Not that easy. I stumble about, losing the path every now and then. Two guys that live under the guesthouse spot me. They must think I am absolutely out of my mind. They shine a flashlight down the hill for me. I make it up, and grab the cord. Front gate is locked – that means I have to go down the same way. Wee! Serves me right, next time I will try to be a brave outdoor cat, I will think twice. I only fall about four or five times, unfortunately it rained earlier today. When I say rained, I mean rained. We’re at the tail end of the monsoon season. When it rains, it pours. I come down looking like Nikki Lauda after a winning Formula 1 race. Perhaps not feeling quite as victorious. It’s hot, so I dry rather quickly and soon enough I look almost normal again. Nidhin comes with Arun and they claim us for dinner. We bid farewell to the disappointed crowds, and happily retreat with the two of them into the faculty cafeteria, where we can rest for a bit. David is on a roll with his inquisitive questions on all things delicate. But nobody minds. Good times. We take pictures with the chef, who, according to David, has the best smile on Earth. The chef teases Nidhin again, who slaps him on his head. That flatters the worldly and street-smart traveler silly. Ah, the simple pleasures of life.
When we get back to the house, I finally finish the darn movie, not having enough energy to pack. Why bother anyway, it’s going to be impossible to pack prudently at this point anyway. Might as well stuff everything in using brute animal force at the very last moment in the morning.

23rd August, 2005
The alarm clock goes off at 4am. It’s pitch dark still. I turn on the light – no light. No electricity, in fact. Wunderbar. How am I going to shower and pack in the dark? I saw a candle somewhere, where was it? I rack my brain, walk around the kitchen and living room area like a blind man without a dog. Or a woman, for that matter. Yes, the little cupboard in the corner, that’s where it was. I break the candle in half, so that David can have a light, too. I play with the matches, trying to get the broken half to light up. After a good amount of time, the sucker is finally lit. I’m burstingly proud how well I did in extreme conditions. Electricity comes back on right after that. Naturally. I shower and perform another stuff-the-suitcase ritual dance. Nidhin and Arun come. They are coming with us to Vagamon, for today is the beginning of their five day holiday. We part with the gorgeous boys there and proceed to the airport. I can feel an onslaught of a flu or something coming. Tired, sore throat, bleary eyes. Curious about New Delhi though. We are heading for our big and famous conference on Partition that Umpakaf put together. Tomorrow will be the opening. Hillel is feeling grumpy about it, for it seems it will be way more academic then he wanted it to be, but at this point, we can only go with the flow. New Delhi seems like Washington D.C. to me. Certainly after Kolkata it does. It has many green parks, is rather clean (depends on one’s comparative frame) and spatious, it has low official-looking buildings. And many many roundabouts. It’s like a maze, I have no idea how to navigate through it. We are staying with Hillel’s friend Sharon. She came to India as a Fulbright fellow – studying Indian dance. Then she stayed for another half a year, another year, two years, forever. She is one of the most famous of Indian traditional dancers, even though she’s a Litvak from Detroit. Sharon lives in a colonial mansion on Barakhamba road. It’s a three story house with majestic staircases, patios, balconies. Her living quarters are at the top, on the roof, sort of. There is a beautiful shaded area with sofas and pillows to read and take tea in, a breakfast alcove on the other side of the roof. Her and her daughter Tara’s rooms (we met Tara in Bombay in February) are two wooden shacks on the side of the roof. There is also a kitchen and living room area. Sharon has beautiful original Indian artwork everywhere – large bronze statue, small statuettes everywhere, things hanging, standing, lying about. It has to be one of the coziest living arrangements in the world. David, Hillel, Sharon and I head out into town for dinner. Well, we are driven into town. Sharon has a driver, of course. She also has a cook, a maid and some other guys whose jobs I didn’t determine. Restaurant took it’s name from a thieves’market – chor bazaar – where trinkets of all sorts are sold. It’s called Chor Bizaar and it’s remarkable by it’s collection of furniture and antiques of all varieties. Our table is a remodeled four post bed. All the chairs, plates, silverware in the restaurant are different. There are no two identical things – you won’t even find two identical forks. Salad bar is an old car underneath a staircase that leads nowhere.

August 24th, 2005
In the morning Sharon takes me and David to the American school (elementary, middle, and high school) to see a South Indian dance performance. The school blows our mind. It’s monstrously luxurious and high-tech. They have two or three libraries, swimming pool outside, two cafeterias, large new auditorium and hundreds of spoiled rotten kids. School is naturally fenced off and gated and guarded by security armed to their teeth. I bet that these kids are loaded into limos or buses after school and then transported into their gated residencies. This way they don’t have to be in touch with real India out there at all. Performance is interesting, the dancer has a beautiful Southern Indian outfit. It’s dedicated to Krishna’s birthday, coming up in five days. She explains all her poses and symbolic of each move, even though it falls on the deaf ears of those vile teenagers. Govinda maduram, gopi maduram is one of the songs that remained stuck in my head ever since. Must find it somehow somewhere. It’s a song about how beautiful Krishna and everything he touches and looks at is (maduram being beautiful, govinda being eyes, gopi being girls-dancers that Krishna hangs with in the hood). After the performance we are taken for a tour of the school. I feel rather bitter about it, completely amazed by the stunning difference of lifestyles inside and outside of this fenced-off monstrosity. Can’t wait to get out.
On the way home we stop by at the market. I still need a bag for all the acquired stuff. I buy five. Yes, five bags. One tiny, two small ones, one bigger one to fit them all in, and a beautiful leather purse out of camel skin, stiched with camel skin. Girl’s gotta have bags. And bags got to color coordinate with clothing. Thus they need to come in all colors and shapes. I also buy two pairs of red slippers and a shawl. Contended after an adrenaline rush that accompanies such hectic shopping we retreat home and prepare for the conference opening. I decide to dress up. My black skirt has a slit on the side that shows leg way up above the knee – something I should have considered before I headed out the house. Here in India you can run around almost in a bra- with your belly sticking out and all, but if you show the teensiest bit of leg, heads turn, people stare, it’s just not done. We are at the Ashok Hotel, which is very fancy and all, but I still feel inappropriate, doing my best to hold the bloody skirt together. When I sit, you can’t see the slit at all, so I sit a lot. We find the banquet hall and I am very happy to spot Rohit there from a distance.
Rohit is Tara’s friend. We met him in Bombay in February and I was very impressed by him. He’s a young (my age, hence very young) writer, published a best selling book and writes witty articles on just about anything that strikes his fancy. Runs a few blogs, meddles into theater, simply a renaissance man. Took me about a month to find him online – I kept spelling his name wrong and I remembered his book completely wrong. The book is called Play on Edward, but I was googling, for unexplicable reasons, A Friend of Emanuel. I didn’t even know Emanuel back then, so who knows where the heck that came from. Anyway, I found him, we emailed back and forth, I saw his work and really liked particularly one short story that was turned into a comics by a twenty year old American whiz kid from Yale. Story was a fiction about Fadereu, a man that fades away if he stands still, and based on the Gujarat riots in 2002, when over 3,000 Hindus and Muslims burnt each other to death. I decided we must bring Rohit to Delhi conference and keep taps on him for ‘reality check’ on our projects and partners in India, as well as for inspiration and contacts for other interesting people.
Conference is crowded. We have the Minister of Defense, Sri Gopal Mukherjee, speaking, as well as the Governer of West Bengal, who happens to be Mahatma Gandhi’s grandson. Gandhi has a beautiful speech. At the reception one can meet all sorts of characters. Conference rats, writers-alcoholics, academics turned politicians, unsuccessful activists. Umpakaf seizes me every now and then and introduces me to random groups of men from various think tanks, which gets very tiring after awhile. At the dinner we are approached by a handicapped and by then also extremely drunk writer of sorts, who is angered by Americans meddling into Partition. We don’t understand much of what he says, for he happens to also have a bad speech impediment. He keeps insisting that we don’t understand because we are dumb Americans. Umpakaf is drunk himself by now. He has a highly unpleasant habit of quite offensive bragging when he’s drunk. He asks David, out of the blue: “Do you know who this is? No? Well if you knew anything about India, you’d know he’s somebody!” This he repeats with different people about ten times. Good times. Me, David and Rohit get out quickly and find a bar for a drink or two. I shall not bring any slitted skirts to India next time, though I try my best not to make anything out of all the stares. We take a rickshaw home. I am tired tired tired, my everything hurts, I have a stuffed nose and my ear is beginning to complain.

August 25th, 2005
First session starts on time, which is a major success. I’m a rapporteur for this session. I thought that merely meant taking notes, but no. Apparently that also means I have to summarize what the four presentations were about. My head is swimming, and I don’t understand half of what they’re talking about. Besides, the first two presentations are on Jammu and Kashmir. I am ashamed to admit that until a few months ago I didn’t even know any Jammu existed. Second two are on history textbooks. One on historiography in India, other in Pakistan. I stand up to summarize, wondering what the bloody hell am I going to say. I remember the dialogue from the Errol Morris’s ‘Fog of War’, where McNamara says: ”Never answer the question they ask you. Answer the question you wish they asked you.” So I go on with my usual stuff on the intimate link between personal and ethnic identity, blablabla, yada yada yada, somehow link it to Kashmir and historiography. It’s like that elephant joke: Kids have to learn all sorts of animals for an exam in biology. Joey learns only about elephant. Next day he gets called on. “Joey, tell us about a cobra,” teacher tells him. “Well, cobra is a snake. Snakes are long and very much resemble a trunk of an elephant. Now elephant is a mammal that….” And Joey proceeds to tell everything that he learned about the elephant.
Good. Rohit is next. Hillel asked him to present his comics, which is refreshingly different from everything else. Afternoon panels on film and literature are good. Academic as they can get, though. In the evening there is a presentation of a bibliography on Partition. So what if there already are some? And who cares that this paper bibliography that is just alphabetically sorted is completely useless in this day and age, when people want to be able to search online? Aaaargh. Seems like a waste of time (and of our money, for it is our institute that pays for this conference).
Dinner turns out interesting again. I am discovered by a Keralite who ventured to our conference by chance. He’s one of those clingy types. Follows me everywhere, talks quietly, and smiles stupidly. A handsome man, but what a weirdo. Even St. Peter doesn’t understand what the hell it is that he’s doing for living, it sounds shady though. I manage to startle the waiters by asking for whiskey. They carry it around and offer it to all men, but if I ask for one, that’s unheard of. Getting annoyed. The leech is unshakable. I find a full table with only one seat left and plant myself there, leaving the leech hanging. He leaves eventually. Tonight, everybody gets drunk again. Except it’s much worse. Umpakaf is pounding his fist on the table yelling at the wait staff, his buddy and co-organizer Riyaz falls on the ground. Just staggers and splat! He’s flattened on the floor. Thank god most of the participants have left already. Umpakaf is sitting on a dinner table, wobbling about dangerously. We opt for a quick escape.

August 26, 2005
The last day in India. I pack in the morning and drag the suitcase, and the assorted bags along with me everywhere. I don’t have enough energy to pay attention to the conference really. I sit next to general Kuldip Singh Bajwa. A major general, not just any general. Though retired. General is an old flirt, very amusing at that. He gives me his book on Jammu and Kashmir, where he served. Goody. Next time I’ll at least know something about them. He’s a Sikh, not that it really matters. Just throwing it out there.
Rohit brings a friend Sharad for lunch. I like Sharad. He is one of them kind people. You know how somehow you can just tell that somebody is kind? Just by the way they smile and by the warmth in their eyes, some genuine aura about them. Sharad is like that. He does a comics project in rural India, and anyplace rural really. They teach villagers the drawing techniques, and villagers then tackle all sorts of social issues through this art form – from AIDS, through water conservation, untouchables, anything that needs addressing in their communities. It’s a bloody fantastic project.
I am growing steadily gloomier and quieter. Leaving in the night, I start thinking about Vienna – what the hell am I doing in Vienna – and my dissertation – why did I start writing it in the first place? Not really looking forward to go back, I’d much rather stay in Delhi for, well, forever. We go for dinner with David, Rohit, and Sharad. We decide to capture this whole bizarre conference in a comics form. Umpakaf will be the superhero. I think his main powers should be deafening lisping and some vile slimy substance that will suffocate people. At least we have a driver to drive us around, that makes up for some of it. Sharad has to run. Soon we leave, too. Drop David off at Sharon’s. Drom Rohit off at the hotel. Drop myself off at the airport… Growing grumpy. I had three drinks at the restaurant, am sick and tired. Sleep most of the way home. Come home as if not to disappoint expectations of people: dirty, smelly, sick. How one should return from India. I resolve to remain dirty and smelly for away. I refuse to wash India out of my hair just yet.

Indian Diary of a Worldly and Street-smart Traveller II.

Indian Diary of a Worldly and Street-smart Traveler II.

Friday 12th August.
I sit on my little suitcase and for the third time I try to convince the zipper to close. It doesn’t budge. Gore-tex jacket has to go. And a few this and thats, too. Finally everything is trapped inside. Mustn’t accept any gifts or buy anything bigger than a latke, I vow. I don’t know why or where I would get latkes in India anyway.
At Schwechat, I already know there is free wi-fi at the C terminal, so I gaily fire off emails to all corners of the world about my upcoming adventures. To my surprise I find out the flight from Frankfurt to New Delhi is only 7 hours long. I expected 12 or more. Good good. Journey is exceptionally uneventful, I watch some Bollywood movie about family drama involving broken hearts of a multitude of people, random dancing in the rain, shy but very very meaningful glances of couples at each other with a hint of a possibility of a kiss – the usual. I read the training manual that I, David, and Jasmine put together for trainings in India. What on Earth am I going to teach Nagas from Nagaland and business students in Kerala? Anyway, I’ll deal with that later. My only goal is to get myself from international to domestic terminal at the airport in Delhi. Should be easy enough.
I get to Delhi shortly after midnight. Collect my little ready-to-burst suitcase (did I mention that it is little, though? I am very proud that I managed to limit myself to a tiny little suitcase) and look for some signs. No signs. Great. I ask around. What airline am I flying with? Damn. If only I could remember. The worldly and street-smart traveler forgot to print the information, as well as address and phone number for Hillel and David in Delhi. “Air India”, I offer. Puzzled looks. Air India does not fly to Kolkata. I put forth the Indian Airlines instead, just wanting to get to the domestic terminal. Well, there’s a bus going from around the corner. Merrily I proceed to the bus. I need to show my flight ticket. I don’t have it. Hillel has all the tickets and I am to meet him, David and Jasmine at the check in. I curse under my breath and kick myself in the shin again for not printing out anything. I am sent upstairs to the Indian Air office at Gate 1. I drag my suitcase, computer bag and purse upstairs. Hot and humid air mixed with dust and smoke hits me immediately. Carefully I step over tens of street people sleeping on the pavement. At the Gate 1, I am again asked for the ticket. I explain that that’s why I’m there, to get a replacement, or at least some sort of a paper certifying that I am on that flight so that I can get on that bus. No no no, I must go to gate 3. From Gate 3 I am sent to Gate 4 and from there again to Gate 1. I patiently explain again. Determined not to move unless somebody helps me I stand in front of the guard silently and produce the most pleasant and helpless smile, batting my eyelashes. After awhile, he brings some Indian Air representative. It’s simple, I should just take a pre-paid taxi from downstairs, where I came from. I curse under my breath again, smile firmly cemented on my face. Downstairs again through all the sleepers. After some time I manage to exchange some money (sounds easy, but you go try it at the Delhi airport in the middle of the night) and locate the prepaid taxi. I only spent hour and a half at the international terminal and am already on my way to the domestic terminal. Hooray. I have all the time in the world, the flight leaves at 7am.
At the domestic terminal, surprise surprise, they demand the flight ticket from me. Otherwise I cannot enter. I ask the guards whether I can stand there with them for the next five hours before my colleagues come with the tickets and practice my newly learned skill of a helpless cheerful blonde. They caucus for awhile what to do with me, and finally let me in. I have to sit where they can see me. I sit down, exhausted yet wired up, excited to find out I can get online. Not five minutes pass and I am joined by a character in a white linen suit and a hat, considerably drunk and eager to talk. Well I am a courteous young lady, so with the character I talk. It seems he has spilt at least one or two full cups of coffee on himself. I am soon to understand why. He is making rounds around the terminal, buying everyone cups of coffee and chatting them up if they aren’t able to resist him. I ain’t. During our conversation he claims he is a political science professor, journalist, jazz musician, a poet, hotel owner and Lord knows what else.

I am online, so I check him out. Mr. B., who is on the other side of the instant messenger, does some detective work too. There is indeed a Baljit Malik who is a jazz singer, there are even at least two journalists by that name, who knows. He hands me his small collection of poems about jazz. They’re not bad, either. Unfortunately later he took it back and gifted it to two Brazilians sitting across from us, whom he brought into the conversation. “We will see each other soon” he explains to me. Baljit brought me three cups of coffee within the three or four hours he shared himself with me, so I am all hyper by the time Hillel and David get to the airport. People from the café give each of us a complimentary box of coffee and a cup – Baljit must have really gone to town there. Damn. First gift. No space for a box. I force it into my computer bag. Jasmine comes, we get her through the security guards, armed up to their teeth, and off we fly to Dimapur in Nagaland.

Saturday, 13th August.
Nagaland looks very Naga-like from the plane. I know the Naga are hill people, so I expect to see hills. Hills there are. Many, everywhere. There are rice paddies on the hillsides, not much else. When we land, we are surprised to see about 50 soldiers guarding the clearing around the one and only short runway with automatic rifles pointed into the fields. Naga are tribal people and there was a lot of violent history among themselves as well as between them and the Indian army, but is it that bad? Wearily we proceed to a terminal that’s even smaller than Bratislava’s (there should be a competition for the world’s smallest airport in any given capital city). Our friends are waiting for us, even though we are some two or three hours late. After we fill out a half a meter tall stack of paperwork to accompany out restricted area permits for the Naga government, Indian government, Naga intelligence services, Indian intelligence services and who knows who else, we are loaded into jeeps and off we go to the hotel. Nagaland looks very much like Nepal or Tibet to me. Not that I’ve ever been Nepal or Tibet, but that’s what I imagine Nepal and Tibet looking like. People here are Mongolic, they don’t look like Indians at all.
After what seems like weeks of traveling without sleep we check into our rooms. Our ‘deluxe suits’ are quite simple, rather run down rooms with bare floors. I meet a new friend in the bathroom – a big bug, size of a five year old child’s fist, with long antennas and a quizzical look. He likes to camp between the sink and the bathtub. We learned to tolerate each other’s presence, though after a day or two my friend started to claim the center of the bathroom and when the light bulb blew and my only source of light was from the room, I had to pay extra attention to his whereabouts.
TV in Nagaland has every channel you can think of. I fall asleep to the American Chopper episode, which I thought was a quite bizarre experience. Who’d ever thunk one could (or ever would) watch such things in a land of head hunters and giant cockroaches…

Sunday 14th August
Today we start the training. Bright and early, for nine or ten hours almost straight. Luckily we have everything more or less set up, with plenty of exercises and role plays. Nagas are very reflective people. Deeply spiritual, even though they are way too humble to admit it. Training goes well, though we have not taken the Independence Day into account. Dumb of us. Perhaps it wasn’t the best of ideas to come during the Naga Independence Day (albeit unsuccessful independence, celebrated today) and Indian Independence Day, celebrated tomorrow. Something always goes wrong on independence days. Things blow up, people protest and clash, traffic halts and life is generally annoying.
We retire to our deluxe chambers early, to keep company to our insect friends. I have a deadline for and article for SFPA, actually due days ago. Impact of G8 on Africa. I’m not sure if I know more about that then I do about Nagaland, but such is life. Tough… I watch Seinfeld and Friends – since they are on TV. It would be rude not to… I shall get back to G8 and other villains tomorrow.

Monday, 15th August
Nagaland is a dry state. Theoretically. Practically it doesn’t look any different than your typical Slovak village on any given day. Corridors in the hotel smell of beer, men stagger around with red watery eyes blabbering something paranoid. Those that are not drunk, are high. Nagaland is directly on the Silk Road, connecting India to China. Very strategic position. Especially for smuggling of drugs, arms, and prostitutes. Heroin can be exchanged here for a kilogram of salt (which is rare and in demand) and is of the purest quality. Many young people are addicted. AIDS has become the problem #1. In fact, at least one of our participants, is a former addict. Now he works with youth at the Baptist Church.

Nagas are deeply spiritual and religious. Former head hunters, they have captured their first missionaries and essentially forced them to educate the Nagas. Self-imposed conversion. The Baptist missionaries have ventured into the neighboring Manipur (or Mizoram?) in the 19th century. They were scared of the head hunters from Naga hills and did their best to stay out of their way. Once they were spotted by the Nagas though, they were done. Nagas were convinced that those white people are gods – as one of the Naga fables recounts that such deity will descend to Earth to uplift the Naga people – and naturally abducted them to teach their children. Quite an inventive approach towards shortage of teachers problem. Soon enough the Baptist Church was everywhere in Nagaland. Today over 90% of the Naga are Baptist. Christian religion is strangely close to the old Naga tales – you will find stories about a tower very much like Babel, that lead to the fragmentation of Naga people into tribes with different languages, or a story about the flood which only one ship with the Naga people survived… Bible was a hit, actually still is.

I have time to sit and ponder all of this, because our participants are late today. The public transportation is out of business for today. It’s a security measure. Nagas don’t like the Indian Independence day, which is the day when they were forced into the Indian Union against their will. Things are messy within India itself. A bomb blast here, a riot there, five people’s throats slashed over elsewhere… We just have to hope nobody will think of kidnapping us silly Westerners in order to make some sort of a statement against India today. Mental note: never come to Nagaland during the Independence Day again. Finally we assemble and start another training marathon, until late in the evening. I’m not sure how much are our trainees getting out of it, as we stuff concept upon concept into them. Debates are good though.
In the evening, we are taken to meet with an army general who had his back and legs broken in 1980s with a rifle butt. Nagaland was in war with India for over 50 years. Now he’s trying to negotiate peace with India. Unfortunately the Naga demands include a condition of including what they consider Naga territories into the future semi-independent or autonomous Nagaland (whatever the arrangement with India will be). That would leave the neighboring Manipur with some 10% of their current territory, and carve significant chunks out of other four neighboring states.

For dinner we are taken to one of our trainees’ house. Her tribe is from an area close to Bangladeshi border. A group of Chiung men came to sing us their songs. They’re all decked out in their traditional black and red costumes with white sea shells. Those are interesting, since Nagaland is perfectly landlocked. There are theories that Naga are actually related to people from Papua New Guinea and New Zealand. They ventured towards Nagaland overseas, camping on the ocean side for a few centuries before they moved inland in the first few centuries AD. That would make sense, Papuans are former head hunters, too. Even their languages are said to be related.



Singing is very interesting. Melodic, with deep harmonies. Every now and then someone yelps or hollers some sort of a warrior cry, startling the living daylights out of me. We eat traditional Naga food, which involves lots of rice and meat. Less spicy than Indian food, more of a comfort food.
I can see how saturated the next two weeks will be. Must brace for it. Tomorrow we head into Kohima – city up in the mountains. We are pretending to be tourists, for our entry permit is for tourism. Somebody ‘cleaned’ my room. That means somebody invaded my private space and wreaked havoc within my orderly mess. Every little last sock is folded, everything I had out is neatly stuffed into somewhere. Where it doesn’t belong. Arrrgh. I pack my little suitcase again, mier nich dir nicht this time (no pretense of any design to my packing) and close it purely due to my resolve and faith and hope that I didn’t pack my cockroach friend or any lizard into it. I vow to be more orderly and keep my suitcase closed.