photos

http://eastwood.zenfolio.com/

This is where I have started putting photos. The Tibet gallery is locked but you can check out the ports and what I have sent to an upstart company by the name of Form and Matter.

Say what you like about tourist traps, that is still one good looking building.

Balaji

Aside from the ritualistic tradition of kicking politicians to the curb, Washington DC is not a city typically associated with the exorcism of evil spirits. However, for those of us that did grow up in the region there is a slightly different outlook. Invariably there was that one-day, when you were entirely too young, that your mother showed up from the video store brandishing a copy of “The Exorcist.”
Watching the movie, of course, created a sleepless world for the next eight to ten weeks. Every time you appeared to be cruising back to normalcy you would inevitably find yourself close to 36th and M street and that monstrous stairs case. This would conjure up horrible reminders of projectile vomit, young girls stabbing themselves in the crotch with letter openers, and priests tumbling to their deaths.
Maybe I was looking for therapy. Maybe it was just a typical human curiosity. Regardless, when I heard about the Hindu temple notorious for its demon exorcisms, it was the Washingtonian in me that said ‘let’s go.’


The town Balaji is in between Jaipur and Agra just inside the state of Rajasthan. When I purchased my bus ticket for the four-hour trip the man behind the small wooden box of a desk raised his eyebrows.
“You are first tourist to buy ticket to Balaji.” Ever.
At first glance the Balaji looks like any of the thousands of small Indian towns that are attached to bus stands. Carts selling fried snacks, people who are not in the least bit bashful about staring at strange white faces, and small shrines dedicated to any of a number of Hindu gods dot the desert streets. Post-exploration the initial assumption stands up. Except on those days when a family brings a loved one to have an evil spirit exorcised.
Reportedly the scene is something like a festival. The Hindu community comes out in full and it is impossible to even get close to the temple. Large screens broadcast the ritual that takes place inside to those who cannot get better seats.
If only I had been so lucky to see that sight. Unfortunately, there was no demon exorcism on the schedule for my day in Balaji. But after pushing through a rather typical temple whose only point of interest was the spattering of errant rats I came to what could only have been the venue of the exorcisms.


Imagine a Hindu themed miniature golf course minus the balls, holes, and sticks. Fiberglass statues of Gods and prominent Hindu figures, including a mountain home for Shiva, create the ambiance. Hanuman appears as fifteen-foot tall statue, and as a much smaller kingly figure surrounded by larger-than-life dancing monkey companions. Each of the depictions of the gods seems so glib it was a surprise to see worshippers paying their respects.
Other than the truly bizarre temple, Balaji has little to offer. The four-hour bus ride was a bit cruel considering the rewards but there is no denying that operation ‘what the fuck’ was a success. Don’t look for this one to start turning up on any destination hot lists any time soon.

Rats

If there is one key to travel in India it lies in the art of letting go. Those grizzled veterans of the sub-continent are all too quick to let an India neophyte know that it is a waste of time and energy to be thrown off by the plethora of Gods and what some might call odd religious traditions. And it is good advice.

However, about 30 kilometers south of Bikaner in a town called Deshnok is one place that even the most open minded must admit is a little bizarre. The Karni Mata Temple, better known as the Rat Temple, is a rather unique departure from the Shiva linga and Nog symbols that decorate most Hindu sights.

On entrance it is easy to forget what it is that brought you to there in the first place. Eyes drift upward to the arched doorways, only return back down to inspect the marble floors. Not so suddenly the focus switches to the dozens of small brown spots scurrying across the floor. The sight is a little bit of a shock but considering the name Rat Temple, you can be grateful to know, at least they are just mice.

The divine rodents that are known as Kabas run across the floors, hide in corners, and pop out of every available nook and cranny. Bowls of milk attract dozens of the creatures that sip furiously from the dish until the pilgrims who have come to pay their respects replenish it. At the main shrine the rodents crawl over Brahmin priests who take donations of cash and flowers from the faithful.

According to legend and Lonely Planet the rodents were the product of a clash between an incarnation of the Hindu god Durga, and Yama, the god of the death. Durga requested Yama to restore life to the dead son of a grieving storyteller. When Yama declined, Durga responded by reincarnating all storytellers as rats. This was a blow to Yama as it deprived him of human souls. It seems like the storytellers really got the rough end of that one.

Today the temple is part pilgrimage sight and part tourist attraction. Outside of the temple you find all the trappings of an Indian tourist venue. Chai vendors and snack stands line the area and auto-rickshaw drivers wait by the dozen for business.




Inside, it is a spacious walled off square with a wire roof that keeps out birds. In the middle of the enclosure is a building that houses the main shrine. Along another wall is a medal fence that cordons off an area that is strictly for the animals. Cast iron cauldrons that look like they were once used for cooking in institutions that catered to witches decorate the dirt-floored section. Pilgrims line up right to the gate, tossing bits of food and looking for the white rat that is a sign of good luck for those who see it.

The small brown creatures are not menacing like other phobia inspiring animals such as the snake. However, for the Western world that was taught about their roll in the spread of the black plague the sight can be unnerving. While some of the animals appear healthy others have open wounds that ooze blood.

As is custom in most temples shoes are taken off at the door and it is not uncommon for mice to run across a visitors feet. Indeed it is considered to be a sign of good luck. When it does happen though it seems like the same type of good luck that comes after a bird has left its last meal on the top of your head. As in if there were any good luck to be had, the entire incident would have been avoided.

It is easy to imagine that this is no place for the skittish. What’s more is that this place can be hard even on the not so skittish. While it does seem possible for a person to be able to come to peace with the animals, Karni Mata lacks the overwhelming sensation of spirituality found in other places, like the burning ghats in Varansi, which rely on a severe departure from the familiar for their appeal. It is hard, and maybe for a good reason, to climb the health hurtle while bleeding rodents stamp over your bare feet. Regardless, the sight is one that warrants a trip from in (the exceedingly dull) Bikaner and is shore to test ones open mindedness.

No matter where the station clerk says the bus is going you can rest assured that nearly every 3rd world bus is coming from the same place: hell. Weather it is the cramped seats, livestock sitting next to you, or the people pushing past to puke out your window it seems there are always a few reasons to find yourself uttering the phrase again.
Oh my god, this is the fucking bus from hell.
I had just crossed the border from Thailand into Laos. The capital city Vientienne had a few charms to offer, such as not being Thailand, but the city Luang Prabang had been calling too loudly for too long. It was only a matter of hours before I was on my second bus excursion of the day.
It was 20:00 O’clock when I boarded for the nine-hour ride. It took no student of shit situations to see at first glance that this, indeed, was the bus from hell. The seats looked to be inspired by Guantanamo stress positions and the motorcycle in the isles killed any fantasy of ever standing up again.
Thanks to the young body it was a few hours before the pain started. By the time any real agony of note had set in I had already accepted that my knees were going to ride in my nose for the duration. What I could not come to terms with though was the geometrically impossible angle my seat was positioned in. It was nothing short of a modern engineering marvel. Between chair, window, and angle there was no possible way to position my head in a manner that even approached ‘kind of uncomfortable.’ Miserable was the only option.
The X Y axis of evil fought its good fight with my comfort until the early hours of the morning. My pain was pushed further by the gong that clanged out over the PA some noise that was a bastard cousin of melody. The sound was a display of sleep canceling racket I dare any anthropologist to call music.
The bus sped through tight turns that were invisible in the black night. Occasionally a headlight would offer a hint of a rock like a girlfriend offers a hint of cheating. As in, a hint you would much rather do without. Periodic crashes announced potholes and hinted at the possibility that the bus ride had the potential to be the last. The only consolation was that the stench of BO was coming from my own armpits and not the man next to me.
The voice that came over the PA caught my attention for a number of reasons. First, it was no longer a banging gong, and second, it sounded kind of good. Despite the totally unfamiliar language the echo on the vocals was familiar. In fact, it was something I knew. When the horns dropped and the rhythm started my brain refused to believe my ears. I was bewildered that not only was the song not causing me physical pain but was borderline fantastic. I listened intently waiting to realize that I was wrong and it was awful but the moment never came.
I said sleep be damned and sat straight up to sort out the tune that was unfolding before my eardrums. The ChiKA ChiKA rhythm was right, it was just in the wrong place. The lead singer’s scratchy voice turned the unpronounceable refrain over again and again. The only word I could understand was when the word “reggae” was shouted like an explanation that my ears were not deceiving me. The guitarist then moved to beat the snot out of his instrument in a poor mans Jimi Hendrix impression that said this is the raw, real, home grown spiel. I swear you could hear that guitar scream rape.
What could this music be doing here? It was real reggae. The rhythm, drums, and guitars were better than a message and bed. I moved with every bit of the song and its time changes soaking up the audio therapy. For me, the bus no longer existed.

But just as quickly as it started it was over. The gong commenced and I remembered where the bus had just come from. The feeling was awful. I had been felt up and left cold. The bitch of a song told me she loved me then left me high and dry. It was heartbreak. I did not know if I should be grateful for the experience. Or was it worse to have the glimmer of hope only to be dumped back to the dregs of a window seat on the Shit Can Express.
At 6:00am I got off the bus with the rhythm still in my ears. Lush green hills rolled through fog, and orange glimpses of the morning sun echoed the saffron clad monks that went about their business. It was a scene as far away from the pit of the bus as one could hope.
Days later while walking through a market in Luang Prabang I could not believe my ears again. The song was spilling out of a tall single speaker that had a TV set on top of it. On the set was the Karaoke video that accompanied my song. The grainy video was that type of fantastic that only low budget can provide. A fifty something year-old Thai man with dreadlocks wailed out the song in a club filled with real people in the only conceivable setting for a reggae karaoke video.
I did not even bother to ask how much for the disc. In three months the bootleg CD was the only item I purchased without bartering.
With no CD player I relied on chance encounters to hear the track. Once aware of the song it was suddenly everywhere. Markets, sidewalks, even hip-hop remixes in Phnom Penh blared the musical work of genius and graceful timing. It even was the first song played at the American owned bar after Barack Obama was elected president.
Every person I talked to about the song seemed to have a few things in common. First and foremost was the universal appreciation of the track. Even the Beatles had detractors but somehow this Thai reggae jam was beyond that. The second thing they all had in common was their response to a question. It was the question that I hoped would unlock what had become my mystery for Laos. The question was an obvious one. Who is this group? Their answer sits under the song’s “Artist” category in my I tunes library: I Wish I Knew.

NOTE: This guy was trying to convince me it was a good idea to smuggle gems from India to the States. Really it was the kind of employment I have always wanted. You don’t actually do anything and you get a fat pile of coin. But then I remembered I am not an idiot. Regardless, it was about a week after I wrote this. He had the song on a memory stick that I put on my computer and that lead to an album name, that led to a youtube clip, and that answered everything.

I often wonder if what it is the human race is missing is a natural predator. Imagine something dangerous, preferable with big claws and teeth, maybe thick fur, that could come and snatch anyone of us at any moment with no warning. SNARCH and gone.
A Scandinavian woman told me a great story. She had gone on one of those tiger safaris through a tiger reserve where nobody ever actually sees any tigers. After the drive she was enjoying a meal in the town when, behold, a tiger arrived. It sprinted down the block, grabbed a barking dog by the scruff of its neck, and was gone in an instant. Imagine what the other dogs thought. Not one of those pooches was ever the same again. If they had been suburban children the therapy bills would probably made orthodontics and college impossible. Each one knew that in their world there was no safety. I bet the next day they barked less and might have even been more considerate when marking the trees and lampposts they claimed as their own. Just think of the potential if these tigers were lose in NY. Rude police men and the walking spittle that occupies Wall St. They would all be fare game.
While India and Asia is full of things that are best described as fucking bizarre, I can’t say I have seen any creatures that would fill the requirements to be the predator the human race requires. But, I can say I dig the way holy cows keep people on their toes. Many of the bovines get pushed around and “Hut”ed away by the locals but every so often you see one of the creatures that have that air of authority. Kings of potential burger kingdom. I am never quite sure if smacking their ass and screaming is the best way to deal with the big fellas even though if is standard procedure for the others. Their height is close to five and a half feet. They have dorsal fins that would make a great white envious. Their racks look like medieval torture devices.
The traveling God Father has told me stories about the cows taking chunks out of people. Michelle the (flying) Frenchmen was apparently tossed a few meters by one. In Jaisalmer a man told me about a rude tourist being shit all over by another. And just the other day I looked up to see a calf running at top speeds down the narrow street right towards me. It was a close miss and part of me hoped that it would get somebody further down the block. In fact, most of me hoped it would get somebody further down the block.
Unfortunately I have never seen one of the cows really stick to somebody. It is my dark and (not so) secret fantasy to see a rickshaw driver (Branden’s mortal enemy) tossed, maimed, stamped, and/’or crumpled by one of these guys. While it has not yet happened, it is nice to know when you hear that ass hole on his motor bike honking his horn that at least there is a chance that this could be his fate.

Its pretty amazing the number of excuses a person can come up with for not taking a photo. Little kids are boring, I hate it when people look right into the camera, and I feel badly invading this person’s privacy. The last of those is the worse because I don’t honestly care about their privacy, I just feel awkward taking the photo.
Brooks set up this ideal photo in my mind and it has kept me from shooting some flics that by other standards would actually be pretty dope. It roughly works like this: The subject is up to some task, you can see their eyes, they are not looking at you, and it elicits some emotional response. There is also of course great light and nothing coming out of their head and No little kids. NO EYE CONTACT. Maybe the rule of thirds in play.
So I took this shot of these little kids. They looked right at the camera. I said huh, that’s kind of cool.