TEN
My original Darwin - Singapore ticket put me in a small bus with eight other European
travellers; this bus and its driver carried us precipitously and without much apparent concern for
tomorrow from Denpassar to the western end of Bali where we thankfully exchanged the mad
bastard and his minibus for the salubrious ferry to Java. The trip through Java to Jakarta was
without incident passing through Surabaya and then Jogjakarta, epicentre for the wax-based tie-
dying arts of Indonesia, the batik industry; both cities densely crowded with people and things;
smells sweet, sour, foul, heavenly, putrid as though the human population, having existed for so
long in the one place could finally be itself, a contented tangle of negotiated compromises.
Nothing underground here.
The city of Jakarta was largely unrecognisable; even the central canal seemed to have gone –
maybe the city’s centre had migrated elsewhere attracted by proliferating concrete, steel and
glass skyscrapers. I laboured through the crowds and the saturating heavy heat and headed for
the port, disinclined to spend time in the city even though it may have harboured here and there
fragments of my childhood occupation – perhaps I might have found the Italian restaurant where
the waiter had taught me, all those years ago, to eat pasta with a fork and spoon or maybe the
suburb we’d lived in was still recognisable. But such prospects held little charm so, jumping into
a betjak, I asked the peddler take me to the port where I hoped (ticket scheduling was a loose,
open-ended arrangement) to find a ship preparing to sail for Singapore.
The ship was there, huge belly kissing the dock, several access ramps carrying an evidently
endless stream of cargo on board. Busy place. Was there room for one more? No baggage,
nothing to take up too much room, just a small bit of deck would suffice. But the deck was wall
to wall people and their children, chickens, packages, the odd goat. The office said that this trip
was booked out, the ship packed to capacity. The next one wasn’t for another three days. Three
more days in Jakarta? I was desperate to get on. A fellow I’d met on the dock had a booking on
this trip and suggested I could get on the ship masquerading as his porter. He had a couple of
bags one of which was quite heavy, so I picked it up, my own small shoulder bag hardly
noticeable and followed him up the gang plank where his ticket was checked by the steward. My
acquaintance indicated his bag and said something; as I got to the steward he nodded at me and I
just kept walking, carrying on my accomplice’s bag. For the next hour and a half before the ship
sailed I moved around the crowded deck and avoided anyone who looked official. I did have a
ticket, but it was just not for this trip. Clearly the authorities were not that concerned about
overcrowding and in the end, in spite of the ship being dangerously packed from a European
perspective, the comfortable familiarity with which Indonesians live in large numbers in close
proximity meant that I wasn’t ever questioned…just another passenger faced with the singular
task of finding a small corner on the thickly packed upper deck to lie down.
It was a two-legged journey stopping off on the southern tip of Sumatra in a place called
Tanjungpinang. Just a large village really. I got off the ship for a wander around with a couple
I’d met on deck, had a meal – no dining facilities on ship so far as I could tell – and strolled back
on board, heading straight for my preferred spot, right on the front of the rusting steel hull, one
leg draped on the port side the other on the starboard side, sitting astride this colossal machine
invisibly extending its entire throbbing mass behind me as I gazed into future’s wide horizon, the
cool breeze intensifying as the ship strained for her cruising speed to Singapore. At times, below
me in the green waters, pods of dolphin rode exuberantly the currents surging before the ship,
their pleasure infectious as I sat astride this narrow world, a small man riding the interface
between steel and sea.
Singapore, and my first footfall on the Asian continent, did not at first have much to distinguish
it from the hustle of Indonesia aside from the fact the natives could speak English. The customs
officials, sharply turned out in crisp ironed white shirts and baggy khaki shorts, had, at the time,
a brief to shield the island nation from the contagious corruptions then thought to be carried by
men whose hair length extended over their collar. I’d heard about this alleged plague threatening
the ordered little world of Singapore and not wanting to be identified as a possible carrier and
denied right of passage had cut my hair off, totally camouflaging the lurking anarchy which had
the authoritarian rulers of this once-upon-a-time English enclave nervous as hell.
Ridiculing the island and its fears rebounded in a most unpleasant way as though my scorn had
offended the place; and just to let me know that a nation state may do as it pleases, it caste me
down, sicker than a baited dog as I groaned, vomited, spewed, diarrhoead, puked, writhed and
sweated for two days as a toxic invader and a million of his mates picnicked through my
suffering body. I beat them all in the end, but it was hell on earth there for a while, Singapore
vanished, the off-white walls in my hotel room went a kind of suppurating green; I was never
going to eat again.
Actually the food in Singapore was fantastic; the city had an army of providers along its roads,
serving a mind-boggling variety of stuff to the passing parade, it just happened the excellent
flavours disguised the tiny bacterial freeloaders in the dish of noodles which then ran amok in
my gut. The city officials would have been better advised to forget about long haired hippies and
their degenerative mind disorders and instead clean up the kitchens. It’s a point of view.
Like all good disease, you learn from the experience. Well, your body learns. That was the last
time I got sick in my journey through Asia, the Middle East and Europe. And it had nothing to
do with careful consumption; like women who perennially forget the excruciating pain of
childbirth and do it again, wherever I went I would eat whatever was in front of me, apparently
now oblivious to the uncomfortable encounter in Singapore. But that brief disease seemed to
have inoculated me from further infestations so I travelled, eating and drinking without concern
or dire consequences. With one memorable exception in the chill nocturnal Kumaon hills of
northern India…
After a few days to recuperate, wandering around the neatly trimmed parks and gardens I was
fascinated by the variety of monkeys whose main game seemed to be to entertain their human
cousins with outrageous theft and thrilling agility, not to mention ill-concealed mischievous
intent. What is it about monkeys? Diminutive analogues for us more sophisticated bipeds, their
antics offer a glimpse, a surreptitious tear in civilisation’s fictive seal. We peer through, perhaps
not quite believing, but entranced by the subliminal resonance of an ancient memory.
From Singapore to mainland Malaysia there’s a bridge. I walked across it and headed for a train
to shunt me north to Kuala Lumpur. This city seemed to float in a hot sea of tumescent air,
speckled red flowering trees and baking bitumen. Somebody had told me the Sikh temple offered
free accommodation to travellers. The bearded, turbaned men were kind and considerate,
affording me a bunk in a small, dark concrete room, clean and quiet. They made no demands
beyond drug prohibition. At dinner time the kitchen confirmed the culinary reputation of this
generous people. Their reputation as security and transport workers I wasn’t to discover until life
in India would reveal the specialising imperatives caste within her cultures.
From KL the trail went north to Thailand. From the Thai border town a disconsolate old steam
engine dragged a line of packed carriages all the way to Bangkok, a massively spreading fungus-
like growth the train slowly penetrated eventually reaching into the heart of this most chaotic of
cities. More noise, rubbish, cars, motorbikes, clutter, cramped housing, tiny alleyways, doors and
windows than anywhere I’d ever been; the roads seemed like they’d been designed by a different
committee for each block where no one knew what anyone else had in mind beyond the broadest
idea of creating a surface for vehicles and people. A good deal of the time the directional flow of
these surfaces appeared completely undetermined, much like traffic on a river. No doubt the
massive volume of traffic slowly ground its way to a destination; the whole thing, beastlike,
animate, perhaps even sentient did have a whiff of organisation about it but to one just blown in
on a whim, the sensation of being carried along by this thing was…uncanny. The river metaphor
is a good fit for Bangkok as the whole city seemed hedged by canals and rivers, streams,
swamps; people living on the water because that’s the only space left, everywhere loosely tucked
and shambolic. Maybe it was the other way round. Maybe the first people to live here lived on
the water and when that became too crowded eventually moved onto reclaiming land and
brought their water world with them so that now their roads behave like rivers…
Accommodation in a place like Bangkok can be anything you like, but I wasn’t here to look at
temples, zoos, the sex industry or duty-free shopping - just simply passing through. But so
massive is the place, so intense its gravity that for four or five days I wandered, cloudlike,
trapped in the miasma of this effluent place. As a child I’d passed through Bangkok with my
parents and we’d done many of the touristy things and places, including one memorable
encounter with the Reclining Buddha. It was enclosed in a building tailor-made and tight around
the giant polished bronze image leaving only a thin margin along its flanks for the faithful and
the curious to try to take in this extraordinary object. My mother had whispered in my eight-
year-old ear that this Buddha was famous for his ability to smell a lie. Anyone who’d ever told a
lie would be identified by said reclining object of worship which would then crush the offender
by rolling off his plinth. Bloody hell thought I, backing into the wall and sliding as quickly and
as quietly as I might to the exit where the scorching white light and heat of the outside world
suddenly beckoned attractively.
So I’d done the temple thing before; now I strolled past outside, observing detachedly the
saffroned monks and their begging bowls, the many polished Buddhas, their humble supplicants,
the unblinking continuity of belief that determined the lives of vast numbers of human beings. In
spite of Thai Buddhism’s non-theistic ideology its style and preoccupation with glitter and gold
had strong similarities with pre-reformation Christianity with its rich traditions and ritualistic
worship of myths, idols, relics and saints, none of which, in my view, had any authentic
relationship with the inner life of the Spirit I so earnestly sought. So I meandered about
eventually returning to my cheap hotel room.
To get to the room you had to walk through a restaurant and climb a set of stairs in the back.
Upstairs the rooms were cool and dark, tall ceilings. Beds comfortable enough but the walls did
not go all the way to the ceiling. About three quarters of the way up they became spaces filled
with an insect proof material. No mosquitoes, always a blessing, but plenty of noise from the
other bedrooms. Innocent as I was, not to say naïve, the good number of gorgeous young Thai
women in the restaurant at all hours did not suggest any extra services available through the Thai
Song Greet (transliteration questionable) hotel. Very friendly they were those girls; they’d smile
and laugh a lot at me, sitting, diligently tossing down the fabulous fare fired out of the open
kitchen. It never occurred to me they were sex workers until late one night the sounds of their
trade floating over into my room eventually woke me up as to why those girls stared and giggled
at me so boldly. So I was staying in a brothel, but thanks to the accommodating nature of the
owners, nobody ever put the hard word on me to buy the product. Or even the soft word. The
workers were essentially passive and apparently not required to tout for business. Maybe that’s
why the rooms were so cheap: the number of guests not taking advantage of the hotel’s plat-de-
jour must have been negligible and adequately compensated for by the regular contributions
from the girls. I don’t think I ever really got my head around the idea that people pay for sex.
What are you buying …the license to walk away undisturbed? I thought the maintenance and
negotiation was integral to the fun, stirring in complex emotional flavours and accelerating
intensity without which sexual relations would seem to be not much more engaging than
masturbation. OK, naïve.
For an inadvertent cuddle between the carnal and the religious there’s probably no riper city on
earth than Bangkok; its two syllabled name a combination of a euphemism for fucking combined
with and a penis vulgarism…no wonder the place is teeming with religious iconography – for
balance?
North of Thailand lies Burma, or Myanmar as the ruling military junta prefers to call it and in
1971 it was, like today, a paranoid state and did not allow casuals to wander through, so an
alternative was to overfly the hapless and oppressed population. As my Indian destination lay
somewhat to the north-east of Delhi, it was to that city I flew in one of Air India’s finest. Rattling
and shaking, the old plane lunged gamely towards the end of a Bangkok runway and I for one
wasn’t entirely convinced she’d make it into the air. But make it she did, lifting slowly and
painfully, her engines howling but still not drowning out the clatter and bang of loose fittings in
the cabin. Reaching cruising altitude, and by way of contrast, the sari clad hosties glided, silky
smooth, down the aisle with their obligatory refreshments and confidence inducing smiles. After
some hours banging through the skies of south Asia, landing did not straight away discourage the
shy disquiet lying low in the belly as the steel machine’s pilot pounded the plane’s ageing body
down onto a blistering New Delhi tarmac. It was the middle of the night, weak lights pooled orbs
of mad insects as I walked towards the terminal, my body instantly dripping sweat, tuning into
the surprising, saturated nocturnal heat, mind absorbing the density of human activity servicing
the airport as though here there was no night. No night here, just the work, the bustle, the
business trucking on, immune to the niceties of waking and sleeping. Here it was permanent
daytime, hot, clammy, permanently awake in the dark. Crowds of dusty carry-wallahs lay over
their carts, taxi drivers in casual clusters playing cards, bright eyes beaming from dark faces,
child entrepreneurs, beggars, all touting for trade or exchange, something, anything, all having
some relative or best buddy with just the place you needed to wash away the sweat and adrenalin
of your encounter with Air India and the evening air of New Delhi.
I’d been told about some good cheap accommodation in the old city, frequented by the overland
crowd, the doped-out drug tourists; eventually I found a driver who would take me there rather
than to his cousin’s obviously much better arrangement. That was no easy negotiation; the
competition for tourist money was intense, it really was a matter of survival. The roads and
alleyways into Old Delhi witnessed the precarious nature of survival here with people and their
meagre possessions sleeping clustered and sheltered with rags or cardboard or bits of sheeting,
tangled woven humanity carpeting just about anywhere you cared to look. The old city was still
humming and trumpeting late in the night as the taxi very slowly waded through the confusion of
people and cars, trucks and Harley Davidson taxis, bicycles and cows, India’s facsimile street
cleaners, languidly chewing up old paper and bits of rubbish, gazing about with supreme
detachment, knowing their place, unchallenged in this Hindu world, supremely confident in their
lot. India is a place big on knowing your lot, your place in the scheme of things, an ancient order
cruel and dispassionate in its application.
The hotel was tucked into a corner of what seemed like the core of a teeming termite colony
wedged between two extraordinary sweet shops loaded with an uncountable variety of delicacies,
the whole quarter a chaos of shops and eateries all still busy trading with the apparently infinite
crowds who surged about, lit by a weak and limping electricity supply struggling for authority in
a conspiracy of shadows.
The hotel had a couple of beds available, but no rooms. The vacant beds were up on the roof.
After climbing five or maybe six floors up the zigzag spine of this very old, dilapidated building,
I emerged into the warm close air of nighttime Old Delhi and rooftop accommodation with a
view. Weakly bleeding lights from a mega city, in dark equation with smoke, exhaust fumes and
whatever volumes of unknown pollutants, had combined to render the dark grey and pink sky
blank, with no stars to see, but on the ground, in an inverted parody, billions of tiny twinkling
lights to the horizon. Under such a sky and in such a city I lay down to sleep, tired and oblivious
to the other hotel guests sharing this marvelous place.
Life in Delhi was a pleasure. To have arrived in India must have been some sort of relief as the
constant urge to catch a bus, a train, get on down the road, seemed to evapourate in the staring
heat of Delhi. With her blue skies pale and dilute from dust and pollution, her carrion vultures
spiraling high above the red walls of the ancient fort I wandered the streets of the old city.
Sometimes for the pure fun of it I’d jump one of its Harley taxis – this machine represented a
significant evolution from its antecedent, the Indonesian betjak, inheriting the advantageous and
spectator friendly design of the betjak where passengers sit in the front facing cab, but relieving
the Harley rider of the humiliation of peddling another human being. The Harley driver was in
comparatively effortless heaven, his cab driven by 1000cc’s of internal combustion;
unfortunately the city’s air was not so heavenly - in part thanks to the many hundreds of such
engines pumping out their toxic exhaust. But what a great way to get about a dense and crowded
city, providing a dress circle spectacle, a front row seat where you could reach out and run your
hand along the side of a cow meandering across the road as the driver gently circumnavigated the
sacred beast. Life in India would prove to be a fantastically sensory experience.
But that’s not what I was there for; I didn’t even have a camera! Unthinkable in today’s highly
technologised world where all experiences can be, must be, mediated through some product,
some piece of equipment, some agency, all of which, in an accumulation of small ways, adds up
to robbing the traveller of an immediate and direct interaction with the discovered world. The
advantages of photography, moving and still, and their hard copy certainty must be measured
against the loss of memory and story telling functions, a diminishing of intuition. Dependence on
any external aid eventually reduces creativity and the human skills integral to communication
developed over thousands of years. None of this is obvious at the time, none of it probably even
noticed, but take away the props, the toys, the mediators and suddenly there it will be, standing
in your face, that sense of emptiness, the feeling of unfamiliarity, dislocation, because
somewhere down the road we’d sold off our personal vision for a technological dream. When
was that moment?
New Delhi was a place I had to go for logistical reasons: the bank – for the unavoidable money
transfers and back in 1971 India’s banks still operated largely from ledgers, giant dog-eared
books, their once-upon-a-time white pages stained light brown with multiple use, and apparently
practically useless. Finding a transfer from an Australian bank took about ten days – that was just
finding it – it had been there but no one could find the right ledger – or something. It was all
hand made. And not a little frustrating. Every day back to the same bank for the same diligent
and willing workers to flick through the same ledgers with the same result delivered with that
slightly disconcerting left to right bobble of the head.
“Terribly sorry Mr Gilmour, your bill of transfer does not appear to have been processed at this
end”.
But of course it had. It was just buried. Deep. Those ledgers…I wonder where they are now the
world has Windows?
Leaving the bank I’d walk along to Connaught Place, a huge circle of mostly high-end shops,
boutiques and expensive eateries all connected with a covered cloister whose archways gave
onto a central garden area. The walls had once been colonial white, washed into the concrete
render, but had over some good number of years been the target for spitters. Europeans have long
abhorred the practice of public expectoration, putting up big signs all over their public transport
utilities discouraging the practice. I don’t know what some Europeans put in their mouths to
produce a culture of spitting but in Delhi it was betel nut juice. The mild narcotic favoured
throughout South East Asia as a digestive aid produces inordinate volumes of bright red saliva
which have to be spat out. The cloistered walls of Connaught Place had what appeared to be
generations of spit residue reaching about four to five feet from the ground and on close
inspection revealed a depth and variety of tone to suggest framing for display in a New York art
gallery. This saliva graffiti continued unbroken around the full circumference of that colonial
edifice, with apparently no concern by the authorities to remove it. The current iteration had to
have been there for at least five years…Australian local councils’ obsession with graffiti
eradication apparently not shared by their Indian counterparts. Or perhaps the subversive act of
spitting on the walls of a building put there by their former colonial masters suited the political
climate and its officers did not want to whitewash local activism to past exploitation. Maybe,
maybe not.
The failure by Australian council officers to understand graffiti as an appropriative and signal
gesture of a disempowered minority worthy of its place in a world replete with commercial
signage says much of the myopic mindset of petty officials and their ageing conservative
supporters. The matter has of late lost all its mirth; it’s been tamed and reconstituted as a kind of
official wallpapering of the street, its edge blunted in smothering and banal decoration. Pretty
enough no doubt, but empty of cultural, creative or psychic identity. Some will argue existing
graffiti itself represents a kind of cloned identity, from the much derided tags, scribbles from a
spray can, to the more sophisticated eye catching, multihued creations known as throw-ups and
wildstyle. But the identity is at least authentic and subject to peer influence and design, a genuine
first step on the anarchic path to invention. Some early exponents of street art have,
unsurprisingly, been absorbed by contemporary mainstream art and names like Jean-Michel
Basquiat and ……… have been turned into wealth production machines. Even though Basquiat
managed to not deviate from the script for artists who fall into the heroin honey pot, his work
continues to generate wealth for those who own and want to sell his expressionist vision, started
humbly on the streets with the simple and ugly tag SAMO, Same ol’ shit. And it was the same
ol’ shit that killed him. Here in Australia a couple of well-known painters have also favoured this
script as a career move; Brett Whitely, famously, and more recently, suburban psychedelic
Howard Arkley, neither of whose work suffered a collapse in market value on termination of
supply.
One afternoon, wandering the betelstain gallery after another unsuccessful encounter with the
ledger handlers I happened upon the Canadian couple I’d eaten with in Tanjungpinang on our
way to Singapore. They were looking a little the worse for wear and told me the heat was the
least of their concerns. He was dressed much as many westerners, jeans, t shirt, sandals, his red
hair tucked inside a panama-style hat shading his freckly face; his mate, a lovely looking, very
long blonde haired woman, had decided that to be cool she had to wear as little as possible so the
skirt was short and the blouse implied a generous cleavage. We decided to go to a nearby eatery
for some refreshments. As we walked together the couple of hundred meters to the restaurant, I
experienced for the first time the advantages in travelling alone I’d imagined before leaving
Australia. A small crowd of young Indian men had gathered behind us as we walked and were
obviously having some fun at our expense. By the time we got to the gates of the courtyard
restaurant they were so close behind I could hear them breathing. In their enthusiasm for getting
close to us one would occasionally bumped into our backs as they tugged playfully at each other,
laughing and jeering. Most of their attention was focused on the woman who tried to use her man
and me to block the party boys. As we entered the restaurant I hoped that would be the end of it
as gingernut was losing his composure and his anger was bubbling just below his sunmarked
skin but they followed us right in. Free country.
We stood in front of the large blackboard menu contemplating the possibilities when suddenly
the woman screamed out some abuse and swung an arm at the little band of nuisance. I didn’t see
what had happened and before I could react the Canadian had grabbed a couple of the boys and
was punching and kicking as they backed off yelling, putting on a great show of not having a
clue as to why the mad white man was going ape. A table was knocked over in the struggle
smashing a water container and scattering the three people waiting for their meal. It was all so
quick I only had time to turn and watch the gang yelling angrily as they beat a retreat through the
gates. In a matter of moments the restaurant manager had approached us and asked us to leave.
That seemed something of a misjudgment on the part of the manager but he was adamant and so
we left. Apparently one of the boys had stuck his hand up the back of the woman’s short skirt.
What a pain in the bum having to be on guard just because your girlfriend likes to wear short
skirts. Simple solution really. She just had to cover up, but coming from a western culture where
laws unconditionally support women wearing pretty much whatever they like regardless of its
possibly inflammatory affect on immature ball-bearers, she was either unprepared, unwilling or
unable to make concessions to time, place and situation. They weren’t having much fun, the
Canadians. The angry couple, rather than realise their own contribution to the mini drama
decided to do the easy thing and blame the Indians; and through gritted teeth the guy swore they
would soon be on their way back to Canada. Just a case of travellers not heeding the clichéd but
practical advice: when in Rome, do as the Romans do.
Excessively enthusiastic support for said advice has been described as ‘going native’, an
insulting term in colonial times for a deviant member of the British Club whose primary loyalties
had swung from the patriarchal ‘us and them’ mindset to publicly supporting the colonised
peoples’ culture and respecting intrinsic value in local customs, traditions, language. Such people
would often assume elements of the local dress code, learn to speak the language, perhaps marry
a local woman; such choices tell of respect for the visited country and its people. To describe
such gestures in terms of betrayal, as disloyal and insulting, to ostracise individuals for
something that’s probably no more than a generosity of spirit betrays a crippling insecurity and
arrogance in the tribalism of the so-called ruling classes.
I’ve always enjoyed the different local peoples in whatever country I’ve lived in, the then so
called natives; I considered myself a native. A native Australian. That’s the semantic view I
favour. But even in the 21st century the word is problematic in Australia. The political and
sociological implications of ‘native’, clashing competitively as it does with ‘indigenous’
sometimes makes for complex argument. The situation is further nuanced by my ethnically
ambiguous appearance. In recent years I have lived in Brisbane and through university studies
met many Aborigines, at one point doing work experience in an Indigenous news radio station.
Almost without exception, and based purely on appearances, these Aboriginal people identify me
as a ‘murry’ the south east Queensland word for Aborigine – and it’s not because I routinely
smear myself with white ceremonial paint. The use of tribalism and its multiple permutations as
the locus for identity seems increasingly clumsy; global evidence suggests it’s now unworkable.
Permutations of tribalism upon which to build a self include a religion, a football club, a
nationality, a disability, a sexual preference, a race; the list is long and hard. But in the absence
of the most obvious and accessible of all identity anchors, Being Alive, having consciousness,
those lesser, divisible identities which are amenable to social, political and creative exploitation
continue to thrive on our collective march to a MAD conclusion.
But clumsiness aside, when I got to India my instinct was to merge with the surroundings, to
pass unnoticed, to tread lightly; to that end I acquired a lota, a brass water-carrying container, a
loose fitting cotton shirt and discarded my hot shoes – the light-weight faded green cotton jeans
I’d worn from Australia were still well serviceable. This lota I carried on a thin woven strap
diagonally across the shoulder in imitation of the wandering holy men, much respected in India.
These Saddhus, who occupy a highly visible presence all over Hindu India, gather in ragged
groups according to the divinity of their choice. Loosely speaking each of the three principle
Hindu gods represents a primary function of the three-in-one Übergod, Brahman; and, to use
terminology appropriated by the recently realised virtual world of cyberspace, his avatars, or
those who act for him, are Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, and their respective roles are Creator,
Preserver and Destroyer or cutely speaking, GOD as acronym: Generator, Operator, Destroyer,
bridging the religious models of Abrahamanic and Hindu theologies . In spite of their shared
model the operational ideology of Hinduism is the more tolerant of diversity with its younger
derivative favouring a more puritanical, chauvinistic spin to the faith although very recent violent
Hindu activism would suggest that for political reasons Hindus are learning some bad behaviours
from their ideological opponents. The puritanical element dominating Abrahamanic religions can
probably take responsibility for the devil narrative, the dark side of the human psyche. Since we
are made in the image of God and God’s revisioned character, his New Testament profile, is
merciful and meek, the dark side must be accounted for somehow, so, never at all comfortable
with God as destroyer, he/she/it was repackaged enabling awkward, unpleasant and downright
terrifying things in life to be attributed to Satan and his buddies, now cast down and on the outer,
excommunicated from the heavenly choirs, but doing the Überone’s dirty work; like servants in
an Edwardian castle who have their own staircase craftily built within the main staircase to
provide discrete access. Who wants to see the servants walking about cleaning up? And isn’t that
what the Devil does? Cleans up the moral world by weeding out the sinners? And there’s nothing
that unites us quite as convincingly as a good enemy. Have a look at the thousands of white clad
Muslims chucking stones at this same celestial identity when on the Haj, the pilgrimage to
Mecca. Imagine how hard it would have been for George W. Bush to harness the dogs of war
without the axis of evil.
So, on account of my darkish skin, jewellery choice (I’d acquired a silver bangle worn above the
elbow – most Shiva Saddhus seemed to have one) and the lota, I was accepted as one ‘on the
path’ by Saddhus and the broader population. This finally killed off that most persistent and
irritating of inquiries “What is the purpose of your visit?” But the lota thing was no expedient or
simple affectation. In India there is no toilet paper outside the luxury hotels serving westerners.
So how do you wipe your arse? Water has long been the custom and outside of the major cities
the public toilet facilities are found in dry creek beds, behind bushes or wherever you can squat;
if you want to wipe your bum, you’ve got to bring your own water. In the land of no eating
utensils the lota served the vital double role of drinking and bumwash container. This potentially
hazardous dual purpose is adequately managed by means of a strict apartheid when it comes to
hands (left hand for wiping, right hand for eating).
On my final day in Delhi I remembered a request from my ex back in Sydney. She had asked me
to bring her home some saris. Just down from the hotel in the old city I found a clutch of sari
shops, each shop manned by two, three, sometimes four men sitting on a raised carpeted floor
drinking tea, eating cakes, chatting, surrounded by their wares of floor to ceiling neatly stacked
silk and cotton possibilities. The first shop that arrested my browsing looked welcoming and
alive, the men laughing brightly. I stepped up onto the shop floor and sat down with the three
men who, realising they had a prospect, suddenly became attentive. No question in their minds
about the origins of this young sahib.
“What do you seek young master?”
I thought the inquiry was tinged with some irony, making light hearted play of my pseudo-
saddhu appearance as the men continued to giggle lightly, chatting in Hindi amongst themselves.
Given the bargaining-based nature of shopping in India I thought I could neutralise any
inclination they might have to rip me off by playing with them.
“The truth is what I’m after. Can you tell me, in truth, which is the most beautiful sari in the
shop?”
“Truth and Beauty all in the one breath! Gracious me young man, you ask an amusing question
and we are wondering if you can afford… and to what place would you be going in your
beautiful sari?”
“OK, it’s not for me”. Maybe they thought I was a drag queen. There’s an enthusiastic market in
India for cross-dressed entertainment. Priscilla might have wowed ‘em in the pubs of Broken
Hill, but the adventure had been going for centuries here in multicultural heaven.
“Of course, not for you, perhaps a girlfriend?”
So they dragged out ten, twenty different saris, each one paraded by one of the men, draped and
displayed across his body in the full and certain expectation that this demonstration would prove
the elegance and desirability of the modelled transparent fabric. Finally I selected a couple I
thought might suit an Australian girl. After several minutes haggling about the price one of the
men sighed.
“You want most beautiful, you must pay most beautiful price”.
I wasn’t convinced and was about to leave when the shopkeeper who had for the most part sat
quietly at the back caught my eye.
“Are you sure this is what you are looking for?”
The change of subject surprised me into a smile.
“If you are looking for beauty and truth you have indeed come to the right place. Here, look here,
see this person, he will guide you to the truth, he is the living master, the one who can without
fail reveal to you the purpose of your life and right at this moment he is very keen to meet
westerners at his ashram in Hardwar, you can see him”.
That took a bit of digesting which I did while scanning the little pink pamphlet he’d given me.
There was a photograph of a chubby young boy, maybe twelve years old all dressed up in a
decorative costume, made with materials not unlike those used to make the Balinese dancers’
costumes. I didn’t immediately recognise its identity so the shopkeeper informed me he was
dressed up as Krishna, the Hindu etymological equivalent of Christ; although the Indians didn’t
sacrifice theirs – he is usually represented having a blue body. Was that some kind of cross-
cultural nod to the undisputed champions of the human sacrifice, the Aztecs, and their alleged
penchant for colouring the bodies of their bloody offerings to the sun god with bright blue chalk?
A kind of race memory to retain the idea that sacrificing humans doesn’t work? If that’s the case,
by Roman times the lesson had been forgotten and so the old idea that somehow a sacrifice will
do the trick gets reincarnated, but in the case of the Christian myth, a single individual is caste to
carry the full weight of humanity’s perceived corruptions. This tangled sequence might well get
the Monty Python treatment if they were still about as the new sacrifice ritual is riddled with
ancestral and cultish blood curdling artifacts where the faithful drink the blood and eat the body
of the sacrificial victim. Plus ça change. In the latest mad chapter in the saga of human sacrifice
to god, that is apart from the usual ‘die for your country’ propaganda where country and god are
conflated, we can see daily on the evening news evidence of deluded Muslims having blown
themselves and others to smithereens in the hope of blissful martyrdom, a heavenly life with
multiple virgins who, owing to the heavenly nature of it all, will presumably remain virgins. Did
the young converts to this insane idea think it through?
Back in the sari shop the men claimed the fancy dressed boy was the Living Lord – the claim
seemed an extremely bad fit with the amateur hour dress-up pamphlet. The text of the pamphlet
was entirely indecipherable, it was all in Hindi. The picture reminded me of a Belgian cultural
identity, the mannequin Pis, a fountain statue of a small naked boy urinating in a gutter; at
different times of the year the locals dress him up in costumes to mark the season. The chubby
kid in the pamphlet, although apparently alive and evidently human looked like others had
dressed him up for their own purposes. That such a person might reveal the purpose of my life
was laughable, let alone the outrageous Living Lord thing, so I laughed and left, apologising for
neither having the purse for the saris nor the head for the guru.
And that was just about it for Delhi, it was time to head towards the foothills of the Himalayas.
No Man’s Land