Colonel Yogi and Plate Tectonics

'Trample the weak. Hurdle the dead.'

This is the latest in a series of T shirt slogans which, over the years, have caught my eye. Reminds me of a birthday present given to a friend of mine in London one year - an inspirational bit of comic-book style illustration, clearly modelled on Fantastic Four type stuff - with the attention grabbing 'I will take down all who stand before me'.

Nothing, however, has yet topped my all time favourite, spotted on the streets of Dayton, Ohio, of all places back in 1993. 'Stop Plate Tectonics' could only have manifested in a university town seriously dedicated to intoxication of various kinds. It is perhaps the most ironic statement I will ever come across. I still savour it.

On another note, I just listened to Nirvana while reading an interview with Margaret Thatcher from 1971 in the Guardian. Such seemingly incongruent and contrasting bedfellows made for a surprisingly complete experience. A woman the same age as the Queen, who came to Parliament in 1959 and became the first ever female leader of a Western nation, tussling with a journalist wearing a sports jacket and tie, backed by a band who were born out of economic alienation and rage inspired by hopelessness; a lack of hope bestowed from the mast of an economic doctrine to which the then Education Secretary would later firmly nail her colours.

On the subject of Facebook - I am thoroughly sick of and repulsed by the whole thing now and have deleted my profile. Ha! Something with such a rapid rise can have only one way to go. Jaldi jaldi!

That ole identity thing

Sometimes this stuff can be slippery right? There I am just browsing the newspapers online and this article unexpectedly gave me a jolt - a part of me actually cares whether or not the All Blacks win the world cup rugby in France. This is less about rugby of course and more about the whole concept of where I feel home is. Looks like I'm split.

I can imagine barracking for the ABs, going nuts as they scrap near the tryline in the last five minutes of a final where they need a converted try to take the prize - they would deserve it; they play great rugby, still, even though we know they can be beaten like everyone else. There is still something special about the team and what it represents. That's not to say that Kiwis are enamoured with their number 1 national icon in the way they once were. Living the rugby of the 50s, 60s and 70s as it happened, fully aware of the aura and mystique the teams embodied in the amateur era, and watching the pros grind out results and star performances for 6 figure compensation are night and day in many ways. In an country once a byword for egalitarianism the concept has been hollowed out and replaced by deunionised free markets. Commercialism may attempt to conflate pride, passion and raw determination with digital broadcast revenues but it always rings hollow - perhaps particularly so when commentators like Murray Mexted get in on the act. We are left then with mere remnants of emotional ties to things like sports teams in such cultural environments. These attachments run deep though and if push comes to shove, and I can find a TV to watch, I will lap up the coming matches.

The tricky bit comes though if England manage an (unlikely) face off with the ABs. I still enjoy the novelty of glimpsing my two passports when I reach into the money belt securely stashed at home here but think little about what they represent, as emblems of belonging, tribal affiliation, right of entry and sanctuary, who I am. A NZ friend of mine recently joked that just because I hold a NZ passport doesn't mean I'm a kiwi - but of course it does. So who would I cheer for in a crunch match? It's finely balanced and I qualify my answer by saying that it pertains solely to the narrow context of international rugby; whoever plays the best rugby. Of course this is likely to be the ABs. Doesn't mean to say I'm about to throw away that slightly ragged, scuffed and well travelled maroon book.

dateline Mysore

I am on the verge of buying a really nice camera - in the meantime here are a few photos of just prior to leaving NZ - a domestic view of Wellington - and a flavour of the road here on a trip out to see nature...cows and fruit truck carnage.

Fag end of the mangos

I feel fortunate to have caught the very end of the mango season. Anyone who knows me may recollect that they are my favourite fruit, indeed along with Teriyaki Tuna steak they are my favourite food of all. If I had to live on just two things those would do fine.

There are lots of varieties to choose from - over 270 apparently - and there are even mango festivals to be witnessed. This is after all the native place of the mango. I wondered out loud if one might find the kind of festival where sloshing around in the pulp, perhaps clad only in a dhoti, would be the form. Of course someone immediately said that to do so in a country where millions barely survive might not be exactly ethical. Yawn.

Feels good to be back here in booming yet somehow relatively laid back Mysore. They are putting in an airport here as we speak and the place is moving on apace with all available land being built on at frantic speed. New restaurants and supermarkets have opened all over the place and the traffic is noticeably thicker even compared to 8 months ago. So is the pollution.

I chatted with P in Wellington about the concept of off setting one's carbon emissions and then the conversation meandered onto giving money to beggars in India. Although previously I have never done this anywhere, this time I am making an exception. We talked about what beggars might do with their money and concluded that it is up to them of course. They can either use it to get absolutely blotto - like the guy I stood next to for a while yesterday at a bus stop in town who was slumped, perhaps ominously, in the recovery position on the smooth cement of the shelter; he was just breathing, though not enough to disturb the flies that peppered his grubby red t shirt and filthy beige trousers which fell almost open around his hips. I had seen him before, in much the same state, though slumped in the middle of the road, last year. Another option for the revenue stream is of course to pay their 'protectors' of which I'm sure there are many here. Finally I thought of the old lady with 3 fingers who crouched almost invisible in a corner of a stair well leading to the dentist a friend of mine used last year. As you pass the fingers they emerge from the half light and if you glance up an impression of dusty blue cloth wrapped around a tired, old and hungry face can prick the conscience. Maybe she can buy Rs10 of carbon offset.

I am currently about 50% deaf. Mainly thanks to the effects of a very clogged up face. Wellington had a revolting cold going around and I seem to have been contaminated - damned cities. After two flights yesterday, from Napier then Auckland to Sydney, my Eustachian tubes simply cannot stand the heat.

Just to pile on the pressure my shoulder is still sore as from aikido - torn ligament in the AC joint - which means that all strong exertion of the shoulder is OUT for another month.

So, with a cold and a sore shoulder I am still very happy to be on my travels - I enjoyed Wellington even though it was cold and wet; there be life! - and waking up on a Sydney morning never seems to lose its charm. Catching up with R and T who have a very cute new baby, Lily, and today having lunch with Tara and a clairvoyant friend of hers - maybe I should try and find out if 'anyone' has advice for my trip to India.

FT.com loses the thread

Gideon -

I gotta say that after an entry like that YOU almost deserve to get nuked - or your editor does (only joking btw)!

Your little sketch is so simplistic it astounds me. I think the FT offices must be a little too comfortable and cosy. Your journalistic specs are misting up mate, perhaps your talents are better deployed on matters less gritty than nuclear 'terrorism'.

First of all no serious commentator thinks it likely that a fullscale nuclear device could be detonated by a group of Jihadis. As you well know the real risk is of a so called 'dirty bomb'. Now THAT is not so far outside the bounds of possibility is it?

"Niall Ferguson, a history professor at Harvard, recently wrote that nuclear terrorism in London was the one “high probability, high impact” threat that “fills me with dread”. He is of course talking about the dirty bomb scenario.

Time to rewrite your article already.

This next point might stick in the gullet a little - but I invite you to compare and contrast remarks and policy decisions of two well known political and religious extremists - Pres GWB and Pres Ahmadinejad. Having done so I defy you to be disingenuous enough to tell me there are not close similarities in general tone, levels of belligerence and intransigence as well as apparent gross stupidity between the two.

Ahmadinejad believes that the US is Satan incarnate. GWB believes in the Creation. Ahmadinejad wants to (if you believe the best known translations) wipe Israel off the map. GWB already has 'wiped' Iraq and Afghanistan off the map and may be about to put the boot in to Iran, no doubt with some kind of 'surgical' strike.

Tell me who you think is more 'unstable' or 'millenarian'. Close call isn't it.

You seem to imply that the issue of fissile material emanating from some corner of the former USSR is under control. I invite you to listen to recent World Service reportage on this very subject. That stuff is turning up in cow and pig sheds right across what used to be known as Soviet Central Asia, and some of it is definitely being trafficked - as per senior representatives of the IAEA who are trying to locate the dastardly little stashes.

As a final thought, North Korea, it is worth mentioning, has just done the Deal of the Century. They are still on the map because they have nuclear weapons already. They beat the US to the punch. They appear to have done a smart deal - they will be left alone if they stop building more. Bizarrely, Kim Jong-Il, as sane as they come according to Madeleine Albright, may be the sanest of the little trio we consider here. Scary isn't it.

Or maybe it just doesn't look that way from where you sit.

Kind regards

Jake

Wellington times

I have been doing a spot of volunteering here in Wellington - just basic stuff for the local foodbank run by the City Mission and also helping out with organisation at the Red Cross here for the First Aid courses they teach as fund raisers.

As the film festival began today I took in Rescue Dawn, directed by Werner Herzog and starring Christian Bale. This is easily the most commercial of Herzog's films that I have seen - the other being Wild Blue Yonder and Grizzly Man. Shot in super saturated retro flavoured high contrast jungle colour Rescue seems to tell the story of Dieter Dengler who, whilst flying his first combat mission as a US Navy pilot, a secret bombing mission over the Ho Chi Minh trail inside Laos, is shot down and subsequently captured by guerrilla fighters below (nowadays they might of course be called 'Terrists'). I say apparently because this really is not a film containing any deep message on the political level. Even the simple stuff like War is Hell is left aside. The story sticks close to Dieter through his multi month sweat drenched ordeal.

It's a kind of Deer Hunter lite. The two films share key elements; the way Dieter leads the rag tag pack of POWs to escape and supports the one comrade who ends up accompanying him into the jungle odyssey which awaits; Bale's realist and pragmatist hero with just enough wildness in his own heart to keep him on the right side of sanity (most of the time anyway).

So it seems a simple story, 'inspired by true events' from the life of Dieter D. Incidentally that particular trope seems to be too ripe to resist since Spielberg used it as an excuse to tell a pack of lies about the Israeli death squads in Munich. But anyway...so we spend a lot of time in the jungle with Dieter. And how beautiful it is to be there. This film does justice to the natural world of South East Asia and contrasts this beauty and its brooding massiveness with the flailing, desperate humans deep beneath the triple canopy. The density and impenetrability of the bush is almost like another character on screen, swiping, entangling and felling the actors in this story of a simple desire to survive.

Our hero is out of his depth but gains a fingernail of purchase on the rim of survival against huge odds and just hangs on. Bale, not always convincing previously although perhaps the scripts were to blame anorexia-like starvation notwithstanding, carries this role brilliantly. It is not a film of gravitas and neither is his acting; he and Herzog have struck the right balance. Dieter comes across as a robust and singly determined individual, but also human and full of compassion. He understands human frailty and Bale shows us this in the way Dieter comes across as a man who seems, to his benefit, to be not quite grown up. The little boy who wanted so desperately to be a pilot is getting the adventure he might just have been looking for but it's 20C hotter than he wanted, the machetes are viciously sharp and snakes and worms don't really taste that good it turns out.

Finally there is a happy ending and this doesn't spoil the film because it's not a thriller or even an action movie in many ways. The 'action' is intentionally muted. It is replaced instead by the small minute by minute dramas of the crash and initial evasion, escape and survival in the jungle and the desperate descent into madness of the other POWs.

This is a surprisingly kind film, set in a war zone. We hate neither the captors nor the captured and there is no sledgehammer of condemnation being wielded. That has been done before and will no doubt be done again. Herzog and Bale have trodden a very fine line in telling this story and end up guiding the film into unusual territory.

Bitchin

There is a huge lump on my shoulder. But that is what happens when you land on it doing a 'roll' in Aikido that is more of a self inflicted 'spear tackle' (as it is technically known in rugby speak here). Thankfully much Hypericum, Arnica and Rhus Tox are doing the trick and hopefully the lump will subside quickly. Because Aikido is fun. Possibly because it is a little bit dangerous.

In other news I have just eaten 4 gold kiwi fruit for breakfast and wondered again what hit the Pentagon on Sept 11st. Next up it's pancakes with vegemite.

Cultural boob

So, apart from nearly going to the wrong venue (if you happen to know Wellington you will know immediately what a dick I am for trying to go to the 25,000 seat Cake Tin/Westpac stadium rather than the 4000 seat TSB Arena) and then being unable to find a car park and nearly missing the whole thing my audience with HHDL all went according to plan. At least from my side of things.

While my preparations were all cool, level headed non-attachment and included waking up too late to consider walking into town, then nearly missing a meeting I had at 11am due to not being able to find a parking space (something that was to happen for a second time just a short time later the same day), not having a watch to know how much time I had and then realising that I hadn't enough change for the Pay and Display so necessitating a brief but enjoyable mid-city jog to and from the nearest ATM then in and out of the nearest 24/7, the DL had clearly found himself in disarray that morning following our meeting at the airport on Monday night.

He took his seat calmly enough, raised as it was on a stage and gilded in Tibetan reds and golds, but I could tell from the surfeit of nonchalance in the way he casually softened up the expectant audience with one anecdote after another about what, exactly, he likes to carry in his maroon shoulder bag that he was clearly rattled. However he soon got over his nerves and pulled it together to begin his discourse: World Peace - a Human Approach.

Basically the meat of it was this - World peace depends on cultivating compassion, while at the same time realising that sometimes action is preferable to just looking on with compassion. Where is this compassion to come from? Well, apparently (and here's the Human bit), the seed of compassion is best sown in the strong emotional ties that can be fostered between baby and mother. To illustrate this the Dalai Lama recounted an old family tale from the childhood of his father.

As a boy his father had been very close to his own mother. This woman, the grandmother of the Dalai Lama (pronounced dally laama round these parts), had cultivated an very strong bond with her children, thus ensuring a supportive and solid family structure and environment. Her children would not want for the attention of their mother. A deep spring of compassion and love would flow within the family, eventually manifesting among other things in the person of the 14th Dalai Lama himself. Just how strongly the bond between mother and child had been spun could be seen from the fact that the young boy would rush home after a hard day in the fields and demand to be taken to his mother's breast, there to suckle. Even though there was no milk to be had as it had been 10 years since this birth.

It was these last two concrete details which kind of took the sheen off the moment really. True to form the Lama chuckled good naturedly at his own joke, as is the wont of the Lamas I have thus far encountered. Unfortunately, this being New Zealand, not too many other members of the audience felt inclined to share in his sprightly mirth. I felt a wave of discomfort wash back and forward around me, like a wave in a bath tub filled with 4000 people where you kind of slap the surface and watch the ripples rebound off the sides, to and fro.

This passed after a few moments luckily.

I elected to leave before the final questions but these apparently included one asking for his views on euthanasia and another asking whether or not being in a committed (or presumably any) relationship is a barrier to becoming enlightened. The answer to this last one was apparently a diplomatic 'yes'.

Two birds with one stone

The guy in the grey suit, large checked yellow and pale blue shirt and dark blue tie had strolled down the narrow concourse between the arrival gates some minutes earlier. He was in his mid 30s, with neat but slightly weathered features – like someone who spends time outside. Perhaps they like hiking, or they were in the army. What with the mini scrum of gathering media types, small cameras and security tags hanging from their necks, this lone individual didn’t catch our attention at first, but then N noticed he had a mini earpiece and was doing the ‘talking to the cufflink’ thing every few minutes. Must be the next flight then, we guessed.

It was pretty warm in the terminal and I was starting to get thirsty. I wandered to the drinks machine and back, feeling slightly dehydrated but unwilling to shell out the $3 for a small bottle of what was probably tap water.

As I turned my back to the wall railing and lent against it my gaze caught a new arrival strolling past – amazingly this little jaunt had just killed two birds with one stone. Helen Clark, the NZ PM, walks past with her security detail and into the door of gate 17. Clearly going to say hi to the DL out of the glare of the media. They had been fed the story that this visit wasn’t to be officially recognised as the pair had ‘accidentally’ met at Brisbane airport a week or so earlier, thus obviating the need for them to meet again but it would seem that she is at the very least more polite than that and possibly simply more honourable. I suppose if you line them up together you could argue that you have the two least corruptible public figures in the world side by side.

We hang around a few more minutes and then notice a press man shuffle quickly in front of the open double doors and snap a couple of flashlit shots off. Clearly the arrival is in progress now and a few seconds later a group of about 8 people walk steadily into view, just a metre or two in front of me. The press and a few suited Tibetan types gather ound as they keep moving through. The Dalai Lama is of course exactly as you expect him to be – right down to the bare right arm poking from his robe and the dark cherry red, polished but slightly scuffed clompy shoes he wears with grey ankle socks.

I walk up the concourse next to him with just one security person between us. On the short video N took you can see the small, and I mean small, bald spot on the crown of my freshly clippered head. Casually strolling along next to the Dalai Lama.

He is not a person I had given a great deal of thought to previously, though we have tickets to see him speak on ‘A Human Approach to World Peace’ today in Wellington, but I have to say that as he came into my view from the doors of the arrival gate I felt something. You could barely name it really. If anything it was like the impression of a small pulse or wave passing through and around the immediate vicinity. The ghost of a shimmer. A simple presence perhaps.

As the entourage proceeded along towards the main hall in the terminal filled with coffee, book and underwear shops there was a larger gathering of people, many from the local Buddhist community of course plus the rest of the airport population for the evening, caught unawares but readying the camera phones or getting excited anyway. Some walked past in the opposite direction, looking at this red robed individual with blank unknowing stares, perplexed and even a little put out. Somehow resentful that they didn’t know who this was.

While N struggled to get the perfect shot from behind the gain line, P and I just took up position at the end of the informal greeting queue and casually, gently, shook his soft hand and said hello as he passed by; a slightly stooped 71 year old Tenzin Gyatso without any hand luggage.