Behind The Veil

I knew that just because I'd been consuming American pop culture for years, that did not mean I should expect America to seem familiar when I actually got here. Still, I keep getting surprised by the things that surprise me.

I'm still getting used to the wholesomeness of suburbia. The weather is simply flawless. At least it's flawless by my standards; I've heard locals describe it as humid but coming from tropical Singapore that really does not wash. At any rate, it's all too easy to spend an entire evening in the park watching kids play, watching people walk their dogs, watching jet planes silently leave vapour trails high in the sky, watching the moon rise in a crystal clear summer sky. And people are nice here. I don't know how to put it any more expressively. They're just ... neighbourly. And being a bit of a grouch myself, that takes some getting used to!

There are other surprises. I always thought of the US as Political Correctness Central, but I'm amazed at how rude radio talk shows can be. The Presidential elections are a constant backdrop to everything here, and the radio hosts are openly insulting about whichever candidate they do not support. For instance one talk show host insists on refering to Barack Obama as YoBama (the emphasis is his, not mine). I thought I had a thick skin, but even I cringe at some of the remarks I get to hear.

An English colleague who's lived in America for years had an interesting comment to make. "America is more diverse than Europe," he said. "In Europe they all speak different languages but the people are the same. Over here they speak the same language but they're totally different from one place to the next." It's going to be interesting to discover the truth of that observation.

Where Noone Knows My Name

We all have them. The songs that mark certain chapters of our lives, like musical bookmarks. My first ever crush on a girl was set to the music of Dreams by Van Halen. When Sammy Hagar screamed "We'll get higher and higher, straight up we'll climb", he could have been describing my state of euphoria. Later, during my somewhat bipolar years in college, the Doors' provided the soundtrack with Roadhouse Blues. As they pointed out, "The future's uncertain and the end is always near." More recently, as I prepared to leave Singapore, the song that played repeatedly in my head was Leaving On A Jet Plane.

I'm leaving on a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again.
Oh babe, I hate to go
- John Denver

Years ago I read Dune because it was a terribly fashionable science fiction epic. I discovered it was also terribly boring. But somewhere in its ponderous prose was a passage I have never forgotten...
"Thufir, what're you thinking?" Paul asked. Hawat looked at the boy. "I was thinking we'll all be out of here soon and likely never see the place again." "Does that make you sad?" "Sad? Nonsense! Parting with friends is a sadness. A place is only a place."

And that's exactly how I feel about leaving Singapore. Even more so after the frequently overwhelming farewells of the last couple of weeks. What were they like? There were some gruffly spoken goodbyes. Some stiff-upper-lipped nods among the guys, because that's just what guys do. Some hugs. A few tears. Many pictures. A couple of beers. A couple more beers. One karaoke night. Lots of amazing presents, the sort you only get from people who really know you.

And one theme song

It's called Boston. I was introduced to it by a friend who told me I'd find it fits my situation perfectly. She was right.

I think I'll go to Boston
I think I'll start a new life
I think I'll start it over
Where noone knows my name
- Augustana

We knew we'd arrived in a new place when we landed at Newark and saw some boys practicing headspins to the sound of music only they could hear. We're truly going to start a new life tomorrow, when we move into our house. I've been a city rat all my life. Now I'm about to get my first taste of suburbia.

But that's the whole point of moving here: to shake up the life we were living. To change things around and make them fresh and new and exciting again. Exciting is not always pleasant. But then the only thing that's always pleasant is a coma.

I'd rather be awake.

Travelers' Tales

When you travel with someone you create your own story. When you travel alone it gives you a chance to listen to the stories of others.

I heard Tom's story at a bar called 1/2 Man 1/2 Noodle. Tom is a freelance computer programer. He came from San Francisco to Vietnam four years ago to get away from George Bush's America. He says he might go back home if Barack Obama becomes president. I don't think he will. He's too comfortable living with the Vietnamese girl he married. He's too comfortable telling me how the bar we're in got its name: "The owner named it after a British cult band called Half Man Half Biscuit. They became unpopular in the eighties; they were never popular. As to how the band got its name, that I couldn't tell you." Tom is too comfortable living half American half native to go anywhere, I conclude.

Curtis did not come here to get away from anything. His advertising job brought him here. But once he got here he liked the place enough that he changed employers so he could stay on. Now he explains to me his belief that each advertising agency has a different character. His view is that they continue to channel the persona of their sometimes long-dead founders. As the conversation rapidly becomes morbid I turn my attention to Miss Hien.

Hien had no need to escape to Hanoi - she was born here. The escape that she does seek has come to her in the form of an Australian engineer. Six months ago he arrived in the country to help set up its power infrastructure. Now Hien hopes to wed him so that when he goes back home he'll take her along.

And so the stories twirl around me in an erratic choreography. A young Czech explains to a bored German how he once nearly got arrested for riding a motorcycle without a helmet. A cheery young student tells me how he came from his village to Hanoi to study economics, and how he dreams of earning enough money so he can travel to China. The proprietor of the Hue Cafe serves me exquisite Vietnamese coffee and tells me I look like his mathematics teacher. I wonder if his teacher has purple hair.

The time I've spent in Hanoi has been an utterly absorbing interlude. Now I'm ready to go back home and resume my own story.

Of Sidewalks and Serenity

There is a state of mental calmness that once you attain it, it helps you transcend all your anxieties. I entered this state today on the streets of Hanoi. For long minutes I stood on a sidewalk watching a torrent of scooters, motorcycles and bicycles. I was waiting for the traffic to abate for just a few seconds so that I could cross the road. It didn't. After a while I sank into the moment and my legs started ambling across the road of their own accord.

And just as if we were sharing a single collective consciousness, the traffic gently opened up a gap just large enough to surround me. I floated accross it like a bubble drifting on the surface of a pond. When I made it to the other side without so much as a brush with the tide of two-wheelers, I knew that I had fully phase-shifted into my Vietnam vacation.

A little later I was leaning back into a tiny plastic chair. I was on one corner of an intersection; I could see other travelers similarly settled in on the other street corners. A nice old lady poured me a 25cent glass of beer out of a keg through a slighltly dubious little plastic hose. She poured another one for the old Vietnamese gentleman sitting in the chair next to mine. We sipped our beers very slowly in a lazy silence. I came out of my reverie intermittently to take pictures of the world as it passed by us.

After a while the heat of the afternoon had abated a little. I stirred myself to saunter back to my hotel. I think I like it here.

In Praise of Paulistas

It’s always interesting to go to a country for the very first time and form an impression of how the people there think and feel about their lives. I’ve just come away from a short trip to Sao Paulo in Brazil with a deep respect for the people I met there. I’m not sure I’ve been to any other place where they seem so content with what they have. Not complacent, because they clearly have aspirations to better their lot. But those aspirations don’t get in the way of appreciating what they have today.

Simon works in a stockroom in a cable company. In his own words, a big part of his job is moving boxes around. He wants to save some money and go back to school to learn technical skills so he can move on in his career. I’d have thought that his attitude to his current job would be tolerant at best. Not a bit of it. “I love my job”, he said, and by gosh he meant it. He even makes a point of getting to work half an hour early, even thought it’s a 90 minute commute for him and he needs to change buses twice just to get there. But he still hits his job with gusto everyday. Simon lives in a small house with his parents, who are separated but still live together, and with his sister. It seems like an awkward arrangement, yet they seem to be genuinely happy to be with each other.

34-year-old Alex revealed the secret to us. “The best place in the world is my home”, he told us, “it’s with my family that I remember who I am and I renew myself”. He told us without a trace of bitterness that after a 3-year marriage that ended in divorce he has put all his energy into his businesses. He talked about these businesses with pride, and with excitement for his dreams of making them even bigger. But the point where his face truly lit up was when he told us about his five siblings who live within shouting distance, his niece who has recovered from serious illness, and the joyful chaos when they all got together for Mothers’ Day a few days ago.

I’ve been places where people are content with what they have, and I’ve been places where they are excited about what they will accomplish in the future, and I’ve been places where people talk with passion about how their lives are centered on their families. But it’s only in Brazil that I’ve heard people talk about all three meshed together so perfectly that regardless of their present condition they are full of happiness and hope.

As Sandra told me half an hour before I took a taxi to the airport: “In Brazil we have a saying, it will all be okay in the end. And if it is not okay, that only means that you haven’t yet come to the end.”

I’ve never heard more beautiful words to live by.

The Ancient Home

Here I am, sitting in Johannesburg, and I think to myself "Wow, I really am in Africa!"

The view from the flight was not what I expected. The city looked almost European, with wide, modern highways and several large clusters of townhouses. It was only on the outskirts, in the farmlands, that the sub-tropical Africa of National Geographic was recognizable. Out there it looked as if someone had carelessly daubed a few faint smears of faded green over a dull brown grass-scape.

At the airport the first thing that struck me was how cheerful everyone looked. I have to say, there is nothing quite as beautiful as a smiling African. Their faces seem to glow with a rich inner radiance that I wish I could share.

Joburg was unfortunately just a transit stop for me. So I did not even get to set foot on the soil of the mother continent. I just sat with my nose pressed to the airport window where I could see out beyond the tarmac and the small twin-engined aircraft parked in the outdoor lot behind the main runways.

The land stretched out flat and brown until on the horizon I could just see the hazy outlines of the highveld. And in my mind I could imagine looking beyond the ridged highlands, soaring over mysterious tropical miles, swooping through the Great Rift Valley, all the way to Luxor and Alexandria.

I wish I could have gotten out and headed out into those grasslands of legend. Where Mother Nature and human nature have met each other in their rawest form for millenia.

I'll be back one day. I know I will.

I Want My, I Want My MTV(.com)

This sentence is an act of dissent. It is a thumbs down against a couple of rather sanctimonious geeks in Canada who do not want me to use my computer today. For that matter they want me to eschew the use of any communication device other than two cans and a string. Apparently if I do as they say then I will be more in touch with humanity and with mother nature. As if that would be a good thing.

Where I sit, nature is hot, humid and inhospitable. I know that in about six months I will be on my knees begging for this weather. But right now I'll just bond with my air conditioner, thanks very much. As for humanity, the less said the better. No, scratch that; perhaps something is worth saying. About messieurs Rajekar and Bystrov for instance, the brains (if that is the right word) behind Shutdown Day.

Rajekar and Bystrov are IT professionals. Last year they discovered that they were spending too much time on their computers. So they invented a day on which misfits like them could unplug for 24 hours. As if it was not bad enough that Hallmark has given us Mothers' Day, Fathers' Day, 2nd Cousin Twice-Removed Day and Let's All Read The Newspaper With One Eye Shut Day, we now also have Shutdown Day. A day on which geeks will nail themselves to the inside of a padded cell and go cold turkey for 24 hours without a computer, television, digital thermometer or any other electronic gadget.

The whole idea that technology cuts us off from other people is totally wrong-headed. I'm sure anyone who reads this blog needs no convincing that the Internet helps us maintain relationships and sometimes build new ones. No, it's not the pointlessness of Shutdown Day that irritates me, it's the presumption.

It's the idea that if a couple of people use computers as a way to hide themselves from having to communicate with real people then that must be what everyone else does too. It's the thought that the world needs rescuing from some sort of dark, machine-worshipping slavery to the mighty microchip. It's the whole born-again attitude: now that I have been saved, it is my duty and my right to save you too, whether you like it or not.

Well here's some news for you, M/s Rakjekar and Bystrov. It's not your duty. And it certainly is not your right. Why don't you go ahead and pry yourselves away from your keyboards with a crowbar. I'll just keep on chatting with my friend who lives on the other side of the world. And we'll meet again tomorrow, when you are 24 hours older, and the rest of the world is wiser.